#she did the hard work and did it for herself

[ohbueckers]

MAKE HER TAPOUT. paige bueckers

description. your competitiveness with paige runs deeper than basketball, and tonight, it’s about who gives in first—or if either of you will at all.

includes. SMUT, 18+. a lot of everything, dude.. i got carried away. just read and find out.

a/n. dedicated to everybody that asked for it! lena’s anon, @kmoneymartini request and all of the comments on that post! saw an edit that had successfully inspired one of my freaky delusions again. also combined that fic i was talking about a few days ago into this, so it’s long but worth it, trust. will probably thoroughly proof read in the morning :)

It wasn’t the first time you’d found yourself like this—pressed up against the cushions of your couch, Paige’s hands roaming like she was trying to memorize every inch of you. Her lips grazed along your neck, her breath hot against your skin, and all you could think about was how you’d barely managed to get the door shut before she’d pinned you there.

Gampel Pavilion had ran a great deal tonight. UConn showed up big time—packed to capacity, ranked matchup, the whole ordeal—and Paige had been absolutely ridiculous. Twenty-five points, nine assists, boards in clutch… She was everywhere. It shouldn’t have been your problem how good she looked doing it, either… yet somehow, it always was.

But tonight, you’d edged her out. You showed up and showed out by one point. And one assist. A fact she hadn’t let go of since the final buzzer.

“Mm.. Paige,” you tried.

And now it was time to show up in a different way—one that didn’t require a ball in your hands.

“Had to one up me tonight, didn’t you?” Paige murmured, lost in the messiness of your lips as she rambled about how sexy it was. You smiled despite yourself, trying to keep up. “Paige,” you tried again.

“Hmm?” she finally responded, her tone as innocent as a baby. She laid you on your back, moving your panties to the side, letting the wetness between your folds instantly coat the pads of her middle and index finger as she circled at your clit. It was always fast, quick-paced. The way you both liked it.

You rubbed your feet together in attempt to ground yourself. “Mmph, you bailed on the team. I.. bailed on the team. Do you know how suspicious that looks?” you mumbled against her lips, though your voice was breathless, caught between tantalizing and surrender. Your post game plans were clear—head to Ted’s with the team despite that gruesome early practice the next morning everyone would be dreading with a hangover, ride out the the high of the win, yadda, yadda, yadda… and pretend you weren’t constantly aware of the girl now pressed against you. It was easy to fake indifference in a room full of people.

That was until you realized you weren’t feeling completely up for it tonight. The booze, loud music, sticky floors of the bar. Paige was in tow, of course, taking it as an opportunity. Alone time was hard enough to get as it is, and the two of you were getting increasingly bad at keeping this quiet. You were close to shooing her off, but she did indeed deserve something after that performance. So did you.

You almost thought she’d stop, but you’d be a fool. “Eh..” Paige murmured, her hand gripping your hip tighter as she pressed you deeper into the cushions, teasing your entrance with her other, like she was trying to erase the words from your memory. It was kind of working. Her lips brushed against yours as she added, “Suspicious of what? That I’d rather be here fucking you to celebrate our win?”

Your hands shot up instinctively, shoving at her shoulders.

“Br—wha.. Ow!” Paige exclaimed, holding herself up over you, a dramatic pout pulling at her lips. She looked downright fine, chain dangling in your face, arm flexing dangerously close to it too. “Relax. Nobody’s checkin’ for us like that,” she reminds.

“Sure, and the sky is yellow.” You squinted, not bothering to go into detail about how far from the truth she was. Instead, you changed the subject, partly because you couldn’t stand the way her chain kept brushing against your neck, and partly because her presence was messing with your ability to think straight. “Figured you’d be out cold by now. You’re usually asleep within an hour after games,” you huffed.

Paige tilted her head at you, her pout morphing into a grin. “Me? That’s disrespectful.” She faked her hurt, and you rolled your eyes.

“It’s not disrespectful, it’s true.”

“Don’t even play with me like that,” she challenged. “You know I don’t quit easy.”

It was your turn to grin. Uncontrollably, really. “Oh? You wanna test that theory?”

Paige was seemingly amused, running her tongue over the swell of her bottom lip. Your eyes darted there against your will, and she noticed. She always noticed. “You’re the one always tappin’ out on me.”

Your mouth fell open in disbelief. “Excuse me!?”

Her laugh was low, her breath fanning across your face. “You heard me,” she teased, her hand sliding a little lower on your hip, her grip tightening. “Last week, remember? Couldn’t handle it.”

Wow. Wooow.

Your eyes narrowed, your mind flashing back to last week—a quickie that happened to turn into multiple rounds. Jana and Allie’s grocery store trip had taken longer than the two of you inclined, and Paige used every minute. Fucked you right into oblivion, skills that had you begging for a break that she hadn’t been willing to give right away. You hated that she was right.

Paige smirked, and you wanted to drag it off of her face. “Just sayin’… if anybody’s tappin’ out, it ain’t me.”

Instead of scolding her some more, maybe even punishing her by not letting her have it tonight just to prove a point, you pulled her back in, hand gripping the side of her face that quickly begun tonguing you down, eyebrows furrowed in the midst of trying to keep up with you.

She adjusted her body lower, leaned into it some more. She thought you were done with the bickering.

“We’ll take turns.”

Paige blinked, clearly not following, breathing an airy, “Huh?” into your mouth.

Without slowing your pace, you grabbed her wrist and guided her hand back between your legs, her fingers grazing over your wetness for the second time. “Take turns,” you repeated. Paige pulled back a couple inches, tugging a swollen lip between her teeth as her eyes scanned your face, taking in the slight flush of your cheeks, and of course, your implication. The wheels turned, and her face softened. “Ah,” she muttered.

“You first,” you dared. And with that, you forced one of her fingers into you, scooting up on the couch. Paige froze for a split second, her lips parting as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard you right. Felt you right. Then her expression shifted, and her lips found yours again like a missing puzzle piece, dragging down your chin and over your jaw.

It would be a long night—truly.

“What you want?” she asked you. “Two. Up.”

The blonde immediately obliged, prying your leg open wider to fall against the back of the couch as she eased another finger in, twisting them over before pumping in and out a few times. “Yes—fuck, yes.” Your eyes flutter shut, head falling back against the arm rest in pure bliss. You rut your hips up, the same motion as her curling digits.

You should’ve known better than to challenge Paige to anything, but your own pride couldn’t fucking help it. Her competitive streak ran deeper than basketball, woven into every fiber of her being. It was one of the many things you had in common. Paige loved to push your limits, to tease you until you couldn’t take it, only to yank you back and dare you to do the same to her. It wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about control, about who could outlast the other, who could take more, give more, until out came a winner.

It’s also what made the sex so good.

You dissolve completely into the feeling, Paige’s long, slender fingers fitting as perfect as always. Her head is still dipped, kisses going around your neck, sloppy and full of her love for you, trying for light nips around your skin. A hand of yours falls to her shoulder, gripping at the muscle as your mouth plummets open wider, nearly like a yawn.

You can feel her smirk against your neck, the way her teeth catch on the sensitive spot below your ear. “God,” you manage to whisper, barely audible over the sound of your ragged breathing, words tumbling out in an incoherent mess, close enough to the one you make on the cushions. She was the only one that could get you absolutely soaked.

“I know, baby. Feels real good, don’t it?” Paige pushes a third finger into you easily, making you moan out from the stretch. She picks up on how your walls clench around her, gushes of your arousal coating her fingers, forming a white ring around the base.

You nod frantically, words stuck in your throat.

Paige quirks her head to the side. “That’s all I get? A nod?” she mocks, something she’s gotten increasingly good at since fucking you. “C’mon, use that pretty mouth. Tell me how good I’m making you feel.”

Your mind begins to leave you piece by piece, your determination to stay balanced pulling you back in every time. Your grinding motions become harder against her hand, moans becoming deeper by the minute, more pleasure-filled. Your stomach begun to tighten, almost like a hand slowly balling into a fist with a need to just combust and release.

“Paige,” you choke out, voice trembling. “It’s—it’s so good. You’re so—fuck.” You can’t finish the sentence, your nails digging into her shoulder.

She yanks you down, your body sinking further into her, your back forming into more of an arch. Shes giving it her all, and you’re starting to regret letting her go first. “What? Say it,” Paige coaxes as her fingers curl just right. “Tell me how good I am, baby.”

“You’re so good,” you shake your head as Paige slaps the pad of her hand against your clit, the sound entirely too pornographic for your ears. If anything, it spurred Paige on. “You know you are.”

You chew down on your bottom lip, trying your best not to scream at how good the feeling is. “Sound s’sweet praisin’ me like that. Y’gonna come all down my fingers, baby?” She moves them faster, the squelching enough to erase any no’s from your vocabulary. Her hand moves in a back and forward motion, and the more you think about it, the more the desperate need to let go becomes more evident.

“Yes,” you respond in a rush, followed by a few more of the approving word. “Right there, P,” you breathe, arm hooking around her neck to pull her closer, painted nails dragging against her cheek. You’re about to have what you think might be the best release of your life until it’s completely stripped away from you.

Shit, shit, shit.

“No.. no, no, no,” you whine, an antonym of your previous pleads as you dart your eyes open. Paige releases you from her grip, swinging a leg off the couch. You search for any hint of remorse in those eyes that’ve seemed to darken since you last looked, but there isn’t one. Bitch. She stares down at you with a bit of a mocking expression. “Please—“ you start.

You’re interrupted with the shoving of Paige’s fingers down your throat. Your eyelashes flutter back against your skin, lips wrapped tightly around the digits as you inadvertently lick your arousal clean off. With that, she pulls them back with a soft pop, admiring the glisten with a cockiness that has you weak.

“Start wit’ that.”

“Oh, my God…” Paige trailed off, whispering more to herself as she crooks her head to look down at you. New location: your bedroom. New motivation: the look on Paige’s face when she left you without an orgasm. You could play dirty, too.

You meet eyes as Paige pulls your hair away from your face, your hands resting on her thighs. Her basketball shorts were pooled at her legs underneath her boxers, and somewhere along the hurried way down the hall, she’d pulled her shirt off, the tension in her toned stomach revealed under the dim light of your table lamp.

Your tongue slowly moves between her lips, licking and lapping up her wetness just to hum at the taste. Paige is losing it—fingers threading through your hair, the pads of her fingertips pressing deeper into your scalp at every stroke. She swears the sight of your head between her thighs is enough to bring her to release.

“Fuuuuck. Keep it like that,” she orders. You comply—let her think she’s got it under control—and she does. For a moment. Her grip tightens, guiding your head against her own clit to let you know just how she wants it. “Like this?” you tease, creating a suction. You bat your eyelashes, doe eyes catching her blue hues before they’re thrown up toward the ceiling.

“Gonna—shit.. yeah, yes. Keep goin’… don’t stop, baby.” You flatten out your tongue when she begins to move your head up and down, gruff, pleasured noises leaving her mouth in curses. She spreads her legs open even further, and the more she praises you, the deeper she pushes, the faster you move.

You’re very aware of how sensitive Paige gets after an orgasm. the number of times she’s begged you to slow down, to let her breathe for just a second, only for her to claw at you moments later, dragging you back like she can’t stand the idea of stopping. It’s a delicious contradiction, one you’ve learned to take full advantage of. It’s intoxicating, too… knowing you’re the only one who can reduce her to nothing more than trembling limbs.

“So close,” Paige mutters, her voice breaking into a groan. Her control slips with every passing second, though you aren’t sure how much of it she had in the first place. “Juuuuuust like that. Eatin’ me out so good. Always do.” She lets go with a continuous nod of her head, physically biting back a series of moans that would be too loud for the walls. You continue your onslaught, licking up what you can before pulling back. Her hips lift slightly off the bed, chasing the pressure, her legs tightening around you for a moment before falling slack again.

Right now, she’s no different—still trembling, chest heaving, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening on her skin as she tries to recover. Her hand is pressed to her forehead, covering her eyes like she’s embarrassed to let you see just how undone she is—her chest rising and falling rapidly, lips parted all pink and plump.

There’s a slight tremor in her breath when you shift closer. You trail your hand down her side slowly, eyes flickering up in search for any reaction. When you fingertips brush over her cunt—too lightly, really—Paige groans, her head lolling to the side as her fingers immediately go to grip weakly at your wrist. “Chill…” she trails off.

“Chill?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow as you press a soft kiss to her thigh. “I thought you didn’t quit easy? You bailing already?”

She lets out a breathless laugh, prepping for a quick comeback that turns into a shaky moan when your lips move lower, attaching to her clit. Lower and lower… plunging straight into her pussy. Paige jerks, her body arching involuntarily as a sharp gasp tears from her lips. “Shit—wait—” she stammers. “You gotta let me… Let me breathe, ma—“

“Mhm-mm,” you deny, pushing her hand away and dipping your own to replace your mouth. You drill into her all slow, curling just the tips of your fingers in the same way you know drives her insane.

Her head falls back against the pillow, exposing the elegant line of her throat as she swallows. “God, you’re such a… fuckin’ problem,” she breathes, her voice breaking halfway through as you glance up at her. You love it when she goes all dumb on you. “Don’t play fair,” you think you heard.

Her legs are shaking in an attempt to take what you give her, hands searching for something to grip in a last-ditch effort to ground herself. Your thumb brushes against her clit every so often, making her squirm even further away from you. “One more for me, PB,” you coo.

“Can’t—can’t…” She drips onto the bed more and more with every pump. You’re practically milking her out, splitting her open, and just like that, her release is coming quicker this time.

“You can’t what?” you egg on, hoping this’ll do it for her. You wonder how long you’ll drag your bragging out this time.

The lewd sounds of her arousal hit your ears, and you sigh in content, Paige’s body and mind becoming total mush under your service. There’s no fight left in her—the entirety of her being is begging without saying it. You know she hates that she can’t keep it together—hates that you’re in control—but it’s the thrill of it, the way her walls clench like a plead, that makes it all worth it.

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, you almost think she’s going to hold out. But then, as if that last shred of pride snaps, she does what you knew she would. Paige comes, her cunt pulsating against your fingers as she yelps, twitching every few seconds. You continue to talk her through it, working her over until her voice is as hoarse as a sore throat, raspy and wrecked.

Afterward, you move up slowly, pressing gentle, teasing kisses all over her face as your hand rests comfortably on the warmth of her stomach. “Tapping out already?” you whisper playfully, brushing a finger down the curve of her neck. “It’s okay. I get it.”

Her eyes flicker open, half-lidded and heavy. But just as quickly, the storm in her eyes shifts. Before you can get another word in, Paige’s hand moves up to stroke your cheek gently, almost…lovingly? It’s enough to throw you off, make you forget about those bragging rights. She holds your face for a moment, eyes flushed with intent. Then, without warning, she pushes you back, her brows furrowing in concentration as she pushes herself up, trodding toward your closet. With what strength?

“Strip.”

And that was exactly how you ended up here. Cowgirl, legs straddled on each side of Paige as she watched you fuck yourself on her, mumbling out a million and one different terms of endearment to kept you going. There was a receiving end, one she hadn’t thought about let alone touched, and you wondered how long she’d let you go before getting herself off too.

Second round, so close to coming, and you didn’t plan on giving Paige the satisfaction of knowing you couldn’t take it anymore.

She hadn’t took her eyes off you since you started. You avoided her gaze, hands gripping her ankles as you put on her favorite show. “Look at this pussy, baby. Fuckin’ perfect, you know that?” she praised, wetting her thumb before pressing it to your clit, hard enough to make you squirm. Your hips drove against her harder, causing them to collide in a sticky smack, the tip of her strap bullying the deepest part of you.

“So tight—shit.” Naturally, Paige’s other hand found your breasts, kneading the left before rubbing the nipple between her fingers. You winced, throwing your head back as your chest pushed further out. “Just squeezin’ around that shit,” she emphasized, voice so low it almost went unheard. She tilted her head to the side, hands roaming around to the small of your waist as your rhythmic movements escalated into frenzied bouncing, the length molding perfectly to your slick walls, stretching you to the limit.

She’d went quiet for a moment, a safe space for your moans and whimpers, pondering. “Get up,” she’d decided.

You paused, mouth agape as your chest rose and fell in gasps. “Paige—“ you tried, having had enough of this little not letting you come thing. Still, she’d tightened her hands around your hips just to throw you off her, and you quickly realized what she wanted. She didn’t have to say it. Bend over.

You perch your ass in the air as Paige settles behind you knees pressed on either side. You look just over your shoulder as she rubs the tip of her strap between your folds, head down and focused. You attempt to buck your hips back, desperately waiting to be filled up.

Paige’s eyes shoot up, and you pout playfully. “Please?”

She began to gently slide the tip into your leaking hole all at once, bottoming out. “Greedy,” she mutters, pushing down against your upper back to get you to arch more. Deep, deep, and deeper. She doesn’t start slow, rocking her hips toward your ass relentlessly, almost without any contrition.

Your hands gripped the bed frame, knuckles white, trying to ground yourself, but the tight pull in your core, the way she stretched you—nothing could keep you steady. Every thrust felt like a reminder, and as much as you wanted to give up, your ego was too damn big. This was all your idea, after all.

How the hell do you always end up here with her?

The thought crossed your mind for only a second, but it was quickly drowned out by the next wave of pleasure that hit, making you whimper. It was impossible to think straight. Her hands on your hips pushing you deeper into the mattress, your body now moving in sync with hers as though it were second nature. She’s addicting in all the right ways.

Paige’s movements stilled for a brief moment, and before you could register what was happening, she pulled you up against her chest, wrapping one hand up under your chin firmly. You locked eyes as her thumb stroked your bottom lip, prying your mouth open. She then prepared just the right amount of saliva in her mouth before spitting precisely into yours. “Mhm.”

Her thumb snuck its way in next, spreading it all over your tongue. Her brows crinkled in attentiveness. “You good?” She was genuinely concerned despite not giving you a chance to respond before she started moving again, slower this time, sensual. The intimacy was driving you fucking crazy, you needed a seatbelt.

You responded with a thorough swallow, sticking your tongue out to show her how good you were. Paige smiled—big and unattainable before pushing you back against the mattress. “Slut,” she degraded, making you giggle.

Another deep push, another moan you couldn’t hide, and you were already on the edge. Shit, not again. The thought tried to make its way through your foggy mind while your body pushing back into hers instinctively, now fully aware of how badly you wanted to come. With every movement, Paige made sure you couldn’t escape, that you wouldn’t want to. She was keeping you close, keeping you tangled in the heat of it all.

This wasn’t about winning or losing anymore. It was about feeling every inch of her, letting her pull you apart until you couldn’t even tell where you ended and she began.

Paige tugged her lip between her teeth, ramming into you like she knew she had a point to prove. “Fucking you so dumb. Makin’ such a mess… You almost there?” You nodded, followed up with a constant of yes’s that made the tight knot in your stomach even worse, even better.

The sounds of her skin slapping against yours and your loud cries of pleasure filled the bedroom. You gripped the bedsheets in preparation, the squelching of Paige driving into your soaked pussy like music. She looked down at where your bodies connected, enjoying the little squeaks you let out every time she bumped against your cervix. 

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

“You can.”

Paige took one hand from one of your thighs, using it to reach down and press her thumb against your clit, rubbing tight circles. Your back arched, a loud cry leaving your lips at the sensitivity that had been built over the course of the night. “Agh—Paige…” Thaaaat’s it, baby. C’mon. Come for me." And that's all it took for your orgasm to rip through you, your body shaking and Paige’s name leaving your lips like a mantra.

She pulled out, all five of her fingers speeding up and continuing their assault just to push you right over. You weren’t sure if she planned on stopping. Your body was squirming in different directions, begging and gasping for a break until your hand flattened against the comforter, tapping repeatedly in a form of complete and utter yield.

And just like that, your game was over.

Paige pried her hands off of you, letting your body collapse forward onto the mattress with no ounce of grace left. Your legs felt like jelly, and your breathing came in quick, shallow bursts as your chest heaved against the sheets. You couldn’t even lift your head to glare at her, too far gone to summon any shred of defiance.

Behind you, Paige shifted, catching her breath, but her voice was annoyingly steady when she spoke, dripping with smugness. “Ha,” she breathed out. “You tapped out. Like, literally.”

Your fingers curled into the sheets as you turned your face to the side, just enough to shoot a half-hearted glare over your shoulder. “Shut it,” you muttered.

But Paige wasn’t done. She scooted closer, her hand trailing lazily up your spine as her lips brushed your shoulder blade, voice teasing. “Nah, that was cute. You were all like, ‘Paige, I can’t…’” She mimicked—all exaggerated and mocking, before breaking into another quiet laugh.

You groaned, burying your face in the mattress, unable to hide the way the corner of your lips twitched upward despite yourself. “You’re so aggy.”

“And you’re lucky I love it when you quit.” Paige leaned down, planting a kiss to your damp skin before pulling back with a smirk you didn’t need to see to know was there. “I’mma let you have it next time, okay?”

…Next time?

[sweaterkittensahoy]

When I started crocheting regularly as an adult, it was in 2004 when "Not Your Grandma's" was supposed to be the height of coolness, and it pissed me off so much and still does because I learned from my grandma. Every stitch I make is my grandma's. Why is it so fucking important to disconnect my grandmother from my art? And why are we trying so fucking hard to instill the idea that our grandmother's way of stitching was less cool or interesting or engaging as how we do it?

Sean's grandma passed this year, and I am now the very proud owner of some really lovely embroidery and crochet pieces for the house. They're not uncool or silly or stupid. They're useful items that were made beautiful by the patience, care, skill, and talent of a woman. Who was younger than I am now when she made at least some of them (there's a whole set of table runners that just scream hope chest).

And these items are USEFUL to boot. That blanket? Keeps you warm. Those doilies? Keep grime from building up under the lamp and sticking to the table.

I'm not immune to the "Huh, silly thing people used to do" take, for the record. I've only recently realized that maybe our grandmothers' (and parents' in my case bathrooms) have fuzzy toilet covers and fuzzy floor mats because it catches all the goddamn toilet paper fuzz in the air, and it's faster to vacuum the fuzzy toilet lid cover and rugs than it is to dust all that goddamn paper fluff off surfaces and then sweep it up and hope half of it didn't end up back on the shelf.

But also, all of the crafts mentioned in the article were about making a home more beautiful. The home was the woman's sphere, and it was her job amongst many to make it an attractive and nice place to be. And in treating fiber arts like you must get away from your grandmother's influence, you are treating the home she built for herself and her family as dismissible and not worth respect.

In the end, it comes down to the dismissal of skilled labor because it was a woman doing it at home. Even if that work kept the family fed (lacework has saved a lot of lives in particular). Even if it kept the family warm (slippers, blankets, jackets, sweaters, mittens, scarves, hats), even if it kept the family house neater (how much dust did those doilies soak up so it was easier and faster to clean the whole house?), even if it kept the family looking respectable (my grandmother once darned my mother's canvas band shoe than buy her a new pair; favorite story). Even if it kept the family safe (potholders and hot pads).

Because this skill was used to help a family and done up in popular styles of the time, it's devalued and ignored. When, in fact, all it takes for any of those items to be of the moment again is usually just a color update.

This all day long … Elena Kanagy-Loux's article is right-on. I myself have made it a point in recent years not to share any content that glibly uses the phrase, "not your grandma's " because it's a) lazy and b) dismisses the real fact that grandmothers and older textile artists have worked hard to keep craft traditions alive and evolving, not to mention their immense skills. We should be thanking them and looking to them for inspiration, not mocking them. via @hyperallergic ❤️

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons Bleed Green Part 25

masterpost

Despite the chill in the air, it was a lovely day to be outside. The sun was warm, the ground had dried out after a few days of rain, and the trees were in full color. Danny threw the ball again for Ursa, using the odd launching stick that Dick had gotten for them. It was appreciated, really. Ursa could run and Danny couldn’t throw the ball nearly as far as she wanted by hand.

Ursa raced back with the ball, just a cloud of black fur, and darted right past Danny. Danny spun around quickly, not wanting Ursa to jump on Alfred again (they were working on it), and almost swallowed his tongue.

“Ursa! Gentle, girl! Be gentle!” Danny called out as he took off after her.

Luckily, Ursa listened and planted her fluffy butt on the ground even if she was still wiggling around excitedly.

“Hi there, Ursa, it’s nice to meet you,” Babs said with a soft smile as she held out her hand to be sniffed.

Ursa dropped the ball in the offered hand with a quiet woof and a large grin. Luckily Babs didn’t seem to mind the sudden, slobbery present and threw the ball like Ursa wanted. Ursa was off after it like a bolt.

“Sorry about her,” Danny said as he scratched at the back of her neck. “Play time means fetch right now. She’s pretty determined about these things.”

“That’s okay,” Babs said as she wiped off her hand on her jeans. “She seems like a real sweat dog.”

“She is. It’s been really good to have her.” Danny didn’t even try to hide how found he sounded. He kept his eyes on Ursa, not able to look at Babs as he asked. “Did you… did you find anything?”

“I did.” Babs’ voice was gentle. “Do you want to know now?”

“I— yes, but no? I think this will… I guess… I don’t want to hear this alone, but I think that means I’ll need to explain everything.”

Ursa dropped her ball and came over to Danny where she pressed herself firmly against his leg. Danny buried a hand in her soft fur.

“They’ll all wait however long you need them to,” Babs said.

“I know. But I think… I think I do need to tell them, if I want to get better, and I want to get better.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure the family is on the way for dinner tonight and we can talk once they get here,” Babs said with that carefully gentle sort of voice that Danny always hated a little. Jazz used to do that too. “In the mean time, I’d love to get to know Ursa more.”

Danny cleared his throat. “So, I guess it’s obvious that she really likes fetch…”

-

Dick helped Babs settle onto the sofa. She didn’t need the help, not really, but the easy back and forth of movement was just natural for them, even after all of these years. It also gave him someone to fuss over that wasn’t Danny. What he wanted to do was scoop Danny up into a hug and never let him go. Dick figured that would be a bit too stifling though. Instead, Dick made sure that Babs had her laptop while the rest of the room got settled.

Danny chose the floor, apparently. He leaned back against Jason’s legs while Tim was pressed on the other side with Steph crammed next to him. Damian was on the floor next to Danny. The two were oddly hard to separate. Ursa had draped herself across both their laps; Danny dug his fingers into her mane. He didn’t look up at the rest of the room, even as Cass sat on the arm of the couch.

They hadn’t been told much about why they were there, a fact that ate at Bruce, but he worked to let that go. Danny had asked them to be there and to the one, they had shown up. Alfred was passing around hot chocolate with Duke’s help. The inclination that the comforting drink would be needed was probably right, as much as Dick hated that. He took his own mug and clung to it like a lifeline.

“The other night,” Babs started, “Danny asked me to look into someone for him, a Jasmine Fenton.”

On the television, a picture of redheaded girl appeared. The person who’s hair Babs had reminded Danny of, Dick realized. It looked like a school photo: mediocre studio lighting, bland background, a forced smile. She was late teens with a scatter of freckles and bright blue eyes.

“Jasmine Fenton, age nineteen, is currently enrolled at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville, where her permanent residence is.”

“Arkansas?” Danny asked quietly.

Babs nodded. “She’s been in the state since she entered the custody of Alica Bayard, Jasmine’s aunt from her mother’s side, almost two years ago.”

Danny sagged forward, burring his face into Ursa’s mane. “Oh thank god.”

“Why did her aunt receive custody?” Bruce asked when none of the rest of them seemed able to.

The steadying breath that Babs had to take wasn’t reassuring. “Jasmine was removed from her parent’s custody after the living conditions were found unsafe. This was part of an investigation into the disappearance of her brother, Daniel Fenton.”

A familiar face joined Jasmine’s on the screen. It was the same, awkward sort of school photo and Danny looked even more uncomfortable in it. His hair was shorter, his eyes bluer, and there were none of the scars. This was Danny before everything went wrong.

“The parents, doctors Jackson and Madison Fenton, were never charged with anything relating to the disappearance. They moved away from Amity Park four months later, likely due to increasing hostility from the town.”

“They weren’t dumb enough to keep me in the house,” Danny said. His words were somehow loud in the room despite being muffled by Ursa’s fur. He gave a mirthless chuckle. “You know, I used to think they were … not dumb, but clueless, you know? That they were science smart and low in everything else. The hapless, accidentally mad scientists. And then… and then I find out how much they had planned. That all of me was planned… I don’t know if anything about them was real.”

Damian leaned over to press against Danny’s side, offering his silent support. Dick was proud of how good a brother Damian was to Danny. It was a small silver lining in all of this. Danny slumped against him.

Danny’s eyes flicked back up to the screen and his sister’s face. He glanced away a long moment later. “Is there… are there any picture of the lab from the report that you can put up?”

Of course Babs had the photos and soon they were cycling through on the screen.

Mad scientists was right. The place looked distinctly science fiction, full of every day objects and tools that should be recognizable but where three steps away from reality. Everything was gleaming metal accented with a toxic green.

“My… they… the Fentons are ecto-biologists,” Danny explained as the rest of the room cataloged the details in the pictures.

“Ghost biologists?” Tim asked with furrowed brows.

“Yeah. Not that they ever met the ethics that biologists go by. But they didn’t think ghosts were sentient let alone sapient, so I don’t know why they even called themselves that. They didn’t… the screams means it’s working,” Danny said, choking on something between a laugh and a sob.

Jason cursed, the words a low rumble of anger that echoed through the rest of the room.

Dick had to get up and pace.

He brushed his fingers lightly over his family as he moved through the room, assuring himself they were all there and alright. Bruce caught his fingers and squeezed. Dick huffed, but settled lightly on the arm of Bruce’s chair.

“There’s a lot I didn’t really think about as a kid,” Danny said, once the room had settled again. “I should have. But they were—I thought they were my parents. I thought they knew best. When I started to really pay attention… we didn’t see eye to eye pretty quickly, but I thought they were just misguided, you know? I thought that maybe, eventually, I could talk to them about all the things that I’d learned and show them that they were wrong. But I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what, sweetheart?” Bruce asked.

“That I was never their son. I was just a lab rat.”

“Danny,” Cass called softly.

Danny shook his head. “It’s true! They even said it: ‘you can love the test monkey, Danny, but you can’t let that get in the way of the experiment’. Apparently I was an easy monkey to care for. Not too demanding. Easy enough for them to just add to the effort they already put towards Jazz, their real kid. Easy enough to ignore when they wanted. For me it was all just… normal. Just how I grew up.”

Tim bumped Danny with his leg. “Don’t worry, Steph and I will teach you how to annoy everyone in this family so that they can’t ignore you.”

The little snort of laughter Danny made seemed to surprise even him.

“Not that we would want to ignore you anyways, Dandelion,” Jason said. “We’re not perfect, but we’re family. Real family.”

Danny leaned back against Jason’s legs, a faint smile on his lips. Dick felt something in himself unwind at the sight. Jason was right, they were far from perfect, but they were family and they would be there for Danny always. It would talk time, a lot of time, but Danny would be alright. And all along healing he’d be loved.

Bab’s caught Dick’s eye. She clearly had more to tell, but Dick shook his head slightly. Give everyone a moment. Let everyone process and drink their hot chocolate and eat some of the cookies that Alfred brought with his impeccable timing. When everything was calmer and the cookies almost gone, Dick got up and returned to his seat by Babs. He touched her wrist gently. It was as good as time as any.

“So I’ve figured out when the Fentons visited Gotham,” Babs said. An old, poor quality image of a convention banner popped up on the television. It was for alternative energies. Next to it was a list of booths, the Fenton’s ‘Ectoplasm Energy’ booth highlighted. “But what I don’t understand is why they chose to clone Bruce. They never tried to use it as a claim for child support or any of the obvious reasons someone would clone a Wayne for.”

“I, um, never knew the when,” Danny said, squinting at the images. “I didn’t… I didn’t even find out the who until I was escaping. It was stupid to stop and look, they could have come back at any moment, but I had to know, you know? But I know the why. Bruce registers as a liminal. I would bet all of you do except for Steph and maybe Alfred. Well, Jason is more like me and Dami is something other, something more. Duke’s totally different.”

Bruce leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Liminal.”

Danny nodded. “Yeah. It can—like, it’s not the best term, really, because it can mean a lot. A lot of exposure to death, exposure to death at key moments, being somewhere liminal for a really long time, or longterm exposure to ectoplasm can cause it.”

“Is it dangerous?” Tim asked, mouth twisted in a curious frown.

“No,” Danny said quickly. “Think of it sorta like a meta gene? Some people are more susceptible to being liminal and liminals, if exposed to the right… incentives, can develop… not powers but kinda? Or, if things go really wrong, can turn into a halfa.

“My—the Fentons are really immune to being liminal, they learned that in college when their lab partner got really sick and then later turned into a halfa. I dodn’t know if… I don’t know if they would have tried to use Jazz like that did me if not. I don’t think so but… well, they didn’t have to worry about her when they exposed me to all sorts of stuff around the house growing up.”

“They chose to clone me simply because I was a liminal?” Bruce asked. He sounded befuddled.

To be fair, it was like the weirdest reason ever to clone Bruce Wayne and Batman.

“Yeah. A strong one,” Danny said. “Gotham itself is pretty liminal and you’re, you know, both her knight and her prince. I think you were sort of like the perfect choice for them to pick. I guess you went to the convention. They had you handle a device, it nicked you enough for them to get blood. They, um, would have played it off. Like they bragged, everyone always just thought D…Jack was just a bumbling fool. It let him get away with a lot.”

“They snagged Bruce’s blood and cloned you to just, what, have their own liminal?” Steph asked. Her nose scrunched up at the whole idea of it.

“Yeah. Apparently they tracking how much I was exposed to and what my levels where. I didn’t… I never noticed. It was just growing up. My, they always did my check ups. Experiments were left everywhere. I cleaned the lab. Sometimes hot dogs came back to life and attacked.”

“What?!” Duke squawked.

“One more reason to be vegetarian,” Damian tsked.

Danny just shrugged. “It was just life. But, um, I didn’t really get any powers or anything so they pushed things. They set it up for me to die and be exposed to a huge amount of ectoplasm at the same time.”

Dick stilled. “It was planned?”

“What?”

“You said they killed you, but it… that was planned. Killing you was planned?”

“Oh, yeah,” Danny said softly. “Like, I thought it was an accident, just being a stupid teen and not being safe enough around big science experiments. My friend just wanted a picture of me in the portal. It turned on and—”

Danny trailed off, fingers tight in Ursa’s fur.

“And halfa.” Cass said.

“And halfa,” Danny agreed. “Which I guess was the best outcome. I could have just died and been a ghost. It was proof that someone liminal enough could be dead and not at the same time. My, um, my friend Sam said I was responsible to fight the ghosts that the portal accident let out. It was just another way to test my powers and see how they grew. Not that, it wasn’t Sam testing me, but the Fentons would let ghosts ‘escape’ and I would fight them and get new skills.”

“You were a hero, Master Danny?” Alfred asked with a purposeful look to Bruce.

Bruce had the good graces to look a little chagrined. “It just seems part of the make up at this point?”

Danny smiled a little. “I guess. I went by Phantom. The city didn’t always like me, the ghosts could cause a lot of damage, but nothing ever got too bad. I really thought I was doing something important.”

“You were,” Tim insisted. “Even if the Fentons were the real villain behind it all, you still dealt with the threats that you knew about.”

“…I guess?” Danny agreed doubtfully. “I don’t know if it matters when they just were waiting for my powers to stagnate. Apparently they had pressure from the group that was funding them, the GWI, for results so they moved up their time line. I went to sleep and woke up in a box in a GIW lab. Then I was just a lab rat. I was just something to experiment on and cut into and—and—”

Dick moved to the floor and Danny’s side, pulling his newest little brother into a tight hug. “Don’t. You don’t have to think about that anymore.”

They had seen the scars.

They knew the sort of things that Danny had been through.

That those monsters had done.

Danny didn’t need to relive any of it just to try and explain things to them. Part of Dick wanted to protect his other siblings from having to be exposed to those horrors too, even with everything else they had been through. Danny sniffled wetly and buried his face into Dick’s shoulder. Hitched sobs wracked his body. Ursa huffed and tried to lick Danny’s chin. Damian leaned closer.

Dick looked up at Jason who was already watching Dick with a question in his gaze. Jason didn’t listen to anyone, not really, but this was a family mater and Dick was the oldest child. It was his call. Dick didn’t even hesitate to nod.

Jason looked viciously pleased.

Jason and Tim could handle the Fentons. The Titans would see to the GWI. The Justice League could deal with any fallout. The family would protect their own.

Dick pulled Danny closer as he let him cry.

---

AN: *lies down dead like Danny* this chapter was exhausting to write. I hope you all like it and it feels full.

[thelov3lybookworm]

Ice Cream (part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: the shadow needs to be put on timeout.

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 1821

Warnings: literally just fluff. azzie being a shy baby again🥹ALSO SHADOWS BEING MENACES BWAHAHAHAA💀 az is like an old asian parent tired of his kids bs 😭

A/n: ooof i love the shadows omg there such a pain in az's lil ass lmaoo. the one smartass shadow in the first part comes back to steal the spotlight and to make az's life miserable by its jabs lol🥹

ALSO THIS IS THE LAST PART IN THIS SERIES IM SO HAPPY OML I LOVED WRITING THIS 🥹😭

anyways, enjoyyy🥹🤭

(ps. the idea for shadows writing yn's name on az was given by @ayme301 hehe so thank youuuu 🥹❣️)

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Azriel had a routine. He always did.

Wake up, train, have something to eat, send reports to Rhys, analyse more reports, go onto missions if he had any, and train some more. It was always the same variation of the same few things.

But for a month now, his routine had a new addition. Having her on his mind every moment of every day.

His mind kept wandering to the colour of her eyes, the texture of her hair, the slight tilt to her lips when she found something he did funny. The way her quick wit and subtle hints of her boldness showed through her cold exterior as she slowly began to let her guard down around him, the way her eyes began to light up ever so lightly when she saw him as the two spent more and more time together.

She had become an important part of his routine, and he did not have a single problem with it, even as it put strain on him to finish up his work sooner so no one would suspect he was getting distracted from his duty.

Having her on his mind constantly, it was hard to focus on what his family was doing as they all sat in a booth at Rita’s, because he was too busy wondering what Y/n might be doing tonight. Maybe she was at her home, reading and sipping tea. Maybe she was out with her friends. Maybe she was by herself, wandering through the countless shops displaying items irresistible to anyone.

Maybe she was thinking of him.

The last thought had sudden heat travelling to Azriel’s cheeks, and he willed his shadows to cover him in case his family took notice of it as he lifted his almost empty cup of the alcoholic beverage Cassian had shoved into his hands to his lips.

Azriel looked up, glancing out of the window near the booth his family occupied, hoping that if Y/n really was out, she would walk by. It would certainly be a treat to his eyes and a soothing distraction from the overstimulation that was the inner circle.

"Az?"

He blinked, glancing over to Feyre, who stared at Az with furrowed brows. "Yes?"

She stared at him for a moment, a moment in which Azriel quickly looked over everyone present over the table. All their eyes were fixed on him, some confused, some curious. "We asked if you’re in for the game?"

Az straightened, setting his glass on the table and wrapped his arms around his chest. "Sure."

Cassian lifted a brow. "Do you even know what we’re playing?" Azriel’s cheeks flushed at the knowing look in his brother’s eyes, and he glanced down at his lap, clearing his throat and waiting for a shadow to fill him in on what was going on.

Master needs to learn to pay attention.

Azriel turned his head slightly to scowl at the particular shadow, and it bobbed away happily, as if unaware of his glare. But thankfully, another shadow floated up to his ear to whisper.

Truth or drink. They wish to probe and do your work.

The shadow that had initially hurried away from Azriel slithered back up his neck.

Be nosy, that is.

Azriel would have glared had he not had to turn back to his family. He nodded slightly, clearing his throat. "Truth or drink. I’m in."

Cassian leaned back, shooting a look that irked Azriel to Rhysand, who leaned forward on the table with a shit eating grin. "Let’s start with you then, brother. Who is keeping you so distracted and bothered all the time?"

Azriel clenched his jaw, releasing a breath through his nose, contemplating whether it was worth telling his family and bringing himself to his doom at their gossiping hands.

Before he could settle on his choice to drink, his shadows had already made the decision.

"Y…" Mor squinted, her brows furrowed, and Azriel’s blood ran cold when he heard the first few syllables of her name. "Y/n?"

Azriel stared at Mor, who smirked, her eyes fixed on Azriel’s forehead as she leaned back. Azriel looked around at all his friends, wondering what the hell was going on and how they knew Y/n’s name. And then a shadow moved closer to his ear.

Y/n.

Y/n Y/n Y/n.

Azriel reeled in his frustration at the less than helpful chanting, but then the same shadow hit his chin, prompting him to lift it, and his eyes landed on her.

She wore a simple black dress, the thing covering everything and leaving everything up to imagination with the high neck and long sleeves and skirts. Her hair was open, and she looked just as beautiful as she always did.

And she was looking right at him, her lips spread in a smile as she stood right behind Cassian, seemingly having stood up from the booth next to them.

In the back of his mind, Azriel knew his family was looking at him in concern when he said nothing, but he couldn’t care less as he stared at that smile, the one he had seen for the first time ever.

She is beautiful.

She never smiled more than the slight tilts to her lips, and maybe it was for the good, because if he had seen that smile earlier, he might already be married right now. She was so mesmerising, it was a miracle Azriel hadn’t asked her to be his on the first ever outing to the ice cream shop the two had been to. But if he had seen her offer him that smile, he would have gone too far in love, he knew.

Master needs to stop drooling, he looks like a baby.

And ugly.

Azriel almost turned to scowl, but he did not want to miss even a moment of the smile on her face. But that also led him to the question. Why was she smiling?

She giggled lightly, and he only knew because he saw her throat muscles move as she lifted a finger to her forehead, then pointed at him.

And then Azriel realised.

He quickly lifted his hand to his head, whipping away the shadow that would not stop acting like a smartass teenager. After he was sure the shadow was gone and no longer using his forehead as some sort of writing surface to announce to the world his feelings for a certain bookstore owner, he swallowed and stood, trying to excuse himself.

But Cassian turned, looking right at Y/n. "Are you Y/n?"

The eyes Azriel always found himself lost in lifted to meet his own hazel ones, her cheeks turning a deeper shade as she tried to stop smiling. Azriel could see the blush on her face, even in the dim lighting, and he thanked the mother for his eyesight.

Y/n not having her guard up at all times was not a sight everyone was blessed to witness.

She nodded lightly, glancing around at the rest of Azriel’s friends before giving him a small wave. She turned and walked out after her friends, who laughed among themselves. She did shoot him a glance before she walked out, but then she was gone.

Azriel turned, trying to see if there was any way he could escape his confines, having been pushed to sit between the window and Feyre. And when he didn’t, he climbed onto the seat and stepped behind her, then Rhysand, whispering apologies as he hopped onto the ground and broke into a sprint, hoping to catch up to Y/n.

His family tried to call after him, but Azriel was a male on a mission, and a very skilled one at that.

He stepped out into the cold night air, his eyes landing on Y/n waving at her friends as they went the opposite direction. He swallowed, hoping she would not mind his presence and walked towards her. She probably felt his proximity, as when she turned, she only smiled at him and gestured for him to walk with her.

A shadow floated close to Azriel to inform him of the way his family was watching him like hawks from the window they had sat next to, and when Azriel turned to look, sure enough, Cassian and feyre scrambled away, while Rhysand, Mor and Nesta looked like they were trying too hard to act nonchalant.

"They really are nosy." Y/n’s soft voice reached Azriel, and he turned to offer her an exasperated look.

"And I deal with it everyday."

She laughed, gently slipping her hand to hold his arm. Instantly, his pulse was galloping.

Master is no better than a schoolboy.

Azriel shot a glare to the darned shadow, wondering if there was a chance he could put it in timeout.

"So… I keep you distracted, huh?" Y/n spoke after a moment, making Azriel’s ears go warm.

"I…"

She laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder as the two walked the rest of the way in silence. Azriel only heard her laugh ring in his ears, wishing and praying that he would be blessed enough by the mother to hear the beautiful sound for the rest of his life.

Only once the two were at her apartment doors did she pull away and step forward, towards the entrance before turning to him, around an arms length of distance between the two.

Too much.

"So?"

Azriel folded his hands at his back, smiling slightly. "So?"

She leaned back against the wall, humming. "When am I meeting the family then?"

His breath hitched. "You… want to?"

She lifted a brow. "You don’t?"

Azriel shook his head, looking down at his boots. "I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, and I know they can be a lot sometimes."

He heard her move closer to him, lifting his eyes to meet her gaze once both her hands had reached out to hold one of his. "I think I am ready, Az."

Az. She called me Az.

He leaned his head closer to her. "What do I get if I take you to meet them?"

She blinked at him. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe you get to tell everyone you are courting me? And you can stop having to sneak around to meet me?"

He grinned, hearing those words spoken into the space between them as he touched his forehead to hers. "Hmm… not enough. I want more."

She snorted. "And what is that?"

"Maybe you take me out to the ice cream shop again." He reached up to touch her cheek, his eyes fixated on the way her skin seemed to contrast with his.

"And this time, we will get a huge bucket of mint chocolate, and share it. Like a real couple."

She smiled again, rolling onto her tiptoes to press her lips to his cheek.

"Mint chocolate it is."

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

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[megwritesriddles]

Sweetest Nectar ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Being at Hogwarts at university-level had it's perks, such as unsupervised days in the greenhouse with Neville. Reader finds herself in an unfortunate position thanks to a flower in the greenhouse and Neville has to figure out how to help while being a gentleman and preserving their friendship.

Tags: Sex pollen, Mildly dubious consent, Fingering, P in V, Unprotected sex, Begging, Friends to lovers, Minor yearning, HogwartsUniversity!AU, Post-war/Eighth year, Virgin!Neville (he just is, I don't make the rules), Too much backstory, Sentient Hogwarts, Silly fluffy ending.

Word count: 11.1k

Read it on ao3! | Masterlist

Authors note: Can you see why I've been gone so long??? This had zero business being 11k words but I'm a chronic overexplainer so here we are!! Skip the first 9 paragraphs if you don't care about any worldbuilding. Continuing my 'Neville gets muscular as he gets older' agenda as per. The last line is so dumb... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

P.S. this is technically day 23 of my kinktober but it's january so lets not talk about that

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Hogwarts worked in mysterious ways, with its own indecipherable motives. This much had always been true but was especially recognised lately. Once rebuild efforts had concluded after the war, Professor McGonagall, like every headmaster before her, bar Severus Snape, had sent out invitations to recent graduates to join the Higher Education program, a two-year program that would prepare its students to become a professor in any chosen field, subject to meeting entry requirements of the course. Demand for this program was higher than it ever had been, so many recent Hogwarts graduates felt like they had missed so much time at Hogwarts, that they were willing to come back on the program just to make up for lost time. At first, McGonnagal thought of shutting the whole thing down or at least raising entry requirements for joiners; there wasn’t exactly enough room in the designated Higher Education quarters for all the applicants. And though the regular student population had dwindled significantly over the course of the war (best not thought about too hard), it seemed wrong to try and room adults with 15-year-olds just to fit everyone in. The night before she intended to send out the letters of amendment to the required marks, McGonagall felt bizarrely compelled to go on a stroll around the castle, feeling drawn down a route she didn't often find herself going. There, she found a brand new door, behind which were brand new living quarters, just big enough for all the applicants. Although she should have been relieved, McGonagall was initially rather frustrated by this. Why now did the blasted old castle decide it could build, when nearly all summer long volunteers had been slaving away to restore the castle? The windows glittered as if to wink at her, she decided that the daft old thing must have liked the attention. McGonagall found herself relieved, she too felt that the recent graduates were not ready for the career world quite yet, having had not only their final year of study lost to the war, but the years before that tarnished by looming threats and incompetent bumblers. Also, there was an urgent need for qualified teachers of magic, so the more the merrier, even if most of them would only use it as a springboard into something else. 

You had always been a shoo-in either way, although you never got to sit your NEWTs, the honourary grades you were given were stellar, supported by fantastic results in your OWLs and overall fantastic conduct in class. The blemishes on your record from the Carrow's note-taking were wiped, leaving your record squeaky clean. You received your acceptance letter and list of supplies and felt like you were eleven again. Everyone was required to specialise in a subject, and while you'd had a couple in which you had adequate grades which you might have chosen, you went for Herbology in the end, as it was something you loved.  In all honesty, you liked Professor Sprout the best and were eager to train under her. 

As soon as you received your letter, you wrote to Neville. There was no doubt in your mind that he would be studying under Professor Sprout alongside you, despite not even knowing if he had applied to the program initially. He quickly confirmed this suspicion when he wrote back to you, saying he had a sneaky feeling about you as well. The two of you had become fast friends in the sixth year, both being in Advanced Herbology. You'd known each other a little here and there before that, but in this class, your friendship truly formed. The class was very small, as the interest in Advanced Herbology was low, most careers only required a decent grade in standard Herbology, so even those with interest had to prioritise other things for the sake of their future, such as Potions or Charms. There were only the two of you and a pair of Slytherin girls who, despite seeming genuinely very passionate about the subject, refused to converse with the two of you and whispered amongst themselves all the time. This was fine with both of you, as you had each other, taking time to study together, walking to and from class, and working efficiently during any pair work. The two of you had been ripped apart during the war, you had to steer clear of Hogwarts for your safety, and Neville, being intensely monitored by the Carrows at the time, refused to write to you and risk revealing your location to them, so you had been out of contact for quite a while. You wrote to him again on his birthday and had been corresponding a little since, but things felt slightly stunted. You hadn't seen each other in so long and Neville was never the best when it came to socialising. 

Arriving at Hogwarts once again had been intensely bittersweet. So many good and bad memories to try and process all at once, it felt overwhelming. You'd had to step outside during the sorting but found yourself far from alone out there. So many people were broken. You apprehensively made your way over to Hermione and said hello. She pulled you into a tight hug, as you hadn't seen her for a long time either. You listened as she explained about Harry and Ron, that they didn't want to go into teaching, and though she'd explained over and over that most people that do the program don't end up teaching, they'd still refused to come. Trying to make the most of it, she tells you it'll be nice to spend time with other friends for once and you nod along. She is somehow specialising in three subjects, she'd wanted to do more of course, but it hadn't been allowed. Trust Hermione to work herself to the bone happily. You'd made it to your room later that night, a private room with an en-suite, which felt awfully fancy for Hogwarts, and settled in. Being back was an odd feeling, you could see the cracks in the stone everywhere you looked, there was pain everywhere, yet so much good to try and find.

To your complete relief, when you started your first day in the Greenhouses, things fell back into place with Neville instantly. At first, you'd greeted him with a hug, which had been awkward as he hadn't been expecting it, but very pleasant once he figured out what was going on. Soon after this though, as Professor Sprout set you her first task (to prepare some plants for her third years), things were back to as they were, perfect. You worked together well, talking and laughing easily, and though occasionally the chat went sour and the mood fell, this was happening with everyone lately, a byproduct of the war, there was so little to talk about that wasn't tarnished that it was a wonder the two of you were able to laugh as much as you were. Neither of the two girls from advanced Herbology were there, and although this initially saddened you both, you conceded that there could be many reasons for it. There weren’t many Slytherin returners, there never had been, but after the war especially, the turnout was pathetic. Most Slytherins avoided their peers after the war for fear of ostracism, which was fair as people had some pretty bad opinions on them but sad because there were several Slytherins who hadn’t been on the wrong side of history who were still facing hostility. 

The course was a lot of independent study of assigned texts and essay-writing, but all day on a Tuesday and half a day on a Thursday, the two of you were in the smaller greenhouse behind the ones for teaching, working on various projects, which also sometimes required your attention out of teaching hours. This greenhouse was set aside initially for research purposes at Sprout’s predecessor's request, but now was being used to train those in the higher education program. Despite this greenhouse being smaller than the two nearer the grounds, it was still fairly large and complex. Upon entering, you came into a little cloakroom, where you would have to don your aprons and gloves before entering, with a sink in the corner for washing up when leaving and entering. The next room was the main growing area, growing various plants that weren’t dangerous but were still perhaps best kept out of the reach of the younger students. There was a long wooden workbench in the middle of the room for potting and taking notes and whatever else you might need to do. Off of the opposite end of this room, there were three doors, one that led to a small room which was always kept humid and at tropical temperatures, one which was always kept cool and dry and one lockable room in which more dangerous plants were kept, such as venomous tentacula or fanged geraniums, only to be accessed with Professor Sprout supervising. 

Professor Sprout would only tutor the two of you on Thursday, so with the exception of the first few weeks, the two of you were entirely alone from 9 am to 4 pm on a Tuesday. Although it sounded a little salacious when you told friends, the truth was that most Tuesdays you were both too busy for anything to happen. Not that anything would of course, but certain assumptions were made when people heard you were alone together for hours with what they assumed was an easy subject. Mostly your days were full of tending to the plants, having to frequently refer to your notes for how each should be cared for (how much water? what temperature should the water be? do they require singing to?), observing any plants that were the subjects of your essays and preparing plants so they would be safe for lessons with younger year groups. 

It’s a Tuesday like any other. Neville is carefully planting some seeds across the workbench from where you’re delicately pruning a particularly active flitterbloom bush, setting the clippings aside to send to the potions department later. One of Neville’s research subjects is observing what methods of growth acceleration work the best and cause the least damage to the plants they’re applied to. He has been planting, growing and replanting dittany over and over for weeks now, but was still gathering more data as he came across more and more methods to test, and each had to be tested several times over to rule out external factors. 

Your research was on the merits and drawbacks of pruning, and which plants took best and worst to the practice. Pruning was useful as it allowed more ingredients to be obtained from individual plants for potioneering purposes, but generally was thought to be harmful to the overall health of the plant. You were attempting to write a definitive list of which of the 25 most common plants used in potions could be pruned and which couldn’t, which to your surprise had hardly been researched before as the belief of its harmfulness had permeated the field since 1870 and most Herbologists had steered clear of it since. Your research seemed to be proving it wasn’t nearly as harmful as thought.

The two of you chat idly as Neville uses a pipette to apply various growth potions to the soil of his newly planted seeds and you carefully measure the regrowth of a stem of the flitterbloom bush that you pruned a few weeks ago, struggling as the stem swayed about. 

“I can’t believe Hermione talked Ron and Harry into actually joining the course next term,” Neville hums, extracting exactly 5 millilitres of potion from a bottle with his pipette. You scoff. 

“For real this time? They keep saying that yet nothing ever comes of it,” you shake your head, scribbling down your measurement on the parchment beside you.

“Yes, really, two new rooms have appeared in the boys' dorms with their names on them, if Hogwarts knows, it must really be happening,” his tongue sticks out slightly between his teeth as he concentrates on dropping the liquid right in the middle of the little pot. Not wanting to throw his research, you wait until he’s done to reply.

“Perhaps Harry and Ron don’t even know it themselves,” you joke, making Neville chuckle. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the castle decided it for them,” he carefully pushes the cork back into the top of the potion bottle. “The castle is quite odd lately, perhaps it has whatever its equivalent of brain damage is from the war, it’s acting much more blatantly,”

“How so?” you tilt your head in his direction, soothing your finger over the agitated stem that you just had to hold taut for measuring. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories of people getting stuck in rooms with the people they like, doors literally disappearing until they confess or otherwise!”  Neville laughs, carefully moving his pots back to their designated spot on the windowsill. With his back turned, you can’t help but glance at the door despite yourself, wondering if it’s still there. It is. You quickly avert your eyes from the door as he turns back toward you. “It’s why there’s suddenly all these couples popping up, sure the castle has always been a little cheeky, but never so obvious before, it all started with the higher education wing appearing overnight and it’s seemingly been madness since,” he shakes his head, picking up another batch of pots containing little sprouts at various heights that he has to measure. 

“It’s sweet how many people have liked each other and not even known… has it always been people who like each other stuck together?” you ask, stroking your quill, feeling the soft tufts beneath your fingers. 

“As far as I’ve heard, each time it’s happened it’s ended well,” Neville shrugs, rifling through his bag for his measuring tape. You glance at the door again, seeing it still there. Unrequited, you figure, that door will stay right where it is. 

“I wonder where the brain of the castle is if it even has such a thing… it is sentient in some ways, so there must be an equivalent right?” you ponder as he loudly removes his books from his bag and thuds them onto the workbench. 

“The room of requirement? For some reason that comes to mind… a fire in your brain can’t be good,” he chuckles, his voice slightly strained as he peers under the table for the offending measuring tape.

“You can borrow mine,” you suggest softly as he comes up with nothing. 

“No it’s fine, you need it,” he waves his hand dismissively, standing up from his stool. “I’ll fetch mine from my room, I’m fairly certain I know exactly where it is on my desk, can’t believe I forgot it again,” he grumbles the last part to himself. “Be back in 15, watch my plants,” he smiles, although you can tell from his sheepish look that he’s embarrassed to have forgotten something yet again. Luckily, you could head back to fetch things at any time at your level, no longer having to ask to go to the toilet or anything like that. There was no one here to ask. You smile back, watching as he enters the cloakroom. A few moments later, you see his heavily blurred figure heading up the hill through the heavily rippled glass of the greenhouse windows. In the newfound quiet, you return to your work, hearing only the spray of simulated rain in the tropical growing room. 

Finally finished with the flitterbloom, you stand to retrieve your next plant, a valerian bush, for pruning. As you move to stand and step forward, you feel an odd pressure at your ankle. Stepping forward anyway, you realise too late that your foot is hooked on a support between the legs of your stool, sending both you and the stool off balance and toppling over toward the room-length counter that holds all the various plants. Reflexively, your body twists and your arms come up to shield your head as you thud loudly into the solid wood surface, causing a choir of wobbling pots, luckily with no ensuing crash of broken terracotta, you had to count your blessings somewhere. A dull pain throbs through your body, starting from the side that crashed against the counter. Thud! A yelp rips from you as the stool, still twined with your leg, falls onto your thigh. Luckily, it is only light and will leave a small bruise at most, your side colliding with the counter on the other hand…. You shut your eyes tight, feeling utterly embarrassed about what just happened despite being alone. You weren’t normally this clumsy and you were sure you looked a mess, an undignified heap on the floor, too shocked to stand up or even open your eyes yet. In the permeating silence, you sit on the cold stone floor and try not to cry, from the shock more than the pain. 

A violent sneeze overtakes your body, the action of it hurting your side. You sniff and cough, dust seemingly surrounding you. You must have jostled some old dusty plants that hadn’t been touched in a while when you collided with the surface. Surrendering to the coughs and sniffs that wracked through your pained body, you wait it out until the dust subsides, grabbing your bruised side as you double over with violent sneezes and sputters. Finally, a deep breath of clean air, you sag against the counter and try to gather yourself now you can breathe properly once more.

“It was exactly where I thought it was…” The door from the cloakroom creaks open in the silence as Neville enters, clutching his measuring tape. “I can be so scatterbrained,” he huffs, his eyes sweeping the room at the height he expects you to be. In embarrassment your eyes squeeze tighter, not wanting him to see the mess you’d gotten yourself into. Upon not seeing you, he glances around for any evidence you might be in one of the back rooms, though not thinking of a reason you would be. 

“Down here,” you squeak, your voice hoarse from coughing. The words itch your throat and you splutter slightly once more as he rounds the workbench and spots you on the ground. You give a sheepish smile, finally having opened your eyes. It’s painfully obvious from your stool-adorned leg what happened, you just hope he doesn’t think any less of you. He shouldn’t, he has a reputation for being clumsy himself, but you can’t help but worry. “I fell,” you rasp pathetically. 

“Are you alright?” he surges toward you and kneels, immediately examining your head for any bumps, rubbing over your scalp gently. The action makes your cheeks heat up, but you try to ignore it. 

“I’m okay, I landed on my side,” you reply as he carefully removes the stool from around your leg and stands it back up beside the workbench. His arms wrap around you and he carefully lifts you to stand, you yelp as the movement stretches your side and he shushes you gently. 

“It’s alright, there we go… just—,” he holds you steady until you’re stable on your feet. When he lets go of you, it feels oddly painful deep in your stomach, but you brush that off. 

“Thank you,” you whisper shyly. 

“Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?” he asks, bringing his hand up to feel your skull once more, worrying over whether you might have been badly injured. You lean slightly into his hand without meaning to.

“No I promise, it was just my side and my thigh,” you insist, inwardly wishing he’d brush his hand against those spots to check them. For a moment his hand moves like he might, but he stops himself. 

“If you’re sure,” he inspects you once more, hovering behind you as you sit back down on the stool, trying to brush past this whole incident. “Can I grab your plant for you?” he offers. “Which were you going for?” you want to complain, but his eyes are wide and earnest and you know he wants to help.

“The valerian… and could you pop the flitterbloom back for me?” you request, hesitantly testing the tender skin where the stool collided with your thigh, wincing at the throb of pain that followed your touch. Neville dutifully returns the flitterbloom to the counter, then places the valerian bush before you. Behind you, you hear him gently pushing some of the pots that had moved when you smashed into the counter back into place. You flush and keep your head down, pretending to inspect the valerian bush but not being able to focus. Your brain feels a little fogged up, you assume from the shock of the fall. Not wanting to alarm Neville in any way, you grab your tape measure and pretend to measure the leaf regrowth. He quietly moves around the workbench, bringing his pots over to your side of the bench and sitting down beside you to resume his work, his brows furrowed in concern for you. “Really, I’m okay,” you chuckle, but the weakness of your voice does little to reassure him.

“It’s better if I sit here, just in case something happens,” he says, more firmly than he usually says anything. That side of him was new since the war, this ability to stick up for himself in smaller situations. He’d always known how to stick up for the greater good, but little things like this, he would allow himself to be walked all over, too scared of losing a friend. Now that he has more confidence, he’s not so afraid to dispute his nearest and dearest, knowing you’re unlikely to end your friendship with him over this. And if you did, it would be weird and not his fault anyway. The tone of voice is also on the newer side and it stirs something in your belly.

You sit side by side working on your respective projects. Well, Neville is working, you’re more just going through the motions while your mind hovers elsewhere, not allowing you to focus on what you’re meant to be doing. Maybe you were concussed… but you hadn’t hit your head during the fall, so what was wrong? You take a few deep breaths, trying to slow your heart which still seems to be beating slightly fast. Slowly but surely, your body starts to feel a little warm. You glance to make sure the door to the tropical room hasn't opened as your cardigan starts to feel a little stuffy. No matter where you look in the room, you can’t find any source of excess heat. A puff of breath breaches your lips, you’re growing uncomfortable now, the heat only seems to rise and rise. With great unnecessary difficulty, you wrestle yourself free of your cardigan, throwing the wretched thing on the ground beside you with a grunt. Neville gives you a confused look, but not yet seeing anything obviously wrong with you, returns to his measurements. There is relief from the warmth that was engulfing you, but only for ten minutes at most, as soon you are sweltering once more. An awful voice at the back of your head tries to convince you to throw off all of your clothes, but you keep it together, merely squirming in your seat, rubbing your thighs together to try and quell the growing ache in your belly that your mind isn’t quite registering yet. In a last-ditch effort, you sip some water from your lukewarm water bottle, the relief it provides is even shorter than before. Your head whips around now, searching fruitlessly once more for the source of this despicable heat, but finds nothing. Neville is unfazed beside you, still wearing his sweater and looking perfectly comfortable. The only thing you can think of is that Neville must be radiating the heat, as nothing else could explain your sudden discomfort. You reach your hand out toward him, trying to gauge if it gets warmer the closer it gets to his side. This finally catches his attention and when he looks up, he’s met with your flushed clammy face and dilated pupils.

“Whoa! Is everything alright?” he sputtered, leaning back slightly as if worried you’re contagious. This upsets you and you let out an unseemly whine.

“I’m hot,” you huff, pushing your hair back from your face to get more cool air on your skin. “Really hot,” Neville’s eyes brush over you for a moment as he considers just how hot you are, before promptly snapping himself out of it.

“You do look a little… feverish,” he agrees, reaching out and touching the back of his hand to your forehead. You lean forward into the touch, moaning softly. Your skin is burning and slightly tacky with sweat, which makes Neville frown deeply. How could you have suddenly developed such a terrible fever? He pulls his hand back, but you immediately whine and claw at his arm to pull his hand back. Too baffled to protest, he lets you pull his hand to your cheek and watches you lean against it happily. He gently runs his thumb over your cheekbone before catching himself. “Are you alright?” he enquires once more, keeping his voice soothing.

“Don’t stop touching me,” you pout, looking up at him through your lashes with a look that is wholly inappropriate for an academic premises. He swallows.

“Wha-what?” he stammers, watching as you nuzzle against his hand.

“It helps the heat… don’t stop,” you whimper, reaching out to try and pull him closer by his sweater, but not being strong or focused enough to do it. This failure pulls another whine from you. Neville’s mind reels completely and he has to look away from you to compose himself, though he keeps your cheek cradled in his palm. What was going on with you? Were you ill? His eyes find the spot where he’d found you on the floor just earlier in his attempts to avoid the sultry unexplainable look you were giving him. “I need you to touch me,” you mewl, making him shiver.

“I’m not sure that’s–” he cuts himself off when his eyes land on the plant on the counter above where you fell. Lamprocapnos libidinosus, also known as the dripping heart, a magical relative of the bleeding heart flower in the muggle world. A common ingredient in lust potions and aphrodisiacs, highly dangerous in the wrong hands due to the potent amorous effects of its spores. Neville vaguely remembers Professor Sprout's warnings that one of the PhD students was being allowed to grow it for research and to steer completely clear of it. A warning he’s sure you would have headed if you hadn’t been tumbling toward it. Even from afar, he notices a couple of burst spore pods. “Oh no…” he mumbles to himself, dropping his hand from your cheek. You immediately protest but he stops you short. “When you fell… you didn’t happen to breathe in any dust, did you?” his voice shakes slightly, this cannot be happening to you. He always thought they shouldn’t have the plant growing in this greenhouse, even if only experienced herbologists were allowed in. Accidents happened as he knew all too well, and now his vague fears had become a biting reality.

“Yeah, why?” your voice is soft and sweet as you paw at him, trying to get him to hug you, or presumably something more. Neville flushes brightly and shoots upright, making a mad dash for his textbooks, still on the workbench from when he’d been searching through his bag. You wail at his absence, feeling the heat that had reduced to a low simmer return to a full boil. “Please…” you sob at him, not even knowing why you want what you want. “Just hold me, comfort me,” The look in your eye has him breaking, and if he remembers what little he’s read about the plant, you must be rather uncomfortable right now. He returns to your side and allows you to cling to his arm, bumping your head into his shoulder like a loving cat, while he frantically searches for the information he needs to help you. After several panicked flick-throughs, he locates the page.

Lamprocapnos libidinosus; also known as the Dripping Heart or the Flower of Lust.

At the top of the page is information entirely useless to this cause, the best season to plant, how much light is needed, etcetera, but finally Neville finds what he’s looking for under the ‘uses’ section. It’s tough to focus on reading when you’re practically trying to get under his sweater with him, pushing the knit material slightly up his side, your fingertips brushing his abdomen and making him jolt. He pushes your hand away but pulls you into a hug to silence your outcries, which you’re more than happy to sink into. He’s hugged you plenty of times so he pretends this is perfectly normal as he wills his brain to digest what's in front of him on the page. It’s hard to keep this pretending up as he can hear you sniffing him and moaning deeply at the smell of his shower gel, mixed with just a hint of sweat, which in this state only fuels your arousal, acting as a pheromone, worsening your need.

He skims the section frantically. Inhalation of the spores will lead to overwhelming feelings of lust even in small doses, however, the dose may affect who this lust is directed toward. Smaller doses will only worsen lust toward people already lusted after by the infected person, while larger doses will cause these feelings of lust to latch onto whoever is around, no matter prior relationships. The infected person will pursue their object of affection at any cost, they will be unable to focus on anything but the lust that has overtaken them. These feelings of lust, if left untreated, can cause extreme discomfort in the infected person, high fevers, intense symptoms of arousal (such as fluid secretions), shivers, brain fog and other symptoms varying by person and dose. The only way to cure the infected person of these symptoms and return them to full faculties is to have them reach climax.

It seems that you have chosen him as the object of your affections. Neville looks down at you as you hug him tight, continuously trying to slip your hand beneath his jumper. Out of selfish curiosity, he heads for the plant to try and determine how large of a dose you got and whether you may have already experienced feelings of lust toward him before the effects of the plant. When he moves away, you practically sob.

“Please don’t!” you wail, diving for him and into his arms once more. For now, you seemed to be mostly content just being held in his arms, and it’s clear you find it painful when separated from him for even a moment, so Neville has to relent. He delicately lifts you, and although having you wrap your legs around his hips hadn’t been a part of his plan, he supposes it does help keep you steady. He blushes brightly as he walks over to inspect the flower. He’s never held anyone like this, so intimately. Your skirt rides up where your legs wrap around him and he has to tear his eyes away before his thoughts become too inappropriate. You like the sight as much as he does. “You’re so strong,” you purr in his ear, your voice much lower than normal. He shivers and you feel it, the knowledge you’re having some effect on him overtakes your lust-addled brain. 

“Th-thank you, I’ve been exercising a lot since the war,” he mumbles, counting all the burst pods on the plant. He counts five, but he’s not sure if that’s considered a large dose or not. Probably, but the pods do look rather small.

“Mmm, it’s so hot…” you purr, trying to wriggle against him. Neville’s face turns red and he practically drops you, but holds you steady so you don’t fall once more once your feet touch the ground.

“Don’t say stuff like that!” he yelps.

“It’s true,” you pout. “I need you,” you try to hop up into his arms again but he holds you firmly on the ground, practically shaking. Really, this should’ve been a dream come true for him, he’d had feelings for you practically since the day the two of you met, but he felt disgusted with himself for every wave of excitement that passed over him. You were burning up, your cheeks brightly flushed, a deep ache at the pit of your belly and an ever-growing wetness in your underwear. All you could think about was how it might feel to have Neville soothing the fire inside you with deep strong thrusts, you moan aloud, if you focus enough you can almost feel it. “I bet you’re big, I bet you’d fill me up so well,” you murmur, looking up at him seductively.

“I- Merlin…” Now Neville feels overheated, he tries to push you away a little but you aren’t letting him. The image of filling you up won’t leave his head no matter how much he commands it to. It doesn’t help that you’re now trying your best to reach his jaw to kiss it. 

“Please…” you beg once more. “I need it so badly…” his resistance crumbles for a moment and his hands drop from your sides, allowing you to rush forward and attach your lips to his jaw. His eyes slip shut and he whimpers as you hold him close and lavish his neck and jaw with attention. His arms wrap around you, hands gently skimming your back as you continue to pepper him with kisses. “Please,” you whisper against his skin, your hand dropping to the buckle of his belt. The feeling of you tugging at his belt makes his eyes shoot open. He realises in a sudden flood of shame what he’s allowed you to do. You’ll hate him for this once you’re back to normal. He grabs your shoulders harshly and pushes you away. You squeak as he sits you on one of the stools, your eyes filling with tears at the rejection. You’d been so close to what you needed, and now with this newfound distance from him, you were in pain once more, a horrible throb in your stomach. 

“Listen to me,” he breathes shakily. “We can’t do this, you’ll regret it as soon as it’s over,”

“No, I–”

“You’re not in your right mind, you don’t know what you actually want,” he asserts again, reminding himself more than anything. He takes a deep breath and thinks. The only way to cure you according to the textbook was for you to reach climax. In colloquial stories about the plant, he’d always heard that orgasm would have to be reached with the help of another person, but the book didn’t stipulate this, maybe this was the answer. You could do it alone. His cheeks were flushed bright red as he opened his mouth once more. “What you need to do is… er… I’m going to take you into the cloakroom, alright?” he swallows, cautiously pulling you up from the stool onto your feet. You would need to sit somewhere to do this presumably and sitting on the stool or the workbench in here could lead to falling and disaster all over again. The best place he could think of was the bench in the cloakroom where people could sit to remove their shoes. You would have the wall to lean against and wouldn’t be sitting on the cold stone floor. Beneath you, he lays out a towel and then helps you to sit down on top of it. The towel was intended to make you more comfortable, but he considers with a blush that it might be necessary for other reasons also. He clears his throat. “Now, you have to… er… get yourself… uhm…” he can’t seem to make himself say the words. With a soft tug at his sleeve, you pull him to kneel between your legs, your faces nearly level given how much height he has on you. 

Before he can stop you, you kiss him. His brain stops functioning for a moment, all he can do is wrap his arms around you and kiss back, so intoxicated by the way your lips move against his. He didn’t have much experience with kissing, but there was no doubt this was the best kiss of his life. You moan against his mouth and it sets all his nerve-endings alight, making him push even closer to you in desperation. For you, the kiss is a sweet relief, cool water washing over your overheated body, but even so, you need more. There’s an incessant throbbing between your legs, a horrible feeling of emptiness that you know only Neville could fill. Trying to urge him on, you brush your tongue against his lips, hoping for entry. You’re allowed in for one tantalising moment before he pulls away with a start when your tongues graze against each other. The whine that rips from your throat is downright pathetic, but you don’t have the faculties to care at that moment. You look at him through your lashes, watching as he fights to regain his composure, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Never in his life has he felt as weak as in this moment, rendered so malleable by his desire for you. The two of you are friends. How will you react when you come back to normal and discover he let you kiss him in this state? That he’s allowed his selfishness to get in the way of what’s right? He jumps to his feet, ignoring your cries and protests as much as it pains him to do so.

“Look, the textbook says that the only way to cure you of this is… a uh… a climax,” he blushes and chokes on the words slightly. “I’m going to keep watch outside that nobody comes in, all you have to do is… you know…”

“Get myself off?” you supply in a sultry voice. 

“Yes, exactly,” he clears his throat, turning to leave you alone.

“Nev, please… I need your help… I don’t want to do it alone,” you plead, your voice soft and needy.  

“No, you can do it alo– oh… wow,” he exhales heavily as his eyes reach you once more. In an effort to persuade him, you’d pulled up the hem of your skirt and spread your legs, revealing your thighs and your soaked panties to him. The cold air makes you shiver but doesn’t actually cool you down in the slightest. It takes a great deal of strength to keep Neville from lunging himself at you. You look positively delicious, the wetness of your panties allowing him an outline of your most intimate areas, the skin of your thighs soft and plump and enticing. If he was even a slightly feebler man, he’d already be on his knees, devouring you through the thin, damp fabric. Just imagining how you might taste has him weak in the knees. “Oh Merlin…” he breathes, feeling his erection, which has been slightly present for the last half-hour or so, straining painfully against the zip of his jeans. The needy seductive look on your face almost breaks him, he takes a step toward you, causing you to light up, before he stops himself and just stares. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, unable to help himself. He watches you squirm in response. 

“Please, I need you,” you beg, unbuttoning your shirt as he observes. The garment falls to the ground, leaving you in your plain bra. Neville doesn’t seem to mind how simple the garment is in the slightest, his breath hitching as you reveal yourself.

“I really shouldn’t” he tries again, but he cannot rip his eyes from your body.

“I can’t do it alone, I feel so empty,” you whimper, spreading your legs further. “Please, fill me, I need your cock,” Neville nearly faints at those words, at the pleading way you say them, at how desired you’re making him feel. His legs carry him forward before his brain can catch up and he sits beside you on the bench. His brain finally does catch up just in time to stop you from sitting in his lap.

“Maybe I can help a little, but we can’t… I can’t uh… I can’t ‘fill’ you,” he gives in, despite knowing he probably shouldn’t. He had heard many times that another person was needed to reverse the effects of the Dripping Heart, so it was likely he did have to help, given the fact you hardly seemed satisfied with the idea of getting off alone. He could still be as much of a gentleman about it as possible. He knew the both of you had limited sexual experience, he himself was a virgin and though he wasn’t sure about you, he would guess you were in the same boat or had only had one partner before. With both of you having so little experience, he didn’t want to go all the way, as for you it would likely be regrettable. You plead with him softly, trying to climb into his lap still, despite his strong arms holding you at bay. Each plea weakens his resolve and he knows you know it because you’re babbling now.

“Please, please Nev, I need you inside me, to fuck me, I’ve never needed anything so badly, please, I know you want me too,” he deserved a medal for being able to resist you for this long, most other boys would have given in the second the girl of their dreams said something even remotely flirty, but he was somehow just barely resisting your pleas to have sex with him.

“Sit down,” he implores you, and you quickly obey, batting your lashes at him. “I’m going to help you, okay? But you need to stay still and just… take what I give you, don’t ask for more, okay?” These words seem to excite you, you squirm and nod, eagerly allowing him to spread your legs. His shaking hand rests on your bare thigh for a moment as he takes a few composing breaths. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do, it was something he had dreamed of incessantly, but now it felt like it could ruin his life if he wasn’t careful. You tug softly at his arm, trying to get his hand where you want it, bucking against the air.

“Please…” you sob, clenching around nothing as you look at his large hand against your thigh. He shushes you gently.

“I’m about to, just give me a second,” he stammers, trying to sort through his brain for any information he has on how to do this. He averts his eyes, figuring you wouldn’t have wanted him to see you so intimately, even if the damp fabric of your panties had already given him a pretty good look. Slowly, he places his hand on the apex of your thigh, shivering at the damp warmth he can feel radiating from your core. You mewl. Despite the pain in his neck from the position, he keeps his eyes locked on the wall behind you, pointedly ignoring how arousing the sounds you made were. Gathering his courage, he carefully slips the tips of his fingers past the fabric of your underwear and groans aloud at how wet you are. Your nectar gathers on his fingers and for a moment he just gently swipes them up and down to gather as much as possible, hearing your desperate moans as you lean your head on his shoulder. He never knew a woman could be this wet, and sure perhaps the flower was exacerbating it, but the thought still had him unendingly aroused. The angle wasn’t quite right, so he removed his hand, whining in unison with you at the separation. Your essence dripping down his fingers was like a siren song, trying to lure him to lick his fingers clean and finally get a taste of you. How could he ever explain that to you later? To his infinite regret, he doesn’t bring them to his mouth, sliding his hand into your panties once more, now from the top. This angle works a lot better, your hips immediately buck as his fingers slide over your clit.

“There, please, right there,” you beg, and he’s glad for the advice. A little unsure but determined (no point backing out now, at least he might be able to cure you), he relocates the spot that makes you shiver and whine. Your reaction tells you exactly when he’s found the little bundle of nerves once more and he takes a deep breath, before gently beginning to circle his fingers around it. It’s something he remembers hearing in the common room, and it seems it was good advice as soon you’re panting in his ear like a dog in heat, mewling his name softly. He can’t believe the noises you’re making, the sinful way you’re saying his name, it’s like perfect torture, it takes a lot out of him not to look. “Yes, fuck… Nev…” you whine, feeling the syrupy pleasure coursing through your body. “Yes, yes! More!” 

“More?” he croaks, unsure what you mean by that. As a guess, he tries circling faster, and though you definitely seem to like it, your hips canting up into his touch, he can feel you shaking your head against his shoulder.

“Need you inside,” you cry, making his cock twitch in his jeans.

“We- we can’t do- that,” he stutters, although he’s never wanted to more in his life. He wholeheartedly agrees with your pained sob in response, but he knows it’s for the best. “How about… er… my fingers? Inside?” he gulps, flustered that he’s even in a situation where he can ask such a thing. 

“O-okay,” you whimper. Neville fumbles around for a moment, trying to figure out where to put his fingers. It would be much easier if he could see what he was doing, but he’s already decided he shouldn’t. The fact that he touched you will no doubt be mortifying enough once you’re back to normal. With a little guidance from you, he very slowly and cautiously presses two fingers into you, making you gasp in pleasure. You’re wet and warm and tight around his fingers and he practically drools imagining how you might feel around his cock, almost cumming on the spot just thinking about it. Merlin, he was such a pathetic virgin, maybe he should be taking the chance and losing his virginity now, but it just doesn’t feel right when he doesn’t know how you’ll feel about it afterwards. He presses his forehead to the cool wall to calm himself down and prevent him from looking at how you took his fingers in, withdrawing them just slightly and then pressing them back in. The sound that comes from you makes Neville’s heart skip, so lewd and sinful and full of ecstasy. He wants desperately to kiss you, but he knows he shouldn’t. 

At your renewed pleading, he starts up a steady pace, thrusting his fingers in and out the way he wished he could with his cock, feeling filthy for even thinking it. The wet sound that each thrust made, accompanied by your wanton moans makes him feel like he’s the one who has been infected by the flower, so crazed with desire. Could there have been some pollen on you that he inhaled when he helped you up? It didn’t seem impossible, but he was also a young man, they weren’t exactly notorious for being level-headed when it came to sex. You lean heavily against him, gasping against his shoulder at each press of his fingers, the coil in your belly twisting tighter than it ever had before. You mumble incoherent pleas and he simply shushes you, not trusting himself not to give in to you if you keep talking. 

“Thumb,” you breathe between vulgar moans and though it takes his sluggish brain a moment, he realises what you want. He presses his fingers deeper, fumbling a moment before his thumb grazes your sensitive bud, making you sob in pleasure. His large deft hand pleasures you like it was made for it, all you can think of is the bliss he’s giving you as he hits all the right spots over and over. Your hand flies up, nails digging into his arm as you realise you’re dangerously close to exploding, despite the bite of your nails, he doesn’t let up his pace, too addicted to the sound of your moans to slow down now. “Nev… I’m–” you cut yourself off with a shout, pleasure shooting through your body like you were struck by lighting. Your muscles tense and tremble, your eyes rolling back in your skull, walls contracting around his fingers hard. The pleasure goes through you in strong waves, drowning you in it, not allowing you respite from shivers and moans for even a second as it wracks through you. You’d never felt anything so intense and all-consuming before. Neville feels your essence gush onto his fingers and though he should be relieved it’s over, he finds himself disappointed that he has to stop doing this, hearing those bewitching sounds. Gently, he removes his hand from you and guides your skirt back down your thighs so he can finally look toward you again. His fingers are covered in your essence, creamy and mouth-watering, the only thing that’s able to stop him from having a taste is your hand still clinging to his arm. He waits for you to gather your breath, silently smug he was able to help, but also petrified of what happens next. 

“Are you alright?” he asks delicately, shifting his erection away from your back now that you might actually register it. You open your eyes and look up at him, which immediately makes him frown. Your pupils are still almost comically dilated, your cheeks still pink and clammy, and though it could just be from the aftermath of your orgasm, he immediately knows something is still wrong.

“I feel better… but not entirely,” you whisper and Neville bites his lip. Great. He stands to wash his hands in the sink, and during that brief period of absence, he watches you become consumed by the effects of the flower again, pleading for him to come back. He splashes water on his face and takes a deep breath. You had reached climax, he may not be an expert in female orgasms but he knew what he just saw and felt, so what was wrong? Was the plant in the greenhouse genetically modified in some way? Would he have to call Professor Sprout to ask for help? How exactly could he explain that he’d already given you an orgasm and it hadn’t worked? Looking back, he should have taken you to Madam Pomfrey the second he’d realised what had happened to you, but he thought you would have found it too embarrassing. Now things would be infinitely more embarrassing for the both of you if you sought out help. Lesson learned, just because he’d survived a war it didn’t mean he could deal with anything life threw at him alone. He feels you approaching from behind and turns around, allowing you to sink into his arms. “Stay with me,” you plead, holding him close.

“Okay,” he sighs, because what else can he do now? “I’m here,” He caresses your bare back and tries to forget what he just did to you, but he can’t. “I’m sorry,” he huffs, kissing your forehead without thinking. “I’ve made a mess of things, we did all that and you’re not even cured,”

“Why won’t you fuck me?” you whimper. Your boldness doesn’t even surprise him anymore.

“Because it’s not what you really want, you’d never forgive me once things got back to normal, I was just the only person around for the pollen to latch onto,”

“But that’s what the pollen wants, maybe that’s the only way to cure it, I don’t just want an orgasm, I want you inside me,” you suggest. He’s glad you’re slightly more lucid from the relief of your climax, but you’re still not entirely yourself, your voice slow and sluggish like wading through water when trying to formulate logical thoughts. He can’t deny the way his cock, which had softened slightly, was coming back to life at your words. “Please…” you nuzzle against his chest. “I promise you, I want this even when I’m not… whatever I am right now,” you chuckle. He sighs. He doesn’t quite believe you but he’s running out of ideas of what to do, and your friendship is presumably ruined anyway. Maybe he’s making excuses for himself, but it feels more and more like there’s only one thing for it. He prays you’ll remember how much you begged and how hard he tried to be a gentleman and not hate him, even if you avoid him for the rest of your life after this. “I need you,” you whisper and he gives in.

“Forgive me for this,” he pleads, before lifting you into his arms and moving back over to the bench, sitting down and letting you straddle his lap. You smile at him softly, fluttering your lashes. At least the orgasm before made you a little calmer and more agreeable. If nothing else, if he gets you to orgasm again, you might be even closer to normal. He pulls you to his chest taking a moment to embrace you for what he worries may be the last time. You nuzzle into him eagerly. “I’m a virgin, you know?” he mumbles into your shoulder, not knowing why he feels the need to say it. Those words seem to embolden you, you paw at his chest.

“I promise it’ll be good, please…” you purr. He wonders how you might have reacted if you were your regular self. Would you have found it sweet? Would you have pitied him? You probably knew, everyone knew, but you never mentioned it to him. He allows you to pull off his sweater, lifting his arms and watching you discard it across the room. When you lean in to kiss him, he doesn’t even pretend to put up a fight, holding the back of your neck and kissing you back, pouring all his unspoken feelings into it. He tries to keep it slow and gentle, but you’re far too eager, and the heat starts mounting fast. He pushes away all his doubts, telling himself he can enjoy this, or else it would be even more of a waste. The t-shirt that was under his sweater is next to go, as he pulls away to allow you to rid him of it, he studies your face, still flushed and feverish, but so beautiful, full of lust. His hands fall, one to your waist and the other to your cheek, pulling you back in, pressing his lips to yours and sliding his tongue between them. You moan against his mouth, whimpering a soft sound, a thank you or a plea for more, it’s unclear. He groans back in agreement with whatever it was you intended to say. Your tongues languidly swirl together, caressing one another affectionately. Feeling your warm hands on his bare chest makes him shiver, feeling as you explore the newfound definition of his abdomen, only light, but still a change. In turn, he presses a few kisses to your chest, shakily reaching up to rid you of your bra. It falls away and his cock twitches at the sight of your bare breasts, his breath hitching. He could have never hoped he could see you like this, could have never hoped for any of this, and yet here you were, whining and guiding his hands under your skirt. He runs his hands up and down your thighs as he kisses and sucks at the supple skin of your breasts, giving himself some time to enjoy this despite your hurry. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to have left a mark and asked you to give him one in return, but he knew this was crossing a line as if a million lines hadn’t already been crossed today. At this thought he changes his mind and sucks a tiny mark into the centre of your chest that he’s sure will fade in a few hours, staring at the light pink mark a little wistfully. “Need you inside…” you whine, despite enjoying his affection. There’d be time for that later, but right now it felt completely imperative for him to be inside of you, fearing you might explode if he didn’t give you what you wanted.

“Alright, I get it,” he sighs, placing a few more lingering kisses on the swell of your breasts. Your hands find his belt buckle and without him stopping you this time, they make quick work of it. There’s an awkward shuffle as he helps you lower his jeans around his ankles, but once you’ve settled back in his lap, you take in the sight before you. He looks big even through his boxers, just like you predicted, thick and slightly longer than average. Just the thought of him inside you makes you moan and claw off your skirt with no regard for whether it survives the encounter. Neville’s overheated back presses against the cool wall as he leans back to watch you. He doesn’t bother feeling insecure, as you look like you’ve struck gold as you drool over his length, he supposes in this state you would have been happy with anything. His hands slide up and down your sides, being gentle, taking in the sight of your body, so perfect. He wishes in the back of his mind that this won’t be the last time he sees it, but hope feels too dangerous given the circumstances. He helps you slide your panties down, groaning softly as he spots a string of arousal fluid connecting you and the fabric for a while. You want him so badly. His boxers soon follow and he hisses loudly as your hand wraps around his length. “Oh Merlin…” he whimpers, bucking his hips into your hand. “Fuck, I need you,” he parrots. The ghost of a smile crosses your face as you recognise the words as your own.

“You have me,” you whisper, shifting your hips so you’re above his cock, holding him steady as he twitches. Deep brown hooded eyes stare into yours, he can’t believe his luck. Unable to wait any longer, you sink down onto him. Neville’s eyes squeeze shut in pleasure and he grabs your hips to slow you. You feel perfect around him, warm and silky and inviting, engulfing his whole being in sickly-sweet pleasure. He pulls you close, embracing you as you moan in his ear. Slowly, he lowers you down the rest of the way until your hips are flush with his. For a moment, he simply hugs you and kisses your neck. 

“Feels so good,” he pants in your ear. “So good,”

“You fill me perfectly,” you whine, squirming in his lap for friction. “So big…”

“Yeah?” he coughs, trying to sound smooth but failing, causing him to chuckle nervously. “I won’t last, I’m sorry,” he rubs his hands up and down your spine. “I wish this could last forever,” He lets go of you and leans back against the wall, his hands settling on your hips, taking a moment to admire the sight of you on top of him, him inside you. You feel him twitch within you. “Take what you want, love,” he encourages you to move. There’s no point in him trying to remain in control, all he cares about is that you reach climax, he’s bound to anyway. The nickname makes you even needier somehow, the way his voice is deep with desire. Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, eyes meeting for a moment. You’re both flushed and blissful and the look in his dark eyes shoots a jolt through you. He’s always been attractive, but to see him like this, vulnerable, needy, chest-heaving, it was something else. On his advice, you begin lifting yourself up and lowering yourself down onto his cock, moaning unabashedly with each motion. He stretches you open in the most delicious way, exactly how you’d been picturing all day, or for several years really, perfectly endowed. He relaxes and closes his eyes, groaning and whimpering as you move. Every rock of your hips stokes the flames in the both of you, sending you both toward a common end faster than you regularly might. 

“Thank you,” you purr between moans. “I’ve needed this so bad,” 

“I know,” he chokes out with a tired smile. “I’ve needed it too,” he gently massages the fat of your rear as you ride him, watching in bliss as he disappears inside of you over and over. Your moans rise to a fever pitch, your pace faltering slightly as your climax approaches.

“Yes! Yes!” you practically scream, all your senses heightened as you slam your hips down against him. His face scrunches up in pleasure.

“I’m going to– Ahh!” he grunts, body trembling as he releases thick ropes inside of you, whining with the aftershocks as you continue using him to chase your high. It’s so close, you can’t give up now. Neville’s hands weave into your hair, pulling your face down to his to kiss you. Your tongues meet messily as you struggle to focus on the kiss, preoccupied with your orgasm that is on the tip of your tongue. Heat pools strongly in your abdomen, and you feel the familiar ecstasy of the coil snapping in your belly. Your movement immediately ceases, walls spasming around his length as you moan loudly into his mouth, grabbing him and holding him as close as possible. Your vision whites and your brain goes blank, your whole body twitching violently. He tries his best to soothe you through it, but the pleasure isn’t allowing a single thought to form in your mind for several moments. Finally, your muscles relax and you collapse against him heavily, chest heaving with effort, skin slick with sweat. You vaguely register him removing himself from you and wiping you with a towel, but the corners of your mind are fuzzy and you just cuddle closer to him. You sit in silence for a long while and you nearly fall asleep against his shoulder when he speaks up. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you hum. He tilts your chin up towards him.

“Open your eyes, love,” he implores softly, to which you flutter them open. He sighs a great sigh of relief, seeing your pupils shrink as they react to the light, dilated now a regular amount, and the flush on your cheeks is much less than before. “Do you still need me?” he asks.

“Don’t go,” you panic, holding him closer, but then you realise what he means. “Oh… no, all I want is to maybe have a nap,”

“Thank Merlin, I couldn’t have gone for another round,” he jokes stiltedly. You giggle, cuddling closer once more. “You don’t hate me then?” he mumbles, as if worried he will have reminded you to hate him, gently pushing some hair from your face. 

“No, you… saved me,” you shrug.

“Saved seems dramatic,”

“Well, who knows what would have happened to me if you’d just run away and left me alone? You didn’t have to do what you did, but you did it for me,” you lean up to kiss his cheek. “You gave yourself to me completely, just to save me from discomfort,”

“Trust me, it was my pleasure,” he laughs nervously and you gently swat his chest. “I’d do anything for you,” he whispers, kissing your forehead with a barely contained tenderness.

“Yeah, you’ve proved that,” you grin, kissing his cheek again. “And I for you,”

“You’d have had sex with me if I’d been the one to bump into the plant?” he prompts, sliding his hand up your bare side affectionately. 

“Of course, I’d have done it way sooner too, not wasted time being a ‘gentleman’,” you tease. “Thank you for that though, it was sweet of you, even if it was unnecessary because I don’t regret it one bit,” you promise him, kissing his lips tenderly. He embraces you tighter for a moment and then loosens his grip. 

“We should probably leave, I bet it's past teaching hours now,” he sighs before helping you up and to dress. Your panties are well and truly ruined, so you’re forced to go commando under your skirt. Neville wraps his sweater around your hips to help prevent it from flipping up as you walk through the grounds back to the dorms. He finds it difficult to dress himself as you keep eagerly kissing him, but finally get himself presentable, only to be pulled into another kiss. It’s not desperate or lustful like before, more playful and excited, and he’s happy to accept them. “I take it you like me,” he chuckles as you hug him tight, his arms around you in return.

“Loads,” you sigh into his t-shirt.

“I do too,”

“My room? I promise we can just cuddle and sleep,” you suggest, smiling up at him.

“Hey, give me a few hours, I might be raring to go again,” he jokes.

“Well then definitely my room so I can help you out, I owe you one, don’t I?” you giggle and wink. He blushes slightly and shakes his head. 

“That plant has made a monster, come on,” he takes your hand in his. “Let’s go before someone notices and starts asking questions,” he opens the door into the greenhouse, accio-ing both of your bags over, as well as the open textbook from the workbench. “Stupid inaccurate thing,” he grumbles, stuffing it in his bag. You merely giggle at his frustration. As you turn to leave, you’re met with a gleam of magic, the door to the outside of the greenhouse rematerialising. The two of you exchange a look, neither of you had realised the door was even missing amidst the whole debacle, but it must have been, or else it couldn’t have reappeared. Hogwarts had forced the two of you together, it was likely your fall hadn’t even been organic in the first place. You knew you weren’t usually so uncoordinated.

“Huh,” Neville blinks, checking that the door now works, wondering when exactly it disappeared and how he had missed it. You scoff and shake your head in disbelief before the both of you laugh earnestly.

“Hogwarts is a total perv,”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

xoxoxo

[scoupsakakitty]

A/N: Since it’s my Birthday today, I thought I’d surprise you guys with something small I wrote for you. I hope you like it! 🌹

A Rose for Every Regret | idol!S.coups x Reader | fluff

It had been a long day at work. Y/N stepped out of the elevator and dragged herself down the hallway, the weight of her bag feeling heavier than usual. Her birthday wasn’t supposed to feel like this. She had hoped for something… better. But birthdays didn’t seem special anymore, especially after the breakup with Seungcheol, or as everyone else knew him, S.Coups.

He was always too busy, too distracted, too caught up in his own world to notice the little things that mattered to her. So, when they ended things six months ago, she swore she wouldn’t let herself get pulled back into that kind of hurt.

Unlocking her apartment door, Y/N paused. Something felt… different.

She stepped inside, immediately greeted by a sight she couldn’t have expected in a thousand years. Roses. Dozens of roses in vases, arranged perfectly on every available surface in her small living room. The air was thick with their sweet, floral scent.

Her eyes widened, her heart pounding in her chest.

“What the…” she whispered, dropping her bag to the floor.

There was no note, no explanation. But there didn’t need to be. She knew exactly who had done this.

Reaching for her phone, she typed a quick message, her fingers shaking slightly:

Y/N:

Cheol, what the hell? We’re not even together anymore. And how did you even get into my apartment?

It didn’t take long for his reply to come through.

S.Coups:

You never changed your door code.

Her jaw dropped.

Y/N:

Are you serious? That doesn’t give you the right to break in and do… whatever this is!

S.Coups:

I wanted to make your birthday special.

She stared at the message, feeling a complicated mix of emotions anger, confusion, and a small flicker of something she didn’t want to name.

Rolling her eyes, she tossed her phone onto the couch and tried to focus on cleaning up. But every time she looked at the roses, her chest tightened.————————————————————————————-Hours passed, and the sun dipped below the horizon. She had just settled down with a glass of wine, trying to ignore the flowers staring at her from every corner of the room, when the sound of her door opening made her freeze.

Her head snapped toward the entrance.

“Cheol?!” she exclaimed, her voice sharp.

He stepped inside casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He was dressed in his practice clothes sweatpants, a hoodie, and a baseball cap pulled low over his messy hair. In his hands were several gift bags and a small cake box.

“What are you doing here?!” she demanded, standing up so quickly she nearly knocked over her wine glass.

He smiled sheepishly. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

Her heart betrayed her, skipping a beat at the sight of him. He looked tired, but his eyes held that same warmth she’d fallen in love with years ago.

She folded her arms, trying to steady herself. “You can’t just walk into my apartment like this! Seriously, Cheol, what’s wrong with you?”

He set the bags and cake down on the coffee table and straightened up. “I couldn’t stay away. Not today.”

She let out a short, sarcastic laugh. “Oh, really? You had no problem staying away last year when we were still together. Remember? You were ‘too busy’ to even call me on my birthday.”

His expression faltered, guilt flashing across his face. “I know I messed up, Y/N. I’ve messed up a lot. That’s why I’m here. I needed to see you, to say I’m sorry.”

Her arms stayed crossed, her gaze hard. “And you thought breaking into my apartment was the best way to do that?”

“I didn’t break in,” he argued lightly, scratching the back of his neck. “You really should change your code, though.”

“Cheol!”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry! But I just… I needed to see you.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Why now? Why today?”

“Because I couldn’t let another birthday go by without making it right,” he said, his voice soft. “I’ve been such an idiot, Y/N. I know that. I was so caught up in work, in everything else, that I forgot what was most important. You.”

She looked away, his words hitting her harder than she wanted to admit. “Cheol, we’ve been over this. It’s too late. We’re not together anymore.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “And it’s my fault. But I can’t stop thinking about you. Every day, every night, I miss you. I miss us.”

Her heart ached, but she kept her face neutral. “That’s not fair, Cheol. You don’t get to just walk back in and say this now.”

“I know it’s not fair,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “But I’m begging you, Y/N. Give me one more chance. I’ll do better. I’ll be better. I’ll show you every day how much you mean to me.”

She met his gaze, her defenses crumbling just a little. “You didn’t even have time for me before. Why should I believe you now?”

“I’ll make time,” he promised, stepping even closer. “I’ll prove it to you. Starting now.”

He reached into one of the gift bags and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped box. “This is for you.”

Reluctantly, she took the box and opened it. Inside was a delicate bracelet with a tiny rose charm, simple but beautiful.

“It’s not much,” he said, watching her reaction. “But I wanted you to have something that reminded you of how much I love you.”

Her breath caught. “Cheol…”

“I know I hurt you,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly. “And I know it’ll take time to fix things. But please, let me try. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Tears welled up in her eyes despite her best efforts to hold them back. She hated how much she still loved him, how much she wanted to believe him.

“You really hurt me, Cheol,” she whispered, her voice shaky.

“I know,” he said, stepping closer and gently taking her hand. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

For a long moment, she just looked at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt or insincerity. But all she saw was love raw, desperate, and unshakable.

Finally, she sighed, a small, watery smile breaking through. “You’re such a pain, you know that?”

His face lit up with hope. “Is that a yes?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile grew. “It’s a maybe.”

He grinned, pulling her into a tight hug. “I’ll take it.”

As his arms wrapped around her, she felt a warmth she hadn’t felt in months. Maybe he really had changed. Maybe this time, things would be different.

————————————————————————————-

And as they sat together, sharing cake and laughter, surrounded by the soft glow of candlelight and the scent of roses, she realized that she was ready to try again.

After all, love was worth the risk. And with Cheol, it felt like coming home.

[knavcsblade]

at last.

+18!

cw: transfem dilf!arlecchino x fem milf!reader. overly descriptive. neither of you are exactly soft personality wise. arlecchino referred to as ‘husband’. reader referred to as ‘wife’, ‘woman’, and ‘mother’. reader a little insecure. praise + degradation (?). RAW lesbian sex. starts off tame, turns rough. overstimulation. creampie, breeding, etc.

wc: 3.2k

summary: arlecchino and you have been awfully busy lately, so a moment of passion was due, no?

a/n: wrote this in a few hours because i was bored and thinking of dilf arle again, so it probably sucks and i hate it!

Everyone knew about the cold Knave—the one all people feared yet respected so greatly. That same one who, with just one look from her crimson eyes, could make an entire multitude grow silent in a matter of seconds.

Yes, that one was your husband.

In spite of her intimidating demeanor, she wasn’t the type to behave so aloof when in private, though you couldn’t expect cuddles, either. However, you didn’t seem to mind it one bit, which was to be expected—you were a busy woman, after all.

You would barely see each other due to work as of late, and it was gnawing at you internally. You missed her, whether you liked to admit it or not. You ached for your old, shared routine in quietude, which only made your case worse. She didn’t notice.

Sure, it had been years since you had gotten married, and you knew just how occupied you would both be at all times from the beginning, but it didn’t stop you from having basic human emotions.

The only times you would both meet would be to take care of your children, and to fall asleep in bed next to one another after a tiresome day. This wasn’t enough. No, no, it wasn’t. You craved more and more each passing night, to the point where you would even catch yourself begging unconsciously for her to wrap those cursed arms around you and relieve you both of the stress you were under.

This never happened, of course.

You would lay beside her in utter silence, yearning for the scorching touch of her firm hands all over your frame as you examined the manner in which her chest lifted and sank gently in her sleeping form. How torturous of her, to rest so carelessly beside you while you tossed and turned trying to get these juvenile thoughts off your head.

After what felt like an eternal few days, you had had enough. Arlecchino would be free for the weekend, and she already had plans of her own—that involved you, obviously—, so she wasn’t expecting you to completely drop your calm act the second you two were finally alone after tending to your children just like every other time.

It was late Friday night, the week having dragged on for far too long—the weariness was evident in the way your husband’s shoulders dropped slightly as she undid the buttons of her suit. Your shared room would have been dead silent if only it weren’t for the clicking of your heels against the hard floor bouncing off the walls.

“Peruere…, do you require my assistance?” Your voice was almost a purr, one so low it would have sent a shiver down the woman’s spine if only she hadn’t been slowly growing impatient due to her attire’s annoying design.

She was used to the way her real name rolled off your tongue with such ease, though it never escaped her when it did. You were trying to be sweet, and she caught on to that just from the sole sentence you uttered.

“No, dear,” she answered almost in an instant, though she gave up the second she realized that she did, in fact, need some help. It was only natural, due to the length of her nails and how eager she was to rid herself of the unnecessary fabric draping her body. “… yes.”

All you did was hum and draw closer, steady hands finding those buttons she was struggling with so you could work your magic. And no, Arlecchino wasn’t the type of person who would have filthy thoughts regularly—however, you had been plaguing her mind in different ways on a daily basis.

Maybe she missed the contrast of your plush skin against her calloused palms, or the way you would squirm beneath her whenever she figuratively pressed the right buttons to inflict the most pleasure upon you. She could navigate your body with effortless precision even in her own mind, but this wasn’t enough for a woman like her.

Now, having you before her as she looked down upon your serene expression, she realized just how much she had been missing out on. It had been almost months since you two had become one—since you two had fogged up the large mirror you had placed on one of the walls in your bedroom with the heat that radiated from your bodies.

Once you were done unbuttoning her suit, she took her time to remove the fabric from her form and set it aside. All she stood with before you now was the black, lightweight undershirt you used to rip off her when you grew bold and impatient a long time ago.

The one which you would definitely tear off that night.

You knew Arlecchino was a poised diplomat. There was no room for her to be impulsive and erratic whatsoever, though one could think otherwise by the way she gained purchase on your hips to pull you closer after staring for a second too long. You would have been confused if only you hadn’t been aching for this closeness for what felt like ages now.

“You look dazzling tonight, my dear. Is there a special occasion I have not been informed of?” She needn’t speak loudly now, not since you were pressed flush against her front as her fingertips buried themselves into the concealed flesh of your waist.

Could this be her lying about your looks through her teeth…? No, she wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t the type to bluff so shamelessly—not to you, at least.

“Not that I’m aware of, no,” your murmur filled her ears in an almost intoxicating way, and the feeling of your hands pressed against her chest made her tingle in response.

Composure be damned. The mere sight of your glowy eyes sent a jolt of unfiltered lust through her that she couldn’t ignore. Those thoughts of her job and duties that overflowed her brain quickly scattered to be replaced by nothing other than you the second her lips crashed against yours.

My, if only she could have you like this twenty-four hours a day, she would. The mother of her children fully in contact with her at all times… that was a blessing of its own.

Her large hands roamed over the curve of your ass, possessively groping and massaging the plump flesh below the tip of her fingers, all the while she forced you to take clumsy steps back towards the bed. She was desperate for a taste, or maybe more than just one. It had been too long since she had gotten you to mark her back with your polished nails—since she had felt your insides squeezing her deliciously.

Your legs spread to give her enough room between them as your back met the mattress, and all you did was cradle her face when she began to rid you of your pants in a way that could only be described as desperate.

It drew a giggle from you, the kiss breaking not only for you both to catch your breath, but also for you to make a comment she wouldn’t find all that amusing.

“Eager, are we?”

“Hush now. You want this as much as I do.” Despite the sharp tone of her voice, it oozed greed. However possible it was for it to drop an octave, it did.

Arlecchino’s experience was obvious as she had you stripped of all clothing beneath her in a matter of seconds, and you could already tell just how hungry she was from the way those crimson crosses committed your anatomy to memory. You couldn’t quite understand why she enjoyed your body so much due to how you viewed yourself, but oh, did she love grasping onto your thicker thighs every time she plunged into you.

You were too lost amidst the distracting ideas that traversed your mind to realize she was already naked on top of you, though she brought you back to Earth with a soft graze of her nails on your hip—truly heartwarming despite her being the one who fueled so many people’s nightmares.

“You are… hm. Such a sight for sore eyes.” Her words slipped out the back of her throat like an alluring melody, capturing your breath as she made sure to lay open-mouthed kisses along your neck. You knew it was hard for her to say things such as that, but you deserved it at the end of the day.

She always had the charm of a siren which rendered you to nothing but a submissive dummy for her to worship and adore silently. This husband of yours always bestowed you with the highest levels of pleasure you couldn’t even begin to comprehend, even after a while of unwanted celibacy.

Those lips that helped you see stars many a time made their way downward, not skipping a beat even once her hands groped you with ownership—one of them massaging one of your tits and the other on your inner thigh the second she managed to hook her dark arm around it. She would keep you in place to devour you until she got what she wanted.

“Darling, I… hm,” your sentence was cut short by the soft kiss she placed on your dripping cunt, and the fiery glow of her gaze was focused on the way your head tipped back at the sensation.

Arlecchino always found it sweet—just how sensitive you were to her ministrations. She could tell your lips were parted from her position and how the small bliss took over your senses even when she solely hovered over you. What a pretty thing you were.

“Eager, are we?”

You knew this was to mock you, to make you see just how hungry you were for her as much as she was for you, and even if she hadn’t placed her tongue between your slick folds, you wouldn’t have complained. You lacked your usual coldness when around her, and she adored it.

The manner in which she now explored your pussy was feral. It was a feeling that could only be described as dizzying, and your reaction was almost unconscious due to this. Whimpering and slowly melting into the bed was all you could do as she did what she knew best, which was to suck on your clit with a thirst that only you could satiate.

Maybe it was the way she knew how to pick up the pace of the flicking of her tongue against you, or the fact that it was her doing this to you, but you were totally out of it. At that moment, your focus solely lay on how her mouth rewarded you for all the distance you had borne until that point.

The minutes dragged on for longer than you could take, legs twitching around her head as she made sure to taste every last inch of your needy cunt which was now more than coated in her spit.

Your words mixed with a loud moan, one which grew even more strident as the palm of your hands rubbed against your sensitive nipples. “P-Peruere… please! Please,” and she just knew what you meant by the way you would plead.

A slight rise of the corners of her lips were her response—something you felt and gave you goosebumps from head to toe. How could you not notice such a thing? Her face was fully buried in your pussy, and she enjoyed every second of torturing you.

Eventually, she hummed and squeezed the soft skin of your thighs. A silent question. What is it that you want, sweetheart? Either you answered to the best of your abilities, or you wouldn’t get it.

“Please, please,” you sounded so pathetic and whiney it flipped a switch in the depths of her mind, “I can’t… I need you, darling. So, so bad…, please.”

She would give you what you wished for, but not before she had you cumming all over her tongue. You couldn’t make a fuss, though. She loved the way you would squirm, arch your back, and cry only from something as simple as having her devouring you so fiercely.

You indulged her in the end, your climax hitting you like a bucket of cold water as you did all she expected from you. She even had to hold you down from how messy you got, as usual, and also to not get squished by your thighs, not yet, at least.

“Good girl… truly.” Her tone was more than sultry after she pulled away from your clit with a wet pop, and even when away from you, she had to lick her lips to taste you again. You had always been her favorite meal, after all.

You panted and tried to recover from the fog that clouded your sight, and even with this you could tell Arlecchino was right above you from the way the mattress sunk at your sides due to her hands. It made her tingle—to have you so fucked out and vulnerable beneath her body. The ache between her legs only became worse at the sight, her erection jerking right against your sensitive folds.

“You still want it, don’t you?” she asked knowing damn well the answer was yes. You needed her like one required oxygen to stay alive. “You still want me to fill you to the brim.”

A sneaky hand found the space between your breasts to trail down in a torturous pace, a black nail pressed so harshly it would leave a mark the next day. She came to a halt on your mound so her thumb could rediscover its usual spot on your overwhelmed clit, so slippery it teased the future of her actions. Vocalization of your desires, that’s what she wanted.

“Yes! Yes, I do,” you were still twitchy, still aching for her in a manner she could never quite understand.

“Mm-hmm… alright, then.”

That’s all you heard from her before you felt the way she shifted over you and the tip of her cock aligned perfectly with your naturally stretched out hole. She wouldn’t use her fingers on you to prepare you—she hadn’t the time to trim her stiletto nails since this was all unpremeditated, and it would be unthoughtful of her to shove them inside you.

The moment she sunk into you, your reactive moan seemed to almost be of relief. You could feel her slowly pushing herself between your poor cunt walls so as to not harm you. My, just the sound of her barely audible groan could’ve made you finish a second time.

“Always so welcoming,” she mumbled through her breaths the instant you finally swallowed her full and coated her cock with your slick. You no longer felt empty, at last.

Of course, she tortured your previously abused clit with her thumb to get you used to her size easier. Considerate without fail, wasn’t she? She rubbed it in soft circles as she awaited for you to give her some leeway to move inside you, but she enjoyed the feeling of the way you wrapped around her.

You met her lascivious gaze after some time—just from the sight of your glossy eyes and nonverbal appeal she felt the sudden urge to pound your pussy until you couldn’t think of anything other than how good she was at fucking you. Making you cry from the pleasure, that was the only thing she could think about at that moment.

This woman reacted almost in the blink of an eye. Her hands made sure to move your legs enough for your comfort before one of them grabbed your face. You could feel the cold surface of her wedding band against your skin as she lost all mercy for you—she wasn’t the type to be kind either way, was she?

“Such a pretty doll you are,” she cooed as her fingers slightly dug into the flushed skin of your cheeks, “how pathetic do you turn just for me.”

That just forced a guttural moan out of you. Her words, mixed with the way her hips met yours with each forceful thrust… it was only making your eyes prickle with tears. You were so loud that every little sound that escaped your lips sounded like music to her ears.

The way your flesh and breasts recoiled because of her movements were like a work of art. Such lewd moans from your lips, the manner in which her flesh slapped yours, the smell of sex permeating the air. It was all a masterpiece crafted by her own hand, and she relished it fully.

The fashion in which she angled her dick to continuously rub against that spongy spot on your insides drove you mad. You had to put your hands on her chest to try and calm down her momentum. Not only were you still coming down from your first orgasm in such a long time, but she was also being so rough she might as well have been tearing you apart right there and then.

You could almost feel her all up in your guts. Her motions were becoming almost primitive against your poor cunt.

“P-please…”

She quickly interrupted your whiny attempt at speaking, her tone borderline scolding through groans and pants.

“You can take it all like the good wife you are.”

Oh, did she know what to say to make you clench around her cock and draw a beautiful noise from the pit of her throat. Arlecchino always enjoyed that pitiful moment where you physically reacted to her words. Such a good toy you were.

The moment arose where both you and her could feel both of your crescendos drawing closer after long minutes of wet sounds, and your husband just couldn’t pass the opportunity to make it even better for the both of you. She always knew how to fluster you even if it was nearly impossible to do it even more.

“In or out?” She asked in a somewhat steady voice, having drawn closer to you as a means to bury her face into the crook of your neck.

You had been sinking your nails in the pale skin of her back, leaving red trails at your wake while you muffled your cries thanks to her shoulder. This question, however, forced you to shut your eyes at the realization of what she meant.

“In… please, just… inside.” She could barely make out your words since you were oh so occupied enjoying the way her dick drilled into your now swollen pussy.

And, naturally, she did as you said.

Your orgasm struck you both at the same time, skins glistening with sweat now pressed flush against each other as she released fully inside of you and all you could see was white. All she could hear from her spot was your loud cry of ecstasy and the soft sound of small raindrops beginning to hit the window of your room.

She pulled away from you eventually, just to watch you through her haze, and hummed at your delicious and new fucked out expression. She knew you were now leaking out your mixed fluids and tainting the sheets, however, she couldn’t find herself caring. She wanted more.

“Turn around.”

“Wh- huh?” You thought you were hearing wrong. You were still amidst the peak of your pleasure—you weren’t understanding her, surely.

“I’m not done with you. Turn around. Now.”

If you hadn’t been broken in half yet, you would be by the end of the long, long night ahead of you.

[animorphsficcommenter]

I want to preface my reply here with the understanding that I agree with you on how a lot of these *are* double standards. But at the same time… I think there is a *legitimate* criticism laid against Cassie that I feel is being brushed off here. And when I say “criticism” I mean “character flaw she has”, in the same way that one could criticize Visser Three for being evil; it makes her character more complex, makes the book better, and it’s not bad to have!

But her decision to put Aftran in her head, to let Tom escape with the morphing cube, genuinely do put the whole world at risk. More than anyone else on the team, she struggles to set aside the close-to-her people instead of the world. In Percy Jackson, his fatal flaw was supposedly “loyalty”- he’d let the world burn for his friends. I don’t think that flaw was managed well there, but it reminds me of Cassie in theory.

Putting Aftran in her head to save Karen was a bad decision. It worked out really well, and I understood why she did it, and I don’t think that it makes her a Mary Sue that it worked out. That’s one of my utterly favorite books in the series. I love its message. *And* I think it was a bad decision. I think it put everyone else at risk, and the correct thing to do with the information she had at the time would have been to let Karen die rather than become a controller herself, and I think Cassie is the only one of the Animorphs who would have made that decision at that point in the war. Brushing this off as “The alternative was killing a 6-year old girl, and that tells us more about you than it does about her” is disingenuous, I think. Killing Karen *would* have been deeply deeply unpleasant, I’d have hated it, all of them would have hated it. But between “killing a six year old girl” and “exposing my entire team so that the whole planet falls to a life in slavery”, I know which one I’d pick, even if I *really wish a third option existed*. It’s a very legitimate thing to be upset with a character about, *even if* it’s incredibly realistic and very hard for anyone to do.

Similarly, the decision in book 50 to let Tom get away with the morphing cube- it worked out well, but it put the whole war at risk, and with the information she had it was the wrong decision. I think she is a *better character* for it; I think the story is better for it; I love Cassie. But I don’t think it’s unreasonable to say that at that point in the war, no other Animorph would have taken that risk, and I don’t think it’s sexism to say “I think that that was a bad decision and this is my least favorite character as a result.” (And side note, she isn’t my least favorite character.)

They need her. They need someone to stand up for what’s right, to keep them from going too far. But she is *more likely* to go too far in the opposite direction than any of them. And that’s not a double standard; I’d be upset with any of them who knowingly took an action of that magnitude of risk. The others didn’t- except Jake, who gave up on the war in MM4, and I’m upset with him for doing that for exactly the same reasons. (With the exception of Nice Rachel in book 32 and Marco in book 42, both of which get passes for being literally brain damaged at the time.)

A similar thing goes for Rachel too, but a more interesting one here. Ax absolutely is bloodthirsty, and I’d even say *more* bloodthirsty than her. But the *narration* calls out Rachel as being the bloodthirsty one, over and over again. “Ax, get Rachel”, not “Rachel, get Ax”. Book 48 (which I love as a character study) is all about how Rachel reacts to the constant way the others treat her as bloodthirsty; we don’t get a similar book for Ax because they *don’t* treat him that way despite him being the one to suggest, e.g., flushing the Yeerks in 53, letting them starve in 7 without concern for the hosts.

So I think there absolutely is a sexism of sorts going on here, but I think it’s happening *in-universe too*, and I think a lot of people *out-of-universe* form their opinions based off of what the characters themselves think without doing deeper analysis to see what biases the characters have. And so I don’t think a discussion about this is complete without mentioning that aspect too.

So I'm putting together an In Defence of Cassie PowerPoint for a PowerPoint night with friends. Do you have any arguments for or against her? I trust your opinion and am curious.

Let's see.

"She's too powerful, too unique, too far-seeing, and not good enough for Jake! What a Mary Sue!"

Counterpoint: May I introduce you to the reigning champion fan favorite, Sad White Boy Tobias?

Only nothlit ever to regain the ability to morph

Only known human-andalite hybrid ever to exist

Regarded as savior by entire hork-bajir species

Entire existence is a time paradox the war hinges upon

Pulls the canonically "most beautiful girl in our grade", who turns down 6 or 7 other offers in favor of Bird Boy

Correctly predicted planetary ecology 65 million years in advance

Believed to be immune to 2-hour limit

In conclusion: y'all wouldn't be crying "Mary Sue" if Cassie was a sad white boy, and I can prove it.

"She's too weak and hand-wringing, and she never helps the war effort!"

Counterpoint: First of all, the fact that the same people say this in the same breath as "she's too powerful" is... telling. Secondly:

She saved the entire team's lives in #24, in #29, in #44, and in MM1, among others.

Specifically calling out #44 — that ending shows she is willing and able to be ruthless when her friends are in need. She doesn't like slaughtering human-controllers, but if the alternative is everyone she loves dying, then she'll fucking well do it.

Much like Jake (see: Sad White Boy), she's more willing to risk herself than her friends, hence the end of MM1

Her medical knowledge saves Marco from rabies, Ax from brain!appendicitis, and Tobias from bird flu.

Her survivalist knowledge saves everyone in #25 (the Arctic), MM2 (Cretaceous Era), #11 (rainforest), and #14 (desert).

In conclusion: Cassie's only idealistic-looking by the standards of this extremely morally gray team.

"She's so unfair to Jake!"

Counterpoint: Jake? The Jake who refused to speak with her for weeks? Jake who proposes marriage while they're still broken up? Jake who announces he'll never trust Cassie again because she [checks notes] saved his brother's life? That Jake?

Also:

She gives him tons of emotional support in #16, #21, #47, and other times he's feeling low.

They have a healthy argument where they air differences and come to an understanding in #9.

Did I mention he doesn't just dump her but ghosts her in the middle of the war's endgame?

They're teenagers. Their relationship isn't perfect, but it is built on open communication and mutual respect which is more than Rachel and Tobias can say

She's fighting a war, and PTSD for that matter. No, she doesn't have infinite emotional bandwidth.

In conclusion: Their relationship is fine, their breakup is mutual, and her behavior only looks bad if, once again, you're holding Cassie to a different standard than you are Jake.

"She shouldn't have trusted Aftran!"

Counterpoint: friendly reminder that the alternative was killing a 6-year-old for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If that's what you think Cassie should've done, that tells us more about you than about her.

"She spends too much time moralizing!"

Counterpoint: this is a book series about war, not a friggin' video game. If you want moral pornography, go play Call of Duty. If you want sci fi realism, then you're going to have to accept that a majority of humans prefer not to kill their fellow humans if at all possible.

"She's a ripoff of [insert character here]!"

Counterpoint: literally every single one of these says more about the commenter than about the source work. "Every dystopia is set in the U.S." is the kind of thing only people who only read books by American authors would think. "All epic fantasy is Eurocentric" => tell me you only read books by white people without telling me. I'm glad you think Cassie is too similar to Willow Rosenberg, but there are at least 6 other stories in the known world, and I hear some of them even feature sweet/dorky/caring characters who are secretly ultra-powerful.

In conclusion: You don't have to like Cassie as a (fictional) person, but 85% of criticisms directed at her are bad-faith attacks on one of the 1990s' only fat Black female gnc ultra-powerful superheroes.

[doiliedaze]

When the morning comes your still mine

Warnings: whistle trained reader, somewhat toxic relationship?? Reader has no will-power I mean immediately goes back into Sevika’s arms, public sex, dark and ooc! Sev, humiliation, Sev is packing and her strap is referred to as cock, degradation (reader is called a bitch and refers to herself as a mindless bimbo), I’m lowkey gaslighting reader too LMAOO

Genre: smut, angst with the little plot I put in here

A/N: inspired by the copious domestic Sevika content I’ve been taking in and pretty little birds by SZA and @wingedcrowpersona

Reader is a stripper!!

───────┈ · ·

Divorce wasn’t something you saw with you and Sevika but it’s your reality.

It was like one morning was different, the arguing didn’t matter, the makeup sex wasn’t working. You still wanted her but you didn’t need her.

You fell back into your old routine; get up, practice, hangout, work, hangout, sleep. Anything that stops you from thinking. Your marriage was lovely till it wasn’t, never agreeing with Silcos influence on your wife.

Music was blaring, lights were flashing and slightly tipsy you didn’t know where you were walking. This plus six inch platform heels caused disaster.

You fell right into her arms.

She was still as beautiful as ever and you know she thought the same about you. You also knew you were trapped.

Her mechanic hand squeezing the small of your back as she helps you up. “You look good” she states as she pops the string of your thong.

Immediately you swat her hand away, “don’t touch me like that.” You state crossing your arms. Vika always teased you whether you liked it or not.

Slowly she almost stalks to you, “is that how you treat your wife?”

“Not my wife anymore that’s how divorce works.”

“Not divorced if you didn’t sign the papers doll.” She said as she cups your face and brings you close. “For one second could you behave? Be my good little wife again?” Instinctively you nod missing how mean she could be, “I could fuck you right here and you’d like that mhm?”

“I’m on the clock!” You whine remembering where you are.

“I’ll pay you” she says flatly as one of her fingers dip into the front of your thong.

“Sevika wait” you gasp and you press yourself closer trying to make sure no one in the club could see you.

You grab her wrist about to deny yourself of pleasure until Sevika let’s out a short loud whistle. You let go of her wrist, stand up straight and look at her with doe eyes.

“Still my bitch I see” she says as she slowly rubs circles on your pretty clit. You can’t help but moan and obey because that’s what Sevika deserves, a mindless bimbo wife.

Legs shaking due to embarrassment and pleasure you step closer to her to balance yourself. Another whistle was let out and you open your legs more, giving her thick finger more access to you.

“I should embarrass you, since you embarrassed me.” She scoffs, “thinking you aren’t mine, my wife.”

You shake your head no but it didn’t really matter. She knew you wanted this, she knows how much you missed her.

Sevika maneuvers you two to a booth, pulling you by your thong strap. She’s seated whilst your standing.

“C’mon dance, entertain me.” She mutters as she lights a cigar blowing it in your direction knowing you hate smoke. Sevika is never this hard on you but you left her, you did this to yourself.

Slowly you dance to the music, touching yourself here and there in the process. Naturally you strip not caring who saw because it was about your wife’s pleasure. Once you were bare she whistles and you sit on her lap. Sevika puts the cigar out and holds your face, smoke escaping her mouth. “I missed you”, her whisper sincere and hurt. “Not as much as I.” You mumble before you softly press your lips against hers.

Her tongue slithers your mouth. She missed how you taste, how you feel so much. How could you deprive this from her?

Your pierced nipples rub against hers and you go to unbuckle her pants. Like a good bitch you wait for the whistle, her wanting to see how patience you could be. Once granted permission you are able to slip her inside with a satisfactory squelch from your dripping cunt.

Her hands were harsh on your hips and your pelvis was burning but none of the mattered as you kissed your wife. Didn’t matter who was watching or if you’d feel shame tomorrow because that’s the effect she has on you.

Both of you desperate for each other are rutting against each other ready to cum. Saliva is dripping from your tongues, hair is frizzy and fucked, both of your moans are loud and desperate.

She just wants her wife back, wants to take care of you again. Fucks you into never thinking about leaving her again.

With one final thrust you shakily cum, and ride your orgasm out together.

“Can I take you home?” She whispers her eyes looking like hurt puppy dogs. “Let’s go home.”

───────┈ · ·

A/N: oh my gosh!! I need to be whistle trained by her!! She’s so hot why isn’t she real (ˊ̥̥̥̥̥ ³ ˋ̥̥̥̥̥)

Taglist: @manfuckthisimout @bambishaven

(Dividers- @dollywons)

[i-am-baechu]

Preview:

❀˖° Title: Never Knew I Needed

❀˖°Paring: Idol! Yoongi x Introvert! Reader 

❀˖° Rating: PG - 16

❀˖° Summary: Yoongi had his life planned out for himself. Studio. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. He always knew what he needed to do or what needed to be done but it all changed on a Tuesday morning with a girl who clumsily knocked into him. 

❀˖°Genre: Fluff, romance, strangers to lovers, reader keeps to herself, florist reader, some steamy scenes but nothing too crazy in this one

❀˖° Playlist: Never Knew I Needed - Ne-Yo

Yoongi let out a loud groan. Apparently his music file was corrupted which means his hard work was nowhere to be seen. He ran his finger through his hair and glared at the screen, “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Namjoon glanced at Hoseok who just shrugged his shoulders. Namjoon walked behind Yoongi in his chair and rubbed his shoulders gently, “You should walk away for now. It’s not going to be solved if you stay mad at it. If anything, you might make things worse.” 

Yoongi sighed and took a sip of his coffee, “You want buns for breakfast?” 

Hoseok nodded his head at this, “Nora Bun’s open in a few minutes. They have really good red bean buns.” 

Yoongi stood up from his chair (with a little stretch) and put his beanie on, “Whatever will get me out of here, I don’t care where we go.” 

Hoseok scoffed at this, “Let’s go sunshine.”

Namjoon sighed and rubbed his forehead, “It’s too early for this, let’s get food.” 

Yoongi put his jacket on and glanced down at his phone, “Did you order the flowers for TxT?”

Namjoon nodded his head, “Yeah, Stardust was super busy. I just hope they’ll get here.” 

“Y/N, is really good at being on time. You don’t have to worry.” 

Yoongi closed his studio door and glanced at Hoseok with a raised eyebrow, “Y/N? Who is that?”

“She’s one of the owners of Stardust. Super nice and awkward. Fun to tease.” 

Namjoon shook his head as they walked down the hall, “I tell you all the time to leave her alone.”

“Why haven’t I met her?” 

Namjoon glanced at Yoongi and shrugged his shoulders, “You never come out of your studio.” 

“Whatever, just make sure the flowers get here.” 

[scoutofmymind]

Saw that someone said Luigi’s Reddit had a post where he eluded to a pretty heavy drinking habit in college, which then makes me think about drunk ex!luigi. I’m sorry, but you write angst too well

Unlearn Me — { Luigi x Reader}

Content: SFW, angst, yearning, slight pining, mentions of canon back pain, ex’s reminiscing, heartbreak all over again.

W.c: 4,336 (holy shit)

Notes; Two semesters of carefully crafted distance crumbles at 3AM in the computer lab when your final project implodes hours before the deadline, leaving you with no choice but to seek help from the one person you've been avoiding since the breakup.

Before we continue, I cannot ignore that wildfires continue to ravage Los Angeles, countless families have lost their homes and livelihoods. I urge you to consider supporting those affected through any of these donation links, additionally, Roadogs on Instagram is looking for fosters for mass evacuations of shelter dogs in California.

Foster or donate if you can. xo.

Now, let’s go.

"Mother fucker," you curse, attacking your keyboard with increasingly desperate keystrokes.

Each combination might be the one to salvage this disaster, but deep down you know it's hopeless — your software has corrupted itself into oblivion, taking six months of work with it.

"You can ask for an extension," Emma suggests, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion that matches your own. Your roommate had burst into the media center still wearing her pink silk pajamas, immediately launching into a nervous tirade about after-hours permissions and potential expulsion risks.

Her constant hovering and worrying grates on your last nerve, and you tell her to leave.

Predictably, she refuses.

"Listen, I'm not just gonna leave you here on your own." She leans across your workspace, her body pressing against your laptop screen until it tilts halfway closed. You freeze, fingers suspended above the keys, terrified of losing what little progress you've made in this digital archaeology expedition. "There's - like - a murderer on campus."

"One girl said she was followed home," you gently remind. Under normal circumstances, Emma's mother-hen routine would be endearing — charming, even. But right now, with your project in shambles and deadline looming, her protective hovering feels suffocating. "Not murdered, Em."

"May as well have been." Emma fixes you with that look — the one that screams why am I the only rational person here? While her nails tap nervously against your desk. "Probably hasn't left her room since. And you know what? Smart girl.”

You scrub your hands over your face, your eyes fixed on the projector's word vomit — an endless stream of error messages and unintelligible code painting the drywall from a tired projector like some twisted modern art piece.

Not exactly what you were going for.

Emma stands mesmerized, "How did you even do this?" She watches the cryptic display crawl across the wall, her eyes tracking each line as if she could decode it. "This reminds me of-" she catches herself, the name hanging unspoken between you. She's learned that lesson the hard way. "This is wild.”

You can't help but notice.

Notice how she almost speaks his name, how these meaningless strings of letters and numbers somehow bridge the gap to memories you've tried so hard to bury — promises whispered under star-sprinkled skies, fingers intertwined beneath the cosmic glow.

Moments that felt eternal then, ephemeral now.

Your gaze drifts to your phone, lying face-down like a surrender.

You blink several times, trying to clear the ghosts from your vision before speaking, your voice emerging barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves might shatter something in the air, "Should I text him?" You ask, offering the idea as if it was something too controversial to be spoken aloud.

Emma shifts her weight, both from exhaustion and the sudden weight of responsibility.

Your night's trajectory now rests in her hands — she who has witnessed every shade of you, from triumph to devastation. Her own memories of him surface: the way he'd raid her ice cream stash only to replace it with a premium pint the next day, how he'd tackle the dish mountain without prompting, those small gestures that made him feel like family.

"He was my favorite boyfriend of yours," she'd told you once, in a moment of wine-honest conversation. "He was a good boy."

A good boy who made a couple mistakes.

But those mistakes had compounded like interest on a debt you never agreed to pay, until the rift between you and Luigi widened into an ocean.

Everything good had been pulled out with the tide — your trust, your shared future — swept away to depths where no light could reach.

"I-" Emma's hand finds the back of her neck, her expression cycling through a slideshow of conflicted emotions. You can see her internal struggle; the desire to crawl into her bed warring with her loyalty to you. And she knows you well enough to realize you'd stay here until sunrise if necessary. "I mean — babe, I love you, but you can't fix this." The admission seems to pain her, as if acknowledging your limitations feels like betrayal. "We aren't techies."

You stare helplessly at your gutted gallery, stripped bare by your own accidental digital vandalism. Your artwork, your portfolio, your future — all reduced to incomprehensible strings of code projected onto an indifferent wall.

"Do you think he'd come?" The question escapes before you can stop it, your eyes magnetized to your phone as if your stare alone could resurrect that old text thread, buried beneath months of careful silence.

"Of course he would."

A soft, defeated whine escapes you as you turn back to glare at your corrupted work, as if you could intimidate it into fixing itself through sheer force of will.

Emma's voice softens, "Hey, he's mature enough to understand you've exhausted your options."

A violent shudder runs through you at the thought of Luigi being your last resort.

You'd managed to exile the visceral memories — the heated arguments that left you gasping for air, the promises that turned to vapor in the morning light.

"Which are?"

Emma looks down at her Pokemon-clad self, then back at you. "Me." She gestures vaguely in your direction, "and you."

The campus sleeps around you, everyone else lost to their dreams or late-night calls home. Just the two of you remain, trapped in this dimly-lit purgatory on a Wednesday night, while error messages mock your existence with their endless scroll.

"Slim pickin's," you mutter as your fingers betray you, finding Luigi's contact with muscle memory that refuses to die.

How many times had you pressed these same digits before?

But this is different.

Different because you haven't spoken since that night in your kitchen, when you stood with your back to him, voice steady despite the trembling in your hands, "So, we aren't going to try to figure this out?" You asked, and he’d responded with some pretentious comparison about your relationship being like corrupted code, fundamentally flawed, destined to fail its own quality test.

The irony isn't lost on you — the very metaphor he used to end things is now the thread that might pull you back into his orbit. Your only connection besides the elaborate dance of avoidance across campus, treating each other's paths like holy ground neither dares to tread.

Opening the thread, you're greeted by your last exchange — your final words to him blazing across the screen in angry blue bubbles: "I want my fucking shit back or I'll make your life a living hell." Such poetry. Your new message hovers in the text box, simpler, desperate in its brevity.

Hey need help with somethin. U up??

You thrust your phone at Emma like it's burning your fingers, watching her eyes widen as they catch on those months-old texts — digital artifacts of your rage that should have been scrubbed before tonight's desperate plea. "Jesus," she whispers, amusement dancing in her expression. "I'd still be licking my wounds if I were hi-"

The familiar buzz cuts through the air, a notification chime that once made your heart leap but now makes it sink.

"What'd he say?" You mumble, gaze fixed on the mocking projection that bathes the room in its sickly digital glow, code continuing its relentless march across the wall.

Emma settles into a chair, hunching over your laptop's makeshift altar. "Said he's at Ruddy's." She squints at a fresh message. "He said 'what do you want?'" She deepens her voice into a cartoonish baritone, making him sound like a caveman discovering text messaging for the first time.

You can't blame him for the cold response — you’d scorched that earth thoroughly.

But a selfish part of you wants to delete the whole exchange, pretend this moment of weakness never happened, go back to the careful choreography of avoiding each other's existence.

But you can't.

The corrupted gallery looming on the wall is a stark reminder that pride is a luxury you can't afford right now.

His icy reception is the natural consequence of your scorched-earth campaign, those venom-laced messages sent in the throes of heartbreak and confusion.

You'd played the role of the woman scorned perfectly, even though you'd written your own tragic script.

"Just send him a picture." You wave listlessly at the wall, where your work continues its digital decomposition, folding in on itself like a dying star. The error messages stretch into an endless serpent of nonsense, each iteration making less sense than the last.

The artificial shutter sound of Emma's photo breaks the silence, followed by the soft swoosh of sending. The wait feels eternal until-

Ding

Emma's attention snaps to your phone resting on her thigh, her eyes widening. "He's typing like he-"

Sorry;m,, I’m fucked uo

Up

I am

fucked up

Emma clicks her tongue and rises, crossing the room to lob your phone into your lap, screen up. "Guess some things don't change." You manage a weak half-grin, memories flooding back unbidden — Luigi stumbling into your dorm in the small hours, wrapped in whiskeys warmth, all soft edges and desperate hands.

"Well, make up your mind." Emma's yawn threatens to unhinge her jaw, arms wrapping around herself like armor. "Are we done here, or are you gonna have him come take a look?"

I’n be there son

I’ll be rherw soo

I’ll be there soon

You stand to wrap your arms around Emma’s shoulders who reluctantly curves her arms upward to squeeze your shoulders. “Go home.” She seems reluctant to listen, staring at your phone screen as if it would take her home itself. “I promise, I’ll be just fine.”

The space between you pulses with that unique warmth reserved for someone who shares your roof, your darkest secrets, and the monthly struggle with Con Edison. "Just don't make any brash decisions."

"Oh, Em." You press a kiss to her forehead. "You think I'm so much cooler than I am."

Emma's laugh follows her as she spins toward the door, collecting pieces of herself like breadcrumbs — the scarf draped over a chair, the coat hung forgotten, the backpack abandoned when the day still held promise.

Each item a marker of how long this digital nightmare has stretched, from sunshine to moonlight.

And as if summoned by cosmic irony, the lab door swings open to reveal Luigi. "Oh - hey, E." The surprise flickers across his face before he schools his features back to neutral.

"Hey, Lu." Her greeting carries the easy familiarity of their old routine, like NPCs in a cozy game exchanging preset dialogue, their paths crossing exactly as programmed.

"You g'na help me with this?"

Emma shakes her head, patting his shoulder as she passes — a gentle handoff. "I did my time." You want to protest, but words fail as you absorb the sight of him, eight months of careful avoidance crumbling in an instant.

"Ahh-" Luigi waves, feigning disappointment through the druken haze. "Need a walk back home?"

Ever the shepherd, guardian of late-night wanderers.

It didn't matter who you were — friend, stranger, ex-lover’s best friend and roommate — his self-appointed mission to ensure everyone's safe return never wavered.

You'd once wondered if it stemmed from some deeper anxiety, his mind unable to rest until every sheep was accounted for in its fold.

Tonight though, the alcohol has mercifully dulled that protective instinct. Emma's potential disappearance into the night ranks lower on his list of concerns than usual, although Emma herself had been the one earlier to warn you of the murderer on campus.

"You still got my location," Emma reminds him — a callback to conversations past, to the day she'd granted Luigi permanent access to her whereabouts, a level of trust you'd wisely withheld.

"Right."

She presses a kiss to her fingers, flashing you a peace sign with the same hand before it briefly lands on Luigi's shoulder. Then she's gone, disappearing into the snow-globe world he'd just stumbled in from. He stands before you now, arms hanging like dead weight, his eyes somehow both wide and narrow.

"Hey," you whisper.

"Hey."

You gesture weakly at the wall where your work writhes in digital agony. "So, uh — remember that time you salvaged Professor Wren’s entire thesis when her drive crashed?"

Luigi's eyes follow your hand, professional interest temporarily overriding the awkwardness. He steps closer, squinting at the corrupted display, "Jesus," he mutters, "what did you do to it?"

"Would you believe me if I said nothing?" The laugh that escapes is more nervous than you'd like. "It just. - it started disintegrating during final checks."

He's already pulling out his laptop, muscle memory from countless late-night tech rescues. The familiarity of it hits you in the chest — how many times had you watched him do this same thing, hunched over his keyboard, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration?

"I can try," he says finally, not quite meeting your eyes. "But no promises. When's this due?"

"Tomorrow at nine."

"Of course it is." He drops into the chair beside you, close enough that your elbows almost touch, but enough of a distance to still feel far away. “Okay, walk me through what it's supposed to look like when it's not — uh - whatever this is."

For a moment, Luigi stares at the corrupted display where red pixels bleed and stutter across the wall. His fingers hover over his keyboard, then pause. "Wait. This is your circulatory modeling project? The one you were-“ He cuts himself off, remembering this was before the eight months of silence.

"Yeah." You swallow. "It was working perfectly until an hour ago. Real-time hemodynamics, pressure differentials, vessel elasticity. Everything." Your voice cracks slightly on the last word, feeling more helpless when you verbalize it.

He nods, already typing with uncanny precision despite the slight sway in his posture. "Show me the base code. Did you save any backups?"

"Three. All corrupted." You lean forward, careful not to crowd him as you pull up the mangled files. "It's like something got into the core simulation and just - I dunno - started rewriting them."

"Hm." His eyes scan the screen with that laser focus he somehow maintains no matter how much he drinks, that familiar furrow appearing between his brows. "These values are cascading. One corrupted variable triggering a chain reaction through the whole system." He glances at you, slightly overshooting before correcting. "When's the last time it ran correctly?"

You check your phone. "6:43 PM. I have a screen recording from then."

"Good. That's good." He pulls up a second window, his typing still flawless even as he reaches with his free hand to steady himself against the desk. "We can compare the execution logs, maybe isolate where it started going wrong." His fingers fly across the keys with a precision that seems to mock his clearly inebriated state, and for a moment, it feels like those eight months never happened. "I'm going to need coffee for this." He looks up at you from where he sat, “Or more booze.”

You land on coffee, your feet carrying you down the familiar path to the kitchenette.

The fluorescent lights flicker dimly at this hour, casting strange shadows across the linoleum, the lab's overpriced espresso machine hums to life under your touch, its gentle whirring a counterpoint to the distant sound of Luigi's typing.

Suddenly you're back in that first year, both of you hunched over at 3 AM, him teaching you the proper way to pull a shot: “You're murdering it, stop torturing the beans”, your quiet laughter echoing through empty halls.

"Got it.” His voice carries down the corridor, slurred but triumphant, snapping you back to present.

You return to find him illuminated by screen-glow, his tie loosened and dark hair disheveled. The paper cup lands in front of him — double shot, one packet of raw sugar.

He doesn't stir it, never has.

Instead, he tips the cup back, and you hear that familiar crunch of sugar crystals between his teeth, a sound that used to drive you crazy, until somewhere along the way it became endearing.

Still, the jumbled code taunts you from the screen, though its chaos seems less threatening now. Under Luigi's touch — steady despite the alcohol —- your final project is slowly remembering its original shape.

"You should have texted sooner," Luigi murmurs, tilting his head back to collect the last sugar crystals from his cup. The movement exposes his throat, his collar wrinkled where he's been tugging at it all night.

"Well," you say, watching the way his fingers dance across the keys, each stroke precise despite his obvious intoxication, "takes a minute to swallow something as big as my ego."

The corners of his mouth twitch upward, eyes never leaving the screen where broken code is knitting itself back together under his attention.

"Oh," he huffs out a laugh, the sound low and dangerous in the quiet lab, "I've seen you swallow far bigger things before."

It strikes like summer lightning — quick, bright, and leaving the air charged in its wake. The innuendo lands with no real bite, yet you find your jaw slack, a startled laugh shaking loose from your chest.

"Kidding," Luigi says, his eyes flicking from screen to you and back again. There’s a ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, softened by the alcohol but still sharp enough to cut. You wave him back to his work, grateful for the blue glow of monitors that hides your flush. "You kinda set that up perfectly, though."

He squints up at the projection where your broken code still bleeds across the wall, letting out a soft grunt of frustration at some digital roadblock. "Just mean — ya know, you could have caught me two beers deep instead of seven."

You shrug a shoulder, watching as the projection slowly crystallizes into something recognizable. "Seems you work better under such conditions."

The lie tastes metallic.

You both know the truth.

Luigi would have come if he was sober as sunrise or drowning in bourbon. Would have come with broken ribs or pneumonia or his heart barely beating. Would have traced these familiar hallways blind, deaf, or dying — because that's what the two of you do.

Have always done.

You've seen him at rock bottom, curled into himself on cold bathroom tiles at midnight, trembling hands pressed against his mouth as if he could physically hold back the pain that wracked his body. Watched him try to explain to puzzled doctors how someone so young could hurt so constantly, the frustration in his voice when they suggested it was all in his head.

You were there through the trials of medications, the nights when existence itself seemed too heavy to bear.

And you've seen him soar; standing tall in that charcoal suit that made him look older, more polished, shaking hands with tech giants who saw in him what you'd always known was there, his future spreading out before him like a golden road, brilliant and boundless.

Now he sits here, seven drinks deep but coding like he's never been clearer, and you realize that maybe both versions are equally true.

Maybe that's what makes him Luigi — the ability to contain multitudes, to be simultaneously broken and brilliant, wounded and wonderful.

He catches you watching him and raises an eyebrow, the gesture slightly delayed, which means you must have been a bit too obvious. "What?"

"Nothing.”

His fingers pause on the keys, and even through the alcoholic haze, his gaze pins you like a butterfly to cork. "No, really. What?" The words have a slight blur around their edges, but his focus is knife-sharp.

You could deflect again, but there's something about 4 AM and code that glows like dying stars that makes honesty feel less dangerous, perhaps you’re finding comfort in the fact that Luigi is drunk, although you’re stone cold sober.

"Just thinking about that time in the Thompson building bathroom." Your voice comes out softer than intended. "When you couldn't stand up, and I had to convince the janitor you had food poisoning."

He doesn't flinch from the memory like he used to.

Instead, his mouth curves into something caught between a smile and a grimace. "You told him it was from the cafeteria." His fingers resume their dance across the keyboard, but slower now. "Got the whole place investigated by health services."

"Yeah, but got us three days off while they checked fucking everything.” you remind him.

"Got me through that week," he corrects quietly, and for a moment, the mask of that brilliant-drunk-techie slips, showing the man underneath who still remembers what it feels like to be held together by nothing but someone else's faith in you.

Then he blinks, and the vulnerability is gone, replaced by that familiar crooked grin. "Though I maintain the cafeteria deserved the inspection anyway."

The projection flickers, another section of code healing itself under his touch, and you wonder if he knows you'd do it all again.

Every bathroom floor, every late-night crisis, every moment of putting him back together - you'd choose it every time.

"Speaking of which," you venture carefully, watching his hands move across the keyboard. "How's the new treatment working?"

His right shoulder shifts in what might be a shrug, but there's a shadow of a real smile playing at his mouth.

Not the sharp, defensive one he wears like armor, but something softer, more genuine. "Six months post-op and I actually slept through the night last week. First time in -“ he pauses, considering, "Fuck, I don't even remember how long."

The admission hangs in the air between you, weighted with the two years of 2 AM phone calls, of nights spent pacing, of pain medications that never quite touched the core of the problem.

Watching him try to code through hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

"Still hurts sometimes," he adds, almost absently. "But it's different now. More like background noise than a scream." His fingers still on the keyboard, and for a moment he looks almost surprised by his own words. "Guess that's what normal people feel like all the time, huh?"

The question carries an edge of wonder, like someone who's lived in darkness suddenly discovering dawn.

You watch him roll his shoulder — a gesture that used to be followed by a wince but now flows smooth and unconscious — and think about how strange it must be, learning to live without constant pain after it's become part of your identity.

"Though I kind of miss having an excuse to drunk-code at 4 AM" he adds, but you both know it's a lie.

The code blurs on the projection as silence settles between you, charged with something that's been building for ages — through bathroom floors and hospital visits, through triumphs and failures, through pain and healing.

The alcohol has stripped away Luigi’s careful boundaries, leaving raw honesty in their place.

"You know," Luigi says slowly, finally turning from the screen to face you fully, "I never thanked you properly. For all of it."

"You don't need to-"

Your diagram pulses back to life, the holographic heart rotating lazily against the wall.

Its red glow bathes the room in a surreal warmth, catching on the sharp angles of Luigi's face, softening them into something almost dreamlike.

The light flickers across his cheekbones, turns his eyes to amber, makes the whole moment feel suspended between reality and imagination.

"I do." His voice is quiet but firm, steadier than someone seven drinks deep should manage. "Because I've been thinking — now that I can actually think clearly without-“he gestures vaguely at his back, at all the years of pain, "I've been thinking about how you're the only constant. The only person who never-“ He trails off.

You lean a little closer, drawn by the vulnerability in his voice. "Never what?"

"Never saw me as broken." He turns himself toward you, and there's something desperate in his eyes, something the alcohol has finally given him the courage to show. "Never treated me like I needed fixing. Just stayed. Through everything."

Your lips part, but the words catch in your throat. He takes your silence as a sign, turning back to the screen with a sharp exhale that might be resignation or relief — you're not sure which would be worse.

"Lu,” you say softly, and something in your voice makes his fingers still on the keyboard. "Look at me."

He does, slowly, like he's afraid of what he might find.

The neon bathes half his face in crimson, leaving the other half in shadow, and you see the moment his carefully constructed walls start to crumble.

"Time hasn’t changed that much about me.” you say, each word deliberate, heavy with meaning.

His breath catches audibly. You watch the impact of your words ripple across his face — surprise, understanding, and something else, something that makes your heart race against your ribs.

"Hasn’t it?” Luigi is focusing on you now, the reason he really came here now practically completed but pushed aside until further notice. “Eight months is a long time to hold onto -“ he gestures vaguely between you, as if he can’t quite say what it was. Hopeless devotion, the right person, wrong time.

“Not long enough to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“You.”

His breath catches again, a sharp inhale that seems to pull all the oxygen from the room. When he speaks, his voice is rough and ragged, “Maybe that’s the problem.” His gaze drifts down to watch as you lick your lips, and back up again. “Maybe you should have.”

[rhaeheartzsquirrelz]

Sweet

Sevika x Female Reader

Soft, emotional sex with Sevikidiki where you end up sobbing ‘cause she’s too sweet.

Cw: Sex: fingering, strap on, praise. Soft dom Sevika. Sub Reader.

MEN DO NOT INTERACT!!!!!!!

Proofread || Note: It was so fun writing this, I hope you enjoy :) Also, please ignore any spelling/grammar mistakes, i tried my hardest to keep them out!

Her flesh arm wrapped around your waist and you found yourself pinned against her chest. Her lips latched onto hers as she kissed you with an abundance of care and love. Never was there a moment of roughness, of the slightest bit of pain; being a grip or a pull.

Sevika’s hand slithered down to your shorts, entering from your front and pressing against your clit. She slowly moved, causing your breath to heavy and your heart to spike.

Your bedroom was prepared for a movie night, a night where you and your girlfriend could just cuddle. But, things seemed to escalate. There was a change of plans.

The warm light from your lamp illuminated the room, and your freshly lit candles now made the situation much more romantic. The room smelled heavenly, and so did Sevika’s kissing. She was gentle with how much pressure she applied, not wanting to get too intense. You didn’t mind her softness, matter of fact you actually wanted more of it. She’d taken off her prosthetic in order to cuddle with you better. In order to keep away any sharp metals from you. That was the kind of woman she was; only with you, however.

Her middle teased your entrance, finertip going in before slipping right now. She was testing the waters, seeing if you she’d need lube or not— she didn’t. Tongue slipping out of your mouth, lips unattaching, Sevika pulled back with a heavy breath, her eyes opening and she met yours.

“Can I?” Her voice quieter, slightly shaky. “Yeah, I want you to.” And with your approval, she let her finger, carefully, move in. “Y’want me to add another? You don’t have to.” Her grey eyes watching as your teeth sunk into your bottom lip. “Uh-huh, go ahead.” You, barely able to hold yourself together, nodded. A hand on her cheek with the other on the side of her neck, you hold back a whimper as she added another. It didn’t hurt, no, but it definitely took you a few seconds to get used to. Considering Sevika’s fingers were quite large. “Does it hurt? Tell me to stop if y’need me to, alright?” Her dark lips pressing a kiss on your forehead, letting you know you could say no whenever you wanted to.

She slowly picked up her pace, from slow curls to harder ones, the tips of her fingers found her target and she hit it. You clung to her as she did so, moaning into her shoulder all the while having her kiss your neck. “Is this good, baby?” Her low voice vibrating through you. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s.. good.” Awsome was what you wanted to say. It felt awsome.

Her warm breath brushed against your heated skin, causing you to feel hot. Burning hot. The fast beating of your heart and the heavy breaths you were taking only added to the fire; your body was sweating. And the thought of Seika being in you had your mind giddy, had it working extra hard to make you feel good. And you did. Even in the process of making you cum you felt a sort of high you’d only experience with your girlfriend.

“God, you’re so beautiful like this,” she’d whisper with a suck at your neck, leaving a trail of hickeys. “Don’t stop.. Sev.. that’s so.. fucking good— don’t stop, please!” You’d ramble on, jaw dropping at the familiar pooling in your core. “Y’think I would? I’m offended, love.” Her lips hidden and curled into a smile, she was proud of herself.

Your walls squished against her middle and ring, responding to the experienced curling she was doing inside of you. Your girlfriend even commented; “Feeling good? You’re all tight.” And, yes, it made your face feel hot. How could it not? Her smugness added to the sensation she was, lovingly, providing. It was the way she acknowledged how you reacted that made you whine, made you embarrassed. It even made you further more attracted to her.

“My pretty girl’s so close, I can feel it.” Smothering your neck with hickeys and kisses; only so you’d have a constant reminder of her. “Mm-hm, I am.” Your breathless words causing your woman to fasten her pace. “I can’t.. please! god it’s so good..”

Your hands clenched onto her shoulders as you, yourself, clung onto her. A cry of pleasure escaped your lips and your hips slightly shuddered against her as she helped you ride out your orgasm. Sevika even pulled back to see your face, watch as you came all over her fingers, it was a sight she never truly got used to. It was addictive being able to make her girl so happy.

“Perfect. You were perfect.” Slipping out of you and pulling you close with her wrists; her hand avoiding any contact. “How’d that feel, pretty thing?” Lips pecking yours before she gave you a chance to talk. “Like you said, it was perfect.”

A low humm of acknowledgment came from your girlfriend and she nuzzled into you, forehead resting against your shoulder. “It’s only ten. Can I get the strap?” Know this stuff knocks you out in a few.” She was reffering to the fact that she, herself, could have you asleep faster than any melatonin could. “Sure, but only one round.” You were already exhausted from a little fingering, you doubted you could get through Sevika’s pounding.

At your approval, she quickly grabbed, and slid on, the strap. Clicking the belt in place before plopping down next to you. “What position, ma’am?” Tone all teasing as she had a hand on your arm. “Mm.. I dunno? From the front? That’s the easiest?” She nodded in agreement. “You don’t mind if I have on my mech, do ya?” “Nope.”

From the front was what you got.

Ankles on her shoulders, arms overhead, and your body ready, your girlfriend pressed the tip of her strap to your entrance. Her mech and flesh holding onto your thighs as she slowly, and oh so carefully, pushed inside. Sevika’s strap was thick and long, easily larger than her two fingers— and it took you a while to get used to. “Deep breaths, babe.” Flesh hand pressing down on your lower abdomen, it was her way of making you feel more.

“Trying.” Was your breathless response, head tilted to the side to see the bulge in your skin. Sevika only smiled down at the sight, soaking in the way her strap looked with you wrapped around it. “Convinced every inch of you is beautiful.” The woman leaned forward, holding onto your ankles and slowly beginning to thrust. Your body, as usual, recoiled, and your hands clenched onto the the pillow beneath your clouded head.

Your eyes rolled back as Sevika’s hips rolled deep into you, hitting her target all the while rubbing against your tight walls. She could feel the pressure, the repeated squishing everytime she entered, even the way she had to push hard into you. You were wet, soaked, and it made the job easier. Louder, too. The quiet yet noticeable squelching noises from you filled the room, thanks to your girlfriend.

Not even a few minutes in and you were feeling your stomach pool again. The same heat that would make you feel good formed and you found yourself utterly taken away by the sensation jolting throughout your body. Every part of you enjoyed it.

“Close already?” The woman grunted, wrapping your legs around her hips and deciding to pull you against her chest. “I can’t..” you managed to say, barely able to keep yourself composed. “Sev, I.. fuck— it’s too much,” “need me to stop?” She knew you’d say no, she’d never heard the word leave your mouth. “Don’t.. please, I’m close.”

And she didn’t. Sevika never slowed her pace. Her only goal, at the moment, was to make you cum, all the while feeling loved. She showed so by peppering your forehead with kisses, intertwining her fingers with yours, holding your hands above your head, and whispering soft words in your ear. “You’re doing great, love,” she’d say as she pressed a kiss on the shell of your ear. “Gonna cum for me, hm? Go ahead, baby.” All the while pounding into you. “My girl sounds so pretty, don’t you?” As she lets you burry your face into her shoulder and whimper, moan, as much as you wanted to.

Even though your girlfriend was thrusting hard, she wasn’t being rough. She knew how you needed it, how much you could handle. She’d never push your limits, if that had even crossed her mind. “Vika,” your voice shaky as you sniffle against her skin. Her warmth mixing into yours, her grunts sending a light shiver through you, and her breath tickling your neck. “Is something wrong?” Her pace slowing as she wiped at your wet cheek. “No, don’t stop.. please.” Heart racing in your chest as you said those words. You’d repeated them a thousand times; but they really were true.

“Baby, I’m not.” Sevika, though worried, fastened her pace again and leaned on her arms to get a better look at you. Brows furrowed, eyes lidded and wet, lips parted, with your face heated. As cute as you looked, she had to ask the question. “What’s wrong?” Grey eyes staring deeply into yours. “Later.. I’ll tell.. you later.”

There was nothing wrong, just the fact that you were overwhelmed with the amount of care and love she put in every thrust, every touch. It was adorable and just so sweet that it had you sobbing.

Your orgasm was just as good as the last and, afterwards, Sevika slipped off her strap and decided to cuddle you. “Too much?” She asked, voice quiet and soft, “No, I never said that.” Your face showing your embarrassment. “Then, what? Did I hurt you?” your girlfriend had her prosthetic off again, so her flesh hand did most of the touching. “No, you’re just really nice. That’s all.”

“Nice? I’m really nice?” She repeated, “what does that mean?”

“It means I love you.”

“Oh? That’s.. new.” Her brows raised in surprise. “I love you, too. Even though you cry over stupid things.”

“Those were happy tears—“ “Yeah, alright. You had me worried about happy tears.”

[navybrat817]

If you're still taking ficlet requests, maybe a dark or soft dark Bucky who works for your dad?

I hope you like where I went with this, nonnie!

Dollhouse

Pairing: Soft Dark!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: Over 900

Warnings: Toxic family, implied cheating (not reader or Bucky), drug and drinking reference, inspired by the song Dollhouse. Soft!Dark Bucky Barnes and implied future dubcon/noncon.

You didn’t want to come home for the weekend. You lost track of how many times you told your dad that. It didn’t matter that you weren’t a child anymore or that you weren’t living at the mansion. The expectation was that you would play the part of a supporting daughter in front of his employees no matter what. It was laughable, if not utterly sad. Either most didn’t know your family was far from a happy one or they didn’t care. And why would they as long as they got what they wanted?

Places, places, get in your places. Throw on your dress and put on your doll faces.

“Dad, I’m going to change and go for a swim,” you announced.

Your dad along with the group of men that surrounded him turned their heads toward you. Most of the men averted their gazes after a moment, except for one: Bucky Barnes. Ever since he started working for your dad he took an unexpected interest in you. He was always asking about your personal life, and he seemed all too happy when your recent relationship ended. Your dad, of course, loved him because he was a hard worker and made him money.

“Where’s your brother?” your dad asked, making you look away from Bucky.

“Couldn’t tell you,” you answered. If you had to guess, he was off in his room getting high.

“Okay. Just enjoy your swim, princess.” You did your best not to roll your eyes at the nickname. “But make sure you’re set for dinner. Your mother’s cooking your favorite.”

You did roll your eyes this time, and Bucky continued to stare. Your mom never lifted a finger in the kitchen. She’d order out and make it look like she did it herself.

Everyone thinks that we're perfect. Please don't let them look through the curtains.

“Of course, dad,” you said, leaving without another word and feeling a pair of cold blue eyes follow your every move.

The chatter from the main room filled the hall as you went to your room to change, the sound muffled once you shut the door. You blocked it out as best as you could as you selected one of your bathing suits and changed. You hoped your mom wouldn’t drink too much and embarrass herself at dinner. You also hoped your dad was smart enough not to bring a side piece around until after she passed out. It could be a little entertaining though if your brother ran his mouth.

Picture, picture, smile for the picture. Pose with your brother, won’t you be a good sister?

“Well, look at you.”

Your heart leapt to your throat when you turned around to see Bucky standing by your bed. He held your cover up in his hand. How the hell did he get in your room so quietly? Why was he there?

“What the hell are you doing?” you demanded.

“Sorry. I was trying to find the bathroom,” he said. A terrible lie, like he didn't even try. “Such a large place, you know. Easy to go through the wrong door.”

“Do you normally pick up garments that don’t belong to you when you’re 'lost'?” you asked, trying to take it from him.

He pulled his hand out of reach. “Not normally, but I couldn’t resist,” he said, not hiding the lust in his eyes as they landed on your chest and slowly drifted down. “You know, you have a pretty fucked up family.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” you scoffed.

Everyone thinks that we're perfect. Please don't let them look through the curtains.

“Allow me,” he offered as his gaze flickered back to your face.

“No, thanks,” you said, attempting to grab the cover up again as he narrowed his eyes.

"Turn around,” he ordered, his voice deeper and gruffer than before. “I won't tell you twice.”

Tell, not ask.

You hoped your trembling wasn't noticeable when you turned and faced the mirror, having to look at his reflection as he slowly walked up behind you. He was handsome, you couldn’t deny that, and large. He could overpower you easily.

“This is such a beautiful color on you. Must drive all the boys crazy when you wear it. Also must be why your daddy keeps you locked up as much as he can,” he said more to himself than to you as he ran a gloved finger down your side. “But I’m not a boy, am I?”

“He doesn’t keep me locked up,” you whispered, unsure of why you were arguing. Maybe it would distract you from his touch.

He brought his mouth to your ear, his eyes locked with yours in the mirror. “You think because you live on your own that you’re free? That you aren’t watched at all times?” He asked, chuckling when you shivered again. “You may be your daddy's princess, but you'll be mine soon enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I make your dad a lot of money. He owes me.” He straightened up and slipped the fabric over your shaking frame. “As much as I hate to cover up such a beautiful piece of art, I may lose control if I don't,” he said, as if he had the right to do so. “Keep your door unlocked for me tonight.”

“I won't-”

He had a hand around your throat, but didn't squeeze. “You will,” he said, kissing your temple. “And we'll see if you can keep quiet.”

Love and thanks for participating in Ficlet Friday! ❤️ And this one may be fun to continue.

[makeitmakesomesense]

Eyes Closed

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: Day 11: I've merged a lovely request from a lovely anon with the @taylorswiftmicrofic prompt for the 11th of January, which is 'prom'.

Fluff and gentle smut contained below.

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You were in bed. The darkness had crept into the room slowly, just like the silence. You turned on a light but it wasn’t enough for that kind of darkness. 

You thought about her. You tried not to worry.

.

‘I know, I know.’ Natasha called out as soon as she entered the room. Your mouth dropped as you stared in shock at her appearance. Blood stains coated her face and suit. You could barely see her skin beneath. Natasha stood at the foot of the bed with a nonplussed expression on her face. 

‘I feel like Carrie at the prom.’ She yawned as she unzipped her blood-soaked suit to her waist, revealing her toned stomach and sports bra. 

Natasha reached up to her hair then, ready to undo the end of her usual braid. She groaned as she remembered her more intricate hairstyle made up of several smaller braids.

‘Here, love.’ You slipped off the bed and walked to her. ‘Let me help.’

Natasha tilted forward, her head pressing tiredly against your shoulder as you worked to undo each braid. You tried not to hesitate as you worked around the hair matted with even more blood.

When you were done, you resisted the instinct to kiss her.

‘This might be your most disgusting post-mission look.’ You said wrinkling your nose at the pervasive smell of the dried blood. 

Natasha gave you a sarcastic thumbs up as she headed to the ensuite bathroom.

‘Guess you won’t be joining me.’ She commented dryly as the shower began to run. 

‘It’s so hard to say no.’ You grinned, grabbing your phone and keys and heading out of the room. ‘I’ll bring you back sustenance.’ You promised as you left. 

You returned soon enough, a peanut butter jelly sandwich in one hand. You’d cut the crusts off. Natasha didn’t actually care about the crusts. That wasn’t why you did it. 

You knocked the door as you entered. Natasha was lying on her stomach, sprawled out on the bed, wrapped in a fluffy white robe that she’d stolen a million years ago from a fancy hotel. It was tied loosely, already half off one shoulder. You could tell she was naked underneath. Her long red hair was damp, combed through and already curling at the ends. 

She turned at the sound of the door. Her attention immediately fell to the plate in your hands. 

She made a happy noise, muffled by her pillow as she rolled over onto her back. She shuffled to a seated position in the bed.

‘Give.’ She demanded teasingly as you held out the plate. 

Natasha noticed the missing crusts. Her delight was easy to see. She covered her face and gave a laugh. 

‘I’m special.’ She teased.

‘Yep.’ You agreed simply and sat down next to her, your arm automatically snaking around her waist. 

Natasha leaned against you like you were her support pole. She chewed slowly on the sandwich, her eyes closed with the first bite and she nodded happily to herself.

‘Good?’ You checked teasingly. 

Wordlessly, she gave you another thumbs up.

When the sandwich was done, Natasha fell backwards onto the bed. With great effort she moved back to her starfish position across the centre of it. 

You felt yourself finally approaching the moment. The time for acknowledge what she was obviously avoiding. 

The energy had been too light since she got back. It had been a bad mission. 

‘I’m so tired.’ Natasha mumbled finally against her pillow. 

You crawled over to lie beside her. You brushed her damp hair away from her face.

‘What kind of tired?’ You prompted gently. Natasha’s eyes screwed tight against your gaze.

‘A lot of people died.’ She murmured at last. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

She opened her eyes again and met you with a heavy stare. You recognised the swirling regret and thought inexplicably about ocean waves crashing over rocks.

‘I should’ve-’ Her voice cracked. 

The rush of love was overwhelming and you leaned forward with the sudden, aching, urgent want to kiss her.

Natasha clung to your lips needily, her fingertips brushed your jaw. 

Her lips were cracked and the sensation brought you back to yourself. You cupped her cheek gently as you slowly encouraged Natasha back to a sitting position. 

‘You’re thirsty.’ You hummed out as Natasha’s lips continued to brush yours over and over again. 

Natasha’s eyes briefly squeezed shut again and then she nodded. 

You left the bed to retrieve her water bottle on the other side of the room. Natasha unscrewed the top and wordlessly drank it all.

Your stomach twisted as you watched her.

It could be a symptom, sometimes, of the bad missions. Not giving herself what she needed. Punishing herself for things that weren’t her fault. 

Natasha put the empty water bottle back on the nightstand. She turned back to you with the same hidden sadness in her eyes. Still, she gave you a small smile. 

You reached forward again with a surge of the same want. You left a trail of the softest kisses along on her neck. You could smell the familiar mix of her body wash and that scent that was only Natasha. 

Natasha hummed with pleasure. You felt her body rise and fall as her breathing evened out into slow, deep breaths. You tugged the white robe gently away from her shoulder, and then again, until you’d removed it all the way.

Natasha acquiesced readily to the direction of your touch. There was a relief almost in the way she was naked next to you. As if the pretence could leave her. 

She arched her back dramatically and you watched the muscles move and stretch. Then, she returned her body easily to its most comfortable bad posture. 

Natasha looked at you again and, this time, her gaze was easier and her smile was warm. 

A longing caught itself in your throat. 

Hesitantly, you touched the old scar that sat between her shoulders. Evidence of another mission survived, another risk taken.

You pressed a little harder and Natasha moaned in response to the pressure on the fatigued muscle just beneath the skin.

You adjusted yourself back on the bed, propping yourself up on your knees. You kissed the base of her neck as your thumbs began to rub concentric circles over her shoulder blades. 

Natasha murmured your name. Her back arched again in pleasure. 

‘You are brave.’ You told her, consumed with the constant need to take away her pain. 

You kissed her again, trailing a path down the curve of her spine.

‘You are strong.’ You murmured, your mouth grazing past another nameless scar. 

You felt the rise and fall of Natasha’s chest against your lips. The steady proof of her existence; all you could hope for.

‘You are trying your best.’

Your thumbs brushed lightly over the large, fresh bruise that sat under Natasha’s ribcage. Natasha stiffened.

You ran your hands soothingly back up to her shoulders and then around to cup her soft breasts.

‘And, you are always, always forgiven.’ 

You felt Natasha’s limbs loosen unthinkingly with your words and then, slowly, you felt her muscles tighten again with a different want. 

Natasha murmured your name again. And then again. You listened to the longing soaked into her voice. 

You squeezed her breasts slowly before moving around to stand in the space in front of her seated position on the bed.

You reached over and took a pillow from the bed. You held it to the back of Natasha’s head and gave her a teasing smile as you pressed her gently in encouragement to lie back. 

Natasha’s fingers caught the front of your shirt automatically as she let her torso go flat against the mattress. 

Her feet were still touching the ground. You watched her hip bones cant upwards towards the air in this new position.

You lost yourself briefly in the act of just looking down at her. At the softness and sharpness that made Natasha's body the only one that you craved. 

Natasha’s eyes were half-shuttered as she watched you too. Her smile was easy but you caught the swirling of a thousand emotions that sat beneath her stare.

It was enough for you to drop to your knees.

You spread her legs slowly and slid between them. The steady warmth of her was your favourite heat. 

Another anchor that promised you she was here. 

You stretched out your arms, letting your fingernails brush back and forth along her toned stomach. You didn’t waste any more time. 

Slowly you ran your flat tongue along her pussy. There was the familiar tang of her body wash  and the taste that could only be Natasha. 

Natasha groaned above you. You felt her stomach muscles tighten under your fingers and knew that she was already close. 

You moved on instinct, your eyes closed as you lost yourself in the sounds of her hums and sighs. The heat of her against your tongue spread through you. You let your tongue arc and flatten, finding the rhythms that caused her breathless moans. 

You felt her tensing. Felt the pleasure inside her become a desperate need. You used your hands to keep a steady pressure against the urgent movement of her hips. 

Natasha gave a strangled cry and in the midst of it you heard your name. You pressed again and again with your tongue. You felt her body wind itself tighter and tighter and then undo itself all at once. 

You tasted the dripping want and heard the soft pants of something achieved. 

You gave one last lick along her pussy. 

‘Good?’ You murmured, as you moved back to survey Natasha. 

Natasha didn’t move or speak. Slowly, as if with great effort, she gave you a silent thumbs up. 

You breathed a laugh, kissed her one more time and got to your feet.

You headed to the bathroom, grabbing a flannel and running it under the warm water. You returned and gently washed between her legs. 

Natasha’s eyes were fully shut now. 

You leaned forward and Natasha moaned in automatic pleasure at the sudden heat of your body against her bare one. 

‘Bed, love.’ You whispered, pulling the covers back and coaxing her gently. 

Natasha acquiesced and you watched her crawl beneath the warm covers. 

You left and got yourself ready for bed too. 

Just as you were about to slide under the covers, you heard the first snuffling noises of Natasha pressing herself comfortably into her pillow. 

A moment later, you clicked off the light on your nightstand.

.

You turned to face her. Natasha’s face was framed by her own messy curls. You thought about her. About the sadness that you could always see unless her eyes were closed. You tried not to worry.

Natasha snored suddenly and the sound was another steady proof that she was here. You closed your eyes and finally slept. 

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Requests are still very welcome for future January fics. More info in the pinned post if you're interested in requesting. <3

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[kazu-naito]

deep diving into the angel hierarchy of heaven's secret:

disclaimers: a) most of what i'm writing here are my own thoughts and theories; b) i'm not yet caught up with the abh january update, so if there is anything missing from there i'll add it later on

in the original duology we never got much information about how the angels hierarchy work in this universe and only knew a few names, however we did get the full picture in hsr and the order goes: seraphims > cherubs > thrones > supremacy > authority > beginning > archangels > angels

so far into the hs we've only met representatives of 3 of these 'classes' (aside from regular angels ofc) and i put one for each here:

(moreover, keep in mind these rankings are not exclusively set by birth, as we've seen rebecca climbing from the very bottom to the very top)

now it differs a bit from most of the christianity angel rankings, in which supremacy and beginning don't exist, no alternate names that i found had these names but i don't think it matters. in this context they would be replaced by dominions and principalities, respectively. still going by these, there's an omission of virtues but they do what they gotta do (or maybe they belong to that empty spot in the middle)

going back to heaven's secret, the only visible difference between angels of different spheres is that those of the first sphere have yellow/golden wings, whereas everyone else has common white/fair wings. a good example is fencio, who lost his throne status and therefore - the colour of his wings as well

i also don't think they would've shown us the full ranking if it wasn't gonna be explored more, after all we went years without it with no issues. and it was only the angel's that was revealed, not the demons' as well

from the new characters we only know of mikael's ranking so far - archangel. which tbf makes it a bit hard to guess everyone else but here are some theories:

possible spoilers for the january update

raphael: although he is not mikael's blood brother he could still also be an archangel. throughout the book we see he has a special connection to heaven and formidable power - he could be a regular angel with unusual abilities. i don't think he is higher ranking than mikael since he is his 'subordinate'

somnus/furius: higher ranking than mikael. i haven't seen the wings to put them amongst the actual big shots but if i had to guess i'd put them in the second sphere - they have enough power to be an archangel's superior but if they had actual power they'd be busy ruling heaven and not supervising earthly matters

anhea: regular angel. she has said it herself she fought the war against the mother of life on the outskirts while the big names were in the frontlines

cain: everything about him is a mystery ngl. if we are to believe pileon's words about him going against his own family, the type of power he possesses, the easy superiority in fights/energy/strength against other immortals - i would say he is in the very least an archangel. the recent confirmation that his family is indeed dead (and he was very very likely responsible) made me think he either got a lenient punishment (which wouldn't happen if he wasn't 'important') or he got a punishment similar to fencio's and lost his original ranking. or maybe he's just old idk

[l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft]

I Have More Rosekiller Fake Dating AU

a continuation of this drabble ( @dairekt-cat there's another)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

They ended up agreeing to all meet at the venue separately and go over the “plan of attack,”  as Barty had very cleverly called it, before going in. Regulus was the only one there when Barty arrived, which served him just fine. He flashed him a grin and a couple finger guns for good measure as he sauntered over, which Regulus promptly rejected with a scowl.

“You can’t be acting like that while we’re in there,” he said the moment Barty was in earshot. So much for friendly greetings.

“‘Hi, Barty. How are you, Barty?” Barty replied loudly, “You look so hot and sexy in that suit, Barty. Did you steal your father’s credit card to buy it?’ Why yes, Reg, I did. Thanks for asking. How are y-”

“Yes, yes, okay I hear you.” Regulus elbowed him hard enough to make Barty stumble back a bit.

Barty was still snickering under his breath as he straightened and scanned their near surroundings. Lots of expensive looking people in expensive looking outfits with expensive looking expressions of passive tolerance slowly filing into the gala venue. No sign of Pandora Rosier or the asshole who insulted his tattoo work last week, which was all well and good as far as Barty was concerned. Might be nice to slip in, swipe some of the fancy booze, and then be able to just dip and leave Regulus to deal with the upper-class as he did best.

“Think your mum will be terribly pissed if you get stood up tonight?” He asked, eyes still flitting over the clusters of people still arriving.

Regulus crossed his arms, “I am not going to be stood up.” He said.

Barty felt his face pinch rather against his own will. It was - he looked at his watch - three minutes until seven. And neither of the Rosier twins were anywhere in sight. Not exactly standup odds, but who was he to deny Regulus his delusions?

“You keep telling yourself that, buddy. But if they don’t show, just know that I’m absolutely gonna-”

Barty needed to study the uncanny accuracy of that ‘speak of the devil and he shall appear’ saying. Because not two fucking seconds after the words came out of his moth, who should show up in all their pasty, bleach-blonde glory?

Alright, fine. That was a bit harsh. Pandora Rosier was, admittedly, a rather beautiful young woman. She held herself with confidence and grace, and she had a sort of perpetual soft smile on her face that made you think she knew something you didn’t at all times. She had on a lacy, sage green ball gown type dress that Barty felt like one wouldn’t typically see at 21st century events like this and he nodded appreciatively at her ability to not give a single fuck. Subtly of course. Heaven forbid he appear like he was having positive feelings about anything related to this situation.

And Evan was…Well, sue Barty but he was hot, okay?? In, like, an asshole type of way where you looked at him and it just made you angry cos no one who was that much of a dick should look that good. He had fucking crystals braided into his hair. Who did that? And why did it look so good and bring out the flecks of blue in his eyes so well? Barty wanted to strangle him. Really.

Pandora smiled kindly when the two of them stopped in front of Regulus, and Barty was surprised to watch as she took even one step closer to pull his friend into a hug. He was practically balking when Regulus returned the hug in kind. Asshole. Regulus never hugged him. 

“It’s wonderful to see you, Regulus,” Pandora smiled, then she turned to Barty, “You must be Barty. It’s a pleasure!”

He nodded and took her hand when she offered it, but in less of a handshake way and more of a…she held his hand and squeezed it in a sort of friendly…sisterly way. It was weird, and he didn’t hate it. 

Then he looked past Pandora and his gaze met Evans and...yikes. Lots of personality and warmth in those eyes. Yeesh. The dude looked like he was a thousand miles away and had generic, pre-programmed responses for every possible conversation scenario ready to auto-play when needed. This was going to be fun. He wasn’t particularly inclined to try civility, but he figured if he was gonna be around this bloke all night he might as well at least attempt to be nice.

He put on a smile and stuck out his hand, “So, seems we’re stuck together tonight, eh? Name’s B-”

“I know who you are.” Evan cut in, neither letting him finish nor taking his hand.

‘Well fuck you, too. Asshole.’

“Evan,” Barty heard Pandora hiss.

It was fine. Barty could play this game too.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” He asked, “Had a lot of fun in my chair the other day, huh? Don’t think anyone ever really forgets their first bl-”

“Barty,” it was Regulus’ turn to snap. Barty scowled at him but dropped it. 

“We should go inside,” Pandora suggested, her voice a bit tight, “The gala should be starting soon.”

She tucked her hand into Regulus’ arm and let him lead her through the front doors, leaving Evan still outside with Barty. Eyes narrowed, he gave him a final once-over. Nice suit. Black with deep crimson roses embroidered on the lapels and cuffs. He was pretty sure the cufflinks were roses as well. A bit on the nose all things considered, but it was nicely tailored, clearly expensive, and it did look good on him. 

He made sure Evan noticed the way his eyes fell to the embroidery on his lapels before looking up at him with a smirk, “Hah. Rosie.”

Evan’s reply was immediate, “Do not call me that.”

“I’m gonna call you that.”

“Fuck you.”

Barty grinned, tucking himself dramatically into Evan’s side as they followed after Regulus and Pandora, “Oh you wish, sweetheart. You wish.”