#unadulterated silliness

[yallthemwitches]

“Do you do this for all your sick mates?” She asks, breaking the silence with a wry smile. He chuckles, hand still sliding against her cheek. “Only the ones who deserve it—only the ones I’m especially fond of.”

Rated T. Read under cut or on AO3

“Evans–now this is getting ridiculous.”

She clenches her eyes even more shut, keeping her body curled into a tight ball in the squashy arm chair. 

“Go away—I’m fine. Just…resting.” The effort to speak makes her head ring. “Shouldn’t you be in class anyway?”

She hears the dampened sound of footsteps and opens her eyes. James stands in front of her, tugging at his tie until it comes loose around his neck, his bag abandoned on the ground. 

“Peter told me you were up here looking like a shriveled up flobberworm,” he says plainly, “Can’t have my friends looking that bad.”

“Well, remind me to tell Peter exactly what I think he looks like next time he comes around,” she huffs, a frown too painful to muster.

It gets a smile out of him and for a moment she can look past the utter embarrassment of probably actually looking like a flobberworm. Through her pounding temples, his use of the word friend rattles around, taunting her in a way that she doesn’t have the energy nor desire to focus on. They are friends— that is a good thing. So why does it feel like a knife to her frontal lobe everytime he says it?

Her eyes blink open again to see him rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, tie now lost and the top buttons undone in a carelessly disheveled look. 

Oh, that’s why. 

“You should at least go to the hospital wing,” he chides. The good advice sounds foreign from his mouth. 

“No hospital wing,” she croaks out. “Honestly, it's just a cold. I need to just sleep it off…”

A sharp chill runs through her chest and she shudders her body closer, burrowing her face into her knees. The fire next to her crackles warmly, but it’s like someone has put a shielding charm on it— all she can feel is the cold hollowness of the castle. 

“Alright, suit yourself.”

Something resembling warmth slides under her and pulls her up out of the chair. Body going into panic mode, she begins to squirm in his arms, trying and failing to push against his chest and back into the chair.

“James, put me down. I’m disgusting–my nose is running.” 

“Nah, you’re not disgusting,” he says with full sincerity, “just sick.” His arms tighten around her and she abandons all hope to be released, taking advantage of the opportunity to be cradled against him. 

“We both know you won’t make it even two steps up to the girls dorm anyhow,” she adds, weakly. Playing a battle of wits with him on a normal day was exhausting enough, but with a fever it seemed downright unfair.

“Good thing I’m not going to the girls' dorm then.”

He turns his body in the other direction and starts climbing the steps to the boys’ dorm, having a far too easy time managing to carry her up such a cramped, spiral staircase. On the landing, he kicks open the door to the dorm room, all the boy’s bed curtains open and vacant besides leftover candy wrappers and bits of parchment. 

“The lads are out in classes until at least dinner,” he sets her down on her feet but she holds onto his arm for balance, woozy from the blood rushing back to her body. “--and even so, I’ll tell them to shove off if they happen to try to skive off a class.”

Still holding onto his arm, he leads her over to his bedside. It’s not a place she hasn’t seen before: since fifth Remus would sometimes invite her up to listen to records and now in more recent months she would come up to join in whatever antics they were up to—but to get in his bed? If her body had the leftover energy to make her cheeks burn, she would have been on fire. 

“You want me to sleep here?” She whispers, eyes darting around his space. None of the boys other than Remus had made their beds and looking down at the pulled back duvet she could imagine him clearly —sitting up with impossibly messy hair and eyes still full of sleep, stretching his arms over his head and yawning with some t-shirt on—or no shirt at all…

Suddenly everything went from freezing to blazing hot. 

James blinks, brow crinkling. “Well, I guess you could sleep in someone else’s bed but I think it would be better to ask–”

Her head jerks up to find his face dangerously close. Too close when she’s probably pale as a ghost and full of mucus and just a friend.

“No–sorry. That’s not what I meant. I’m not trying to be some kind of goldilocks…”

“Goldi—what?”

Suddenly, succumbing to sickness seemed awfully appealing. “Nothing, I’m delirious.”

“Right.” His brow furrows and his eyes scan over her face for a moment. “Is this ok then? It’s just that you said you didn’t want to go to the hospital wing and–”

“It’s fine. Really. It’s honestly too kind of you.” She means it, though she doesn’t have the energy to imbue her words with exactly how much. 

His face softens, a triumphant smile breaking onto his face. “It’s nothing. You can use my bed anytime—now, off you go.”

He leads her to sit and contemplate the most loaded statement she’s ever heard. 

Acting as though offering his sleeping quarters is as natural as sharing a quill, he goes over to his wardrobe and starts pulling out drawers, hands fishing through pieces of fabric.

“So what will it be? Socks I presume? Maybe something more comfortable to sleep in?”

She can’t tell if he’s talking to himself or not. The room starts to go fuzzy again and she wishes she still had his arm to hold onto. 

“Er–I have socks thanks.”

He turns around, holding thick, Gryffindor socks that are three sizes too big for her. 

“Yeah, but do you have quidditch grade, comfy, wool socks?” He tosses them in her direction and she just barely makes the catch. 

“Really, you’re doing too much I’m fine with—”

He pulls out a shirt and holds it up to inspect. She immediately recognizes it as his quidditch jersey from last year, the words quidditch captain not yet emblazoned on the front, but his name still written in gold lettering across the chest. It happens so quick she could have dreamed it, but his eyes shift from the jersey to her, a smattering of red starting to appear on his cheeks. 

“Ah, maybe…something else.” He mutters to himself, quickly stowing it away back into the drawer. Moments later, he pulls out a Montrose Magpie t-shirt and gives it a once over before walking it over to her in outstretched arms. 

“Here you are. Can’t say I have the coziest of things, but it’s better than wearing a bloody tie.”

She takes it with a quiet thanks. The burning feeling of being in his room now gone, the unbearable chill from downstairs starts to creep back into her bones. Wanting desperately to be horizontal and under covers as soon as possible, she starts shucking off her tie and unbuttoning her shirt without care, only one button in before she realizes that James’ eyes are zeroed in on the act, completely blown out and frozen on her fingers. 

“Uhm,” she murmurs and he snaps out of it, turning his body so fast that she would have surely fallen over if their roles were reversed. 

“Ah sorry!” He calls, now facing the wall. “I er–just wasn’t expecting that.” He continues to stare away from her, hands on his hips and leaning forward slightly as though he might be in pain. She continues to change, taking off her uniform and pulling the oversized shirt over her head. It’s long enough to cover down to her upper thigh, but she climbs under the covers anyway before letting him know the coast is clear. When he turns around again, he looks bashful—a full bloom of red covering his cheeks as his eyes naturally fall to the pile of her clothes on the floor.

“Feels better, thanks,” she calls out.

“Yeah…’course.”

With her head on a pillow, her body gets taken over by illness. The aches, the booming feeling in her head, the shivering cold all working together to make her want to disappear from the world entirely. From beyond the screen of her fever, she feels the edge of the bed dip from weight and can just barely make out the sound of his voice, talking low with someone else. 

“Yeah—she’s really unwell ...found her in the common room and she refused to go to Poppy…no, just tell everyone else to give her some space and maybe if you pass by pick up something for her to eat when she wakes—otherwise I’ll go in a bit….”

She hears the garbled responses of another voice, but they sound distant, as though coming from a telephone receiver. 

“...don’t be disgusting mate, she’s sick,” she hears James say, his voice flustered. “I’d do it for you too y’know….”

She misses the final exchanges, feeling the lull of sleep attempting to beat out the frigid feeling that continues to circle her like her own private blizzard. 

The loss of his weight on the bed rouses her again as he gets up. Her body reacts immediately, an endless chant of no no no spiraling through her. 

“Stay,” she calls out. From across the room his movement stalls. 

“It’s so bloody cold—I can’t stand it. Can you please just stay,” she tries again in earnest. There’s no response other than a padding of feet towards the bed, then the press of his weight now next to her. 

“You’re cold?” He murmurs, concerned. “ I have the fire running, but I can get more blankets—just give me…”

“No,” she says harder than before. She must be delirious, completely absolutely mental. There’s no other explanation for it, but the words bubble out anyhow.

“Can you just–come here?”

She scoots herself over on the bed, making just enough room to make her intention clear. She hears him swallow hard and the sound of his glasses landing on the bedside table before feeling something solid and warm press flush against her back. 

“Of course,” he says softly and arms wrap around her. She grabs onto them to hold them even tighter, wishing she could just melt into him where evidently all the warmth in the whole world has been hiding from her. His heart hammers at her back and she hears herself give a soft shhh to it–acting as though he is the one needing the comfort rather than her. 

“Is this ok?” He whispers. His lips are so close to her ear that his breath tickles her skin, but she is already drifting away, the sharp pain of cold subsiding and being filled with a delightful, encompassing warmth. The constant ache in her bones calming to just a dull memory as the room becomes darker and darker.

“Yes–you're perfect.” She thinks she hears a response but it's so far away it gets lost entirely. Pushing herself even closer to him, the calming wave of his breath and the smell of his clothes lull her deeper and deeper, until everything disappears entirely. 

* * * * *

It’s no longer warm—it's burning. Her eyes flutter open and outside the window the sun is ducking behind the mountains, taking the last of the daylight with it. Her t-shirt sticks to her, covered with sweat as she turns her body, only to freeze when something warm and heavy skims across her hip. 

An arm—and not hers. 

“Your fever broke about an hour ago,” a voice says softly behind her, a bit gruff with sleep. “I got you some wet washcloths for your head—you should probably drink something, you’ve been sweating for a while now.”

She twists around to see James’ eyes staring back with concern but not making any further movements to untangle himself. Instead, he reaches an arm behind him onto the bedside table and procures a white fabric that drips slightly onto the comforter. Without her permission, he begins dabbing at her face, eyes following his movements with precision as he softly presses the cloth into her hairline. She settles onto her back, the feel of the cold doing wonders to her skin and he pulls himself up to hover over her slightly, a hand holding at her waist while the other continues to work up and down her face and neck. 

If she lets herself ruminate on it for even a millisecond, it will become too much. 

“Better?” He whispers, hand stalling against her cheek. With the fever gone, she is all too aware of how close he is and has been for the past few hours. His shirt, his socks, his bed, him swallowing her like some James Potter vortex that, if she is being honest, would seem like a pretty spectacular place to be—if they weren’t just friends.

“Lots–thanks,” she murmurs. His hand moves to the other cheek and presses soft circles there. She leans into it, finally able to bask in the feel of his body against hers and the way his breath softly falls over her. 

“Do you do this for all your sick mates?” She asks, breaking the silence with a wry smile. 

He chuckles, hand still working against her skin. “Only the ones who deserve it—only the ones I’m especially fond of.”

Her heart clangs against her chest and she knows he can feel it. He stops again, dropping the rag by her side and going back to cup her chin. 

“What else do you need?”

It’s a far too dangerous question given the circumstances, but her hand moves on its own accord, wrapping around him to hold him there as though he might disappear if she lets go. 

“I don’t want to get you sick,” she musters out, “You’ve already done so much.”

“Then let me do more,” he says simply, eyes searching hers, the hand on her waist giving a soft squeeze.

“I want—” she begins, voice faltering. He hangs on her every word, eyes glittering from above her. There’s a thousand ways she could answer that sentence, each more true and raw than the last, but to say them now—now that they are finally getting along, finally mates— is a gamble she isn’t willing to make. 

“--I want you to stay here.”

His mouth goes into a straight line, then forms into a soft, eager smile. “Of course, Evans. Of course, no problem.” 

He settles back down next to her, a hand still cupping the side of her face and her eyes close, sleep already coming to take her away again. Even falling away, she can feel his eyes on her and pictures them clearly through the fog: gleaming and willing and unmistakably kind. She wonders if he can sense the double meaning in her words or if she is going to wake up again and find him gone, back to being just mates who talk and laugh and do nothing more. 

“Lily?” His voice cuts through the quiet, breath hot at her neck.

“Hm?” 

“Is it selfish of me to say I don’t want you to get better?” His voice sounds small but firm. “Is it selfish to say…I like having you here.”

It’s a bright, healing feeling that pulls him closer to her. 

“Not at all,” she whispers. Suddenly, she’s feeling a lot better now–maybe better than she ever has before. 

“It might even be the best thing for us.”

[thousandth-island]

laura yokozawa paella song (meant to be watched with sound on)

Peace and love ✌️💕

[prize-pig-collection]

If you’re reading this, you have to fatten up until you’re immobile

Sorry… rules are rules 🤷🏻‍♂️

[idkbrothatsprettygay]

Currently thinking about all the conversations Eda probably had with puppet Raine. Cuz you all KNOW she was visiting them and talking to them regularly.

I’ll compile a list at some point

[hold-thathought]

got thrown, smashed, slammed in the most loony tunes way. this is the strongest creature ladies and gentlemen, mufukin will e. coyote lookin ass villain

[trkstrnd]

brennan lee mulligan 24/7: you see, they look at you and they go: “(the deepest, most agonizing, beautiful piece of dialogue you have ever had the pleasure of allowing to grace your eardrums during some really deep lore heavy character development, effectively attaching you to a character that you thought you were already attached to so innately that you thought it was impossible to deepen that bond).”

[pine-art-ple]

Some friend quotes I made in eighth grade

I jerk off to YouTube Kids *bus driver cuts in* That's why they're banning Tiktok

I'm going to shit in your nostrils

Don't be a wuss, go play football

Come here my backpack chocolate

I'm going to snort smarties *2 seconds later* snort smarties cocaine

No, the flavor of mold

And finally:

If you quote that I'll molest your family

[sttoru]

𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐋𝐃-𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐘 !

⟣ sypnosis. you were curious if your boyfriend would pass a ‘loyalty test’ that you’ve seen on social media and you decide to see for yourself, only to discover something much more . . . heartwarming.

⟣ tags. gojo satoru x female reader. mostly tooth rotting fluff. talks about cheating / a sprinkle of trust issues from reader. the rest is satoru just being lovesick.

⟣ note. uhhhh… idk just a random idea i got at three am on a saturday night after being woken up from a nightmare >_< enjoy .

you don’t think satoru would actually ever cheat on you. your curiosity just got the best of you when you saw that one girl do a ‘loyalty test’ on her boyfriend. it was quite simple—testing if your partner would hand you their phone without being suspiciously defensive.

therefore you walked into satoru’s room and spotted him laying on his side, his back facing the door. he didn’t have any earphones in so you could hear the sounds of a movie playing on the phone he held in his hands.

he seemed so peaceful and content that you were already feeling bad for disturbing him with your silly test. you moved to sit on the edge of the bed and cleared your throat, making your presence known as if the sorcerer hadn’t sensed it moments ago.

“are you cheating on me?”

blunt and straight to the point.

satoru pauses the show on his phone and looks at you like you had said the most outrageous thing there is (to him, you really did). he drops the device on the bed and turns his body to face yours; “well—hello to you too, baby.”

he runs a hand through his hair before sitting up against the headboard with a raised brow, one hand cautiously reaching out for you. satoru was thinking about all the things he has said or done previously that could’ve possibly make you think he was screwing around behind your back. his mind worked fast, though he couldn’t come up with any logical explanation.

“answer my question please, ‘toru.” you mumble, feeling slightly guilty for doing this to your lover. you could see the confusion plastered on his face.

“no, i am not.” satoru shakes his head whilst holding your hand in his, thumb brushing against the back of it, “what makes you think that?”

you weren’t about to say ‘oh nevermind then! just a dumb thing that i saw on tiktok’—no, there was still one thing left to do. even if you’re so super sure that your boyfriend was hiding nothing from you. maybe there was an one in a million chance that your intuition was wrong. or maybe it’s just your underlying trust issues speaking.

“uhh, just wanted.. to check.. i guess?” you clear your throat and take a deep inhale before putting your hand out to satoru, palm up.

the white-haired sorcerer looks from your hand to you, and back. he doesn’t know what that indicated, so he takes a simple guess; satoru places his chin on your palm, giving you an amused kind of grin. you raise an eyebrow as he rests his head on your hand—which wasn’t what you wanted to gain from your gesture.

but you couldn’t blame him. it was cute that that was the first thing he thought of doing.

“you’re always welcome to check. got nothin’ to hide anyway.” he shrugs, not offended by your accusation in the slightest. you see the way his blue eyes look up at you—in a way that shows his pure, unadulterated adoration for you.

you nod and scratch satoru under his chin, to which he smiles and closes his eyes, enjoying the tingling touch, “then can i .. look through your phone?”

without an ounce of hesitation, he had placed his phone unlocked in your hand. satoru doesn’t care much about privacy anyway—you’re his girlfriend, you’re the only one allowed to know every single thing about him, “of course, baby.”

your eyes land on the screen and your jaw drops as you see his home screen; a picture of you up close, sleeping with your cheek squished against his arm, own hands resting near your head and . . . is that drool trickling down your chin?

“oops, sorry, you were too cute not to take a picture of.” satoru chuckles as he sees your reaction. he lays back on his side, elbow propped on the pillow with his head resting against his hand—watching you go through his phone with a relaxed look.

you roll your eyes playfully before starting your search. your finger swiped across the screen and landed on the messenger app satoru uses. you click on it and scroll through his chats, but don’t find anything out of the ordinary. he recently talked to you, his first year students, nanami and shoko.

you curiously tap on his chat with shoko and don’t read anything interesting at first glance. you scroll up and take note of how satoru was the one who kept most of the conversation going. shoko’s replies were much shorter and curt—straight to the point.

but then your eyes land on a conversation from two weeks ago. satoru had showed shoko a bunch of selfies you had sent him that same day. he was telling her how ‘cute’ and ‘pretty’ you were, practically bragging about you being his girl.

you scroll up some more and see that he’s done the same many times before; sending shoko pictures of you and kind of rambling to her about how beautiful you are.

shoko—being the good friend she is—indulged into his little lovesick ramblings and agreed with every thing satoru said—even complimenting your looks herself. you begun to get embarrassed at this unexpected revelation.

when going through more of his chats with other people, you realise how much satoru loves to talk about you. you couldn’t possibly count the many times satoru had refused invitations from his students or other friends simply because he wanted to hang out with you instead.

you discovered that he even skipped two or three important meetings at the school to go spend the day with you—nanami scolding him via text each time he did so.

“damn..” you murmur and glance up at your lover after closing his messaging app. satoru was staring right back at you with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen on him.

he wasn’t embarrassed about you reading some of those cheesy and sappy texts at all. in fact, he was happy. he wants you to know how much he loves you (as if he doesn’t show you exactly that every day of the week).

“go on, sweets.” satoru nods towards his phone, encouraging you to continue your inspection. your eyes dart back towards the screen and you shyly swipe and scroll some more, eventually ending up in his gallery.

the first things you noticed: two albums dedicated to you. all were filled with hundreds of pictures of you (and him). one was named ‘my love,’ the other ‘me&my love’ — both with a heart at the end. scrolling through them, you noticed many images you hadn’t even realised were ever taken.

many of those pictures were also favourited in his gallery.

you nibble on your bottom lip and leave the gallery app even more flustered than before. you aimlessly click around some more on his phone. what really surprised you most was that you were named in his reminder app.

there were tons—all added in one long list. some were so pure that you couldn’t contain the slight tears in your eyes;

‘bring gf gifts’, ‘remind gf that she’s amazing’, ‘bring gf lunch’, ‘send gf daily selfie’, ‘daily cuddles w gf (if she wants)’, ‘give gf big smooch (important!)’, ‘check up on gf when away on business’, — satoru doesn’t actually need to have those reminders on his phone. his mind is so full of you that he’ll automatically remember to do everything, almost on autopilot. he just has those there for… well, just in case he somehow ends up forgetting.

you lock his phone after seeing enough and give it back to your lover. you wordlessly crawl over to him on the bed and snuggle up to his body, head resting on his chest.

“sorry.” you quietly apologise. you knew he wasn’t hiding anything, but the fact that you still went ahead and tried out that ‘loyalty test’ on someone as loyal and loving as satoru makes your heart ache a bit. especially after discovering just how smitten he’s with you.

“dunno why you’re apologising—but please don’t.” satoru whispers and rubs your back in a soothing manner, kissing the top of your head and smiling against your scalp afterwards, “it’s fiiine.”

he’s entertained by the reactions to your discoveries, even if those are but mere indications to the actual unending and undying love he holds for you in his heart.

you lift your head up and look at satoru. your bottom lip stuck out, corners of your mouth twitching slightly whilst your eyes started to get a bit glassy. you really felt bad—yet you also felt appreciated on the other hand. if you didn’t go through with your curious idea, you wouldn’t have gotten to know about any of this.

“aww, my sweet, sweet girl.” satoru coos and places two kisses right below each eye, tapping your nose with a grin. he adores the way you look and if it wasn’t for his self control, he’d have nibbled on those cheeks of yours out of playful aggression.

it’s then that satoru remembers one of his daily tasks; one he hadn’t properly done today.

you were caught off guard once more as satoru’s lips crashed down onto yours—no warning given whatsoever. his big hands held onto your cheeks, thumb rubbing the skin there whilst his glossy lips moved against yours in a gentle yet much sloppy way.

“there,” the white-haired man hums in content as he pulls away, giggling once he sees a bit of his saliva coat your mouth. he wipes it away with his thumb, “your smooch of the day.”

you couldn’t help but laugh at the exaggerated cringy way satoru said the latter—your boyfriend laughing right alongside you afterwards.

satoru wasn’t done with you, however. he had many other daily tasks that were yet to be fulfilled.

[baeshijima]

mr reca fic where he’s suffering a creative slump due to the lack of good scripts (by his standards) from various screenwriters. he feels himself going positively insane with every script he’s given.

it’s too dull. it’s too predictable. this one has no creative flair whatsoever!! that one just doesn’t spark enough imagination!!!

it’s troublesome, really. some think he’s really going through it, while others believe the scripts he’s been given won’t bring him enough money. but really, who cares about monetary value when it is he who cannot even begin to picture himself enjoying the process that comes with each script?

and so that is how he finds himself wandering around aimlessly. sometimes the outdoors is necessary for the mind, and who knows? perhaps he really will find something that will give him a spark. hmm, those trees are looking a little dull. the sky overhead is too cloudy. hm? did he just hear thunder—

something collides into his chest, a choked “oof!” following soon after. he stumbles backwards a little, papers flying through the air around him. he blinks once, twice, at the sight of you on the ground, muttering something under your breath before a sharp gasp escapes you, hastily scrambling to gather the papers fluttering and strewn around.

one such paper falls into his hands. he glances over its contents, skimming through it as he goes to pass it over to you with an apology at the tip of his tongue, only to freeze.

this… this is genius! this is absolutely the pinnacle of writing!! while a little rough around the edges (as drafts usually tend to be), his once clouded mind is now clear, giving way to a blank canvas which slowly depicts the imagery your writing induces. idea after idea pours into his brain as he can visualise exactly what he wants, his body trembling and heart pounding as he insantly fixates on your panicked form still collecting all the fallen papers.

“yes… yes! this is what i was looking for! everything about this is pure artistry! the possibilities are endless, the sky is the limit!!”

this is possibly the happiest and freest he has felt in what seems like eons! seriously, compared to those other mind-numbing scripts this truly is the pinnacle of writing itself.

a laugh full of pure, unadulterated glee escapes him, careful not to crinkle the god-sent paper cradled in his palms. “you! you’re a genius!”

“i’m a wha…?”

he whirls in the direction of the source of the voice, further praises and a proposal for a collaboration on the tip of his tongue, only for his breath to catch in his throat.

you… you’re so radiant! even with that disheveled appearance and absolutely adorable confused expression you’re giving him, he never realised such beauty existed! not only does your writing fill him with endless creativity, but his pounding heart, parched throat and warming skin tells him you’re definitely the main character!

but wait! if you were to be the main character, then would that make him the main character’s love interest? surely he wouldn’t have had such a cliché meet-cute like bumping into each other if he wasn’t the love interest! but what if there is a second love interest? no, no, he can oust them…

you, on the other hand, believe you’re about to get whiplash instead of the man, baffled at how he instantly switched from a maniac to stark silence to muttering senselessly with a dreamy expression.

well, each to their own. you have more pressing matters, and that’s to quickly return home and continue fantasising before you forget the idea! but first, you have to get the last piece of paper back…

“um… sir? can i have my paper back, please?”

in an instant, he kneels in front of you. now that you’re at eye level, he certainly is very handsome. if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought this was some movie or drama plot with him as the main lead! oh, but why is he holding your hands—

“yes, i will spend the rest of my life with you.”

“…what?”

tldr; you’re just a silly writer who daydreams far too much for their own good, and somehow managed to bag top-tier director mr reca with the power of said daydreams. (his ever-growing obsession with you is concerning to say the least but, hey! what genius isn’t at least a little insane?)

[yanderenightmare]

TW: obsession, obsessive thoughts

fem reader

Thinking about when the playboy finally falls in love…

It’s so silly, soft as it may sound, untrue even given his record of sleeping around, but sometimes all he wants is pure unadulterated love. A hug once in a while would be nice – maybe a chaste kiss on his cheek – or cuddles.

You hadn’t believed a lick of it. You’d only laughed in his face with a shake of your head, telling him that must have been the worst pick-up play you’d ever been the victim of. 

It’s cliché, but he’s been obsessed with you ever since.

He feels like such a loser thinking about it – for real now – rolling his eyes with a hidden smile while looking at the candid picture he’d snapped of you. 

Chewing on this tongue while fantasizing such ridiculous things – virginal nothings such as handholding or resting his head in your lap and feeling you play with his hair. Sleeping together with your clothes on – spooning each other all clingy and soft...

Whispering sweet little nothings against the shell of his ear – teasing him. Playfighting – making you squeal and giggle as he grabs you and pins you beneath him in the bed. Tickling – making you laugh. Or kissing your nose and head and hand. 

Oh, and making breakfast together, eating lunch, and sharing dinner. 

Don't get him started on showering – helping each other wash – backrubs and headscrubs. How good your hands would feel carding through his hair as you rub in soap and rinse it out. Or just face masks. A whole evening in the bubble bath.

Watching some stupid romcom in fluffy bath robes afterward with your dopey tired head falling to rest on his shoulder. Snoring and mumbling small sweet little nothings to each other.

Saying good morning. Saying goodnight. Have a nice day. Good luck. I love you. I love you more. I love you most.

And there’s more.

Baby-names.

You haven't even gotten his dick wet once – he hasn’t even scored a kiss yet, and he’s already thinking about knocking you up and putting a ring on it.

You would look too good with his brat on your knee…

Bouncing them, breastfeeding, playing peek-a-boo games, zerbert, and doing the Simba from The Lion King – all with a great big beaming smile on your face. A smile that even the sun would envy.

Not to mention the kid itself. 

He would love the ever-living life out of a little baby version of you – pouty plump lips and mochi cheeks – spluttering and hiccupping on earth-shattering sobs when scuffing her dainty little knees on the pavement – asking for piggyback rides and candy before dinner.

Or a little miniature of him. Seeing you lull little devil-faced Junior to sleep.

Fuck it, you should get both. A truckload.

He’s shaken from his thoughts when his friend snaps his fingers.

“You’ve been staring at your phone forever. What’re you looking at that’s so important?”

He can’t believe how far down the rabbit hole he’d just spiraled. Thinking about a girl without picturing her naked. He must be losing it.

“… I’m not sure…”

BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso, Denki

JJK – Gojo, Sukuna

HQ – Oikawa, Kuro, Bokuto, Miya twins, Suna

BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Rin

AOT – Eren

[marthawrites]

Could you write smut for Aemond targaryen with the prompts 17,40,44,47,53 and 54 maybe with a targaryen reader? Just something gentle, sweet and soft <3 btw I’m talking abt this prompt list

I absolutely can! Apologies for making you wait since January for this. I hope you're still around to see (and, fingers crossed) enjoy it!

"Vok" (Perfect)

Aemond Targaryen x sister reader

Word count: 2.6k+

About: You and Aemond pledged to each other long ago. Tonight, beneath the blanket of darkness, you revel in each other's adoration.

Includes: SMUT. Featuring brother x sister incest, Aemond is soft but only to his little sister, dirty talk, female masturbation, guided masturbation, praise, unprotected vaginal sex, and a splash of breeding kink

Note: Hello lovely reader! It's been a hot minute since I've wrote Aemond - the posters and trailers have me going (affectionately) insane! Triple warning: this fic is brother x sister targcest. If you do not like that KEEP ON SCROLLING. This is my first time writing this dynamic. Reader is implied to have silver hair, pale skin, and purple eyes. Everything else is up to you! As always, I hope you enjoy this fic! ❤️

-

To the realm, Aemond Targaryen was the cruel prince. Aloof, stoic, unforgiving.

To the realm, he was an ambitious and willful young man who rode Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the world–the same dragon who helped Queen Visenya conquer Westeros.

To the realm, he was the second son of King Viserys. And, as such, would play the game of nobility by putting duty above love–marrying outside of his Targaryen lineage to seed dragons further into the world.

To you, his little sister and second daughter of King Viserys, he was your protector. 

Your secret.

A poorly kept secret in some corners of the castle; nosy servants and their obnoxious fucking tendencies. But, with Aemond’s less than idle threats about cutting the tongue out of anyone’s throat who would speak about it, it ended up being a well-kept secret.

The second son and second daughter of the Dragon King; who better to love, and cherish, and pledge to, than each other?

Aemond would sooner die than see you marry off to some lowly lord of a “great” House. You were the blood of Old Valyria. Everyone–no matter their feats–was lowly in comparison to you. And you, his sweet sister, deserved only the best.

Barely a year separated your ages. Neither of you remembered a life without the other.

Long before you gave your maidenhead to your brother you gave him your heart. And your heart he held.

-

The night was late. These dark hours were some of the only unadulterated times you had together. Aemond kissed you slowly, passionately, gently stroking along your cheeks with his thumbs as he did. You were tangled in his bed together. You, stripped down to only your shift, and him, stripped down to only his sleep trousers. One of your shift’s thin straps kept sliding down your shoulder, and each time it did Aemond’s warm mouth kissed over the smooth lovely skin. You panted soft sounds–each feminine simper jolting right to his cock–as he lavished you in affection. 

“You’re kissing me silly, lēkia (brother). My head feels full of bees and I’m hot. So, so hot,” you whispered against his kiss-swollen mouth. “Will you not feel for yourself?” He hadn’t yet made a move to touch you where you really, truly, wanted him; something that had you whining and pouting. While his hands alternated between stroking your face and groping your body–waist, hips, thighs–yours were buried in his hair. It was all down and free. The silken sheet of it spilled over his shoulders, spilled over you, and you relished the feel of it inside your hands. Against your bare skin. “Please?”

“Please what, hāedar? (little sister)” He asked, voice mellow with just the right amount of rumble from his chest.

“Please touch me,” you answered, back naturally arching to press your soft body against the hard planes of his own.

Another low sound came from him. He pressed a warm, wide palm up the perfect curve of your back until he squeezed into the nape of your hair. ���Such a pretty word from a pretty mouth. Have my kisses made you ache with need, byka zaldrīzes (little dragon)?”

“Yes.” The single word, its single syllable, rolled off your tongue before your brain even fully registered his question. You stared at him desperately. One eye was so beautiful; so ancient in its color and proclamation, just like your own. The other reflected faceted edges of the sapphire he wore in place of his missing eye. You didn’t know which was more enchanting.

“How long can you go, hm? Without me touching you?”

“W-what?”

He laughed. A rumble beneath his pale, taut chest. “How long before you succumb to madness by me not touching your perfect cunny?”

“Aemond…,” you whined. Pitiful. “Not much longer! Please, lēkia, I need you, please.”

A serpent’s grin curved his mouth and darkened his eye as he shifted positions with you. Now, he sat upright with his back against his headboard and pulled you to sit in front of him. 

You nestled between his legs, your back flush with his chest, and his stiff cock rested against the small of your back. A blush bloomed beneath your cheeks. You knew lust ran as wild in his veins as it did in yours.

“Tell me, sweet sister…,” he started, whispering by your ear. Both his hands cupped and squeezed over your breasts. Their softness melted against his palms and he groaned at the sensation. Perfect. You were so fucking perfect. “Have you touched yourself to peak before?”

A stammer replaced the little mewl in your throat. “H-how do you mean?”

He laughed again, pinching your nipples. “Mm… are you sure?”

Lust and need and fire roared in your blood to the point of almost drowning everything else out. “I d-don’t understand,” you admitted. But, it was a lie. You knew what he meant. You could only hope he’d go easy on you so you wouldn't have to admit, prove, or say you knew what he spoke of.

“Why are you playing shy with me, hāedar? I think you know exactly what I mean. There is no shame in it,” he spoke sly, hands pushing the hem of your shift up until he held the material in a fist upon your abdomen. With his other hand he tugged your smallclothes down your bare legs, tossing them off. The flats of all his fingers ghosted over your exposed cunt. Testing you. Feeling you. He hissed an inward breath. “Fuck–”, he growled. “‘Tis a good thing I was born a prince. Gods know if I had this wet little cunt between my thighs I wouldn’t get anything done. Ever. For how often I’d fuck myself silly on my own fingers.”

Aemond’s vulgarity sent a coil of tension wringing in your belly. Slick arousal pooled hotter beneath his touch. Your clit throbbed–the little pearl silently screaming for attention. “Yes,” you breathed, shuddering.

“Yes, what?”

Your older brother wasn’t going easy on you. “Yes. I… I know what you speak of. And.. yes, I do. Sometimes…,” you admitted with a wave of embarrassment.

Somehow he grew harder against the small of your back. He throbbed. “Show me,” he demanded.

“What! Aemond, no. Please, please, please no. Don’t make me show you.” Mortification replaced your previous embarrassment. Yet, your spine quivered with another rush of liquid arousal.

“I would love nothing more than to see how you bring yourself pleasure. Do you think of me when you do, byka zaldrīzes?”

You nodded. Dizziness warbled your brain. 

“Such a sweet perfect thing,” he cooed. He'd felt that nervous energy tense you. He also saw the exquisite thrum of your pulsepoint beneath your neck, too. Two sides of the same coin: carnal desire. When he spoke again it dripped with wicked passion. “Don’t be nervous, I'll guide you through it.”

It had been quite some time since you last brought yourself to climax all on your own. Aemond was always more than eager to give you pleasure. Tonight, however, something was different. Idly you wondered what it could be. Before you thought about it too much, Aemond guided your dominant hand to that delicate space between your thighs. You gasped at the sensation of your own touch. Torture never felt so divine. Your little bud sang as you circled it, rubbed over it. You sighed sweetly. “How did you make me so wet?”

It took controlled effort to not spill himself across your back at that very moment. “Spread your legs for me, princess. Let me see and hear what you’re doing.”

You obeyed. With your legs spread wider, now, it was all the easier to resume your previous motions. Flicking and rubbing over your bud felt divine–excited little sounds already spilled from your mouth. You ached inside, too, wanting–needing–to be stretched around something. The memory of Aemond's long fingers pumping into you while his thumb claimed your clit had your face hot. You couldn't reach those same spots he could. You bit your bottom lip, whimpering.

Aemond watched from above with a hungry lecherous eye. Beneath your shift he could see your breasts, slope of belly… and then further below, your creamy thighs spilled wide open. Fuck–he was so hard his back hurt. Your girlish sounds sent his desire blazing. “Your little clit is so achy, isn’t it? I know how much you like it played with,” he said by your ear. “Do you ever go inside?”

You nodded, allowing your head to fall back against his shoulder. You stayed on your pearl, still, legs tensing with bliss as it warmed and tingled your blood.

“Show me,” he growled again. “Be a good girl. And afterward? Don’t worry, I'll take care of you. Promise.” 

Without hesitation you pushed two of your fingers into your warmth. Your body squeezed around the intrusion, inner walls flexing, trying to pull them in deeper. A gasped moan left your parted lips. “I-I’ve never done this before.” You’ve never shown anyone this before is what you meant. Aemond knew what you meant.

“I know. Shh… it’s okay, I'll guide you through it.” He gently touched the top of your hand and relished your little tendons flexing with the effort of your self pleasure. He pushed–coaxing your fingers deeper, silently urging you along. More. 

Soon the wet sounds of your hand against pink swollen flesh mingled with your moans. Lewd. Dirty. You tried to stay quiet. You really did. But it felt too good, and Aemond’s hand on yours guiding you along had your toes curling. Of course he would help you. Of course he wouldn’t let you do it all on your own. “Aem..!,” you whimpered, hips rocking with your movements. “‘M close.”

“I got you,” he whispered, voice heavy.

As soon as your fingers found that little patch of hidden nerves along your walls, you weren’t able to hold on much longer. The bliss, all at once, became too much. Tension snapped in your belly as colors flashed behind your closed eyelids. Your legs trembled at the tip of your peak, and as you crested downwards Aemond held you tighter against him.

“Vok (perfect),” he said as he watched you. How perfect you were with your silver hair framing your face. How perfect you looked when ecstasy became too much. How fucking perfect your eyes were as they opened and locked on his, bright and glassy with excitement. 

You carefully pulled your fingers free and began to turn around to face him. Before you could, however, he held you tighter against him. Confusion furrowed your brow and whatever you were about to say was cut off by his impatience.

“I’m greedy, byka zaldrīzes. Go on, one more time. I know you can do it. Show me again how you peak.”

Without arguing you again settled back against him. You planted your feet along the outside of his legs, spilling your thighs open wider than they were before. You angled your hips to the perfect position and this time a third finger joined your previous two. This time you fucked yourself without shame–not that you held on to it long in the first place.

Aemond all but snarled behind you, absolutely ravenous at the sight of three of your little fingers pumping and curling up into your body. He moved a hand downward, too, and the pads of those fingers worked over your clit in time with your pumps.

“Gods! Aem–!” You quivered against him. The addition of his lascivious attention had your hips squirming. Wanton moans, no longer trying to stay quiet, had your mind blanking. Nothing existed outside of you and Aemond. Nowhere existed outside of the spaces in which your bodies touched. Climax found you faster this time. Your second orgasm had you crumbling against him. Sweat sheened your brow. Your face bloomed. Sated. You were wholly sated.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Such a good girl. Giving me exactly what I wanted,” he kissed you, stealing your lips in a kiss that had you floating all over again. You could have fallen asleep right there in his arms and been the happiest thing in the realm. Breaking away, he added, “now I’ve a promise to make up to you, hm?”

Honestly, you’d forgotten about it. But, now that he mentioned it, your belly did a silly little flop.

With great care, Aemond moved from behind you and stood. Offering a hand to you, he said, “take your clothes off and lay on your back.”

And with that, you both finally shed the last pieces of your clothing. 

Laying like he said, you leaned back on your elbows to prop yourself up to still see your brother. Spilled messy hair, tall lean body littered with nicked scars, sapphire eye on full display…hard cock blushed angry red with need. They say Targaryen’s are closer to Gods than men, and with the hearth’s orange light reflecting on his ivory form, you believed him to be a God.

Aemond thought the same about you as you laid there bathed in the moonlight and hearthlight. 

“Spread your legs for your lēkia, I want to see you.”

As soon as you did–proudly showing off the slick mess of two climaxes, Aemond pumped along his rigid length. Despite butterflies twirling in your belly, your smile up at him was purely feline.

To Aemond’s credit, his voice only broke slightly when he said, “get on your hands and knees.”

You did. You dipped your spine as low as it could comfortably go, propping your ass up for him. As much as he loved fucking you with your legs wrapped around his waist, you knew he loved this position, too. “Māzigon va, lēkia (come on, brother),” you purred. “Keep to your promise.”

In an instant one of his hands squeezed harshly into the fat of your hip while the other spread the meat of your ass apart. He planted one foot firmly on the bed, and the other stayed rooted on the ground. The position gave him more leverage, and power, and control as he loomed above you. With a flex of his entire abdomen he pushed forward; the hot stretch of your body around him had both of you gasping. “I plan on leaving a babe in your belly tonight, hāedar. That way mother will have no other choice than to wed us,” he groaned, pulling backwards only to snap his hips against the smooth underside of your cheeks once again. And again.

You fisted the sheets as Aemond fucked you. You moaned your delight at his words, nodding. “Yes, please,” you panted. “Faster,” you begged.

His thrusts were precise and brutal. The slap of your smacking skin was utterly depraved and you hated–no, loved–how it made you impossibly wetter. Aemond did too. “Already squeezing around me? Fuck–I’m not going to last much longer,” he said, strained.

You began to push back against him, meeting his thrusts halfway with a frenzied need to make him release. “Fill me. Fill me up, Aem,” you still begged, breathing heavily. 

He rutted against you with the same need–a primal haze taking over as his stones began to tighten. His fingers dented firmly into your flesh as he continued plunging in and out of you. Instinct to spill his seed built by the moment and soon he became sloppy. He grunted and growled, and with a final shove–cock buried as deep as it could be inside your walls–he spent against your body’s end. Pulse after mighty pulse emptied his spend into you. Stray strands of hair stuck to a sheen of sweat upon his forehead.

You joined him in peak; left boneless and exhausted after three orgasms. Even at the top of your bliss, and his, he never eased until you were both done.

Aemond pulled his softening length out from you and urged you to fall forward upon his bed. You followed his motion and happily laid there. Naked, glowing, and full. You reached a hand out to pull him to you. “Avy jorrāelan (i love you).”

Aemond easily settled next to you, scooping you into him. “Avy jorrāelan tolī (i love you too),” he said between slow, satisfied kisses.

-

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

To be added or removed from the taglist, hit me up!

Masterlist

Main taglist: @watercolorskyy @melsunshine @girlwith-thepearlearring @arcielee @barbiedragon @targaryen-dynasty @succnfuccubus @fan-goddess @schniiipsel

Aemond taglist: @darylandbethfanforever9 @bellaisasleep @aemondsblog @khaleesihel @sirenofavalon @doublesparrows @aemonds-fire @nikstrange @abbyandizzysmum @rafeism @lost-and-founds @castellomargot @avidreader73 @snh96 @boofy1998 @connorsui

[mangostarjam]

he's good at it, because of course he is — the shudder and jerk of the wheel under his fingers, the easy power coaxed through the engine — so he wins a lot. it's easy.

it's even fun, sometimes. he likes winning. his friends like to race, too, and they get really into it. he's lost count of the number of times he's watched them settle a silly argument with a race, but he was never keeping count, anyway.

nagi seishiro wins a lot.

until he loses.

maybe that's why he keeps looking for you. after your race against him, you had collected the prize money and dipped, tire tracks disappearing into the night.

he still remembers the way you held the envelope tight in your fist, the flash of your eyes as you smirked at him on the other side of the finish line (he had been close — close enough to catch your triumphant yell floating out your window when you beat him). sharp, bright, alive —

the way your face shone with pure, unadulterated glee pops into his head randomly, always when he least expects it. when he's playing games on his phone, when he's busy ignoring reo and isagi and chigiri, when he's on the verge of falling asleep — he sees you, and he thinks about you, and so — he looks for you.

the next time he spots your car at a meet his head perks up. this immediately gets the attention of his friends, and they follow his line of sight with way too much enthusiasm.

"oh," reo says, "it's her."

seishiro thinks reo's tone sounds wrong, but he doesn't have time to do anything about it. he's busy scrambling off the hood of bachira's car, long legs eating up the distance between him and your smile, but before he can reach you — you're gone. off in another race, with only a fleeting glance in his direction, a slight lift of an eyebrow as you… recognize him?

for the first time ever, seishiro hopes.

[starsofang]

still thinking about johnny x extremely reserved!reader. ):

johnny was always the one to joke with you under normal circumstances. it had taken him a long time to even crack a smile out of you from some of his horrible one-liners, and even then, most of your smiles appeared similar to a grimace. over time, he came to learn that it was just how you preferred to smile until you could let out a true one, but he was as patient as ever.

however, the more time passed, the more the tables turned. you were starting to pull the jokes on him.

it threw him in for a complete loop the first time it happened. he was the one who started it, yet you finished it before he could make an attempt.

there was nothing special going on. you and johnny were seated in the common room, you propped much more politely than he was, while he rattled on about nonsense.

he never minded that you didn’t say much. you were always as quiet as could be. even now, you remained engrossed in your book but gave him an occasional hum to show you were listening, and that was enough for him.

johnny liked you. he wasn’t sure why, especially considering the thick, unbreakable wall you had built around yourself like a cocoon.

getting you to open up was like chipping away at a block of ice with an ice pick, only allowed one good swing each and every day. it was slow and tedious, requiring lots of patience. johnny had gotten you to smile before, sure, but he desired more. he wanted you to let loose, to reveal that silly side to you that was cowering away in the corner of your soul.

the first time it happened, johnny could’ve been mistaken for the damn sun with how much it lit him up.

“elephant would beat a lion in a fight,” johnny claimed to gaz, who had swiftly joined the two of you in the common room for the sole purpose of getting an answer to an unhinged question.

“you think an elephant would beat a lion?” gaz gawked. johnny grinned at him.

“aye, c’mon, lad, elephants are huge. and heavy.”

“and lions are the strongest predators in the wild,” gaz explained. “elephant stands no chance.”

the bicker between johnny and gaz continued while you sat silently reading your book, eyes darted downwards in attempts to avoid eye contact. you looked like your were deep in thought, perhaps even in a fit of mischief in johnny’s eyes when he’d sneak glances to you.

“why do you never see elephants hiding in trees?” you asked when gaz had stepped out of the room, leaving you two alone.

johnny’s head whipped in your direction, mouth parting as he stared at you. “what?”

you peeked up from your book, expression unreadable but johnny could decipher the faintest hint of amusement.

“why do you never see elephants hiding in trees?” you repeated. johnny huffed out a laugh, a cheeky grin curling on his face.

“why?” he mused.

“because they’re really good at it.”

the silence that filled the room was deafening. it had your mind reeling, wanting to crawl back into your shell and remain tucked away. but when johnny suddenly burst into bashful laughter, it put your mind at ease.

“did ye just make a joke, bonnie?” johnny exclaimed in excitement, unable to contain the unadulterated joy that poured out of him like a broken faucet.

“no,” you muttered in slight embarrassment, sinking into your seat.

johnny could tell it had taken a lot of courage for you to share such a silly thing with him, and it warmed his heart. he gained a reminder of why he had fallen for you all over again, and why he was working so damn hard to get you to see that you could trust him.

he couldn’t recall how long it had truly been of him picking apart the slow crumbling of your walls, but seeing you take initiative and try to get him to smile and laugh at a ridiculously cute joke, it was absolutely worth it. his patience would never thin if it meant seeing you crack open the jar of quips (that were definitely better than his own).

for my reserved queens, kings, and other lovely royalties because i am not bold or talkative nor do i show smile/expressions a lot, so this is your reminder that if you’re like meeee, then you’re still just as deserving for someone patient and understanding like johnny <3

[sirhamburrger]

and some roommates (don't worry, we're cool!)

a/n: thinking silly thoughts today... having sae itoshi and ryusei shidou as roommates while getting involved with rin itoshi… (unrealistic since they'd both probably be really rich by the end of bllk, whenever that is, or adulthood) for the purpose of this drabble please pretend they are two broke boys 🙏

wc: 739 || tags: all characters are 18+, gn!reader, reader is in uni, situationship ryusae once again putting the bl in blue lock, background rin x reader, 700 words of domestic crack and more || header from bllk manga

(continued here in my christmas miniseries, more rin x reader centric)

it all begins when you're looking for an apartment in downtown tokyo. but since you can't afford one of your own at the moment, you're looking to see if anyone could use another roommate to split rent with.

and after days of scouring the internet, you find a promising place. clean, well-furnished, spacious - but there's already a couple living together in it...

oh well. the more the better. 

so you show up at their door after a couple of text messages exchanged with one of the very enthusiastic co-tenants, hoping to get a better look at the place. you ring the bell. no response. you try again. and again. maybe they're out -

“shidou, will you just get the damn door already?”

oh. okay.

the door finally swings open, and you're greeted by a tall, tan-skinned and vaguely familiar-looking man with a terrifying grin. you take a step back, a little shocked, but he just beams at you.

“you're the one who's been messaging me about the apartment, aren’tcha? come on in!”

he loops an arm around your shoulder, introducing himself as he walks you in. he's ryusei shidou, a member of the national football team who played in an exhibition match a few years back (which explains why you find him so familiar).

“so, uh…” you shudder slightly when shidou fixes his gaze on you. “where's your girlfriend? or, uh, boyfriend, i guess. partner. i should probably meet them.”

and it's at this moment that you abandon your inital thoughts of finding another place because sae freaking itoshi steps into the kitchen??

you think you might just faint. 

“o-oh my gosh, sae,” you stammer,  “it's an honour to meet you –”

he stares at you blankly, then at shidou with murderous intent in his eyes.

“who is this?”

“i'm not, like, a side chick or anything,” you quickly clarify, but shidou simply grins.

“we need someone to split rent with, and-”

“and i thought i would just check your place out, seeing as i'm in the same boat,” you finish. “but you two, as a couple, should probably discuss this. you know what? i can wait outside-"

“wait,” sae says slowly, pure, unadulterated disgust in his eyes. “he told you we're a couple?”

shidou's face falls. "we're not?"

and that's the story of how you move in with two men around your age who have some weird dynamic going on that you don't question.

japan's talented young midfielder is a great roommate (then again, you did go into this with no expectations whatsoever). he does the dishes when he's supposed to, takes the heavier bags off your hands during grocery runs with you, stays quiet after ten pm. he makes breakfast for you and shidou in the mornings, and teaches you about football.

ryusei shidou, though... oh, you get why sae's so sick of him now.

he takes the most massive dumps in the bathroom and doesn't flush. or put the seat back up after he's done. or turn the tap off properly. (he's flooded the sink before.) speaking of sinks, he leaves his dirty dishes in the sink. sometimes you want to tear his diabolical dye job off his scalp. sae informs you he has has tried just that and failed to do so.

but he does make you laugh a lot with his jokes and antics.

"one thing you should know about genius sae-chan is that he loves back hugs." "please don't speak for me."

and the two of you absolutely love making fun of sae's attempts to properly reconcile with his brother. you'll be peering over at his phone screen, ryusei on his right and you on his left, as he types out something about lunch plans tomorrow.

"you spelled 'restaurant' wrong for a second there."

ryusei dodges the pillow that comes flying at his face.

they've known each other for longer than you've known them, but they tell you things they wouldn't ever tell the other. like when ryusei quietly admitted to you one night, that despite all his careless flirting, he does really want to be with sae, in a more-than-friends kind of way. or like when sae told you in confidence that he secretly likes ryusei's back hugs.

and when against all odds, a certain green-haired boy in your lectures starts talking to you, you shudder to think that you now have something in common with ryusei - being deeply obsessed with an itoshi sibling.

bllk masterlist || general masterlist

© sirhamburrger 2024

[misiahasahardname]

i was genuinely worried for a while

i’m so so glad they stayed together <3

thank fucking god ripaxel is still alive and kicking it, i was scared shitless they'd broke up in the finale after what happened in episode 7 😭😭😭

- 📽 anon .

.

[cloginthedrain]

growing pains (remus lupin x reader)

summary: out of the angst and discomfort of her teenage years, reader finally allows herself to pursue remus.

masterlist

word count: 2125

content warning/notes: writer, luna lovegood-ish/sad fem!reader. friends to lovers. implied sex. lots of reminiscing on remus & reader's hogwarts years. no voldemort/wizarding war au.

other notes: hi!! im back, writing remus for the first time?? that's exciting. i've been reading marauder fanfic for so long, it's only fitting! hope u enjoy <3

—

In the dwindling daylight, you’re dawdling beside Remus, admiring your new, shiny Mary Jane’s. You’re particularly mesmerized by their intricate yellow stitching and pretty brass buckles. You also couldn’t help but admire the way your forest green, pleated trousers flowed outward above your shoes in just the way you imagined. You hum happily along cobblestoned streets and lush waving leaves, with Remus’ brown trousers in your peripheral. Your arm’s tucked into his as he guides you back to your flat as you babble about everything and nothing.

Remus can’t help but smile at the sight. You’ve been wielding a new sort of confidence lately, finally out of the growing pains and fits of discomfort of your late teens; you’re finally becoming who you imagined you would be.

Even so, not much has changed since Hogwarts. Back then, Remus would guide you on walks to Care of Magical Creatures or to the Greenhouse for Herbology when the sun was too bright and your eyes were still sleepy. You’d walk alongside Remus, arms linked, and your eyes shut, allowing him to guide you along.

Admittedly, your years at Hogwarts weren’t your finest. You were a basket case—chain-smoking and staining your hand with ink writing angsty poetry, all while almost exclusively wearing Remus’ grey, v-neck pullover or, when you were seeing him, Sirius’ brown leather jacket.

Now, you’re doing what you had always wanted. You’re a proper writer and not for shoddy publications like the Daily Prophet, but for proper, reputable publications: Muggle literary magazines and indie Wizarding publications. It’s exhilarating and exhausting.

You are always writing.

Earlier, your shoulder was hunched under the weight of your canvas messenger bag which contained your journal, a more than ample number of pens, and a book or two. This behemoth of a bag, however, is now on Remus’ shoulder. He’s walking you home from his and Sirius’ flat. You took advantage of the opportunity for company and a change of scenery, otherwise you’d go stir-crazy stewing in your flat, waiting for words to flow out of your quill.

Remus, like always, is bugging you to read your latest project—“I know you’re working on something. Tell me about it.”

“I can’t! It takes the fun out of it for me.”

“How so?” His arm tightens around yours.

Remus knows you better than anyone, and how you would say just about anything to avoid sharing your writing, even if it entered the realm of inanity. He enjoyed watching you squirm, word-vomiting a flimsy yet creative excuse on the spot. It was all so silly; you’d end up showing it to him anyway. Even so, Remus wondered what the excuse would be this time.

“If I tell you what it’s about, you’re going to form assumptions and opinions,” you began, weaving your words carefully. “I want you to have an open, unadulterated mind.”

“Isn’t that what reading is about? Confronting your preconceptions against what someone else has written—”

“Nuh uh,” you say petulantly. Perhaps he had a point, but you were too stubborn to admit it.

“Point taken,” Remus crumbles. “We’ll do it your way.” Whatever you want.

“Good,” you bounce. “It really is better that way.”

“If you say so bug.”

You beam. You adore the nicknames he gave you, but this one above all. From any other man, you might scrunch your nose, maybe roll your eyes, but this is Remus. He says it so frequently but so sparingly, so you cherish every time he says it. Always so sweetly, so kindly.

—

Now, you’re on your doorstep, with Remus the step below.

You can help but notice Remus’ eyes briefly flicker down to your lips.

“You should come inside,” your lips twitch up kindly.

Remus’ eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t say anything.

“No?” you ask, a bit wounded.

“Yes, I’d love to.”

“Cool, maybe we can read what I’m working on, but no promises.”.

“Then what was all this business about an open, unadulterated mind, bug?!” He already knows the answer.

“I just like making you crazy, Remus,” you laugh.

“You’re certainly succeeding.”

“Not nice!”

“Nor is intentionally driving your best mate mad. You’re like my personal, portable psychological tormentor.”

“Portable?” you scrunch your eyebrows.

“Quite,” he says, lacing his fingers in-between yours, and then steps beside you, to drag you along. “Come on, let’s get you inside. It’s getting cold!”

—

You live for the way Remus toes the line. You know he fancies you, part of you thinks he’s always had. He lets you get away with murder, even now—you were always stealing off his plate, wearing his clothes, hanging off of him, and sleeping with his friends. You didn’t think of it that way then, but you certainly recognize what you did now. There’s only one way he might’ve allowed it. You were a shitty friend.

You dated James very briefly in your fifth year, but you were never able to achieve the intimacy you and Remus shared. In fact, it was the very source of irreconcilable differences with James, so you resolved to be justfriends. “It’s just better this way,” James had said, and you had to agree. You, the boys, and Lily were the best of friends; you even watched little Harry from time to time.

Later, in your sixth and seventh year, you had an undefined, off-and-on situationship with Sirius. You both had a flare for the dramatic, and quite frankly, Sirius was the inspiration for much of your writing. He’d break it off, or you’d break it off, and you’d sit in your dormitory with smudgy mascara and in yesterday’s uniform as the words would flow out of your quill like a sybil possessed, cursing his smudgy “guy-liner”, as he ironically called it, and his long, dark wavy hair. Sirius rocked it, and he knew it. You hypothesised he was specifically put on this godforsaken Earth to drive you up the wall. He was cryptic, quiet, scheming, but also boisterous and beaming. In many ways, he was hard not to romanticize his contradictory nature. He was certainly a sight to behold. You had so much in common; in fact, you were too similar. Two negatives.

Even so, nobody understands you as well as Remus. You two are simply magnetic.

You both read a tremendous amount. During summers and holidays spent away from Hogwarts, Remus was owling you both Muggle and Wizard books for you to read and mark up. Remus had already marked it up every book he sent, so you’d respond to his margin notes both serious and silly, and send it back.

During the school year, you were glued to his side. You and Remus spent many late nights in the Gryffindor Common Room, cramming for exams or toiling over essays, drinking hot cocoa, quizzing one another or proofreading. You also spent most mornings after the full moon in the Hospital Wing with Remus, because well, you couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone. You were very into Astronomy and, as a witch with a particular love of Astrology, with your special attention the Lunar cycle, you quickly pieced together Remus’ lycanthropy. You came from a very progressive Wizarding family, so you accepted Remus without question. How couldn’t you?

Because you excelled at Divination class, you also often helped Remus interpret his cards when working with Tarot. When Remus was struggling with palmistry, you recall spending one afternoon tracing Remus’ palm in the grass by the Black Lake. You could barely elaborate on your interpretation on his palm lines, stumbling and blushing profusely. You remember his heavy breath with every stroke along the lines of his palm, how his mouth slightly ajar.

You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t like him too, but back then, you would never entertain the thought. You loved being his friend. It was so easy. Words were almost superfluous. Most of the time either of you could glance at the other and you’d know exactly what the other was thinking. You’ve talked so much shit through knowing glances. You could be unapologetically you with him. Why complicate your friendship with a relationship?

—

You unlock the door and slide off your Mary Janes, pull of your coat, and then your rings and your beaded bracelets.

 “It’s like you’re shedding skin,” remarks Remus who already placed his shoes neatly by the door and his coat on the rack. Your bag sits on small table by the door.

“Precisely. Come on, I’ll make us hot cocoa, with extra marshmallows.”

“Sold.”

Walking carefully, you bring two mugs filled to the brim with marshmallows to the coffee table, and then you and Remus both squish onto your very well-loved couch. Remus set a record on the turntable.

“Thanks bug,” Remus said casually before slurping up some marshmallows. He’s particularly handsome today. He is wearing the red, striped jumper you bought him at the charity shop down the road. You’re pleased. He’s always looked much better in red that you were.

Under the low-light, you realize that Remus is nervous. He’s bouncing his leg.

You rest your head in your hand, and you look at Remus some more. You wanted to trace his face the same way you traced his palm on the Black Lake, across the bridge of his nose to his eyes, along his lightly freckled cheeks. You wanted to thumb his pretty, long lashes, run your finger through his mousy brown hair.

“What?” Remus asks sheepishly behind his mug, his lips slightly crusted with chocolate.

“Nothing,” you hum contentedly, the corner of your lips twitching upward.

Remus just stares at you. “Okay, weirdo.”

He almost disregards you, that is, until you let your eyes wander all over his face, searching for some sort of permission. That’s when Remus’ eyes flicker back down your lips, and they stay there.

You lean in so close you can feel his breath tickle your lips.

Remus gently tucks your stray hair back and cradles your face, thumbing the soft skin along your jaw. Even though you know he’s going to kiss you, you can’t help but feel stunned when he connects your lips suddenly.

Despite your stupor, at once, you deepen the kiss, with open lips—sloppy and desperate. All you can think about how he tastes sweet like marshmallows.

Without interruption, Remus effortlessly tugs you onto his lap, and suddenly you’re straddling him, grazing the skin beneath the hem of his sweater.

Annoyed with the hem of his sweater, and well, the presence of his sweater in general, you tug it off, up and over Remus’ stomach, his chest, up his arms, and over his head. You were relentless.

Between kisses, Remus breathes, “You’re so… fucking… crazy.”

—

“Well, bug, that was certainly a way to get out of showing me your piece,” Remus threw himself back onto the couch, you were tucked into his side, eyeliner and mascara smudged.

“That’s a way to put it,” you say, feeling a little lighter. “But it did work.”

You stew in the silence, mentally thanking yourself for lighting a candle on the coffee table, inhaling the rosy, woody, deep red candle you concocted, littered with rose petals, lavender, and hibiscus flower. For attraction. Candle-magic was your specialty.

“This… this isn’t a one-time thing right?” Remus asks suddenly, fingers combing through your hair. “Merlin, it would crush me if it was.”

“You think so little of me,” you say quietly, suddenly feeling small, staring at the flickering flame.

“Oh no, bug you misunderstand me,” says Remus helplessly. “It’s just like I said: I’d be crushed if you didn’t want me the way I want you. I’m all in for you. I’m never quite sure with you.”

“I don’t exactly have the greatest track record…”

“I don’t care about that.”

“You did,” you pipe up.  

“God I sure did,” he laughs. “Can you blame a bloke? All of my mates! You even snogged Peter.”

“He’s a great kisser. Attentive.”

“Blegh,” Remus said, ruffling up his nose, “Not exactly something I want to be hearing.”

Your laughter dies down, and suddenly he’s asking, “…Why not me?”

“I couldn’t have you,” you reasoned plainly. “You were too good for me, too good to me.”

“Well that’s just ridiculous.”

“You think too little of yourself, Lupin.”

“You think too little of yourself, bug,” he echoes.

“Maybe.”

“I think you’re incredible, you know?”

“That I do,” you say boldly. That is, you know he thinks you’re incredible, but Remus seemed satisfied with your answer. (Maybe someone needed to knock your newfound confidence down a peg, but that somebody certainly wouldn’t be Remus.)

“Good.”

You burrow a little further into Remus, content in the warmth he radiated. You could get used to this.

—

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