ccmf02

[ccmf02]

Yet another banger🤷‍♀️

MONEY HONEY

Bruce Wayne x camgirl!reader

tags: AFAB reader, brief age gap mention (reader is in her 20s), Bruce is low-key a little jealous and down bad, nicknames (sweetheart/baby) mutual masturbation, praise kink, webcam use, phone sex,

a/n: the DILF propaganda has gotten to me..

wc: 2.7k | masterlist

Your whole camgirl side gig isn’t exactly something you shout from your rooftops about. But, it keeps your lights on, your ass in a nice apartment, and your feet in Louboutin heels.

You don’t tend to tell your friends what you’re at. Respectfully, that isn’t their issue. Weekly dinner reservations at Nobu and bottles of Dom Perignon should be enough to keep their running mouths occupied.

You have your own rules, you stick by them.

You pick and approve who watches your content, you pick how far you go, grateful that you’re in the position to do so. You don’t meet them in real life.

All you are is a fantasy to them, and you keep it that way.

You’re a pretty girl on a screen with a penchant for men with big bank accounts and more money than they know what to do with.

One of those men just so happens to be Bruce.

He came across you by accident, really. It was a couple of months ago by now.

You didn’t really know him, you didn’t really care. You never saw his face or heard his voice, all you saw was his money. He was always there when you did your regular streams, silent apart from hefty donations and notifications that he’d just ordered sets upon sets of pretty, lacy lingerie to your p.o box.

It’s started to shift recently. More money coming into your account, more matching sets, a new ring light since you’d grumbled under your breath about yours not working properly at one point, flowers.

Fuck, when’s the last time a guy even got you flowers?

He always made sure to outdo your other followers - tips of ten dollars sometimes, a twenty or a twenty five here and there. That’s cute and all, but to him? literal pocket change.

Not good enough in his books, not good enough for a pretty girl like you.

He has no reason to hate it, he’s just as bad as they are. But the green-eyed monster on his shoulder just has to prove he’s better, sending hundreds when he felt like it, just to watch your eyes widen.

Then came the messages.

They were few and far between but felt different than the thirsting, basement-dwelling idiots who usually drooled over your streams.

He kept it classy, always.

Less of the “show me your tits” and more of the “you look gorgeous, the pink lace suits you” followed by an “I’m sending you the blue next”

You like it, more than you’d really want to admit to yourself.

He likes it too. He likes watching your pretty face, your lips curling up into a soft smile when you open up all of his gifts, showing them off on your streams. He doesn’t mind that everyone watching can see them, it doesn’t matter. It matters that he bought those for you and that he’s the one getting his own personal photoshoot later.

You watch notifications pop up on your laptop with a sigh, your inbox flooded with messages, and questions from anything from where you live to why the hell you’re not streaming tonight.

You’re not streaming tonight cause you’re fucking tired, a girl needs her rest.

You’re just gonna take a few photos for your number one fan and call it a day. There’s a bottle of Chardonnay and half a pint of Ben and Jerry's in your freezer just calling your name.

As you fix up your nightgown, reaching over to turn off your laptop, a notification catches your attention.

@BRUCE_W: Hope you got the flowers in one piece, no stream this evening I take it?

You blink, staring at your laptop for a moment.

@CHAMPAGNESWEETHEART: they’re gorgeous, thank you!!

You hesitate for a moment, your nails dragging over your keyboard.

@CHAMPAGNESWEETHEART: I wasn’t planning to, but for you I could ;)

Three little dots come and go at the bottom of your laptop screen, like he’s typing and then pausing once more.

In reality, he’s just trying to get his words together, trying not to come across as weird. He doesn’t really know how to do this kind of stuff. He’s out many women through his mattress in real life, but this whole online thing? fuck no.

@BRUCE_W: is it alright if I call you?

You don’t usually take private calls. They take away both time and money from regular streams you could be doing.

But this is Bruce of all people. He’s solely responsible for the overpriced wine you’re sipping on and the LaPerla set you’re lounging in. You didn’t even know underwear could cost that much..

@CHAMPAGNESWEETHEART: gimme two seconds ;)

That sudden, random burst of confidence has you piling on another layer of mascara for good measure, pushing your tits up a little in reflection of your screen before cringing slightly - he’s just another guy, it doesn’t matter.

@BRUCE_W IS CALLING

You push your laptop down your mattress slightly, pulling your robe open a little more, just so he has some more cleavage to look at since he pays you so good.

You lean over, accepting the call and holding in a breath.

It goes unsaid, the sight of this Bruce guy before you isn’t entirely what you expected.

He’s much hotter, much older than you thought he would be.

It kinda clicks now, the fact that even in your comments he’s had more gentlemanly manners than your other regulars.

Luckily, you like your men like you like your wine, rich and.. slightly older.

Perhaps it’s the salt-and-pepper stubble or just the way they carry themselves, relaxed like they’ve done this all a million times before.

You observe him for a moment longer, noticing the dark room he’s in, his tie loose around his neck as he adjusts his own laptop.

He grips his whiskey glass a little tighter, words escaping him for a moment as he eyes you before offering a curt nod.

“Hey,” He seems a little uncertain at first, taking a drawn-out swig of his whiskey before leaning back in his chair.

“You're new to this I take it?” you offer a small smile into your hand, watching the screen from under your lashes.

“Wow, I thought I was subtle.” Bruce murmurs, setting his glass down for a moment.

He’s cursing himself silently. He’s never had any problem talking to women in his whole life. It’s ridiculous how a pretty girl on his screen has rendered him speechless- you’re what? twenty-something? It’s fucking embarrassing.

He can’t help letting his eyes wander down his laptop screen, shifting his thighs slightly when he sees the set he got you peeking out from under your robe.

“You look gorgeous, the pink set is to your taste, I take it?”

“It’s my favourite so far,” you nod, pushing your robe down your shoulders slightly, just a little bit, just to tease.

He makes a mental note to buy you more, to send them to you in every single colour he can get his hands on. He’s trying not to spiral thinking about it actually, imagining you modelling every single thing he wants to dress you up in.

But now just isn’t the time to fantasise about that stuff, not when he has you on the screen in front of him. Just for him, for once.

“How does this work?” He clears his throat, setting the glass down and trying to ignore the way his slacks feel tighter.

“However you want it to work.”

Your answer has his hands sliding down to rest on his thighs, leaning back in his chair.

You leaving it up to him like that has a way of making his spine tingle, he can tell you’re a little bit tired at least. It’s nice actually, it doesn’t feel like you’re putting on as much of an act.

"Can you talk to me first, for a little bit?" He managed to reply, his eyes taking in the view in front of him.

“Please?”

“Anything you wanna hear about?”

“Not really,” he swallows, his eyes fixed on your cleavage.

“I just like your voice. Is that a strange thing to say?”

You feel your cheeks heating up slightly, shaking your head as you pull your robe open by another little fraction.

“No, not at all.”

You can tell he doesn’t want this to feel like a transaction.

After a few minutes of back and forth, a lot of his initial hesitation has dissipated. You do genuinely seem like a sweet girl. He likes the way you act on your streams anyway, but since he’s technically calling you after hours it feels a lot more intimate, real even.

“Tired?” He rasps softly into his glass, arching a brow when he hears you trailing off slightly, watching you move to lean back against your plush headboard.

“A little.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll try not to keep you up too long, sweetheart.”

You’re not one to really care for pet-names that randos on the internet give you but good God, does that make you feel things.

It has you pressing your thighs together, more than it fucking should.

“I don’t mind.” You murmur, thankful that he isn’t there in real time to notice the way your cheeks heat up.

Seeing your reaction made his eyes soften.. and his cock throb a little, letting out a small sigh as if he were relieved, glad he isn’t bothering you. He didn't realise how on edge he was until you took that weight off of his shoulders.

"Good." Bruce murmurs, his eyes watching your hands fiddling with the sleeve of that robe, his mind wandering.

"Can I ask you to.. take that off?"

“You can ask for anything you want.” You nod, gently twirling your fingers around the tie of your robe, pulling it open.

Your compliance, along with the sight of the soft lace pressed against your skin has him swallowing, his narrowed gaze roaming over every single contour of your body.

"Good girl." He muttered under his breath. Those two words felt almost foreign to say, but he said it anyway, seeing you like this.

You shouldn’t care. It’s just work.

But fuck, does it feel like more than that.

His hands fidgeted on the arms of his chair, resisting the urge to undo his belt, his cock straining in his slacks getting harder to ignore.

Noticing his discomfort you shift slightly on your bed, running your fingers over the lace of your bra.

“I’m not gonna stop you, you know that?”

Bruce's eyes flickered up to the screen, seeing your small smile, your fingers gently playing with the lace. Those words alone were enough to make his hands immediately move to work on his belt, fumbling with it to take it off before popping the button of his slacks, letting out a groan under his breath.

"I was just... trying to be polite."

Watching him makes you bite your tongue slightly, trying to hide the way you press your thighs together again, your eyes locked on his through the screen as you slowly slide your hand down lower, running your thumb over the bow at the front of your underwear.

“I never asked you to be.”

“Fuck, I feel like I buy you dinner first,” His hands quickly went to the opening of his slacks, not wasting time to pull out his hardening length, giving himself one firm stroke.

Your mouth is agape for a split second, staring at your screen with wide eyes.

It’s just work. None of this is real. None of this matters.

But you know what does matter? The fact you’re wet and can’t even hide it under that thin, pastel pink lace.

"Shit." He murmured, trying to keep his eyes on the screen.

His left hand moved from the armrests to grab at his whiskey to down it in one go, taking in the sight in front him.

"Are you wet, sweetheart?"

“Yeah?” Your nod is less confident than you’d like it to be as you run your fingers over the lace again, letting out a shaky breath. You shouldn’t care - this is literally just part of what you do.

"Take them off for me, baby." He panted out, his dick now straining in his boxers so hard it’s almost painful. His other hand gripped onto his thigh, his fingers digging into his legs to ground himself as much as he could.

"Let me see you."

You’re repeating your mantra over and over in your head. You’ve got zero reason to be as turned on as you are, it’s just work.

But your pussy seems to disagree on that one.

With another nod, you hook your fingers into the thin fabric, gently pulling your underwear down your thighs, the sight making Bruce bite his fist to hold back a groan.

He literally can’t take it anymore. He can’t be polite.

“Holy fuck,” He lets out another groan as he takes himself in his hand, spitting into his palm.

Okay, you liked that more than you should’ve.

"You have no idea how... good you look right now." He rasps out, his head tilting back against his chair.

"All... for me, yeah?" His hand on his thigh moved up to his chest, fumbling the top few buttons on his shirt. He needed to feel a little cooler or he’d have a literal heart attack.

“Yeah,” you manage another nod.

“Spread your thighs, baby. Show me how wet she is.”

Well, now it’s your turn to almost have a heart attack, spreading your thighs open as your fingers curl into your bedsheets.

“There she is, good girl” Bruce moaned under his breath, his hand on his cock starting to move faster.

"Pretty girls... like you.." His tongue came out to swipe at his lips, the sight in front of him making him lose his train of thought, reaching a hand up to loosen his tie.

"They deserve to be taken care of, right?”

“Right,” you echo, unable to hold yourself together at this point, going against your usual logic and reaching your hand down, groaning under your breath at how your body betrays you with how embarrassingly wet you are.

Your arm instinctively goes to drape over your eyes, shaking your head as you mumble something incoherent, your fingers rubbing over your clit.

“No no no, look at me,” Bruce chokes out, biting down on his tie to hold back yet another groan.

“Your hands are mine, alright?”

That makes your head fall forward, your back arching at the thought of it.

“Uhuh,”

You don’t care that you’ve never met him, you don’t care that you probably never will, but fuck, the things you’d let him do to you if you ever did.

He bites his tongue for a moment, brows knitting together as he feels himself starting to leak even more, giving his cock another hard pump.

“But my hands are probably bigger than yours, aren’t they?”

That makes you whine under your breath. You know he’s right and now you can’t get that fucking image out of your head - his large hands holding your thighs open, holding your neck maybe, his fingers in your mouth, his fingers against your pussy-

You’re trying not to drool at the thought of it, it’s not working and he can tell exactly what you’re thinking.

He’s thinking the same thing.

“Poor girl, everyone gets off to you but no one to get you off? You just wanna get fucked, don’t you?”

You can’t tell if he’s being condescending or not - but he likely is.. unfortunately, you like that.

“F-fuck,”

Progress, he’s made you lose your composure and swear. Not so classy now, are you?

Watching your back arch and your fingers move faster when he says that has his mouth falling open, sweat clinging to his chest under his open shirt.

He’s been through enough women to know what it looks like when one’s about to cum, but dear god you might just be the prettiest one he’s ever seen.

It makes him lose his shit altogether actually, a dishevelled mess when he sees your thighs shake, too distracted to realise that he isn’t far behind you, groaning under his breath with his mouth agape as he stares at the mess he’s made of his tailored slacks, chest heaving as his own cum drips down his fist, he’s embarrassed, fumbling with his laptop to shut the screen off.

Jesus Christ, he’s Bruce Wayne. Not some 20-something year old. He’s been around the block! He should be able to do better than this!

It’s like you’re blacked out for a good while, regaining a sense of reality with slick dripping down your thighs as you come down from your high, mascara pooling under your eyes as you stare at a notification on your laptop, making you press your legs together again.

@BRUCE_W: I’m serious, I owe you dinner.

He owes you a lot fucking more than that.

a/n: DILF ERA IS COMING SEND ME INSPO IN MY ASKS I BEGGGG!?!!?? I NEED IDEAS (lmk if u want more Bruce idk??) 🙏 (John Constantine I have my eye on you with ominous intent..)

also wtf thank u for 200 followers I love you!!

[ccmf02]

LOVEDRUG

JasonTodd x fem!Reader

tags: AFAB reader, established relationship, drug use, intox (dubcon), dirty talk, dumbification, nicknames (doll, baby) manhandling, spit, praise + degradation and not much plot I fear

a/n: IM NORMAL I SWEAR IM NORMAL! (i scream as they drag me away)

wc: 3.5k | masterlist

“That’s it?” Jason’s eyes narrow as he stares at you measuring out the sedative for your upcoming mission, his arms crossed over his chest watching as you crush it up. In true Jason Todd fashion, he always has to give you his two cents.

“Stay in your lane Jay, I know what I’m doing,” you roll your eyes, leaning over the counter to get your half-empty cup of tea, staring down into it and then back to the little heap of powder.

“That wouldn’t be enough to knock a fucking squirrel out.. let alone a grown man.”

He can’t afford this job going tits up, you need to knock tomorrow’s target out cold.

“What’s a half teaspoon gonna do? Make the bastard a little dizzy?”

“Only one way to find out,” you murmur under your breath, dumping a teaspoon of it into your tea, offering a noncommittal shrug to Jason’s utter dismay.

“Excuse me?”

“For science.” you clarify, tilting the cup in your hand to swirl the mixture around a little.

“Cheers,” you mumble before he can even stop you downing the mixture in one go with a grimace before he can reach over and pry the cup out of your hand.

You set it down, empty on the counter with a soft clink, rubbing a hand over your face.

This just has to take the cake for the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. He’s actually fucking astounded at your level of impulsiveness, disregard for your own health and downright stupidity.

He has a lot of very colourful adjectives he wants to call you right now - he could fill a whole dictionary without even trying.

“Is there something fundamentally fucking wrong with you?”

His eyes are wide, his usual lazy drawl now full of concern, confusion.

With the kind of bullshit you pull, you’re bound to send him to an early grave (again)

“What?” You blink, leaning back against the counter with a sigh.

“Worst case scenario I’ll pass out and you have to carry me to bed. I’ll live! You said it ain’t enough to even knock a squirrel out, right?”

That makes him sputter slightly, running a hand through his messy black hair. That’s unfair, you’re using his words against him.

“M’fine, Jason.” you’re trying to reassure him, stepping away from the counter with your hands raised as if in surrender.

But now that you think about it.. the room really is spinning.. just a little bit.

Okay, you aren’t fine.

Maybe don’t test out sedatives on yourself next time?

“Hey-” Jason caught you a little too easily when you face-planted into his chest, his arms tightening around your waist to keep you upright. He let out a low sigh, a mix of frustration and concern.

“You sure about that being fine?” He sighs, his voice a soft murmur as his eyes scan over you again. “You’re about as steady as a baby deer.”

That makes you giggle, your lips slowly curling upwards.

“..baby deers are cute.”

Seeing the grin on your face, despite your situation, was simultaneously endearing and frustrating.

“You’re implying I’m cute,” your words are starting your slur a little, less stable against him than you were moments ago.

Your grin and the flutter of your lashes cause his eyes to narrow slightly, a sense of dread starting to pool in his stomach. He knows that look, even through the haze of whatever you’re under.

He shakes his head, his hands moving down to your hips with a scowl, trying to keep you steady.

“Nope,” he muttered, his grip on you tightening. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, just—”

Before he could finish, your hand shot up and seized a weak fistful of his shirt, planting your face right into his neck with a dramatic sigh.

“Y’smell nice.”

Jason suppressed another eye roll as he felt your grin against his skin. You’re damn near delirious right now and this was what you chose to focus on?

The feeling of your teeth lightly scraping against his neck caught his attention, a flash of something crossing his eyes.

“Quit it,” he murmured, his fingers under your chin as he lifted your face to meet his gaze again. Your eyes were unfocused, clouded with the effects of the drug.

“M’not even doing anything!”

He doesn’t believe that for a second. It’s a miracle you haven’t tried to climb him yet.

You’re down bad enough for him when you’re in a normal state of mind, but loopy off of your ass? God help him.

“Sure you ain’t.” Jason huffs as he stares down at you, unable to hide the flicker of fondness that crosses his features.

You’re aimlessly mouthing at his neck now, mumbling on and on about how much you love him. He should probably throw you over his shoulder and put you to bed. You clearly need to lie down, you’re off of your head completely.

But he can’t bring himself to.

“You’re a mess,” he murmured, his expression a mix of exasperation and concern - maybe a tiny hint of amusement somewhere in there.

“Nuh-uh,”

Jason couldn’t help the exhale at the sight of you and your attempt at denying the truth. He’s chewing on the insides of his cheeks, trying to hold back the barest hint of a smirk.

Honestly? You do stupid shit all the time, if you feel sick or something.. maybe you’ll learn your lesson for once.

The little bit of drool at the corner of your lips, how you’re shaking a little, the way you’re already starting to look a bit too comfortable in his arms - it’s equal parts adorable and worrying.

But worst of all, it kinda turns him on.

“You really are a mess right now, though..” he leans you back against the counter, one hand staying on your waist to keep you steady. His other hand raised to touch your chin, thumb swiping away the drool at the corner of your mouth, lingering on your bottom lip for a little bit too long.

“Fuckin’ droolin’ all over yourself.”

“You’re mean..” You stare at him for what feels like an eternity in your compromised state, your lips twitching upward into a stupid, shaky grin, leaning further into his hand.

“I’m not mean. Look at you.” He sighs, resting his hand against your flushed cheek.

He feels almost guilty for a split second. He knows you should probably go and sleep this off.

“Try leaning on the counter, yeah?” He lets go of you for a moment, just to check how messed up you really are right now, his hands still hovering around your hips to catch you just in case.

“Right..” you slur under your breath, your knees a little shaky without Jason to hold you.

He tried to ignore the way his stomach coiled at your obedience, at the sight of you looking up at him with those half-lidded, cloudy eyes. You’re trying to prove to him that you’re totally fine - even when you know you’re far from it.

Jason leans closer so can examine your dazed expression, your pupils blown wide like saucers. The effect the drug was having on you even more pronounced now that you were so close. It was hard to ignore the raw desire that was pooling in his gut, the urge to fuck you right then and there.

God, he needs to rein himself in a little bit.

“You still think you’re just fine?” Jason’s mouth hovers over yours, hands finding your hips again, slotting his leg between your thighs.

You’re too out of it to tell if it’s out of concern or if he’s just downright mocking you at this point. All you can do is huff out a small laugh, lashes fluttering.

“M’doin’ great..” You blink slowly, pressed between his body and the cold marble counter, your fingers going to hook into the belt loops of his jeans, trying to grind yourself against his thigh a little harder.

That makes his pants feel tighter than they should, hand moving from your cheek to slide behind your neck, tilting your head around in his firm grip just to see if you’d stop him.

You don’t - you’re letting him just sway your head around with a slurred giggle.

“Dizzy, baby?”

“Uhuhh..” you manage, your head hitting his shoulder with a soft thump, a random giggle leaving you every few seconds until he gives your neck a small squeeze, making you look up at him again.

"Uhuh?" he echoes in a gruff mockery of your slurred words, his mouth a thin line. His hand pushed your skirt up, his fingers grazing over the edge of your panties.

He’s right in front of you but the sedative in your system makes it feel like he’s far away, his wobbly words echoing in your skull paired with the sound of your own heartbeat.

You feel him shift against you, pressing his hips against you firmly. You feel the heat and hardness of his bulge through your skirt hiked-up skirt, leaving no room for imagination as he presses his bulge against the wet patch in your underwear.

Another slurred giggle and your hands are fumbling with his belt, mouthing at his neck since you’re too dazed to tilt your head up and try to actually kiss his mouth.

"Easy there, doll," Jason murmurs as he grabs your wrist, though there was no mistaking the roughness in his voice now as you continued your barrage of messy kisses against his neck.

His fingers press into the soft skin of your thighs as he hoists you up - the action making you squeak slightly as he perches your ass atop the counter.

You seem to forget he’s fully capable of throwing you around sometimes. He makes sure to remind you every now and again.

“..not fair,” You writhe a little against him and he just chuckles at your squeak, his fingers grazing the fabric of your drenched panties. He could feel the heat radiating off you, the dampness staining the soft cotton.

"Not fair?" He taunted, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass for a moment. He pressed his crotch against you, grinding his denim-clad cock against your damp panties, your hips moving out of their own accord to try to press against him too.

What’s not fair is how you think it’s okay to tease him, shameless about it too.

“You’re making a mess of these,” he points out, his voice huskier than usual as he pulls the hem of your underwear taut, releasing it to let the elastic smack against your skin.

You’d normally scoff at that shit and try to get him back for messing with you.

But not right now, it makes your shaky knees fall open actually - teeth pressing into the plush of your bottom lip, drool at the corner of your mouth again.

He can tell you liked that.

Perhaps you’re too out of it to hide what you’re really thinking. You’re usually so composed.

“Slut.” Jason mumbles into your hair, voice deceptively soft.

“..huh?” you slur, managing to frame your head up slightly despite the fact it feels way heavier than it should, lips still in a dumb grin.

“Nothin’. Don’t worry bout it.” he sighs, pressing a small kiss to your forehead, pressing his fingers against your clothed pussy.

“Think you’re too dumb to understand right now, anyway.”

The fact you’re not even questioning what he’s saying, the fact you’re nodding along to everything he says just makes him want to push you a little further.

“M’not dumb..” you frown slightly, your face kinda falling into his hand before he catches your jaw once more.

“You will be.” He applies more pressure with his fingers, circling your clit through the thin fabric, still holding your neck up. You can feel his growing bulge pressing against your thigh, grinding against you hard.

“I mean, that shit you pulled was pretty dumb, wasn’t it?” He grits out, still acting like he’s mad that you got yourself into this state with those drugs.

He isn’t.. not really.

“Little slut like you tellin’ me to stay in my fuckin’ lane.”

“M’sorry..” you slur, barely able to remember why.

He watches your lips curl into an unsure pout, he’s not sure if you’re even able to tell what he’s talking about.

“Sorry, are you?”

Your eyes are getting a little droopy now, grinding yourself against his fingers before the hand that was holding your head smacks your jaw with a small “tsk,” under his breath, the action making you choke out an unintentional whimper.

“Sure you are.” Jason's eyes flickered with a mix of satisfaction and dark desire as he felt your legs spread obediently. His fingers slipped under your panties, his thick fingers wasting no time as they plunge deep into your slick cunt, watching with an almost feral grin as you cry out.

He isn’t even on anything, but he feels just as fucked up as you are right now.

"Jesus," he murmured, his voice rough. "You’re fucking dripping all over my fingers," his thumb soon found your clit, stroking it in quick, rough circles. He’s relentless.

You choke out a small whine and nod barely, his words bouncing from one ear to the other before sinking into your empty skull.

You’re just nodding along to everything that comes out of his mouth. He could say absolutely anything to you right now and you’d take it - with a giggly nod, nonetheless.

Jason's fingers easily pushed past your wet folds, sliding into your tight heat with an ease that left no question of how badly you wanted this.

You can't even form a proper thought, your mind consumed by the overwhelming sensation.

He catches your jaw again before your face hits his shoulder, letting out a small “tsk,”

You’re not allowed to hide from him right now. No way in hell.

You whine under your breath as he pulls his hand out from under your panties, smirking to himself at how much of a mess you’ve made on his fingers.

Jason grins at your immediate pout, it’s like he’s mocking you silently, one hand still holding your face up, the other working to free his strained cock from the confines of his pants.

"You want this, doll?" He leans closer, lightly grinding his leaking top against your clit, his hooded eyes not leaving you for one second,

"You want me to fuck you dumber than you already are?"

“..yeah..” your eyes are glassy, your grin lopsided, hips stuttering to try and get him inside you already, you’re truly not in the state for his stupid teasing.

He’d normally take his time with you, but he can’t right now - entering you in one hard thrust, roughly pushing his thumb into your mouth at the same time.

Jason let out a groan as he felt your needy little pussy clenching around him, his thumb pressing down against your tongue - forcing you to meet his eyes since he knows you can’t even manage something as simple as that on your own.

He’s perfectly content to do all the work actually, he’s not gonna miss this opportunity for the whole fucking world.

"Fuuuck," he hissed, his head falling forward as he started to fill you up, almost going cross-eyed at how eager you are, even if you’re too dumbed down to realise it.

He’s borderline obsessed with how your thighs shake on either side of his hips, the fact he has to actually lift your legs to wrap them around his hips cause you’re just too fucked up to do it makes him almost cum on the spot.

“Jay-“ All you can do is whine around his thumb, drooling down his wrist, shiny in the dimly lit space.

You can’t think - you can’t tell left from right and you don’t even need to, your heels digging into his lower back when his large hand comes down in a firm slap against your ass - then another.

"You like being slapped around like a little bitch sometimes, don’t you?"

Each thrust is rougher, harder than the last, his mouth grazing against your neck as his hands explore your body. His grip on your hip is tight, his movements growing more urgent as the pleasure builds between you.

“Jasonnn..“ His name is the only thing that falls from your lips, a mix of plea and curse, moaned out in a desperate, mewling wail.

The sight of you looking up at him with that hazy, submissive expression made his hips jerk involuntarily, driving into you deeper.

Jason's hand moved down from your face, pulling his thumb from your mouth, finding your clit and started thumbing it in hard, rough circles.

"Look at that," he groaned, his movements growing rougher still, "cockdrunk and slurring your words. Is it the drug or did it always take this little to turn you into a needy slut?"

“..jus’ you-“ you manage to whine, your hips stuttering desperately against his.

“Just me, yeah?” Jason grins at your eager nod, his hold on your hip becoming almost painful. His pace quickened, his thrusts deep and hard, making you moan and writhe in his arms.

His strokes were deep and hard, each one punctuated by a sharp slap against your ass.

"You're just a little pain slut, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice low and rough. "You love it when things get a bit rough, huh?"

“Jay-“ You whine and nod faintly, once more, and your forehead hits his shoulder. He’s having none of it, pulling at your hair so you look at him again.

The plea of his name makes him smile actually, almost feral as he pulls back before slamming his cock inside you again.

“You still know who’s fucking you then? Maybe there is something left in that skull of yours.”

“..my head hurts,” you’re panting, your thighs still trembling either side of his hips.

“Bet it does, need me to think for you, huh?” He’s almost cooing now, pressing his lips to yours to muffle your little whines.

All you can do is nod faintly, your mouth falling open against his. It’s like you’re trying to kiss him but just can’t seem to manage right now.

“You tryna kiss me, huh? Too dumb to even do that?” There’s that smile of his again, it’s kind of sinister - almost mocking as his thumb presses against your clit to watch your mouth fall open in a shaky plea.

He sees an opportunity and he takes it, his lips hovering over yours. But no, he makes no move to kiss you

��Huh-“ You don’t even realise what he’s at until you feel a glob of his spit land on your tongue, your back arching against him.

You swallow.

What’s worse is you can’t even hide the fact that you like it, not when he can feel your cunt squeezing him even tighter.

“Good girl,” his free hand moves to grab at your tits through your shirt his fingers digging into the soft flesh through the fabric as he finally kisses you.

"You're a mess, baby," he sneers against your lips, his words punctuated with each thrust of his hips, stretching you open on his leaking cock, rubbing at your clit even harder.

"Look at you, taking my dick so good, even when you can’t think, y’gonna cum for me doll?”

Trick question.

You’re not sure if it’s the spit or the way he’s talking or the way he’s slamming his hips but you know you’re going to cum, hard.

You’re barely able to verbalise it, your vision blacking out as you cling onto him, legs all shaky and twitchy when you feel him dripping down your leg, hiding your face in his neck with little sobs.

Your eyes flutter open upon regaining consciousness, the soft spray of the shower filling your ears, droplets clinging to your skin as large hands run up and down your back, working through the knots in your muscles.

“There’s my girl, look who’s back,” Jason murmurs into your neck, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder.

You offer a tired nod as you tilt your head back against him, one of his hands resting atop your hip to keep you steady - just in case.

You blink, the distinct smell of his body wash fills the small space between your bodies in the shower - clinging to your skin.

Well, that definitely isn’t your strawberry sundae shower foam, is it?

“I’m gonna smell like a man.” You yawn softly, your head falling forward a little, staring down at the soapy suds going down the drain.

Jason just huffs against the back of your neck, pressing a little kiss behind your ear.

“You were slurring on about how nice I smell earlier, shuddup.”

a/n: mama needs a cigarette after this one.. goodnight.

thank u for reading!!

[ccmf02]

Great day to be literate and alive👍

ONE OF YOUR GIRLS (2)

camboy!DickGrayson x fem!Reader

tags: AFAB reader, PiV (unprotected..), recording/livestream, exhibitionism, nicknames (angel/baby), dirty talk, light choking, pussy slapping, dacryphilia, (this is just straight up gooning)

a/n: I heard the people wanted a part 2.. (Insert Ayesha Erotica lyrics)

wc: 2.6K | Part 1 | Masterlist

Okay, your roommate is secretly a cam-boy. That’s like a totally normal part of every college experience, yeah?

One week. For one week straight you’ve been locked up in your room for as many hours as physically possible. You leave to go to class as early as you can in the mornings, hiding away from Dick as much as you can.

The fact you’re depriving yourself of seeing his gorgeous face everyday is like a crime in itself.

It makes you seem like more of a loser than you actually are. He probably thinks you’re some kind of hermit, or that you hate him.

The thought of that makes you sick.

Though, you’re not really doing anything to get yourself out of this situation.. like at all.

You’ve still been ogling him whenever you catch a glimpse of him. You’ve still been texting him in secret. Boo, you whore.

You just haven’t talked to him. Like, at all.

And how could you even go about doing that?

You can’t just look him straight in the eyes and tell him it’s him you dream about, it’s his cams you’ve been watching, it’s his name you’ve been panting under your breath every single fucking night, praying to every deity that he can’t hear you.

Some weird, fucked up ans twisted, perverted little part of you kinda wishes that he’d find out.

You’re overworked and underfucked.

You imagine what it would be like if he just walked in, what would he say? Would he be mad? Or would he just be too pent up over the fact you’ve been leading him on, taking matters into his own hands and bending you over and-

“Hey,”

You’re snapped out of your internal ramble by his voice, tilting your head up from your cup of tea, now clutched tightly in your hand.

You thought he was going out tonight.

“You been hiding from me or something?”

“Hiding? No that’s stupid, why would I? I totally have like zero reason to do that-” You mumble, sputtering slightly on your tea, letting out an awkward huff.

Wow, smooth.

“Kay, I’m just sayin’ I don’t bite.” He chuckles under his breath as he leans back against the kitchen counter, his hands tucked into his pockets.

See, you’d have no problem if he did bite. You also have no problem with the view in front of you at the moment but you’re trying to have an ounce of decorum, nodding as you take another sip of your tea.

Definitely not eyeing up his happy trail.

Fuck, it’s way better in real life.

“Anyway,” He yawns, pushing himself off of the counter.

“M’gonna head to bed, see ya.” Dick murmurs, brushing past you as he heads to his room, his eyes narrowing slightly as his focus locks on your necklace for a moment.

Where has he seen that Angel charm before?

@BLUUDHAVEN: can I call u? ;)

@BLUUDHAVEN: I’m gonna be on cam tonight anyway if you’re too tired!!

He’s so sweet to the point you actually want to sob or something. You don’t trust yourself to reply. Not with only a thin wall between your two bedrooms.

@BLUUDHAVEN HAS STARTED A STREAM

You slam your laptop shut, arms crossed over your chest as you stare at the ceiling. You feel like a fucking creep, again. It’s not even intentional!

With a sigh, you decide to get a drink, silently cursing yourself for the mess you’ve gotten yourself into, your socked feet gently padding against the linoleum floor on the way to the kitchen. You need a glass of water and a damn bullet to the head or something.

The soft glow of blue LEDs from his bedroom door makes you pause.

His door is also more than slightly ajar, how fucking convenient.

You hesitate, feeling like a total weirdo as you stand in the hallway, fidgeting with the charms on your necklace.

One look won’t hurt, right?

He’s leaned back in his chair, lazily running his thumb over the hem of his t-shirt, his head tilted to the side as he watches the chat start to spam through a half-lidded gaze, letting out a small huff.

His setup catches your attention.

So he wasn’t joking about this full-on camboy thing then? Last week was just on his laptop but this time he’s got a mic and everything.

Oh, and one more thing catches your attention.

The black mask covering his eyes.

So this is his routine?

You swallow, standing in his doorway like a total fucking creep, your fingers subconsciously curling into the fabric of your shorts.

He can’t see you, thank god.

He’s too busy talking to the stream, letting out small laughs at all the thirsty shit they’re saying, slowly pulling off his shirt.

He’s a showman at heart, clearly. Every move he makes is practised to tease, lazily pulling at the drawstring of his sweatpants.

It makes you remember that night you first video called him, shifting your legs slightly as you stand there, the heat between your legs all too familiar.

You’re trying not to drool like an idiot, okay?

He’s hot. You fucking know he’s hot, and by the looks of it, he knows it too.

You’re not listening to what he’s yapping into his mic, you don’t care. Your dumbstruck gaze is on his hands and how they slowly move down his body.

200 WATCHING

Biting your lip, you lean closer to the doorframe, pressing your thighs together even harder, clutching the frame and-

- - CREAKKK - -

Your heart stops.

No - no - no - no fuck, no.

Your mouth is agape, your feet don’t move, like you’re stuck in that doorframe.

It’s just silence, dead fucking silence.

Until you hear a small huff come from him in his desk chair, gripping the fabric of his sweatpants a little tighter.

The mask hides his eyes, but you can feel his gaze burning through you, watching your form in his monitor's reflection.

278 WATCHING

“Nice of you to join us, Angel.”

You open your mouth to speak again, but you’re unable to force a single word out, only offering a meek, panicked shake of your head.

“No?” He coos, hooking his thumb into his boxers as he leans back in his chair, tilting his head slightly to look at you.

“You’re telling me that wasn’t you?”

305 WATCHING

Every part of you is screaming internally, just begging you to turn around and run out of that room, hide under your bed and act like this never happened.

But ultimately, your throbbing cunt between your legs wins, resulting in a shaky step into his room.

“You thought I wouldn’t find out, then?” He tilts his head back, rolling the chair slightly so he’s closer to you, now shamelessly man-spreading with his cock twitching in his sweats.

“Didn’t mean to.” You offer, trying to act like this is all well and normal but your hardened nipples under your shirt give you away.

340 WATCHING

“Didn’t mean to?”

His eyes drift down to your chest for a moment, his legs moving further apart as he pulls you by the wrist to stand between his thighs, reaching a hand up to inspect the Angel wings on your necklace, and then up to your face, stroking his thumb over your flushed cheek.

“Didn’t mean to what? Lie to me for a month straight? Or watch me like a little creep?” He’s almost cooing, you’re trying to hate it but you can’t bring yourself to, not when he’s drumming his fingers against the top of your shorts, just to watch you press your thighs together harder.

You have half a mind to crawl under that desk to apologise, only to see if he’d turn that stupid stream off and fuck you as he promised repeatedly over text.

“Look, if you’re mad at me or something just turn that off and-“

413 WATCHING

“Nah,” he cuts in, hands grasping your hips to pull you back against him, one hand under your thighs to force you to sit down on his lap, resting his chin on your shoulder as his hands slide up your shirt, mouthing at your neck.

“Now why would I turn this off?”

You’re fucked.

Physically, mentally, in any way possible, you just are.

“Shit,” You’re not sure if he means to pant as he feels how fucking wet you are, throbbing around him with every upward jerk of his hips.

He’s got your thighs spread open, arm locked around your torso, you literally cannot bring yourself to move, your head falling forward with a choked-out whine.

“No, no,”

You’re barely able to recognise his voice anymore with how wrecked he is, his hand sliding up to your neck to tilt your head back up.

“Nuh-uh. You keep your eyes on that camera, Angel.” He murmurs, into your shoulder, giving your neck a small squeeze, your pulse slamming under his palm.

450 WATCHING

“Don’t you look away.” He instructs, and it’s not a suggestion, punctuated by another upward thrust of his hips, clutching the little Angel charm around your neck tighter.

“C’mon, you’re my pretty girl.”

That sounds better than it should.

You know you’re not. You know that this is literally just a job to him, he’s still wearing that stupid fucking mask over his eyes, and none of this is real.

You’re a glorified notch in his belt, another one of his girls, but he’s fucking you like you could actually mean something.

“Shut up-” You pant though it's half-hearted, and the both of you know it, his grip on you tightening as he fucks you harder, his cock throbbing inside you.

“Don’t act like you give a fuck,” You mutter, trying to hold on to some semblance of restraint, but your voice cracks, it’s all happening too fast.

Despite incessantly pestering you to do so, he hasn’t looked up at that screen. Not once.

All he can do is offer a shaky laugh, his fingers sliding to your clit, rubbing quick, messy circles that make your head spin.

“I don’t give a fuck? That’s what you think?” He’s biting into your shoulder, his fingers giving your pussy a firm slap before resuming their circling.

Your chest is heaving, biting hard into your hand to muffle your cries, shame and embarrassment as high as your arousal that you’re letting him do this, splitting your cunt open on his stupid fucking livestream, your thighs quivering as you try to close them at least a little bit, just to make yourself feel better about this.

It’s no use, his hands slide down to pry your legs back open, lifting you up and then slamming you back down like you’re one of those sex toys he usually does his live streams with.

Again, another wet smack.

“Shh,” He’s pressing his lips to the back of your neck, as if he’s soothing you. Your un-shed tears cling to your bottom lashes as shaky pants fall from your parted lips. You’re not entirely sure why, maybe it’s the embarrassment, maybe it’s the same, maybe it’s the fact he’s fucking you real hard and you don’t want any of it to stop.

You knew his cock would be good in real life but fuck, nothing could’ve actually prepared you for this.

You’re shaking your head, trying to hide your face in your hand but he stops you the second he sees you try, lacing his fingers with yours.

“C’mon, don’t-“ he rasps,

“Don’t you fucking hide from me, Angel.”

No hiding your face, no hiding your sounds, no more hiding in your room behind your laptop.

You stare at the screen, it’s like your heart stops.

600 WATCHING

“You’re still an attention whore,” you grit out, back arching against him.

“Me?” He has the gall to let out a breathless laugh, slamming you down against him harder, his half-lidded eyes drifting down to the number of viewers.

630 WATCHING

“Your slutty cunt seems to like it as much as I do.”

Unfortunately, that makes you throb around him to your own utter dismay.

“Shut up,” Your head is falling back against his shoulder, pulling your hand free from his grasp to try to yank on his hair or something, anything to get your own back.

But that just results in the mask falling from his eyes, his hand moving to give your sobbing pussy another smack.

“Fuck, you’re wet.”

He doesn’t even care that they can see his face anymore, he’s not thinking. Neither are you.

770 WATCHING

He may be annoying, arrogant, all those lovely words that you so dearly called him last time.

But unfortunately, he’s right.

He’s grabbing at your tits through your shirt, mouthing at your shoulder, your neck, anywhere his mouth can reach, his black hair a mess and clinging to his face.

820 WATCHING

“Fucking knew it, baby,” Dick pants as he gives your pussy another smack, it’s lighter though, considering his hands are so fucking shaky, his cock so deep you swear you can feel it in your throat.

“This pretty pussy really does have a humiliation kink.”

It’s all coming back to him now, all those nights he spent with his hand desperately pumping his cock, acting like it was you, oblivious to the fact you were a paper thin wall away from him all along.

He’s grinning, fucking delirious as you cry out, your nails digging into his forearm, leaving little red marks on his tanned skin.

You’re spaced out, babbling. You’re tilting your head to the side like you’re trying to kiss him but you’re unable to move enough to crane your head up properly.

Fuck, you’re so much hotter in real life. He doesn’t know why he’s done all these streams alone, all these nights alone when you would’ve been there with him all along.

You’re cumming, he knows you are.

But he doesn’t let up, arms firmly wrapped around your waist, not letting you move away from him, not for one second.

“C’mon Angel, don’t cry.” his hand moves to the back of your head, staring down at you through his dark lashes, the flush on your face and the tears down your cheeks making him whine like a whore, bumping his forehead against you in a haphazard attempt of locking your lips together.

And when he does manage to kiss you, he fucking cums on the spot, his shaky hand gripping your neck as his hips stutter, the way he whines out your name is nothing short of desperate.

His hips snap up, thrusting harder into you than you knew possible, making you whine as his cock pulses, thick and twitching deep in your pussy. It all floods you, ropes of his cum coating your insides, dripping around him buried inside you.

His own head falls forward, panting into your shoulder with shaky, sloppy little kisses. He’s rambling, you can barely make out what he’s saying. It’s something about how pretty you are, how good you take him.

1K WATCHING

More than he’s ever had on one stream.

“Fuck, Angel,”

He fumbles to disconnect the camera, not giving a fuck as it hits the carpet, his body as shaky as yours.

“I think-“

He’s panting, hands running over where his fingers left harsh indents moments ago, trying to soothe them.

He’s still all shaky, disheveled as me presses a chaste kiss to your temple.

“I think they like you more than me.”

a/n: RAAGGAHAGAHAHAHDHHDHRGHERRRR

thank you for reading!!

I’ll see myself out.

[ccmf02]

ONE OF YOUR GIRLS

camboy!DickGrayson x fem!reader

tags: AFAB reader, only a HINT of plot, mutual masturbation, phone sex, webcam use, praise kink, mild degradation, nicknames (angel/baby), college AU

a/n: GULP

wc: 3k | Masterlist

DESPERATE SLUTS IN YOUR AREA - the pop-up ads on your laptop are mocking you, you swear.

Girl you know there are desperate sluts in your area, you own a mirror.

Well.. It’s somewhere down the bottom of a moving box, tossed in a van alone with basically everything you own and all hopes of entertaining yourself.

Okay, well you could get started on the pile of college assignments you’re yet to start and the content you need to familiarise yourself with.

But be serious, you’d rather familiarise yourself with some guy to bang you right about now - but we can’t all get what we want, can we?

Your roommate isn’t even moving in until tomorrow, so that’s a plus at least. You’ve got the dorm room yourself.

It’s how you ended up scrolling for the last half hour, your underwear tugged halfway down your thighs as your half lidded eyes scan the glow of the laptop screen before you.

You gave up on the hub a long time ago, if you wanna get off to something, you’d honestly rather be sure it’s at least ethical, yknow?

To your dismay, every author you follow on tumblr hasn’t updated in a solid week, Twitter is a fucking minefield for hell knows what and you swear you’d end up arguing with someone in a thread before you’d find something you’d actually enjoy.

You rub some mascara out of your eyes, your lashes fluttering open slightly. You can only pray you don’t look like a raccoon right now, just in case your wishes did in fact come true and some guy is just gonna magically appear between your legs to actually fuck you.

You’re not sure why, but eventually you find a link that catches your eye.

It’s one of those cam-chat sites, the ones that claim to match you with people within a couple mile radius of you.

You’re hesitant at first, but they’re not asking you for your credit card information, so honestly, What the fuck have you got to lose?

It’s seen better days definitely, by the looks of things it probably hasn’t been updated since like 2007.

But hey, fuck it. Even if it’s literally just some bot or a dude at a call center, at least you won’t feel as bad. It’s not like you’ll ever meet this stranger in real life anyway, you literally have nothing to lose but an ounce or two of your dignity and self respect.

Eh, you’ve done worse.

ENTER USERNAME

Okay, no point using your name. You’d swear you’d have a heart attack if someone you knew somehow found this shit.

You pause for a second, glancing around for inspiration, your room key on your nightstand, dorm 444.

@444ANGEL

Cliche, you’ll live.

ENTER RANDOM CHAT

Straight to the point, alright.

MATCHED WITH - @BLUUDHAVEN

Desperate sluts in Blüdhaven too apparently? Ain't too far - Ain't too close either though. See you could run into him downtown, but you don't leave your dorm, be serious.

@BLUUDHAVEN: u up?

You blink, staring at your screen. What the fuck is this, Snapchat?

@BLUUDHAVEN: that was awful I’m sorry :p

That stupid little face at the end earns a small huff, nice to know someone still respects the art of emoticons over emojis in the big 25.

@444ANGEL: so.. u come here often?

Girl lock in. This is a porn site, not a bar.

@BLUUDHAVEN: No, actually :)

@BLUUDHAVEN: I do cams sometimes but I’ll be honest I’m literally just here to jerk off :3

“Huh..” you mutter to yourself, at least he’s got a sense of humour?

@444ANGEL: so you’re a slut by trade?

@BLUUDHAVEN: Not by trade, but at heart

@444ANGEL: so how does this work.. are you gonna like whip it out or..

@BLUUDHAVEN: first time I take it? Might be easier on webcam? :p

Okay, logical. You’ll have your hands free!

You’re hesitant for a moment, staring at your laptop. Okay, he doesn’t need to see your face, right? You’re just gonna chat to him for a while.. see where it goes?

You’re fiddling with the Angel wing on your necklace, thinking. Shifting slightly, you sit back against your headboard, your laptop on the mattress.

JOIN WEBCAM

You’re met with him shoving a stack of books off of his desk, one of them eerily similar to the sociology text book you’ve got shoved in a moving box, somewhere between your vibrator and your favourite sweater.

But thats not important right now!

“Hey, Angel.” He says all too quickly, running his fingers through his tousled black hair.

“Who-“ Your eyebrows furrow slightly.

“Your username,” he smiles softly, knowingly, reclining in his desk chair.

Fuck, hes definitely noticed how much of a noob you are now now.

And you’ve noticed he’s definitely shirtless. Zoo-wee-mama! You’ve also noticed some little blue tattoo at the base of his neck. But that’s not here nor there, you know what’s there? His happy trail.

In your defence his hand is right there, thumb hooked in his grey sweats. Where else you meant to look?

“Second thoughts?”

You blink, his words snapping you out of your happy daze.

“Huh? No, no thoughts. Wait, I mean-“

“It’s okay to be nervous, we can take it chill,” he reassures you, never loosing that grin.

“Chill yeah, chill,” sister downstairs is anything but chill she was very warm in fact.

“Do you want to get more comfortable maybe?”

“Oh, I’ve actually got this really fluffy blanket-“

“I meant take your clothes off, baby,” he looks directly into his webcam, clearly amused as he drums his fingers against his waistband.

You swallow, pressing your thighs together.

Are you seriously about to take your clothes off for a really cute stranger? Yeah, you are.

You can only pray you’re wearing one of your better, slightly cuter bras tonight.

Your fingers curl into the thin fabric of your shirt, bunching the white cotton up and pulling it over your head, hitting the wooden floor with a soft thump.

“Fuck,” He mumbles under his breath, his hands clenching on his knees as he shifts his hips, the grey sweatpants doing little to hide the outline.

You take that as a good reaction, chewing on the insides of your cheeks as you lean back against your headboard.

“Nervous?” He prompts, his hand palming himself over his boxers.

“A little?” You offer a shaky sigh, grateful that he can’t see the embarrassing blush on your face.

“I’ll talk you through it.”

That’s the second time a guy you’ve never fucking met in your whole life has made you irrationally flustered. Fuck, you need to touch grass.

Or yourself, whatever works.

“Sounds good,” you laugh slightly, letting your hand trail along your cleavage, fiddling with the lace.

He nods, “Good.” Ever so subtly, you see his hand start to move, gently trailing his fingers along his bulge.

“Do you want to start slow, trace your nipples for me baby? Can you do that for me Angel?”

You blink for a moment, your teeth pressing into your bottom lip. You find yourself listening to him, offering a small nod as your hand drifts down to lightly trace over the fabric.

“Yeah?” He murmurs, his hips shifting lightly, his fingers tugging at the drawstrings of his sweatpants.

You nod, once again grateful he can’t see your face as your hand moves down lower between your ribcage, pausing for a moment once you get to your stomach, your hand clenching slightly.

He sees your hesitation, tilting his head back slightly as he watches the screen through his dark lashes.

“You okay to keep going?”

He can just barely see you nod again, and his hand brings out his pulls his length from his sweatpants.

“Yeah? Good fucking girl,”

And that’s all you needed to slip your hand beneath the cotton of your panties. “Fucking shit,” all that pent up tension of from all night (morning?), and the general sight of this Blüdhaven guy, making you head lol back against your headboard.

“Christ you sound gorgeous, let me hear you Angel? Please?”

Your heads spinning, you’ve never had to think about how you sound, never thought of the possibility that someone could ever hear you.

But here you are, and he’s all too eager.

With a muttered “fuck,” you nod again, spreading your thighs apart to offer him a better view, your fingers moving in slow circles over your clit under the fabric.

He’s watching you. His gaze fixed on his screen like he’s mesmerised by you, watching your lips part, your lashes flutter, everything about you. You’re not real, no way you are. You’re too fucking pretty and he’s never even met you.

His cock twitches in his hand, and he groans shakily. “So fucking pretty”

You blush, dipping your finger lowers before circling back up. “not so bad yourself,” you try to sound some way put together and he chuckles at your efforts.

“You have me so worked up Angel, and I’ve only seen your pretty tits, Christ. Take off your panties baby, let me see what you like.”

You’re astonished that you don’t even hesitate to use your other hand to slide down the fabric, kicking it to your ankles.

“Fuck baby you look so sweet, look at your screen for me, see how pretty your little cunt is,” your eyes immediately go to the little square in the corner, you’re completely soaked.

“Ain’t that a pretty sight huh baby?”

You flush red at the praise, managing to get a meek “mhm,” out.

“You’re so fucking wet, shit she’s practically glistening for me. So wet over a guy you’ve never met, hmm?”

Fuck, you’re embarrassed now. It’s bad enough that you’ve already had to resort to a fucking chat site, but now you’re getting off on the fact that he’s a total stranger?

“You’re making fun of me,”

“No,” a grin, “It’s cute,”

That has you losing whatever train of thought you had, your head slumping forward for a split second, giving him a glimpse of your hair covering your face before you catch yourself again.

“You pull this shit with all of your girls?”

It’s a weak rebuttal, but you’re not thinking about that, you’re not thinking at all.

“And guys,” he says sliding his thumb along his slit, collecting the bead of pre cum there and dragging it south. His eyes remain on his screen at all times, looking at you through his dark lashes.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“Articulate,” he cocks his head.

“Shut up and stroke your shit.”

“Well I think we both know how aware you are that I’m stroking my shit, Angel,” his stupid little smirk, a shiver running along your spine.

He’s so fucking infuriating that you have the urge to hop through the screen and choke him, or fuck him - or both.

But that’s a bold claim considering the fact you’re drooling over a stranger, acting like his hands are yours. Wishing for a lot more than his hands.

“Shocked you have customers, your bedside manner isn’t really up to par,” you pause in the middle to let out a contradictory whine.

“Well your pretty pussy seems to be all for a little humiliation don’t think? Fuck I wish I could fuck her right now,” this pussy pronoun using bastard needs to calm down with all these reads.

“Shut up,” your eyes roll back, willing yourself to not cum yet.

“C’mon you can’t tell me you don’t wish I was there with you huh? Touching you, licking you, pounding into your sweet little hole hm?” His pace is getting faster and his palm swirls over his tip on each stroke.

“Shut the fuck up,” she gasps eyes screwed shut, “self involved prick,”

“Oh fuck baby, you talk to me so sweetly, what else am I?” His eyes are locked on the screen, your hand moving, your mouth letting out those desperate, divine sounds.

“Annoying, and arrogant and so fucking hot,” you hope the almost shout you let out is enough to distract him from what you’ve said.

“What was the last one Angel? C’mon let me hear that again,”

“So fucking desperate for someone to tell you you’re hot, huh? That why you whore yourself out on a cam website huh? You’re that thirsty for attention,”

In that moment, it isn’t clear what’s weaker, your dorms internet connection or his self control.

His mouth is agape, sweat-slicked hair clinging to his forehead with his lashes fluttering, fucking himself into his fist like he’s some kind of porn-star (he ain’t far off).

Watching him only makes you go harder, your hips shaky as you watch his teeth press into his lip, unable to hide the fucking whines he’s letting out if he tried, acting like the cum starting to drip down his knuckles isn’t there, pretending he’s fucking you and not his hand like some loser.

“Fuck, Angel,”

He’s panting, his back arching off of his desk chair as his free hand goes to desperate grip the table, trying to control himself, to last at least another second,

“C’mon, Angel, fuck..”

His words aren’t more than a broken whine, much like yours as your thighs start to tremble, forgetting about your laptop on your bed for a moment.

He doesn’t stop, he can’t. Not until he knows you’re there too, not until he knows for sure that you’re wishing he was there beside you.

“Please, fuck, please cum with me.”

Your resolve snaps, you oblige him. Head thrown back, eyes screwed shut and a noise complaint from your neighbours in all directions.

You momentarily black out you think, but when you come back that Blüdhaven guy is leaning back against his chair, head rolled back. He looks like he been put through the tumble dryer a good four times, but looking at the mess in his hands you’d think he had a pretty good time.

“Holy shit,” holy shit, you just had perhaps one of the most phenomenal orgasms of your life, with some guy on the internet and your fingers.

“Hmm,” he practically moans, still in a daze with his head thrown back, this angle making that little tattoo at the base of his neck more visible.

“You alive over there?” You manage to croak out, your heart still slamming in your chest as you let your hand fall by your side, almost wincing at the loss of touch.

“Uh-huh,” His Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat, staring down at his hand and then back up at his screen, a broken grumble leaving him as he nods.

You’re not real, you genuinely have to be some kind of Angel. He’s never met anyone able to put him into such a state.

Well, he hasn’t met you either.

“Angel?” He mumbles breathlessly, praying that the dim light is enough to hide the flush of his cheeks.

“Yeah?”

“Leave me your number?”

He swallows,

“Please?”

——————————— ☆ ———————————

“Shit,” you groan into your hand at the sound of knocking on your dorm room door, rubbing a hand over your face.

It’s probably one of those stupid campus committee things going around. You’re not bothered to open the door, they can come back later for all you care.

You can’t get the guy from last night out of your head. You gave him your number under the premise of living on the edge for once in your life. You don’t expect him to call you, you don’t expect to see him like.. ever.

He does this like professionally, you’re just one of his girls - not even.

Another knock to the door disturbs your peace again, the sound of shoes shuffling outside your door.

“Give me a minute!”

You pull on a tank top, fixing your hair in an attempt to look somewhat decent when you inevitably have to open the door and tell these early birds to fuck right off.

You stumble out of your bedroom with a grumble, your socked feet thumping lightly against the creaky flooring.

“Hey, I’m not interest-“

Fuck.

There he is in the fucking flesh, standing at your door with a sheepish smile and a moving box.

You blink, digging your fingers into your palm to snap yourself out of whatever fucked up sex dream you’re having right now, staring at the guy standing in your doorway.

“Hey, this is room 444 yeah? I just got assigned here and I’m fucking lost.” He lets out a soft chuckle, rooting around in his pockets in efforts to show you his own key.

“Yes?” You murmur, the shakiness in your tone doing little to hide how aghast you are.

You have to double check, glancing over him like he’s got three fucking heads. He’s got the messy black hair, the boyish grin, that fucking tattoo at the base of his neck.

“Hey, you alright?”

His words snap you out of it, your nails digging into the doorframe like you’re about to rip the entire thing from its hinges.

“Yeah?”

You’re met with a slightly awkward nod, a far cry from whatever the fuck happened last night.

“Okay, good. I’m sorry I’m early, the train from Blüdhaven is a whole mess.”

You tilt your head, staring at him.

“Shit, my bad. Uhm, name’s Dick, Dick Grayson.” He offers, one hand fumbling to keep the box he has upright, the other now extended towards you.

Those same hands you wish were the ones fucking you last night, *fuck*, you need to lie down.

“Hey,”

Your words are far fucking shakier than you’d like, but how are you supposed to react.

He smiles, stepping inside your *now shared* form, glancing around and then at your slightly dishevelled form, offering another one of those little smiles that genuinely make you want to curl up and die on the spot.

“Rough night?”

He ain’t got a fucking clue.

“No, I uh, I couldn’t sleep, I guess.”

He nods, setting his box down on the coffee table, his eyes roaming over you for a moment more.

“Nice necklace.”

“Hm?” You blink.

“The Angel thingy, it’s cute.”

a/n: ITS TONGUE IN CHEEK DANIELLE!!

thank u @ccmf02 for proofreading and everything!!

Considering locking in with a pt 2 if the people wish..

Thank you for reading!!

I have motivation so reqs/asks are open

[ccmf02]

all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

-

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

-

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

-

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

-

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

-

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

-

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

-

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them. 

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

-

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

-

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed :)

taglist:

@laurenmckiernan-blog @mooneyswife @meyaareads @buffkittenmuscles @emielry @amora-lilly @maximumride1 @sarcastic-nerd @chanyeolsbeloved @pinkb4t @betty13augustine @toadweed-twinklegaze-silverpuff @bella-rose29 @grimm1992 @mortallytenaciousmoon @alanalanalanalanalanna @amane-enama @sosasi521-blog @head-in-the-clouds222 @she-went-that-way @joeybelle @mahidahi @malenk @lillyys-reposts @m626 @rain-echos @meidl @arwn-yng @hotchberry1245 @avatar-lovergirl011 @silverblur @aphroditesanem0ne @angstywaifu @2-blind-2-see @alanatheblogger @ebklsbxgdsworld @gwnwrites @skskskye @girlqrush @cas-planet @thycia-flowers @badonkadork @malachitecorgi-spicy-account @carter-knight @angelic-destiny25 @nyxm0on @saltistic-dumbass @maddsunn @margflower @curlyblaze @ardrhys8 @carolga @my-beloved-fandoms @leaawrites @ilovelilies @ahead-fullofdreams @perciver4ever @amaliarosewood @iamthejam @inkyfairy

[ccmf02]

This.

james forgetting to rub out lily's initials and all the hearts and the 'james evans' on his essay before mcgonagall takes them

she hands it back a few days later with a comment above the doodles "i understand young love can be very strong, but please refrain from using your work as an outlet. however, i wish you luck on your endeavours to woo miss evans and will be informing your parents about this event purely to have a nice laugh"

[ccmf02]

My favourite lesbians🤗

Average "best friend" sleepover, you know how it is

[ccmf02]

this fic gets peter's characterisation and his motivation so well, i'm going crazy. we as a fandom need to write more peter centric fics

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51018115?view_adult=true

[ccmf02]

I keep seeing people talking about how Dorcas was killed by Voldemort himself and completely misinterpreting it as “she was so strong and powerful that only he could kill her,” which might’ve been what happened, but I feel like probably wasn’t the case seeing as he’s killed plenty of random people throughout the series and she was only really mentioned that one time.

But there could’ve been some other reason as well, rather than “oh yeah she was just really really powerful.” What if the reason Voldemort targeted Dorcas was because she kept talking to her old friends from Slytherin and making them question their loyalties and whatnot, and had even managed to make a few death eaters drop out of the war? Sure, she was a dangerous enemy to have, but what if another layer of that danger for Voldemort’s side was her way with words?

Imagine Dorcas fighting in the war and seeing her old classmates that she quite literally lived with for seven years fighting against her. Imagine Pandora telling her the reason why she couldn’t bring herself to join the order, despite how much she wanted to help, was because she couldn’t make herself do anything to hurt Evan. Imagine her continuing to fight with all her strength, but then tracking down the death eaters she knew from school just to see if she could talk them out of it.

Evan and Barty stayed, of course. They were loyal to Voldemort till the end but they would always leave her, one of the order’s best duellists, completely unscathed. But others would listen to her, growing more uncertain and starting to hold back more or try to leave the death eaters completely. She was a Slytherin after all. She would’ve had both the ambition and drive to find these death eaters individually, and the cunning in her words to make them question their loyalties.

Maybe Voldemort went after her after Regulus died, because he thought she had something to do with him betraying him, and maybe she actually did. Maybe she had talked to him, even if it was Kreacher that was the turning point, and he had to kill her himself because she could genuinely make them lose the war if she kept doing what she was doing. Maybe the power she had that Voldemort feared so much was the power to turn his own forces on him. The power to destroy his forces without a single weapon or wand.

[ccmf02]

Gagged.

heatstroke lily

[ccmf02]

one day all the jegulus and jily haters will stop fighting each other and we can have world peace

[ccmf02]

site that you can type in the definition of a word and get the word

site for when you can only remember part of a word/its definition 

site that gives you words that rhyme with a word

site that gives you synonyms and antonyms

[ccmf02]

This is amazeballs bro

doodles of baby harry if he was raised with the marauders

gonna do the girls next!! (reblogs would be sooo cool btw aha)

[ccmf02]

eleanor neale and jack manifold as jily variants?

[ccmf02]

Exactly.

Bluey is very popular right now and while watching some clips on Tiktok, I realised something.

Bandit and Chili are literally just James and Lily. Nobody can convince me otherwise. They are just so perfect for each other.

Chili and Bandit are proof that Jily are meant to be and find each other in every universe

[ccmf02]

Break me off another tangerine wedge I’m not driving

[ccmf02]

Please sign the petition!!!