#clean it zero balm

[jessajaguarbeauty]

Thank you so much @banilacousa for sending me* the Clean It Zero Brightening Cleansing Balm! I've been using the Original version for YEARS and I can't wait to try it 🤩 This came at the perfect time too because my Super Sized version is on its last few uses 😁

*Gifted. Not sponsored. Not an ad.

[bluamor]

Repair your lips with cocoa! 🍫

Shop Lip Balms

[angelluvsrafe]

can you do one where rafe is caring for reader in the hospital after giving birth to their baby girl? i feel like he’d be so careful with y/n while she’s postpartum especially right after she gave birth.

- covers you with a blanket when you’re shivering post-delivery, even before the nurse notices. he fusses about your warmth constantly, adjusting the blankets, your gown, even the socks.

- wipes you face gently with a warm cloth if you’re too tired to get up—especially after labor. whether you’re sweaty, flushed, or just want to feel clean, he’s there with gentle hands and zero hesitation.

- he helps you brush your teeth, fix your hair, and put on lip balm, saying softly,

“let’s get you feeling human again, yeah?”

- gently helps you move, whether you’re standing for the first time after delivery, using the bathroom, or just shifting in bed, he supports you physically and emotionally.

“i’ve got you. take your time.”

- he doesn’t flinch at the not-so-pretty parts of recovery. he helps prep the peri bottle, pads, mesh underwear, and even tracks her meds better than the nurse sometimes.

- makes sure no one is overwhelming you and will tell anyone to give you a bit of time if he needs to, even if it’s your family.

- constantly refills you hospital water jug because hydration = healing. even brings your favorite straw from home because he knows the little comforts matter.

also bring things like your favourite blanket and comfy clothes incase you want to change out of the hospital gown. of course he doesn’t mind it you don’t want to change.

- always has a hand on your back, holding your hand, stroking your hair. it’s grounding, a silent comfort. and if you cry?

“it’s okay, let it out…”

- tells you you’re beautiful even when you feel exhausted, messy, and raw.

“you’ve never looked prettier... you’re incredible.”

[smutmind]

No Leashes Here ft. Taeyeon

Taeyeon x You

The elevator blinked open with its usual chime, and Zero immediately darted out like his leash was a suggestion, not law.

“Zero!” Taeyeon’s voice chased after him, soft but firm, already halfway into a sigh.

You stood still, coffee in hand, watching the scene that had quietly become your favorite part of every morning. The dog zigzagged across the hallway, her slipper tapping impatiently behind him. She looked as she always did—low ponytail, oversized sunglasses, and something effortless in the way her sweatshirt slid off one shoulder.

“Morning,” you offered, stepping aside as Zero paused to sniff your ankle like it was routine.

She gave you a small smile. “Morning. Don’t encourage him.”

“I think he’s got leadership potential,” you teased.

“He’s got drama potential,” she muttered, scooping him up like a misbehaving toddler. “Sorry about him.”

You shrugged. “Best part of my day.”

She gave you a curious look. The elevator door closed between you.

The next morning, the hallway was quiet. No tapping slippers. No Zero.

You waited a moment longer than necessary before heading out. That night, you asked the guard downstairs if she’d gone on a trip.

“Miss Taeyeon?” he said. “Nah. Flu, I think. Been in since Tuesday.”

Your stomach did something weird. You lived across the hall. You could knock. You wouldn’t stay long. Just check in. Maybe bring soup.

The door cracked open after a soft knock. You didn’t expect her to answer so fast—or to look like that.

Tank top. Short shorts. Cheeks flushed pink with fever. And two small, unmistakable peaks pressing against the thin cotton.

“Oh—uh—hi,” you said, eyes immediately jumping to her face and then to the ceiling, like maybe there was something very interesting up there.

She leaned against the doorframe, one arm cradling her middle. “Hey.” Her voice was raspy, not unpleasant. “You okay?”

You held up the Tupperware in both hands like an offering. “Chicken soup. I made too much. And... I heard you weren’t feeling great. I can walk Zero if you want. Just... you know, neighbor stuff.”

Her mouth curved. “You’re sweet.” She opened the door wider. “Come in before you drop it.”

Her apartment smelled like lemon balm and eucalyptus. A humid warmth hung in the air. Zero yawned dramatically from his pillow on the couch.

“You really made soup?” she asked, settling onto the couch with a blanket across her lap.

“Mm-hmm.” You handed her a bowl, heart doing acrobatics at how casually her top slipped down her shoulder. You sat on the floor, cross-legged. “Zero’s got that look. Like he thinks I can’t handle him.”

“He’s probably right,” she said with a smirk, spooning soup to her lips.

You nodded at him. “Watch me prove him wrong.”

Zero let you leash him without incident, but he paused at the door, glanced back at Taeyeon like, really?

She chuckled, sniffling. “Be gentle with him.”

“I’ll try,” you said. “But if he stages a rebellion, I’m switching sides.”

Her laughter followed you into the hallway.

"Easy, champ," you muttered, stumbling a half-step as he zigzagged past a bush, tail high like a flag.

Your hoodie stuck to your back in the June humidity. The city was just waking up, streets wet from overnight cleaning trucks, air thick with coffee and exhaust. But none of it could distract you from the memory of Taeyeon’s bare legs curled under that blanket, soup bowl in her lap, hair messy and eyes soft.

Zero paused to pee on a lamppost and looked up at you like, You’re slow.

"You're lucky you’re cute," you told him.

The next morning, her knock came just as you pulled your hoodie over your head.

She stood there in black running shorts and a zip-up, ponytail high, Zero already leashed and vibrating with anticipation.

“You ready?” she asked. Her cheeks had some color again, and the flu haze was gone—replaced by something lighter, easier.

You blinked. “Ready for…?”

“Run-slash-walk. Mostly run.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. “I’m… not really a cardio guy.”

She grinned. “Then just keep up. Or don’t. Zero and I will circle back.”

You lasted three blocks.

Taeyeon ran like she didn’t touch the ground—light, fast, impossible to catch. Zero was all teeth and joy, pulling her forward like a tow rope.

By block four, your lungs staged a rebellion. By block five, you gave up and walked in wide, shamed loops while they doubled back with breezy ease.

“You alive?” she asked, slowing beside you. Her skin glowed, ponytail damp, tank top clinging in places your brain struggled to ignore.

“Barely,” you said. “I think I saw the light. It called me a wimp.”

She laughed and patted your back. “You did better than I expected. We usually go twice that.”

“Of course you do.” You panted. “Sadists.”

Back in the hallway, Zero flopped dramatically on her welcome mat.

Taeyeon pulled her keys out, breathing normal again. “Want ramen?”

You looked up. She was smiling, casual, wiping sweat from her brow. The kind of smile that didn’t know what it did to people.

“I’m disgusting,” you said.

“So am I,” she replied. “Shower, then come over. I’ll boil water.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Five minutes. Maybe ten. Depending on if my legs stop working.”

“Bring an appetite,” she said, unlocking her door. “And maybe ice cream.”

Her door clicked shut.

The steam rose from the ramen bowls like mist over a quiet lake, curling into the soft amber light of her living room.

She handed you chopsticks and plopped down beside you on the floor, her legs crossed, Zero already asleep under the coffee table with one paw twitching in a dream.

“This is criminally good,” you said after the first bite, slurping too loudly and not caring. “What did you put in here? Magic?”

Taeyeon leaned her head back against the couch, grinning. “MSG and heartbreak.”

You laughed. “Solid combo.”

She took a slow bite, then glanced sideways at you. “So… you really had no idea?”

You blinked. “About what?”

She gave you a look—eyebrows up, a single amused scoff. “Me.”

You frowned. “You being… what? A good cook?”

She dropped her chopsticks dramatically into the bowl. “I’m offended.”

You chuckled, not quite following. “I’m sorry?”

Taeyeon leaned forward and grabbed the remote, tossing it toward you. “Most people either freeze or start name-dropping album tracks the second they recognize me. You’ve been weirdly normal.”

You stared at her for a beat. “Wait. Are you saying you’re famous?”

She squinted at you like it was a trap. “Dead serious?”

“Dead serious,” you echoed. “You’re just... the girl with the chaos dog and great soup skills.”

She burst out laughing, then curled her knees to her chest. “Wow. That’s almost refreshing. Almost.”

You nudged her knee gently. “Wanna show me who I’ve been ignoring all this time?”

She groaned, dragging her blanket over her head like a curtain. “Nope. Embarrassing.”

“Come on. I sat through your cardio cult initiation this morning. You owe me.”

After a moment, a soft sigh from beneath the blanket. “Fine.”

The TV blinked to life. She scrolled through YouTube with mechanical shame and found it—an old concert clip. The stage lights were wild, her voice even younger, hair longer, crowd roaring.

You watched in stunned silence as the woman sitting beside you—who just thirty minutes ago had laughed at your inability to open ramen packets—commanded a stadium like gravity bent around her.

Taeyeon peeked through the blanket. “This is the part where you stop talking to me.”

You turned to her, slowly. “This is the part where I ask how the hell I didn’t know you were a pop star.”

She cracked a smile. “Because you’re either extremely oblivious or the last person in Seoul without Instagram.”

“Or maybe,” you said, scooping more broth, “I’m just into you for the soup and sarcasm.”

She looked at you then—really looked. Something subtle shifted behind her eyes. Not flirtation. Not performance. Just a quiet check-in, a flicker of interest that said: maybe this isn’t normal for me either.

The clock blinked 11:47 PM as you set your empty bowl in her sink, fingers warm from the dishwater, heart still pacing from laughter that had stretched far past the ramen.

“I should head out,” you said, eyes flicking toward her hallway. “Didn’t mean to eat half your pantry.”

Taeyeon stood near the counter, half-leaning, one hand curled around a glass of water she hadn’t touched in the last twenty minutes.

“Yeah,” she said with a smile, but her eyes said don’t. Her fingers gripped the glass tighter before she let go. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for not poisoning me,” you shot back, opening the door.

She walked you there. Her feet were bare, the hem of her sweatshirt grazing the top of her thighs. Zero barely lifted his head.

“Good night,” you said.

“Good night,” she echoed, one hand on the edge of the door.

You almost waited a beat too long. But you stepped into the hallway, let the door close behind you, and stood alone in the quiet.

Your own apartment felt foreign, lit only by the city glow filtering through the window. You dropped onto your bed, heart loud in your ears, mind racing through the past three hours like a scene-by-scene replay.

She was funny. Sharp. Gorgeous. And apparently world-famous. And she lived ten feet away.

You stared at the ceiling.

What the hell is my life?

Your phone buzzed once. Then stopped. No message. Just a phantom.

You turned on your side. Then onto your back again.

Sleep didn’t come. But someone else did.

The doorbell rang. One soft chime.

You blinked toward the entrance, half-expecting you’d imagined it. But then it came again.

You opened it to find her standing barefoot in a nightgown, hair loose, skin dewy from her evening routine. She looked nothing like the woman on that concert stage. And somehow, even more impossible.

She held her arms at her sides, unsure. “I’m not… used to this,” she said. “To people who don’t want anything from me.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t even know what there was to want.”

“Exactly,” she said softly. Then, “You made me feel like just… me.”

Her eyes were shiny. Not from tears—just something fragile behind them. Then she rose on her toes, leaned in, and kissed you.

No rush. No fire. Just a soft, honest press of lips.

You reached for her waist instinctively, pulled her closer, exhaled into her kiss like you’d been holding your breath for a week.

Then you stepped back just enough to take her hand.

“This way,” you whispered, guiding her inside.

She followed, the door clicking shut behind her.

Her mouth met yours again before you reached the bedroom.

The kiss had weight now—less cautious, more desperate. Her hands slid under your shirt, fingers brushing bare skin, and you felt her pulse leap as yours did.

You kissed her deeper. Let your hands trace her sides, thumb sweeping just under the swell of her breast through the thin satin of her gown.

She gasped, barely audible, and you pulled back just an inch. Your eyes searched hers. “Okay?”

Taeyeon bit her bottom lip, cheeks flushed in candlelight. Then she nodded—one small, shaky nod. The kind that made your chest tighten.

You bent to her again, slower this time. Let your mouth trail kisses down her throat. Over her collarbone. Across the delicate dip between her breasts.

She arched as your lips closed around one nipple, satin pressing against your cheek, then falling away as her fingers tugged her gown lower.

“God…” she whispered, hand resting on your shoulder. “Feels—god—”

You pulled back to see her bare. Breasts soft, flushed, trembling faintly with every breath.

“I’m still trying to believe this is happening,” you said, cupping her with both hands, thumbs teasing her stiff peaks.

She smiled hazily. “Believe it.”

You kissed lower. Let her gown drop to her ankles.

She stood in front of you now—naked but for her confidence flickering in and out.

When your hands touched the waistband of your sweats, she stepped forward and pushed them down herself. Then stilled.

“…Shit.”

You raised a brow, amused. “Problem?”

Her eyes were wide. She wrapped her hand around your shaft carefully, like testing heat. “Are all European guys like this?”

You snorted. “Only the ones blessed by Norse gods.”

She gave a breathless laugh. “I can see why they need cold weather.”

You let her stare. Then tilted your head. “You’re not bad yourself. Asian women are like… eternal. You’re seriously thirty-seven?”

Her smile dropped. “Wow.”

“…Wow what?”

She stepped closer, mouth grazing your ear. “You just dropped the age bomb. Rookie move.”

You opened your mouth to apologize, but she shoved you backward onto the bed.

“I’m about to show you thirty-seven years of knowing exactly what I want.”

She climbed on top, straddling your thighs, dragging herself slowly along your length without letting you in. Teasing. Controlling the pace. Making you work.

But when you flipped her and took her in your hands—when her body curled on instinct and her breath hitched—she whispered it:

“Behind. Please.”

You froze, palm against the arch of her back. “Doggy?”

She nodded, flushed. Her hair slipped over her shoulder like silk.

You leaned forward. “You want me to fuck you like that…”

She glanced over her shoulder. “…Yes.”

“Then,” you whispered against her ear, “you better bark like Zero.”

Taeyeon laughed—half-mortified, half-turned on—until your fingers dug into her hips and your mouth pressed between her shoulder blades.

Then, quietly… she barked.

Once.

High-pitched. Almost shy.

You groaned. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”

You moved inside her in one smooth, aching thrust, and she gasped, gripping the sheets.

Each stroke deepened, your grip tightening as her moans grew louder, hips meeting yours with practiced rhythm and wild heat.

Her voice broke with every thrust. Your name, half-sobbed. Her legs shook. Your palm found her lower back and pushed, angling deeper.

You were losing yourself—completely—wrapped in the soft thunder of her body and that one unforgettable moment when the pop star barked for you.

Her hands braced against the headboard, thighs spread wide, your name slipping past her lips with every thrust.

She was wild in doggy—back arched, skin slick with sweat, moaning into the pillows like she didn’t care if the whole building heard.

But when she gasped, pulled forward, and swung one leg over to straddle you—face away, your length still buried deep—something shifted.

She dropped her hips slowly, teasing, her ass pressed snug against your thighs.

Then she rolled her spine, and the world narrowed.

“Touch me,” she said, breathless. “My chest—hold me there.”

You reached up, both hands wrapping around her breasts. Full, warm, bouncing in rhythm with each bounce of her hips. She rode you with growing urgency, gasping louder every time your palm grazed her nipples.

You gripped her tightly, fingertips digging just a little harder.

Taeyeon threw her head back. “Shit… fuck… your size—”

“You okay?” you asked, chest heaving.

“I love it,” she choked. “I fucking love how full I feel… You fit—god—you fit.”

She didn’t slow down.

Your hands kept her steady, squeezed with each rise and fall. You pressed your thumbs into the peaks of her breasts, teasing her harder.

She clamped down suddenly—her body going tight, her voice climbing in pitch like a rising note.

And then—like a goddamn chorus—she came.

The sound wasn’t a moan. It was melody—half-gasp, half-harmony, a rising, falling, breathless pitch that could’ve lived on a stage.

You held her tighter, barely able to breathe.

“Fuck—Taeyeon—can I…”

She looked over her shoulder, eyes hazy, lips parted.

“Please,” she whispered. Then louder, “Please, come inside. I want to feel you.”

That was it.

You groaned deep, teeth clenched, and spilled inside her, every pulse met with her body tightening around you, milking you like she never wanted to let go.

When you finally slipped free, she collapsed on your chest, still catching her breath.

“I’m ruined,” she mumbled, hair damp and wild. “You’re walking Zero tomorrow.”

You chuckled, fingers tracing her spine. “Only if you let me take you doggy again.”

She snorted, then playfully punched your chest. “Asshole.”

You kissed her temple. “Yours.”

She hummed and nestled in, breath slowing, bare legs tangled in yours.

Sleep came quiet, shared.

[cruel-seduction]

Tangled Loyalties (Part - 1) 

Summary: Transferring from Beauxbatons to Hogwarts should’ve been a fresh start—but being Draco Malfoy’s cousin made it easier to slip into the Slytherin elite like you belonged there. You had the confidence, the connections, the charm. Everything but control over the way Mattheo Riddle looked at you—like you were a challenge he couldn’t resist but never planned to keep. What started as sarcasm-laced flirting spirals into something raw. Real. And when he pulls away just as you let your guard down, you’re left sorting through heartbreak, bruised pride, and all the insecurities you swore you’d outgrown.

Content Warnings: Suggestive content, sharp tongues, emotional whiplash, insecure girl math, bad decision-making, and Mattheo Riddle being a delusional menace with too much jawline and not enough communication skills. Side effects may include thinking you're the problem. You're not. (But damn, it feels like you are.) ANGSTT!!!!!!!

Rain patted lazily against the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, casting a moody grey glow over the morning breakfast scene. Autumn had sunk its teeth into the Scottish countryside, and with it came wool scarves, steaming goblets of spiced pumpkin cider, and cold breath against enchanted windows. You sat cross-legged on the Slytherin bench, your robe draped artfully over one shoulder and a cashmere sweater—charcoal with green cuffs—hugging your frame. Your wand stuck out of your thigh-high boots. Unbothered. Iconic.

Pansy sat on your right, practically twirling her eggs with boredom, while Theodore leaned back on your left, one brow cocked as he tried to place bets on whether Draco would lose his patience with You were sitting in your usual seat at the Slytherin table, elbow perched on the polished wood, one hand lazily dragging a spoon through a bowl of porridge you had no intention of finishing. Your outfit was crisp: the regulation black Hogwarts skirt with knee-high socks, an oversized Slytherin sweater you'd stolen from Draco—he never noticed—and a glossy swipe of lip balm. Chic, effortless, just enough French rebellion to remind them you weren’t raised on this side of the channel.

One month. That’s how long it had been since you transferred from Beauxbatons. A month, and Hogwarts had already bent to fit around you like a glove.

Being Draco Malfoy’s cousin helped. The moment you arrived, everyone knew your last name. Pureblood, prestigious, the new girl with the sharp tongue. The Slytherins didn’t even question it—you were one of them from day one. It almost felt like home.

Almost.

Until Mattheo Riddle looked at you. You tried to ignore it. That tension. That current.

You weren't stupid. You’d heard the rumors. You’d seen the girls. The trail of lipstick-stained parchments he never read. The tearful confessions he never cared about. The smirks. The biting charm. The cocky swagger that made every hallway feel like his.

He was dark-haired, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, his tie always loosened like he didn’t give a shit, sleeves rolled up, black ink peeking out over his veins. The kind of beautiful that didn’t try. The kind of beautiful that ruined girls.

And unfortunately, he sat across from you every fucking day. You tried to play it cool. It’s just flirtation, right? You weren’t falling for Mattheo Riddle. You wouldn’t be one of the girls in his headcount. No, thank you. You were raised better.

Oi—give it back, you prick,” Theo’s voice barked across the table, dragging your attention. Mattheo had snatched Theo’s toast clean from his plate and was eating it with zero remorse.

You glanced up, watching the two boys argue like dogs.

“I don’t see your name carved into the bread,” Mattheo said, voice low and amused as he tore off another piece, tossing it into his mouth.

“I’m going to carve my name into your bloody skull if you don’t quit acting like a feral—”

“I don’t respond to threats before noon,” Mattheo cut back smoothly, licking marmalade from his thumb with a glance so bored it almost looked lazy.

“You’re going to throw your back out sitting like that,” you said, dry as bone. Mattheo turned his head lazily toward you, one brow arched. “Concerned about me, darling?”

“More concerned you’ll break the bench with that inflated ego,” you replied, biting into your toast.

Mattheo didn’t flinch. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you fancy me.” You licked your bottom lip slowly, just to annoy him, the glint of your tongue piercing catching the dim hall light. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last option in Azkaban.”

His smirk deepened. “Then why do you keep staring, princess?” “Because I’m trying to figure out how someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon thinks they’re the main character.”

That did it. His jaw twitched. But instead of firing back, Mattheo leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze locked on yours with a look that was all heat and challenge.

“Keep going,” he murmured, low enough that only you heard. “It turns me on when you pretend you don’t want me.” You swallowed hard. Asshole.

And then Draco’s voice came to your ears probably saying something like “Eww, Mattheo. She is my cousin. At least talk like this when I am not sitting beside you.”

But you didn’t look away. And neither did he. 

It was infuriating, this push and pull. Mattheo—who had a reputation for breaking hearts like twigs, who claimed he hated drama but was always in the middle of it. And you? You weren’t about to be another name on his list. You were the storm, not the shipwreck.

Still, he made it so hard to breathe when he looked at you like that. You stood abruptly, adjusting your robe and grabbing your bag.

“Where are you going?” Mattheo asked, still lounging. “Away from brain damage,” you said sweetly. “Try not to miss me too hard, darling.”

His grin was wolfish. Dangerous. Oh, this was far from over.

✩࿐࿔ 

You’re late-night cramming in the deserted study alcove near the library wings. Books and parchment are strewn like battlefield debris beneath the weak glow of a single green-shaded lamp. The air is cold, so you’re curled up in your Forest green cardigan—Beauxbatons crest still glinting faintly—with your favorite pen in hand, determined to make those Arithmancy equations bend to your will. You’re almost convinced you’ve got it when—

A shadow drops beside you. Mattheo Riddle. His robes whisper against the stone bench.

“Let me study,” you mutter without looking up. He’s quiet for a moment—a smirk lurking just beyond polite. “I didn’t even speak. I’m just…admiring your beauty.”

Your head snaps up, eyebrows shooting. “Ew, that’s cheesy. What are you, Ben from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days? And he can say cheesy shit like this Because he is hot. ”

That smirk flickers, shades darker. “You don’t think I’m hot?? And who the fuck is this Ben guy? I’m a hell of a lot better than some Benny.”

You roll your eyes. “Aww, whatever makes you sleep at night.” Without thinking, your hand snakes forward, pinching his cheek and then smoothing over his dark curls. He inhales sharply, but keeps quiet.

He leans back, hench arms folded. “Noo… I have a reputation to maintain.” A devilish grin breaks on your face. “You want me to do that thing I do with your hair again, right?” You tease.

His posture goes rigid—recoil with pride. “Only if nobody ever finds out.” You cock your head. “What do I get in return?” He looks at you, dead serious. “You get to make me happy.” You turn your nose up in mock disgust. “…Pass.”

He shrugs, the silent threat of charm in his shrug. “Fine. I’ll get you whatever you want.” You savor the moment—pure victory.

He exhales and dips his head, resting it on the desk next to your books. His curls sweep across the wood. Without thinking, you reach out, your left hand gently massaging the back of his neck while your right hand scribbles bullet points on the parchment.

He exhales again, deeper. You glance at your notes, but his even breathing holds your attention. Then—silently—you realize he’s asleep, his lashes brushing his cheeks. An absurd, breathtaking intimacy settles in the room. 

You lean in.

Closer than you meant to, maybe. But his face—half-buried in the crook of his arm, those lashes low over hooded eyes, the boyish smirk barely clinging to his mouth—it pulls at something in you that’s never quiet around him.

His voice cuts through the moment, soft and teasing. “Trying to kiss me or something?” You scoff, lips twitching. “You wish.” But you don’t pull back.

You hover. Not far. Not close enough. And in that exhale between almost and inevitable, everything stretches—like time and space are folding just to fit the two of you in the middle.

Then you kiss him.

It starts hesitant. Careful, like you’re both too proud to admit how long you’ve wanted it. But it shifts fast—his mouth opens under yours like a secret he’s never let anyone read, like you’re the only one who ever tried.

Your fingers find his hair again, and he groans into your mouth. There’s no crowd here. No whispers. No egos, or sarcastic remarks. Nothing. Just Mattheo. Just you.

He kisses like he’s starved for it. Like he’s terrified of it. Like he’s already addicted to something he swore he’d never touch.

And it terrifies you too.

Because in that moment, your walls—those jokes, your pride, that repeated mantra of I’m not just another girl—they all splinter like glass. Melt under his hands like wax.

For once, it isn’t about who’s in control. It’s just breath and heartbeat and the fact that neither of you are pretending anymore. And maybe that’s what ruins it.

Because just when your lips part with a soft gasp, just when your eyes meet and he looks at you like he’s seeing every truth he’s always run from.. 

Mattheo bolts upright. His chair scrapes against the stone floor like a wound splitting open. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t offer a quip or grin or half-assed explanation.

He just leaves. And you're left there—hand frozen mid-air where his hair had been, lips still tingling, heart crashing hard into your ribs.

Shame creeps up your throat before you can stop it. It shouldn’t, but it does. Because you let him in. Because for a second, you wanted it too much. Because you thought maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t run.

The next day, you were sitting in the Potions classroom, the stale chill of the dungeon air clinging to your skin like shame. The soft scrape of quills and idle whispers from students settling in filled the space around you, but your mind was miles away—sinking, spiraling, unraveling.

Professor Snape hadn’t arrived yet.

You stared blankly at your textbook, pretending to read, but every word bled into the next, meaningless and blurred, lost under the weight of your thoughts.

Mattheo hadn’t looked at you once.

Not in the Great Hall that morning, not in the corridor you passed through where he was leaning against the wall with Theodore, not even now—where he sat two benches away, slouched in that infuriatingly casual way, talking lowly to Blaise like nothing happened.

Your thoughts weren’t even near that desk. They were chewing you alive.

Why did he leave?

That single thought had been echoing since last night like a cursed mantra. And now, sitting in this dimly lit room, the weight of it pressed harder on your chest than the dungeon air ever could.

Maybe you’d been stupid. Maybe you read too much into the way he looked at you. Maybe you thought the tension meant something.

Maybe you actually believed you were enough.

But now?

Now, you were just sitting here, heart splintering beneath layers of practiced perfection. And all you could do was try to keep your face straight. Because girls like you don’t cry in class.

The girl who made a whole identity out of being untouchable. But your hands were trembling under the table. And the truth was ugly: you’d spent years in front of mirrors picking yourself apart. Pulling at your waist like if you tugged hard enough, it might turn into something narrow and perfect. Sucking in your stomach when you walked past reflective surfaces. Comparing every angle of yourself to the girls who didn’t seem to try.

You weren’t soft enough, weren’t effortless. There were days your thighs felt too big, your voice too loud, your skin too real. Not porcelain. Not delicate. Just… you.

And for what?

You played the it-girl. The confident one. The sharp-tongued, unbothered one who laughed too loud and never let a boy mess with her head.

But you wanted someone to see through it. To see you under it all.

And you thought—god, you really thought—Mattheo had. The way he stared at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he let himself be soft in the quiet, even if just for a second. The way he kissed you like he needed to remember what breathing felt like.

But then he left. No words. No look back.

And it was like confirmation. Confirmation that you were wrong to believe you were anything more than another girl. That maybe he regretted it. Maybe he looked at you in the light and realized you weren’t perfect enough to keep.

Maybe he saw the stretch marks on your hips the other day when your shirt lifted. Maybe he heard the waver in your voice when you said you were fine, and it was too much.

Too real. Too flawed.

Your jaw clenched as you stared down at your potion ingredients. You wouldn't cry. Not over him. Not over anyone. You had your pride. Your walls. Your wit. And that was enough.

Except… It wasn’t, was it?

Not when the ache didn’t leave your chest. Not when your brain wouldn’t shut up. Not when even thinking about last night made your eyes sting and your throat tighten.

You blinked fast. Bit the inside of your cheek.

Mattheo was three seats down, arms crossed, that same casual lean in his chair—looking for all the world like nothing was eating him alive.

You didn’t look. You wouldn't give him that power. Because maybe you weren’t perfect. But fuck, you deserved more than silence.

And then, your gaze caught on something across the classroom. A Hufflepuff girl—laughing softly as her boyfriend tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Their knees were touching. His face was lit up like she was the sun.

You stared.And something inside your chest cracked—quietly, bitterly. You wanted that.

Not just the hair-tucking or the soft smiles. Not even the hand-holding. You wanted to be seen. Not the version you gave the world. But the real you. The one who hated her stretch marks. The one who had cried over dumb things like thighs and cheekbones. The one who didn’t feel like an "it girl" in the dark.

You wanted someone to notice the way your voice changed when you were nervous. The way you tapped your nails against the desk when you were overwhelmed. Someone to kiss you and not run the fuck away afterward.

But maybe that wasn’t in the cards for girls like you, huh? The ones who laugh too loud. The ones who don’t wake up pretty. The ones who pretend being strong are the same thing as being okay.Your fingers curled into fists on the desk as your teeth sank into your lower lip to keep it from trembling. You were fine. You always were. Until you weren’t.

Divider Credit goes to @bernardsbendystraws. I PROMISE THERE IS GONNA BE PART 2 AND PART 3 BUT I AM in writer's block y'all. I have to manage a lot of things. I have so much work. This I wrote cause I am having terrible cramps and can't study.

[lolobeey]

Crash and Burn (1) - Partnered

Because juggling one WIP clearly wasn’t chaotic enough: please enjoy a grumpy/sunshine buddy cop duo with murder, trauma, and sexual tension in equal measure.

Pairing: Detective!Bucky x Partner!Reader

Series Summary: You just made detective. Your first case? A cold one — missing woman, dead cop, and a cover-up that smells worse than precinct coffee. Your new partner is James Buchanan Barnes: metal arm, resting murder face, zero interest in teamwork. You talk too much, he broods too hard, and together you’re one bad day from a workplace incident report. But the case isn’t as cold as it looks. And if you don’t start trusting each other soon, you won’t live long enough to solve it.

Warnings: slow burn, buddy cop romance, angst, eventual smut, a bit of grumpy x sunshine, mentions of death / off-screen character death, strong language - stronger jawlines

Word Count: 4.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST

You’re halfway through a suspiciously warm donut and pretending not to panic over the new department-issued laptop that hates you on a cellular level.

The thing keeps making a sound like it’s struggling to breathe and refusing to recognize your password like it's personally offended you made detective. Which, fine — maybe you're a little offended too. Not about the title, but the timing. First day in Homicide, first time sitting at a desk with drawers and your name on a placard, and this is how it starts: with passive-aggressive technology and a lopsided jelly filling trying to escape down your wrist.

You wipe your fingers on a napkin and try not to look too obviously lost.

You’ve been on the force long enough to earn this seat. Your stats are clean. You’ve got the de-escalation record of a hostage negotiator and the kind of instinct that once made a guy in Vice call you a "crime whisperer" — right before you tased him for getting in your face during a domestic dispute call.

Still, none of that keeps your stomach from flipping like it’s auditioning for the Olympics.

You shift in the chair that’s technically yours now. Not borrowed, not loaned. Not somebody else's.

It’s weird.

Across the bullpen, people glance your way — some congratulatory, others speculative. You know how it goes. Every promotion comes with eyes. Some waiting to see you fail, others waiting to see if they can ride your coattails. You give a two-finger wave to no one in particular and return to whispering threats at your laptop like that’s ever helped anyone.

It’s not just the promotion that’s making your pulse flutter. It’s the weight of change. The rhythm shift. You spent your whole career building trust, beat by beat, post by post. Patrol. Vice. Now Homicide. You worked your way up like a damn mountain goat — not pretty, not smooth, but determined.

Your desk still smells like the last person who sat here. Carter, probably. Cigarettes and menthol lip balm. There’s a hairline crack in the corner of the monitor and a sticky note half-peeled from the edge of the drawer that just says "FUCK OFF HOSKINS." No idea who or what that is. Might be a warning. Might be an inside joke you’re not yet inside of.

The hum of the bullpen is familiar and not. Phones ringing, someone muttering about reports, the mechanical sound of the printer you already hate.

That’s when Captain Sam Wilson opens his office door and says your name in That Tone™.

The “I’m-about-to-ruin-your-day-but-with-love” tone.

You freeze with your fingers still mid-type (or mid-prayer, honestly, trying to remember if you turned on the VPN). Then you push away from your desk and follow him in.

You hurriedly brush powdered sugar off your shirt and wipe your hands down the thighs of your slacks. Sam doesn’t care about your donut crimes, but you care. First impressions in Homicide matter. Even with someone who’s technically been your boss for a while.

His office smells like cheap coffee and responsibility. The blinds are half open, slats angled to slice sunlight into soft bars across the floor. His desk is clean — unnervingly so. A few commendations hang on the wall, none of them flashy. Just… earned. Quiet power.

He gestures to the seat across from him. You sit, pulse picking up.

“Congrats,” he says. “Promotion’s official. You’ve earned it.”

You open your mouth to say thanks, maybe throw in a joke to cut the tension, but he lifts a finger.

“You’re getting a head start on your caseload.”

A beat.

“Unofficially,” he adds, carefully sliding a thin folder across the desk.

You blink. “Already?”

“Think of it as a welcome gift.”

You hesitate. Then pick up the folder.

“Cold case,” he says. “Not in rotation. Disappeared into storage years ago. Someone recently sent this to my desk.”

“Anonymous tip?”

“Anonymous photo.”

You open the folder and pause.

Avery Thompson.

Missing eight years. Legal aid clinic. Lived alone. No body. No leads. A dead case if you ever saw one. But paper-clipped to the front is something new.

A recent photo. Blurry. A crowd shot at a street fair — but in the middle of it, almost missed in the movement, is her face. A little older. A little more tired. But it very well could be her.

Your eyebrows lift. “You ever promote someone just to drop them in the deep end?”

“Only the ones I like.”

You smile despite yourself. And you’re still processing that when there’s a crisp knock at the door.

Sam glances over your shoulder. “And don’t worry, you’re not working it alone.”

The door squeaks open behind you.

You feel it before you see it. The shift in air pressure. The sudden heaviness, like the oxygen was reconsidering its contract.

James Buchanan Barnes.

New badge clipped to his belt, shirt tucked like it had never dared wrinkle. Hair tied back. Jaw set. One glove on — the left hand. Metal underneath, if the rumors were true.

He’s taller than you expected. Broader too. His face is sharp in that movie star, old-photo kind of way — all angles and quiet. And when his eyes land on you — briefly, coolly — it’s like you’re furniture. Like he’s assessing exit points and blind spots, and you don’t even register.

Your brain, ever the traitor, short-circuits for one hot second.

Of course, he's hot.

Cool.

Captain Wilson gestures between you. “Detective Barnes is returning from extended medical leave. He’s got history with the file.”

“History,” Barnes says, voice low, unreadable. “My old partner caught the original report.”

You already know the name before Sam says it.

“Steve Rogers,” he confirms. “He and Barnes worked the early leads until the file was closed.”

Your stomach tightens.

Steve Rogers. A legend. A loss. That name still lives in this building like a ghost — spoken soft and careful, like people are scared it’ll echo too loud.

Sam looks between you both. “I want this quiet. Off the books for now. No press, no noise. You two are the only ones working it. If anything smells off—”

“We bring it to you,” you say.

“Exactly.” He stands. “Don’t let him scare you off.”

You snort. “I don’t scare easy.”

“That’s why I picked you.”

You rise, folder in hand. Barnes is already halfway out the door — no handshake, no greeting. Just gone.

You stare after him, then mutter under your breath, “Well. If I’m gonna get ignored, might as well be by a man who looks like he could casually bench press the department’s vending machine. Fully stocked.”

Sam chuckles behind you but says nothing.

The bullpen doesn’t go silent when you walk out after Barnes, but it shifts. The noise thins. Conversations soften. You feel eyes moving toward you — then quickly away, like no one wants to admit they’re curious.

Not about you. About him.

Detective Barnes walks like someone who was made, not born — precise, heavy, locked-in. He doesn’t move like a cop. He moves like a weapon that learned how to walk upright. Three steps ahead of you, hands at his sides, jaw set like a trap.

He doesn’t need an introduction. He’s been here before. Every cop on this floor knows his name. Half of them probably have theories about why he left. The other half probably have nightmares about why he’s back.

You’re the new one. Technically promoted as of 9 am, given a badge with your name on it, and a chair that still feels like it belongs to someone else. You're aware of every eye that slides toward you and then pretends it didn't.

Your footsteps sound too loud behind him. Your file feels too thin. Your shoulder holster itches like it doesn’t quite fit. You’ve worn it for years — but never in Homicide.

You find your desk and slide into the seat like it doesn’t matter that it squeaks or that the monitor is cracked at the corner. You belong here now. Probably. Maybe.

Barnes doesn’t sit. He just stands at the desk across from yours like he’s guarding a perimeter. Shoulders squared, weight evenly balanced, spine too straight to be comfortable. Rigid silence and haunted war-veteran posture.

You glance up at him, trying for casual. “You good?”

No response.

He doesn’t even blink. You’re not even sure he heard you.

You glance at the file in your hands, then back up at him. Still nothing.

Okay then.

Before the awkward can go nuclear, a voice cuts through the static.

“Barnes, welcome back. You still brooding or did you pick up a new hobby in physical therapy?”

You turn.

Darcy Lewis is leaning over a file cabinet like she owns it. Granola bar in one hand, lanyard looped three times around her wrist, and an expression like she’s already read every file in the building and memorized the parts that matter.

She’s technically forensics and records, but everyone knows Darcy’s real specialty is data with attitude. If there’s something weird, something buried, or something half-whispered, she’ll find it and probably make a spreadsheet about it.

Barnes gives her a barely-there nod. It might be hello. Might be a death threat.

Darcy, unfazed, grins wider. “Still a man of many words, I see.”

Then her gaze flicks to you. Her eyes brighten, a little mischievous spark lighting up her entire face.

“You must be the newbie. You’re different than I pictured.”

You blink. “You pictured me?”

“Sure. Everyone’s been talking.” She tears off another bite of granola bar and waves it vaguely in the air.

“You’re the rookie from the Hot Dog Cart Incident. Crash, right?”

You groan. “I was hoping that name would die in Patrol.”

“Wouldn’t bet on that,” Darcy says, delighted. “Not after you wrecked a patrol car, two scooters, a newspaper stand, and a man’s entire lunch business.”

Barnes turns his head toward you. Slowly. Methodically.

You glance at him, then back to Darcy. “And still made the arrest.”

“I heard you were covered in mustard.”

“And glory,” you shoot back.

Darcy snorts. “Yeah, well. Nice to meet you, Crash.” She winks.

“Catch ya later, Barnes.”

And just like that, she vanishes, slipping into a nearby records room like a caffeine-fueled witch.

You’re left sitting beside a man who hasn’t said a full sentence to you since you met, but is now definitely aware you were once taken out by a hot dog cart.

You glance at Barnes again.

He’s now sitting in his chair, but barely. Upright. Back straight. Hands on his knees like he’s waiting for the next drill sergeant’s command. Not twitchy. Not anxious. Just… contained.

Like whatever lives in his chest has been locked up and labeled Do Not Open.

The silence stretches.

You open the file Sam gave you, mostly just to look like you’re doing something. Names, addresses, incident reports. Paperwork you should be diving into with your full attention.

But your eyes keep flicking up.

You wonder if he remembers your name. Or if he even cares. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t think you’ve earned your place at this desk. Maybe he’s still seeing Steve Rogers every time he looks at that file.

You hate that your brain keeps circling back to how good he looks — in that cold, ex-military, do-not-engage kind of way. Broad shoulders. Square jaw. That stubble like he shaved yesterday and immediately resented it. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That it’s not the point.

Still, there’s something about the way he sits. Like he hasn’t rested in years.

It’s not like you haven’t worked with guys like this before. Usually they crack a joke eventually. Try to test you, push your buttons, see if you’re tough enough to sit at the table. You know that game. You’ve played it and won.

Barnes doesn’t push anything.

He just doesn’t see you. Not really.

And for some reason, that makes it worse.

You tap your pen against the edge of the file and try not to take it personally. Maybe he’s not an asshole. Maybe he’s just rusty. Or tired. Or broken in ways that don’t heal.

You’re just about to speak again when a voice cuts in like nails on a chalkboard:

“Well, look what the wind dragged out of the evidence locker.”

You don’t need to look up.

That voice is permanently etched into your brain like a poorly done tattoo.

John Walker.

Of course.

You resist the urge to groan. Barely.

“Didn’t know they were letting Patrol mascots into Homicide,” he says, strolling up with that signature smugness and way-too-clean uniform.

“Didn’t know they were letting insecure men wear that much hair gel on duty,” you shoot back.

He grins like you complimented him.

“Crash. Still got the mouth. Good to know some things survive promotion.”

You fold your arms. “Still got the superiority complex?”

“Please. I earned it.” He flashes a badge with gold trim. “Seniority.”

Of course.

You knew he’d bring it up. He’d been your Field Training Officer when you first joined the force, before being quickly promoted out of the department. He likes to boast how he’s the one who trained a star officer, but in reality, he sat in the passenger seat and made you get him coffee for a month.

He turns to Barnes with mock surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you back, Barnes. What, you run out of dark corners to lurk in?”

Barnes doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at him, stone-cold.

Walker’s grin grows when he notices the file in your hand and Barnes sitting across from you.

“Wait a second—don’t tell me.” He points between the two of you. “You’re partners now?”

You say nothing. You don’t have to.

He laughs. “Man, they really just threw you in the deep end, huh? Hope you brought floaties.”

You open your mouth — something sharp, something just this side of fireable — but Barnes beats you to it.

“Let’s go.”

His voice is low and even, but there’s an edge to it. Not anger. Not threat. Just final.

You glance at him. He’s already standing. Already moving.

You look back at Walker and smile, all teeth.

“See you at the top.”

And then you follow Barnes out of the bullpen — shoulders square, file tucked under your arm, stomach burning with something that feels suspiciously like adrenaline.

Let the cold case begin.

---

Barnes doesn’t tell you where you’re going.

You try — casually at first.

“So… are we headed to a specific lead, or is this just a scenic tour?”

Silence.

No grunt, no side-eye. Just the steady click of the turn signal and the hum of the engine.

You glance at him, trying to read the profile — stone-cut jaw, stubble like he shaved yesterday with regret, expression locked somewhere between deadpan and “don’t ask.” His hand is tight on the wheel. The right one. The other’s gloved and motionless, resting near the gearshift like it’s not entirely his.

You try again.

“Blink twice if we’re about to break into a place I’m supposed to pretend I didn’t know about.”

Still nothing. Not even a muscle twitch.

He drives like he’s on a clock only he can hear — precise, no wasted movement, every lane change premeditated. Windows cracked just enough to let in the October air, cold and dry.

You settle back in your seat, staring out at the city as it scrolls by.

The silence stretches so long you start to spiral a little. Maybe he actually doesn’t talk. Maybe this is a test. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who communicates only in nods and quiet guilt.

Maybe Sam is punishing you for something.

Finally, just to fill the space, you mutter, “For the record, I’m fun on stakeouts.”

Nothing.

“I bring snacks. I ask insightful questions. I don’t hog the radio.”

Still nothing.

You glance sideways again. He’s not tense exactly. But contained. Coiled. Like someone wound too tight for too long.

You sigh, give up, and slump deeper into the seat.

“Cool. Hot and broody. Love that for me.”

That gets you something.

A subtle shift of his mouth. Not a smile. Not really. But close enough to make you feel stupidly victorious.

You decide that’s a win and open the case file.

There’s not much. A few witness statements from her old neighbors, all dated within the first week of her disappearance. Two of them contradict each other. One says she was seen getting into a car around 9:40 pm. The other insists she came home alone, groceries in hand, around the same time.

There’s a flyer for her missing persons alert. A note in the margin: 

No official suspect. No forensic hits.

And that’s it.

You blink. This is it? No deeper file? No full casebook, no internal review?

Barnes pulls into a narrow side street in Sunset Park, slowing in front of an old hardware store with half the letters burned out on the sign.

He cuts the engine.

The silence hangs for a second longer. Then he finally looks at you.

“Don’t say anything weird.”

You blink. “Define weird.”

But he’s already out of the car.

The hardware store smells like grease and dust and memories that don’t want to be stirred. Barnes walks in like he’s been here before. You follow, still unsure where you’re going until he stops at the back counter.

The man behind it doesn’t flinch — doesn’t smile either. He’s built like a blunt object and has the posture of someone who doesn’t want to talk.

“Ernie Delgado?” Barnes says.

The man sighs. “Figured I’d see you again someday.”

“Last time you talked to Steve Rogers. You told him something off the record.”

“Yeah. And then he died.”

Ernie doesn’t say it like an accusation. More like a warning.

“Avery Thompson. Your old tenant,” Barnes presses. “She was asking the wrong questions. You said that back then.”

Ernie shakes his head. “Poor girl. Caught the scent of something and thought she could do it smart — document everything, build a file, push it through legal channels. But she didn’t realize who she was circling.”

“Did you?” you prompt, earning a casual glare from Barnes.

Ernie hesitates. “She… she met with someone. Not often. Once, maybe twice. He never gave a name. Government type. Not local. Steve asked me about her meeting spots. I told him the guy drove a dark town car and never got out when he picked her up. Like he didn’t want to be seen with her.”

“What else?” Barnes presses.

“He wasn’t the only one watching her. I saw a second car tailing them once. Plates were swapped. Military decals. I told Steve and he got this look… like he already knew. Or was afraid he was right.”

“And then?” you ask.

Ernie shrugs. “He left. Said he had one more conversation to have before he dropped it.”

You and Barnes both freeze.

Barnes speaks, voice flat. “He said that to me too.”

“I didn’t hear from him again,” Ernie says. “Didn’t know what happened until it was too late. Didn’t want to know, if I’m being honest.”

You study Ernie’s face — the guilt, the years weighing on him. You know that look. You’ve seen it in your own mirror.

“It never stops mattering,” you say softly.

He looks at you.

“What?”

“The thing you didn’t say. The thing you could’ve done. Doesn’t matter if it would’ve helped or not. You still carry it. Every day. Every time you look at your reflection or the hole someone left behind.”

Ernie goes quiet.

Barnes does too.

You’re not even sure why you said it like that. Maybe because it’s true. Maybe because you know what it’s like to feel like you’re five minutes late to the moment that mattered.

Ernie finally nods toward a shelf. “There’s a box under that cabinet. Steve left it with me. Said not to open it unless someone came looking for him. I kept it. Couldn’t bring myself to toss it.”

You retrieve the box. It’s small. Heavy. Unlabeled.

“Thanks,” Barnes says, already turning away.

You nod. “For what it’s worth… you did more than most.”

“Yeah,” Ernie mutters. “And it still wasn’t enough.”

---

The box sits between you and Barnes on the center console like it might explode. Small. Heavy. Unlabeled. A presence all its own.

He hasn’t touched it since Ernie handed it over. Just let it sit there like a bomb someone else might defuse. He’s staring out the windshield, knuckles pale on the steering wheel, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

You sip your terrible gas station coffee. Bitter. Burned. Just enough to keep your mouth busy while you try to figure out what to say next.

Five seconds of silence pass. Then ten. Then twenty.

You cave.

“So… are we gonna open it, or are we pretending we’re on a stakeout with an incredibly tense paperweight?”

Nothing.

“Seriously,” you prod. “Is this a brooding exercise, or are you waiting for it to hatch?”

Still no response. Not even a twitch. The silence from him is so practiced it almost feels cruel.

You sigh and reach for the latch. His voice slices through the air, low and sharp.

"Don’t touch it."

You raise an eyebrow. "Pretty sure Ernie gave it to both of us."

His glare cuts over, cool and lethal. But you hold it. Don’t flinch.

Finally, he moves. Opens the latch himself, slow and deliberate, like it costs him. The lid creaks. The contents inside are aged but carefully packed: a black spiral notebook, an old precinct group photo, a flash drive in a cracked case, a manila folder labeled A.T., and a faded sticky note, curled at the edges.

Barnes stares at it.

You lean in. “What does it say?”

He doesn’t answer. Just picks it up and hands it to you like it burns.

The note reads: Check shift logs. Nov 2. Cross-ref 721-B. Red ink = wrong name.

You frown. “What’s 721-B?”

“Old witness form template,” he mutters. “Filed in cold cases before the department went digital.”

You flip the note over. Nothing else.

“So Steve thought one of the original witness names was fake.”

“He knew it,” Barnes mutters.

“And this was his backup plan? A breadcrumb trail?”

He nods, jaw tight. “He thought someone would care.”

You glance at him. “You mean you.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have to.

You reach into the box and pull out the notebook. The cover is soft from use, corners bent, the spiral a little rusted. You flip through it — Steve’s handwriting, neat and compulsive. Names, arrows, dates, short phrases, and patterns that loop back in on themselves like he was trying to catch something too slippery to hold.

“He was building something,” you murmur. “Trying to reconstruct her last few weeks. Clients, locations, conversations. He’s got a dozen entries for ‘H.M.’ and ‘S-26.’”

Barnes leans in slightly, reading over your shoulder.

“H.M. is probably Harold Marks,” he says. “Avery’s last known client. Worked private security. Got stabbed three days before she vanished. Refused to press charges.”

You glance at him. “How do you remember that?”

“I don’t,” he says. “Steve did.”

There’s a bitterness in his voice that cuts deeper than you expect. Guilt woven through every word.

You shut the notebook. Let the weight of it rest in your lap.

“You know,” you say lightly, “this whole thing would go a lot faster if you stopped treating me like a stranger who wandered into your grief party.”

His head snaps toward you. “This isn’t a party.”

“No kidding.” You meet his eyes. “But you’re not the only person who’s ever lost someone. And I’m not here to steal your tragedy. I’m here because Sam asked me to be. Because something about this case doesn’t add up. And maybe — just maybe — Steve trusted you enough to think you’d know what to do with this. But he didn’t lock it in a vault. He left it with a guy who sells bolts by the pound. That doesn’t scream ‘classified.’ That screams ‘findable.’ Eventually.”

He stares at the windshield again. Long inhale. Like the air tastes different now.

Then, “You’re loud.”

“And you’re emotionally constipated. Guess we’re even.”

His mouth twitches — barely — but it’s there. The first crack in the wall.

You pause.

“Sam put us together for a reason, you know. I talk. You glower. Classic partner setup.”

He glances at you sideways. Not quite a glare. Almost amusement. Almost.

“This isn’t some good cop/bad cop shit.”

You shrug. “That’s fine. I prefer chaotic good and emotionally repressed.”

He gives you a confused look.

You beam. “We’re gonna work great together.”

He sighs a long sigh.

"Sure, Rookie."

Your nose wrinkles at the name, but you let it slide. For now.

At least it's better than Crash.

You tap the sticky note. “November second. That’s two days before Avery’s missing persons report was filed.”

He pulls the manila folder out of the box. Opens it. Inside: photocopies of old witness statements, interview transcripts, surveillance stills, and a printed street map with five addresses circled.

“That’s her apartment,” he says, pointing. “The other four? No clue.”

He flips to another page. You see Steve’s handwriting again.

Only one witness testified. Two people reported the incident. Second report vanished. Name mismatch. File logged at 4:17 a.m. by ‘S. Barnes.’ I wasn’t on shift.

Your stomach twists.

“Someone forged your name?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah.”

He leans back in his seat, staring at the ceiling like maybe the answer’s written in the liner.

Taking a deep breath, you finally ask the question that's been plaguing you since Sam's office this morning.

“What really went down that night you guys got hit?”

His voice is quieter now. Raw. “It wasn’t just a hit. It was scripted.”

You frown. “Scripted how?”

“The call came through dispatch like any other. Said there was a lead on one of our cases. Attached to a real case number — one that had already been closed.”

You feel the chill start to settle in your spine.

“We didn’t know it was fake,” he says. “Whoever set it up had clearance. Routed it through our precinct. Scrubbed the logs afterward. Picked a location with no cameras. No comms. No way to call for backup.”

“And backup didn’t know you were out there.”

He nods. “By the time they showed up, it was just me. Steve was already gone. And the place was clean — like someone came through right after to erase whatever trace they could.”

You exhale slowly. Your hands feel too tight around your coffee cup.

“And right before that,” you say, “Steve told you he had one more conversation to have.”

“He wouldn’t say with who. Just said it wasn’t solid. Didn’t want to jinx it.”

You nod. “And then…”

You don’t say the rest. You don’t have to.

He lost more than his arm that night.

The quiet stretches long again. Then you speak, voice soft but firm.

“You think this lead — the fake witness — that’s what got him killed?”

“I think someone didn’t want him following it,” he says. “And they made sure he couldn’t.”

You glance at the box again. At the map. At the tangled list of clues.

Then back to him.

“How deep does this go?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you both already know — it’s not just about what happened to Avery Thompson.

It’s who’s still making sure no one ever finds out.

[sereia4skz]

to my favourite, sparkliest Yayaaaaaaaa~ 💖

I think I'm in trouble. And not just because I'm living with 8 ridiculously hot hybrid boys. I know, I know, you warned me this was a bad idea. I thought I was immune to their charms! LOOK HOW WELL I'VE RESISTED LIXXIE ALL THESE YEARS! 

Anyway, onto my fresh problem:

The foxy boy- Jeongin- he’s got the biggest cutest ears and the fluffiest tail and and and- yeah. I’m down bad. Worse, he definitely knows. I swear he’s mischief personified.

I keep catching him staring at my chest too- you know, the part of me I’m most insecure about? The things that cause me constant neck and shoulder pain?

I’ve been wearing my baggiest sweaters, but it’s not like I can really hide them…

AND THAT’S NOT EVEN THE WORST PART!?

You know that famous trope, aNd THeRe wAS oNLy ONe BeD? Well, reality has brought me one better:

There is only one bath here.

And the door doesn’t lock 💁‍♀️🤦‍♀️

There are showers and stuff, and everyone is very clean, but goddamn it my neck hurts and my shoulders hurt and my *brain* hurts from how hard I’m concentrating on not grabbing those ears and kissing that stupid smug grin off his face…

ARHGSOHOSIEHH>:AIDHJ>AUFHSUDHF:IAOJWD:NFDHBSDFLGYALEIUGFSBCAJKEYSMASHKEYSMASHKEYSMASH

I know, I know! I’m a walking, talking catastrophe. You can lecture me all you want when I get home, before I sell all my worldly belongings and go spend the rest of my days in a distant cave accessible only by a three day trek and guarded by Cerberus himself.

Please pray for my sanity (and my neck ache),

Love love love love love love love,

pixie

1k Followers Event | i could help

pairing: fox!Jeongin x fem!bigchested!reader

genre: smut

warnings: MDNI, fondling, tit fucking, jeongin calls reader noona once, cum eating (jeongin licks his and hers), just filth in the bathtub tbh

event masterlist: #1kShootingStars

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Pixie!!

You are quite downbad it seems, everything I've heard about this boy seems evil, something is amiss even. 

I've told you before not to worry about your chest so much, you know I love it hehe~ Truly tho if you're feeling achy a nice bath and a nice massage could help. I'm just saying maybe fox boy could make himself useful.

Good luck~

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The bath was already half full when you finally sank into it with a sigh, water sloshing around your hips. The hot steam curled around your shoulders and kissed your damp skin, soothing the tight ache that lived in your back, right behind your shoulder blades, thanks to your overly generous chest.

You groaned softly, leaning forward in the tub to relieve some pressure off your spine, the weight of your breasts shifting heavily in the water.

“God, I need a chiropractor... or a new pair of boobs,” you muttered to yourself.

The door creaked open behind you, you paid it no mind, afterall you know it doesn't lock or close very well.

"Pretty sure Jeongin wouldn’t approve of that trade," came a low voice, mischievous and teasing.

You sat upright with a splash, water rushing around your body as you turned to glare over your shoulder. “Jeongin! Did you seriously sneak in?! ”

He leaned lazily against the frame, red-tinted ears flicking, tail curling with smug satisfaction. “Actually. Door doesn’t lock, so I'm not sneaking in” he said, stepping inside with zero shame. His sharp fox eyes glinted as he watched the way the water clung to your body, obscuring just enough to drive him wild.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m bathing, you perv. My back’s killing me.”

He came closer, crouching beside the tub, eyes traveling slowly from your damp shoulders to the roundness of your breasts barely submerged.

“You should’ve told me,” he murmured, voice dropping, “I’d have helped.”

You scoffed. “Helped? You? With what, rubbing fox balm on my spine?”

“No,” he said, voice a sultry purr now, fingers already slipping over the rolled towel at the edge of the tub. “Felix taught me a thing or two”

You didn’t resist when his hands found your shoulders, warm and firm. You sighed, surprised by how good his touch felt. His thumbs dug into the knots at the base of your neck, working in slow circles that had you relaxing in seconds.

“That’s it,” he said slowly. “Lean forward.”

You obeyed, elbows braced on the smooth ceramic rim of the tub, water shifting with your movement. His hands moved with expert rhythm, gliding down your shoulder blades, thumbs dipping into the tight muscles beside your spine. He pressed deeper, coaxing out tension with each careful motion.

“Mmm…” You let out an involuntary moan. “That actually feels amazing.”

“I know,” he murmured smugly, his lips near your ear. “Told you the other day, I’m good with my hands.”

But his hands… don't stay innocent for long. One slid lower, tracing the slope of your spine before creeping forward, fingers ghosting along the outer swell of your breast under the water.

“Jeongin…” you warned, breath catching.

“What?” His voice dripped with faux innocence. “Just adjusting my angle.”

You gasped softly as his fingers dragged over your nipple underwater, slow and teasing. He cupped one heavy breast in both hands, lifting it slightly, marveling at the weight.

“No wonder your back hurts,” he whispered. “They’re huge.”

You flushed, biting your lip. “Shut up.”

“I’m not complaining,” he grinned, giving one an appreciative squeeze. The warm water only made it more sinful, the way his fingers slid over your slick, sensitive skin. He thumbed your nipple, rolling it until it peaked, while his other hand found its twin and did the same.

“You’re so sensitive,” he teased, breath hot against your neck. “Bet you could cum from this alone.”

“Jeongin!”

Before you could finish scolding him, he scooped you out of the water in one smooth move, strong arms cradling you to his chest. You squealed in surprise, wet and dripping, your thighs slick against his abs.

He laid you down on the thick bathroom rug, his body hovering over yours.

“You looked too pretty all wet to leave you in the tub,” he said, kneeling between your legs.

His length already out, hard, flushed and twitching. He wrapped his hand around it, giving it a slow stroke as he looked down at your glistening, water-slick body with hunger in his eyes. He pressed it between your breasts, guiding them around his cock with eager hands. You arched beneath him, water-slick cleavage enveloping him completely. 

“Shit... look at this,” he breathed, guiding your tits around his cock with both hands. “Fucking perfect.”

His cock slid between your tits, each stroke making your nipples pebble again from the friction and heat. You held your breasts together, letting him rut into the softness of your chest, precum smearing across your skin.

“God, yes, just like that. Fuck, baby, you make this feel so good,” he hissed, hips rolling slowly. “So soft… so warm… this was made for me.”

His fingers lazily teased over them with every few thrusts, pinching and tugging between his strokes.

“You like this?” he asked roughly, panting. “You like letting me fuck your tits like a needy little pillow for my cock?” 

You breathe out a broken moan.

“Look at you,” he growled, eyes dark with lust. “All flushed and messy… Fuck, I could cum just looking at your pretty tits bouncing like that.”

Jeongin's head tilted back, a low growl vibrating from his chest. He quickened his pace, the wet slap of his hips meeting your chest echoing in the quiet bathroom. His rhythm grew wild, desperate, his abs tensing as the pressure built. With a sharp groan, his head fell back and he came hard, thick ropes spilling over your chest and collarbone, hot and heavy on your skin. His hands trembled slightly as he milked out the last spurts, panting, his cock still twitching between your breasts.

But even as his breath heaved, a smirk played on his lips.

“You look so good like this,” he rasped, running two fingers through the mess and dragging them up to your lips. “Covered in me.”

But he wasn’t done.

His mouth descended immediately, tongue lapping up the mess he'd made. 

"Innie! Wait, that's nasty!" you yelped, trying to squirm away.

He smirked against your skin, licking a stray drop off your collarbone with exaggerated slowness. “Nasty?” he repeated, voice thick with amusement. “You were just moaning while I fucked your tits, and this is where you draw the line?”

You slapped at his shoulder, only for him to grab your wrist and pin it above your head playfully. “I’m serious! You just came all over me and now you’re- ugh! You’re eating it?!”

Jeongin snorted, licking his lips. 

“You’re such a menace,” you huffed, cheeks flushed.

“And you’re such a tease,” he shot back, letting your wrist go only to cup one breast again, flicking your nipple with his tongue. “Strutting around with these perfect tits, taking long, wet baths with the door unlocked. You were begging for me to come in.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, sure. My aching back was me flirting.”

“Well,” he purred, dragging kisses down your stomach now, “your tits were flirting. They called to me.”

“They did not!” you gasped, both scandalized and laughing.

“They were like, ‘Jeongin, help us… we’re so heavy and lonely!’” he mocked in a high-pitched whisper, then groaned in his regular voice, “And I couldn’t not answer that cry for help.”

You bit your lip, trying not to grin, but it was impossible. “You’re actually crazy.”

“Crazy for you?” he offered with a wink.

You rolled your eyes again but before you could sass back, he slid lower, parting your thighs again with practiced ease.

“But you’re gonna thank me when I’m done,” he added, eyes locked on yours.

“Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh. “And about to make you scream louder than you did in the bath.”

“Jeongin.”

“I’m already down here, noona. Might as well give your other lips some attention too.”

Your breath hitched. “You’re impossible.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re dripping, let me taste you,” he said with a wicked grin, diving back in before you could protest.

His tongue found your folds, long and slow at first, savoring, before you even think to answer. Then he licked deeper, faster, tongue curling against your clit with maddening precision. His hands kept you open and grounded while you bucked against his mouth, your fingers gripping his ears, his wet hair, anything.

“Jeongin- f-fuck–!”

He groaned into you, sucking your clit between his lips and shaking his head just enough to send tremors through your entire core. Your body tensed under him, thighs quivering, your back arching in desperate pleasure.

He didn’t stop until you shattered completely, cumming on his face with a strangled cry. Your thighs clamped around his head, your body jerking with aftershocks as he kept licking, lazily now, just enjoying the way you pulsed against his tongue.

Finally, he pulled back, chin slick, eyes blown wide.

“Now that,” he smirked, “is how you take care of back pain.”

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taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o

[ghostlysoaps]

Restitution

[part 1] [part 2]

this is... 3.4k long. cw: idiots in love being idiots

Simon "Ghost" Riley, as a general rule, doesn't get sick. It's been a staunch constant throughout his life. In school, throughout basic training and even when little Joseph was old enough for kindergarten. He managed to dodge the illnesses plaguing his fellow men with the same efficiency he avoided enemy fire. Even Kyle and Johnny's bout of sickness hadn't rubbed off on him after he'd meticulously cleaned, aired out and disinfected his room. 

He'd thought as much at least. 

What began as a tickle in the back of his throat and a slight increase in sneezing, both of which he'd attributed to a visiting lieutenant's overreliance on cologne, spiralled over the course of a night's rest. He awakens to his alarm blaring loud enough to wish for a bullet between the eyes, a nose so stuffed he can't breathe and a frontal lobe full of cotton. The insides of his throat is raw. As if sandpaper had been dragged carelessly up and down the sensitive flesh until ulcers formed in its wake. He blinks at the crackled ceiling for a bit, allows himself a couple moments of self-pity, then heaves himself over the side of the mattress.

He sways on his feet, remembers taking a few steps and then dark starbursts rising up over his eyes until his field of vision is nothing but galaxies.

Ghost wakes up for a second time, on the floor, an undetermined amount of time later. His head is worse than it was – however impossible he'd thought that to be. The floor is a welcome relief from the excessive heat but the firmness is hell on his aching body. The back of his head smarts. He pokes at the swollen lump with fingers made of lead and winces at the responding lash of agony.

He's not ashamed to admit he crawls back to bed in the literal sense when he manages to get his uncooperative limbs to obey him. Squints through writing a short text to Price informing him of the situation before sinking into unconsciousness with a small sigh of relief. He just needs a minute, that's all, just a little bit of time...

_ _ _ _ _

Someone is calling his name. It registers vaguely in the periphery of his consciousness though it's the rough shake of his shoulders that truly rouses him to a state of near wakefulness. 

His eyelids strain to unglue themselves and he slams them l shut almost immediately when the dim light in the room sends a spike of flaming pain straight through his skull. Opening them halfway is easier but the compromise is a world blurred. Needs must, however, and Simon manages to zero in on a flash of blue standing out against the drab surroundings. Simon blinks, slow and lethargic, parting his dry lips. 

"Tommy?" he croaks. It has to be, right? Who else would look at him with worry in their eyes apart from their mother? The vague figure is much too broad to be her and lacks her frizzy, shoulder-length hair.

Sleep claims him before he can hear his reply.

_ _ _ _ _

The next time he wakes, porcelain is pressed against his lips and he's urged to drink from the thin rim. The content within is chalky, lukewarm and medicinal. Simon scrunches his nose at it, turning his face away long enough to say it's gross. He goes back to sipping it though – not needing the urged words he can't parse though he appreciates the gentle coaxing nonetheless – the cool hand on his forehead and fingers enveloping his own another form of balm.

How bad is it, if they're wasting precious medication on him? How long has he been here? She'd have to take on additional shifts without Simon there picking up his father's slack. As if she isn't running herself into an early grave already. 

His eyes sting, stuffed nose trailing snot when the first tears fall.

"'M sorry," he whispers through a choked sob, too exhausted to run the numbers. It'll be a bad month, of that he's certain, but can forgo sleep and school if it means his paycheck will see results from it. Prioritise rent before groceries. Make sure Tommy eats enough. Simon isn't a stranger to going without. Subsisting on one meal a day isn't ideal but he can do it. Knows himself and his limits. He'll be fine. 

Someone brushes the tears from his cheeks and it only serves to make him cry harder. Wretched and ugly. He clings to whomever is holding him, making a mess of their clothes through hitched apologies. Perhaps they kiss his temple as he struggles to remain awake, perhaps they don't, but the imagined comfort settles him regardless. He soaks in their warmth for as long as he's able and counts the steady beat of their heart as time trickles through his fingers.

_ _ _ _ _

He wakes up lucid but for the general fatigue sickness wrecks on the body. It takes him a couple of moments to truly land in his own body again. Sore, in a perpetual state of both dry and dripping. Sweat dried upon his brow even as new beads formed around his hairline and temples. Simon grimaces before he heaves himself up on shaking arms.

Only to realise that he's not alone.

Kyle startles at the noise he makes. He whips his head around and, as soon as he sees Simon upright, scrambles to get to his bedside. Too fast to stop him, he first cups Simon's cheeks with soft hands, cool and comfortable but burning all the same. A relieved smile tugs at his lips. It quickly turns to worry as one hand migrates up to check his temperature in the least reliable way known to man. An errant thumb swipes over the ridge of Simon's brow and he gasps in a breath as it skates over sensitive nerves.

There's nothing but white-noise in his ear. Static. A high-pitched tone growing louder and louder.

"Mask," he croaks and Kyle's mouth snaps shut.

Had he been speaking? Simon hadn't heard a word.

Cloth is pressed into his hands not a second later to which Simon grasps it like a lifeline. With the burst of adrenaline he's able to stagger to his feet. Righting himself on the edge of his desk then supporting himself against the wall as he steps towards the bathroom. He shakes off Kyle's helping hands with a violent jerk and has the door shut between them as fast as humanly possible.

The bolt slides into place and Simon takes a page out of its book as he lowers himself to the floor in a similarly oiled motion. He supposes the nausea thick in his throat could be attributed to whatever illness has taken root in him and, well... he's always been good at lying to himself. His fingers are shaking. Simon glares at them in affront until they begrudgingly stop. Only then does he hoist himself up. Takes a piss, brushes his teeth and shuffles into the shower while taking care to avoid the mirror above the sink.

The ghost of Kyle's touch lingers until he scrubs his face clean with soap, scars and calluses rasping against days-old stubble. Warm water for a bit, then glacially cold. It's nearly good enough to make him moan. When he at last shuts the faucet off he feels marginally more human. Refreshed. Though he grimaces at the thought of weaseling himself back into the same old clothes.

It's not the ones he’d gone to bed with however long ago. These sweats are grey rather than black. The shirt, too, is without the stretched hem and the three penny-sized holes right by the left sleeve. He decidedly doesn't think about how that might have come to pass as he towels his hair dry. He steps back into his trousers and leaves the rest in a pile. Glances once into the mirror to see his own red-nosed, sullen face staring back. Blotchy. Plain.

Unsightly.

Shoving the mask on, Simon squares his shoulders and does his best to ignore the ridiculous picture he must make. Kyle says nothing about it. Merely offers him a short nod. Guilt keeps his gaze downcast whilst Simon pulls a shirt over his head but the moment he takes a step towards the front door, Gaz slides in front of him with a clench to his jaw that spells trouble. 

"Back to bed with you, mate." 

"Sod off, Sergeant." It's not in the least bit intimidating, the way his voice turns nasal with mucus, not that Garrick had found it in himself to fear Ghost for years at this point. The glare he levels his way seems ineffectual when Kyle merely plants his feet, glares right back and points to the bed where new linens have taken the place of old, sweat-soaked ones.

"You're getting back under the covers without fussing or I'm tackling you onto them."

Simon squints at him, wonders if he should try for the door again just for the hell of it. Unfortunately, he knows Johnny isn't the only one prone to fighting dirty and as much as it pains him to admit it, if even just to himself, he values the integrity of his spine too much to try. Doesn't stop him from grinding his teeth and continuing the ridiculous stand-off they're tangled in. 

"And if you're good, I'll make you a cuppa with that fancy shite,” Kyle says, low and wheedling, after the silence has stretched a mite too long.

"What kind?"

"Ceylon black with wild cherries."

He sniffs. In part because his nose is dripping again, and in part because he hates how the bribe is working. Lumbering back to his bunk, Simon pretends the short period of physical movement hadn't drained him. That there isn't a trembling down to his bones or involuntary twitches of muscle protesting at being used again. It's a relief to sit back against the wall with the faint breeze of the cracked window fanning across his eyelids.

"Here," Kyle murmurs and he opens his eyes to find the ear of a brimming mug pressed into his hands while Kyle peers at him from beneath his ridiculously long lashes.

The aroma he faintly discerns is rich and dark. He mutters a "thank you," against the rim – because his mother raised him with manners – and pretends he isn't somewhat touched by the fact he remembers how Simon takes it. Splash of milk and blisteringly hot, although undercut with an unfamiliar nip of sweetness. He'll excuse the use of honey, though, because Kyle grins at him and Simon quickly loses the ability to focus on anything else. Breath coming short until Gaz returns to the fold-out chairs he'd shoved into the corner of the room and the portable gas stove he'd set up on one of them.

Simon takes the time to study his profile. Undeniably pretty in spite of the dark circles beneath his eyes and rumpled clothes. Stealing glances at Simon as if worried his newfound compliance is temporary.

"What are you doing?" he asks, trying to gain a footing in this strange reality he's found himself in.

"I'm heating up soup."

"No. What are you doing here?"

Kyle looks at him with his lower lip caught between his teeth. "Price got your message. Thought it looked odd and asked Tav to check up on you. It was... bad," he mutters, gaze sliding off him to stare at the floor. "Least we could do was help, seeing as we're the ones who got you sick. Didn't think you'd much appreciate being marched to medical either so–" he shrugs, "–here we are."

"Feeling better. No reason to stick around anymore."

A peal of laughter follows his statement, Kyle's eyes curving into half-moons, teeth glinting. 

"You're a riot, sir."

"Wasn't joking."

"I know." 

Gaz busies himself with pouring soup into a bowl and carrying it over, depositing it on the nightstand. He hooks a foot around the legs of one of the chairs to drag it closer and settles in as if he owns the space, kicking his feet up on Simon's bed while staring at him with imploring eyes until Simon rolls his and swallows a spoonful of broth. 

It's perfectly balanced between salty and spiced with meat tender enough to fall apart at a stern glance. The vegetables he'd tossed in have retained enough structure to offer a difference in texture. Easy to devour with a lingering warmth settling in his chest when he scrapes the last of it out.

A chime sounds at just about the same time and Kyle takes the bowl from him to refill it, swiping a thumb over the screen of his phone with his free hand, before handing him a bottle of water and an oval pill. "Antibiotics," he explains and Simon takes his word for it, swallowing it down dry and chasing away the chalky sensation with another mouthful of soup.

"It's good," he says instead of something like "thank you," or "you didn't have to do all this," or "if you don't stop looking at me I'm going to kiss you right on your stupid fucking mouth."

"That's because I barred John from helping out," Kyle says, wry and fondly exasperated. "Not like he put up much of a fight. Damn near drove Cap mental pacing around base like a wounded mutt whenever he couldn't shirk his duties. Put us on rotation after that."

Simon raises a brow.

"Can't say I blame him.” Kyle folds his arms over his chest and slouches into it. Searching over Simon's face, fingers absentmindedly twisting the fibres of his shirt. As he does whenever he's thinking too hard. “You're always a sight for sore eyes.”

His other eyebrow shoots up to join the first before he can wrestle his expression back under control. Turning the statement over in his mind, he finds it lacking the teasing he’d come to recognise in Garrick’s tone.

“Should you be flirting with men other than your boyfriend?” he questions, the words like ash in his mouth.

“I doubt he'd mind,” Gaz dismisses, unconcerned as he studies Simon's eyes, a lilt of laughter warming the words. “He's in love with you too.”

Simon, who’d done the age-old miscalculation of taking a sip of his drink while awaiting his response, promptly chokes on the liquid. He coughs and coughs and coughs, again barely audible over the ringing in his ears. The phrase circles around his mind like a vulture. One word in particular. He's vaguely aware of Gaz taking the mug from his cramping hands. Coaxing him to release the handle so as to not spill its contents into his lap and worsening the situation.

The door clicks open.

“Ye wouldnae believe wha–’s goin’ on ‘ere? Thought ye said he was doing better,” Soap frets. He takes a couple strides into the room. Three or so long steps to carry him from the door to their sides, hovering much like Gaz did previously. Piercing gaze taking the both of them in with a tight twist at the corners of his mouth. Simon ducks his head to avoid it under the guise of heaving for fire-laced breaths. The heel of his palm presses hard into his own ribcage, right above his galloping heart, as he attempts to wrestle back control of his protesting lungs.

He peeks at them through his fringe and finds them communicating entirely without words. A back and forth of ‘don’t make me say it’’s and ‘fess the fuck up or else’’s with varying degrees of wide-eyed looks tossed about. But eventually Kyle sighs and simply, reluctantly, says: “I might have told him.”

Simon doesn't need to see Johnny’s expression to know he understands what that means. It’s in the sharp breath he takes, the stiff then roundening of his shoulders and rueful chuckle. He rubs his neck and Simon averts his eyes before theirs meet. His brain feels as if it is swimming in snot and he doesn’t have the capacity to think critically about the information given. The six words simply play on repeat like a cartridge tripping over a scratch in vinyl.

“Hey,” Kyle says, with an accompanying brush of fingers over his bicep. “Sorry for springing that on you out of nowhere. This doesn’t have to change anything.”

A bark of hysterical laughter escapes him.

“It won’t change anything’,” Johnny corrects with a look in Gaz’s direction. “No’ unless ye act on it. Won’t treat ye any different.”

Simon tilts his head up just enough to look at them. To take in the earnest expressions they wear. To perhaps, fleetingly, allow himself to notice how the love they hold extends beyond themselves. A moment, yes. He allows himself that before he shakes his head. “You’re takin’ the piss.”

Johnny's face twists as if he'd tasted something sour and Kyle's frown has his nose scrunching in the most endearing fashion.

“We’re nae!”

“You are,” Simon insists.

“Don't think that's for you to decide, mate.”

Simon knows it isn’t but he stubbornly clamps his mouth shut and glares. He doesn't know how to express himself with words. It's always been actions that meant most to him – that he found easiest to speak through. But how would he even begin to convey the depths of his… feelings? Ones he’d barely begun wrestling with. How terrified he is they'd turn away the moment they learned how much Ghost and Simon differed in certain aspects, and how little they did in others. That once he’d had a taste, he’d disregard mission parameters if it meant keeping them safe – even at the expense of others. That, while they might be able to compartmentalise work and leisure, Simon isn’t all that sure he could do the same.

And setting all that aside, he’s been told, shown, time and time again, there’s little about him to love.

It was only a matter of time before the lesson stuck.

He grits his teeth, jaw working, as the tension rises, curdles and boils, until it finally snaps, not with sneering or anger, but with a sighed breath.

“It’s not the same,” he says with finality. “Emotions muddle… everything. Makes shit complicated. And I am your superior officer, like it or not. There are… rules in place,” he continues, grasping at straws. “The job has to come first.”

Kyle and Johnny exchange a glance. Neither of them look particularly happy.

“I didn't–” Kyle trails off. The syllables coated with a bone-deep, weary exhaustion. It wraps around them, weighs them down to fall into Simon’s lap, lingering to be examined, rather than float uninhibited through the air to vanish in the ether. Kyle’s fingertips are twisting in his shirt again. Smiling, rueful and joyless. Johnny brushes the backs of their hands together in a motion ingrained enough it has to be muscle memory, subtle enough to play off as coincidental, and Simon’s entire ribcage aches at the sight. “Take some time. Think on it. There’s a place for you with us if you want it. You've got three more days with antibiotics, so you're stuck with us until then no matter what you decide.” 

Kyle twists his hand around to slide the palm up and around Johnny’s wrist. Brushes a light kiss to the slope of his jaw. The skin dimples under his lips, fleetingly turning pale under the imprint of his mouth and Simon stares, enraptured. “I've got work waiting for me.”

He leaves with a stilted smile and not so much as a backwards glance. Johnny stares after him for a long moment. Conflicted. Teetering on his toes. He heaves a sigh as well, falling back to rest his weight on his heels, then slumping further backwards to settle into Kyle's chair instead of following him, blue eyes scrutinising when he turns them on Simon, burning like a propane flame.

“What?” Simon growls.

“Nothin’.”

“Spit it out, Soap.”

“Jus’… isnae like ye to be a coward, sir.”

Simon opens his mouth, but Johnny is quicker – and far more cutting.

“Ye asked.”

He shuts it again. A chastised dog tucking tail. Turns his face away to count the divot imperfections in the wall as if the likeness wasn’t apparent enough already. Listens to Johnny drum his fingers to a tune he vaguely recognises.

“He's a romantic at heart.”

He would've wanted it to play out differently, is left unsaid.

“Change the fucking subject.”

Johnny hums and does so, slipping right back into the tale he’d meant to divulge not ten minutes ago as if the time in-between had never passed at all.

[glowettee]

hey im changing school from april ig , i want an asap glow up routien pls help🙏🏻😭🤧💗

✧˖° the transfer glow-up guide (by mindy)

@glowettee (mindy)

oh babe, first of all. this is your moment. i know changing schools is terrifying (new people, new environment, new social dynamics), but let’s shift that nervous energy into main character energy. this is your chance to reintroduce yourself.... clean slate, no past labels, no outdated impressions. we’re stepping into this next chapter fully leveled up.

so, let’s i'm going to help you get on an ASAP glow-up routine that’s not just about looking good but feeling good. because confidence is what makes people remember you. the goal? to walk into that school like you’ve always belonged there. effortlessly coollllll, collected, and in control.

✧˖° 9-step glow-up plan before changing schools

➼ 01. mindset glow-up (real glow-ups start inside)

okay, listen. this is a fresh start. and that means we’re mentally rewiring everything that held you back before. if you were shy at your old school? irrelevant now. if people overlooked you? not happening anymore. you get to decide who you are here.

💌 your mindset reset steps: • rewrite your identity. how do you want to be perceived? Cool? Mysterious? Charismatic? Make a list of 3-5 traits & try to embody them. • detach from past insecurities. nobody at your new school knows them. Leave them in the past. • affirmations, but make them real instead of “i am confident,” say “i walk into rooms like i belong there.” • start observing instead of overthinking. confidence is built by being present, not stuck in your head.

➼ 02. the face glow-up

please remember this isn’t about changing your face. it’s about enhancing what’s already there.

✨ the essentials: • consistent skincare – cleanse, hydrate, SPF (seriously, do not skip SPF). • brows & lashes are everything – keep brows groomed but natural, curl your lashes daily, and if you can, try a lash serum or mascara that lifts. • lip care = instant glow-up – a tinted lip balm or gloss makes you look polished with zero effort. • find your signature look – subtle eyeliner? flushed cheeks? glowy skin? Find what suits you and stick with it. (i always put a mole on my nose and by my eyes using eyeliner, makes my eyes look bigger and mid-face shorter <3)

➼ 03. hair glow-up (because hair changes everything)

hair frames your face. it’s literally the first thing people notice.

💌 glow-up your hair with: • a deep conditioning routine – shiny, healthy hair looks expensive. • a haircut that fits your face – curtain bangs, layers, or even just a trim can make a difference. • learning easy but stylish hairstyles – even a sleek ponytail or effortless waves can make you look instantly more put together. • switching up your part – sometimes all you need is a deeper side part or a clean middle part to elevate your whole look.

➼ 04. body glow-up (not for aesthetics, but for energy & confidence)

this is about feeling strong, energized, and capable.

💌 glow-up steps: • morning movement – even 10 min of stretching or pilates wakes up your body and improves posture. • hydration + gut health – drink more water, try adding lemon or herbal teas. • fix your posture – standing taller automatically makes you look more confident. • walk like you own the room – slower, deliberate steps, shoulders relaxed, head high. • signature scent – find a perfume or body mist that makes you feel expensive.

➼ 05. wardrobe glow-up

you don’t need a whole new wardrobe. just a few key upgrades to look effortlessly put together.

💌 wardrobe tips: • know your color palette – neutrals + colors that complement your skin tone = instant elevation. • invest in good basics – a fitted top, the perfect pair of jeans, a nice jacket = staples that always work. • keep it clean & fitted – even a simple outfit looks expensive when it fits well and is ironed. • accessorize smartly – dainty jewelry, a sleek bag, and minimalistic shoes pull everything together.

➼ 06. social glow-up (aka, the effortless magnetism)

you don’t need to be the loudest person in the room to be noticed, you just need to be intriguing.

💌 how to glow up socially: • observe first, speak second – people who take their time before talking seem more intentional and confident. • do a slight smirk – always looking friendly can seem try-hard. Instead, a neutral/slight smirk makes you seem intriguing. • ask people about themselves – genuinely being curious makes you instantly likable. • make eye contact + slow your speech – it gives off effortless confidence.

➼ 07. academic glow-up (because being smart is attractive)

you’re entering a new school. this is the perfect chance to build a new academic reputation. i have severallll posts on excelling academically, howeverrrr here's a few tips you can take from this post..

💌 glow-up your school game: • become “the prepared girl” – always have an extra pen, be the one who remembers deadlines. • sit strategically – not in the very back, but also not awkwardly in the front. Middle-front is where the engaged students sit. • have a clean, organized aesthetic – neat handwriting, color-coded notes, a simple but cute planner. • ask one good question per class – it makes you seem engaged without looking like a try-hard.

➼ 08. social media glow-up (first impressions happen online too)

chances are, people will look up your socials or ask for it. make sure they give off the energy you actually want.

💌 how to glow up your socials: • clean up your posts – archive anything that doesn’t reflect your new energy. • keep it slightly mysterious – don’t overshare; post curated moments. • have a signature aesthetic – neutral, coquette, minimal, whatever feels most you. • quality > quantity – better to have 5 great posts than 50 random ones.

➼ 09. confidence glow-up (this is what makes people remember you)

at the end of the day, glow-ups aren’t about looks, it’s about energy.

💌 confidence tips: • act like you’ve always belonged. Walk into school like it’s just another normal day for you. • stop overexplaining. You don’t owe people explanations for your choices or personality. • compliment others. Being effortlessly kind makes you even more magnetic. • romanticize your presence. Imagine you’re the main character in a coming-of-age movie.

✧˖° two extra tips from me, mindy---because you deserve the real secrets

listen, babe, there are two things that nobody tells you when you’re changing schools, and i need you to know them because they will make your life ten times easier. these are the kind of tips that would’ve saved me so much overthinking and stress, so take notes.

➼ 01. don’t make best friends too fast - be mysterious first

i know, i know, when you’re the new girl, it’s tempting to cling to the first people who are nice to you. but slow down. observe. people will show you who they really are within the first few weeks. if you commit too quickly, you might end up in the wrong circle, and trust me, getting out of a friend group is harder than choosing the right one from the start.

💌 here’s how to do it right: • be friendly but slightly reserved – let people come to you. it makes you intriguing. • don’t overshare too soon – mystery is power. • study the social dynamics – who’s genuinely kind? who’s fake nice? who actually aligns with your vibe? • make small connections first – talk to different groups before settling into one.

when you enter with quiet confidence, you naturally attract better people. trust me, this will save you so much unnecessary drama.

➼ 02. build a “new girl” reputation on purpose

when you’re new, you have leverage. people are curious about you. use that to your advantage.

💌 how to subtly control your first impression: • pick a signature thing. maybe it’s your perfume, the way you style your hair, or your effortlessly cool energy. give people something to associate you with. • don’t try too hard to fit in. the moment you stop seeking approval, you get it naturally. • be unpredictable. say something funny when people least expect it, or have a surprising skill. unexpectedness makes people remember you. • own your space. walk into every room like it’s yours. not in a cocky way, just in a “i belong here” way.

when you enter a new school with intention, you don’t just fit in. you stand out. 🤍

✧˖° final thoughts

pleaseee know this isn’t about “becoming” someone else. it’s about stepping into the most polished, self-assured version of yourself. you don’t need to be the loudest, the prettiest, or the most popular, you just need to be comfortable in your own energy. that’s what people are drawn to.

walk into that new school like you’ve already been there for years. you got this. 🤍 love youuu <3333

xoxo mindy

[mythicmanuscripts]

Just read your sub!Jace with reader after returning from a mission, and you said that he would undress you himself to check you aren't injured. What would Jace be like if the reader comes back from a mission injured? Would there be a difference in how he reacts between cuts and bruises vs. something serious like an arrow in the shoulder? Love your work and looking forward to this one!

Brilliant idea anon, brilliant.

There's nothing too explicit in this answer but since it includes being undressed I'll hide it under the cut just to be safe. Enjoy lads!

Firstly, I think Jace would be awful to be around while you're out on a mission, especially when it's high risk or when you'll be away for quite a while. Jace only let you go alone after you promised him you would take absolutely no risks and be back a soon as you can.

So when you do arrive back Jace all but knocks you over in his hurry to hug you. But this time, maybe he hugs you a bit too hard because you've got some bruised ribs or something like that? You wince a little and unforgettable Jace picks that up and realises he's hurt you.

You quickly try to assure him that it's not too bad but he's already telling one of the servants to call the maester. Jace walks with you up to your shared quarters. Daemon catches you as you turn the corner, asking how it went and you can barely even get a word in before Jace is quickly interrupting telling Daemon you're injured and will update the council later.

Daemon raises an eyebrow and then sort of just chuckles and walks off. You have absolutely zero doubt that he's well aware you aren't seriously injured but he knows how stubborn Jace is.

When you finally get back to your shared quarters the maester is waiting for you there. You tell the maester you're fine, just a little bruised. Naturally all Jace hears is 'bruise'.

In the end you ask the maester to leave some bandages, antiseptic and balm behind that you can put on yourself. He leaves them and walks out. Jace immediately comes forward then, clearly wanting to help but he's actually scared to touch you for fear of hurting you.

You let him draw you a bath and then let him carefully remove your clothes. His eyes widen when he sees the bruises over your torso, immediately asking if he can call the maester back in. Of course you say no, it's not that serious, not at all.

Once you've bathed you let Jace clean all your scrapes and bruises and let him wrap your torso to help your ribs. The moment he's satisfied he's herding you into bed, even puffing up the pillows before you can sit down. You laugh and once again say you're fine but of course this too falls on deaf ears.

He's just so.... genuinely distressed at the thought of you in any kind of pain? Honestly you think he feels worse than you do.

I think maybe you'd have to give him some orders or some structure to get him to calm down? If you weren't injured then he would have calmed down once he could confirm you had no bruises or cuts or anything like that. But when he discovers that you actually are injured it's so so much worse. Cause you're in pain!!! You're in pain and he can't help and of course he also starts spiralling and thinking about how he should have gone on the mission instead of you.

You tell him to go get you something to eat from the kitchen and when he returns you ask him to read to you while you eat. The moment you finish he takes the plate away and snuggles closer in bed, reading to you while you rest your head against his shoulder. You try to tell him he can wrap his arm around you but he refuses, too scared that he may hurt you.

That night he only lets himself fall asleep a good few hours after you have because he wanted to make sure you were okay and werent going to wake up in pain.

He doesn't let you out of sight for at least a week.

[balkanradfem]

So, you might remember I started fixing my abandoned garden, and I said I was going to do it in small increments, and then I never said anything about it again. This is because, after I started doing it, suddenly the temperatures dropped below zero, and we had frost! This is appropriate in November, but it was so sudden I didn't expect it. I hadn't even planted garlic yet! And now it was too cold to work the soil. Oopsie.

However this morning I woke up, opened the window, and realized the southern wind was blowing, which means it got super warm! I immediately dressed up, grabbed my garlic, and went to the garden. I couldn't plant my garlic in the area I had already cleaned, because it's the outer area of the garden, and garlic is the #1 crop that gets stolen, so I have to plant it sneakily behind other things, invisible to prying eyes. That means I'd have to clear off another area. Here's what I'm dealing with today!

I know this looks like such a flop but honestly, this is so good for nature. All of the plants have lived their life cycle, housed little bugs and insects, produced flowers for the bees, and then got obliterated by the frost, as it should be. If I just left them be, they would slowly decompose into the soil and make it more fertile. It looks chaotic but nothing bad is going on here! I am going to make space now because there are some regulations for how community gardens should look like, and if one looks abandoned for too long, it gets taken away. I'm off to work :)

I've been working on this for 20 minutes and I found some produce in here!

I'm shocked there's a whole zucchini in there, even after the frost, I've never seen that. She's a bit of a weird texture, because she's gotten frozen, but otherwise looks good! Certainly the slugs love it. I also found a little potato plant, there could be potatoes underneath her. And in the third picture, I'm holding young garlic! I usually find this in the spring, it's interesting it's already so big, I love that.

Another little task I had planned was to find basil seeds; basil will usually grow flowers when it's allowed to grow naturally, and then the flowers create little seed packets inside of them, and after those get nice and dried up, they're ready to harvest. Here's how it looks like:

If I rubbed all those little pods together, I would be able to find tiny black-brown seeds in there! I used to do that before, extract all of the tiny seeds and store them, but later I got lazy and figured I can just save this entire mess and plant it and basil still germinates just the same.

An hour of work later, I have dug out a giant lemon balm plant out of the soil, because it was taking up too much space (no worries about her, she'll grow back in no time, they're immortal), and took out most of the grass, dead plants, and weeds. Here is the cleared garden!

I've freed two small kale plants that could still thrive during the winter, and there's a few brassicas that look willing to go to seed, which would be great for me to have more seeds from them. Now I can finally focus on the task I've come here for; to plant my garlic.

I made little holes with my spoon, and grabbed two biggest heads of garlic to plant the cloves. I'm not too fussed about it, as long as the bulbs are underground, you can't stop them from growing. If they're not in too deep, then it's easier to pull them out later! And my soil is more fertile on the surface as well. Usually during the winter, little rodends will dig a few of these out, to see if they're delicious, but when they realize it's not yummy, they just leave the bulbs on the top of soil. So I have to check on them a few times to make sure I plant them back! And they're so forgiving and strong, they just go right back to growing, bulbs are incredible.

I counted the garlic here, and there's 22 cloves, which should give me 22 heads of garlic in the late spring/early summer. I couldn't take any more pictures, because my hands were too muddy, but I planted additional two rows in a different location (in case thiefs find one location), and then I also had some of the 'spring garlic', which is a late variety, meaning it grows later, but lasts longer. Usually normal garlic will start sprouting in december, after which point it starts getting inedible, but late-variety garlic will stay fresh until spring. Planting garlic is so easy! The entire venture took me 15 minutes, and you could do this anywhere, and would be guaranteed some heads of garlic.

So watching these pictures you might think 'there's still so much weeds in here, you did not clear this off' and you're correct, I don't clear everything off! This is because I employ a different tactics in stopping weeds from growing; usually during the winter, I will cover the ground in a thick layer of dry leaves, so that light won't reach any of those weeds, and they stop growing just due to lack of sunlight. I'm not doing it this year because of one particular reason, and this reason is slugs. If I cover the ground in leaves now, they won't only protect it from the light, but also protect it from the cold. They'll prevent the ground from freezing as badly as it would usually freeze. And usually I love doing that, but this time, there are so many slugs in the ground that I want cold to eliminate. I'm going to leave my garden like this, and hope that we have an exceptionally cold winter and that slugs get deleted.

I planned to make a lentil soup today for lunch, so I'm grabbing some chives, and some kale to add to it! Kale is still thriving, and I'll be able to harvest it all winter. At this point I've been working for two hours and my pain started acting up, so I figured it was enough for today, and headed home. Here's all the stuff I brought home for lunch!

Zucchini, kale, potatoes, chives, young garlic. All great additions for my lentil soup! I love being able to get fresh food in November. The soup turned out amazing, I love lentils with potatoes and kale and garlic.

[ditzyredrobin]

Before and After

Chapter 2

Let it be known, I had zero intentions on making this into a WIP, but 4,613 words later, I’m a little obsessed. Do I need another WIP? No. Do I have a new one now? Yes, yes, I do. 😂

For Whumpcember 2024 - Day 10 - “Let me help you.”

Chapter 1

-

Dick’s visit opens the proverbial floodgates for Bats to drop by unexpectedly and without warning (which rude).

When the doorbell goes off, Tim is up like a shot, heart roaring in his ears, chasing the tail end of a particularly grizzly nightmare, the metallic tang of blood and smoke just on the edge of his senses.

By rote one hand goes to his collapsible bo-staff under his pillow and his phone with the other.

No one was supposed to know about his apartment aside from Dick (if there was anything to be said, manners and personal space weren’t it and Dick? Was the walking, talking, personification of a word vomit).

He blinked blearily at his phone, opening the security feed of the front door, a sense of dread filling his gut. The apartment wasn’t rented in his name, utilities another, and packages were all directed to the Postal Annex in downtown Gotham under a third alias (Key word: contingencies).

But, when the security feed finally opens, it takes a long moment to process what he’s seeing.

It wasn’t ninja at his door or some other baddie flavor of the week it was—it was an elderly man dressed down in a well tailored suit, balding with a thin mustache and two very heavy looking grocery bags hanging off his shoulders.

Alfred, his brain supplied. It was Alfred.

Memories were still muddled and murky but there was something about Alfred that stuck out in his mind—a chuckle, a smile, a proper English accent, the scent of freshly baked biscuits and earl grey tea.

Tim glanced over to the sleeping pup still in the bassinet attached to his bed. She was swaddled just right, somehow still fast asleep at—he squints at the clock—11 am. She never sleeps this late—he never sleeps this late, normally too racked by nightmares and insomnia to get more than a few hours at a time.

What should he do? If he didn’t answer, would he eventually give up and go away? Odds are, if he let the door go unanswered, more Bats were sure to follow (because if Alfred knew, the rest of the Bat Clan would find out, if they hadn’t already). But the thought of going back to bed while he still had the option was tempting—just a little while longer, while Amalia slept before the cycle of change-feed-burp-soothe began again.

Tim breathed a heavy sigh and pressed the button for the intercom on his phone, “I’ll be right there.”

Alfred visibly perked up, glancing up to the security camera in the corner. “It is no problem, dear boy, do not rush on my account.”

His voice is like a balm on a wound that has been oozing, refusing to heal, soothing his inner Omega, settling his racing heart just a touch, his voice radiating safesafesafe.

That’s…unexpected. And not definitely something he wanted to prod with a hundred-foot-pole, Alfred in the hall or not.

Tim grabbed a pair of sweats from the pile on the floor, sniffing to make sure they smelled clean enough for company, and a faded Green Day tee. Good enough.

His industrial (read as: vigilante) grade scent patches were on the dresser nearest the door. He slipped on his slippers and shuffled over to riffle through the nearly empty box.

(Note to self: pilfer more from one of the many Bat-stashes the next time he’s out.)

He delicately peels one off the sheet and presses it to the scent gland to the soft meat of his neck, adding an additional to the scent glands on the inside of his wrists.

When Amalia woke, not being able to scent him would make her fussy, but he didn’t trust his emotions when dealing with Bats. And Alfred? Was a wild card.

Tim shoves his collapsible bo in his pocket before pocketing the baby monitor. Something about leaving her alone made his stomach churn. She was alone without someone to protect her. What if something happened? What if someone gets in and takes her?

…what if someone gets in and takes him? She would be alone for who now’s how long, starving and crying and his eyes feel hot.

His chest constricts. Nope, nope, not happening. Not right now.

She’s sleeping peacefully, her little chest rising and falling, deep in slumber, a hint of a smile on her chubby little cheeks.

His apartment was the most secure location outside of the Bats. In fact, since his last patch after Dick unceremoniously and unwantingly broke into his home, he would say his apartment is more secure than the Bats, second only to (maybe) the clock tower.

He could do this.

He could do this.

(In through your nose one-two-three, out through your mouth one-two-three, come on Tim, one foot in front of the other)

His eyes lingered on the pup for a moment longer before he finally forced himself to move, leaving the door open a crack.

He felt like a mouse caught in a glue trap, trudging his way to the front door, doing his best to ignore the piles of clutter and baby supplies scattered throughout the living room.

There was a pile of clean laundry yet to be folded, taking up the majority of the well-loved sofa and a mountain of dishes in the sink. If he’d known he would have company, he would’ve put in an effort to tidy, or at least shove things in the closet until Alfred left.

Tim made quick work of disarming the security protocols trying to pretend like his hands weren’t trembling. He still had time to change his mind—he didn’t have to let the elderly man in. In all actuality, he could go back to bed right now and pretend this whole thing never happened.

But Dick, he reminded himself.

Damnit.

Tim took another measured breath before inching the door open and with it, the warm scent of Beta hit him like a ton of bricks, filling his chest with a warmth he had only felt in his dreams. It was like drinking a hot cup of tea, the way it pooled in his heart, warming his chest and for a moment he felt like he was choking.

He couldn’t move, staring at the elderly man like he was a ghost, liable to disappear at any moment.

It seemed like Alfred went through something similar, a complicated mix of expressions crossing his face—disbelief, astonishment, sorrow, grief, anguish, before settling on something akin to relief.

“Master Timothy, I’m pleased to see you’re doing well. I’m afraid we had far too many leftovers at the manor and thought perhaps you would be open to helping us before they’ve spoiled.” The English accent was soft and comforting and it felt… it felt like coming home. “May I come in?”

Tim fisted the baby monitor in his pocket, a little part of him hoped that now, right this moment, his pup would whimper or cry, and give him some sort of out, but she didn’t. Damnit.

Slowly, he backed away from the door, allowing Alfred to come in, but said nothing. No hi, hello, or even, it’s good to see you, thanks for dropping in but, y’know, a call would’ve been nice. He had zero trust in what would come out of his mouth, so he stayed silent, watching.

With the Beta inside, Tim glanced out around the hallway for any unwelcome visitors, but the hallway was empty. Judging by the overabundance of Chinese takeout menus the past few months, most of this floor had been empty since he moved, back when he was newly back in Gotham, the tiny pup strapped to his chest.

Reassured they were alone, Tim shut the door and busied himself with reengaging the security, trying to ignore the way his hands were now fully, without a doubt, trembling. By the time all was settled and they were locked in, Alfred had already found his way into the kitchen.

If he noticed the dishes (let’s be real, when he noticed the dishes), he didn’t say anything, his sole focus on unloading the “leftovers”, which was beginning to look like a whole lot more than just leftovers. Multiple casserole dishes were carefully stacked, slowly but surely filling his fridge

“Thank you for helping us with these. I’ve grown accustomed to large family meals, but with master Damian out of the house more and more, it seems we have an overabundance.”

Tim knew Titan duties and university had Damian out of Gotham more and more. He had his choice of Ivy League schools and had ended up with early placement in the Cornell University’s College of Veterinary Medicine after graduating from GA a year early (as valedictorian, no less).

Dick was still in Bludhaven, social worker by day, Nightwing by night but came back to Gotham most weekends (or when he wanted to see Tim on random Tuesday nights).

Jason, on the other hand, from what he’d garnered, was with the Outlaws more often than not these days, back periodically for his heats.

Life had moved on without him. He didn’t blame them—couldn’t blame them—but there was still a bitter tinge in his chest.

Tim blinked and when his brain picked up again, Alfred was still talking.

“-thing is labeled with the ingredients and how to prepare each meal, I hope you don’t mind. It is a force of habit with master Dick and master Bruce. You know how they are.” Alfred mused, moving onto stuffing the freezer. “You wouldn’t believe it—the one time I left them alone for the weekend without enough instructions, I came home to a house full of builders.”

You know how they are.

Maybe he did, sometime in the Before. But now?

Alfred glanced over his shoulder and frowned. Tim isn’t sure what he saw but the Beta had a deep look of concern.

“Oh my dear boy,” slowly he closed the freezer, giving Tim his full attention. “Perhaps I should have called but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to see you.” I didn’t want you to run.

Which, fair, but it made the ordeal a whole lot more complicated. The way Alfred spoke to him, it was like he was expecting the old Tim, the one who hadn’t been lost to the Pit.

“Did Dick tell you I was here?”

“He did not. In fact, he has warned others not to seek you out, including master Bruce and myself but-“

“But you came anyways.” It wasn’t a question. Alfred opened his mouth to respond but Tim was quick to cut him off, “You being here puts me at risk. How do I know you weren’t followed?”

By Bats, by what was left of the League, pick your poison.

“I assure you, I was not followed.”

“But how can you know?”

“Just because I’m not Batman, does not mean I’m oblivious. I do have a few special skills of my own beyond being the butler for the Wayne family.”

“That’s the problem—you can’t.” Bat or not, there was no way to 100% guarantee. “If you really cared, you would’ve listened to Dick and stayed away. I know you miss Tim but I’m not him.”

“Master Tim, I understand-“

“No, I don’t think you really understand, I don’t remember you. I saw you and I remembered your name, that’s it. Things are a little,” a lot, “hazy, after coming back. I didn’t choose to forget you—I remember blips, but memories are just, not there.” It was like someone had taken a scalpel and cut the out—really, there’s no telling Ra’s hadn’t. “I’m just not him.”

A smile, a stifled chuckle, the clank of fine china cups and saucers.

(I want to remember you—I need to remember you but I can’t)

Tim swallows hard, trying to shove down the sharp fear of rejection, of letting him down, or not being trusted that this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It makes his chest ache, and his eyes hot.

“Look I-“ and, the baby monitor finally goes off, giving him the perfect out—the soft whimper of his pup waking up alone without her bearer makes his inner Omega stir. “I’ll be back.” Please be here when I get back.

He doesn’t give Alfred the time for rebuttals, rushing off down the hall where Amalia is waiting, trying to pretend he isn’t running away with his tail between his legs.

-

“Computer, lights at 70%,” Tim called to the AI of his own design. The lights go on as Tim pushes into the room. His pup isn’t crying just yet, the soft whimper, a call to her bearer, a cry of changemeholdmefeedme.

“Shh, good morning, ya rohee,” Tim croons in League dialect, carefully lifting her out of her crib. She scrunches up in his arms like a little inch worm and yawns a yawn much too big for such a little thing. It makes him want to coo, and scent, and snuggle her forever in his nest, never letting her go. This is the best part, his favorite part of the day. “How did you sleep, my love? I’m sorry you woke up alone.”

She answers by blinking up at him with wide, deep violet-blue eyes, all his own. There’s still time for them to change from blue to vibrant green, just like her other father, but he hopes they stay. Just like this. All his own.

Tim just smiles trying to tamp down the thought. He—Ra’s—couldn’t hurt them anymore—he was dead, for good this time.

A sword, sawing through sinew and bone, severing his head from his body, the taste of metallic tang on his teeth as he ripped into his throat and the burn of smoke in his lungs.

There’s only so much the Pit could do and what he’d done? That was way beyond even its capabilities.

He just hoped that when the Bats found out, they took care of her, his life, his heart, his soul.

Logically, he knew the daughter of a vigilante and the former leader of the League was a vulnerable asset that needed to be protected. In the wrong hands—a chill ran down his spine.

Batman didn’t harm innocents. His choices weren’t hers so, by all intents and purposes, she was innocent. She didn’t choose her heritage.

Tim tucked her into his neck where normally his scent would be strongest. He just hoped he would keep her safe in his absence.

Amalia snuffled and nuzzled against his skin searching for his scent currently patched over. When she couldn’t find it, her little lip wobbled and clenched her fists.

Pups needed scent to help regulate their delicate nervous systems and they only left the house a few times a month for diapers and formula or groceries (and the occasional Bat safehouse break-in) so she was used to it near 24/7.

The fact that Dick caught him was a fluke.

Just before laying her down on the changing table, Tim breathed out, trying to still his beating heart, and lifted the scent patch up just enough for her to catch a whiff. Almost immediately she went lax in his arms, letting out a huff of air. Any chance of her crying was snuffed out in an instant.

Crisis averted.

Tim took a breath to calm himself and held her there, gently rubbing her back. He guessed, for just a moment, he could have this.

Alfred could wait.

-

Changed out of her swaddle and sleep clothes, Tim shuffled back into the kitchen, the same bitter fear of rejection in his gut. Amalia was settled in the cloth pack on his chest, smacking her lips, making it known that she was ready for breakfast. He, on the other hand, was not.

Breakfast meant facing Alfred but there was only so long he could keep putting it off—put off their conversation.

When he rounded the corner, it was to a clean kitchen. In the time it had taken to get the pup up, most of the laundry was folded and ready to be put away, including pairs of socks he hadn’t seen in months (how Alfred did that, he’ll never know).

The mountain of dishes had been diminished to a clean sink and the dishwasher running. Crumbs and spilled formula had been wiped away and Tim… all Tim could do was stare, a wave of shame is like cold water.

Thank god he’d reapplied the scent patch because this would be embarrassing. Luckily, the carrier smelled enough like him, that, for now, Amalia was settled.

Alfred finished folding a faded band tee and turned his attention back to Tim. Eyes were immediately on his pup and Tim waited for something. Shame? Disgust? But Tim found none of that.

Instead the elderly Beta’s expression softened. “I apologize, I seem to have gotten a bit carried while you were away. A bit of a habit, I’m afraid.”

Tim swallows hard, wrapping a protective hand around the pup, eyes drawn to the unimpressive greige carpet. “I’m sorry it’s been a long week and she’s been so fussy. If I’d known you were coming over I would’ve cleaned up.” His eyes were hot. He was not going to cry—he was not going to cry.

“Nonsense,” Alfred’s voice is gentle and insistent. “It is one of my joys in life to care for my charges. Trust me when I say this is nothing compared to young master Dick’s room, a few dishes and clean laundry is nothing in comparison to the ecosystem I have found on occasion.”

He could tell Alfred was trying to be humorous but it did nothing to ease his conscience. “I shouldn’t need to get caught up. I should’ve just handled it when it happened but I’m just…” Exhausted? Overwhelmed? Missing the pack he doesn’t even remember having?

“I understand and I mean this when I say, I pass no judgement.”

Tim risked a surprised glance. “How?”

Alfred smiled, “I wasn't always just a butler. I was a parent too once upon a time before coming to work for the Wayne’s.” He continued, “Believe it or not, I, too, have a daughter.”

“…you do?”

He nods, “I do, back in England—Julia. We don’t have the best of relationships. It seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’m afraid.” He chuckled a bit sadly before changing the subject, “Now then. How would you feel about some breakfast?”

Almost as if at the mention of food, Amalia started to wriggle, very obviously done with their dilly dallying. Tim breathed a sigh and nodded. He didn’t normally eat breakfast but it was nearly lunchtime and his stomach was starting to make its presence known in a feed me or else sort of way. “Breakfast would be nice.”

Ding ding ding. By the look on his face, Tim answered correctly. Go him. “Will scones hold you over while I prepare something more substantial?”

“Scones sound…nice.”

Which is how they ended up in the kitchen, a plate of scones with clotted cream and tea in front of him while Amalia went to town on her bottle, ravenous. One little hand was on the bottle and the other fisted in his shirt.

Tim was sitting at one of the bar chairs glancing up at Alfred every so often, watching for something, anything to go wrong, (a dash of poison, or paralytic, Alfred disappearing into thin air) as he cooked up a proper English breakfast.

Before Alfred, his fridge had nothing more than some flaccid celery, a weeks old pizza from Rao’s a few blocks down, and half a bottle of ranch. Now, it was stuffed to the gills with fruits and veggies, eggs, and other household staples.

(No wonder his bags looked so heavy. How he carted them up five stories and a broken elevator was beyond him. Bats, am I right?)

“Her name is Amalia.” Tim said awkwardly after a few minutes of silence. “I don’t know if Dick told you.”

“Master Dick did not mention it but there was some…speculation, that something more was going on, on master Bruce’s part.”

An arch of dread runs through him, “Bruce knows?”

Of course Bruce knows. Why wouldn’t he know? He’s Batman. Alfred being here all but confirmed he knows about his apartment, too. And if that thought doesn't make him want to high tail it out of Gotham.

Hearing the hoarseness of his voice, Alfred looks up, “I am truly sorry. I should’ve listened to master Dick. This was your secret to share and I forced your hand.”

Tim shook his head, “I should’ve known, it makes sense, I just-“ he wanted to pull his hair out and scream. It makes sense. It’s just—he wasn’t ready for a boatload of Bats invading his nest.

Amalia was still so little. Being taken from her at this age… if birth trauma and the subsequent fallout hasn’t hurt her, this will. It could kill her.

“It isn’t alright.” Alfred sounded genuinely remorseful as he pushed mushrooms around in the pan. “I was being selfish and did not take into account the trauma you’ve been subjected to.”

Tim mulled over those words trying to tamp down his inner Omega stirring, wanting to reassure the elder Beta that it was okay, the wanted to bask in the feeling of being cared for. There were whispers of pack at the back of his mind.

Alfred had brought him groceries and meals—he was providing for him, showing he cared, but no, no, no. His arms tightened around the pup.

The old Tim may have been pack but that was Before and this is now—the After. Who wanted a broken murderer of an Omega? One that had broken the Bat Code of Conduct whose number one rule was don’t kill.

Alfred turned off the burner and slid the mushrooms onto the plate beside the eggs and sausage just as the toaster popped. Tim looked up briefly when the plate slid in front of him. After a terse moment, Tim said, “Thank you.” The weariness on his tone almost makes him flinch.

Almost.

“My pleasure, Master Tim.” His inner Omega preened at the title. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Tim glanced down at the pup in his arms, finishing up her bottle. And, before he could think the words slipped past his lips. “…do you want to hold her?”

Safe, the Omega crooned. He wouldn’t let Dick hold her but Alfred… Alfred was different.

At those words, Alfred’s face lit up like it’s Christmas. “Are you quite sure?”

No, Tim wanted to argue, while the Omega practically screamed, yes.

It would make eating easier and here, in his apartment, he was in control. The collapsible bo-staff was heavy in his pocket. In just a few steps, he could have him neutralized if he dared to do anything to harm her, but part of him just knew he wouldn’t.

Tim bit his lip and nodded, “Can you burp her? She isn’t rolling over just yet so she still needs to be burped.”

Alfred gives him a gentle smile, seemingly genuinely happy at the offer. “I would be delighted too.”

There’s a smile on Amalia’s chubby cheeks, kicking his little legs in delight when he leans down and nuzzles her. She laughs in delight, warming his heart and making it that much harder to let go. She smells content and full, making a grab at his too-long hair. “Just a few minutes, hayati, be nice for Alfred, alright?”

In true baby fashion, she squeals when he rubs his nose against her cheek. He finishes off with a a long kiss to her forehead, lingering on the scent of his pup.

It was getting stronger the longer they were in Gotham. She was getting stronger.

Tim carefully untangled her fingers from his hair, pressing a kiss to each finger before looking to Alfred who was standing in front of him, eyes soft. “I am honored you’re allowing me this opportunity. I promise, I will take excellent care of her.”

He didn’t trust himself to answer so he nodded and slowly passed her to his waiting arms, trying to remember to breathe.

At first, realizing she was changing arms, her little lip wobbled, but Alfred murmured something soft in her ear just for them, holding her close and she was all his.

He didn’t stray far, grabbing a burp rag from the pile of carefully folded laundry, staying in Tim’s line of sight. Close enough that if Tim suddenly needed to jump in, he was right there.

But she didn’t fuss. In fact, by the time Tim had plowed through his breakfast, she was burped and settled, her face pressed into his neck, milk drunk and content. It made his heart ache, wanting her back all the more.

He made quick work of rinsing his plate and dropping it in the sink for later. It was the first time in months his belly felt full and he felt like his battery wasn’t running on 5%.

Rushing back into the living room, Alfred had moved to the gliding chair, rocking the cooing pup.

He smiled up at Tim. It was all he could do not to make grabby hands for his pup—his baby. “You’ve done well with her. She is lovely.”

“Can I-?” Without needing to finish the sentence, Alfred carefully passed her back.

“You need not ask, my boy. I am grateful for the moment with her.”

With her in his arms, he could breathe again, squeezing her just the right side of tight to his chest. She was safe, he had her, she was his.

“She will always be yours. I would never dream of taking her from you.” Alfred assured standing up from the rocker. Oops. “I assure you, neither would Master Bruce.” Until he finds out about Ra’s. “Now, I believe you both have had quite the afternoon, perhaps if best you retire to your nest? I have a few things to finish up here and I will be on my way.”

His nest sounded nice but- “You don’t have to do that.”

“As I stated earlier, it’s no chore helping you with these things. Please, let me help you.” Let me help you. Tim’s eyes felt hot again. (Translated to: Let me take care of you)

He was not going to cry… not now, at least.

Okay. This was okay, this was, “Okay.” Tim’s voice is strained but Alfred doesn’t say anything about it.

Instead, he tentatively reaches a hand out, giving Tim enough time to pull away, but he doesn’t. He placed it on his shoulder and squeezed. It’s a warm and reassuring touch, grounding, and now Tim is actually going to cry. Damnit.

Tim has to blink quickly, trying to stave off the tears that will inevitably fall once he’s back in his nest and able to be vulnerable. His instinct is to lean into the touch, to sink and melt, and let himself have this one moment, but he can’t.

He can’t get close.

Tim goes rigid under his touch but doesn’t pull away and Alfred? Alfred smells…happy. Happy in a way that forces Tim to choke down a purr.

“Very good. I know that my coming here was unexpected but it was so good to see you.” He is not going to cry. “You don’t need to make a decision now, but it’s alright, I would like to come back, this time on a day of your choosing. It’s perfectly alright to say no but I’ve missed you so much.” His eyes are wet when he says, “Between you and Master Jason, I have never regretted anything more in my life.”

He has an out, the ability to say no, but what comes out instead is, “How does Tuesday sound?”

[leejenowrld]

I know nothing about fancy products but I really want to glow up this year! Any advice? My routine currently is just facewash and sunscreen. But I’m willing to commit. I want to be more girly

1. the core: skincare that feels like self-worth (you’re already doing the two most important things: cleansing + spf. let’s build on that.) once you become consistent with your skincare you can take things out of your routine (well that’s what i did) but ensure you’re consistent and stick with products and don’t get lazy with it.

morning routine:

gentle cleanser (what you’re using now is great if your skin likes it. if you want to upgrade: try the cerave hydrating cleanser for dry skin or youth to the people superfood cleanser for normal/oily.)

hydrating toner or essence – adds plumpness and bounce. affordable: haruharu wonder black rice toner luxe: sk-ii facial treatment essence (expensive but iconic)

vitamin c serum – brightens, evens skin tone, gives that “lit from within” glow. affordable: la roche-posay pure vitamin c10 luxe: skinceuticals ce ferulic

moisturiser – lightweight but hydrating. affordable: neutrogena hydro boost luxe: tatcha water cream

sunscreen (you already do this—legend.) top favs: beauty of joseon spf 50, la roche-posay anthelios, or supergoop unseen sunscreen for a matte, primer feel.

night routine:

double cleanse – use micellar water or cleansing balm to remove makeup/spf, then follow with your regular cleanser. affordable: garnier micellar water, banila co clean it zero, inkey list oat cleaning balm, dr sam cleanser luxe: then i met you living cleansing balm

treatment serum – this depends on your skin goals:

niacinamide for pores + brightness (the ordinary)

retinol for glow, smoothness, anti-aging (start slow: cerave resurfacing retinol or sunday riley a+ retinoid)

rich moisturiser or sleeping mask affordable: cerave pm or cosrx snail 92 all-in-one luxe: laneige water sleeping mask or summer fridays jet lag mask

extras (2–3x/week):

exfoliate with a chemical exfoliant (ahas/bhas) affordable: the ordinary glycolic acid or cosrx bha luxe: paula’s choice 2% bha liquid

use hydrating sheet masks while watching something cute favs: mediheal, dr. jart+, garnier moisture bomb

2. soft girl body care: for that clean, delicious glow (you deserve to smell and feel expensive head-to-toe.)

body wash: get something that smells incredible. affordable: dove shea butter, ogx coconut coffee luxe: nécessaire body wash, sol de janeiro brazilian 4play

body scrub: use 2x/week to glow. affordable: tree hut scrubs (tahiti vanilla bean, moroccan rose) luxe: herbivore coco rose, ouai scalp & body scrub

body lotion or oil: don’t skip this. affordable: nivea cocoa butter, vaseline body oil luxe: fenty skin butta drop, nécessaire body serum

smell layering: scented lotion → perfume oil → fragrance. cute layering ideas: sol de janeiro 62 line, glossier you, ariana cloud + kayali vanilla

3. beauty upgrades that feel low-effort but high-payoff

nails: get into at-home manis. even clear polish feels put-together. try: olive & june polish or press-ons from kiss if you want length.

brows: get them shaped once professionally, then maintain. brow gel (benefit 24hr brow setter or nyx thick it stick it) changes your whole face.

lashes: curling and mascara makes you look awake and soft. affordable: maybelline sky high. also lash tint !!!! luxe: lancôme lash idôle or benefit roller lash

lip balm > lip tint > gloss: always. every bag. every pocket. glow girl trinity: laneige lip mask, dior lip oil, nyx fat oil gloss

4. lifestyle glow: that subtle, natural flex

drink water but romanticise it. mason jar with lemon or cute glass.

wear spf on hands + neck. underrated glow-up zone.

jewellery: dainty gold hoops, simple rings, anklets. never do too much.

hair gloss masks or oiling 1–2x/week with rosemary oil, or the jvn complete pre-wash scalp oil.

signature scent. try minis till you find your vibe. sweet? floral? clean? top tier picks:

affordable: sol de janeiro 68, zara red temptation

luxe: kayali vanilla 28, maison francis kurkdjian gentle fluidity gold, ysl libre

5. mindset: the real foundation

glowing up means honouring yourself. the rituals, the choices, the care—it’s all about showing up for the girl you’re becoming.

don’t chase trends. build a routine that makes you feel pretty, feminine, and put-together—even on lazy days.

when in doubt: clean skin, flushed cheeks, hydrated lips, and confidence. always.

i wrote a lot of options but remember no one needs all of these products and the simpler the better !!! i legit only use retinol, i cleanse, spf, serum, toner and moisturiser as skincare. italics are what i use 2-3 times a week. bold is what i use every single day. also you must double cleanse !!!!

[dantesunbreaker]

NSFW: That Thing

Dewdrop x AFAB!Reader

Summary: When Dewdrop notices his partner hasn't left their room in days, he goes to see if he can help lift their mood and get them cleaned up. Who doesn't love a warm bubble bath?

Author's Note:This is inspired by a friend of mine! They will often share that when they are having difficult times with their depression and overall hygiene from it, their partner will help them shower and wash their hair. Sometimes they say it ends in more tears, sometimes it ends feeling better overall, and sometimes it ends in something more intimate. That last one is what I went with for this story because I am thirsty for Dewdrop.

“I know you don’t want to do anything,” Dewdrop rests half perched beside you on the bed, one hand carding through your rather unkempt oily hair. “But let’s at least get you bathed.” Nothing is harsh about his tone, zero judgment for your current lack of hygiene. 

Your eyes close, heaving a heavy sigh as you sink further into the mattress for a moment, all your focus channeling into the soft touch of Dew’s fingers on your skin. It takes almost every bit of energy in you as you sluggishly slide off the side of the bed. Dewdrop’s arms are immediately supporting you, a wide, toothy grin on his face as he helps you to the adjoining bathroom. Sitting on the edge, you watch as Dew begins to fill the tub, adding various oils that have you inhaling deeply. Normally, he would present each one to you to smell, letting you pick out your own scents. But he knows right now time is of the essence. The sooner he can get you into the water the better. While the water rises, with Dewdrop’s assistance, you pull off your clothes piece by piece for perhaps the first time in days. 

“There we go,” Dewdrop sighs in unison with you as he helps lower you into the water, sinking down until the bubbles reach all the way up to your collarbone, your head resting back against the edge. “You sit there and relax a bit, I’m going to go change the sheets. When I’m back, I’ll wash your hair. Is that okay?”

Dewdrop waits for your response, half sitting on the edge of the tub as he leans over to gently cup your cheek. It is always such a touching experience to see this softer side of the fire ghoul, a side that not many people at the ministry got to witness. Not yet ready to use your voice, you manage a meek smile as you answer with a nod. 

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” your eyes close with content as Dewdrop presses a kiss to your temple. “Love you.” And then he is out the door, leaving you alone to soak in the bubbles alone.

Though you hate admitting it to even yourself, you know that this is something that you desperately need. You can’t recall the last time you took a shower. Even you were beginning to take note of the smell wafting off you. However, the heavy and dull ache of your joints hinders your ability to do much more than simply wait for Dew to return. But you are entirely content to just enjoy reclining in the soothing comfort of being submerged in warmth. So content that when you hear the door softly open and close you actually let out a short huff of breath, disrupted from drifting to sleep.

A teasing glimpse and matching smile is shot your way as you roll your head so you are facing Dewdrop, but he says nothing as he closes the distance between you. Rather than join you in the bathtub as you expect, the fire ghoul kneels beside it, upper half leaning over the edge so that his arms may reach. One arm stretches across you, grabbing both shampoo and conditioner with one hand. You are keenly aware as he forgoes your own care products for his own. Dew knows you well enough that it is no secret you steal his soaps and shampoos when you are having a bad day. 

“Think you can lean back to dip your hair for me, babe?” Dewdrop slides a hand around your back for support as you shuffle forward to do as requested. “That’s good, I’m so proud of you,” his praise washes over you like a soothing balm as you swiftly submerge your hair.

Just as quickly, you sit back up and throw your arms out to rest on the edges of the tub. Eyes closed, you hum with delight at the soft scratch of Dewdrop’s claws along your scalp as he begins to work shampoo through your hair. You can practically feel the heavy shroud of darkness rolling off you in waves as Dewdrop takes such diligent care working out the dirt and tangles of your hair. It’s as if Dewdrop was washing away the black haze filtering your emotions along with your hair. 

There is a gentle nudge at your shoulder you take as a request for you to lean back to dip your hair, though not fully submerging. One clawed hand continues to scrub into your hair wherever his other hand pours water that he has cupped. You follow a similar set of motions as Dewdrop conditions your hair before lathering up a washcloth with one of your favorite scents of soap. When you shuffle to rest against the back of the tub you feel a familiar tingle run down your spine. Arousal. Dewdrop presses the towel to your skin and all you can think to yourself is that you don’t remember the last time you were intimate with your ghoul.

When Dewdrop’s hand travels lower, brushing against your inner thigh as he works soap into your skin, you can not keep a small moan from slipping past your lips. That seems to catch the fire ghoul’s attention. With a newfound glimmer in his eyes, Dew turns to watch your face as he gives a teasing stroke along your thigh. This time you release a moan without restraint.

“What’s that? Does someone need help taking care of something else?” Dew traces lazy patterns into your abdomen, giving you a coy wink. Though he is a tease, Dewdrop is more than happy to give you that release should you so desire. 

Even after all this time you still feel nervous and shy at the topic of intimacy with Dewdrop, squirming slightly under his fiery yet tender gaze. But you don’t let that stop you. Never in a million years would your ghoul do anything to hurt you or that you did not want.

“Yes,” you bite your bottom lip as you look up at Dewdrop through your lashes. Watching the spark of excitement flicker through his eyes gives you a quick rush of adrenaline. “Please take care of me, Dew.” 

Instead of moving his soft touches further south, Dewdrop instead slides his hands up to lather your collarbone with soap. For a moment you are left befuddled. Maybe you misinterpreted the situation? But then you see that look on Dewdrop’s face, the one that means he is up to no good. You furrow your brow and prepare your retort. That’s when you feel it. A soft tickle at your ankle that slowly shifts towards the juncture of your thighs.

“Wha-?” The question isn’t even fully out of your mouth before you cut yourself off as you glance down your body. Slithering up the length of your thigh is none other than a particular ghoul’s tail, the spade hovering just above your mons. “Oh.”

Dewdrop gives a mischievous chuckle as he leans in, the tip of his nose grazing along the length of your neck. As the tip of his tail slides through your folds, a gasp leaves you, making you arch up while Dew presses a hungry kiss against your skin. Soft mewls leave you as he settles for caressing small circles against your clit, white knuckling the edges of the tub, nearly pulling yourself out of the water.

“Relax,” you feel Dewdrop’s hot breath as he purrs into your ear, sending a tingle down your spine and straight to your sex. Until that moment you were unaware of the visible tension in your body. While his tail pleases you, his hands keep busy with lathering soap along your upper body. The primary goal is to get you bathed after all. “I’ve got you, baby. Let me take care of everything.”

All the tension in your body dissipates, arms dropping to your sides as your body, seemingly boneless sags back into the surrounding water. You roll your head to the side so you can watch Dewdrop’s face with a lazy smile. Dew gives a wink, taking in the soft noises you make as he prods lightly at your entrance. A gasp leaves you as you feel the blunt tip push into you only to pull back just as quick. When you whine, begging without words for him not to tease you, Dewdrop laughs at your impatience. 

It does not take long before the ghoul takes mercy, popping the spade of his tail inside you in time with your inhale of breath. While it sends a jolt through you, it is impossible not to marvel at how remarkable yet foreign the feeling is. Though nowhere near as thick as Dewdrop’s dick, the sides press deliciously against your walls as he begins to work further into your hole. But perhaps the most jarring is the flexibility that allows Dew to curl the tip of his tail up to press against that spot that has you throbbing. 

Your eyes close, head tilted back as Dewdrop begins to properly fuck you with his tail, driving it in and out of your heat at a speed that disrupts the surface of bubbly water. But the fire ghoul seems unphased by the intimate actions of his tail, focusing on washing each of your arms. Which somehow makes it all the more arousing. When Dew reaches your legs, you can already feel the tight coil of your climax forming. You clench around his tail with a heavy moan as you feel a jarring jab at that point of pleasure inside your drenched pussy.

When Dewdrop gets to your other leg, you simply can’t hold back any longer. “Dew, please!” Your moan is on the whining side as you clutch at his hand, trying to drag him closer. “Fuck- ah, please I need you!”

Need and desperation has you rising halfway out of the water to wrap an arm around Dew’s shoulders as he shuffles closer, pulling until you bury your face into his neck. The other hand travels down the length of your body, sliding your palm to cup your sex in an attempt to press his tail deeper. You moan straight into Dew’s ear as he pulls you close to his chest and presses his tail impossibly deeper until it can go no further. 

“That’s it,” Dew’s voice is breathy and low, just as excited as you from watching you nearly come undone at his touch. “Just let go. You are doing so well, baby.”

Hot tears sting your eyes, your sense of reality shattering as you are consumed by pleasure under Dewdrop’s gentle praise. A scream rips through your throat, but the sound is quickly swallowed as your ghoul seals his lips against yours in a hungry kiss. You rise fully out of the water, pressing yourself as close to Dewdrop as possible, feeling sinfully aglow as your hips continue to rock with the motion of the tail still stroking your inner walls as they continually spasm. It’s near torturous when you feel Dew’s hand slide between your bodies, nudging your hand aside as he circles your clit in time with the motion of your hips. 

Slowly as you begin to come down, Dewdrop pulls his lips from yours in favor of grazing the points of his fangs down the length of your neck. As the tension in your body ebbs away, your body trembling in the aftershocks, you drop like a boneless puddle into the water. Some splashes over the sides and hits the floor, but neither of you pay it any mind. Dewdrop is too focused on the near drunken smile plastered on your face. 

“Feel better?” Dew asks with a gentle smile, sweeping back the hair that has fallen across your forehead before placing a kiss there.

“Yes,”you hum pleasantly before your smile drops ever so slightly. “But uh..the water is cold now.”

There is a moment of shared laughter between the two of you before Dewdrop stands to help you out of the tub. Once you are seated on the outer lip, he grabs a towel and personally takes it upon himself to pat you dry, massaging the tight muscles in your calves as he works his way up. When he makes his way back up to your face, he pauses when he sees the fresh tears that threaten to fall. But you flash a bright smile.

“Thank you, Dewdrop,” your voice wobbles a bit, but your smile stays steady and genuine. “I really needed this.”

In turn, Dew gives you an equally big smile that is full of warmth. “Of course, baby. I love you, and I will always be here to pick you up when you need it.”

[batmanshole]

ylfvaaa do you have any makeup and skincare recs 😭 im trying to get into skincare but i have no idea where to start, i see a lot of people hyping up korean skincare but idk what products live up to the hype. and i need new makeup badly but im scared of ordering a primer and then it sucks yknow. you seem really knowledgeable so if you can help me out it’d be much appreciated <3

hi anon. before i get into this i love you. i love when people ask me about this kinda stuff. makes me so happy. cosmetic chemistry autism.

ALSO to get your primer thing out of the way: i dont rlly use it but ive heard good things about the ELF one and my sister swears by the NYX one and her base is rlly good. so.

also i'd look on the following websites / stores:

sephora for western brands / mainstream kbeauty yesstyle for korean and japanese stuff chic decent or individual websites for chinese beauty (i usually get mine in person tho)

under the cut cause its long af. also i linked to some products but none of this is sponsored or affiliate or anything im just linking cause i like em 👍

OK FIRST OF ALLL. starting w skincare.

i would break down your routine into three main parts: -cleansing -moisturizing / hydrating -SPF

if you wanna get fancy, you can do exfoliation between cleansing and hydrating. but you really dont have to do that if u dont want to

first: cleansing

if you wanna wear makeup you should have a good way to take it off. no. no put the makeup wipes down. they aren't efficient and u will go through SO many of them. and they're a pain and can irritate ur skin w all the wiping (trust me on this one LOL)

i would recommend using an oil based product for this!! melts ur makeup OFFFF like crazy + even if you don't use makeup it will leave ur skin super clean ^__^ ALSO you should apply this to DRY SKIN and wash it off with lukewarm water (the oil emulsifies w water and also very cold water can make it harder to remove)

if you want an oil-based makeup remover for quick removal w a cotton pad: clinique take the day off (47cad ) this one is expensive tbh and isn't as effective as the others BUT. it takes a lot less energy to use + can be done quickly. if you want a cleanser that will take off your makeup incredibly well while washing ur face: kose softymo speedy cleanser (18cad) this is my absolute FAV. i use it allll the time it works so so well and ive reccomended it to tons of ppl before and theyve all liked it. if you want a cleansing balm for heavier makeup: clean-it zero cleansing balm original (30cad) i haven't tried this one myself, but i've heard VERY good things about it.

next i would follow that up with a water based cleanser (so foaming or gel). this will help to wash away all the stuff that the oil cleanser has loosened up and will wash away leftover oil cleanser.

my FAVOURITE is the senka perfect whip cleanser (14.50cad) i adore this stuff!! ive heard some people find it very drying but i havent had that issue? idk i've also heard good things about this beauty of joseon green plum gel cleanser (14.70 cad) but i haven't used it myself. huge fan of BOJ tho!!

(this is the part where you would exfoliate if you wanted to. for a chemical exfoliant i use the giant bottle of clinique stuff my aunt got me but its not worth the price tbh. u could also try the beauty of joseon apricot peeling gel (14.70cad) IF your skin can handle it. its a physical exfoliant tho so be careful. i also enjoy the pixi glow tonic. u can get this at like shoppers or cvs or somethign idk)

second: hydrating and moisturizing

okay so. this is super important if you do a lot of makeup and thus have to wash it away thoroughly.

i start with a hydrating toner. this helps to add water to your skin and smooth it (adding water before moisturizer is a good idea bc the moisturizers will both add moisture and lock in hydration from any prev products)

i use the the I'm from rice toner (38 cad but on sale rn) which is my absolute absolute FAAAV toner. super hydrating super perfect and beautiful. stunning. (you've probably seen people talk about the cosrx snail mucin, and it is nice i will admit. but do NOT use it if you are allergic to shellfish or dust, apparently. also apply it right after your hydrating toner, it needs to be on wet skin)

then i go in with a moisturizer!! i like to use ones with niacinimide or other humectants.

my go-to is the innisfree jeuju cherry blossom dewey glow jelly (35cad) she's so important to meee <3 love her. all time fav. it is SCENTED tho, so if you don't like that, try: beauty of joseon red bean water gel (17.80cad) super lightweight and has no noticeable scent. ive heard very good things and my friend is trying it soon ^__^

finally: SPF

this is THE most important step. sunscreen. wear sunscreen.

apply your sunscreen under your makeup in the morning, and throughout the day. if you wanna reapply using a sun stick, that's great!!! but don't use a sun stick as your ONLY protection.

also i'd avoid pure mineral sunscreens unless you have a legit allergy to chemical ones. mineral sunscreens are not as good and a lot of the marketing is iffy. also they leave a white cast which is esp noticeable on darker skin. mineral + chemical ones are usually fine tho :-)

my fav sunscreen is the biore UV aqua rich watery gel / watery essence (26cad) legit the best feeling sunscreen i have EVER used. my friends who hate sunscreen like this one. there's also the beauty of joseon rice probiotic releif sun cream (24cad) which is very nice too!! not my fav but a lot of people swear by it for reapplying throughout the day, i would use the beauty of joseon matte sun stick (24cad). ive heard super good things but ihavent tried it cause im finishing my other sun stick rn lol

this is all fairly basic stuff since u said you were new to it, but i can also go thru some less necessary, more fancy products if you ever need.

as for makeup, my favourite brands are:

-flower knows -rom&nd (romand) -daisique -etude -lilybyred

and i've heard really good things about / want to try:

-colorgram -judydoll -flortte -amuse -clio -peripera -into you

ok sorry this is so long but um. lmk if you have any further questions but my arms hurt so im gonna stop typing now. MWAH love you

[witchyfashion]

Banila co X My Melody] Clean it Zero Cleansing Balm Original 125ml

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