spoiledprincessbratsblog

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

AWW

thinking about… rafe having baby fever but not wanting to seem “soft”

you’d been at your cousins house, visiting your new baby niece.

she was so adorable, like the cutest baby you’ve ever seen.

in the car on the way home, rafe was overly touchy and twitchy.

you look over at him after his fingers twitch against your thigh for the millionth time.

“you okay, baby?” you ask softly, reaching over to brush your fingers over the hair on the back of his head.

he nods and looks over to you.

“yeah, i’m okay” he nods again and diverts his gaze back to the road.

you sit in a comfortable silence before rafe clears his throat and speaks up.

“uh- abby was cute, huh?” he murmurs, you nod in agreement and smile.

“yeah, she was cute”

he nods and the car falls quiet yet again.

“would you like one?” he blurts out, his cheeks flushing when he realises he actually said it.

you snap your head to look at him and his hand leaves your thigh, resting on the steering wheel.

“what?”

“uh- i mean like in the future. you want kids, right?” he asks, his voice wavering and eyes frantically trying to decide whether to look at you or the road.

what the hell are you meant to say? does he mean with him?

“yeah, i’d like children…” you nod. your reply is calm, unlike your thoughts.

“with me?” he murmurs, his eyes flicker to you then back at the road.

“do you want them with me…?” you question, regretting the tone you had used. it sounded like a jab.

“of course i want kids with you, sweetheart…” he responds. his voice is barely louder than a whisper.

his hand returns to your thigh and he gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“i want to start a family with you…” he relays the words in a more assured manner.

“you could’ve just said that” you giggle and his serious expression cracks. his lips curving into a grin as he rubs a hand over his face.

“yeah… could’ve just said it.” he shakes his head.

“didn’t want you to think i’m soft…” he sighs, looking back at the road as he pulls into the driveway.

“you’re not soft for wanting a family… or having baby fever” you reassure him with a chuckle.

he turns off the car and looks over at you.

“i don’t have baby fever.”

“you so do” you giggle and lean over to peck his lips softly.

he returns the kiss, holding back a smile of his own.

“but i’m serious when i say i want you to have my children.”

he holds the back of your head and pulls you back in for a soft, passionate kiss.

-

- request a fic

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

cute!

only here for her

co-parenting with rafe who’s giving you mixed signals.

the doorbell rang at around 5:00pm, late.

you open the door to see rafe, stood there with his usual scowl clouding his face.

“hey” he mumbles. “sorry i’m late”

“she just finished eating her dinner.” you step to the side to let him in.

he spots maisie and crouches infront of her.

“hey, babygirl.” he murmurs and scoops her up with ease and held her on his hip, his hand pushing some hair out of her face.

“she’s been waiting for you all afternoon. she thought every car that drove by was you, she’s been running to the window to check if it was you.” you chuckle softly, rubbing maisie’s back.

“was my little girl getting impatient?” he smiles and kisses maisie’s head. maisie reaches out and smacks his face lightly, making you both laugh.

“god, she’s getting big. haven’t seen her in two weeks and she’s already grown so much.” he smiles softly.

“she misses you… she’s always asking for you…” you nod, trying to keep your voice from trembling.

he tares his eyes away from maisie’s face and looks at you with a serious expression.

“i’ll do better, i swear.” he nods, his grip on maisie tightening slightly. “i’m working on myself more…”

you nod even though you don’t believe him. he always says that, yet nothing ever changes.

“you’re such a good mom…” he says genuinely.

“thanks” you smile genuinely.

for a moment, it felt like there was no walls between you two. like things could be different between you. like you could actually work together.

but you remind yourself he’s not here for you. he’s only here for her. just her.

not you. not to rebuild the relationship you once had. to pick up your daughter and leave again.

as stupid as it sounds, you wish he came to see you— just for you. not for maisie.

“so… how’ve you been?” rafe asks out of the blue.

“um- yeah fine” you nod, instantly snapping out of your thoughts.

he nods and looks around the room, rocking maisie a little who lets out a big yawn.

“big yawn, baby…” he chuckles and nuzzles his nose against her soft hair.

he looks at his watch then sighs, looking over at you.

“i should get going”

“yeah, of course. it’s past her bedtime anyway” you nod and walk over to the front door, opening it and he follows you.

he holds maisie out and you take her into your arms. you hug her and give her a soft kiss on the cheek.

“bye, sweetheart… i’ll see you soon” you smile and hand her back to rafe.

he leans in for a hug himself. strange.

without thinking, you hug him back and he presses a kiss to your head.

what the hell is going on with him?

first he doesn’t even want to look at you, now he’s hugging and kissing you.

“stay safe, okay?” he murmurs as he pulls away, squeezing your arm gently.

“yeah… you too” you nod, still confused by his actions.

“okay, bye” he smiles and makes maisie wave before heading to the car.

you wave until he drives off and the shut the door.

you’ll never be able to figure that man out, that’s for sure.

-

- dividers by @saradika-graphics and @strangergraphics

- request a fic

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

ik i just run a tumblr smut page BUT!!!

FUCK ICE, free palestine, free congo, FUCK trump, FUCK musk, no one is illegal on stolen land, and if u disagree, FUCK YOU TOO!!!

i’ve said this before but if u support that fuckass orange in office, idc if ur a silent follower or ur like is ur only form of interacting with me, just know, i don’t want it!!! and u are a terrible person!!! 😛

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

so cute!

YOU ACTIN' LIKE I LEFT YOU — rafe cameron x bunny!reader

you’re curled up in your bed like the world ended, wearing the strawberry pajama set he always teased you for. mascara’s smudged. your nose is pink. your heart feels like it’s cracking in half over something that shouldn’t matter this much. but it does. pancake is gone.

he’s been missing since this morning and you’ve checked everywhere—under the bed, in the hamper, behind the bookshelf, even the kitchen trash in a brief moment of unhinged panic. you can’t sleep without him. you can barely breathe without him.

so when rafe finally walks through the bedroom door, soaking wet from running through the rain, flashlight in hand and irritation in his voice, you don’t even lift your head. you just sniff, quietly, dramatically, like a disney princess having a breakdown in the third act.

“you’re seriously cryin’ over this thing?” he says, and his voice isn’t cruel, just confused. like he doesn’t get it but he also kind of does. you peek up from your blanket cocoon and whisper, “he’s gone, rafe.”

he stares at you. the wet hair. the little pout. the glitter-covered lighter still sitting on your nightstand. and he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “you’re actin’ like i died.”

“he smells like you,” you say, soft and wrecked. “and the sheets. and when you used to sleep here every night. and now i don’t know where he is and i feel like… like someone unplugged me.”

he doesn’t say anything for a second. then he walks over slow, like you might bite. sits down at the edge of the bed and just watches you. not judging. not rolling his eyes. just… watching.

“you lost your bear,” he says finally, voice lower now, “and you’re actin’ like i left you."

you shrug. your lip trembles. “feels like the same thing.”

and something in him shifts.

he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t tease. just slides his arms around you, tugs you into his chest, and rests his chin on top of your head.

“you could lose every stupid bear in the world,” he mutters, “and i’d still be here.”

“you promise?”

“yeah. i promise. i’ll rub my hoodie on a new one and call it pancake two or somethin’. make it smell like me. yell at it a little so it’s accurate.”

you laugh into his t-shirt. it’s not that funny. but it kind of is. because it’s him.

and for the first time all day, you feel like maybe you can sleep again. even if pancake’s still missing. even if everything’s not fixed.

because rafe didn’t leave.

and that’s what matters

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

well yes!

౨ৎ | RAFE FINDING OUT BUNNY DIDNT USE HIS CARD

you were just trying to be cute.

and then rafe saw the email.

and now he’s just… standing there. in the doorway. arms crossed. brows drawn. watching you spin around in the dress he didn’t buy.

you freeze mid-twirl. blink.

“ohmygosh—you scared me! were you there the whole time??”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. doesn’t say hi.

he just says:

“you didn’t use my card.”

you blink again. big doe eyes. “huh?”

“the order confirmation. it came through. not mine. yours.”

you smile nervously, holding the hem of the dress between your fingers. “yeahhh… surprise! i was gonna show you later with confetti and a cupcake but—um—you kinda ruined that part—”

“bunny.”

his voice cuts through your sentence like a knife wrapped in velvet.

you tilt your head. “i didn’t wanna bother you, baby. you already paid for my nails and that really expensive shampoo and the stuffed animal that sings and my nail glue and—”

“and i wanted to.”

his voice is quiet now. but rough. like he’s trying not to feel it too much.

“you think i don’t want to be the one takin’ care of you?”

you blink. confused and slightly flustered.

“i was just tryin’ to be helpful,” you whisper. “like, girlboss? y’know?”

he moves closer. slowly. until you’re looking up at him like a guilty cupcake.

“you’re not supposed to buy your own things,” he mutters, hand coming up to rest on your cheek. “you’re supposed to send me the damn link and let me do it.”

you frown, softly. “i didn’t wanna be annoying…”

“you are,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear, “but you’re my annoying.”

you beam. instantly.

he sighs, kisses your forehead, and gently bops your nose.

“next time you wanna surprise me? lemme spoil you. that’s the whole surprise.”

you lean into him like a sleepy bunny and whisper, “can i still get the glitter heels that match this?”

“you’re not paying for ‘em.”

“okay but like… if i accidentally do, will you be mad?”

“no,” he grumbles. “just emotionally devastated.”

you giggle. “that’s so dramatic. you’re like… the sexy dark prince of financial trauma.”

he blinks. “what.”

“nothing.”

and he doesn’t bring it up again.

but later that night, there’s a new notification on your phone:

delivery scheduled—paid by: rafe cameron.

item: glitter heels. one pair. excessive sparkle. no receipt included.

because next time?

he’s already one step ahead.

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

so good!!

picking up older!rafe from the country club

12:46 am

that’s when your night gets interrupted from a very drunk rafe making you groan and reach out blindly for your phone before finally grabbing it "this better be important." you mutter irritably into the phone, clearly not in the mood for whatever is going on.

“hey… sweet baby— he laughs mid talking— could you uhm…like pick us up?” you frown at his slurred speech, sitting up straighter as annoyance tightens your jaw.

“Us?” you echo, already knowing you won’t like the answer.

“Me ‘n Top… and Kelce. I think. Might be more. Dunno. We’re at—wait, wait—Top where are we, bro?” You hear muffled arguing, laughter, something crashing in the background.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, teeth gritted. “You’re kidding.”

“Nooo,” Rafe drawls. “I’m serious, baby. You’re the only one I trust not to leave me for dead or steal my wallet. And I miss you,” he adds like it’ll soften the blow, like that’ll make you forget it’s twelve-fucking-forty-five and you have work in the morning.

You sigh, already sliding off the bed and grabbing your keys and pulling up to the country club.

You don’t bother honking. You just sit there, door unlocked, headlights cutting through the night like you’re daring someone to test your patience.

It doesn’t take long.

The front door swings open violently, and Rafe stumbles out like he’s been tossed—laughing, loud, messy. Topper follows, shirt half-buttoned and yelling something incoherent. Then comes Kelce, clutching a red Solo cup like it’s a lifeline.

“That’s my woman!” he shouts, arms out, and for a moment you fear he’s going to trip on his face.

“them too?” you dead pan already losing it. how the fuck do you end up with three grown ass men in their thirties at one am?

You lean over and push the passenger door open with an annoyed flick of your hand. “Get in, Rafe.” you exclaim exasperated.

He slides into the passenger seat, the smell of liquor and smoke clinging to him like a second skin.

“You mad?” he slurs, head tipping against the window with a thud. “You look mad. But you’re always so fucking hot when you’re mad baby …”

“Rafe,” you snap, shifting the car into drive, “shut up.”

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

ugh love!

little things military!rafe does

- whenever his smoking, he doesn’t let you near him. he never smokes in the house and makes sure windows and doors are shut while his outside so it doesn’t get in.

- he puts his dog tags on you when he gets back from deployment and you wear them while he’s home.

-he keep a picture of you in his hat and always he shows his friends when he has a new one of you.

- he takes you hunting with him sometimes. he loves when you sit on his lap as you wait and how you whisper about random things after he tells you to stop being so loud. then when you get upset and bury your face in his chest when he actually shoots the deer as if you haven’t seen him do it many times before.

- if girls try to hit on him at the bar, he’s immediately plotting his escape.

“oh my wife is calling me” he picks up his phone and walks outside.

you weren’t calling him, he just wanted a quick exit.

- when he compliments you, he always picks out something specific. not just “you look pretty” it’s something like “i like the way you did your hair, i can see those pretty eyes better now.”

- he always comes back home with a present. it’s either food, a little trinket that reminded him of you or sometimes he comes back with a tattoo dedicated to you.

- he sends you written letters while he’s away. he knows he can just message you— but sending letters seems a lot more romantic to him. he loves when you send one back and put a little kiss print on it, he literally shows everyone in his bunk.

- he always sends you songs that remind him of you when he’s away. it’s his way of letting you know he’s think of you.

- dividers by @uzmacchiato and @dollywons

- request fic

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

!!!!!!!!!!!

hi. fuck ice. here is how you can help families affected by unlawful deportation

edit: and FUCK LAPD. here is how you can help bail out protestors who are in the trenches, facing mass arrests and putting their bodies on the line.

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

“I’m not here to fix you, Mattheo.”

“I know,” he said. “But you see me. That’s worse.”

OH EM GEE!!

so cute and well written

Wickedly Yours

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Summary: Mattheo Riddle finds solace in the one person he never expected to crave. But even love forged in shadow must weather the light, and your about to learn what it means to be loved by someone who was never taught how.

The castle never truly slept. Even at midnight, Hogwarts pulsed with secret footsteps, echoing laughter, the hum of magic breathing through stone and torchlight.

But Mattheo Riddle was still.

Still in the corner of the Slytherin common room, his jaw resting against the top of your head as if it belonged there—like you did.

Your legs were tangled with his beneath the emerald-and-silver quilt someone had tossed over the lounge chair. His fingers, those cursedly beautiful hands, brushed mindless shapes across your spine, occasionally pausing when you guessed them right.

“Dragon,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Mattheo hummed low in his throat, lips grazing your temple. “Too easy.”

“Then stop picking things you like to tattoo on yourself.”

“I only tattoo what matters.”

You didn’t ask if you mattered. He didn’t have to say it aloud—not when he needed to be touching you constantly, like his body didn’t know what to do in the absence of yours.

You didn’t expect it, the way he loved. Not from someone like him—sharp edges, cruel smiles, a legacy soaked in fear and fire. But beneath the snark, behind the dark eyes and wry humor, he ached for softness.

And you were the only place he’d ever found it.

It hadn’t always been this easy—this instinctual.

You remembered when it started. Fifth year. Cold evening, late October. You were sitting by the lake with a half-finished essay on Ancient Runes in your lap, wind biting your cheeks, knuckles red from the cold. You didn’t notice him until his shadow passed over your parchment.

“That's your handwriting?” he asked, cocking his head with interest.

You nodded, a little confused.

“It’s... pretty.” He’d said it like it tasted strange on his tongue. Like it was the first time he’d said something nice and meant it.

You didn’t know why he stayed that day. You didn’t know why he started sitting closer, why his hand always brushed yours when you passed him a quill, why his knees bumped yours under shared study desks like he couldn’t help it.

But you knew how you felt when he did.

Like fire, controlled.

Like something forbidden that tasted like fate.

Now, a year later, you were his favorite place to rest. Not even sleep—just rest. His body would go lax only when you were curled against it. Only then did the tension in his shoulders unwind, his eyes grow soft, his voice drop to that low, molten timbre only you ever heard.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you whispered one night, pulling his arm tighter around your waist.

“I can’t help it.” He exhaled into your hair. “You keep looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to forgive me for every bad thing I’ve ever done.”

You didn’t say anything. Just shifted until your nose brushed his collarbone, until your lips found the base of his throat and pressed a kiss there.

“I’m not here to fix you, Mattheo.”

“I know,” he said. “But you see me. That’s worse.”

He touched you like he needed proof.

A hand at the small of your back when you walked through the corridors. Fingers curling tight around yours in crowded hallways, almost possessive, like if he let go, the world would steal you. At night, when the castle was asleep and it was just the two of you, he’d trace soft, reverent lines over your skin as if memorizing a map only he had the right to know.

“I used to be so good at being alone,” he confessed once.

You glanced over your shoulder. He was sitting behind you, legs spread, you between them, his arms wrapped around your middle.

“And now?”

“Now,” he murmured, pressing his lips just behind your ear, “I don’t remember what that even felt like.”

There were things he couldn’t say. Parts of himself sealed behind wards even he didn’t fully understand.

But the way he loved you—showed you—was in the details.

The steaming mug of tea he’d place by your side when you stayed up late studying. The way he watched every interaction you had with other boys, jaw tight, gaze unreadable. The way he never left you alone in the Great Hall if he could help it—always finding a reason to brush your thigh beneath the table, to whisper something utterly unhelpful just to see you smile.

And then there was the drawing game.

It started as a joke. His fingers trailing across your back one night, you half-asleep, him far too awake, tangled in thoughts darker than the room around you.

“What are you drawing?” you had murmured.

He didn’t answer.

So you guessed.

“Snake?”

“No.”

“Crescent moon?”

“Nope.”

You rolled over, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me or I’ll hex you.”

He smirked, leaned in, and kissed you—slow, indulgent, maddening.

“Wrong answer. But I’ll allow it.”

Now it was a ritual.

Night after night, his hand would stroke patterns across your spine as you lay curled into his chest. If you got it right, he’d kiss you. If you got it wrong, he’d kiss you more.

“You’re just making up symbols to keep kissing me,” you muttered one night.

“Maybe.” His grin was wicked. “But you never complain.”

And you didn’t.

Because every kiss felt like him saying all the things he didn’t know how to say out loud.

One night, he woke you up without meaning to. His breath came in short bursts, his hand fisted in the blanket, sweat at his temple.

You turned to him, still groggy. “Nightmare?”

He didn’t answer right away. But when he looked at you—really looked at you—something in him cracked.

“I dreamt I couldn’t find you,” he rasped. “I searched the whole castle. Every room. You weren’t anywhere. You were just... gone.”

You reached for his face, thumb brushing the shadow of stubble along his jaw. “I’m right here.”

“I need to feel you,” he whispered. “I need to touch you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you.”

He swallowed hard. “If I could keep you next to me all the time, I would.”

You kissed him—forehead, then cheek, then lips. You let your fingers trace his ribs, his chest, anchoring him back to the present.

“I want that too,” you whispered.

And he held you so tightly after that, you could barely breathe—but you didn’t ask him to loosen his grip. You wanted to be his anchor.

His reason to breathe.

On your birthday, he didn’t make a spectacle. No grand gesture. Just a quiet knock on your dormitory door and a note.

“Meet me where we don’t have to pretend. Midnight. -M.”

You found him in the Room of Requirement, the walls transformed into a soft, starlit dome—floating candles, pillows stacked in a nest of comfort, a fire flickering in a hearth you knew hadn’t been there an hour ago.

You turned to him slowly. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you,” he said, and he meant it.

You crossed the room and took his hand. He pulled you down into his lap, cradling your face between his hands, searching your eyes like they held answers to questions he didn’t dare ask aloud.

“I don’t need anyone else to know,” he said against your skin. “Not yet. Not if it means losing this. Losing you.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“You say that like it’s a promise.”

“It is,” you whispered, your breath hitching as he kissed your palm.

You woke up the next morning with your head on his chest, your hand over his heart, and a parchment folded neatly on the pillow beside you.

Riddle’s Drawing Game – Final Round If you don’t get this one right, I’m kissing you until you do.

You laughed softly to yourself and tucked the paper into your journal.

You didn’t need to guess.

Because the answer was always the same.

You were his.

And gods help the world if anyone tried to change that.

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

I read this last night and couldn't get it out of my head all day

theirs — joel x reader x tommy

𝒮ummary: Joel's been with you for weeks, but when he catches the way you look at his brother, he decides it's time to share.

𝒲arnings: threesome, dirty talk, light degradation, unprotected sex, oral sex (f! & m! receiving), orgasm denial/edging, dom!joel, voyeur!joel, reader objectified (consensually)

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: i swear to god this is the dirtiest thing i ever wrote but let me know if you want a part 2 bc i could do a collection or a whole book of them together

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 8,4k

You’re on Joel’s lap the night it starts.

Half-drunk on cheap whiskey and the weight of his arms around your waist, you’re draped across him like you belong there. The porch creaks beneath your bare feet as you rock slowly in the old chair, his breath warm against your neck, and his hand resting low on your thigh, just under the hem of your shorts. A breeze carries in the sounds of Jackson’s quiet night—distant voices, boots over dirt—but your eyes are locked on one thing.

Or rather, one man.

Tommy Miller.

He’s sitting across from the two of you, laughing at something dumb Joel just muttered—God knows what, you’d stopped listening a minute ago. He’s got that easy grin, relaxed posture, tanned skin catching firelight from the lantern beside him. A couple buttons are undone on his shirt and his forearms are dusted with grime and work. And you?

You’re staring.

Hungry.

It’s not subtle either. You let it happen, cocking your head just a little, gaze dragging over the line of Tommy’s jaw, lingering where his neck disappears into his collar. You know Joel sees it. You want him to. All the time.

He shifts beneath you, breath catching just a little. His fingers flex tighter on your leg.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “You’re starin’, sweetheart.”

You hum, slow and syrupy, turning your head to glance back at him over your shoulder, lips curling.

“Can’t help it,” you purr, unbothered. “You Millers come in the same model—built tough, look good filthy. I got a type, what can I say?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, but there’s no anger in it. Just something darker. Slower. Watching you with that narrowed stare of his, like he’s weighing the shape of your words in his head. Behind you, Tommy’s too busy sipping his drink to notice how thick the air’s gotten.

Joel slides his hand higher up your thigh.

“You want him?” he asks, almost too casual. Almost.

You blink.

“What?”

Joel leans back in the chair, pulling you with him. You’re sitting square in his lap now, back against his chest, his palm splayed against your stomach.

“You look at him the same way you look at me,” he says, voice low and steady. “Been noticin’ it a while now. When we’re out on patrol. Dinner. Hell, even when it’s just the two of us here. Eyes all starvin’. So I’ll ask again.”

He nudges your thighs apart just a little with his knees.

“You want him?”

You laugh, soft and breathless, turning to face him properly now. “And if I do?”

Joel doesn’t blink.

“Then you could have him,” he says. “Long as I get to watch.”

The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your mouth parts. Your breath stills.

You feel it between your legs immediately.

He sees it.

“Fuck,” you whisper, smiling slow. “You’re serious.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. His voice lowers.

“Dead serious.”

And from the other side of the porch, Tommy lifts his glass and calls out, easy and oblivious:

“Y’all whisperin’ secrets over there, or just bein’ gross again?”

You smirk.

Joel’s hand slides even higher.

“Maybe both,” you call back, eyes never leaving Joel’s.

The horses are stabled, boots are muddy, and the sky’s starting to dim again — that hazy, gold hour when the shadows stretch long and the air feels thicker than it should.

Joel tosses his saddle over the gate and wipes sweat from his brow. Tommy’s leaning against the fence post, drinking from his canteen, still catching his breath.

They’ve been riding quiet all afternoon — too quiet, for brothers who usually bicker just to pass the time.

Joel doesn’t look at him when he says it.

“You been starin’ at her too, haven’t you?”

Tommy’s halfway through a drink. He pulls the canteen away, squinting.

“…The fuck?”

Joel finally glances over, eyes steady beneath his brow. “Don’t play dumb, Tommy.”

Tommy laughs. A short, sharp bark of disbelief. “You serious right now?”

Joel just stares.

“You’re talkin’ about her?” Tommy adds. “The girl who’s been crawlin’ all over your lap for weeks? That one?”

Joel gives a slow nod.

Tommy shakes his head, smirking. “What, you wanna fight me or somethin’? ’Cause I looked?”

“No,” Joel says. Then, after a pause:

“Wanna offer her to you.”

The smile dies right there.

Tommy straightens. “Jesus Christ.”

Joel leans against the fence, arms crossed, voice low and even.

“She’s not mine. Not really. We fuck. We talk. She drinks my whiskey and runs that smart mouth of hers till I shut her up. But we keep it casual. She doesn't belong to me.”

Tommy just stares at him like he’s gone insane.

Joel shrugs. “I see how she looks at you. The same way she looked at me before she got in my bed. You ever notice how quiet she gets when you walk into a room? Or how she licks her lip when you talk?”

Tommy doesn’t answer, but his jaw tics.

Joel sees it.

“Thought I was imaginin’ it,” Joel says. “But last night? When she sat on my lap and you were sittin’ across from us? She didn’t even try to hide it.”

“She’s half your age,” Tommy mutters, shaking his head, still like he doesn’t quite believe this is happening.

Joel’s voice drops, quiet and rough. “And yours too. That stop either of us?”

Tommy goes silent.

Joel watches him.

“It don’t have to be a thing. You want her—I’m givin’ you the green light. She wants it too. She’s probably just waitin’ for one of us to say it out loud.”

Tommy laughs again, but it’s different this time. Lower. Nervous.

“You really okay with just… watchin’?”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “Who said I’d be just watchin’?”

That gets a look.

But Tommy doesn’t argue.

He looks away instead, out toward the mountains. Wipes a hand across the back of his neck. He’s quiet for a while. Too long. And Joel lets him sit with it.

Then, finally, Tommy sighs.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Joel waits.

“I mean… yeah,” Tommy says. “I’ve looked. I’ve thought about it. Lot more than I should’ve.”

Joel nods once, like he knew it already.

Tommy exhales, shaking his head. “You’re a goddamn lunatic.”

Joel just smirks.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not wrong.”

Joel’s place smells like cinnamon and sin.

He walks in first, boots heavy on wood, holding the door just long enough for Tommy to follow. You don’t look up right away — you’re elbow-deep in something sweet, hands dusted in flour, sleeves pushed up past your elbows, a pie crust laid out on the counter in front of you like an offering.

You hum to yourself, casual, barefoot, hips swaying just a little in the quiet rhythm of your own routine.

“I brought company,” Joel says from the doorway, voice unreadable.

You glance back, eyes flicking over your shoulder, playful smile already curling.

“Hope it’s someone I’d actually let eat my pie,” you say, sweet as honey and sharp as the knife on the cutting board.

Tommy snorts behind him. “If that’s the welcome, I might take my chances.”

You finally turn, arms folded, leaning your hip against the counter. The apron tied around your waist does nothing to hide the curve of you — the softness, the bare legs, the casual confidence. You’re comfortable here. Powerful in it.

And you know exactly what you’re doing.

“Well, well,” you purr, eyes dragging over him, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t know we were graced with royalty tonight. To what do I owe the honor, Miller junior?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Joel’s idea.”

You shoot Joel a look, mock suspicion. “That so?”

Joel shrugs, already settling into his chair at the table like he didn’t just bring a loaded weapon into his kitchen.

“Said you were bakin’,” he says. “Figured Tommy might wanna see you with somethin’ sweet in your hands for once, instead of my cock.”

Tommy nearly chokes. You laugh.

“Oh my god, Joel,” you say, eyes wide, fighting the grin.

But you don’t deny it.

You look at Tommy again — this time slower, letting the silence stretch. He’s shifting his weight, trying not to stare too obviously. Failing. His eyes flick down, then up again too fast, trying not to look at your thighs, or the smear of flour on your chest.

“You bake, Tommy?” you ask, teasing. “Or you just good at eatin’ things other people make?”

He smirks, leaning against the frame. “I get by.”

“I bet you do.” You tilt your head. “You watch long enough, I’ll let you lick the spoon.”

Joel chuckles low in his throat, shaking his head, but doesn’t interfere.

Tommy lifts both hands like surrender. “You’re trouble.”

You turn back toward the pie, smoothing the crust into the dish, voice over your shoulder: “Only if you don’t know what to do with me.”

Behind you, Joel meets Tommy’s eyes — silent, subtle — and gives a single nod.

Tommy exhales slow, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

“Pie smells good,” he says, eyes still fixed on you.

You smirk without turning.

“Better when it’s hot.”

You don’t look at either of them as you fold the last edge of crust into place, fingers moving with practiced ease. The room’s gone quieter, heavier, like the air itself knows something’s different. Joel’s sitting at the table with one leg stretched out, a glass of whiskey in hand. He hasn’t said a word in minutes — just watching. Steady. Measured. Like this is all part of some slow game he already knows the ending to.

Tommy lingers at the counter, just behind you now, arms crossed. Close enough to smell the cinnamon, and under it — your skin.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” he says after a beat.

You shrug, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “I like working with my hands. Keeps me out of trouble.”

“Pretty sure you are the trouble,” he mutters.

You glance back, smirking. “Then I guess I’ve been working overtime.”

Tommy chuckles, but it’s tight. A little shaky around the edges. He runs a hand through his hair and glances toward Joel, like he needs a read on the room — needs to know how far he can go without crossing something he can’t walk back.

Joel just lifts his glass.

“Don’t look at me,” he says. “You’re the one standin’ there, starin’ at her like you’re tryin’ to solve a goddamn puzzle.”

You laugh quietly, leaning back against the counter. The pie dish sits beside you, raw and waiting.

“Well?” you ask Tommy, eyes catching his again. “What’s so complicated, huh?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Scratches at his jaw.

“I dunno,” he says finally. “Feels like you’re messin’ with me.”

“Oh, baby.” You push off the counter and step toward him, slow and deliberate, bare feet silent against the floorboards. “I am messin’ with you. Doesn’t mean I’m not serious.”

He stands still as you pass him, brush by his arm — the heat of you so close, so casual. You walk to the sink, rinse your hands in cold water, stretch your arms high over your head when you’re done, knowing exactly how your shirt rides up, how Tommy’s eyes follow the motion even though he tries not to.

Joel watches it all with that quiet, unreadable look.

You turn, leaning one hip against the sink, towel still in hand.

“I see the way you look at me, Tommy. It’s cute. Like you’re tryin’ real hard to pretend you’re not imagining what I sound like moaning your name.”

Tommy swallows hard.

You smile, wicked and slow.

Joel’s voice comes in, low from the table. “She’s good at that part, too. That sound.”

Tommy shoots him a look, but Joel just sips his whiskey, calm as ever.

You walk back toward the counter, sliding the pie into the oven without breaking eye contact. Then you close it with a soft clink, straighten, and say:

“You gonna help set the table or just keep standin’ there tryin’ not to pop wood in your brother’s kitchen?”

Tommy chokes on air.

Joel laughs — deep, rough, genuine.

But you don’t wait. You’re already moving to the cabinets, humming some old song under your breath like this is just another Sunday evening. Plates clink. Silverware glints.

And behind you, Tommy finally takes a slow step forward.

Right into the deep end.

The pie cools just long enough for the scent to fill every corner of the room — cinnamon, brown sugar, heat.

You slice it carefully, the crust flaking under your knife just right, steam curling into the air as you plate each piece. Joel gets his first — always does — and you set his down in front of him like a ritual. Tommy’s next, though, and this time you place his on the table with a knowing little smile.

Then you move past both chairs.

You don’t sit in yours.

You sit in his.

Right in Tommy’s lap.

He freezes under you, fork halfway to his mouth. You wiggle just a little, getting comfortable, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hope you don’t mind,” you murmur, your voice honey-thick and innocent.

Tommy swallows hard, one hand hovering mid-air like he doesn’t know where the hell to put it.

“You… uh,” he starts, eyes darting briefly toward Joel, who hasn’t moved. “You’re real casual, ain’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, cutting into your own slice with his fork, then turning slightly in his lap to look at him. You feed yourself slowly, tongue catching the edge of the bite before pulling it in, licking a smear of filling from your lip.

Tommy just stares.

“Y’know,” he mutters, “you’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been told.”

Joel leans back in his chair, pie untouched for now, watching you two. Quiet. Patient. There’s a glint in his eye — not jealousy, not quite approval either. Something possessive in its own right. He’s enjoying this, you realize. Watching Tommy squirm. Watching you work.

Tommy’s hands finally find a place — one at your waist, the other resting gently on your bare thigh, unsure if it’s allowed to go further. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

You just lean back against him and take another bite.

“Don’t let me make you nervous, Tommy,” you say without turning. “You’ve seen what this mouth can do.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, but it’s strained.

“I haven’t,” he says, low.

You look over your shoulder. “Not yet.”

Joel’s voice cuts in then, calm and smooth:

“She likes bein’ watched.”

That pulls Tommy’s eyes back to him, startled for a moment — but Joel’s calm. Still. Like none of this rattles him.

Like he wants this.

“She likes pushin’ buttons. Likes takin’ control.”

You shift in Tommy’s lap again, slow, pressing back ever so slightly.

“Only if the man’s worth it.”

“You think he is?” Joel asks, voice even, measured.

You smile.

“I think he’s about to find out.”

The plates are empty.

Crumbs scattered, forks abandoned. The only sounds left are the creak of old chairs, the low tick of cooling metal from the oven, and the steady beat of breath — yours, his, Joel’s. The quiet isn’t comfortable anymore. It’s thick. Heavy with what’s next.

You’re still on Tommy’s lap.

His hands have found their place now — one splayed wide on your thigh, the other curled around your waist like he forgot it wasn’t supposed to be there. He’s warmer beneath you than he was earlier. A little tense. A little still.

And very aware of where you’re sitting.

You let the silence stretch.

Then you shift again — slow, subtle, but enough to drag your ass right over the growing bulge in his jeans.

Tommy inhales sharply.

Joel watches from across the table, his eyes dark, steady.

You glance up at him briefly, then back at Tommy, tilting your head like you’re thinking real hard.

“You always this quiet?” you ask, your voice syrupy, sweetened with a mocking lilt. “Or is that just ‘cause I’m sittin’ on something important?”

Tommy’s jaw ticks.

“You keep grindin’ like that,” he mutters, “and I’m not gonna stay quiet.”

“Oh?” You grin, resting your elbow on the table, your body still square in his lap. “Big talk for a man who hasn’t even tried to touch me proper.”

“You’re in my lap.”

“And fully clothed. Which, frankly, is a little rude.”

Tommy shifts under you again, hands tightening on your waist.

Joel, still lounging in his chair, finally speaks.

“You don’t have to hold back, y’know.”

Tommy’s eyes flick to his brother. “You sure about that?”

Joel lifts his glass, tilts it lazily.

“I wouldn’t’ve brought you here if I wasn’t.”

The implication hangs there, heavy and clear.

You twist around just enough to look Tommy in the eye, your legs straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs. You’re close enough to feel the heat of his breath, to hear how shallow it’s gotten.

“You ever think about it?” you whisper. “Me. Spread out. Moaning your name. Begging for it.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.

“Yeah,” he says, low. “I’ve thought about it.”

“Good,” you murmur. Your hand slides up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the buttons of his shirt. “Because I’m done with pie. And I’m fuckin’ starving.”

Joel lets out a low breath — something close to a chuckle.

And Tommy?

Tommy finally moves.

You don’t wait for him to move again.

You lean in first — one hand still curled lightly around the collar of Tommy’s shirt, the other resting against his jaw, fingertips tracing the rough edge of his stubble. His breath hitches when you get that close. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

You tilt your head, just enough.

And kiss him.

Soft at first.

Just your mouth against his — light pressure, a test, a tease. He doesn’t move right away, but you feel the way his whole body responds under you, muscles tightening, breath catching.

Then he kisses you back.

Harder.

Hotter.

You pull away just enough to murmur, “Get up.”

Tommy blinks. “What?”

You slide off his lap, hand still in his shirt. “Get up.”

He does, and you move immediately, climbing up onto the edge of Joel’s kitchen table like you’ve done it a hundred times — like you were meant to be there. You sit at the edge, legs spreading slowly, heels hooking around the edge of the chair he just vacated.

You look down at him, still standing between your legs.

You smile, dark and soft. “C’mon, Miller.”

He steps in, hands going to your hips — tentative at first, then firmer when you don’t flinch. You pull him in again, fingers tugging at his collar as you press your mouth back to his, this time deeper, slower, lips parting just enough to let him feel the heat behind your teeth.

You kiss like you’ve been waiting for this.

Like you’ve already pictured exactly how he tastes.

And now?

You’re proving yourself right.

His hands slide down to your thighs, thumbs dragging along your bare skin as your tongue flicks against his. His breath comes faster, and the kiss turns rougher — no hesitation now, just heat. Hunger. His hips press forward without meaning to.

Behind him, Joel hasn’t moved.

You break the kiss long enough to glance past Tommy’s shoulder. Joel’s still seated, still drinking you both in with that quiet, coiled energy. His elbow on the table, fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hasn’t touched in a while.

You lock eyes with him over Tommy’s shoulder.

Your lips still wet from his brother’s kiss.

And you smirk.

Then you whisper, low into Tommy’s ear:

“Tell me what you want.”

You don’t have to ask again.

The second your breath brushes Tommy’s ear, something breaks loose in him.

His hands slide up your thighs — rougher this time, fingers digging in as they rise. There’s no hesitation now, no caution. He’s locked in, focused, hungry. And you feel it in every inch of his touch.

He kisses you again — deeper, messier this time, mouth open against yours. His tongue pushes past your lips, meeting yours in a slick, heated grind that sends a slow pulse straight between your legs. You shift forward on the table, pulling him closer, the pressure between you sparking against the friction of your bodies.

His hands slip under the edge of your skirt.

You gasp into his mouth as his thumbs hook the waistband and drag them down just far enough to bare the curve of your hips, his fingers brushing heat and skin and nothing but you.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against your lips, voice thick.

“Yeah?” you breathe, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Guess I do like bein’ watched.”

You glance at Joel again — still in the same chair, jaw set, eyes locked on the two of you, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He hasn’t said a word. His hand rests loosely on his thigh now, the other curled around his untouched glass.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t look away.

Tommy’s fingers slip lower.

They find you.

And they don’t hesitate.

Your breath catches hard as he slides two fingers between your folds, slow and deliberate, dragging through the slick heat. His thumb brushes over your clit just once — featherlight — and your legs twitch around his hips, heels digging into the edge of the table.

You moan softly, back arching.

He watches your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“You feel like fuckin’ heaven,” he mutters, voice raw.

You laugh — breathless, dark. “Better than pie, huh?”

Tommy groans, sliding his fingers deeper, your slick welcoming him with ease. The stretch is perfect, just enough to make your thighs tighten around him. Your hips roll into his touch without thinking.

Behind him, Joel shifts.

The sound is small — wood creaking under his weight — but it cuts through everything. You look at him again, lip caught between your teeth, his eyes burning into yours.

You can tell.

He’s hard in his jeans.

And he’s not touching himself.

Yet.

“You gonna keep watchin’?” you ask him, voice low, laced with heat and dare.

Joel leans forward just slightly in his chair.

“For now.”

Tommy presses deeper.

And you cry out — loud this time, no shame, no restraint — your body rocking into his hand as your head falls back.

The table creaks beneath you.

And Joel just keeps watching.

Tommy’s fingers leave you only long enough to push your dress up — slow at first, like he’s trying to savor the reveal. The hem catches on your ribs, and you lift your arms without a word, letting him pull it over your head.

It drops to the floor with a soft whisper.

You’re bare underneath.

No bra.

Tommy swears under his breath — not loud, just enough that you feel the heat of it where he’s staring. His eyes drag over your chest, lingering on the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples tighten under the chill of the room — or maybe under his gaze.

His hands slide up your sides, calloused and warm, thumbs brushing under the curve of your breasts. Then, without warning, he dips his head.

His mouth wraps around your nipple — hot and sudden — and your whole body jolts.

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers curling into it as he sucks deep, tongue swirling slow, drawing tight circles around the sensitive bud. He groans into your skin, the sound low and reverent, like he’s been waiting to do this — like he’s dreamed it.

Your head tips back with a sharp gasp.

“F-fuck, Tommy…”

He moves to the other, dragging his mouth across the center of your chest, stubble scraping sensitive skin. His tongue is hotter than his hands, mouth open, wet, taking you in like it’s the first real taste he’s had all day.

Your thighs flex around his hips, heels locking against the backs of his legs. You grind instinctively against the denim of his jeans, slick and aching, every nerve lit up from the way he’s devouring you inch by inch.

Behind him, Joel hasn’t moved.

But you feel him.

Your eyes flutter open long enough to look over Tommy’s shoulder.

Joel’s leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, his face unreadable — but his eyes are fire. Fixed on your breasts, on Tommy’s mouth working you. You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard.

You smile through your moan.

“Y’mind if I let him keep going?” you breathe, voice teasing, drunk with pleasure.

Joel’s voice is gravel, low and tight:

“Didn’t tell him to stop.”

Tommy’s hands slide around your back, pulling you tighter to the edge of the table as his mouth keeps working you — slower now, wetter, tongue flicking teasing circles while his fingers knead your waist, possessive and sure.

He lifts his head only for a second — lips swollen, jaw tight — and says, voice rough:

“You taste like fuckin’ sugar.”

Your laugh turns into a gasp as his mouth drops again, tongue lapping hungrily against your nipple before he takes it back between his lips, harder this time.

You cry out — back arching, head thrown back.

And Joel?

Still hasn’t touched himself.

But his knuckles are white around that glass.

Tommy pulls back, breath hot against your chest, lips glossy from where he’s been working your skin. His hands are still on your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You’re flushed, gasping, but the smile playing on your lips is wicked. Too smug.

You glance over Tommy’s shoulder again.

Joel still hasn’t moved — but his glass is half-empty now, the other hand resting on his thigh, his thumb tapping slow against denim.

He’s watching your mouth when you say it.

“You sure you’re okay just sittin’ there, Joel?” you purr, breath still catching between words. “You look like you’re gonna break that glass or start humpin’ your chair.”

Tommy huffs a laugh against your collarbone — but Joel doesn’t smile.

He lifts his eyes to yours, slow.

Dead calm.

“You’re real mouthy tonight,” he says, voice low and dry. “Feelin’ bold ‘cause you got someone else’s tongue on your tits?”

You grin wide, dragging a thumb across your nipple, still wet from Tommy’s mouth. “Might just invite the whole town next time. Start a little bake sale.”

Tommy snorts again, but quieter this time. Joel’s face hasn’t changed.

Just his posture.

He sets the glass down.

Stands.

His boots are loud on the floor as he walks over — slow, measured. You tilt your head up as he approaches, all smirk and challenge, legs still spread where Tommy left you on the edge of the table.

Joel stops right in front of you.

“You done?” he asks.

Your smile doesn’t fade. “You jealous?”

His eyes narrow.

Then his voice drops, dark and final:

“Bedroom. Now.”

You blink.

Then grin even wider. “Oh? Daddy’s done watching?”

He leans in — not quite touching you, just close enough that you feel the heat roll off his chest.

“No. Daddy’s tired of his brat running her mouth like she owns the room.”

That one hits.

You swallow.

And for a second, neither of them moves — just the sound of your breath, the silence between their bodies, and Joel’s voice hanging in the air like a struck match.

Tommy clears his throat softly behind you, like even he felt that hit a nerve.

You hop off the table slowly, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Still smiling.

But your legs tremble just a little as you walk past Joel, hips swaying on purpose, your voice over your shoulder like a dare:

“Coming, boys?”

You reach the bedroom first — the door creaking open with a soft groan — and step in like you’re still in charge, like this is your space. But the second Joel fills the doorway behind you, arms crossed, blocking out the light from the hall with that dark look in his eyes, everything tilts.

He doesn’t step in fully.

Just stands there.

Commanding the room without needing to raise his voice.

“On the bed,” he says. “Hands and knees.”

You hesitate, just for a beat.

And that’s all it takes.

Joel’s brow lifts. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Your mouth goes dry. You climb onto the mattress — slow, deliberate, still trying to hold some kind of power — and crawl forward. You settle on your hands and knees, back arched, hair falling into your face. Your skin’s flushed, still tingling from Tommy’s mouth, and the cool air brushes over where your shorts were peeled off.

Behind you, Joel’s voice stays low, easy.

“Start with your mouth, Tommy.”

Tommy lingers just inside the room, but Joel doesn’t look at him — just keeps his eyes on you.

“She likes that,” he says. “Being on all fours. Somethin’ about it makes her feral.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers flexing against the sheets.

Joel steps just inside now, but still doesn’t come close — leaning against the wall, arms crossed, voice steady as ever.

“Go on,” he says. “Get on your knees behind her.”

You hear the soft rustle of Tommy moving — the sound of his jeans shifting, dropping, the faint thump as he kneels onto the mattress behind you. Then warmth — his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, fingertips tracing the curve of your ass.

“She’s soaked,” he mutters again, almost like it’s for himself.

Joel chuckles, quiet and dark.

“Of course she is. Been starvin’ for it all night, runnin’ that mouth like she doesn’t want to beg. Show her how quiet she gets when she’s got your tongue on her.”

And Tommy does.

He grips your hips gently at first, then firmer, spreading you open beneath him — and then his mouth is on you.

You gasp — high and sharp, your head dropping between your arms. His tongue moves slow at first, licking a broad stripe through your folds, warm and wet and teasing. Then he finds your clit — flicking, circling, sucking just the way your body needs — and your legs tremble instantly.

Joel watches it all.

Eyes locked on the way your back arches, the way your thighs shake when Tommy’s mouth gets deeper, wetter, messier.

“Good,” Joel says softly. “She’s real sensitive. You’ll know when you hit the right spot — she’ll start whining like a fuckin’ toy.”

Tommy groans into you, and the sound sends heat lancing up your spine.

Your moans start to come faster, more broken, hips rocking against Tommy’s face without shame. One of your hands clutches at the sheets, the other fisting uselessly in the air.

“F-fuck, Joel…”

He hums, slow and calm, still leaned against the wall like he’s got all night.

“See?” he murmurs. “She’s still cryin’ for me.”

Tommy’s mouth doesn’t stop moving.

He’s deeper now, tongue sliding lower, licking into you like he wants to drown in it. His grip tightens on your hips, pulling you closer, holding you wide open for him, tongue flicking firm and fast against your clit. Each pass sends another jolt through your spine, your thighs trembling, the bed creaking under your knees.

Your breath breaks into moans — ragged, helpless, strung out in Joel’s name whether you mean to or not.

And Joel, still leaning by the door, just smiles.

“That’s right, baby,” he says, voice low and steady like it’s just for you. “Let him taste all that mess you made. You love this, don’t you? Gettin’ tongue-drunk while I stand here and watch you fall apart.”

You whimper, burying your face in the sheets, fingers curling into the blanket. You try to speak — to answer — but all that comes out is a gasped, desperate noise.

Joel steps forward a little, just enough for the light to catch the sharp line of his jaw.

“Use your words,” he says, slow and thick with command. “C’mon, girl. You got so much to say when you’re runnin’ your mouth. Now tell me what you want.”

Tommy groans into you again, his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision — and your hips stutter, your thighs twitching around his head as another cry escapes you.

“F-fuck, Joel—please—”

Joel’s smile sharpens.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl. You beg real pretty with your pussy stuffed full of tongue.”

Your moan splits into something higher — a whine now, helpless and wet.

Tommy’s mouth doesn’t falter. He flattens his tongue and drags it slow, firm, sucking you just right — and Joel watches the whole thing, eyes glued to the way your back arches, the way your legs shake.

“You gonna come just from that?” Joel teases, voice darker now. “Just from a mouth on you? On all fours like a bitch in heat? Yeah… you will. I can tell.”

“Joel,” you cry again, breath breaking.

Tommy tightens his grip on your ass, pulling you closer, pressing his face in deeper — hungry, worshipful, lost in you.

And Joel keeps talking.

“She’s close,” he says, like he’s proud. “Get your fingers in her, Tommy. Nice and slow — let her feel it. She needs that stretch. Needs to be filled while she falls apart.”

Tommy groans again — this time muffled by your body — and then his fingers are sliding into you, two at once, thick and slick, curling deep while his tongue keeps lapping at your clit. The stretch is perfect, the pace brutal.

You cry out, the sound cracking in your throat.

Your knees nearly give out.

Joel’s voice dips lower, rougher.

“Go on, baby. Let it break you. I want you screamin’ while his mouth’s on you and my name’s still the only thing you can say.”

You’re right there.

So close your thighs are shaking, breath caught in your throat, the sheets twisted in your fists. Tommy’s tongue is relentless, his fingers stroking you just right, deep and curling — everything perfectly timed, perfectly built to take you over the edge.

Joel watches, still near the doorway, arms crossed and mouth set in something close to satisfaction.

But then — suddenly — Tommy stops.

Everything.

His mouth pulls back. Fingers slide out, slick and slow.

You gasp, body jolting forward like someone yanked your soul out of it.

“W-what—?”

Your voice breaks on the word.

You glance over your shoulder, dazed, wrecked — eyes wide, lips parted, thighs soaked and twitching. You look like something ruined. Like a fire halfway extinguished and still burning underneath.

Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, chest rising and falling hard.

Then his voice comes — low, new, edged with something else now.

Something earned.

“On your knees.”

You blink. “What?”

He sits back, legs spread, cock straining thick and red between them — eyes dark and locked on you.

“I said kneel. Right here,” he says, tapping the space in front of him. “You wanna come? You earn it.”

Joel lets out a quiet sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a breath — more like approval. He leans back against the wall again, letting it unfold.

“She’s good at it,” Joel murmurs. “Once she shuts up and listens.”

You hesitate for only a second — not because you don’t want it, but because you do, too much.

You slide off the bed, knees hitting the floorboards with a soft thud. Your hands come to Tommy’s thighs automatically, steadying yourself between them. His cock’s heavy, flushed, glistening at the tip, and your mouth waters instantly.

You glance up at him — wide-eyed, breathless — and lick your lips slowly, still trembling from the orgasm they ripped away.

“Still hungry?” he asks.

You nod.

“Then open your fuckin’ mouth.”

And behind you, Joel’s voice comes again — rougher this time, deeper.

“Make it good, baby. You want that release? You better earn it with your throat.”

You open your mouth without a word.

Eyes wide, lips parted, tongue wet and waiting — hungry, desperate, obedient. You press your hands harder into Tommy’s thighs, steadying yourself, and lean forward until your lips brush against the flushed head of his cock.

He groans immediately.

Low and guttural, like the sound’s been building in him all night.

Your tongue slides out first — a slow, deliberate lick over the tip, tasting the bead of precum already there. Then another. Then you flatten your tongue and drag it down the length of him, slow and wet, watching his head tip back with a hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “She’s—Jesus—she’s perfect like this.”

Joel hums from across the room. “Told you.”

Your mouth wraps around the tip, and you take him in slow — inch by inch, steady, letting him feel every wet pull of your lips, every flick of your tongue under the shaft. Your throat opens bit by bit, eyes never leaving his, and Tommy’s hand slides into your hair automatically, not to control — not yet — just to feel.

Joel’s voice cuts in — calm, sharp.

“Don’t let her go too fast.”

Tommy looks toward him, dazed. “What?”

“She’ll try to get you there quick. Girl knows what she’s doing. Don’t let her. She doesn’t get to end this yet.”

Your lips curl around Tommy’s cock at that — around the moan building low in your throat.

Of course Joel would know your tricks.

Tommy grunts, hand tightening in your hair just a little, guiding your pace now.

You bob your head slow, mouth slick and hot, tongue swirling around the tip each time you pull back. You suck him deep, letting spit drip from your chin, eyes fluttering shut for a second as your throat stretches to take him farther.

“You see that?” Joel murmurs, voice thick. “Look at the way her jaw opens for you. Look how needy she is with her mouth. She’ll suck the soul outta you if you let her.”

Tommy groans, hips twitching forward involuntarily — and you let him, choking just slightly, loving the weight of him, the control you don’t have.

But Joel speaks again — firmer now.

“Pull out.”

Tommy grits his teeth. “What?”

“Pull out,” Joel repeats. “She doesn’t get to finish that. Not yet.”

Tommy looks down at you, torn.

You look wrecked — spit smeared on your lips, your chest rising fast, eyes wild and glassy, your tongue flicking out to chase every inch he takes away.

But he obeys.

He pulls back with a gasp, and your mouth falls open, a whimper escaping you as your hands tighten on his thighs.

“No—Joel—” you start, voice trembling.

Joel steps closer now, finally off the wall.

“Don’t whine,” he says. “You knew what this was.”

You sit there on your knees, ruined, mouth open, jaw sore, cunt throbbing — and still completely untouched where it counts.

Joel looks you over, eyes slow, deliberate.

Then he nods to Tommy.

“Sit her on the edge of the bed. Let her feel it without havin’ it. We’re not done teachin’ her patience yet.”

Your back hits the bed as Tommy hauls you up — strong hands under your thighs, spreading them wide, holding you open like you’re something to be used. He’s panting now, voice dark and wild in your ear.

“You’ve been teasing me with this pussy all fuckin’ night,” he growls. “Every time you looked at me, I thought about splittin’ you open. Now look at you — spread and soaked for it. Fuckin’ brat.”

He lines up — thick and heavy, already glistening from your mouth — and presses the head of his cock against your entrance.

You whimper, still oversensitive, still aching from the denial.

And then he pushes in.

Not slow. Not gentle.

A single, hungry thrust — deep, firm, greedy — and you cry out, hands flying to the sheets, your head snapping back with the shock of it.

“God—Tommy—”

“Oh, that’s right,” he mutters, hips grinding as he bottoms out, buried deep. “She’s tight, Joel. Real tight. Like her pussy doesn’t know who it wants to come for.”

Joel’s there before you can answer — right beside you now, his belt already loose, jeans undone. His cock’s out, heavy and flushed, and his hand finds your jaw like it belongs there.

“Open up.”

You do — lips parting, tongue already slick, already aching for something to fill it.

He slides in without hesitation, thick and slow, stretching your mouth just like Tommy’s stretching your cunt. The noise you make is guttural, strangled — your throat filled as your pussy clenches around Tommy’s cock.

Joel groans low. “Fuck yes.”

“Look at her,” Tommy snarls from between your legs, hips snapping forward now, fucking you in rough, steady thrusts. “All that attitude, now she’s just a hole on both ends. She begged for this.”

Joel holds your head in place, thumb stroking your cheek as he slides deeper into your throat, slow and controlled.

“She’ll keep beggin’, too,” Joel murmurs. “It’s what she’s best at.”

Tommy grunts, each thrust sharper now, driving into you with the full weight of his hips, skin slapping against skin. “Tight fuckin’ cunt, squeezin’ me like she wants to come — you feel that? She’s already there. We could ruin her right now.”

Joel pulls back slightly from your throat, letting you breathe just enough before pushing in again.

“We could,” he agrees. “But we won’t.”

Tommy groans.

You’re shaking under both of them — mouth and cunt full, no room for thoughts, just sensation and heat and pressure. Your hands claw at the sheets, at anything, but all you feel is the rhythm of Tommy’s thrusts and Joel’s cock pushing into your throat.

“Goddamn,” Tommy growls. “This pussy’s beggin’. She’s fuckin’ choking on you and she’s still clenching on me like she wants me to fill her up.”

Joel chuckles darkly, pulling back to the tip.

“Not yet.”

Tommy grits his teeth, thrusting deep once more, staying inside you.

“She don’t get it until she earns it.”

Tommy’s pace is brutal now.

His hands are wrapped around your hips, dragging you into every thrust, cock punching deep, relentless, hitting the spot that’s made your legs twitch and your voice crack for the last goddamn hour. He’s grunting with each slam of his hips, sweat slick between your bodies, his head low, eyes locked on the way you take him.

“Fuckin’ look at her,” he growls, jaw tight. “She’s clenching like she’s tryin’ to make me come just by beggin’ for it.”

Above you, Joel’s grip tightens on your jaw, guiding his cock deeper into your mouth, then letting you pull off with a wet gasp. He fists your hair in one hand, the other gripping yours — tight, grounding — fingers laced between yours on the bed.

His voice drops low, growled against your temple.

“Say it.”

You try, but your voice breaks into a moan — overwhelmed, ruined.

“Please,” you whimper, your throat raw, lips swollen. “I-I need to—God—please, let me—”

“Say who you’re beggin’,” Joel murmurs, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lips. “You want to come? You ask us.”

Tommy slams into you harder — so deep it knocks the air out of you.

“Beg for it, sugar. Or you’re not gettin’ shit.”

Your hand tightens around Joel’s.

“Please,” you sob, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing around Tommy’s cock with every thrust. “Joel. Tommy. Please, let me come. I need it—I can’t—I’ll be so good—just please.”

Joel groans — low, wrecked — as he fists his cock and presses it against your lips again, letting you lick and suck at the tip, sloppy and desperate.

Tommy’s rhythm stutters.

“She’s fuckin’ there,” he gasps. “I can feel her—she’s gonna come the second I do—”

Joel leans down, lips right at your ear, voice shaking:

“Now.”

Tommy slams in deep — one, two more thrusts — and with a strangled groan, he comes, buried to the hilt, pulsing thick inside you. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged.

Joel’s hand tightens around yours, and you open wide for him one last time, sucking him in deep, just as his cock throbs on your tongue. He groans hard through his teeth, spilling into your mouth, and you take all of it — choking, gasping, swallowing him down as your body finally, finally breaks.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a fucking storm.

Your legs lock around Tommy’s hips, your fingers nearly crush Joel’s, and you scream into Joel’s palm — throat raw, body shaking, cunt squeezing around Tommy’s cock like it’s trying to keep him there.

Everything pulses.

Everything floods.

Tommy breathes your name against your skin, hips still twitching.

Joel pulls his cock from your mouth slow, slick, spent, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-soaked hair from your cheek. “That’s my girl.”

And you just lie there �� wrecked, full, held between them.

Finally emptied.

Finally claimed.

Your body’s still shaking.

The climax hasn’t let you go yet — your thighs twitch with aftershocks, your chest rising too fast, lips swollen from sucking Joel down until your jaw ached. You’re stretched full, pulsing around Tommy’s softening cock, every nerve still lit up.

You barely register it when Joel brushes the hair from your face. When Tommy presses a soft, grounding kiss to your shoulder. All you know is warmth — inside and out — and the weight of hands that no longer hold you down, but keep you together.

Joel’s the first to speak.

Voice low, rough-edged from release, but gentled now.

“You did so fuckin’ good for us.”

He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, still close enough to touch. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, hand still laced with yours. “Took everything we gave you. Held it like you were made for it.”

You shudder softly, the words going straight to the sore center of you.

Tommy’s still inside you — slowly softening, but not in a rush to pull out. His hands rub up and down your waist, calming, coaxing your breath back to normal.

“You were somethin’ else,” he murmurs, lips near your ear. “Been thinkin’ about that mouth for weeks. But this—?” He kisses the side of your throat. “You just gave it. All of it.”

You let out a quiet breath, your voice hoarse. “Thought you were gonna make me pass out.”

Joel chuckles — warm, real.

“Almost did,” he says. “You should’ve seen your fuckin’ face.”

“She looked gone,” Tommy adds, still stroking you. “Goddamn beautiful. Messy, ruined, full of both of us, and still beggin’ like it wasn’t enough.”

You manage a smile, eyes fluttering closed, cheek pressed to the pillow. “Still might be.”

Joel hums low in his throat, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Say shit like that, you’ll get round two without a nap.”

Tommy finally slides out, slow and careful, and you whimper at the loss. He presses another kiss between your shoulder blades.

“Let’s clean her up.”

Joel’s already grabbing the towel from the nightstand — planned, prepared, always thinking ahead. He’s gentle when he wipes you down, cupping your hip with one hand to steady you, cleaning between your thighs like he’s done it before.

Tommy watches, then leans down to whisper:

“Hey.”

You look up.

He’s grinning, soft now, worn out and happy.

“You’re the best fuck I never knew I needed.”

Joel shoots him a look, deadpan. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

Tommy laughs. “Shut up, man, she knows what I mean.”

You smile again — sore, satisfied, soaked in praise and attention.

Joel tosses the towel aside, then climbs into the bed behind you, pulling you into his chest with one strong arm. Tommy settles in on the other side, hand stroking lazy patterns across your thigh.

“You did real good, darlin’,” Joel murmurs again against your hair. “Bratty, loud, filthy. Just how I like you.”

Tommy nods, fingers tracing the curve of your hip.

“We’ll keep you like this,” he says. “All soft. All ours.”

And in the dark, held between them, full and warm and safe, you finally let yourself drift.

The bathwater Joel prepared is hot.

Almost too hot at first — enough to make you hiss as your legs lower into it, thighs trembling from soreness. But Joel’s behind you already, one hand on your waist, the other steady on your back.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

Tommy’s in front, sleeves rolled up, crouched at the edge of the tub, watching with that lazy smile of his. He hands Joel a cloth, already soaked through with warm water and lavender soap.

You sink into the tub slowly, your whole body protesting in the best way — muscles aching, cunt sore, jaw tender.

Wrecked. Used. Worshipped.

Joel starts to wash you.

Carefully.

He runs the cloth down your neck, over your shoulders, across your chest like you’re something breakable now. The same hands that held you still earlier now glide over you like you’re made of silk.

Tommy just watches for a minute. Quiet. Soft-eyed.

Then he speaks, voice low, slower than before.

“Never seen anyone like you.”

You glance at him, brows raised, lips barely curving.

He leans in closer. “You’re wild, y’know that? Got a fuckin’ mouth on you. Make a man wanna ruin you. And then you turn around and melt when we talk sweet.”

You blink, your throat too thick to answer.

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

so cute!

thinking about percy jackson and girly! reader. how he'll be forced to sleep in your cutesy pink bed with your pink blankets and twinkle lights. and how he steals sips from your pink water bottle which he put shark stickers on. and he loveloveloves when you were those cute long skirts in the spring or your sundresses in the summer he think it makes you look like a fairytale princess. and then on, that's your new pet name. and also! princess treatment for suuuure. and he'll kiss the back of your hand with one of his behind his back to act as your knight in shining armor. and he’ll carry you around bridal style alllll of the time, he loves carrying you :)

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

this is so accurate and well written!

ೃ࿔:･ giving s1!rafe the silent treatment

he finds you at the party.

of course he does.

you’ve been avoiding him for three days. ignoring his calls, his texts, his knock at your window last night. now you’re here, at a kook party, in your cut-off denim skirt, lipgloss, and sipping from someone else’s red cup like rafe never existed.

he comes up behind you like he owns the place, like he owns you. his hand finds your lower back, his lips find the shell of your ear. “you mad at me or something?” his voice is that lazy kind of amused. as if this is all foreplay. as if he’s missed you but not enough to say it.

you don’t look at him. you just take another sip.

“hey.” his voice is a little sharper now. “i’m talking to you.”

you hum and smile a little—still not for him. then you hand your drink to a girl you barely know, turn, and walk away. no warning. no goodnight. no fuck you. you take the front steps like you’re floating and head down the road, not even checking if he’s following.

but you know he is.

two blocks down, headlights stretch long across the pavement. rafe’s truck slows beside you like it’s stalking prey. his windows are down, his face is absent of any amusement. “get in.”

you keep walking, not even sparing him a glance.

he coasts beside you, wheels crunching against gravel. “don’t be like this.”

your arms fold tighter. your jaw’s locked so hard it aches. the night’s hot and thick and you can smell him in the air—cologne, weed, whatever coldblooded thing keeps him moving.

“fine,” he mutters. you hear the engine shift and the brakes click. the door swings open, and before you can think to react, he’s there, grabbing you around the waist, hoisting you up like it’s nothing.

“rafe!” you snap, hitting his shoulder, kicking your legs. “put me down.”

“you wanna ignore me?” he grits, voice in your ear, strained and hot. “then you don’t get to choose when we talk.”

he tosses you into the passenger seat—not rough, but not gentle either. the door slams. he rounds the front and gets in, hands tight on the wheel like he’s keeping himself from doing something worse. “buckle up.”

you don’t. you sit there, arms crossed, glaring out the windshield. steam comes off of your exposed skin.

“you done?” he asks.

you don’t answer.

“you don’t get to shut down and disappear every time something goes wrong.”

“something?” you bark. “you were off your face and throwing shit at the wall and screaming.”

his head drops back on the seat. with his eyes closed, his hands rake through his hair. “i didn’t mean to.”

“i don’t care,” you say, voice flat. sharp. “i’m not your punching bag.”

a beat of silence passes. rafe continues to drive, taking turns sharper than usual. you continue to stare out of the window like your head is locked in place.

“you’re right.” he says it so low you swore that you made it up. you blink, brows furrowed, not in confusion, but in disbelief. he’s staring out the windshield, jaw flexing, and eyes dark. then he looks at you, really looks. his eyes bloodshot and angry and honest in that way he only ever is with you. “you’re the only person in my life who doesn’t lie to me.”

your throat tightens, but you don’t speak. you just buckle your seatbelt.

his fingers twitch against the gearshift. like he wants to say more, but he’s scared to wreck everything. so instead he drives. he slows down, taking corners with more care, not stopping short. when he parks in his driveway, and you won’t get out, he scoops you into his arms like he found the missing puzzle piece. he carries you bridal style into the house.

“you can ignore me, even yell at me, but don’t leave me like that,” he murmurs, holding you tight against his chest, scared to lose you. “it’ll ruin me.”

you realize he’s not lying when he holds you that night. he pulls you into his chest, skin on skin, leaving no room for any other thoughts.

some people bruise the world when they break. rafe cameron just bleeds into yours.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

this is SO cute need to know how they go......

more sweetheart!reader with mattheo

You’re sitting on the chair next to Mattheo, a chair that once belonged to Theodore Nott who was now sitting off to the side with Enzo and Blaise as they watched you lean all your body weight on the hand that rested on Mattheo's desk.

"Did you do something different with your hair?" You ask, peering up at him through your eyelashes.

"Hmm?" He looks down at you.

"Your hair, it looks a bit different." You watch in adoration as he runs his fingers through his hair, only for his curls to fall perfectly back in place.

"Good different?" He smirks.

"Very good different." She says quickly, making him laugh.

They don't hear Theo, Blaise and Enzo snickering at them a few seats away.

"That is a girl in love." Pansy says, frowning at her friend, “It's almost hard to watch."

"Mattheo is going to break the poor girl's heart." Blaise says, always amused.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Theo chuckles, "the other day, I was talking about this movie and he casually says 'yn loves that movie'."

"So? That's normal. By now, they’re friends, aren't they?" Enzo asks, Theo rolls his eyes.

"Okay, first of all, Mattheo isn't friends with girls." He points to Pansy. "Unless they're his friends' girlfriends or whatever."

Pansy grins, and throws her feet on Blaise's lap.

"And secondly, Mattheo knew her favourite. movie." Theo emphasises.

The group nod and gasp in agreement.

“You’re kidding! I’ve known him for 3 years and he still can’t remember my birthday!” Enzo complains.

“Sorry, Enzo, you’re not his girl.” Blaise snickers.

"Should we be worried that they can hear us?" They turn their attention to the pair sitting a couple seats away.

You were in a fit of giggles over something Mattheo was saying, his entire presence making you giddy. Their focus was set on you two, your focus was set on each other.

"Yeah, I don't think we have to worry about that."

author’s note: to the two people who sent me asks - they’re in my drafts!! coming so soon, i promise. i have so many drafts of situationship!mattheo i might just skip this awkward “friends” stage

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

the yearning!!!! and "You can't help the fact you like to be alone. It may sound kind of sad, but that's just what you seem to know." UGHHHH

Collateral Damage; James Potter

f!reader x james potter

summary: When someone makes a sexist comment during Quidditch practice and James doesn't react, how will it go down?

warnings/notes: james is kind of an idiot in this (he makes up for it I swear), angst, reader is a quidditch player (its relevant to the plot), use of y/n, platonic!sirius x reader banter, not proofread, light sexist comment, big argument, curse words, happy ending (?)

word count:1.6k

It started like any other Gryffindor Quidditch practice.

Late autumn sun low in the sky, golden light spilling like spilled ink over the pitch. You were already irritated — Kendrick had been pushing your buttons all week, and James had rescheduled this practice twice. Now you were all out here, winds whipping across the field, and Kendrick was smirking like he’d already won something you didn’t know was up for grabs.

You were Keeper. You knew your job. You didn’t need James yelling plays every five seconds like you were a first-year.

“Move left faster next time!” James barked, flying alongside you, too close, too sharp.

“I did move,” you snapped. “If you wanted a puppet, maybe train one.”

His jaw clenched. “I’m just trying to win us the Cup.”

“And I’m trying not to murder you midair, so we all have our battles.”

That got a low chuckle from Henry Wood, who hovered nearby, eyebrows lifted in mild amusement. “Might let her win that one, James.”

James didn’t answer. Just blew the whistle and shouted another drill.

You tightened your gloves, seething.

Then Kendrick happened.

He caught a Quaffle with a dramatic flourish, zoomed past you, and crowed, loud enough for half the school to hear: “Don’t worry, Potter — she’s not here for skill. Just here to look pretty while she misses every shot.”

The world snapped sideways.

You felt your stomach bottom out. Your face went hot with rage and shame.

You looked at James. Straight at him. Waiting.

Do something.

Say something.

Anything.

But he just hovered there, like an idiot, mouth slightly open, like he was stunned. Like maybe he agreed.

Sirius was the one who snapped.

“Oi, what the fuck did you just say?” Sirius growled, flying toward Kendrick like a storm cloud. “Wanna say it again with a mouthful of teeth missing?”

Y/N’s blood boiled. She waited — waited — for James to speak up. To say something. To tell the boy off. To take her side. But instead, James just stared at her, expression unreadable, jaw locked.

The silence screamed.

Y/N turned sharply on her broom, face burning hotter than any firewhisky. “Nice, James. Real leadership. Keeping the team united and all that.”

You flew hard toward the ground, ripped your gloves off, and stormed off the pitch.

“Oi! Y/N!” James shouted after you.

You turned sharply, fists clenched. “Don’t you dare.”

He landed, brows drawn. “It was just a stupid joke. I didn’t say it—”

“No. You just let it hang in the air like it was okay.” Your voice was shaking now, hands trembling. “You let him undermine me, and you—God, James—you didn’t even flinch.”

He flinched now.

“Y/N—”

“We’re supposed to be a team. You’re supposed to be my friend—and you let that little coward humiliate me in front of everyone.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t do anything. And that’s worse.”

The rest of the team hovered awkwardly above, pretending not to watch. They were watching.

You turned, boots crunching against the grass, heart pounding against the ribcage of something that had already shattered.

..

You didn’t show up to dinner.

Didn’t go to class the next morning.

You lay facedown on your bed, ignoring Marlene’s muttered curses about Kendrick, Dorcas’s offers to hex him into oblivion, and Lily’s gentle hand rubbing your back.

You didn’t cry. Not then.

Maybe you were being dramatic. You can't help the fact you like to be alone. It may sound kind of sad, but that's just what you seem to know.

Not until everyone was asleep. When the candles were low. When the ache behind your ribs bloomed into something hollow and hot and silent.

You curled into yourself and whispered, “I thought he was different.”

No one heard it. But you felt it. And it felt like mourning something no one else could see.

..

Somewhere down the hallway, in the staff room,

McGonagall sipped her tea, eyes sharp over her glasses.

Flitwick looked up from his notes. “You heard?”

“Everyone heard, Filius. Half the pitch did.” She sighed. “I had twenty Galleons on them confessing by winter break.”

“Potter just set the bet back three years,” Hooch muttered, slamming her broom catalog shut.

“I’m raising it to five,” Sprout said darkly.

Slughorn just sniffed. “They’ll come around. Youth and heartbreak are so poetically intertwined.”

“She nearly punched him.”

“Poetry!” Slughorn said, grinning.

..

James tried everything.

Flowers charmed to float outside your dorm window.

Notes spelled into the condensation on your bathroom mirror.

He asked Sirius to talk to you — Sirius told him to shove it. “You blew it, mate.”

He asked Lily to help — she didn’t even blink. “You don’t deserve her silence. You deserve her rage.”

He cornered Dorcas outside Potions.

“She doesn’t want your excuses,” she said flatly. “She wants her best friend back. Too bad he forgot how to be one.”

He stopped going to Quidditch practice.

He barely slept.

He’d lie awake whispering, “I’m sorry,” to the cracks in the ceiling.

But nothing worked.

You didn’t speak to him.

Not once.

..

It happened at breakfast.

The Great Hall buzzing, laughter rising like steam.

You were sitting with Lily and Dorcas, quietly spooning porridge, when a loud bang echoed through the room.

A chair scraped back.

A foot on a bench.

Then a foot on the table.

Your head snapped up.

James Potter was standing on the Gryffindor table, toast in one hand, wand in the other, looking deranged.

Oh hell-to-the-no.

“Excuse me!” he shouted.

The Hall went silent.

James turned, slowly, facing the end of the table. “Oi, Kendrick.”

Kendrick looked up, confused. “What?”

“You insulted one of the best Keepers this school has ever seen. You made a disgusting, sexist remark in front of her entire team, and I, being a bloody coward, said nothing.”

Students gasped. Someone dropped their fork.

James turned, facing you now.

“I didn’t defend you. And I should have. Not because I’m your captain. Not even because I’m your best friend.”

His voice cracked.

“But because I love you.”

The air went still.

“I love you,” he said again, softer. “And not in the way that fades when we graduate or when Quidditch ends or when you find someone smarter or funnier or less of a prat. I love you like I can’t breathe right without you.”

You stared at him, pulse pounding in your ears.

What in Merlin's ear wax is happening right now.

“I know I messed up. I’ll spend the rest of the year earning your trust back. Or the rest of my life. Just… say something. Please.”

Kendrick stood, starting to protest.

James rounded on him.

“And you—I don’t want you on the team. You don’t get to wear our colors if you can’t respect the people on it.”

Hooch stood from the staff table, clearly impressed. “He’s finally learning.”

McGonagall muttered, “Took long enough.”

Sirius leaned into Remus. “Do I owe you five Galleons or do I still win if they snog in the next ten minutes?”

Remus just shook his head, smiling.

You stood slowly.

Walked down the aisle of the hall, every eye on you.

James looked terrified.

You walked right up to him.

Stared.

Then said, “You better mean every word of that.”

“I do.”

You smirked.

And punched him in the arm. Hard.

“Good.”

James was willing to wait this and 3 more lifetimes waiting for a taste of your lips.

..

The next morning was crisp and bright, with clouds like ripped cotton and the scent of cut grass thick in the air.

James was already waiting on the pitch when you arrived, broom slung over his shoulder, a sheepish sort of energy radiating off him in waves. The rest of the team trickled in slowly—clearly curious, clearly eavesdropping, pretending to stretch while absolutely not stretching.

You walked past them without a word.

James straightened up.

You raised your chin. “You’re on goalkeeping today. I want a challenge.”

He blinked. “You… want me to—”

“Let’s go, Potter,” you called, already kicking off.

It was easy, natural, the way flying always was. But the air between you buzzed. You hurled a Quaffle at him with more force than necessary. He barely caught it, laughing under his breath.

“Still angry?”

You smirked. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Another Quaffle. Another dive. He missed this one—on purpose, you were sure.

“Oi, don’t go easy on me,” you snapped.

He swooped beside you, hovering a little too close. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re dreaming something,” you muttered.

“Mostly about you.” he grinned.

You snorted, the sound catching you off guard. The wind rushed past your ears. His eyes were warm—so warm you had to look away.

For a few minutes, you played without words.

Until James broke the silence.

“I meant it, you know. Every word I said yesterday. I—” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was a coward. And I know one speech doesn’t fix it.”

You hovered in the air, just a little above him. “It doesn’t. But showing up helps.”

He smiled—wide and crooked and boyish.

The team was still watching. Pretending not to, but watching all the same.

James shifted closer. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up to your eyes.

“I, uh…” He licked his lips, then leaned in—hesitantly, unsure.

You didn’t move. Just watched him.

But instead of kissing you, his lips brushed your cheek—light as a sigh.

He pulled back instantly, eyes wide like he hadn’t meant to.

You blinked.

James looked like he might combust.

“Sorry, I—I didn’t want to assume, I mean—not yet, but—unless you want to, which, I—”

You raised an eyebrow. “You always ramble this much?”

He flushed. “Only when I like someone enough to completely embarrass myself.”

You turned back toward the goalposts, heart thudding.

“Try not to let that Quaffle in this time, Potter.”

He grinned, dazed. “Yes, ma’am.”

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

FUCK I.C.E

werewolves against fascism

free or pwyw download of hi-res, printable versions available here: https://ko-fi.com/s/a2e5b9f250

feel free to use/repost/reprint however much you want. if you leave a tip, a portion (70%) will go to various immigrant rights nonprofits around the country.

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

love!

between the lines

a very inconvenient discovery

You don’t realize what you’ve done until you’re halfway through your second class of the day and open your notebook to find...

Not your handwriting.

Not your diagrams. Not your very specific color-coding system. And certainly not your very dramatic drawing of Professor Binns mid-lecture, labeled “Sir Snooze-a-Lot.”

You stare at the page. Then flip. And flip again.

Oh no.

You’ve taken someone else’s notebook.

You never make mistakes like this. Your entire personality is built around being the girl who does not make mistakes like this. The girl who labels her tab dividers and rewrites her notes in neat, margin-aligned bullet points.

And now you’ve accidentally stolen someone’s entire academic life.

You're about to panic when a small ink blot in the corner of a page catches your eye.

It’s not a blot. It’s… a doodle?

Of a plant. One you recognize from Herbology drawn with an almost obsessive attention to detail, like someone who secretly loves the subject but doesn’t want anyone to know. Cute. Kind of nerdy.

You flip again.

Another page. Another harmless doodle.

You squint. There’s writing next to it, a scrawled little annotation that reads: cold in the library again. she never brings a jumper.

Your stomach does something weird.

You turn the page one more time.

It’s a sketch of… you.

It’s not a masterpiece or anything, but you recognize yourself immediately: the curve of your cheek, the way your quill rests against your lower lip when you’re thinking. There’s a tiny label under it, scribbled like an afterthought:

"Library girl."

You slam the notebook shut, face hot.

Okay. So.

You’ve just accidentally discovered that someone, an anonymous, emotionally repressed someone, has not only been sketching you in their notes… they’ve noticed things. Like the fact that you’re always cold in the library. Like the way you sit. The way you—

Oh Merlin.

Who does this belong to??

You think back to that morning. The rush of class. The pile of identical-looking notebooks on the desk in the library.

There’s only one other person who sits near you there. Always. Like clockwork. Never speaks. Just reads quietly in his perfect posture and his perfect jumper and his perfect bloody bone structure.

Theodore Nott.

You nearly fall off your chair.

Because if this notebook is his...

You look down at the cover. Nothing. Not a single identifying mark.

Of course. He would be mysterious about it.

You spend the next three hours spiraling.

Maybe, hopefully, it wasn't Theodore Nott’s? What if it is his and he finds out you saw and... Oh no.

He’s going to hex you.

You clutch the notebook like it’s about to self-destruct. You need to return it. Quietly. Discreetly. With as little eye contact as possible. Preferably while pretending you’ve seen nothing at all. Unfortunately, fate (and Theo Nott) are not that kind.

Later that evening. The library.

You slip into your usual spot and there he is.

Seated across from you like always, looking calm and composed and terrifyingly unreadable. His hair is a little messy, like he’s been running a hand through it, and his tie is slightly askew in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.

Your eyes meet.

Something flickers in his.

He looks down at the desk in front of him… where he has your notebook. Oh no. He knows.

You hold his notebook out toward him like a peace offering, trying not to die on the spot. “I, um— We switched. Earlier. I think.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just takes the notebook from your hands and flips it open. Your face burns in mounting horror as you take your own notebook back and see that he dog-eared a page where your very detailed to-do list included:

Finish Transfig essay

Ask Theo Nott what his problem is

(or if he just hates me personally???)

(he’s hot tho. unfortunately.)

“You read it,” he says, voice low and maddeningly calm, snapping you back from your brief paralyzation of horror.

“Did not,” you lie immediately.

One of his brows lifts.

Your face burns. “Okay, maybe a little. But like... casually.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you. “You read this casually? Was it a casual read for you?”

You fidget. “I didn’t mean to.”

There’s a long, awful pause. Then, softly and unexpectedly, he says, “I thought you’d be mad.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I thought… you’d be freaked out.” He taps a finger lightly against the edge of the notebook. “That I drew you. That I notice things.”

You stare at him.

“Theo,” you say, voice too high. “You drew me like a Victorian botanist in love. I’m not freaked out. I’m flattered.”

He gives a quiet huff of laughter, then looks down, shy, almost. It's disarming. You reach for your own notebook again, flipping it open and finding a new note on the inside cover. In that familiar sharp script:

“You looked cold. I’ll bring a jumper next time.”

You glance up.

He’s already pulling off his jumper and sliding it across the table to you.

[spoiledprincessbratsblog]

so cute!

bsf!reader x steve harringon

synopsis: in the midst of everything going on with vecna, you and the others take shelter in steves house. you find him in the middle of the night, and you both seek comfort in each other.

content: angst, pining, comfort, best friends in love

your not sure what woke you, but you woke with a start.

thats how you woke most days, recently. a shadow in the corner of the room, a chill on the back of your spine, a dream with a faceless figure but a voice ever so chilling - all things you had depressingly become more accustomed to.

your eyes flutter open as you look at the familiar pattern of steves bedroom wall across from you, the moon and stars pouring in from the windows being the only source of light.

you and steve had been best friends since middle school. you had moved to hawkins in 6th grade, and he pretty much instantly became your partner in crime. you remembered how scared you were, it was the first day at a new school in a new town, where you didn't know anyone. but steve offered to show you around, and although you were shy and he had to carry most of the conversation, you remember thinking that he was going to be you favorite person in the world.

from then on the two of you were attached at the hip. steve introduced you to his other friends, and although you got along really well with all of them, it was safe to say he continued to be the one you were closest with. he was initially teased for his close relationship to you, given it wasn't exactly normalized for boys and girls to be friends back then. eventually though, people began to realize that there wasnt yet anything romantic there, though the teases never fully died down - some people just never really fell for it.

you let out a deep sigh as your hand reaches out to the side only to feel the cold of the sheets next to you. your head turns, looking at the empty other side of the bed as your brows twitch in confusion. you push yourself up on bed, the sheets pooling at your waist as you slide your feet to the ground.

you walk downstairs as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake the others. you knew how precious the little amount of sleep you all got these days, so you tried your best not to disturb it. you cautiously padded down the stairs, the soft tune of a piano becoming more and more prominent the closer you got downstairs. your confusion and curiousness led you closer to the soft and simple melody.

you round a corner and see steve sitting at a wood piano. you had once asked him about it, and he said that it was his grandmas, and it was a gift for his mom. you had never seen it been used, though - steves parents were hardly around, and even if they were, they were pretty busy people - they probably didn't have time to ever put it to use.

his fingers pressed softly against the keys, his brows pinched in concentration. you stood at the entrance for a moment, simply watching him. watching as he every now and then he fumbled with the notes, watching as his eyes raked across the keys as his fingers moved over them.

steve had felt your presence, yet he continued to play, his eyes flicking over to you once. once you realize he's noticed you, you start to walk over to the piano, sitting down next to him on the stool.

your head falls to his shoulder without you even realizing it, and you let out a long sign. "since when do you play?" you ask, your voice soft and barely above a whisper.

he shrugged. "mom made me take lessons in like, 4th grade. hated it, but clearly i picked up a little", he confesses, his voice low.

you hum, nudging your cheek against his shoulder. "i sometimes forget i haven't known you forever," you mumble, and his fingers slow their movements. he hummed back. "yeah, i know what you mean."

you sit in silence for a while, eyes transfixed by steves hands across the keys. words forever unsaid floated between you - thoughts not dared to be thought of pushing their way through the vulnerability of the moment. you felt weak enough to let them peak out, but you were too suborn to let them out fully.

"what're you doing up?" he finally asks, his head tilting to the side a little to try and get a view of you face.

you shrug. "what are you doing up?" you fire back knowingly.

steves lips tilt up a bit. "touché," he mumbles, his knee knocking yours. the action causes you to smile as well, relishing in the rare moment of peace.

you hum. the two of you go silent again for a moment before you speak up. "sometimes," you trail off, trying to find the right words. "sometimes i'm worried nothing is every going to feel normal again," you say the words in a whisper, almost as if your worried saying them out loud makes them more real.

steve processes your words for a moment. "honestly? things will probably never feel the way they used to," he says quietly.

steve notices your silence and adds on. "i just mean..." he sighs. "i mean, look at everything we've all been through. as much as i hate to say it, that shit sticks with you."

you furrow your brows, sitting up straight to look at him. "so what, i'm just going to feel this way forever?"

"f'course not, angel," steve says, his own brows narrowing. "your not going to feel this way forever. things will get better. they just..." he pauses. "probably wont ever feel the same."

you pout a bit, your head falling on his shoulder again. "how do you know?"

steve hums. "know what?" he asks.

"that things will get better," you clarify, voice muffled by his shoulder.

steve smirks a bit, a familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. "what, you think im going to let you go through this alone?" he scoffs. "please, honey, you couldn't get rid of me if you tried."

you let out a soft laugh. "believe me, i know," you tease.

steve scoffs, playfully pushing you away, heart racing when he hears the familiar yet these days, rare sound of your laughter. "m'kidding, dork," your murmur, knees pulling up as you hug them to your chest. you rest you cheek on them as you gaze at him from your position there, a lazy smile adorning your face. steve mimics you, his hand reaching out to tame your hair.

you hum. "what would i do without you?"

he shrugs. "probably would've been eaten by the demagorgon or some shit by now, i dunno," he teases.

your smile grows. "m'serious, stevie," you roll your eyes. "can't imagine all of this craziness without you."

steves smile turns more soft and genuine. "yeah," he almost whispers. "yeah i couldn't either."

you sit in silence for a moment, just looking at each other in quiet appreciation. the dimly lighted room illuminated just enough to see the other persons expression, and in each other you saw nothing short of admiration and adoration.

moments like these you knew a life with steve would be easy. moments like these you allow yourself to think it - even for just a moment, even though you know you'll banish the thought as soon as the moment is over. moments like these you can picture it. lazy mornings in bed, reading to each other in the backyard, talking about nothing and everything at the same time - it feels so real you can see it. you can taste it.

and you can see is run through steves mind as well. you can see the thoughts as they pass across his eyes, as they glaze over for him to daydream about it. about the life that could so easily be yours.

except its never really that simple, is it?

steves voice breaks the both of you out of your daydreams. "we should try to get some sleep, hey?" he says, his voice holding a hint of hesitance. "big day tomorrow, with all this vecna shit."

you nod into your knees but don't budge. "mhm."

steve sighs and stands up, reaching his hand down to you. "cmon," he urges. you can never really say no to him, so you reach up and take hold of his hand.

he pulls you up and drags you upstairs in silence. you leave all of it downstairs. you always do.

but when steve sits down on the bed, pulling his shirt over his head and pulling you down next to him, the thought unsurprisingly peaks through.

you face away from him, from it, and turn back to face the windows. steve wraps his arms around you, and for a moment, your mind thankfully goes quiet.

no more thoughts of vecna, no more thoughts of the terrifying future. just the warmth of steves breath and the security of his arms.

a/n eeeeek first steve fic 🫣