#//<- joking here; no one of course is obligated

[mad-hunts]

here comes a list of the different levels of friends that you can be with barton, because i said that i would explain what being a ' level 2 friend ' to him would mean and i fully intend to keep that promise! so here we gooo.

level 1 friends: you're the type of friend to barton that he would wave to whenever he sees you. he would also complain about his work with you, but NEVER about his second 'business.' ( his organ trafficking && dollmaking. ) and in turn, he would let you complain about your work to him as well, or anything that might be bothering you. barton isn't really serious about your relationship emotionally, but he will encourage you and praise you for accomplishments / achievements. you two also may share a few interests, which barton enjoys talking with you about.

level 2 friends: you're the type of friend to barton that he is now moderately emotionally invested in. barton will DEFINITELY share his number with you at this stage, so expect him to call you if he needs something, or even if he just wants to talk with you. he also trusts you to a medium level and will help you reach your goals without ever being asked for it. barton does subconsciously have the expectation that you are willing to do the same for him, however, which is really neither a good thing nor a bad thing. you two go beyond just having similar interests... you share certain values with him and/or ideals, and because of that, barton sees you as someone he can depend upon. he would also save you in an emergency situation, BUT i can not say for sure that he will be willing to die for you.

level 3 friends: barton is now FULLY emotionally invested in you, so don't expect to be getting rid of him anytime soon! because you're stuck with him now, MUAHAHAH. barton will do things like raising a toast to you just because you're friends and will reach out to you himself whenever he sees that you're struggling with something. barton also lets you take a glimpse at what's really going on in his head sometimes, and in return, he'll be there for you as well whenever you need him. at this stage, literally, all you need to do is be around barton to make him smile. expect him to feel safe enough to be as silly as he wants around you and do things like give you unprompted hugs + allow you to cuddle with him. barton trusts you with his life, and he would put himself at risk of dying to protect you. so, yes, he would be willing to die for you.

[theetherealbloom]

The Things I Would Do, Just To Be Here With You

Summary: Amidst the whirlwind of movie premieres and busy schedules, you and Pedro Pascal, both thriving in your respective careers, find ways to celebrate each other despite the distance. While Pedro promotes Gladiator 2 in London, he longs for your presence at the after-party.

Or, you two would scream at the stars for keeping you apart... and the government too.

“Pedro Pascal x f!reader, Pedro is promoting Gladiator 2, and reader is in Wicked (Elphaba or Galinda of course!) for the screenplay of Wicked, and they are just really supportive of each other but also joke about their own movie being the best. Finding time to come to each other’s premiers. Posting behind the scenes or visiting each other.” — From @imaginemixedfandom

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Surrounded by A-Listers, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Red Carpet, Cameras, Paparazzi, Long Distance, Timezone Difference, Social Media, Interviews, I’m not a Spanish speaker, I might be wrong with the terms, please don’t come after me T^T,

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: Ty @imaginemixedfandom for giving the idea! I didn’t really want to replace the reader with the cast of Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo. Those two are just too iconic. So instead I will make the reader a writer for the screenplay adaptation of Wicked tehe. You all should listen to brent iii by Jeremy Zucker and Chelsea Cutler, it’s absolutely one of my favorite albums of this year. Lastly, remember this is all fictional and for fun! Enjoyyyy my loves!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: and the government too! By Jeremy Zucker & Chelsea Cutler

gif by @andrew-garfielld

| Main Masterlist |

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — EVENING

“Hi.” Your voice was soft as you nestled deeper into the duvet, your body cocooned in its comforting folds.

“Hola, mi amor.” Pedro’s face lit up on your phone screen, the warm timbre of his voice washing over you like a balm. “I miss you.” “I miss you too… so much,” you replied with a little pout. The time difference between London and New York was merciless. Between his packed schedule promoting Gladiator 2 and prepping for Fantastic Four, and your whirlwind of work with the Wicked movie premiere, your conversations had been reduced to stolen moments like this. Still, even through a screen, Pedro had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the world. “You look cozy,” he said with a lopsided grin, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Meanwhile, I’m freezing my ass off here on set. I think my nose might fall off.” You laughed softly, the sound tinged with longing. “I’d trade you, you know. I’ll take the cold if it means I get to see you.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He leaned closer to the camera, his face filling your screen. “If I weren’t contractually obligated to be here, I’d hop on the next flight and show up at your premiere tomorrow. Red carpet and all.” You smiled wistfully, your fingers brushing against the edge of your phone as if you could reach through it to touch him. “You’d outshine me. Imagine the headlines: ‘Pedro Pascal steals the show at Wicked premiere.’” “Please. Everyone’s going to be talking about you. ‘Brilliant screenwriter dazzles Hollywood!’” He paused, his tone softening. “You’re incredible, you know that?” Your throat tightened at his words, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Stop, or I’ll actually cry, and my face will be all puffy for tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Okay, okay. But seriously, mi amor, I’m so proud of you. You’ve worked so hard for this.” “And so have you,” you countered. “The Gladiator 2 trailer broke the internet, and you still found time to send me flowers last week. You’re amazing, Pedro.” “Yeah, but flowers aren’t the same as being there with you.” His voice dipped, a hint of regret slipping through. “I hate being this far away.” You sighed, your heart aching in tandem with his. “Me too.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence filled with the unspoken tension of your shared longing. Then, Pedro’s grin returned, bright and mischievous. “So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “who do you think has the better movie? Be honest.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Are you seriously asking me to compare Wicked to Gladiator 2? One’s a heartfelt, magical adaptation, and the other is a testosterone-filled epic. They’re different.”

“Uh-huh,” he teased, crossing his arms. “Sounds like you’re dodging the question. I knew you were scared to admit Gladiator 2 is better.”

You scoffed, sitting up straighter in bed. “Scared? Please. I just don’t want to hurt your feelings when Wicked inevitably becomes a global phenomenon.”

Pedro laughed, the sound rich and contagious. “You’re lucky I love you. Otherwise, this would be grounds for war.”

“Lucky? You’re the lucky one,” you shot back, smirking. “I’ll prove it when I finally see you in person again. But until then…”

You brought the phone closer, pressing a soft kiss to the screen. Pedro mimicked your gesture, his lips brushing his camera lens.

“Goodnight, mi vida,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, Pedro.” Your voice was tender, laced with all the love you couldn’t put into words.

As the call ended, you clutched the phone to your chest, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. Despite the distance, despite the chaos of your lives, you knew one thing for certain: Pedro Pascal would always be worth the wait.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — MORNING

Today was the day. You were walking the red carpet for the Wicked movie premiere. A sea of celebrities, producers, fellow writers, and editors would surround you. The sheer magnitude of it all left you feeling both giddy and utterly petrified.  

You smoothed your hands over the silk robe you wore, your palms damp with nerves. While you loved the craft of storytelling, the spotlight had always felt daunting. You preferred to let your work speak for itself—a tendency that paired surprisingly well with dating Pedro Pascal, the literal human embodiment of charisma and charm.  

“There, all done,” Laura, your makeup artist, said with a satisfied grin.  

You blinked at your reflection in the mirror. Your skin glowed, your eyes were accentuated just enough to look striking without overwhelming, and your lips were painted a perfect shade of confidence.  

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you said, giving her a warm smile.  

“Of course I did,” Laura replied with a wink. “Big night for my favorite screenwriter.”  

Mia, your stylist, emerged from behind a rack of gowns, holding up the dress. “Speaking of big nights... Ready to put this beauty on?”  

You nodded, though your smile wavered. “I just wish Pedro were here,” you admitted, your voice quieter now.  

Laura and Mia exchanged sympathetic glances before Laura gently squeezed your shoulder. “You’re going to look incredible, and he’d lose his mind if he saw you. How about we take some pictures to send him? A little preview for the man himself.”  

You hesitated, glancing at your phone on the vanity. “I don’t want to distract him. He’s busy with interviews and set work. London and New York aren’t exactly next door…”  

“All is fair in love and war,” Laura teased, her giggle breaking the tension. “Come on, babe! If anything, it’ll be motivation for him to hop on the next flight.”  

Mia chimed in, smirking. “Or just to remind him what he’s missing. Trust me, teasing Pedro is a public service.”  

You laughed despite yourself, feeling the nerves lift slightly. “Fine, fine. But if he complains, I’m blaming you two.”  

They ushered you into the dress—a masterpiece of emerald silk and intricate detailing that clung perfectly in all the right places. As Mia zipped you up, Laura stepped back, her hands pressed dramatically over her heart.  

“Pedro’s going to lose his shit.”  

“You look like a literal goddess,” Mia added, spinning you toward the mirror.  

For a moment, you hardly recognized yourself. The reflection staring back radiated elegance and confidence, even if you didn’t entirely feel it yet.  

“Okay, okay. Take the pictures,” you relented, biting your lip as you tried to contain your grin.  

Laura grabbed your phone and started snapping. You struck a few playful poses, twirling and laughing as Mia adjusted the hem of your dress. It felt silly, but imagining Pedro’s reaction warmed your chest.  

Once the photos were taken, you grabbed your phone and hovered over the message screen. You debated for a moment, then attached the best photo and typed a quick message.  

You: Wish you were here. But since you’re not... Enjoy this. Don’t let it distract you too much, cariño.  

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, the familiar swoosh of the message sending making your heart race.  

The reply came faster than you expected.  

Pedro: Distract me? How am I supposed to do anything now? You look like an angel. No, better than an angel. Drop-dead stunning. 

You couldn’t stop the grin from taking over your face.  

Pedro: Red carpet better be ready. They’ve got no idea who they’re dealing with tonight.  

The butterflies in your stomach multiplied tenfold. Before you could reply, another message appeared.  

Pedro: I’m so proud of you. Go knock ’em dead, mi amor. I love you.  

Your throat tightened, and you had to blink back the sudden tears threatening to ruin Laura’s hard work. You tapped out a quick reply.  

You: I love you too. Now go back to being the coolest man alive.  

“You okay over there?” Mia asked, watching you with a knowing smile.  

“More than okay,” you said softly, tucking your phone away.  

As you prepared to step into the whirlwind of the premiere, Pedro’s words echoed in your mind. Even from thousands of miles away, he made you feel invincible.  

Tonight wasn’t just about the red carpet or the glitz and glamour. It was about celebrating what you loved—and knowing Pedro would always be your biggest cheerleader, no matter where in the world he was.  

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON — AFTERNOON  

Pedro sighed deeply, his head resting against the back of his chair. The steady hum of activity on set felt like background noise, the voices and clatter muffled by the ache in his chest. His fingers drummed lightly against his thigh, the motion absent-minded, a physical echo of the restlessness he felt inside.  

He missed you.  

It wasn’t the casual longing of someone who hadn’t seen their partner in a while—it was the kind of yearning that settled into his bones, heavy and persistent. A few hundred miles of ocean separated you, but it may as well have been an entire galaxy.  

He opened his phone and scrolled back to the picture you’d sent him that morning. The emerald dress, the way it hugged your form, the way your eyes sparkled even in a still image—it took his breath away. You looked like a dream. His dream.  

“If I were there right now…” he murmured under his breath, running his thumb over the screen as if he could touch you.  

If it were as simple as hopping on a flight, he’d already be on his way. He imagined the way you’d light up when you saw him, how you’d rush into his arms. He’d bury his face in your hair, inhale your scent, and hold you so tightly that he’d forget about the world outside.  

But it wasn’t that simple. The timing was off, as it so often was with both your careers in full swing. He was tied to the production schedule of Fantastic Four, and you were in the spotlight for Wicked. The universe seemed determined to keep you apart, and for the first time in years, Pedro felt the cracks in his patience.  

He closed his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “Damn stars. Damn schedules. Damn… government,” he muttered bitterly. The laugh that followed was humorless, the frustration thick in his voice.  

If he could, he’d scream at the stars for conspiring against you both. Curse the invisible forces that made life so complicated. He’d barter with time itself, twist it and stretch it, just to have you here with him for a few stolen moments.  

He wondered what you were doing right now. Were you nervous about the red carpet? Did you feel as hollow without him as he felt without you? Pedro clenched his jaw, guilt gnawing at him. You deserved to have him there, to walk that carpet with you, to hold your hand and beam with pride as you took in the applause for your work.  

“Pedro, they’re ready for you!”  

The call from a production assistant jolted him from his thoughts. He blinked, the weight of reality crashing back down as he stood and stretched.  

“Be right there,” he called back, tucking his phone into his pocket.  

As he made his way back to the soundstage, he couldn’t shake the thought of tomorrow. The Gladiator 2 premiere loomed ahead, another milestone he should be celebrating with you by his side. Instead, you’d be halfway across the world.  

But one day, he promised himself, one day, nothing will keep us apart.  

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — EVENING 

The flashing lights were relentless, casting an almost blinding glow over the red carpet. The screams of fans and the constant click of cameras created a symphony of chaos, one you weren’t entirely comfortable navigating. You’d always preferred the quiet—curled up with a book, tucked away from the world’s prying eyes.  

But tonight, you smiled and posed alongside your cast and the production crew. You owed it to them, to yourself, and to the story you’d helped bring to life.  

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Winnie Holzman, the original writer of Wicked, leaned in with a smile, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the crowd.  

You nodded, though your voice was tinged with nervousness. “It’s incredible. Overwhelming, but in the best way.”  

“You’ve done amazing work,” Dana Fox chimed in, her excitement infectious. “We wouldn’t be standing here without your screenplay tying it all together.”  

Jon M. Chu, ever the cheerleader, clapped you lightly on the back. “Tonight’s your night too. Own it.”  

You laughed softly, feeling a little more at ease with their encouragement. Together, the four of you posed for the cameras, sharing a few candid laughs before heading closer to the press area.  

As you stepped into the spotlight for interviews, the questions started flying.  

“How does it feel to see Wicked finally come to life on the big screen?”  

“It feels surreal,” you answered, your smile genuine. “Everyone on this project has poured so much heart into it. To see it come together like this is... overwhelming in the best way.”  

“You’re known for being quite private. How are you handling all the attention tonight?”  

“It’s definitely out of my comfort zone,” you admitted with a small laugh. “But I’m surrounded by such a talented and supportive team, which makes it easier.”  

Then, inevitably, came the question you’d been bracing for. “We couldn’t help but notice that Pedro Pascal isn’t here tonight. Do you miss him?”  

The question tugged at something deep inside you. “I miss him so much,” you said softly, your expression softening. “He’s busy promoting Gladiator 2 and filming in London. I know he wishes he could be here, just like I wish I could be there for him. We’re both incredibly proud of each other, though.” You grinned, a playful sparkle in your eyes. “But, of course, Wicked is better. Don’t tell him I said that.”  

The interviewer laughed, and you followed with a wink before stepping away.  

AFTER THE PREMIERE  

As the credits rolled and the crowd applauded, you walked alongside Jon, Winnie, and Dana toward the exit. The night air was cool and refreshing after the heat of the theater.  

“You were glowing on that carpet,” Winnie teased, nudging you gently.  

Jon smirked. “Bet it’s because of a certain someone who couldn’t make it.”  

You flushed immediately, your cheeks warming. “Stop,” you mumbled, though your smile betrayed your embarrassment.  

“Oh, come on,” Dana added with a laugh. “You were gushing about him earlier. Just admit it—you’re head over heels.”  

You sighed dramatically, though your heart raced just thinking about Pedro. “Okay, fine. I miss him like crazy. I just—” You paused, glancing up at the stars. “I wish I could be there for him, you know? For his premiere. He’s always so supportive of me. It feels wrong not to do the same.”  

Jon stopped walking, turning to face you with a thoughtful look. “So go.”  

“What?”  

“Go to him,” he said with a shrug. “Take the jet. I’ll make the call.”  

You blinked at him, stunned. “You—you’d let me do that?”  

“Of course,” Jon said, waving off your concern. “You’re part of the heart of this project. If being with him makes you happy, it’s worth it.”  

“But I don’t have a ticket, and I need to pack, and—”  

Dana held up a hand, already pulling out her phone. “Relax. I’ll call a car, and we’ll pack together. You just focus on getting there.”  

Before you could protest further, Jon had already stepped aside, dialing someone on his phone. Dana grabbed your arm and started steering you toward the waiting car.  

“You’re really doing this,” she said, grinning.  

“I—I guess I am.” Your voice trembled with excitement and nerves. “What if I don’t make it in time? What if—”  

Dana cut you off with a gentle squeeze on your shoulder. “You’ll make it. And even if you don’t, just being there will mean everything to him.”  

AT THE AIRPORT  

The private jet was waiting for you, its sleek frame illuminated by the glow of the runway lights. You quickly texted Pedro’s manager and assistant, letting them know you were on your way.  

You: I’m coming to London. Please don’t tell him. I want it to be a surprise.  

The response was almost immediate:  

Franklin Latt: Got it. He’s going to lose his mind—in the best way.  

As you settled into your seat and the jet began to taxi, your heart raced. Seven hours separated you from Pedro, but for the first time in days, the distance didn’t feel insurmountable.  

You leaned your head back against the seat, clutching your phone tightly as you closed your eyes. You could already picture the look on his face when he saw you.  

Just hold on, Pedro. I’m on my way.  

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON, ODEON LUXE LEICESTER SQUARE — EVENING

The energy in Leicester Square was electric. Fans filled the barricades, the roar of excitement nearly drowning out the camera flashes as Pedro made his way down the red carpet. Dressed in a sharp black shirt, the top unbuttoned, slacks, his signature charm, and a warm smile lit up every interaction as he stopped to greet fans and pose for photos.

The press area was bustling, and soon Pedro found himself standing in front of a journalist holding a microphone.

“Pedro, congratulations on Gladiator 2! How does it feel to be here tonight celebrating this film?”

Pedro grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It feels incredible. This is one of those projects you dream about as an actor, and to see it all come together, to see everyone’s hard work pay off, it’s… it’s a real honor.”

The interviewer nodded. “You’ve had an amazing year, between this and your other projects. But we couldn’t help but notice that someone special in your life had a big night recently—the Wicked premiere in New York. Did you get a chance to see any photos?”

Pedro’s face lit up instantly, a laugh bubbling out of him. “Oh, I did. Believe me, I did. She sent me some pictures, and I’ve seen the ones floating around online too. I mean… she looked absolutely stunning. Like, knock-you-out, breathtakingly gorgeous. I might be a little biased, but still.”

The crowd nearby caught wind of his gushing, and a few cheers erupted. Pedro laughed, scratching the back of his neck.

“Honestly, I’m so proud of her,” he continued, his voice softening. “She poured so much of herself into that screenplay, and to see her get the recognition she deserves? It’s the best feeling in the world.”

The interviewer smiled. “There’s definitely a lot of love and mutual admiration between you two. Word on the street is you’ve got a bit of a friendly competition going on—Gladiator 2 versus Wicked. Any truth to that?”

Pedro chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, it’s absolutely true. We’ve got a bet going. She’s convinced Wicked is going to sweep the box office, and I, of course, have complete faith in Gladiator 2. Let’s just say the stakes are high—winner gets breakfast in bed for a week.”

The interviewer laughed along with him. “That’s adorable. Who’s winning so far?”

Pedro smirked. “Let’s just say she’s got me a little worried. But I’ll never admit that to her.”

LATER, BACKSTAGE

Pedro leaned against the wall, sipping from a glass of water while chatting with Paul Mescal. Their conversation flowed easily, but Pedro’s gaze kept drifting toward the entrance, as if hoping for some sort of miracle.

“You’ve got that look again,” Paul teased, nudging him with his elbow.

“What look?” Pedro asked, feigning ignorance.

“The ‘I’m desperately in love and missing my girl’ look,” Paul quipped with a grin.

Denzel Washington, who had just joined the conversation, chuckled. “He’s not wrong, man. You’ve been staring off into space like a lovesick teenager.”

Joe Quinn walked by, overhearing the exchange and throwing in his two cents. “It’s cute, though. Very romantic. Someone should write a movie about it.”

Pedro rolled his eyes, though a bashful smile crept onto his face. “Okay, okay, I miss her. Can you blame me? She’s halfway across the world, and I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Frank, Pedro’s manager, stepped in, giving him a supportive pat on the back. “You’ve got it bad, buddy. But hey, it’s not a bad problem to have.”

Frank couldn’t help but smile to himself, already knowing what Pedro didn’t—that you were on your way. He could only imagine Pedro’s reaction when he saw you walk through those doors.

“Alright,” Pedro said with a dramatic sigh, “can we please focus on the fact that we’re here for Gladiator 2 and not my love life?”

“Sure,” Paul said, smirking. “But if she shows up, we’re all watching you lose it.”

Pedro laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll take that bet.”

Little did he know, he was about to owe a lot of people a round of drinks.

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON, ODEON LUXE LEICESTER SQUARE — EVENING  

The crowd in the after-party buzzed with excitement, a mix of A-list chatter and glasses clinking. Pedro stood near Lux, their conversation about the night’s success lighthearted, though his gaze kept drifting toward the entrance. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, only that the ache of missing you hadn’t dulled, even amidst all the celebration.  

Lux, sharp-eyed as always, caught the slight shift in his expression and smirked. “You’ve got that look again,” she teased.  

“What look?” Pedro asked, feigning nonchalance as he sipped his drink.  

“The one that screams, ‘I wish she were here.’” Lux nudged his arm playfully.  

Before he could muster a witty retort, Lux’s eyes darted toward the entrance, widening in surprise. “Well, speak of the devil…”  

Pedro turned, following her gaze, and the breath left his lungs.  

There you were, stepping into the room, your black silk gown catching the dim lights perfectly. Your hair, slightly tousled from the rush, framed your face with an effortless beauty that made his heart stop. Heads turned as you walked in with Frank, but Pedro didn’t notice anyone else.  

He froze, jaw slack, his mind racing to comprehend that you were actually here.  

“Pedro,” Lux whispered, amused. “Close your mouth before you catch a fly.”  

But Pedro couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All he could do was watch as you walked toward him, the soft smile on your lips turning into a grin as your eyes met his. He vaguely registered Joe, Paul, and Denzel laughing nearby, but he didn’t care. You were here.  

When you finally stopped in front of him, your grin widened, and you quipped, “Sorry, I’m late. Traffic was terrible—there’s a movie premiere happening, and I—”  

Before you could finish, Pedro moved.  

He swept you up in his arms, lifting you off your feet as a chorus of cheers, whistles, and laughter erupted around you. You let out a surprised giggle, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he held you close, burying his face against your shoulder.  

“Dios mío,” Pedro murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re here.”  

“I’m here,” you whispered back, your fingers threading through his curls.  

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes brimming with love. “I can’t believe this. You’re really here.”  

You smiled, tears threatening to spill as you cupped his face. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun without me.”  

Pedro didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance, kissing you with a fervor that made the entire room fade away. The kiss was deep, all-consuming, and when you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless.  

Your laughter broke the moment, and Pedro pressed his forehead to yours, his hands still firmly around your waist as if afraid you might disappear. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.  

“For what?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.  

“For being here. For being you. For… everything.” His voice was low, reverent. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’ll never stop thanking the universe for it.”  

You kissed him again, a soft press of lips this time, and smiled against his mouth. “You don’t have to thank the universe. Just let me love you.”  

Pedro let out a soft laugh, his arms tightening around you. “You’re incredible, you know that?”  

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice,” you teased, resting your head against his chest as the room slowly came back into focus.  

From the sidelines, Joe nudged Paul, chuckling. “Think he’s gonna let her go anytime soon?”  

Paul smirked. “Not a chance.”  

Denzel clinked his glass against Joe’s. “Now that’s a man in love.”  

And Pedro? He didn’t care about the laughter, the cameras, or even the early morning call time tomorrow. For now, you were in his arms, and nothing else mattered.

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt: Spiritual Siblings

Bruce: My assassin kid can't be that normal!

Damian: Well, I’m completely emotionally stable by Amity Park standards. The problem is with you. Obviously.

~~~~~

Damian had long found peace and home in Amity, so he did not worry that the new family and Gotham might not accept him.

Sure, Al Ghul had lived without any contact with his biological father all these years but he could safely say that he had a happy childhood. First years were hard and he was raised more as a weapon than a human being. Even so, after that a ghost who decided to become his brother appeared and everything changed.

Damian still does not know what Ra's owes Phantom but Danny has a right to take him, without prior notification, to live with Fentons, to visit Aunt Alicia at her farm, and to make Vlad’s weekends much less calm and boring. Danny jokes that he just steals him as a hostage when Al Ghul does not pay taxes for using Lazarus Pits. Whatever the reason, he already has a family that loves him.

However, he still wanted to make an effort to fit in this one too. The model of conduct certainly was his older brother. No, not the oldest, of course. To be honest Dan wasn’t the kind of a man that could charm you from the first minute. But Danny, in Damian’s experience, had a calming effect on people. So he tried to act like him.

And, yeah, for lack of experience, he was more fun!Danny at home and super!Danny on patrol but he also really tried not to get any of his own assassin personality in his new-self and was tired of it. He couldn’t get a 100% match. Fine. Still doesn’t look like anyone in this house really likes him, so whatever.

Damian understood why Bruce didn't like his company. Jazz had long ago explained to him the importance of voluntary consent. His mother did a terrible thing. Al Ghul was not a child and therefore he was ready to admit it. However, he also understood that children were not responsible for the actions of their parents.

As a biosocial being, he wanted to be more than just a painful reminder of what had happened to Bruce. Wayne's ignoring of his existence was rude. But Damian wouldn't force this man to spend time with him just because he was legally obligated to take care of his well-being. He wasn't going to prove anything to Batman, and he definitely didn't need his attention. The care of his real family is enough.

But Damian really tried to get along with new potential siblings. He even shared Sam's and Danny’s special jokes with some of adopted kids 'cause he didn’t want them to feel like he put himself above them. He wasn't good at showing emotions but he was as open as the assassin could afford to be to strangers.

But they all obviously expected something from him. And it reminded him of the League in an unpleasant way. It was easier with Fentons. Almost everyone in Amity Park was saying what they thought, and Damian didn’t have to waste time decoding potential conspiracies.

Damian missed movie marathon nights with Sam, Tucker, and Danny. And he hoped Dani had time to bother Vlad in his absence.

It was so weird here. When Danny and Valerie were fighting, they would gather at the dinner table anyway. When Damian wanted to have combat training with Drake here, he was forced to stay in his room. A very strange punishment. And undeserved one too.

Al Ghul felt quite calm and fine sitting at his easel and painting the people he left behind. An unusual subject for his paintings. But, Ancients, he missed Amity.

He missed Jack's bone breaking hugs, Maddie's Ecto-Contaminated food, arguments of Sam and Tucker, cozy art class with Mr. Baxter and even Vlad's done look. He missed Danny telling him about the stars. He also missed sword practice with Dan's boyfriend Fright Knight and he missed Dan's stories about his other youth. He missed literary evenings with Mr. Lancer, Clockwork and Ghost Writer. He even missed the hours-long Jazz lectures. He missed the dance of death and life. He missed being looked at without expecting anything from him. He missed the crowd. In the league, he was never at one with himself and in Amity he was always surrounded by people who were not afraid of his fate as the heir to the said League. This Manor was full of people, but for the first time in his life he felt lonely. Damian has to admit that he felt left behind. Of course, he understood that people needed time to build relationships, but he could have sworn that even he didn't need that much time to connect with Fentons. Maybe this is one of the tricks of the Clockwork? Then this one is not funny at all.

~~~~~Phone call~~~~ Damian: Mom, I want to go home. Maddie: I'm so sorry to hear that, sweetheart. What happened? Damian: Just…Nobody likes me. Why was I sent here? I'm not weak. And my brothers are quite capable of protecting me from Raas. I don't need Batman for this. Maddie: We'll figure it out, champ. Moms love you, remember? I'll talk to Talia, okay? Your brothers and sisters are already on edge and ready to steal you right during the patrol. Damian: It would be nice, but it would put a bat on their tails. So lock them in thermoses if they bother you too much. Maddie: But that won't stop Jazz. Damian: I missed the part where that's my problem. Maddie: Well, it will be your problem if she comes to your doorstep with your childhood photos and moralizing.

~~~~~~~~

It's his birthday. And he was always excited about it. But now, looking at the pile of gifts, he realizes that these people don't know him at all.

And this is the family of the best detective in the world? Maybe yes, but none of them bothered to really find info about him or ask him about his likes. Damian's a stranger here, and that's obvious.

The lunch container, which he will obviously give to the Boxing Lunch when he's in the right time interval, tennis rackets that Youngblood might like, The Graveyard Book…

Valerie had already read it to him and Dani before it was published. Thanks to Clockwork for his little miracles. The book reminded him of home.

Obviously this one is from Jason. And well, Damian doesn't think it was a pun on his life in Amity, more like Hood's inside joke about death but Dami will definitely leave this thing in the room at the Manor and maybe take it with him to the GZ or Amity Park.

~~~~~~~

When they gather at the festive table, Damian realizes that he has to make some kind of speech. He tries to be as brief as possible in his report.

Damian: Todd, your gift is appreciated. And I found a potential use for items that were given by others, Bruce.

Damian never called Batman his father. With Maddie and Talia, calling both moms wasn't weird, especially when Jazz explained to his biological mom that he wasn't trying to replace her. But with Wayne, it was different. Both women took care of him, they deserved this title. Wayne provided for his needs, but his core heart didn't feel like they were close. Surely there's nothing wrong if they're just Bruce and Damian? Obviously, they both don't enjoy each other's company.

Jason: So, do you like books, little demon? Damian: Sometimes reading is quite relaxing, I should point out. I'm not indifferent to Stephen King and Lovecraft. Jason: Personal recommendations? Damian: Cujo is one of my favorites. Jason: Not a common opinion, huh. Damian: It reminds me of my family. Damian tries to smile like Danny does, but Jason's twitching eye clearly indicates that he screwed it up.

~~~~Dick and Jason synchronously drop their forks as an excuse for a conference under the table.~~~~ Dick*whispers*: How's the situation? Jason*whispers back*: If the boy asks for a dog, don't be fooled. He will be happy to dance on our graves.

~~~~Cass knocks over their heads, urging them to return to their seats.~~~~

Damian: So how good you are at fading and sliding,Todd? Jason: Why did you ask? I can't, of course. Damian: Because you're dead. It seemed to me that this was a completely understandable interest. Jason: Wow, what a jerk. Damian: I wonder why your own incompetence makes me a jerk? Even my sister could do this when she wasn't dead for even a month.

Jason, for some reason, looks awkward, although he has never been embarrassed before by the idea that a girl could be stronger than him.

Jason: Your sister? How old was she when... So it's all about age. Damian rolls his eyes.

Damian: We're the same age. It seems like it was four or five years ago. To be honest, I don't remember. I wasn't around then. I'll ask Danielle the next time I go to the cemetery to visit her. Dick: I'm so sorry, Dami. Where is she buried? We can take you. Damian: There's no need. She has no grave, as there was nothing to bury. Bruce sighs loudly and covers his eyes with his hands. Damian: It's just easier to contact the afterlife in places like this, you now? Duke: We are very sorry, dude. Damian: Don't be. People come and go, and then come back if they haven't finished annoying you. There's no point in regretting the past. Her creation was not the most ethical thing but everything is going as it should. At least that's what Grandpa says. Considering that the old man is older than time, I prefer to believe him. No one plays with fate without his permission unless they want to get hit by the clock. Tim now looks like he's going to throw up and Damian hurries to move his plate closer to him. Jason: Yes, Bruce, this is definitely your son. Damian: Did I say something wrong? Dick smiles faintly at him but still doesn't find anything to say. Damian shrugs and goes back to eating asparagus. People outside of Amity are so weird.

Signal looks at Damian suspiciously as he carefully rearranges the plate of soy sausages away from himself. Did he take him for an idiot? Everyone knows that even vegetarian sausage bite and fight no worse than those with meat when they come back to life. It's not Damian's fault that he doesn't have an ectoblast with him and wants to have extra distance from the opponent.

~~~At the same time, in the walls of Wayne Manor~~~ Dani: The operation codenamed "Get Haunted Idiot" is declared open. Danny and Dan *salute*.

~~~Several Days Later~~~

Damian: So, this is Dan. Danny says we keep him as a GIW repeller. Dick: And Danny and Dan are.. Jazz: His brothers. I'm Jazz by the way. Elle and I are his sisters. Damian: I feat the criteria to participate in their name cult, so they took me. Dan, Danny, Dani and Dami. Dan *ruffles Damian's hair* : I prefer to call this biting threat Damn, to be honest. Dami: Shut up, DaNtE, they almost wrote Dark in your passport, you idiot. I can't believe I thought I missed you. Danny: Wow. Rude. Your grandpa would be disappointed. Great job, lil one.

~~~Several years later~~~

[angelhyun]

partition - ljn

[a/n]: yes, i got the title from the beyoncé song LOL enjoyyy ;)

pairing: bodyguard!lee jeno x afab!celebrity!reader

[wc]: 3k

-> cw: smut, car foreplay, oral (f receiving), fingering, come eating, slight degradation and voyeurism (18+, mdni)

prelude: It's hard to keep your composure as a celebrity, especially when you're constantly surrounded by your bodyguard, who is everything you want in a man and more. He's quiet, protective, and professional, but you're positive that all he sees you as is a spoiled brat. There's no way he'd be into that...right?

part 2: here!

It’s late and you’ve just finished up your photoshoot, changing out of the uncomfortable dress the brand had you model in. You’ve been tirelessly tugging at the zipper for the past few minutes, but it just wouldn’t budge. You were considering yanking it down, but you didn’t want to risk destroying the dress. You break it, you buy it, and you knew you never wanted to wear this thing ever again. 

Frustrated, you peek out from behind the curtain, seeing all of the makeup artists and staff occupied with tidying up. “Shit…” you whisper, more than ready to step out and inconvenience them. Finally, your gaze meets your bodyguard’s–Lee Jeno. He was leaning up against the wall in his suit, also quite tired, but he perked up once he caught hold of your gaze. His eyebrows shot up in concern as you beckoned him over, but he obliged nonetheless, taking long confident strides in your direction.

You found him so hot. Too hot to be real, quite frankly. His captivating features and Superman-like build had you in a chokehold, and it pained you that you couldn’t act on it, afraid he’d freak out and quit his job. Then you’d be stuck with some other lame bodyguard who definitely wouldn’t be as likable as Jeno was. Looks aside, he was a great guy and excelled at his task—keeping you safe.

Your eyes widened slightly when you realized he was now standing right in front of you, trying his best to keep his gaze lowered in respect due to your slight indecency. “Need anything, Miss?” he asks, his deep voice slightly quieter than usual. He was always a bit timid, but usually had more conviction when he spoke. You guessed it was due to the circumstances at hand. “Yeah, actually. This damn zipper won’t budge,” you whined. He was used to this, knowing you were a very high maintenance woman. Though, he never complained. “I’ve been tugging on it forever, I swear this is the last time I’m coming here. Could you please help me?” 

He swallows as you turn around, the zipper already halfway down your back, but trailing lower than he anticipated. He clears his throat, knowing he had to stay professional. “Of course.” he replies, his hand hovering over the middle of your back. He inhales, grabbing hold of the metal, tugging it down in one slight movement. 

“Oh,” you say, embarrassed. “Guess it likes you better. Thanks.” you wallow in self-pity at that lame joke you used to try and break the tension that was most definitely one-sided on your end. He simply nods and walks away, leaving you to finish changing. You close the curtain, internally tweaking out over how his touch lingered on your lower back. You were definitely wide awake now. Using this newfound energy–or adrenaline–you finish getting changed and gather all of your belongings, saying goodbye to everyone you worked with on set.

You walk out of the studio with Jeno by your side as always. He walks you to your car, well-equipped with a personal driver of course. You watch as he quickens his pace once you both approach the car, opening the door for you. Maybe chivalry isn’t totally dead. You manage to thank him quietly with a small smile despite the awkwardness that occurred only moments prior as he shuts your door, walking around to the other side of the vehicle, sliding in next to you. 

He signals the driver to pull out of the lot, knowing you both had a decently long ride back to the hotel and it was already quite late. You couldn’t stand the silence, moping in the newly installed leather seats which were your signature colour, of course. Turning to Jeno, you meet his gaze–him already looking at you with dilated eyes–catching both of you by surprise, in which he responds by quickly looking away. You try to hide your smile, deciding that the earlier tension you felt in the dressing room was definitely reciprocated. 

“Did you enjoy the shoot?” he asks, his deep yet sincere voice once again breaking the silence. You liked the quiet confidence he had. “It wasn’t too bad. I liked the environment, the staff, the line–well, everything but that last dress." you laugh softly, purposely bringing it up again in hopes of getting a reaction from him. To your surprise, his lips twist up into the hottest smirk you’ve ever seen. He looks back at you, a glint of something foreign in his eyes. “Really? I thought it looked great from where I was standing.” he compliments, and you feel those damn butterflies again. 

“Me or the dress?” you decide to match his subtle flirting, not missing what was the opportunity of a lifetime to you. “You in the dress.” he answers smoothly, maintaining that eye contact. You could already feel your arousal dampening your panties with how he was practically eye-fucking you in the confined space of the vehicle’s backseat. “I mean, it was pretty but it was also really uncomfortable. I’m glad you were there to help me out of it.” you add, truly testing the waters. How he replied to this determined everything.

“Anytime.” he answers nonchalantly. “What?” you question, voice steady. “I said, anytime. It was my pleasure.” he repeats. Oh, that was it. You knew what you wanted and you were going to get it now. He also knows you. Staying by your side practically every waking minute of the day has its benefits, and he can tell you’re ready to jump his bones. Seeing your face when he lets your hookups in and out of your room let him know exactly how you look when you’re needy, and he’s getting hard from the way he can practically read you like a book right now. That’s how he knew exactly what you were about to do. 

“Driver–” you were cut off by Jeno unbuckling his seatbelt, leaning over the console to press the button to roll up the partition himself, as you were about to instruct the driver to. He leans back in his seat, looking at you with his eyes glazed over. Recovering from him practically reading your mind so accurately, you look at him in a slight daze, snapping out of it when you see him pat his lap. 

You immediately unbuckle your belt, straddling the man you’ve wanted all this time. His big strong hands immediately find place on your hips, pulling you in closer to him. He leans in, breath fanning against your ear, making your heart beat faster. “I know you like to have things your way all the time like a little brat, but that’s not how I operate, princess. I’m gonna give you all I got, and you’re gonna take it, okay?” he asks, his voice rasps with need. Your mouth goes dry, but your panties are quite the opposite. 

“What happened to that big mouth of yours? So quiet, I’ve never seen you like this. You’re usually so loud and verbal with all your other boy toys, what happened now?” he taunts, shocking you to your core. You didn’t know he had such a mouth on him either, but you weren’t going to take it for granted. Your arms that were draped over his shoulders grip his broad frame tighter, moving yourself against his lap impatiently. He lets out a soft groan at that, giving you a look that could kill. “Oh, you wanna be naughty now?” he asks lowly. 

You shake your head, unsure of what to do or say. Most men you’ve slept with would’ve been inside of you by now, driven by their desperation, wanting to live out their fantasy of fucking their favourite celebrity. Jeno taking his time with you was so new and it had you practically malfunctioning, already dumbed down by a dick that wasn’t in you yet. You lean into his touch as he gently cups the side of your face in one of his hands, understanding your inner turmoil. “I just want you to let me know you really want this too. Just one word, princess. Just say yes.” he says softly, but almost desperately, his desire seeping through his words.

“Yes.” you say almost instantly, and his lips are on yours. He kisses you with pent up frustration and lust that he hid out of respect for you. Knowing you felt the same way all this time was an additional turn on for him, his hand travelling up your side to grab the back of your head, deepening the kiss. His lips were relentless, bottom teeth sinking into your plush lower lip. You get the memo and immediately part your lips, allowing his waiting tongue inside. 

You breathe through your nose as you kiss back, getting sloppier now as your tongues collide. You tug at the hair on his nape, eliciting soft moans out of him that you swallow up. You abruptly pull back for air, smirking as you see how swollen his lips are, slightly tinted from the lip products you previously had on. “You’re a mess.” you muse, panting for air. “You’re one to talk,” he quips back with a lazy smirk that makes you want him even more, wiping the mix of your saliva off his lips. “I’m not finished with you.” he practically growls.

You respond with another grind against his hips which he retaliates by grabbing hold of your hips again in an attempt to halt your movements. He begrudgingly fishes for his phone out of his pocket, drawing your attention once more to the large bulge straining against the material of his dress pants. He always looked so sexy in those suits of his, all dressed up, looking his best just for you. He checks the time, sighing. “We’re about 5 minutes away from the hotel.” he says bitterly. “I don’t care. I can’t wait,” you beg. “I need you, Jeno–” he shuts you up with another chaste kiss. “I know, princess, I know. Don’t get all whiny on me again.” he warns.

“But I know you like it when I do that. You practically admitted in.” you remind him, to which he scoffs, looking away as if considering your words. “Alright, I’ll give you my fingers for now, but you have to stay quiet. Don’t wanna alert the driver with your pretty moans that are meant just for me, right?” he teases, but you nod, desperately wanting something to fill your drenched core. “Then,” he continues “when we reach your suite, I’m gonna fuck the brattiness out of you.” he whispers into your ear, nose dragging along your cheekbone. “How does that sound, pretty girl?” 

You respond by kissing him again, moaning into his mouth, then remembering his request. You quiet down, parting from him as he pats your thigh with a knowing smirk. “Goodness, what would all of your fans think, knowing that this is what their favorite celebrity is up to. Little Miss Perfect is about to get finger banged by her bodyguard in the back of her car. Imagine the headlines.” he taunts as you bury your head into the crook of his neck. He holds the back of your head gently to comfort you. “Don’t get all embarrassed now, pretty. You’re lucky these windows are tinted.”

He finally starts his venture into your pants, the thin material providing him with easy access. He slides his large hand down, cupping your clothed cunt with it. “Fuck, you’re already soaked.” he grunts, voice filled with arousal. You feel his fingers rubbing against your clothed clit, already writhing in his hand. “Jeno!” you whine. “Shh, I know, baby. I know. You need to be quiet, remember? We don’t want the driver exposing our dirty little secret.”

You only grow wetter from his words, feeling as if you already came. You start to impatiently buck against his hand, trying to get any form of release you can. He responds by gently smacking your mound, earning a whimper from you. “Impatient princess. The only reason I’m giving in is because we’re short on time, but you’re getting punished later.” he warns, and you nod, barely registering his words due to your neediness. 

He lifts you off his lap, his strength evident as he lays you down across the backseat. He taps your hip, signalling for you to lift them up as he slides your pants down, peeling your panties off with them. He stares down at the current state your cunt was in, already glistening and dripping with your arousal. “Fuck baby, you’re making me want to eat you out.” he rasps, holding your thighs apart as he really takes in the scene in front of him. 

“Please,” you beg. “Please, Jeno…need you so bad.” you whine once more. At the current moment, whines begging for Jeno were the only words you could formulate. You felt yourself start to leak onto the seats, which he noticed and quickly shrugged off his suit jacket, laying it down under you. “Fuck it.” he growls, diving mouth first into your sopping cunt. Your hand flies down into his hair, needing something to grip onto as he practically devours you. Your other hand covers your mouth, trying to drown out every sound escaping you. 

His tongue parts your folds, licking up from your entrance to your clit, sucking on the stimulated bud. You try to close your legs, already overwhelmed, but his broad shoulders prevent that from happening. He’s relentless as he continues to eat you out, the sounds of him ravishing you filling up the backseat. You silently prayed that the partition was somehow thick and soundproof. 

He moves down to your entrance, tongue fucking you, making you roll your eyes back in total ecstasy. His big nose nudges at your clit with his ministrations, only doubling your pleasure. “J-jeno..” you tremble, words coming out in a whisper turned into a moan. His eyes look up at you, dilated and crazed, not stopping his motions. He was clearly pussy drunk, breathing heavily through his nose, inhaling the scent of your slick while simultaneously letting it be the only thing on his tastebuds.

You wanted to tell him you were close, but he read your mind once again, moving his mouth up to your clit as he slid his hand up from your thigh. The tip of his middle finger circles your tight hole, eliciting a moan from him when he feels just how tight and wet you are. He slowly slides it in, making you gasp into your own hand, still worried about being heard by your driver. 

He starts slowly pumping his finger in and out of you while your walls squeeze him. He’s now placing kisses onto your clit, looking up at your face once more as he adds another finger, sliding his index in along with his middle. You mewl at the stretch, feeling fuller and even closer to coming. He starts mimicking scissor-like motions, wanting to open you up for him even more. You clench around the digits, signalling to him that you were almost there. 

He picks up the pace, tongue giving your clit faster yet firmer kitten licks while he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you relentlessly. He wanted to add another but you were way too tight, which only turned him on even more, watching as your arousal started to coat his fingers in white. He uses his free hand that was on your thigh to hook your leg around his broad shoulders, lifting his face up as he replaced his tongue with his thumb. “Come for me, baby.” he commands, voice horse, the bottom half of his handsome face totally covered in your slick. He’s panting and flushed—looking just as wrecked as you probably do. The sight of the man you’ve been pining over looking this wrecked from eating you out combined with his long fingers pistoning in and out of you was more than enough for your orgasm.

He pushes your hand away from your mouth, replacing it with his lips, swallowing your moans as you come down while tasting yourself on him. His fingers don’t stop, him still rubbing at your clit, coaxing you through your release. You could die happy right now, utterly satisfied just from his hands and his mouth. You could only imagine what he had in store for later. 

You’re shaking, basking in your release as you feel the car stop, suddenly hearing a couple of camera shutters. Jeno breaks the kiss, cupping your face in one hand. “You good, princess?” he asks, and you nod, slightly panicking as you release you’re back at the hotel now. The driver knocks on the partition to signal your arrival and Jeno answers for you. “Just a moment.” he says protectively. He looks down at you with complete and utter care. “I got you, baby.” he coos, sliding your ruined panties back on alongside your pants. It’s uncomfortable, but what other choice did you have. 

You pull out your compact mirror from your purse, trying your best to fix yourself up as Jeno shrugs on his suit jacket. Thankfully, the back wasn’t tainted by your come, leaving only the inside slightly coated. He wipes his mouth and face with his handkerchief, watching you reapply your lipstick, wanting nothing more than to kiss you again.

Once you both look as decent as you possibly can, he exits first, opening the door for you. Your legs were still slightly wobbly, so he steadied you, ushering you inside as you heard even more cameras shuttering alongside questions and shouts of your name coming from the group of fans and reporters lined up outside. You had no idea how they knew you'd be back at this time, but you didn’t care. Hell, you didn’t even care how fucked out you looked.

All you could think about was the massive tent Jeno was trying his best to cover up. You smirk, making eye contact with him as you walk past the receptionist to the elevators. “That looks painful.” you quietly tease, voice hoarse from your earlier activities. “It is. You’re about to make it all better for me, brat.” he sneers as he tugs you into the elevator, not even letting the doors shut before his lips are back on yours. 

Oh well, all attention is good attention in your line of work.

[a/n]: hehehe, need me a bodyguard like that. let me know if you want a part 2 about them getting back into the hotel room ;)

edit: read part 2 here!

taglist (tysm to those who interacted with the preview ♡ as a new account, i truly appreciate it!)

@saranghoeforanton @kiannmarieee @dinonuguaegi

@akaasheesh @w0nuuu

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which azzi falls for that southern charm

uconn’s campus was buzzing with it’s usual energy. students hurled across the quad, professors paced with purpose, and athletes—well, they were their own kind of busy. but in the middle of all the noise and motion, there was you—a tall, gentle soul with broad shoulders, soft eyes, and a southern drawl so smooth it could butter toast.

you were new to storrs, having transferred in from a smaller school down in georgia. you’d joined the kinesiology program, figuring you’d stick close to the athletic world even  if you weren’t playing anymore. you were polite, always holding doors open and tipping your hat (or beanie) to folks you passed. a gentlewoman in every sense—yes ma’am, no sir, let me get that for ya. that kind of vibe.

and it didn’t take a certain princess to notice.

the first time you met, it was purely by chance. azzi had been coming out of the training facility, earbuds in, hoodie up, when she bumped into a firm chest and nearly dropped her phone.

“whoa, i’m—”

“beg your pardon ma’am,” you said immediately, steadying her by the elbow, your drawl as smooth as tennessee whiskey. “didn’t mean to get in your way.”

azzi blinked up at you, a little startled. you had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen. and that accent?

“n-no worries,” she said, managing a half-smile.

you tipped your head, a soft chuckle under your breath. “y’all alright, miss?”

“yeah,” she replied, and then…stood there a second longer than she meant to. realizing, almost annoyingly, that her heartbeat was a little faster than usual.

after that, it was like fate had its own agenda.

the next week, you were in the rec center at the same time as the women’s basketball team. paige, kk, sarah and ice were on the treadmill, doing what they called “light cardio,” which really meant gossiping and people-watching.

“hey azzi,” paige whispered, nudging her. “tall drink of water at 2 o’clock.”

azzi followed her gaze—and there you were, spotting someone on the bench press, your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, drawl audible even across the gym.

“that’s southern hospitality,” sarah quipped, grinning.

kk smirked. “someone’s got a crush.”

azzi groaned, but couldn’t stop herself from glancing again. and then—of course—you caught her looking.

you smiled.

she looked away so fast she almost fell off the treadmill.

it started simple.

a door held open at the rec center.

a soft, “after you ma’am,” that made azzi’s steps falter.

at first, it was coincidence. the kind of passing  moment that could’ve meant nothing—but didn’t.

the next time, it was the dining hall. you spotted her scanning for a seat and gave her a nod to the one across from you. “ain’t much open, but this here’s got a view,” you joked, gesturing to the sunlit window behind you.

azzi blinked, surprised. then smiled, just a little. “thanks.”

you didn’t crowd her. just went back to your sandwich and left space for her to settle. she sat across from you, quietly curious, not quite sure what to make of the tall southerner with the soft drawl and easy charm.

after that?

it just kept happening.

in a lecture, she dropped her pen. you picked it up without a second thought.

“don’t reckon that’s yours?” you asked, holding it out between two fingers.

azzi smiled—blushed, really—and murmured a soft, “thanks.”

she didn’t even hear the next ten minutes of class.

then came the library.

you spotted her at a table, looking frustrated. phone blacked out, charger nowhere in sight.

you strolled over with a slow, “need a lil’ juice, sugar?”

azzi looked up like you’d just offered her a miracle. “you’re a lifesaver,” she said, accepting the chord.

“happy to oblige.”

you walked away before she could say more. not because you weren’t interested—but because you knew timing mattered. and you weren’t in a rush.

you wanted her to choose to come closer.

her teammates noticed before she did.

“why don’t you just ask them out?” paige asked during practice, stretching with one eyebrow raised. “you practically melt every time they call you ma’am.”

azzi rolled her eys. “i do not melt.”

“you totally do,” kk chimed in, grinning.

“they’re like—southern royalty or something,” sarah added, tossing her a towel. "you better make a move before southern belle over there rides off into the sunset.”

azzi grumbled, but she couldn’t help smiling.

because the truth was—the little moments meant something.

eventually, it stopped being a coincidence.

you started showing up at her games—not the front row, but close enough to be seen. after one win, you were waiting outside the tunnel, hands tucked in your back pockets, leaning against the wall.

“you looked good out there,” you said, voice low. “sharp. smart. smooth.”

azzi felt her ears burn. “thanks. i’ve been working on—”

“i know. i see you.”

that pause?

from then on, you started hanging out in the quiet ways people who feel something do—without naming it yet.

you brought her a gatorade after practices.

she found herself sending you playlists late at night—“thought you might like this one.”

you left little notes in a phone app specifically made for passing notes:

“eat somthin’. practice don’t run on fumes, sugar.” “proud of you. just so you know.”

and still… neither of you said what was really on your mind.

then came the moment everything shifted.

it was raining after a late practice. azzi was walking back to her dorm alone, hood up, when headlights hit the puddles near her feet. a slow truck pulled up beside her. and then she heard it:

“need a ride, ma’am?”

she grinned even before turning. it was you, baseball cap low, window rolled down, the inside of your truck glowing warm.

“i don’t usually get in trucks with strangers,” she teased.

“then i guess we oughta stop bein’ strangers.”

azzi climbed in.

and neither of your stopped smiling the entire ride.

that weekend, you saw her again—this time on purpose. the two of you were walking back from the dining hall, laughing about something silly, when you stopped in your tracks.

“miss fudd,” you said, our voce a little lower, a little softer. “i gotta admit… i’ve been wantin’ to ask you somethin’.” 

azzi raised a brow. “oh, yeah?”

you rubbed the back of your neck. “i was wonderin’ if you’d wanna go out with me sometime? nothin’ too fancy. you and me gettin’ to know each other better.”

she bit her lip to keep from grinning too hard. “you asking me out on a date?”

“yes ma’am,” you said wholeheartedly. “well more like courtin’ you, date comes later. that alright with you?”

she nodded, heart fluttering. “that’s more than alright.”

from then on, it was official. you were her gentlewoman.

you walked her to class with an umbrella when it rained, opened doors without thinking, and bought her homemade sweet tea during film review sessions. she brought you to team events where the girls immediately started calling you ‘cowboy’ and made fun of how flustered azzi got the you so much called her ‘darlin’.’

but no matter how much they teased, nothing could take away the way azzi looked at you—with that mix of affection, admiration, and a low-key awe.

because yeah, you were soft-spoken, a bit old-fashioned, and as sweet as pie.

but when it came to her? you were all in.

as it came close to the time you’d actually get to take her on a date, you’d already memorized her laugh.

it had a kind of quiet joy to it—not loud, but real. like she didn’t give it away to just anyone. so every time she let one slip because of something you said, it stuck with you. the kind of sound a person remembers.

you weren’t the type to rush things. growing up in a small georgia town taught you patience—hot to wait on good things and treat people right when they came along. and azzi fudd? she was a real good thing.

she was smart, focused, and a little shy—but sharp-witted when she got comfortable. she was quick on the court, but off it? soft eyes, slow smiles, and the kind of presence that made you wanna step up your own game just to be worthy of her time.

you’d kept it respectful, always polite. a hand offered here, a door held there, soft compliments that came wrapped in southern sweetness.

but after that night in the truck—when she climbed in out of the rain and you talked for nearly an hour with the engine idling and the window fogged—it felt like something had shifted.

you just had to take the next step.

it was after one of her morning practices. you were leaning against the wall outside the gym, a to-go cup in your hand.

she looked a little surprised when she saw you. “hey,” she said, pushing her braids back and smiling—a smile that makes your heart do that little jump. “what’re you doing here?”

you held out the cup. “sweet tea,” you said. “figured you might need a lil’ sugar after all that runnin’.”

she took it, eyes wide. “you really brought me tea?”

“would’ve brought you the moon if i thought you’d like it more.”

azzi laughed softly, shaking her head, trying to hide the way her cheeks flushed.

you took a breath. “listen, i was thinkin’… if you’re free this friday, maybe you’d let me take you out.”

azzi looked up at you, blinking once. 

“i got a place outside of town. real barbecue—none of that city stuff. my buddy’s got a smoker and i got a hammock with your name on it. you won’t have to dress up, just bring your appetite and that pretty smile.”

she smiled, holding your gaze.

“you’re finally asking me out on a southern date,” she teased.

“yes ma’am,” you said, hand over your heart. “with all the fixin’s.”

azzi took a sip of the tea, then nodded. “okay, i’m in.”

you picked her up right on time in your old but polished-up chevy pickup with a blanket in the back and a cooler full of peach tea.

azzi wore jeans and a soft uconn hoodie, her hair tied back in a low bun. she looked comfortable, relaxed, and beautiful. you opened the door for her, naturally.

“hope you like brisket and ribs,” you said with a grin as she climbed in.

“hope you’re ready to back up all that talk,” she replied, already teasing.

the drive was short, about twenty minutes out of town, past green hills and quiet farms. you had music playing low—chris stapleton and some old-school country soul—and you caught azzi tapping her fingers to the beat more than once.

when you pulled up to your buddy’s place, the smell hit her first—wood smoke, tangy sauce, grilled corn, baked beans. your friend waved from the smoker and gave azzi a respectful nod before ducking back to work.

you set up a lists spot under a tree with a quilt, plates, and a mason jar of flowers you’d picked that morning. azzi blinked when she saw it. 

“you really went all out,” she said, sitting down beside you.

“i don’t halfway anything when it comes to you,” you replied simply, handing her a plate.

you two ate slow, talked even slower. she told you about her family, her journey to uconn, how sometimes the pressure felt heavy but she carried it anyway. you listened close, nodding, never interrupting.

when she leaned back on the blanket and looked up at the sky, you did too.

“y’all get stars like this in d.c.?” you asked.

“not like this,” she whispered.

you turned your head to look at her. she was staring up, lashes catching the gold of the setting sun, her lips parted just slightly.

you couldn’t help yourself. “you’re somethin’ else, azzi.”

she glanced over, lips curving into a slow, warm smile. “you’re not so bad yourself, cowboy.”

after dinner, you walked her over to the hammock, gently swaying it with your hand.

“i ever tell you how good you look in the golden hour?” you asked.

she gave you a look—playful, skeptical, and slightly flustered. “you practice those lines?”

“no ma’am. they just fall outta me when you’re around.”

you climbed into the hammock beside her, the two of you rocking gently as the sky turned lavender.

she rested her head on your shoulder.

“you really mean all this?” she asked softly.

“i wouldn’t have asked you out if i didn’t. i don’t play with hearts, sugar.”

azzi nodded slowly. “good. ‘cause neither do i.”

that night, when you dropped her off at her dorm, she lingered by your truck a second longer than usual.

you stepped out, walked around to open her door, and tipped your hat a little. “can i walk you up?”

she smiled. “you sure know how to treat a girl.”

“that’s how i was raised.”

and as she slipped her hand into yours, you knew this was only the beginning.

the first date lit a little fire between the two of you—slow, warm, steady. nothing rushed, nothing forced. but it burned bright all the same.

after that, azzi started texting you more. sometimes early, sometimes late—little messages that made your heart jump even though they were simple.

azzi: still thinking about that brisket. you sure you ain’t a chef?

you: only cook for the folks i’m sweet on.

azzi: lucky me, huh?

you saw her more often. sometimes you’d bring her a drink after class, or wait by the gym to walk her to lunch. other times, she’d sneak away with you on a quiet evening just to sit in the bed of your truck and talk under the stars.

she liked your steadiness. the way you didn’t ask for much, but gave everything. the way you’d tip your head and say “yes ma’am” even when she was teasing you—and the way you looked at her like she was your whole world.

it was a sunday afternoon when azzi tugged you into her dorm’s common area, grinning like she had a secret.

“my mom wants to meet you,” she said, already pulling up her phone.

you blinked. “already? i ain’t even—should i change shirts?”

azzi laughed. “you’re perfect. just be you.”

a moment later, her mom’s face filled the screen. elegant, warm-eyed, and clearly curious.

“this them?” she asked with a teasing smile.

“yes ma’am,” you said before azzi could speak, standing up a little straighter. “pleasure to meet you, ma’am. heard a lot of good things.”

azzi’s mom raised a brow, clearly charmed. “well, aren’t you polite. you treat my daughter right?”

“with all the respect and sweetness she deserves.”

azzi covered her face, already blushing.

her mom laughed. “alright. you get my approval—so far. but keep that southern charm coming.”

you tipped your invisible hat with a smile. “i’ll do my best, ma’am.”

you’d been waitin’ on this one. uconn vs. south carolina. big game. sold-out crowd. and azzi had personally invited you to come.

“front row,” she’d said. “right behind the bench. i want to see you.”

you’d never missed a chance to support someone you cared about, and you sure as hell weren’t starting now.

only this time… you left the cowboy hat at home.

you showed up in a uconn hoodie and—at azzi’s request—her jersey, the one she’d handed you a couple nights before with a smirk and a soft: “looks better on you than it does on me.”

it was just big enough to fit over your frame, and it smelled like her—lavender body wash and hard work.

when she spotted you court side, leaning on the railing in her number, she stopped mid-dribble during warmups and just smiled.

a soft, quiet smile.

she balled out.

dropped 23 points, 4 threes, 6 assists. she was locked in—quick on her feet, sharp with her passes—but every now and then, when she hit a shot, her eyes flicked to the stands.

to you.

you were loud, no doubt about that. you clapped, whistled, even shouted, “that’s my girl!” once or twice. paige heard and nudged Azzi on the bench, whispering something that made her roll her eyes but blush anyway.

after the win, she jogged over to the stands, reaching up for your hand. her teammates hooted from behind her.

“awww,” kk called. “is that southern hospitality wearin’ your jersey?”

paige smirked. “y’all gonna kiss in the tunnel or keep pretending it’s casual?”

azzi just ignored them and looked up at you.

“you looked good in it,” she murmured, tugging lightly on the hem of the jersey you wore.

“you looked better playin’ in it.”

you held her hand a little longer than necessary, thumb brushing her knuckles. “you free tonight?”

“i will be.”

“good,” you said, voice low and sweet. “got some peach cobbler with your name on it.”

she bit back a grin. “you’re unbelievable.”

“nah,” you said, brushing her hair back gently with your knuckles. “i’m just fallin’ for you. that all.”

after the game, she climbed into the passenger seat like it was already her spot. she curled up in your hoodie, bare legs from her shorts.

you drove in silence for a bit. not awkward—just soft.

then she looked over at you.

“you always this gentle with people?”

“only the ones i care about,” you said, eyes still on the road.

azzi leaned over and kissed your cheek, lips soft and warm against your skin.

“you’re makin’ it really hard not to fall for you too.”

you just smiled, hand resting between you two, palm up.

she laced her fingers through yours.

your palm was warm in her hands.

she didn’t say much on the drive back—didn’t need to. her fingers never left yours, her body leaned a little closer with every turn. she didn’t let go even as you parked outside her dorm.

you turned off the truck and let the engine settle into quiet. the only light came from the dashboard glow and the faint silver of the moon pouring through the windshield.

she looked over at you, still holding your hand.

“so,” she said softly, “you said earlier you were fallin’ for me.”

you glanced over, watching the way her eyes glinted in the dark. “yes ma’am.”

“why?”

you thought for a second. then gave her the truth.

“‘cause you’re all heart,” you said. “you work hard. you look out for your teammates. you treat people with kindness. and when you smile? makes me feel like i’m doin’ somethin’ right.”

azzi bit her lip, her thumb brushing yours. “you always this sweet?”

you chuckled. “only when i mean it.”

she leaned in—slowly, like she wanted to be sure. but you didn’t move, just looked at her like she hung the stars yourself.

and when her lips met yours, soft and warm and just a little shy?

you kissed her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

because it was.

you texted her late thursday night.

you: pack a bag. no need for anything fancy. just trust me. azzi: …what are you up to? you: gonna show you a little piece of my world.

she showed up at your truck in a hoodie and jeans, duffel in hand, curious but smiling. you kissed her cheek and opened the door like always, then hit the road with nothing but good music and better company.

“where are we going?” she asked somewhere past the state line.

“georgia,” you said with a grin. “gonna meet my folks, get some real cookin’, and show you where this accent comes from.”

azzi blinked. “you’re bringing me home?”

“don’t gotta be serious if you don’t want it to be,” you said gently. “but i’d like to show you the kind of love that raised me. and maybe… what i wanna give back to you.”

she was quiet a long time after that.

then she laced her fingers through yours again and leaned her head on your shoulder.

“i’d like that.”

your mama adored her immediately.

“this one’s sharp,” she whispered to you in the kitchen. “pretty, too. don’t let her go.”

“i’m tryin’, mama.”

azzi helped your aunt shuck corn on the porch, played spades with your cousins, and kicked off her shoes to run barefoot through the backyard with your little niece after dinner.

you watched her from the porch, leaning against the rail, heart full to the brim. she was light, she was laughter, she was home.

that night, you took her out to the old field behind your family’s land. fireflies blinked in the tall grass, and the stars above were brighter than she’d ever seen.

you laid out a blanket and sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

“i ever tell you how beautiful you look in moonlight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

azzi smiled and looked up. “you always say that.”

“that’s ’cause it’s always true.”

she turned to you then, eyes soft.

“i’ve never felt this… seen,” she murmured. “i’m always the player. the brand. the athlete. but with you? i’m just me. and you still look at me like i’m magic.”

you reached out, brushed her cheek with the back of your hand.

“that’s ’cause you are.”

back in your childhood room, you slept on the floor, giving her the bed without question. she argued at first, of course.

“you can’t seriously sleep on the floor—”

“ma’am,” you said, giving her a mock-serious drawl, “i’ll be just fine down here. southern gentlemen don’t steal beds from ladies.”

she laughed. “you’re ridiculous.”

“only for you.”

azzi leaned over the side of the bed, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “sweet dreams, cowboy.”

coming back to campus after that weekend in georgia felt different.

you weren’t just the southern gentlewoman anymore. you were her southern gentlewoman. and though azzi didn’t go around announcing it, everyone could tell something had changed.

she smiled easier. stayed closer. even when y’all were apart, you caught her looking for you in a room, like she couldn’t quite settle unless you were nearby.

but azzi fudd wasn’t the only one who noticed you.

it was a sunny afternoon. you’d parked your truck outside the rec center and were helping the volleyball team load coolers for their weekend trip—just lending a hand like you always did. nothing to it.

that is, until one of the girls—lexi, tall, blonde, a little too flirty for her own good—leaned in a little close.

“you’re not from around here, huh?” she said, brushing her hand against yours as you passed her a bag.

“no, ma’am,” you said politely, backing up a step. “from georgia.”

“figures,” she smiled. “that accent’s dangerous. you single?”

you paused, glanced over your shoulder—and sure enough, azzi was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“no ma’am,” you said firmly. “got someone real special.”

lexi raised an eyebrow. “shame.”

you didn’t respond. just nodded and walked away.

when you made your way to azzi, she didn’t say anything at first.

but you caught the flicker in her eyes.

“you alright?” you asked.

azzi looked at you for a moment, jaw tight. then, “do people flirt with you like that all the time?”

you blinked. “i don’t entertain any of it, az. you’re the only one i see.”

she nodded, chewing on her bottom lip.

you gently grabbed her chin, turning her head to face yours. “you wanna claim me, sugar? go on and do it.”

azzi rolled her eyes—but her cheeks flushed, and her fingers squeezed yours just a little tighter.

that weekend, you found a note stuck to your truck’s steering wheel.

it was written on a napkin, her handwriting small and neat.

"meet me in the gym tonight. 9 o’clock. bring your boots, not your hat."

you showed up like she asked, boots tapping softly against the hardwood. the lights were low, just the court lights above glowing faintly.

azzi stood at mid-court, her hoodie zipped up and her curls loose. she had a speaker set up next to her.

“you trust me?” she asked.

“always.”

she clicked her phone and music filled the space—soft, low country blues. you raised an eyebrow.

“you learnin’ my music now?” you teased.

“trying to,” she said, holding out her hand. “dance with me?”

you walked over slow, slipped your hand into hers, and pulled her in close.

azzi didn’t really know the steps, but she let you lead. you swayed together, slow and close, boots scuffing against the wood.

“thought i should do somethin’ your way for once,” she whispered.

“you didn’t have to.”

“i wanted to.”

she rested her head against your chest, and for a long time, neither of you said anything. the music, the moment, the feel of each other’s heartbeats—it was all enough.

then she looked up at you, brown eyes shining.

“i’m fallin’ for you too, you know.”

you smiled, leaned in, and kissed her slow.

“i know,” you whispered. “and i got you. always.”

the gym date stuck with you both.

after that night, azzi didn’t just smile more—she started letting you in more. into her routine, her late-night thoughts, even her insecurities.

and you were always there—solid, gentle, never pushing too hard.

which is why it surprised you both the first time you had a real disagreement.

it started simple: you’d made plans to spend the weekend together. just you and her, curled up with takeout and old westerns. but then she texted last-minute friday night.

azzi: sorry. film session ran late. then dinner with the team. rain check?

you weren’t upset at first. you knew how much her game meant to her. you always respected her grind. but by the third weekend in a row that got canceled, it stung.

when she came by after practice the next day, soaking wet from the rain, you let her in and handed her a towel—quietly. She stood in the doorway of your dorm room, eyes scanning your face.

“you mad at me?”

you shrugged, pulling the blanket off the back of your chair and folding it neatly.

“i ain’t mad,” you said. “just disappointed, i guess.”

azzi sighed. “you know how much i’ve got on my plate—”

“i do, az. that’s why i don’t ask for much. just a little time when you can spare it.”

she looked at you then, guilt flickering in her eyes. “i didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t important.”

you met her gaze, soft but honest. “i know you didn’t. but feelin’ forgotten and knowin’ better don’t always line up.”

the room was quiet after that. just the soft sound of rain against the windows.

then azzi crossed the room and wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her head against your chest.

“i’m sorry,” she whispered. “i never want you to feel like you’re an afterthought. you’re not. not even close.”

you wrapped your arms around her, gentle and strong. “just wanna be someone you choose. not someone who waits in the background.”

she pulled back just enough to look at you.

“you are someone i choose. every day.”

later that night, she stayed curled up in your bed while you made popcorn on your hot plate. she was wearing your flannel shirt, legs bare, hair damp from a shower. she looked so natural there—like she belonged.

“you ever think about the future?” she asked suddenly, voice low.

you turned from the counter. “what kinda future?”

she shrugged. “i don’t know. just… one that isn’t all basketball and pressure and media. one that’s quiet. like this.”

you walked over, set the popcorn down, and climbed into bed beside her, pulling the blanket up over both your legs.

“i think about it all the time,” you said. “think about us, sittin’ on a porch swing somewhere warm, dog sleepin’ on the floor, music playin’ low. you curled up with me after a game, talkin’ ‘bout nothin’. that sound right to you?”

azzi smiled, leaning into you. “yeah. that sounds real good.”

you kissed the top of her head and pulled her in close. outside, the rain kept falling—but inside? everything felt calm.

like home.

you didn’t mean to meet coach auriemma so soon—it just kind of happened.

you were helping azzi carry her gym bag out after practice one day when he caught sight of you and raised an eyebrow.

“this the southern charmer?” he asked, looking you up and down.

azzi turned red immediately. “coach.”

you tipped your hat instinctively—even though you weren’t wearing one.

“yes sir. nice to meet you.”

he smirked. “i’ve heard you’re a good influence. keep her grounded. that true?”

you smiled and looked at azzi, who looked both proud and mortified.

“try to be. she makes it easy.”

coach nodded, clearly amused. “alright. i’ll allow it.”

azzi groaned as he walked away. “he’s never gonna let that go.”

you bumped her shoulder playfully. “don’t worry. he’ll come around. just like you did.”

she rolled her eyes, but you caught the little grin she tried to hide.

there was something different about sundays with azzi.

she wasn’t the high-caliber athlete on court. she wasn’t the face of a brand or the sharp shooter the whole world knew.

she was just your girl.

messy curls spilling over your pillow. oversized hoodie—yours, of course—hanging off her shoulder. bare feet tucked under your legs while you sat on the floor of your dorm room, strumming an old guitar and humming something soft and southern.

you didn’t sing for many people, but she asked one morning with sleepy eyes and a whispered: “play something for me?”

so you did.

now it had become a thing. sundays were for homemade breakfast sandwiches, no alarms, and quiet love songs that only she got to hear.

one morning, halfway through a cover of chris stapleton’s “more of you,” azzi reached out, fingers lacing through yours mid-verse.

you didn’t stop playing, but your eyes met hers.

and in that look?

she said a thousand things she didn’t have words for yet.

there was a buzz around campus all week—uconn vs. ucla, a top-three matchup, and azzi was headlining the charge.

you could feel the electricity in the air as you stepped into the arena, dressed head to toe in her colors. this time, you didn’t wear the jersey she gave you.

you wore a hoodie she left in your truck a few weeks back—the one that smelled like her shampoo and still had her name stitched inside the collar. she never asked for it back.

you figured that was her way of letting you keep a piece of her.

she saw you the second she ran onto the court. didn’t wave. didn’t smile. but her eyes lit up—and that was enough.

azzi was locked in. dropped 28 points. hit a game-winner with three seconds on the clock.

the crowd exploded. her teammates mobbed her. but even in all that chaos, her eyes found you.

she didn’t run into the tunnel. didn’t head to the locker room right away.

she walked straight toward you.

you were leaning against the railing, hands in your pockets, smiling like she just lit up your whole damn world.

“come here,” she said.

you leaned in, resting your forearms on the rail, and she grabbed your hoodie with both hands, tugging you down slightly.

“you proud of me?” she asked.

you tilted your head. “i’m proud of you every damn day, az. tonight was just extra.”

she bit her lip—then leaned in and kissed you, right there in front of the whole student section.

“y’all seeing this?” paige shouted from the bench, laughing.

kk wolf-whistled. sarah pretended to fan herself.

azzi ignored them.

she was too busy smiling against your lips.

later that night, after the adrenaline wore off and the locker room emptied, she showed up at your dorm—hair still damp from the shower, her game jersey in one hand, a to-go container in the other.

you were sitting on your bed in a muscle tee, scrolling your phone.

she didn’t say anything. just dropped her stuff and crawled into your lap, curling against you like she belonged there.

you wrapped your arms around her waist automatically. “hey, sugar.”

she tucked her head under your chin. “i’ve been thinking,” she murmured. “about what you said. about choosing someone.”

you waited.

“i choose you too. every day. even on the hard ones.”

you kissed the top of her head, voice soft. “that right?”

she pulled back just enough to look at you. eyes serious. voice even quieter.

“i love you.”

you blinked, heart thudding slow and heavy like the strum of a bass guitar.

then you smiled—big, warm, full of that georgia sun.

“took you long enough,” you whispered. “i love you too, az.”

you kissed her then—not rushed. not frantic. just real.

and when she sighed against your mouth like she could finally breathe?

you held her even closer and whispered,

“got you now. ain’t lettin’ go.”

[goorgeousz]

hi lovely I was yapping about this in the comments of the lipstick stain fic and now I can't stop thinking about reader who does embroidery and knitting and crocheting and a continuation of the kisses fic where she embroiders the kiss marks for him and ugh just pure fluff and reader making him sweaters and maybe for Christmas she makes the whole BAU sweaters personalized to their personalities and like Hotch and readers apartment is covered in crocheted blankets and stuff?? that would be so sweet (you obviously aren't obligated to do any request 🫶)

anyways yeah I can't stop thinking about that and you're like my favorite writer on here 😭

thank you for reading this babes mwah

kiss & needles| aaron hotchner

part two of lipstick stain

pairing: aaron hotchner x fbi!non-bau!reader summary: you learn the art of sewing and the bau team is your first victim. part two of lipstick stain content/tw: none! just fluff <3 word count: 1.1k a/n: hello my dearest !!!! i am a yapper #4life, so just know i was crazy excited for this request since the moment i saw it!!!! i absolutely loved your idea, and i can picture it perfectly 😭 i wanted to write more but i’m in my finals week and it’s currently taking my will to live. and now more importantly: thank you SO much for that, i keep rereading and it makes me emotional every time! you’re so kind, i absolutely love seeing your @ pop up, and once again thank you for the request and those sweet words! truly hope you enjoy this one, sending you much love 💗🪽 dividers by @uzmacchiato masterlist part one

It all started as a joke.

You and Aaron were exchanging Valentine's day gifts, on the rare occasion of him being home for a holiday. Since the main event was the romantic getaway, the gift-giving was merely symbolic. Sweet little cards and something silly to combine. And that was exactly what he expected when you handed him a pink box, tied in an overly big and dramatic red bow, giggling like crazy, your eyes sparkling with amusement and anticipation.

He arched an eyebrow, with that skeptical smirk of his and opened the box carefully not to ruin your wrapping-work. But, as soon as he glanced at it, your giggles turning into a whole fit of laughter, his world stopped.

Because, covered with little paper hearts, was one button-up white shirt just like the other 100 on his closet, but with a kiss shaped embroidery on the right side of the collar.

Not realizing the shift in his expression, you just kept laughing. “Get it? Because of the kisses…”  but before you could finish your explanation – that was completely unnecessary, of course he’d got it –, Aaron looked at you, his expression blank.

“Did you do this?” his voice was low, weak. All the laughter in your body vanished, and you felt yourself getting shyer. Maybe it was too silly.

“Y-yeah. It’s not really a gift, I know. I thought it would be funny. It’s a little crooked, I know, but if…”

He interrupted you once again, but not with words this time. In a matter of two steps he closed the distance between your bodies, his arms engulfing you in a tight hug. He buried his face on your neck, giving you hundreds of kisses, and you laughed in relief.

“I loved it. I can’t believe you did this.” he said, his lips barely stopped kissing you to mutter the words. You were blushing under his attention, “The shirt was really cheap. Not like those fancy ones you use.” you explained, cringing at yourself.

“I loved it.” Aaron repeated, firmer. He removed his face from your neck to face you, staring at you with that foundess that always left you weak on the knees. “I had no idea you knew how to sew.”

You chuckled “I didn’t. But I’ve been having lots of lonely nights.” you give him a mock pointy look, to which he just chuckled, leaning in and kissing you.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” he said, looking once again at his new gift — which he was still clutching with his fists — so happy you doubted he felt that bad about your free time.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

What started as a joke turned into your own free — not really — therapy.

When a case went wrong and you found yourself so injured you had to stay at home for a month, you found yourself close to climbing the walls — that’s it, if you could stand by yourself.

The fact that you had just moved in with Hotch a couple months before that was just pure luck. Even though he spent most of the time at the BAU, he made a little more effort to come home at normal hours — even though it meant having files spreaded on the dining table and unfinished reports on every possible surface — which was only a plus.

You found out that not spending more than half of your day hunting criminals was rather boring, and there wasn’t much you could do alone that didn’t involve the use of your legs. Also, Jack didn’t get back from school until late, and by that time he wasn’t interested in much besides tv shows and his homework.

So you decided to pick up a new hobby: movie watching and every form of sewing you could think of. It wasn’t long before you mastered the art of embroidery, knitting and even – but not as good – crocheting. Aaron, ever the gentlemen, got you all kinds of needles, yarns and threads, which made the weeks fly by quicker than you thought.

Which also helped was Hotch’s teammates, who took it their side mission to entertain you, specially when Aaron found himself lost between paperwork and meetings. They stopped by your place, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, always bringing something: food, wine, puzzles, books and gossip.

You usually hated being babied, but the way they cared and respected you made you feel even better. Now you understood why your boyfriend was so protective of them: they were family. And when you finally got better, before you started working, you made your way up to the BAU’s floor with Aaron by your side holding a bag full of gifts.

If you weren’t so excited to hand them their gifts – one sweater each, knitted by your own hands –, you definitely would’ve noticed the mischievous glint on his eyes. He almost giggled when you mentioned that you hoped everyone was already there. 

When you crossed the glass doors to the bullpen you heard a collective yell of “surprise” that had you yelping and jumping in surprise, finding his team gathered with pastries, a breakfast platter and a cake with a ‘welcome back’ written in frosting.

“I had a lot of free time. Also, it’s a thank you gift. You made this last month much more bearable.” you explained when they opened their gifts.

“A little more spoiling and she would’ve faked an injury to stay home.” Aaron joked, nudging your waist.

“I’m sorry if looking at dead bodies doesn’t feel as appealing to me as lying on a king sized bed, reading books and eating homemade italian food.” you explained, rolling your eyes.

“Please don’t give too many details about our boss’ bed.” Morgan teased, although his smirk showed he was very willing to hear it.

“Speak for yourself.” Emily chimed in, “Also, this is amazing. I can’t believe you managed to knit all of this.”

“You have no idea. I even ended up crocheting some clothes for myself. I can show you later, they turned out really cute.” you offered.

“Oh, oh! Have you seen that crochet white dress that’s viral…” Garcia asked, excitedly waving her hands to gesture.

“The backless one? With that flower attached? So gorgeous.” JJ groaned, glancing up like she was seeing it. 

“Yes, I’ve learnt how to do it. It’s really not that hard.” you explained, blushing “I am now on a mission to refresh my own wardrobe.”

“And luckily for me,” Aaron joined, his voice sarcastic “she gets to choose the exact length, or lack thereof, of her clothes.” The whole team laughed at that, Rossi and Morgan tapping his shoulder in sympathy.

Between jokes that you were now completely used to – even becoming a part of it, sometimes –, the morning went by, and more than ever you felt at home with them. And a few weeks later, when the team left for a case the next winter, you almost melted at the picture Aaron – now your husband – sent you. All of them on a police station, coffee, bagels and files scattered on the office table, smiling and showing off their sweaters: the very ones you gave them.

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna

[prettyinsophie]

Cum with me…to the gym

3k words

Your visit to the gym with Abby escalates quickly when you find out that a certain area can also be worked on by the adductor machine.

warnings: fingering (reader receiving), oh and the fingering is in public so yeah…

I lowkey hate this but it’s the only thing I’ve managed to finish writing throughout the whole year…sigh. I recently watched Arcane so…maybe I’ll start publishing about Vi or Sevika or both.

“Oh, c’mon! We still have two more exercises to go before finishing with some cardio!” Abby exclaims with a devilish smile across her lips, enjoying seeing you sweating and panting after doing three sets of Bulgarians.

After weeks of your best friend begging you to pay a visit to the gym, you obliged with the condition of getting to see Wicked afterward since Abby’s not a big fan of long movies, let alone musicals, so here you were; hair-sticking to your face, red cheeks, and skin glowing with sweat because Abby’s routine is no joke.

“Two more?! Can we just do one more? Pleaseee?” You beg in a whiny pout, giving her puppy eyes because you feel like you’ll pass out any moment now if you keep going. Of course, you’re being dramatic, but that’s just your zodiac sign being true to itself.

Abby playfully rolls her eyes, suppressing a smirk because she thinks you look adorable like that. She won’t tell you that, though, at least not in a non-mocking tone. “The machines are easier, and you can hit whatever weight you want. Sounds fair?”

You purse your lips, looking at her while she chugs some water down. It’s so unfair how godly she looks right now while you feel like a sticky mess. You nod, defeated more than anything because you might as well complete the routine properly. “Fine…”

The gym is fairly empty, but that doesn’t surprise you since it was one of your conditions to agree to come. And so you walk to the bench press, which was as hard as any other machine even with the lowest weight. You were more of a workout-at-home type of gal, after all, and Abby always mocked you because she’s a gym rat and this is her second home. To each their own, you don’t like being around strangers that much.

“What’s this one for?” You ask with your head tilting to the side, confused but willing to learn all about the stupid machine, eager because it’s the last one you’ll use today and for a while.

“This is the leg adductor, great for toning your legs and inner thighs. I’ll show you how to use it and then you can give it a go, yeah?”

“‘Kay…”

You can’t deny that it’s fun to see her in a trainer-like role, and you decide that it’s not that bad and that the reward will come later when you watch the 190-minute-long film. You watch Abby setting the machine and its weight intently, trying to make mental notes of everything so you won’t need her help for each little thing. And here goes…your eyes definitely find her hands gripping the handles more interesting than the exercise itself, or the way her thunder thighs push the weight inwards almost effortlessly. Phew. She finishes her set and stands from the machine so you can give it a go.

“See? Easy.” She smiles before adjusting the weight so it’s lighter for you.

You hesitate to get on it because it looks silly, and you definitely feel exposed with your legs spread open in your yoga pants.

“Oh wow, didn’t know you could open up this much,” She teases with a quizzical grin and her head cocking to the side, which makes you scoff and roll your eyes.

“Shut up, I do pilates after all, don’t I?” You excuse your almost obscene spreading, and to only make it worse, you’re wearing a thong and you plead that Abby won’t look down because you’re certain she’ll be able to catch a detailed glimpse of your pussy.

“Chill, I’m just fucking with ya. Let me help you…” Abby snorts, amused at how you respond to her mindless teasing. She bends down in your direction to adapt the position so you won’t be opened up like a christmas present, “…and there! Now hold onto these and try to push the weight inwards slowly, if you do it fast you’ll hurt yourself.”

Abby instructs and you do as you’re told. Slowly, you push your legs together, gripping the handles because the weight is definitely challenging, and after the bench press, Bulgarians, and squats, your legs are not the strongest, but you manage to do it.

“How’s the weight? Do you want me to lower it?” Abby asks, leaning on the machine’s weight rack, “Y-Yeah…it’s too heavy.” Your voice quakes tiredly, and the blonde wants to poke fun at you for it but decides to save it because she knows you’re doing your best. So she lowers the weight so it’s more comfortable.

It’s definitely difficult to do it with your wobbly legs, but it’s also fun in its own way. You close and open your legs at a slow pace, breathing deeply as you do each one, and with Abby watching is only making it harder to pretend you’re not struggling as much. Although it hurts, you’re not sure if you’re targeting the right area since you keep clenching your core unconsciously, and it only causes you to breathe heavier and heavier for some reason. Abby’s on her phone since you got the hang of it, and yes, you can do the exercise, but with each push from your legs, your body gets hotter and your breathing gets sharper. The last rep comes, and the pressure is overwhelming even after taking small breaks between each set. The muscles in your lower stomach tighten, and that’s when you feel your pussy clenching around nothing, and you realize…

This fucking exercise is fun because it’s stimulating you, and your friend in front of you probably has no idea of what’s happening since she’s watching instagram reels.

Your back arches ever so slightly from the seat, a familiar reaction from when you pleasure yourself, and the pooling between your thighs only worsens as you get closer to the end of the rep, clenching every muscle because it feels so good. A loud, raspy gasp escapes your lips, and your eyes immediately seek Abby, checking if she’s seeing what’s engaging between you and the machine, but she remains still so you keep going. Your thighs are shaking, begging you to end the exercise but you keep going despite already hitting the fifteenth one.

‘Almost…’ Even the voice in your head is ragged. Your cunt is throbbing, your abs are inhumanly clenching and the band in your stomach’s about to snap. The sweat is running down your face and your neck, but all you can focus on is that aching pooling in the pit of your stomach.

With your chest heaving and your lip caught between your teeth, you close your legs one more time and groan softly at your release, the chemicals in your brain plastering colorful dots in your vision, and you finally let go since your body’s all weak and shaky. You can barely ride out the bliss when it hits you.

You just had an orgasm. At the gym. With Abby two steps away from you.

“Fuck…” A throaty breath catches Abby’s attention, and thank god your yoga pants are black and not pink today.

“You finally done? I know you’re a newbie but it took you long enough.” Abby puts her phone in her pocket and looks down at you with that kind and charming grin of hers, and then there you are, a panting mess.

“I…need to go to the bathroom,” You announce breathily, quickly getting off the machine because you need to take care of the situation in your pants. The blonde frowns and you know she wants to ask if something’s wrong, but she sees you in a rush and simply points at the ladies' room. You almost run, cursing in your head again and again because what the fuck is wrong with you? The bathroom stalls are empty so you enter the last one, immediately banging your head against the door.

“You’re a fucking pervert. You’re pathetic!” You whisper, and your legs threaten to give up once again, which only upsets you further.

You rest your head against the door and look up, battling the tears brewing in your eyes. This is it; the lowest you’ve reached so far. Who knows if one of the few people out there saw you? Shit, shit, shit. You haven’t had time to play with yourself but this definitely wasn’t the solution to that!

Deep breath in and out, but no matter how calm you are now, the wet spot in your pants remains.

“Hey…you in here?” Abby’s voice makes you jump startled, and you curse again in your head.

“Y-Yeah, last stall.” Your voice is weak and raspy, but you manage to get the right tone to not let her know you’re about to cry.

“You okay? You looked…I dunno, weird.”

Abby’s worry makes your heart clench, and guilt showers you like a bucket of cold water. She’s your best friend though; you know every small quirk, have seen each other’s awkward phases, and most importantly, have kept secrets you know aren’t for anyone else to know. So you’ll be fine, you’re adults now so this isn’t a big deal, right?

You open the door and pull her arm so she’ll join you. Rapidly, you close the door again as if the entire bathroom isn’t empty. Abby chuckles, amused by the sudden move from you, but the smirk fades as soon as she sees the sulky look on your face with your lips almost pouting and your eyes glossy. “Hey…what happened?” Her brows meet in a concerned frown, and she reaches for your hand.

The embarrassment is strong enough to block your throat and tighten your chest. You bite your lip, looking up when Abby’s thumb gently rubs the back of your hand.

“I…” How could you even put it into words? No fancy vocabulary would make this any better, “...the pressure of the exercise was really strong, and I…don’t know how but I think I came.”

Abby’s heart dropped to her stomach, and for your sake, she contained as much shock as she could inside her, but the truth is…she found that adorably amusing and even kind of hot…? You look defeated, just like a puppy who knows did something wrong, and she wants to pet your head and cuddle you.

On your side though, you’re certain she’s thinking you’re a freak that should be locked away from society. You look away from her. Your heart thuds in nothing but shame, pumping the blood to your cheeks, painting them a bright red color.

“How bad is the situation?” Her voice is lower than usual, and you assume that is in case someone enters the bathroom.

“My pants are soaked…” You nearly sob, sniffing but holding it in.

Abby hums, taking a step close to your position against the door, and she hesitantly brings her hand to your clothed crotch as if to make sure you’re telling the truth. Your body reacts to that, naturally, and you jump a little, looking at her with your eyes widening because that’s unknown territory.

“Okay…listen, it’s completely normal, yeah? Tons of girls have gone through the same thing so it’s not like you’re the first one.” She soothes you, her voice low and smooth, almost like a lullaby, and her hand moves to your hip, squeezing it lightly to comfort you.

You huff in relief, still embarrassed but that statement definitely took some weight off your back. “Thank god, I feel like a pervert.”

“You probably are, but that’s okay too.” Of course, she pokes fun at you at the first chance, but she manages to make you laugh a little.

The scenario is a little weird. You’ve been in the most insane and random situations together, but this could top any of those other ones. Your back’s against the door, and Abby’s just centimeters away from you; her hand gripping your hipbone rather firmly, causing your hips to jerk unconsciously. Your eyes meet hers, and she has such an indistinct look on her face that you can’t say you’ve seen before.

“You’re still sensitive,” She states huskily, and you catch her licking her lips.

“Well, yeah. I just had an orgasm.” You also state, almost sarcastically because it’s more than obvious why your body is reacting to her grip.

“You know…having multiple orgasms will help you relax your tensed muscles.”

…okay?

She takes the one step that kept you away from each other, and now both hands are on your hips as she glances down at you with her usual crystal-clear blue eyes gone several tones down to navy. You gulp nervously, your arms on your sides as you stand awkwardly.

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Lemme help you.” She answers on the spot, with no hesitance or stuttering. And -shockingly- no hint of it being a joke.

You want to say no for the sake of your friendship more than anything, but your body’s been craving release for months, and if your best friend is willing to help you with such devotion then who are you to reject the thoughtful offer?

“Okay…”

Your answer takes Abby by surprise, but she doesn’t press on it because she doesn’t want you to change your mind, not when she’s getting worked up herself.

“Try to keep it down, though.” She winks a snarky smile at you, and before you can tell her to fuck off, she slips her hand down your pants, cupping your aching core.

“Fuck, you are soaked,” Abby whispers surprised, her voice coming out ragged at the realization, and she begins to move her fingers over your folds, spreading them and feeling the slickness of your previous orgasm.

You wanted to be cocky, but one of your hands goes straight to your mouth to muffle the whimper you almost let escape. You know your friend’s anatomy almost as perfectly as her personal traits and her thick fingers were always secretly acknowledged by you, and now they’re spreading your pussy, teasing you better than you’ve ever done it yourself.

“I didn’t know you were a thong girl,” Abby mutters sultrily, obviously noticing the lack of clothing for your cunt. Her fingers find your clit and she starts tracing slow circles, mostly to see your reaction.

Your eyes are fluttering, and your whimpers come out as hums with your hand blocking your lips. Her touch is gentle but firm, and god is it heavenly. It’s definitely better than your own, and you can’t believe you’re doing this in the bathroom of the gym Abby’s attended for the past years. Still, your hips roll in the direction of where she’s touching you, pathetically writhing under her to feel her calloused fingers even more against your throbbing clit.

“You like that?” Oh her voice…is as sweet as honey right now and it sends a shiver down your spine. You nod your head, too scared of being caught, but Abby -being the jerk she is- yanks your hand off your face, letting it rest on your side and very clearly hinting at you that she wants an answer vocalized.

“Y…Yeah,” You manage to gasp under your breath, your head hitting the door when her fingertips rub a little faster, right in that magnificent spot with the right amount of pressure to turn your legs into jelly.

Abby’s having the time of her life. You look angelically sexy, as if you were trying to seduce her with those red lips of yours; parted open and inviting hers to get a taste. She can’t, though, and she won’t…for now. She wants to see every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes when you blink repeatedly, and every bead of sweat that rolls down your forehead and causes your flushed cheeks to glow under the dim light of the bathroom.

“Abs…” It kills her to hear that beloved nickname of hers coming out of your lips in a needy gasp. She purses her full lips, pitying the situation because she wishes you could just whimper her name out loud. Later…she thinks to herself.

Abby calls out your name as well, matching your discreet and low tone, “...yeah? Feels good?”

You nod again, not risking a moan coming out. Your chest heaves, feeling tight because you can barely breathe. It’s almost like a fever dream…or a wet one, in this case. The blood is pumping hot and fast, adrenaline rushing all over you as she sends you to the fucking moon in steady circles. A loud gulp jumps on the walls of the stall, your best attempt at trying to keep quiet.

You feel that familiar pressure in your belly, but Abby whispers your name again. Her eyes are darker, with a loose strand of her blonde hair falling over her face, and she leans down. “I really wanna finger you, ‘s that alright?” She almost begs you, her pretty brows arching in eagerness for what your answer will be.

Your heart’s about to leap out of your chest at this point, feeling like you’re close to suffocating, but you lick your puffy lips and whisper a very needy ‘yes’. And Abby does not waste a single second before guiding one of your legs around her hips and immediately lowering her two digits to your entrance, spreading your arousal so her fingers won’t come in dry. You close your eyes at the weird sensation, but your hips jerk in her direction more aggressively than before.

“So wet for me…I wish I could taste that sweet pussy,” Abby hoarsely mutters in your ear, and before you can react, her middle and ring finger slip inside you oh so smoothly, stretching you open with her thick and long digits.

“Fuck…!” You hiss agitatedly, unconsciously clenching around her from how overwhelming everything is at this point. Abby slips them out and thrusts them until her knuckles become an obstacle, groaning under her breath as well, which only makes it harder for you to keep quiet. Why were you doing this again? Whatever the fuck was the reason, you wish she would’ve brought it up long before today.

Heat’s consuming your body, colored in a passionate red from your cheeks to your chest, probably from holding your breath, or the force Abby’s fingering you with. Either way, it’s all stimulating you in a way you know you shouldn’t be enjoying. Your heavy sighs are getting progressively louder, but the loud beating of your heart in your ears silences them.

Abby’s fingers thrust forcefully, almost abusing your soaking cunt, and squelching sounds filter out, causing the blonde to groan once again in your ear. Seemingly, the pornographic sound of her fingers pumping in and out only encourages her to seek deeper, finding a spongy spot at the very top when she curls both fingers expertly.

“There!” A normal whimper escapes, and as if to punish you, the door of the ladies’ room opens with two voices following as they chat about gains and what to have for lunch in terms of protein goals. Eyes wide as plates, you look at Abby, silently asking her what to do, unsure if it scares you more to keep going or stop.

Abby has her priority clear; you. So the solution is to cover your mouth with her hand and angle her fingers higher and deeper inside you, hitting the spongy wall repeatedly with the two girls chatting in the background, making enough noise to quiet the squelching of her fingering. Abby cages you between her body and the door, and her groans soon become growls, like a hungry animal salivating over its prey.

Tears brimmed in your wide eyes, beginning to tear up as you breathed raggedly through your nose and winced against Abby’s hand. You should’ve stopped, but the adrenaline rush of possibly -hopefully not- getting caught only caused your muscles to clench tighter, and the pooling in the pit of your stomach to swoop like a crashing wave. You’re close, so fucking close that you’re seeing stars this time. Abby’s eyes even shine before your eyes roll back and your body spasms like you’re being electrocuted. Creaming and cumming all over Abby’s fingers and in your yoga pants for the second time today. A loud ringing in your ears almost concerns you and makes you think you passed out, but it only lasts a minute or two before opening your eyes again and seeing your blonde friend looking at you like she just saw a UFO or something.

She keeps her fingers inside until the two girls leave the bathroom, and you can’t say it isn’t awfully awkward to feel the emptiness when she pulls them out and retrieves her hand from your lips as well, letting you pant loudly while you ride out the thunderous orgasm.

Your eyes meet, and Abby’s cheeks seem to get pink, which would’ve been funny in any other situation. “You, uh, you good?”

It’s so awkward that it makes your stomach cringe uncomfortably. “Yeah, just…recovering.”

Abby nods, letting you know that she understands, but you can tell she’s also embarrassed, probably regretting talking to you the way she did…publicly.

“Are we still watching Wicked?” You ask out of the blue, trying to lighten up the mood, and when Abby snorts everything returns to normal.

“Not only are we watching it, you’re getting eaten out afterward,” She taunts you sweetly, licking her dripping fingers clean.

[shinigamigloss]

sweet mornings!

cw: just fluff, stuff, very short, husband leon, and mentioned scar on his chin!, he makes a 'joke' about the age gap between the two of you, idek;3

⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The morning light streams through the half-open blinds, spilling honeyed inks across the bathroom tiles. The redolence of fresh coffee lingers in the air. Then there’s the sharp aroma of Leon’s usual aftershave – the very scent you’ve grown to affiliate with home.

He reclines on the shut toilet seat, legs spread wide, arms flung loose on his thighs. His baby blue bathrobe is sloppy over his impressively big shoulders, sleeves a little bit too short, contributing to his appearance of the harried, underpaid househusband that he so often claims to be.

The sight is a lovely one, from Leon’s favorite coffee cup inscribed with ‘My dad is a superhero’, to the newspaper he always peruses in the morning.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he tuts at you. You don’t say a thing. Rather, you dip the shaving brush in tepid water.

“I’m a grown-up man. I've been shaving myself since– damn, since before you were old enough to drink.”

Ouch.

You shake your head in faux disbelief and lather the soap onto the brush. “Leon, you and I both know that you consistently miss this specific spot.”

Of course you’d hurt his feelings like that. Leon absolutely feels betrayed.

Your husband huffs dramatically. “One time. One time I leave just one patch, and suddenly I’m the inept one.”

“Well, you do have a reputation to uphold, Mr. Kennedy.” An impish smile graces your lips. You prod at his chin, tilting up his pretty face.

“Now, stay still.”

“Yas, ma’am.” Smiling to himself, he obliges.

You apply the foam to his stubbled jawline. His hair is fetchingly tousled from sleep, silver threads woven into his otherwise brown locks that reflect the morning light in a way that makes your heart race inside the cage of your ribs, your bones.

“You starin’ at me?” he impeaches playfully as you reach for the razor.

“Shhh. You talk too much.” You draw the knife slowly down his jaw. “I gotta be careful. One mistake and—“

“You slit my throat?”

“Yup.” You don’t hesitate.

His lashes flutter, and he draws a long, balmy sigh. “I knew there was a reason I married you.”

“You figured it out, huh?”

“Yep. I love a slow-burn assassination plot and a femme fatale.”

You wipe the blade and move on to the next part on his skin – cautiously so when you feel the trace of a healed scar under your thumb.

“Tragic,” you retort.

He snorts out a laugh. The bathroom is warm, heavy with steam from the shower he just took.

When you near his upper lip, he raises his brows. “Bet you won’t kiss me right now.”

Mind games are his absolute favorite when it comes to teasing the hell out of you.

“I won’t.” You obviously lie. Leaning forward as if to show him, you dab a tiny bit of foam on the tip of his nose instead. “Oops.”

He automatically grumbles. “Unbelievable. There goes my kiss.”

“You’ll live, Leon. You’re a big man.”

When you’re finished, his face is vividly smooth, and you can’t resist running your fingers along the curve of his jaw. “Perfect.”

Leon catches your hand before you can pull it back, giving a slow kiss to the inside of your palm. “Mrs. Kennedy, I think you missed a certain spot.”

“Huh?” A frown sits on the gap between your eyebrows.

“No way! Where?”

He touches his peach-kissed lips. “Right here.”

Greedy.

You nearly roll your eyes at this cheesy attempt to flirt.

“That was so bad, Leon.”

“It did the trick, didn’t it, sweetheart?” He pulls you in. Tips his chin up expectantly. Looking adorable in a way you don’t understand how.

With a flourish of a sigh, you bend down and finally kiss him on his lips. Soft and all familiar. He tastes like morning coffee and mint. Simply delicious and inherently him.

In these very vibrations of seconds, you subconsciously know that you’ll let him get away with any missing spots for the rest of your life.

[no-144444]

making moves- l.norris

a/n: HI AND WELCOME TO MY FIRST FIC-TOBER FIC I HOPE YOU ENJOY :)))))

Day 1 of fic-tober! fic-tober masterlist

summary: Lando and you don't exactly get along and now you're quitting, he'll surely take it well, right?

pairing: lando norris x fem! mclaren publicist! fem! reader

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

You turned the corner of the media pen with Lando’s arm in your hand. If he stepped one foot out of line, if one hair was out of place, one unnecessary giggle or joke, you’d lose your mind. You were getting sick of this, of him, of cleaning up every single one of his messes. 

“I said I’m sorry-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you sighed. You hadn’t studied mechanical engineering and sports journalism for years in college to become a goddamn babysitter. “Just do your interviews and don’t say anything about your relationship status, please Lando.”

He rolled his eyes but obliged, moving past you to start an interview with some sports journal.

You watched the room around you. You would miss this, the buzz of the media pen, the entire paddock, being so close in the action of your favourite sport. You wished it hadn’t come to this. You didn’t want to quit, but you were being driven mad by a 24 year old man-child, and you couldn’t take it anymore. A year and a half ago, you were being driven crazy by how much you wanted him, now, it was his party-boy ways and arrogant smirk that set you off. Lando had always been a popular driver, you understood the attraction on every level. He was a pretty, sometimes funny, and rich man. He was on the younger side of the grid, and he was talented. Christ, was he annoying to work with. He was conceited, self-centred, a manwhore, and downright difficult the majority of the time. You disregarded almost every time he was kind to you, because less than 48 hours later he would do something dickish and ruin your weekend off, or make you cancel a date to come get him from a club because he was drunk and his friends left him alone, blah, blah, blah. You were excited to finally be free of Lando Norris and his asshole-ish ways, yet, maybe you’d miss his face. Anyways, just one race left, and your two-weeks are up. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ Team dinners were simple, you usually sat beside Lily, Oscar’s girlfriend, and chatted with her about her course (the same one you took) and whatever else came to your minds. As the night came to a close, you walked Lily and Oscar back to their rooms with Lando trailing behind, texting on his phone. 

Lily pulled you into a hug. “I’ll miss you so much!” she sighed. “It sucks you’re not even finishing the season with McLaren.”

You shrugged, hugging her back. “I’ll call you, I promise. And we have Greece in January,” you reminded her. She nodded and pulled back. 

“See you in the morning,” she smiled, then disappeared back to their hotel room. 

“See you in the morning,” Oscar smiled, pulling you in for a hug. “You better call her once you land in New York, or she’ll lose her mind,” he chuckled. 

You nodded, smiling. “I will, don’t worry. And I’ll miss you too, Osc.”

He smiled, pulling back. “I’ll miss you too.”

You turned to go to your room, but Lando stopped you. “Why are you going to New York?”

“For my new job,” you explained calmly. “I’m leaving on Sunday night.”

Confusion flashed across his face, and you took the silence as a chance to leave. You brushed past him and continued on your way down the hall. 

“What do you mean you’re ‘leaving’ on Sunday night? Are you going on holidays for the weeks we have off?” he asked, catching up with you. 

“No, I start my new job the next week and I need to get my apartment unpacked and sort out my office,” you explained. 

“What? Why are you doing that?”

“Unpacking my apartment? I’ll be living there-”

“No, moving? You have a job, y-you work here, you work with me,” he stumbled through his sentence and you raised an eyebrow. 

“Did Stella not tell you? I’m leaving after the race this weekend. I sent in my two-week notice almost two weeks ago. I got a job offer from the New York Jets and I took it. Anyway, good night Lando, I’ll see you in the morning,” You continued on your way to your room. 

“You can’t just leave! What will I do without y- someone to-”

“Get your laundry and fix your mistakes in the media? You’ll be getting a replacement when I leave. His name is Will, he’s organised, and he’s quite funny. I think you’ll get along.” 

“What will I do without you?” he gritted out. “You’re meant to be here, with me, and now you’re leaving? How am I supposed to feel?”

“Imparcial I’d assume.”

“Imparcial? Y/n, come on, you can’t be that blind?” This was a different version of Lando than what you were used to. He was usually a brass and confident arsehole. Yet, here he stood in front of you, upset that you were leaving. 

“Blind to what? The way you abuse your power? The way you make me do your bidding? The way you make me cancel important things in my personal life to fit your schedule of heavy drinking? The way-”

“The way I’m in love with you?!” He practically shouted. You clapped a hand over his mouth and a surge of panic ran though you. You pulled him into your hotel room after you and sat him on the bed, then proceeded to pace the room. 

What did he mean he loved you? He hated you. He made your life a living hell. He made sure you’d have to see him everyday. He made sure you’d be in his apartment building. He made sure to-

Oh. Shit. He loved you. 

“Y/n,” his voice was soft. “You need to calm down.” 

You turned to him. “Calm down? What the fuck do you mean ‘calm down’? I’ve just spent the last fucking year and a half burying any and all romantic feelings for you, tried to hone in on all of your flaws to make myself hate you, quit my job to get away from you, and now you’re telling me you love me? What the fuck Lando?!” 

“You had romantic feelings for me?” He blushed. 

“That’s what you got from that?!” 

He chuckled. “I’m sorry, alright. We can work this out, just tell Andrea you don’t want to quit-”

“Lando I’ve accepted the job offer in New York, I’ve signed the contract. I can’t back out,” you sighed, putting your head in your hands. “You really have great timing,” you scoffed. 

He smiled, placing his hands on your waist. “Then we’ll make it work,” he shrugged. “I want you, if you’ll have me.” 

You looked up at him. Were you really doing this?  Lando Norris was your typical male celebrity in his twenties. He had everything he could ever want, any girl he could ever want, and he wanted you? Every insecurity and logical bone  in your body told you to run away. You’d seen what the internet did to girls he was seen in public with, let alone a girl he actually came out and admitted to dating. Was he worth being torn apart for? 

“You’re killing me here,” he laughed to hide his fear. He’d waited a year and a half for this moment. He wanted you more than anything. He wanted to be able to call himself your boyfriend and get to call you his girlfriend. He wanted you around him all the time. Every time he’d found out about a date you’d been on or met a guy you’d been seeing he was filled with jealousy. He was yours, he just needed you to be his too. 

“Lando, I don’t know if this is a good idea-”

He pressed his lips to yours and it was undeniable. This was what you had been searching for. That stupid ‘spark’ all those rom coms talked about all the time. Kissing him was like fireworks. He brought your hands up to wrap around his neck and smirked when you kissed him back. You fit together so perfectly, his lips against yours, your skin against his, everything. 

You pulled back slowly. 

“So can I be your boyfriend now?” he whispered, the hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Only if I can be your girlfriend,” you smiled back.  He pressed his lips to yours again. Maybe he was worth being torn apart for.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

fic-tober masterlist

taglist: @anotherapollokid @theseerbetweenus @simbaaas-stuff

[joonieskinks]

au where you were married to Cpt John MacTavish, but wake up to find yourself married to Sergeant Johnny MacTavish (original vs remake Soap)

“No,” you state coldly. The shock was still sinking in.

“No, Price. That’s not my husband.”

Price’s gaze puzzles. “You asked for Johnny MacTavish, this is Johnny. Our Johnny.” He gestures to your supposed husband, who is taking this all in himself, but he sits just staring at you.

Johnny, who couldn’t stop admiring your face, your body, your ring on your fourth finger. He gave you that. Well, sort of.

Johnny, who was your husband. You, his wife. He had a wife in another life. Gods, what a catch you are, how did he manage to bag you? he thinks.

Wait. Gods, does that mean he gets you too?

“I asked for my John, my John MacTavish, my husband. He-“ You state and finally look, really look at the man before you, this Johnny.

“He’s too young, it’s not the same. It’s- it’s off.” You look back down to the floor, you’re utterly confused. One moment you’re in bed at home, the next you’re on base in a room that’s designated for “MacTavish”. At first you thought it was a dream, so of course you went asking for your husband just to see his face again.

You didn’t expect to actually see him, well- a younger version of your husband, much less an alive one. You had to pinch yourself, you really were here. This was real.

Maybe it was a second chance, maybe it was a cruel trick of fate. You couldn’t tell just yet. You were hesitant, scared.

But Johnny on the other hand, he was having a hard time keeping still and his hands to himself with the likes of you in front of him.

“Cap’, can ye give us a moment?” Johnny asked his superior, who happily obliged. Price eyed you as if to warn you not to do anything stupid, but still be backed out of the room.

You could still barely look at Johnny. He’s your husband, but so much younger, he’s still just as handsome, he’s technically yours but- it was all too weird. Would he even want you? What if he had someone else already?

“Bonnie? Will ya look at me?” Johnny comes straight up to you, holding your hands in his. His fingers playing with your wedding ring, he already loves the idea of it, of you as his. That ring to call you his and his alone. Never did he think he’d have anything remotely close to this, so he considers you a blessing if anything.

You reluctantly keep your head down so Johnny brings one hand to cup your chin, forcing your gaze up to his face.

The sight of his concerned face nearly breaks your heart. It hurts to see him yet it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of since his passing. To have him before you again. It’s all so overwhelming you can’t help but tear up.

“No need for that, bonnie.” He smiles as he cups your cheeks. It feels so good to have his skin on yours again, you close your eyes at the feeling.

“If you’ll have me, I’ll certainly have you. Even if ye are a cougar now.” He jokes and your eyes shoot open at his words. You hit him lightly out of annoyance, but he just smiles. You can’t help but begrudgingly smile back, rolling your eyes.

Same sense of humour. Maybe he is your husband after all.

“I missed you so much, Johnny.” You admit, bringing your fingers to graze across his face. To actually feel him again, it really feels like you’re getting your second chance at love.

“‘Ts nice to finally meet my missus.” He says softly as he brings his forehead to rest against yours, but it’s you who brings your lips to meet his, losing yourself in his touch after all these years alone…

Then it hits you that this younger version of your husband might have even more stamina and strength- so naturally you waste no time getting him back into his quarters and testing that theory.

At first you feel a little nervous that Johnny might not like what he sees. After all, you are a couple years older than he is now, but he’s utterly entranced as you stand bare before him. His hands all over your body, exploring every crevice, kissing you up and down. He can’t get enough.

“My wife’s so beautiful”, “my wife’s all mine”, “gonna make ya feel so good, show ya what a good husband I’ll make for ya.”

[strawberrynull]

──⯎ ˙🎀 ̟ calling them "pretty boy"

엔하이픈 | Enhypen | ot7

──Pairing: enha ot7 x afab!reader

──Genre: fluff (might make an nsfw ver if its requested)

──Synopsis: You call your boyfriend a new nickname to see their reaction

──A/N: I'M BACK!! AND I HAVE MANY STORIES TO POST

masterlist

"Hey, pretty boy!"

이희승 | Heeseung

"Hey, pretty girl." He called back, throwing you off and causing a faint blush to spread across your cheeks. Silence followed as the words got stuck in your throat. "What's wrong? Why are you not talking anymore?"

"It's nothing. Nevermind." You turned away and began to leave the room before Hee stopped you.

"No, no, go on. What did you come here to tell me." He smiled innocently, resting his chin on his palm.

You fiddled with your fingers, looking everywhere but at the boy in front of you. He was totally teasing you. "I told you it was nothing, Hee."

"Ohhhh you're saying that because I ruined your plans." He chucked, leaning back in his chair. "Start over. I won't mess up your script this time." He smiled, obviously trying to fluster you.

It was working.

박종성 | Jongseong

"Me?" He asks with uncertainty, furrowing his brows.

"Yeah, who else would I be talking about?" You tilted your head, chuckling slightly.

"Don't be silly." He scoffed, smiling to himself. It wasn't a happy kind of smile though.

"What do you mean!? I'm being so serious Jay!" You smack his shoulder lightly. "You're my pretty boy!"

"Alright." He laughs it off again.

"Stop laughing! I'm not joking!" You wrap your arms around his torso, hugging him tightly. "You're the one and only pretty boy, got it?"

"Okay, fine. Thank you baby." He gives you a genuine smile this time before kissing your forehead lightly.

심재윤 | Jaeyun

You call out to Jaeyun from the kitchen where you have a clear view of where he's seated in the livingroom. When he hears you call, his ears seem to perk up like a puppy.

"Huh? You mean me?" He asks genuinely, pointing to himself.

"Yes, silly." You giggle as if it were obvious you were talking about him.

"I'm pretty boy?" he asks again, unsure if you really mean it. Your heart throbs as he stares at you with wide eyes.

"Yes, Jae. Now come here. I need to show you something." You wave your hand, signaling for him to come to the kitchen. He happily obliges, getting up from the couch and nearly skipping toward you with his iconic grin.

Later, he would brag to the others that he was your "pretty boy."

박성훈 | Sunghoon

You call Hoon but receive no answer. His back is facing you as he sits on the couch, scrolling on his phone. You know he can hear you so you assume he's ignoring you.

"Ya! I'm talking to you, pretty boy."

"Well I'm not 'pretty boy.' I'm 'hot and handsome man.'" He says nonchalantly, not even bothering to turn toward you.

"Alright, don't stroke your own ego." You turn your back to him, ready to walk away.

"Hey! Fine! I'll be 'pretty boy'" he says, mumbling the last part.

You give a small 'yay' before running up to the couch and leaning over the back of the couch to kiss his forehead.

김선우 | Sunoo

"Yesss~? That's me!" Sunoo beamed, grinning brightly.

"Can my pretty boy get me my toner pads?" You call from your bathroom.

"Of course your pretty boy can." He immediately gets up to get your toner pads for you. Hr brings them to the bathroom where you are doing your skincare routine.

"Thank you, Noo. You're the best pretty boy ever." you smile, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.

"I know! I'm the cutest!" He laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Now, do you want your pretty boy to help you with your skincare?"

양정원 | Jungwon

"What?"

"You heard me." Jungwon just stares at you in shock at your sudden words. This was a new nickname to him. The tips of his ears had turned pink. "What's wrong, pretty boy?"

"Stop saying that." He grumbled, hiding his face in his hands.

"Stop saying what, pretty boy?" You giggled knowingly, a small smirk tugging at your lips. Suddenly, a pillow is being hurled straight at your head.

"Ya! I said stop calling me that! It's embarrassing" All you did was laugh at him.

니키 | Niki

Niki tilts his head in confusion, pointing to himself.

"Yes, you. You're pretty boy."

He scoffs, coming up to wrap an arm around your shoulders. "You're prettier, baby" You throw his arm off your shoulder and look at him with astonsihment.

"What!? No! You are!'

Niki laughs lightheartedly "That's impossible because you're the prettiest." He smirks victoriously.

"Fine, then you're ugly boy." You huff, folding your arms over your chest and turning away from him.

"You're uglier." Silence follows his remark. "I'm sorry, you're not ugly, you're so pretty, baby" He's quick to hug you from behind.

© strawberrynull, 2024. Do not copy my work. Please DM for permission before translating or reuploading. Thank You

[unoislazy]

Hello ! Sorry for my bad English, it's not my first language I do my best

First of all, I love how you write <3

Second, my request would be Hiccup getting jealous and confessing to fem!reader by accident

That's all !

Thanks for writing so well, I send you a little kiss

Hello!

Congrats you’re my first request!

I hope I could do your request justice, enjoy

Just Talk To Me!

Hiccup x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k words

Summary: You and Eret have gotten pretty close due to your constant fighting practice. Of course, a certain chief isn’t too happy about it but he has a bit of trouble trying to tell you why.

————————————————————

“You’re getting better at this!” Eret praised, ducking under your fist as you swung at him. He continued to dodge your strikes as you smiled.

You both had begun sparring together a few months ago, after the whole Dragon War fiasco. You realized that without your dragon, you weren’t as strong or as agile as the other Vikings, so you asked Eret to help you train.

You swept your foot under him, finally taking him down and putting your foot on his chest, signifying that you had one the fight.

“Have I gotten better, or have you just gotten worse?” You asked teasingly, taking your foot off of him as he smiled up at you.

You held out your hand to help him up. He obliged, taking it as he stood up once again, wiping off his clothes from that dust that truly didn’t even seem to be there.

“You’ve certainly made improvements since day one. I can tell you that.” He said, stretching a bit. “You could definitely do well even without your dragon, if you’d ever need to.” He continued, looking back at both of your dragons who were simply chilling off to the side, as they often did when you two fought.

“Hopefully there never comes a time.” You said in a lighthearted tone, but you truly hoped there would never be a time where you’d have to fair without your dragon.

“I second that. It’s funny, I never thought I’d ever change my ways when it came to dragons. Yet here I am, looking after this beast.” Eret joked, patting Skull Crushers head lightly causing the dragon to groan and slightly shake its head in response.

“Well I’m glad you had it in you to change, who knows maybe I would’ve taken you down myself.” You gloated sarcastically, walking towards the pair as Eret smiled back at you, acknowledging your joke.

“Yeah you wouldn’t have made it even close.” He let out a chuckle as he watched your teasing smirk turn to a pout. You knew his teasing was all in good fun but realistically if it had come to it you would’ve taken him out if you needed to.

“Just cause I’ve gotten better doesn’t mean I wasn’t skilled to begin with.” You reminded.

“Fair. Now how about best two out of three?” Eret asked, getting into a fighting stance which you very quickly mimicked. Just as you both were about to start fighting you had heard a very familiar growl come from above. Your head shot up towards the noise and you spotted none other than Hiccup Haddock, the chief of Berk, flying above you.

“Guess not.” You joked, no longer standing in a ready position as you turned to face the aforementioned chief who had landed not too far away from the both of you. Hiccup hopped off of Toothless with ease, slipping his helmet off in the process, and walked over to the two of you with Toothless close behind.

“Morning you two.” Hiccup greated, earning a nod of acknowledgement from the both of you. “What are you guys doing all the way out here?” He asked but you noticed it wasn’t in the sense of his usual curiosity. There was an underlying tone that you could quite put your finger on so you figured you were just simply thinking too much into it.

You hadn’t really thought about it but you suppose you and Eret were more or less in the middle of nowhere in the woods. It was the most quiet place the two of you could find to practice in peace without going to the Arena.

“Eret and I have been sparring, I figured I should eventually learn how, considering most of my strength comes from them.” You said, gesturing to your dragon who was sleeping peacefully only to be startled awake by Toothless patting them on the head. You couldn’t help but laugh a bit, Toothless always reminded you of a cat in a way, you found it adorable.

“Alone?” Hiccup asked, which honestly surprised the both of you. You looked towards hiccup in confusion only to see the shock he had on his own face. Clearly he didn’t mean to let it slip out but it was too late to take it back now.

“Well no… our dragons are here with us?” You stated but you were so confused about the reasoning behind Hiccups question that you couldn’t seem to phrase it as anything other than a question. You all fell silent as Hiccup swayed his arms in an awkward fashion, something he only does when he’s trying to avoid talking about something.

Eret looked between the two of you, realizing he had no part in the conversation he simply cleared his throat.

“I’ll just leave you two be, I have some… things to take care of..” He excused himself, quickly hopping onto Skullcrusher and exiting the awkward situation as quickly as possible. Once Eret had flown away you quickly turned back to Hiccup who was clearly avoiding even looking in your general direction.

“Spill it.” You said bluntly causing Hiccup to finally make eye contact with you. His face held a confused look but you both knew what you were talking about.

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” Hiccup said, again clearly avoiding the topic as he walked over to Toothless. “Have you seen the new addition I added to Toothless’s tail?” It was clear he was trying to think of anything to change the subject because obviously there was nothing different about Toothless’s tail and you both knew that.

You crossed your arms as you stared at the brunette before you, your face holding an expression that clearly said ‘seriously?’. He dropped Toothless’s tail with a sigh before getting up and walking towards you. Silence quickly swept over the two of you as you continued to wait for Hiccup to say something. You raised an eyebrow at him before he blurted out,

“Have you seen the new scale armor?”, giving one more quick shot to derail the conversation.

“Hiccup.” You said quite sternly. “Spill it.” You repeated, your arms still crossed over your chest as you watched the man nervously fidget. He may be the chief but he still held some of his nervous quirks. Sure he had the ability to look powerful and calm when his people needed their chief, but when he wasn’t the ‘Chief of Berk’ he was just Hiccup.

Just Hiccup.

And you’d be damned if you said you didn’t love him. Ever since you met hiccup you knew he always tried to meet everyone’s expectations only to have a long history of falling short. Hiccup as he was was always overlooked, everyone looked to him to be ‘the Chiefs son’ the ‘next chief of Berk’ and the one he really struggled with, was ‘Stoick’s son’. No one ever truly looked at him as just Hiccup.

Well everyone except you.

You liked him from the very beginning when he was just a scrawny boy obsessed with earning his fathers approval. Did you have the courage to say anything about the way you felt? No of course not, why would you? As much as you loved to see him as ‘Just Hiccup’ you couldn’t deny the fact that he was still pretty far out of your league, especially given his title of ‘The Dragon Master’. What title did you have? Nothing.

Well you had the title of being one of his closest friends so you stuck with that as being enough for you.

“I just don’t think you and Eret should be so far away while training.” He finally spoke up. It was clear he was still keeping something from you but at least he gave you something to work with.

“Why?” You asked, trying to nudge more out of him. He put his hands on his hips. As he began to pace slowly in a circle.

“I don’t know, I just think it would be safer if you-“ Hiccup began only for you to cut him off.

“Hiccup we have two dragons here, one of them being Skull Crusher. I’d say it’s pretty safe to say nothings going to attack us out here.” You argued, now mimicking his pose with your hands on your hips.

“Well still I just don’t like the idea of you guys being alone.” He said, looking up at you. You rolled your eyes in response,

“Hiccup I already said, we’re here with the dragons. We’re not alone.” You stated as if it wasn’t getting through his head. It hadn’t even occurred to you that he was trying to hint at a different concern and you were missing the point entirely.

Your response only caused Hiccup to groan as his hand shot up to his face. He dragged his hands down his face as he turned around, now facing Toothless who simply looked at his friend in utter confusion. The dragon looked from you, then to Hiccup, then back to you. You simply shook your head with a shrug of your shoulders before Toothless walked away, deeming him your problem.

“Hiccup I don't understand why this is such a big issue to you, we used to be in the woods alone all the time together. You didn’t seem to have a problem with it then.” You stated quite bluntly.

“That was different!” He shouted. His face had ever so slightly turned the faintest hint of red, but it was still enough for you to notice. He seemed almost exasperated as you continued to swim around the very vague point that he was failing to get at.

“How was it any different than what me and Eret are doing? If anything it’s safer now because we’re both adults. Granted we did have a Night Fury with us back then…” You began to mumble to yourself, accidentally going off topic. Hiccup sighed, walking up to you and grabbing you by your shoulders. He was stern but still managed to be gentle as he forced you to look at him.

“I can’t control what you do or who you spend your time with, but I just don’t like that you and Eret spend so much time together, so far outside of the village, alone…” Hiccup said, practically laying it all out for you.

“Hiccup?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re not alone.”

Hiccup merely stared at you, eyes wide in shock as he tried to calculate your intelligence in that split second. He practically spelled it out for you and you still weren’t getting it.

What hadn’t occurred to him however, was that you had already caught on, you were just trying to get him to admit it himself. Granted, you had just caught on maybe seconds before, but you still thought it might be fun to mess with him a little. Besides, who were you to make the assumption that the Chief of Berk himself was jealous that you were spending time with another man. It could be considered a reach… Unless he just said it himself.

“Why don’t you want me to be alone with him so badly?” You asked, figuring you should try and at least break the loop that you two seemed to be stuck in.

“Because…” Hiccup began, trying to think of a way to phrase what he wanted to say. You waited patiently, just looking at him and occasionally switching your gaze over to the dragons who were chasing each other around.

“Because?” You repeated, waiting for his response. His green eyes staring back into yours. They looked almost as if they were trembling as they bounced between the features on your face.

“Why is it so hard to talk to you?” He shouted abruptly, quickly letting go of your shoulders and flung his arms into the air with an exasperated groan.

“If it was easier for you to tell me about the dragon you were keeping hidden from a village filled with bloodthirsty, war hungry Vikings, I’ m almost afraid of whatever this could possibly be.” You joked, trying to lighten his mood.

“It’s not the same thing.” He muttered in response as you laughed.

“How could anything you have to tell me be worse than that?” Hiccup sighed in response as he went back to pacing. Clearly it was his way of thinking about what to do next. It wasn’t a trait he often exhibited but you knew once he started pacing, whatever he was thinking about was pretty serious.

“It’s not about what I have to tell you, it’s about your response.” He finally said, you rolled your eyes lightheartedly. You’ve known this man for years, and in those years you’ve learned countless embarrassing facts about him that he had less of a problem about you knowing than ‘whatever he had to tell you’.

“What does my response have to do with anything? Hiccup, anything you have to tell me won't change anything.” You stated with a laugh as you tried to comfort him. You almost started to second guess what you thought he was going to tell you. If he was truly this worried about what he was going to say maybe it was actually a very serious matter?

“Ha, yeah you say that now.” He laughed sarcastically, quickly looking up at you before returning to his pacing.

“Hiccup, I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

If there’s one thing about Hiccup it was his stubbornness. Anyone would just shrug that off as a Viking thing but you knew if anything, it came from his father. As much as Hiccup would deny being able to compare to his father, he shared many similar traits with him. You knew it, his mother knew it, even Gobber knew it, but he frequently denied it.

Stubborn.

“Why are you so concerned about me and Eret in the first place?” You decided to bring up the last topic, because if he wasn’t going to get to the point, you were.

“Because…” He muttered quietly in response as if he was holding something back.

“Because what hiccup? Seriously, I know you have an issue with communication sometimes but you can't just keep dancing around the issue here-“ You rambled a bit but before you could continue, Hiccup interrupted you.

“Because I have feelings for you!” He blurted out suddenly.

You both froze. He turned away from you as you simply stared at him. He finally said it, he actually really said it.

“Hiccup…” You muttered quietly.

He didn’t move. He didn’t want to move. The last thing he wanted right now was to turn around and have to face the potential of rejection.

“Hiccup.” You called out again, walking towards him and lightly placing your hand on his shoulder. He finally turned towards you slightly, but he still refused to face you all the way. “You’re serious?” You asked, to which he simply looked at you with confusion.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“At least one of us finally admitted to it.” You joked. For some reason Hiccup had registered that you were making a joke, but not necessarily what you were joking about.

“Yeah okay, go on, laugh it out- wait.” Hiccup quickly turned back to you. You nodded with a smile, confirming his suspicion as he clearly thought he had misheard you.

“Wait but- for how long?” He asked excitedly, almost as if he didn’t believe you. “Oh this is great! I thought you were going to hate me for even saying anything about it, but you’re not! You feel the same-“ He cheered, slightly beginning to ramble as all of his previous anxiety seemed to just melt away.

You smiled as you watched him celebrate before quickly planting a quick kiss on his cheek.

The man froze before you, clearly not expecting even such a small act of affection. You never knew him to be entirely bold, you always saw him as a very awkward man, but you watched as the awkwardness practically jumped out a window for a split second or so as Hiccup grabbed you by the waist and pulled you closer to him.

He was the last person you’d expect such a smooth act to come from, and honestly you didn’t mind it. His eyes drifted from yours to your lips in a matter of seconds as if he was silently asking for your approval, to which you nodded.

Before you knew it you were kissing the literal man of your dreams.

It was wonderful.

It was a very soft kiss, the perfect kind to be shared for the first time.

Once you pulled away you looked to hiccup before dramatically gasping.

“What? What is it?” Hiccup asked, panicking that he had done something wrong.

“Does that mean… you were jealous of Eret?” You asked with a joking smile.

“Oh come on- really?” Hiccup said, jokingly pushing you away with a laugh.

Safe to say you never let him live this moment down, and much to his dismay you had excitedly told your friends about it not too long after.

[ryin-silverfish]

One nerd's musing about Chinese religion and "respect"

-I try to stay away from fandom discourse, but, much like how you can smell the stench from a dumpster fire without walking into said dumpster fire, I've noticed something that seemed to come up a lot in western JTTW + adjacent fandoms: "respect Chinese religion".

-Usually as a reason for why you shouldn't ship a character, because of fucking course it's shipping discourse too.

-And my first reaction is "Man, you are taking Chinese religion too darn seriously, more than people who are born and raised in China."

-My second reaction is "I mean, most of us are atheist/agnostic by default anyways, with a good number of what I'd call 'atheist/agnostics with superstitions': people who said they were not religious, yet believed in Fengshui or divinations and burnt incense at temples for good luck."

-My third reaction: "But why do I get the feeling that when you mention 'Respect', you are thinking about something completely different?"

-Then I reread an essay from Anthony C. Yu, "Religion and Literature in China: The "Obscure Way" of Journey to the West", and the metaphorical lightbulb just lit up over my head.

(Everything below applies more to Daoism + associated folk religions, but by the time most classic Chinese vernacular novels were written, the blending of the three religions had become well and truly mainstream.)

(The conception of gods differs from dynasty to dynasty. What I'm describing here is mostly based on Ming and Qing ones; if you went back to Han or pre-Qin times, most of these would not apply.)

(I am one of the "atheist/agnostic by default" people. I just have an interest in this kind of stuff. I am also just one Chinese person, and an actual Daoist/Buddhist/Religion Studies researcher would probably have a lot more valuable information and perspective to offer when it comes to contemporary practices and worship. Like any people on the internet: take my words with a grain of salt.)

-Even in the past, when society was far less secularized, Chinese gods are not omniscient, perfect beings whose worship is a solemn, humorless affair. Some's worship are Serious Business, but that has more to do with the sort of gods they are and the patronage they enjoy, not godhood in and of itself.

-And even the ones that you are supposed to "treat seriously" are still very human. To use an analogy I've used plenty of times before: you respect and fear them in the same way you'd respect and fear an emperor's official, or the emperor himself, because if you don't, you are not gonna like the consequences.

-However, unlike Jesus, the emperor & his officials were capable of being temperamental, flawed, or an outright asshole, divine or not. Ideally, they wouldn't be, and if you were one of the "serious" believers——people who actually got an official permit, became ordained clergy, and went to live in a temple, you were unlikely to think of your gods in that manner.

-But it wasn't a complete, utter impossibility. The lower you go in the pantheon, the closer you get to popular religion, the less "serious" the gods and their worship become. By that, I mean general attitude, not sincerity of faith. You still shouldn't be rude to them, but, well, they are more likely to take a joke in stride, or participate in the "vulgar" pleasures of commoners because they weren't as bound to Confucian moral standards or religious disciplines.

-To stretch the same analogy further: you should still respect your village head, they could still give your ass a good spanking for being a disrespectful brat, but you were not obligated to get on your knees and kowtow to them like you would do in front of a provincial magistrate, the emperor's minister, or the emperor himself, nor did they have the power to chop your head off just because you were rude.

-On the other hand, the emperor would never visit a random peasant just to help them fix their broken plow or treat them to a nice meal, but your village head could, and your relationship would probably be warmer and a lot more personal as a result.

-Your respect for them was more likely to stem from the things they actually did for you and the village as a whole, instead of something owed to this distant, powerful authority you might never get to see in your lifetime, but could change its course with a single stroke of a brush.

-Now exchange "village head" for your run-of-the-mill Tudis and Chenghuangs and friendly neighborhood spirits (because yes, people worshipped yaoguais for the exact same reasons), emperor + his officials for the Celestial Bureaucracy, and you'd have a basic idea of how Chinese religions worked on the ground level.

-This is far from absolute: maybe your village head was a spiteful old bastard who loved bullying his juniors, maybe your regional magistrate was an honest, upright man who could enjoy a good drink and a good laugh, maybe the emperor was a lenient one and wouldn't chop your head off for petty offenses. But their general degree of power over you and the closeness of your relationships still apply.

-Complicating the matter further, some folk gods (like Wutong) were worshipped not because they brought blessings, but because they were the divine equivalent of gangsters running a protection racket: you basically bribed them with offerings so they'd leave you alone and not wreck your shit. Famous people who died violently and were posthumously deified often fell into this category——shockingly enough, Guan Yu used to be one such god!

-Yeah, kinda like how your average guy could become an official through the imperial examinations, so could humans become gods through posthumous worship, or cultivate themselves into immortals and Enlightened beings.

-Some immortals aren't qualified for, or interested in a position in the Celestial Bureaucracy——they are the equivalent of your hermits, your cloistered Daoist priests, your common literati who kept trying and failing the exams. But some do get a job offer and gladly take it.

-Anyways, back to my original point: that's why it's so absurd when people pull the "Respect Chinese Religion1!!1!" card and immediately follow up with "Would you do X to Jesus?"

-Um, there are a lot of things you can do with Chinese gods that I'm pretty sure you can't do with Jesus. Like worshipping him side by side with Buddha and Confucius (Lao Tzu). Or inviting him to possess you and drink copious amount of alcohol (Tang-ki mediums in SEA). Or genderbend him into a woman over the course of several centuries because folks just like that version of Jesus better (Guan Yin/Avalokitesvara).

-But most importantly, Chinese religions are kinda a "free market" where you could pick and choose between gods, based on their vicinity to you and how efficient they were at answering prayers. You respect them because they'll help you out, you aren't an asshole and know your manners, and pissing them off is a bad idea in general, not because they are some omnipotent, perfect beings who demand exclusive and total reverence.

-A lot of the worship was also, well, very "practical" and almost transactional in nature: leave offerings to Great Immortal Hu, and he doesn't steal your imperial seal while you aren't looking. Perform the rites right and meditate on a Thunder General's visage, and you can temporarily channel said deity's power. Get this talisman for your kids at Bixia Yuanjun's temple, and they'll be protected from smallpox.

-"Faith alone" or "Scripture alone" is seldom the reason people worship popular deities. Even the obsession with afterlife wasn't about the eternal destination of your soul, and more about reducing the potential duration of the prison sentence for you and your loved ones so you can move on faster and reincarnate into a better life.

-Also, there isn't a single "canon" of scriptures. Many popular gods don't show up in Daoist literature until much later. Daoist scriptures often came up with their own gigantic pantheons, full of gods no one had heard of prior to said book, or enjoyed no worship in temples whatsoever.

-In the same way famous dead people could become gods via worship, famous fictional characters could, too, become gods of folk religion——FSYY's pantheon was very influential on popular worship, but that doesn't mean you should take the novels as actual scriptures.

-Like, God-Demon novels are to orthodox Daoism/Buddhism what the Divine Comedy is to medieval Christian doctrines, except no priests had actually built a Church of Saint Beatrice, while Daoists did put FSYY characters into their temples. By their very nature, the worship that stemmed from these books is not on the same level of "seriousness" as, say, the Tiantai school of Buddhism and their veneration of the Lotus Sutra.

-At the risk of being guilty of the same insertion of Christianity where it doesn't belong: You don't cite Dante's Inferno in a theological debate, nor would any self-respecting pastor preach it to churchgoers on a Sunday.

-Similarly, you don't use JTTW or FSYY as your sole evidence for why something is "disrespectful to Chinese religion/tradition" when many practitioners of said religions won't treat them as anything more than fantasy novels.

-In fact, let's use Tripitaka as an example. The historical Xuanzang was an extraordinarily talented, faithful, and determined monk. In JTTW, he was a caricature of a Confucian scholar in a Buddhist kasaya and served the same narrative function as Princess Peach in a Mario game.

-Does the presence of satire alone make JTTW anti-Buddhist, or its religious allegories less poignant? I'd say no. Should you take it as seriously as actual Buddhist sutras, when the book didn't even take itself 100% seriously? Also no.

-To expand further on the idea of "seriousness": even outside of vernacular novels, practitioners are not beholden to a universal set of strict religious laws and taboos.

-Both Daoism and Buddhism had what we called "cloistered" and "non-cloistered" adherents; only the former needed to follow their religious laws and (usually) took a vow of celibacy.

-Certain paths of Daoist cultivation allow for alcohol and sexual activities (thanks @ruibaozha for the info), and some immortals, like Lv Dongbin, had a well-established "playboy" reputation in folklore.

-Though it was rarer for Buddhism and very misunderstood, esoteric variants of it did utilize sexual imageries and sex. And, again, most of the above would not apply if you weren't among the cloistered and ordained clergy.

-Furthermore, not even the worship of gods is mandatory! You could just be a Daoist who was really into internal alchemy, cultivating your body and mind in order to prolong your lifespan and, ideally, attain immortality.

-This idea of "respect" as…for a lack of better words, No Fun & R18 Stuff Allowed, you must treat all divinity with fearful reverence and put yourself completely at their mercy, is NOT the norm in Chinese religious traditions.

-There are different degrees and types of respect, and not every god is supposed to be treated like the Supreme Heavenly Emperor himself during an imperial ceremony; the gods are capable of cracking a joke, and so are we!

TL;DR: Religions are complicated, and you aren't respecting Chinese religions by acting like a stereotypical Puritan over popular Chinese deities and their fictional portrayals.

[bitchinbarzal]

Blue and Gold, Cold and Alone | M Kesselring

summary: kess got traded.

—

When the news breaks, it isn’t from him. It’s a Twitter notification.

You’re still in bed, phone dimmed and fingers scrolling mindlessly when it pops up: Trade Alert: Michael Kesselring and Josh Doan to Buffalo for JJ Peterka.

The breath leaves your lungs.

Not because you didn’t know it could happen. But because he didn’t tell you.

Your phone buzzes again this time, his name lighting up the screen.

You answer with a quiet, “You got traded.”

He sighs. “I was going to tell you—”

“When? After you landed in New York?”

“I didn’t want to say anything until it was real. I didn’t want to stress you.”

You roll onto your side, pressing a hand over your eyes. “It’s real now.”

He leaves the next morning.

You don’t cry until the door shuts behind him.

Long distance, at first, doesn’t seem like the end of the world. You’d done it before. You had your life here work, friends, obligations you couldn’t drop. And he had the game. He always had the game.

You FaceTime every night for the first week. Silly jokes. Tired smiles. He shows you his apartment bare walls, new team gear in boxes. You send him a coffee maker. He sends you a sweatshirt.

It’s not the same, but it’s something.

Then the calls get shorter.

A missed one here. A late reply there.

“I’m just tired,” he says.

“I get it,” you say.

But it’s not just that.

He starts mentioning a name more than once.

“Avery said the sushi place down the block is killer.”

“I was late to skate ‘cause Avery’s dog ran into traffic—don’t worry, she’s okay.”

“Ran into Avery at the gym. She made me promise I’d stop eating like a frat boy.”

You laugh the first few times. It’s harmless. A friend.

Until it doesn’t feel harmless anymore.

Until it feels like replacement.

One night, you text him something soft

Miss you, wish you were here

He replies three hours later with a photo of his dinner. No caption.

You stare at it for a long time. You don’t write back.

You see him in a teammate’s Instagram story two nights later. He’s sitting at a bar, laughing, and she’s there. Her hair falling over her shoulder, her hand on his arm like it belongs.

Your heart squeezes so tight you forget how to breathe.

You don’t confront him right away.

You just pull away.

When he finally notices, it’s midnight. Your phone buzzes. His face fills the screen.

You answer, eyes already brimming.

“Hey, baby,” he says, smiling.

You don’t smile back. “Can I ask you something?”

He sits up, concern furrowing his brow. “Of course.”

You swallow hard. “Are you sleeping with her?”

His whole body stills. “What?”

“Avery.” Her name catches like fire in your throat. “Are you - are you with her?”

His face twists, broken and shocked. “Jesus Christ. No. Where is this coming from?”

“You talk about her more than me. She’s always there. I don’t even know what your apartment looks like anymore, but I know Avery’s dog’s name.”

He’s quiet. Then, “You think I’d cheat on you?”

“I think I’m not sure what we are anymore.”

He looks like you’ve gutted him. “You’re it for me. Always were.”

“Then why does it feel like I lost you anyway?”

His voice drops. “Because I’ve been a idiot.”

He shows up three days later.

You open the door in pajamas, bleary-eyed and cautious.

He’s holding your favorite coffee and a bag with that stupid sweatshirt he knows you love.

“I’m not staying long,” he says. “Just long enough to prove you’re the only one I want. The only one I’ve ever wanted.”

You don’t cry right away. But when he steps inside, when he wraps his arms around you like he’d fall apart without you and you let yourself believe him.

Maybe this isn’t the end.

Maybe it’s just where you learn how to begin again.

[socialobligation]

love in the margins | t. iida

a short, slow-burn library romance, ft. one blueberry muffin, exactly zero jokes, and a boy who takes flashcards way too seriously. (4597 words)

you meet tenya iida under circumstances that can only be described as tragically collegiate: a peer-led study group in the furthest, quietest corner of the campus library, surrounded by half-dead fluorescent bulbs and the palpable despair of students on the brink of burnout.

it's the third week of the semester, and you're already floundering.

you hadn't intended to be. in theory, you were going to stay on top of things—read the chapters early, color-code your notes, maybe even start a study group of your own. but somewhere between sleep deprivation, an avalanche of discussion posts, and the mysterious black hole that is the university's online portal, you fell behind. hard.

introduction to public policy has been your academic nemesis from the start. the textbook reads like legal jargon swallowed a thesaurus. the professor talks in dense, circular metaphors. every quiz is a minefield of trick questions and ambiguous phrasing. you are, in every sense of the word, academically drowning.

so when a brightly colored flyer promising a "collaborative review session" caught your eye on the bulletin board outside the lecture hall, you didn't think twice. you showed up. desperate. caffeinated. terminally underprepared.

and now you regret everything.

the room smells like dry-erase markers and nervous sweat. a whiteboard at the front is covered in illegible graphs. someone has already spilled a latte on the floor. the guy leading the group talks fast and loud, his explanations full of buzzwords and gestures but lacking anything remotely useful. you suspect he's just regurgitating the study guide at a slightly faster pace.

the other students seem to agree.

one by one, they start to trickle out. a girl leaves with the excuse of "office hours." a guy mutters something about dinner. another just quietly packs up and disappears, not even bothering with a pretense.

by the end of the hour, only two people remain: you, clinging to a futile hope of salvaging your gpa... and him.

he sits across from you with the kind of posture that makes your back ache just looking at him. tall, composed, and absurdly polished—like someone who writes essays three days early and carries a spare pen in case someone forgets theirs. his navy-blue sweater is wrinkle-free. his glasses catch the dim library light. his notes are not just color-coded—they're thematically organized, annotated with footnotes and marginalia in tiny, immaculate handwriting.

he hasn't spoken once. he hasn't needed to.

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

"you're still here?" you ask, more surprise than judgment.

the boy looks up, blinking as if surfacing from a well of deep concentration. he adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion.

"yes," he says, voice clipped and oddly formal. "you are as well."

you arch an eyebrow. "no offense, but... are you actually getting something out of this?"

his expression doesn't change, but he tilts his head slightly—almost like he's assessing you.

"of course," he replies. "engaging in structured group review enhances cognitive retention and contextual understanding. it's an effective method for consolidating knowledge prior to a high-stakes assessment."

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

you snort—audibly. it escapes before you can stop it. and to your surprise, a faint smile flickers across his mouth.

"i'm tenya iida," he says, extending a hand across the table with the kind of precision reserved for formal introductions at university mixers.

you stare at his hand for a moment, then take it. his grip is warm. steady. confident in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter.

"y/n," you say.

his smile grows just slightly. "it's a pleasure to meet you, y/n."

he releases your hand and immediately pulls out a second set of flashcards from his folder. of course he has a second set.

"would you like to quiz each other?" he asks, dead serious. "alternating questions could be a mutually beneficial method of review."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

something about him—the earnestness, the posture, the complete and utter lack of sarcasm—disarms you. it's like he's the living embodiment of academic sincerity. you're not sure whether to laugh or agree.

you do both.

"...sure."

you don't know it yet, but that's the beginning.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

it's not personal. it's just that study groups are the social equivalent of jury duty—temporary, miserable, and best forgotten. you assume tenya iida is one of those hyper-dedicated overachievers who only exist within the academic ecosystem. he probably recedes into a cloud of flashcards and moral fiber as soon as the library closes.

you are, however, proven categorically wrong the following wednesday at exactly 8:03 a.m.

you enter the campus café half-awake, mildly hostile, and fully dependent on the idea of caffeine as a substitute for sleep. the plan is simple: grab something with enough espresso to make your eye twitch, stare blankly at your phone for fifteen minutes, and pretend the crushing weight of institutional learning isn't slowly hollowing you out from the inside.

but fate—or perhaps syllabus-based divine intervention—has other plans.

because when you step inside, there he is.

same posture. same glasses. same stupidly crisp button-down like it didn't just come out of someone's laundry but graduated magna cum laude from it. he's seated at a table by the window, surrounded by highlighters arranged like soldiers, reading the textbook that has been your personal tormentor since week one.

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

you hesitate, caught in that weird space where it's too late to pretend you didn't see him, but also too awkward to walk past without acknowledging him.

before you can make a decision, he looks up—and smiles.

not just a polite, "ah yes, i recognize you" smile.

a real smile. brief, but sincere. like he's actually glad you're here.

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

"didn't expect to see you here," you say as you slide into the seat across from him, instantly aware of how tired you look in comparison to his perfectly combed hair and terrifying punctuality.

"i study here most mornings," he replies. "the ambient noise level is consistent, and the natural lighting is optimal for focus."

you blink. "that is... alarmingly specific."

he inclines his head. "i find that consistency breeds productivity."

you want to tease him, but the truth is, it's kind of admirable. alarming. but admirable.

he gestures to the pastry between you.

"would you like half?" he asks. "it's fresh. and i believe we have, at this point, established a cordial enough rapport to justify the sharing of breakfast items."

you stare at him.

"do you always offer muffins to people you've only studied with once?"

he doesn't even flinch. "only when they look tired enough to deserve one."

your mouth twitches.

"you've been saving that line, haven't you."

he looks mildly offended. "no. though i could annotate it in my planner if you'd like."

you laugh—genuinely this time—and accept the muffin. it's warm, sweet, and annoyingly perfect. just like him.

you don't pull out your flashcards. not immediately. you sit there in companionable silence, splitting the muffin and sipping your drinks like it's something you've always done. like this is normal.

you tell yourself this isn't a date. obviously.

it's too early in the day for romance. you're both clutching textbooks like weapons. he hasn't even made a single joke. (you're not sure he knows how.)

and yet—

when he leans in to show you a section he highlighted—carefully annotated with footnotes and marginal notes that are somehow neater than your typed essays—your shoulders brush. you don't pull away.

he doesn't, either.

later, you realize that you don't even remember what chapter you reviewed.

but you remember the sound of his voice as he quietly explained it. the way he passed you the last bite of muffin without saying anything. the way his fingers curled ever so slightly when he set his pen down between you.

you remember thinking, with a strange flutter in your chest: this could be something.

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

you repeat it like a mantra as you meet him at the library every tuesday and thursday without fail, settling into your now-permanent seats by the windows like assigned partners in some ongoing group project that no one else remembers being assigned to. his bag always lands on the table first, followed by a reusable water bottle the size of your emotional baggage. he brings extra highlighters now—plural—and starts leaving a green one near your elbow like he’s not even thinking about it.

you, in turn, stop pretending to study anywhere else.

because the truth is, you don’t concentrate better when he’s around—not even a little. he’s distracting in the worst possible way: tall and tidy and terminally composed, with a voice like a podcast host and a smile that you pretend not to notice every time he glances over at you with something like pride in his eyes.

and the worst part?

it’s working.

your grades are going up. you understand policy terminology now. you caught yourself referencing a case study unprompted in another class, and the look your professor gave you made it feel like you’d just been knighted.

you’d thank him for it—sincerely—if he didn’t look so smug every time you nailed a quiz.

“you’ve clearly been applying yourself,” he says one evening, looking over your annotated notes like they’re some kind of sacred text.

“i’ve been applying your study methods,” you reply, then instantly regret it, because the smile he gives you in return is devastating.

and that would be fine—annoying, but fine—if it weren’t for the fact that he’s started sitting closer.

not drastically. not inappropriately. just... close.

close enough that when you both lean in to look at something on the same page, your shoulders brush. your knees knock. his hand lingers near yours when he passes you a pen, and he doesn’t move away quickly. sometimes—and this is particularly evil—his thigh rests against yours under the table for minutes at a time, and you’re too proud (and too panicked) to say anything.

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

but something is happening. you just don’t know what to call it.

one thursday afternoon, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain. the windows in the library fog up slightly, making the whole room feel smaller, softer, somehow more intimate. your shoes are damp. your brain is fried. you’re barely holding onto your focus.

but he’s already there, sitting at your usual table with a mug from the downstairs café and a folder labeled “legislation review: week 5.” there’s a muffin. of course there’s a muffin.

he looks up as you approach. smiles. “you’re early.”

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

he hesitates, like he’s genuinely considering it. “it means i enjoy this.”

your heart does something stupid.

you take your seat before your face can give you away.

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

you’re trying to focus. really, you are. but his leg is pressed against yours and you swear it’s getting closer every time he shifts. it’s not even the contact itself that’s distracting—it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice. like it’s just normal. like this is how he always studies with people.

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

“y/n?” he says, and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“hm?”

“i asked if you’d like to walk through the case brief again. you seem... distant.”

you clear your throat and try not to sound like someone whose brain has just been wiped by a thigh. “yeah, no, i’m fine. just tired.”

he nods solemnly. “understandable. your coursework has been particularly intensive.”

he says it like he knows your schedule better than you do—which he might. you’ve seen his planner. you’re pretty sure he’s memorized the entire academic calendar, national holidays included.

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

“okay,” you say. “i need to ask you something.”

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

you glance around—no one’s within earshot— and lean in slightly.

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

“no. i mean yes, but no.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “this. the muffins. the flashcards. the... sitting so close i can smell your laundry detergent.”

he goes still.

“i’m just trying to understand if we’re, like...” you hesitate. “is this just a really intense academic friendship or are we... flirting?”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

then, carefully: “i hadn’t realized my proximity was making you uncomfortable.”

“it’s not!” you say, too quickly. “it’s just... confusing.”

“confusing how?”

you fidget with the cap of your pen. “because we do things that feel... date-adjacent. and i don’t know if that’s just how you are with people or if i’m—” you stop yourself before you can say not imagining it.

his brows draw together, faintly perplexed. “i apologize. i didn’t mean to cause confusion.”

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

his ears go pink. just slightly. “i wouldn’t define it as flirting. but i do enjoy spending time with you.”

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

he hesitates. then, quieter: “it’s not.”

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

and then—like the universe can’t stand unresolved tension—your knees bump again.

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

not even in your head, really—not technically. because you’re not dating. you haven’t kissed. there’s been no confession. there’s been no moment of clarity where either of you has stood dramatically in the rain and said i think about you all the time, which, honestly, is a bit disappointing.

but you still change your outfit three times before meeting him for coffee on saturday.

you still hesitate in front of the mirror, adjusting your sleeves and second-guessing your hair, muttering get a grip under your breath like it’s a prayer.

you still pause at the door to the café, one hand on the handle, and remind yourself—again—that this isn’t a date.

you’re just meeting up. casually. like friends.

friends who sometimes sit with their knees touching under library tables. friends who share muffins and steal glances and somehow always find reasons to linger a little too long in doorways.

friends who, if they weren’t so emotionally constipated, might’ve figured this out already.

but you push the door open anyway, and the little bell overhead chimes bright and familiar.

he’s already there.

of course he is.

tenya iida is punctual to the point of pathology. if you told him to meet you in the afterlife at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d be there early, holding a clipboard and a fully prepared powerpoint.

he’s sitting near the window, back straight, hands folded politely in his lap. his hair is a little messy from the wind outside. his sweater is navy—clean, simple, a little oversized in a way that makes you stare longer than you should.

he sees you and stands immediately, which is both adorable and completely unnecessary.

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

he doesn’t reply, but the smile he gives you is soft around the edges.

you order something with too much caffeine and not enough nutritional value. he offers to pay, like he always does. you decline, like you always do. it’s a silent tradition now, a ritual of stubbornness. he lets it go with a quiet nod, but not without giving you that look—the one that says i was raised right and this physically pains me.

you find a booth in the corner, a little more secluded than the rest. the sun spills in through the window in soft golden streaks, and for a moment, it feels like you’re somewhere outside of time.

“i’ve never seen you wear that color,” he says as you sit down.

you glance at your shirt. “yeah? too much?”

he shakes his head immediately. “no. it suits you.”

your mouth goes a little dry.

you recover quickly, leaning back and sipping your drink like it doesn’t mean anything. like the warmth crawling up your neck is from the coffee and not the compliment.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “what’s on the agenda for today? rigorous academic analysis? philosophical debates about economic ethics? impromptu pop quizzes?”

he tilts his head. “i thought we might take the day off.”

you blink. “from... studying?”

“from everything.” he shrugs, a little sheepishly. “i realized we’ve never spent time together without a textbook between us.”

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

he hesitates. just barely. “yes. like friends.”

the words hang in the air between you—awkward, uncertain, but not unkind.

you nod, slowly. “okay. yeah. we can do that.”

and you do.

you talk. not about school, not about deadlines or group projects or the upcoming midterm. you talk about dumb childhood stories and weird food preferences and the fact that he once tried to start a recycling initiative in his middle school and was very upset when no one followed the sorting chart correctly.

you tell him about your obsession with terrible reality TV. he listens with the seriousness of a man taking notes for a thesis.

he tells you about his older brother, and how much he looks up to him. you tell him about the stray cat that used to follow you home in high school, even though you never fed it.

he laughs—really laughs—when you tell him about the time you broke your nose in gym class trying to dodge a volleyball and ran straight into a bleacher.

“i’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “i don’t mean to laugh at your pain.”

“no, you do,” you say, grinning. “and it’s okay. i would too.”

at one point, your knees bump under the table again. this time, neither of you pulls away.

it’s later than you mean it to be when you finally leave the café. the sun is dipping low, the sky tinged with lavender and orange. the street is quiet, and the wind bites just enough to make you zip your jacket up.

you walk together. not toward the library, not toward another class—just aimlessly. like people who have nowhere else to be.

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

you’re not talking. not really. the silence between you is comfortable now, lived-in. every so often your hands brush, and you wonder—wildly, stupidly —what would happen if you just reached out.

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

“this was nice,” you say, when you finally reach the crosswalk where you’ll part ways.

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“we should do it again,” you say. casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

but he looks at you like it does.

“i’d like that,” he says. and then—“you’re very easy to be around.”

your breath catches.

you want to say something. you’re easy to be around too. i think about you when we’re not together. i don’t know if i’m imagining this but i hope i’m not.

instead, you say, “you’re weirdly charming, you know that?”

he blinks. “i—thank you?”

you grin. “it’s a compliment. mostly.”

he laughs. soft. pleased. “i’ll take it.”

he takes a small step back, like he’s about to leave —but then pauses.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“if this had been a date...” he clears his throat. “would that have been... agreeable to you?”

you stare at him.

then, slowly—carefully—you nod.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it would’ve been.”

he smiles. it’s small. tentative. but it lights up his whole face.

“then maybe next time, we won’t pretend.”

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

he nods once. then, with a strange, lingering sort of hesitation—like he’s not ready to go yet—he turns to leave.

you watch him go.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel... hopeful.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

when he texts you the next morning—same time tuesday? not for studying this time. if you're free.—you stare at it for a good ten minutes before responding. not because you’re unsure of your answer (you’re not), but because the implication hits like a freight train.

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

this time, he’s calling it what it is.

you don’t overthink your reply (for once). you just type yeah. i’m free and throw your phone face-down before your heart can beat out of your chest.

and when tuesday rolls around, you are twenty minutes early.

you tell yourself it’s because the weather’s nice and the walk was shorter than usual and you didn’t want to cut it close. but the truth is, you’ve been ready since noon.

you’re wearing the sweater he said he liked once, months ago, after a study session where he handed you a highlighter and your fingers brushed and you both paused like the world might end. it’s not even your warmest or your nicest sweater. it’s just... the one he looked at a little too long.

you don’t want to admit what that means.

you sit in your usual seat by the window. a small table, worn edges. your coffee in hand. no textbooks. no flashcards. just the sound of the café around you and the low simmer of anticipation in your chest.

he walks in three minutes early, which is basically scandalous by iida standards.

you glance up, and the second your eyes meet, he smiles.

it’s not his usual polite, committee-appropriate smile.

it’s something else.

something softer.

he sits down across from you like he’s been doing it his whole life.

you stare at him for a second too long.

“you’re early,” he says, like it’s a fact worth noting. his voice is gentler than usual.

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

he laughs—quietly, warmly. “i thought you might say that.”

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

you sip your drink and hope your heart doesn’t explode.

twenty minutes in, you realize you’ve forgotten what time it is.

again.

you’re talking about something stupid—a professor you both silently hate but never speak ill of in class—and he’s mimicking their voice in a whisper, hand shielding his mouth, and you’re laughing.

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

like you don’t have a hundred things weighing you down.

he always does that. makes everything feel easier. lighter.

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

you haven’t said it. not out loud. not even to yourself.

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

because tenya iida has the power to wreck you in a way no one else ever has.

not because he’s dramatic. not because he’s charming (though he is, in that annoying, understated, golden-retriever-with-a-perfect-credit-score kind of way).

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

because when he looks at you, it’s like you’re someone worth understanding.

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

neither of you mentions how long you stayed. it’s dark out, but neither of you cares.

you walk close, side by side. your hands brush once, then again. his fingers twitch toward yours, and you pretend not to notice—not because you don’t want it, but because you’re not sure what happens if you reach back.

you talk about nothing. and everything.

he tells you about the time his older brother accidentally dyed his hair blue with a shampoo prank and how no one in their house was allowed to mention it for an entire year.

you tell him about the time you accidentally set off a fire alarm trying to microwave leftover curry in a dorm that very explicitly prohibited strong-smelling food.

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

you bump your shoulder into his. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he glances at you. “i didn’t say that.”

you both stop at the crosswalk—the same one where you stood days ago.

the same one where he asked if this had been a date...

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

you just look at him, the wind brushing through your sleeves, your fingers cold where they’re shoved into your pockets.

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

and then—quietly—he says, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “of course.”

his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. careful.

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

“why... this?” he gestures gently between you. “i know i’m not the most exciting person. i’m not particularly funny or... spontaneous.”

you frown. “iida.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” he says. “why you keep showing up.”

you want to say because i like the way you talk when you’re tired, or because your laugh makes me want to listen to every dumb story you’ve ever told.

you want to say because i’ve never felt so calm next to another person in my entire life.

instead, you say, “because when i’m with you, i don’t feel like i have to be anyone else.”

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

“i don’t want to mess this up,” he says.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

you exhale, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “you’re not.”

his hand lifts, hesitates—then lands gently against your cheek.

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

it’s patient. reverent. like he’s memorizing the feeling. like he’s been waiting for the right moment and this, finally, is it.

his lips press softly against yours, and your hands lift automatically to his jacket, holding on, grounding yourself.

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

then he says, “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

he laughs, arms sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this is still new,” he says. “i know that.”

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

he pauses. “and i’d like to take you to dinner. an actual dinner. with reservations and menus and probably overpriced appetizers.”

you grin. “are you asking me on a real date?”

he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

“then yes,” you reply. “i’m saying yes.”

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once—finally—that feels like enough.

[marauroon]

hiii i saw that u were asking for reqs and i loved reading ur best frenemies fic with remus, i was wondering if you would be open to writing about that dynamic more. like maybe they're in the same friend group so they're in close proximity but they can't stand one each other and maybe the reader got stood up or something and remus is there or really whatever you want. Anyways thank you for your work, i really enjoy it

── .⏾ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐫.𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧)

you didn’t even really invite him, but the fact he didn’t show up still put a damper on your mood. remus thinks it’s killing the whole room’s vibe.

remus lupin x frenemy!reader | 1.2k | h/c? | masterlist.

a/n | went back to the og og ship for this one, shout out to blackinnon

There’s something aggravating about someone who’s simultaneously the smartest in the room and also the most infuriating. Sure, maybe he’s handsome in a very I-read-sad-poetry-by-lantern-light way, but that only really makes it worse.

And, unfortunately, thanks to Marlene’s thing with Sirius (on again, off again, like the world’s most emotionally exhausting lumos charm), you are now in proximity to said infuriating boy far more often than you’d like to be.

It’s become a balancing act, really—sitting at the Three Broomsticks with your best friends on one side and the Marauders on the other, trying not to glare directly at Remus every time he says something clever. You think you’ve managed rather well. Mostly. Until now.

Because today, of all days, your maybe-date didn’t show.

You’re not even sure you’d call it a date. You’ve been talking with Michael Rossiter in Herbology for a couple of weeks, mostly about plants but sometimes—when he was feeling cheeky—about music or Quidditch or the way you looked when you were annoyed with your mandrake.

He wasn’t brilliant, but he had nice eyes and a decent laugh and said, when you told him you were going to Hogsmeade with your friends, “Maybe I’ll see you there then.”

You'd smiled. Told yourself not to get too giddy. And yet, here you are. Giddy, then deflated.

The booth you’re all crammed into is loud—Marlene is practically on Sirius’s lap, Mary and Dorcas are exchanging knowing looks, and James is loudly arguing with Peter over the latest Wimbourne Wasps game. And Remus—Remus is directly opposite you, because of course he is, because of course Sirius just had to say, “Oi, Moony, let the ladies have the bench side, be a gentleman,” and Remus just smirked and obliged, sliding in across you like he belonged there.

You’ve been waiting. Watching the door. Laughing too loudly at Mary’s jokes. Pretending to sip butterbeer just to keep your hands busy. And when Michael doesn’t show—when it becomes obvious he’s not going to—you shrink a bit. Quiet. Withdrawn.

And Remus notices.

Of course he does.

"You know, for someone who supposedly convinced a boy to change his Hogsmeade plans just for her,” he drawls, not even looking up from his drink, “you’re doing a marvellous impression of someone who’s just been stood up.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him. You just keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching the steam fog up the panes.

Remus pauses.

Usually, this is the part where you snap something back—about his sad little jumpers or the way he chews the ends of quills like a stressed-out academic or how he’s basically a walking dissertation on how not to relax. But you don’t. You sit still, hands clenched in your lap.

The silence between you grows taut.

Remus frowns. He nudges you with his foot under the table—annoying. Like a brother, if your brother was your intellectual rival and also kind of handsome in a way you wish you didn’t notice.

“Oi,” he says, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, still not looking at him. “You wouldn’t get it. And I don’t want you to.”

That gives him pause. He turns toward you fully now, leaning on one elbow. “Alright, that’s a bit harsh.”

You shrug.

Then he sighs, long-suffering and dramatic. “Who was it? The boy. No, don’t tell me— Rossiter?”

You glance at him, surprised. “How did you—?”

“Everyone saw you flirting over flobberworms in class last week,” he says, deadpan. “He told Sirius he was thinking about asking you out. Got all red-faced about it, too. It was tragic.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Merlin.”

“He’s a right sod, you know.”

You lift your head just enough to glare. “That your professional opinion?”

Remus shrugs, grinning slightly. “My personal one. But it’s backed by a great deal of observational research.”

You huff. “You don’t even know him.”

“I know him better than you do,” Remus says, slumping back into the booth. “Do you know his mum still buys his underwear?”

You blink.

“I’m serious. Thomas the Tank Engine ones. We saw them last year when someone hit him with a jelly-legs jinx and his trousers fell down on the Quidditch pitch. Looked ridiculous.”

You can’t help it—you snort. It’s brief, but it’s real.

Remus perks up like a cat that’s just caught movement under a curtain. “And I once caught him picking his nose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re making this up.”

“I wish,” he says, grimacing. “We were in the library and he was just mining. Like he thought no one could see him. It was vile.”

You giggle. You actually giggle.

Remus looks triumphant. “And they say I’m the wild animal.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re awful.”

“Only to those who deserve it.” He pauses, then adds, more gently, “You really thought he was coming?”

You nod, shoulders drooping. “I mean… he said maybe. He was sort of flirty about it. I thought—” You cut yourself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

Remus doesn’t say anything at first. He leans his head back against the booth, watching you. “I hate that you’re sad,” he says eventually. “You’re annoying when you’re sad. It’s harder to make fun of you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile’s still there. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” He nudges your arm again. “Still sucks, though.”

The warmth in your chest surprises you. You look at him again, properly this time, and there’s a softness in his eyes that doesn’t match the usual sardonic glint.

It’s disarming.

You blink, glance away. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grins. “Don’t get all emotional on me. I might have to start being nice to you regularly and that’s not good for my image.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” you say dryly.

“Unimaginable.”

Sirius leans over suddenly, draping an arm across Remus’s shoulders and nearly spilling his drink. “Oi, Moony, you pulling or pining?”

Remus doesn’t even flinch. “Trying to comfort someone after being disappointed by the tragic shallowness of her romantic prospects, actually. Something you’d know nothing about.”

Sirius pouts. “Rude.”

Marlene snorts. “Let her be. She got stood up, she’s rightfully upset,”

Sirius frowns. “Who stands you up?”

You wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

But Remus answers anyway. “Michael Rossiter.”

Sirius sits back like he’s been slapped. “Rossiter? No. That absolute knob?”

“You see?” Remus says, gesturing. “It’s not just me.”

“Bloody hell,” Sirius mutters. “Should’ve hexed him when I had the chance.”

“You did hex him,” Remus points out.

“Not enough, apparently.”