#i’m on the cusp of something great

[crappycamille]

no. hear me out. potter bakugou

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

i’ve never made a request before so sorry if this is bad but if you could write something about matt murdock with a fake dating trope like that would be so cute, especially if there’s feelings realized during/after it :)

a/n: i swear, i tried to just keep this short and sweet like how i usually keep requests, but then the fantasy i came up with was just too fun and too much like a fucking romcom not to just let myself go ham and turn it into a full-on long fic

word count: 3778

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Leaning your weight against the bar, you waited for Josie to return with another round of beers for you and your friends, who still remained exactly where you’d left them, all clustered around the pool table further into the space. 

Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the ring so often glued to your fingers, passing the heirloom from each digit and sliding it onto the next. It had been your grandmother’s, and ever since her passing, the simple golden circle with a little jade embedded at the cusp of it, rarely stayed in your jewellery box as the act of simply glancing down at it on your finger somehow offered you a drop of comfort in moments of mundane gloom. 

As the heirloom arrived at your left ring finger and slid down over the knuckle, a familiar voice suddenly emanated like an echo after the bar’s front door had swung open. 

“Y/n?” your whole body froze up at the unexpected timbre. 

Slowly, you twisted around to discover none other than your ex, wide eyes trained on you as he clutched the hand of a leggy blonde. 

“Henry!” you gasped, hoping they mistook the horrified look on your face for innocent shock, “oh my god…” 

Without any warning, the next thing you knew, he’d yanked your stunned form into a hug, “how the hell are you?” he clapped your shoulder as if you were old school chums, “it’s been so long.”

“I’m–, uhm, fine,” you managed to reply. 

“Yeah?” he smiled, the insincerity in your tone completely flying over his head, “that’s great.” 

Simply to be polite, you awkwardly asked, “…how are you?” even though you truly didn’t wish to know the answer.  

“I’m good, yeah, life’s been kinda crazy lately because–, oh,” he suddenly paused to glance back at the girl by his side, “Y/n, you remember Rebecca, right?”

“Mhm,” you hummed and offered her a glance, fearing steam might billow out of your ears at any moment, “hi.”

“Hey,” she smiled brightly as she tossed her luscious locks over her shoulder, “and please don’t mind him,” she clapped a palm over Henry’s chest, “he’s just freaking out, you know, usual guy stuff before finally getting tied down.”

“I’m sorry,” you blinked, nearly pinching yourself to test if this was a nightmare or not, “before what?”

Rebecca then held up her left hand to flash you the massive rock nestled on her fourth finger. 

“I finally popped the question!” Henry grinned and draped an arm around his fiancé.

“Wow, oh wow, that’s–…” you sputtered as the blonde promptly shoved her hand in your face for you to get a better look, “that’s a really big rock, right there, on your finger…” your touch floated up and tilted her palm slightly, the light from the neon sign close by glinting in the diamond, “congratulations…”

“Thanks!” she smiled down at the ring herself before her fingers suddenly captured your own and twisted your hand around, “oh wait, congrats to you too!” 

“What?” you still simply tried to keep breathing through this agonising gut-punch of an encounter. 

“I know they say that size doesn’t matter,” Rebecca eyed the tiny green stone that adorned your grandmother’s ring, “and it doesn’t! I mean, that’s so pretty,” she uttered in a sugary sweet and insincere tone that made you feel as if you were back in high school again, “understated, simple.” 

“Ah, no way,” Henry peeked down at your hand, “you’re engaged too?”

“Uh…” you let out a shaky breath, “yep,” the lie then suddenly flew out past your lips before you had a chance to stop it, “that’s me! I’m getting married.” 

“That’s amazing,” your ex let out an airy chuckle, “who’s the lucky guy?”

But before your lips could part and let out another lie, Josie returned, “here you go, hon,” and slid four beer bottles across the bar to you before adding, “and would you tell Foggy to stop sitting on the edge of the pool table? It’s old and I can’t be responsible if it breaks on him.”

“Sure thing,” you promised and snatched up the drinks. 

“Is that your man?” Henry cast a glance to the lawyer Josie had gestured to, “Foggy, was it?”

“Foggy?” a soft giggle couldn’t help but bubble out of your lungs, “no! Don’t get me wrong, he’s great, but no, sadly, he’s already taken.” 

“Then who is it?” 

“Is it the other guy over there?” Rebecca chimed in as they both sent their glances towards your friends, “the one in the light blue shirt and tinted glasses?”

“Uh, yeah…” you squeaked as you slowly turned to look at Matt as well, “that’s–, uh, that’s him,” you watched as he readjusted his grip on the cue stick in his hand, “that’s my future husband…”

“Hm,” a sliver of judgment slipped out of Henry, “wouldn’t have pegged him to be your type.”

“Well, maybe my type has changed,” you stated, letting your lingering resentment show before you noticed how harsh it had come out and your stomach immediately began to twist and knot in regret, “I–…” you swiftly winched, “sorry,” and averted your gaze, “have a nice evening, uh–, I’m gonna go back to my friends,” you stumbled as you tried to escape. 

Though as you turned to walk away, Henry’s voice found your ears one last time, “bye!” before you heard his fiancé turn to him. 

“Pookie? Would you order me a cosmo?” her voice began to fade into the background, “I’ll go find us a table…” 

You simultaneously felt as if a truck had just run you over as your feet carried you back towards your friends, yet also completely numb, as if you’d been turned into a floating ghost of the person you used to be. 

“Who the hell was that and why do you look like you’re about to throw up?” Foggy asked cautiously as he grabbed two of the bottles in your grasp and handed one off to Matt. 

Passing one of the remaining drinks off to Karen, you then lifted your own up to your lips before tipping it back and downing around half of its contents. Once you tilted the dark green bottle back down, you were out of breath as you began to explain, “that,” you wiped your bottom lip with one of your knuckles, “was my ex,” you used that same finger to hazily point back over your shoulder, “and his fiancé,” your eyes stayed fuzzy as you added, “who happen to be the girl that he cheated on me with for a year before I one day finally caught them together.”

“Oh my god…” Karen breathed, her bottle frozen halfway on its journey up towards her lips. 

“It was on easter,” you shared, “he thought I had gone back home to see my family, but I’d actually decided to secretly do this whole big surprise, like I thought I was in fucking rom-com or something,” you sighed at your past self, “but then when he got home from work, and I was all decked out, waiting on the bed, in bunny ears and everything,” you heatedly gestured to the top of your own head, “he wasn’t alone.”

“Wow…” Foggy stared. 

“Yep…” you exhaled heavily, taking another swig before you made the mistake of glancing back over your shoulder just as Rebecca shrugged off her coat and slinked onto a stool at one of the small tables, “fuck!” you exclaimed as if you’d just stubbed your toe, “she’s even hotter than I remembered. How is that possible?” 

“Oh, she’s not that pretty,” Karen tried, but you swiftly cut her off. 

“You shut your face, she’s basically a human-sized Barbie,” your glare roamed one last time from the top of her platinum locks to the bottoms of her high stilettos, “god…” you sighed as you finally averted your gaze and lifted your bottle to drown your sorrows, “I was such an idiot back there. It was like my brain just stopped working and–, oh my god!” your palm shot up to cover your mouth as you then suddenly recalled the lie that had slipped out. Slowly, your wide eyes drifted to Matt, who still remained silent, “oh no…” 

“What is it?” Foggy chimed in. 

“Matt…” you uttered tensely, knowing your friend well enough to be aware of just how much of the interaction with your ex he had overheard, “I am so sorry…”

“What?” Karen’s glance darted between you both, “what’s going on?”

Paralysing embarrassment churned your stomach and choked out any attempt you made to share the truth. But luckily, as your erratic heartbeat thumped and found Matt’s sharp ears, he eventually filled in instead, “…they thought that she was engaged as well and then assumed that I was the guy.” 

“I am so, so sorry,” you gasped, “I don’t know why I didn’t correct them.”

But to your amazement, Matthew simply shrugged and offered you a reassuring smile, “it’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“I was just fiddling with my ring and then they just–…” you then snuffed out your frantic explanation and instead repeated once again, “I’m sorry…”

Saddling up beside you, Karen planted a palm on your shoulder, “hey, if that was my ex, then I’d wanna give him some of his own medicine as well,” she stated, “if not just straight up cut off his balls, which is what he really deserves.” 

A faint smile then began to soften your expression as you glanced around at your supportive friends, Foggy briefly reaching out to pat your other shoulder. 

But as you averted your eyes to the nearly empty bottle in your grasp, a thought suddenly struck you like a bolt of lightning, “wait, I have an idea…” your gaze slowly lifted to lock on Matt, “I mean, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, I totally get it, but would you mind, just while they are here, to–, uhm…”

Cocking his eyebrow, he finished your sentence, “…to pretend to be your fiancé?” 

“I know, it’s stupid, and I should probably just go home right now instead of playing some weird and immature game of revenge or whatever,” you uttered as you made the decision to lie in the grave you’d dug for yourself, “but I would forever be in your debt, I'm serious.” 

Sucking in a breath, he barely had to think about it before he murmured, “sure.”

“Really?” you gasped, your brows shooting up, “you’ll do it?” 

“Yeah, why not?” Matt shrugged, “it’s the very least he deserves for treating you like that.”

“Oh,” you crossed the short distance between you two and threw your arms around him. It took a second before you felt him hug you back, but when the alcohol got to your head and made you mutter, “I love you,” into his shoulder, a low chuckle rumbled in the lawyer's chest before you parted ways. 

“So,” Karen then began to fish out the colourful spheres and roll them back into the green felt, “do we still wanna play another game?”

“Hell yeah,” Foggy picked a cue stick back up before adding a playful threat, “you’re not beating me again this time, Page.”

Once the table was set up for another round of pool and you were a few turns in, your gaze couldn’t help but wander back towards the other end of the bar too often to keep track of. Though, soon on one of the fleeting looks, your eyes grew wide as you discovered you weren’t the only one sneaking glances.

Discreetly, you shifted closer to Matthew and leaned in to whisper, “he’s looking over,” however, when he then draped an arm around your frame, you couldn’t help but stiffen up, as you hadn’t thought that far in the plan yet, “what are you–”

“Shh,” Matt hushed your squeak, “just lean into me,” he shifted to stand tall behind you, arms enveloped around your form as he slowly drew you back against his chest, “smile,” his low voice tickled the shell of your ear and caused goosebumps to erupt across your skin, “and don’t look at him.” 

Redirecting your vision back towards the game before you, you narrowly managed to catch sight of the silent slut-shaming the other lawyer flashed his friend with but a glance, before he went back to the mischievous mission he was on. 

“Foggy, would you quit it?” Karen grumbled at the man beside her as he wildly waved both of his hands in her periphery, successfully knocking off her concentration as she tried to line up her shot. 

“No way,” he kept up his flapping, even causing Karen’s golden locks to get picked up by the breeze he produced. 

“You’re cheating.”

“Nope, I am not touching you nor the table,” he stated as if he was in court, “distracting you doesn’t break any rules.”

And as she finally made her attempt, the ball didn’t go in, causing her to explode in a roar, “damn it, Fog!”

“Ha, ha, yes!” he jumped as she straightened back up, “you know, I taste something right now, what could that be? Oh yeah, victory. And it tastes sweet as candy store.” 

“Urgh,” Karen rolled her eyes at him before her glare landed upon the both of you, “Matt, your turn. Would you please set him in his place?”

“Gladly,” Matt chuckled, and as he shifted closer to the pool table, he nudged your side and asked, “hey, would you give me a hand?”

Swallowing a chuckle as you already knew he very much didn’t need it, you cocked an eyebrow, “you want my help?”  

“Yeah,” he uttered clearly and let his real message seep through his tone, guiding your gaze to flicker back toward Henry, who’s stare was still locked upon you both, “so come help me.” 

“Oh!” it finally clicked in your brain, “right,” and you swiftly slid in beside him. 

With bated breath, you grabbed Matt’s hand that wasn’t clutching the pole, and guided it over the ivory ball that rested close to one of the corners. As you began to map out and tell him where each of the other spheres were, your eyes flicked over to notice just how close you now stood, as your nose nearly grazed against his stubbly cheek as you murmured guidingly. When you retracted your touch, you barely noticed how a few of Matt’s fingers reacted, faintly following your fading palm for but a second before it floated back down to the white orb below it. 

Once he’d made his shot, you lingered in the proximity and whispered, “do you think they’re buying it?” 

“Hm?” 

“This,” your eyes momentarily flickered back towards your ex across the bar, “us.”

Matthew’s brows then floated up as you reeled him back in to the matter at hand, “oh, I–, probably.” 

“Or should we do something else?” your mind kept on spinning, “I don’t know, I feel like I’ve completely forgotten how all of that works,” you shared, “kinda just numbed and cut off that part of myself after he broke my heart, it was just how I had to get through it, shut down a little bit because suddenly romance was terrifying…”

“...can I ask you something?” he asked quietly after a breath, and when you offered him a hum in confirmation, he uttered, “are you still in love with him?” 

Time stretched out before you finally replied, “I was, for a very long time…” your voice stayed small, “…but no, not anymore… I kind of thought I was, but then seeing him again cleared it all up. All I feel when I look at him now is rage,” you exhaled, “and pity, just because I know him too well, know everything that’s messed up about him…” silence encumbered you both for a moment before you then opened your mouth once more and said, “so, should we hold hands or something?” you asked plainly, though when a genuine laugh then began to billow out of Matthew, your eyes blinked up at him as your brows swiftly knit together, “what?”

“You know,” he tried to snuff out his chuckle, “if I was actually your fiancé, I wouldn’t just stand around and hold your hand all night,” he then leaned in the short distance till his lips nearly tickled the shell of your ear, “I would have dragged you into the bathroom by now and forced the whole bar to hear us fuck.” 

“I–, u-uhm,” you flusteredly stammered as your face began to heat up, “y-yeah, yeah, that’s good too,” you barely registered your own words as they slipped out past your lips, “if that’s what you wanna do–, I mean! Shut up!” you squeezed your eyes shut as soon as you regained your own senses, “just hold my hand, you dick,” you cursed over his laughter as he swiftly slipped his palm into your own.

“Cut it out, Karen,” Foggy’s voice cut through your haze and caught your attention. 

Glancing over, you spotted as Karen was giving him some of his own medicine, pettily leaning into his eye line, “what? You were the one saying that distractions weren’t against the rules,” she continued to glare in hopes of throwing him off his game, “why? Is this not working? Do you need me to scream directly in your ear instead?”

“Oh, would you?” he sarcastically looked to her, his pitch climbing up high at his words, “going deaf in one ear is exactly what I need to beat you.”

As your wandering gaze then flickered back towards the opposite end of the bar, your eyes grew wide as you spotted only Rebecca still seated at the small table, pink cocktail in her grasp. 

“Shit,” you spotted Henry as he crossed the room, confidently walking precisely in your direction, “he’s coming over,” you hissed, and in your muppet-like panic, your hands clasped each side of Matt’s face and yanked him in for a kiss. 

At first, he froze up as you continued to freak out, but then, as his broad palms slowly slid over your waist, all of your alarm began to melt away. It felt as if you were drifting off to sleep as you relaxed into the kiss. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined that kissing Matt would feel like this, not that such a fantasy was something you pondered often or even at all, but as you felt his tongue flicker out to dance softly against your own, your knees beneath you wobbled as you lost yourself completely. How long the peck drew out remained a mystery, as when you eventually parted, the reasoning behind it wouldn’t emerge in your memory no matter how hard you tried. 

Though as you stood there, blinking back at Matt, still utterly spellbound by the unexpected feelings currently bubbling and bursting inside of you, the man now standing off to the side cleared his throat and brought you back down to earth. 

“Bunny–, I mean, Y/n,” you whipped your head around to catch sight of your ex, “just thought it would have been awkward if I didn’t come over here to introduce myself before me and Becca took off,” he muttered before his gaze fell to Matt, his arms slowly fading from your form, “I'm Henry, nice to meet you,” your ex then offered his hand, though the lawyer by your side didn’t grasp it, even if his heightened senses had lent him to pick up on the gesture. 

“Matt Murdock,” he uttered on a cold exhale. 

Stuffing his rejected palm into his pocket, Henry then asked, “what do you do?” 

“Matthew’s a lawyer,” you took over, slotting yourself into Matt’s side before you dramatically clasped a hand over his chest, “saves people for a living. That’s actually why we’re out celebrating tonight, he just won yet another case.” 

“Oh, well congratulations then,” Henry offered in well-forged petty politeness. 

“Yeah, I was there, watching him do his thing,” you uttered as some bitter goblin of resentment then took over your soul and caused you to say, “and oh boy, I tell you, if only it would have been socially acceptable for me to interrupt the trial just to rip his clothes off, because wow.”

A scoff then rippled in Henry’s chest, “okay, sure,” his stare upon you narrowed as he then grumbled, “we both know you’re not exactly the groupie type of girlfriend.” 

“Well, maybe your sorry ass was never worth her supporting you in that way,” Matt suddenly cut in, “maybe because you never bothered treated her that way in return,” his guess hit the bullseye, “and maybe that has a little something to do with why I was the one to put a ring on her finger and not you,” your heart thumped in your chest as Matt’s touch returned to the small of your back, protectively sliding over your waist as he continued to speak in a low and chillingly stern tone, “that or you really are as terrible of a lay as she told me you were, during those very first nights when she finally learned what it was like to be with someone who wasn’t a complete fucking idiot.” 

Utterly stunned, you watched Henry’s expression as he scrambled his brain for a way to crawl back from that, but eventually, when no suitable words came to his pea-sized brain, his feet slowly began to shuffle back till his hand had snatched up his fiancé’s and he’d yanked her with him out of the bar. 

As the door swung closed behind the pair, a celebratory squeal burst from your lungs, “oh my god! Matt, that was incredible!” you jumped in place before throwing your arms around him, “I don’t know how to thank you.” 

Tangling his own arms around you, he uttered, “I’m sure we’ll come up with some way you can make it up to me.” 

And as you withdrew, just enough to smile back at him, your gaze began to drift back down towards his lip just before Foggy’s voice cut through the palpable tension.

“Do I need to remind you guys that you’re not actually engaged?” 

“No,” Matt then murmured as the two of you parted ways, quietly enough for his words to be completely inaudible, “but we could be...” 

“What?” you glanced over at him. 

“What?” he echoed in return, though a bit too quickly. 

“Did you say something?”

“Me? No,” he tried to conceal his lie with a cough, “I-I, uh, think it’s your turn,” he then changed the subject, gesturing to the pool table behind you. 

  © 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[marauroon]

𝟏 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟎𝟎 — 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑. (𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧)

lily forces her help on james after discovering an unsent letter he wrote to you at the end of last year. it doesn’t exactly go as planned.

CW | characters are 17-18, lily is the best wingman, banter on banter, MDNI AFTER A CERTAIN POINT (there is a separate warning before it begins)

james potter x fem!reader | 18.7k | series masterlist.

main masterlist.

AN | and so, 1-100 comes to an end, thank you so much to everyone who’s kept up with reading and supporting this series, i love you guys sm !! 🫶

There’s something about stepping back into the Great Hall after a summer away that always makes your stomach twist.

Maybe it’s the grandeur of it—four long house tables glittering under a sky enchanted to mirror the fading twilight—or maybe it’s the realisation that this is it. Seventh year. Your last first feast at Hogwarts. You glance around at the familiar faces, older now, and think how quickly everything’s changed, and how much it hasn't at all.

The Gryffindor table is buzzing, voices overlapping as friends greet each other, chatter about summer holidays, and sneak wary glances at the staff table where the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is already under intense scrutiny. You sit between Lily and Dorcas, with Marlene just opposite, her chin in her hand as she eyes the new teacher with suspicious intensity.

“I’m giving him a two weeks before he loses his temper,” Marlene says, not even blinking. “One, if he’s already had a mental breakdown before arriving,”

“You’re just bitter because Professor Lome never liked your essays,” Dorcas points out, stealing a bread roll from the centre plate before anyone else can. “He gave me full marks on that piece about curse detection,”

You’re half-listening, mostly looking around the room. It’s the same as ever, and yet not. Everyone’s taller. Slightly leaner. Tired in that way only seventeen-year-olds on the cusp of adulthood can be. The weight of NEWTs, of future plans, of knowing this is your last go at all of it.

The buzz of the hall dies down as Professor McGonagall stands at the staff table. The sorting ceremony has already taken place—little first-years blinking up at the ceiling, clutching their house badges like lifelines—and now it’s time for the usual announcements.

“Welcome back, students, to another year at Hogwarts. A particular welcome to our first-years, who I hope will find these halls as challenging and rewarding as the generations before them,”

You tune out a bit as she goes through the basics: forbidden forest is still forbidden, Zonko’s products are still banned, and any students caught brewing illegal potions will be given detention and a strongly worded letter home.

Then, she straightens, and there's a tiny spark in her eye that sets everyone leaning forward.

“And now, I’m pleased to announce this year’s Head Boy and Head Girl of Gryffindor. A pair who will, I trust, represent the house and the student body with diligence and pride. Please join me in congratulating Lily Evans and James Potter.”

Silence.

Then—

“What?” Dorcas shrieks before she can stop herself, hand flying to cover her mouth.

Lily’s face is a perfect blend of composed and internally screaming. You can see it in the way she holds her posture just a touch too rigidly, in the slight widening of her eyes.

A few seats down, James has frozen. Mid-sip of pumpkin juice. You think he might choke on it.

The hall erupts in applause, mostly polite, some genuine. The Gryffindor table is particularly vocal—Sirius is cheering obnoxiously loud, Remus is clapping with amused restraint, and Peter looks like someone just told him Christmas has come early.

“Head Boy?” Marlene mouths, turning to stare at you and Lily like you’ve both gone mad. “Him?”

You glance at Lily, who is clearly experiencing an existential crisis in real-time.

James slowly sets his goblet down. “I—what?” he says weakly. “Me?”

“I… wasn’t told,” Lily says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I knew I got Head Girl, McGonagall owled me over the summer, but—him?”

You smother a laugh. “You okay, Lils?”

She glares at you. “No.”

James, for his part, finally seems to have processed the information. He sits a little straighter, shoulders back, trying for composed but mostly looking like he might be sick.

“I’m already Quidditch Captain,” he mutters to Sirius, who slaps him on the back with far too much enthusiasm.

“You’ll be brilliant,” Sirius grins. “Just think—power, responsibility, and even more excuses to boss people around.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “You do realise it’s actual work, right? Prefect meetings, patrols, schedules…”

James pales slightly. “Bloody hell,”

You and the girls settle back into your seats as the feast begins properly. Food appears across the tables in a shimmer of golden light, and the scent of roast chicken and buttered potatoes fills the air. For a while, everyone’s distracted—eating, catching up, stealing sips of pumpkin juice between bites. The announcement lingers in the air though, rippling down the table in whispered disbelief and mild chaos.

You poke at your roasties, thoughts elsewhere. You’re happy for Lily—Head Girl is so her. She’s meticulous, clever, endlessly fair. But James? It’s not that he’s a bad student—he’s clever when he applies himself—but his reputation precedes him. Pranks. Detentions. A casual disregard for rules that somehow charmed most of the school and irritated the rest. You look down the table to where he’s now loudly panicking about his term planner.

“He’s actually worried about having too much to do,” Marlene says, eyebrows raised. “Is this a new personality shift or did he hit his head over the summer?”

“He’ll be fine,” Dorcas says through a mouthful of carrots. “Maybe this’ll actually knock the arrogance out of him. Or at least make him too busy to be annoying,”

Lily just stabs a pea with unnecessary force. “I’m going to murder Dumbledore.”

You snort, covering it with a cough. “Think of it this way—you get to boss him around,”

“Please,” she says dryly, “he’ll talk about the Marauders and Quidditch and I’ll be asleep by the third sentence,”

You laugh properly at that, and the sound feels good. Light. Familiar.

Marlene leans closer, dropping her voice. “Anyway, more important question—have you had any more letters?”

You blink. It takes you a second to realise what she’s referring to.

“Oh,” you say, slowly. “No. Not since the last one. You know, the one I got right before term ended,”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that means they’re all about to jump in.

“You’ve still got them, don’t you?” Dorcas says, eyes narrowing.

“Of course she does,” Lily says before you can speak. “She practically laminated the bloody things,”

You shove her shoulder with yours. “I did not. I just… kept them. They were nice,”

“Nice?” Marlene repeats. “They were poetry. Like, actual effort. Not ‘fancy you, meet me in the broom cupboard’—actual, personal, stupidly romantic letters,”

Dorcas sighs dreamily. “Still can’t believe we never figured out who it was. No hints? Nothing?”

You shake your head, and try not to let your disappointment show too much. “They just… stopped. That last one before summer hols—it was like a goodbye. Like they didn’t know what else to add,”

“Bit tragic,” Lily says softly, and despite her sarcasm earlier, you hear the real sympathy in it.

You shrug, reaching for a second helping of Yorkshire pudding to hide the sudden ache in your chest. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. I didn’t even know who they were,”

“But they knew you,” Dorcas says. “Really well, apparently,”

The words make something twist inside you. Because she’s right.

Whoever they were, they did know you. The letters had come at your lowest points last year—when the pressure of coursework, the drama with Severus, and everything else felt like too much. Each letter had felt like a lifeline, like someone reaching across the void just to remind you that you weren’t invisible.

You miss that. You miss them.

“I just thought maybe,” you say quietly, “there’d be another one waiting. When we got back,”

The silence around your little corner of the table grows thick with understanding. No one says anything for a moment. Then Lily bumps your knee under the table.

“Well,” she says, with the kind of finality only she can manage, “maybe they’re just waiting for the right time,”

You nod, but you don’t believe it. Not really.

The conversation moves on. Marlene brings up the new Hogsmeade permission rules (apparently no more ‘mysterious illnesses’ to get out of going—thanks to a Slytherin who faked being poisoned last year). Dorcas starts planning the best window seat in the common room for her study spot, and Lily starts stress-talking about her NEWT timetable.

But your thoughts don’t quite leave the letters.

You wonder where they are now—your mystery writer. If they’re even still thinking about you. If they’re watching you across the Great Hall, debating whether or not to start again.

You hope so.

Even if you don’t say it out loud, not even to Lily.

Even if you’re pretending not to look toward the other end of the table for who it might be.

—

It becomes a weekly ritual. Every Wednesday night, Lily Evans storms back into the Gryffindor common room around ten-thirty, throws herself onto the armchair closest to the fire, and launches into a detailed monologue about the trials and tribulations of patrolling the corridors with James Potter.

And every Wednesday night, you, Marlene, and Dorcas do your best not to laugh too obviously.

“He just won’t shut up,” Lily declares one evening, halfway through untangling her scarf from her hair. “Every corridor, every stairwell, it’s Quidditch this, Marauders that—and not even mildly interesting Marauder tales. No, no. Apparently Sirius once managed to transfigure a Slytherin’s tie into a snake and got away with it by pretending it was a defence demonstration. That’s what I have to listen to for two hours,”

Dorcas, stretched out on the rug with a textbook balanced on her stomach, snorts. “Honestly, sounds like quality entertainment,”

“You do realise he’s trying to impress you, right?” Marlene adds, not looking up from her Ancient Runes homework.

Lily looks personally offended. “By telling me about how many nosebleeds they’ve collectively caused in the name of house pride?”

“Maybe he thinks violence is your love language,” Dorcas offers with a shrug.

You laugh softly but say nothing. Lily rolls her eyes and turns to you, as she often does.

“You would die. Honestly. You should swap with me sometime just to understand the suffering.”

“I’m not a prefect,” you remind her, amused.

She huffs. “Tragic. You’d actually hold a decent conversation. Meanwhile, I’ve learnt the entire 1974 Quidditch Cup roster twice, and I don’t even like Quidditch,”

Still, she doesn’t ask for a trade from any of the actual prefects. And despite the complaints, she never actually seems to loathe their time together—frustrated, yes. Exhausted, absolutely. But somewhere beneath it all is a sort of resigned affection she doesn’t quite admit to.

You often sit by the fire after she’s done ranting, book in your lap, mind somewhere else entirely.

Because while Lily battles James's endless rambling about goal strategies and prank logistics, your thoughts drift to the letters again and again.

You miss them.

More than you like to admit.

Even now, months after the last one, you still half-expect to find something tucked inside your Transfiguration book. Or a note slid under your pillow. That hopeful little ache has never quite gone away. You know it’s silly—it’s been so long, it’s probably over—but that connection, however brief and anonymous, was something you’d never really had before.

Whoever wrote those letters saw parts of you you didn’t think anyone noticed. They wrote like they knew what you needed to hear before you even knew it yourself.

And now… it’s just silence.

—

It’s late December when Lily finds it. Just a few days shy of the Christmas Holidays, when the castle starts to shift into that enchanted, warm glow of the holidays. Wreaths bloom along the walls, garlands wrap the banisters, and the air smells faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke.

It’s snowing outside, but the halls are still humming with end-of-term energy—homework, holiday plans, and whispered excitement about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.

Lily’s rifling through James Potter’s satchel.

To be fair, she asked him where the patrol rota was, and he told her—somewhere in his bag. He’s halfway through an apple and elbow-deep in a discussion with Remus about whether or not the Gryffindor team needs a strategy change after Christmas.

She pulls out quills, broken Sugar Quill sticks, crumpled bits of paper, at least two spare ties, and—at the very bottom—a small, folded piece of parchment.

Gold foil.

Your name on the front.

She freezes.

It’s unmistakable. The handwriting is the same elegant, slanted script you used to show them, the same ink, the same careful fold. But this letter has never reached you.

Her eyes widen. Her breath catches.

She looks up at James.

Still talking.

Still completely unaware that in one careless second, he’s just given everything away.

Lily takes the letter. Quietly. Carefully. She tucks it into her robe pocket and says nothing. Not yet.

But she watches him all night. She watches the way his gaze flickers towards you sometimes across the common room. The way he gets unusually quiet when your name comes up.

Later that night, in the corridor outside the common room, she pounces.

“James.”

He jumps. “Bloody—Evans, you trying to give me a heart attack?”

She crosses her arms. “I need to ask you something,”

“Okay…?”

She pulls the letter from her pocket.

He stops breathing.

“Is this yours?”

He tries—tries—to play dumb.

“I—uh—never seen that before in my life.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“No? Oh well, guess i’ll deliver it myself then,”

The way James snatches the letter from her hands you’d think it was his lifeline. It kind of was. “Don’t you dare—”

She doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then:

“It was you.”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah.”

“You were writing the letters all last year. All that time. While she was agonising over who it was.”

Another nod.

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

“I—” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I panicked, alright? I was going to. I really was. The last letter—I wrote it to finally tell her. Then I just… I bottled it. It felt too big. Too serious. I didn’t think she’d… you know. Want me.”

Lily stares at him.

“You absolute moron.”

He blinks. “Sorry?”

“She’s been miserable for months. She kept waiting for another letter, hoping you’d write again. Do you have any idea how much she—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Unbelievable.”

“I didn’t think she liked me,” James mutters. “I mean, properly. Not just the letters. And not after everything—after how I was in fifth year—”

“You’ve changed.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know if that matters.”

Lily looks at him, and something softens.

“It does. And for what it’s worth, I think she would want to know. But—” She holds up a finger before he can respond. “—If you want to be a coward, I won’t say a word. But if you want my silence, you’re going to have to make it worth it.”

James straightens. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll keep your secret—for now. But only if you actually do something about it. No more hiding. No more waiting. I’m going to help you, and you’re going to let me.”

James looks like someone’s just told him he has a shot at the World Cup.

“You’ll help me?”

She nods. “But only because I’m tired of watching her mope around like a ghost every time she checks her pillow for a letter that never comes.”

His expression shifts—hope blooming like a star behind his eyes.

“Alright,” he says, determined now. “Deal.”

Lily smiles.

—

The Christmas holidays was an odd time for both Lily and James. While a welcome respite from the usual whirlwind of school activities, they brought their own pressures. For Lily, it was the mounting anticipation of how to pull off her bold plan, and for James, it was the dawning realisation that he might just have a chance with you—but only if he didn’t screw it up.

It started innocently enough: a stack of parchment and a quill. The first few letters between them were brief and clumsy, full of the usual banter that you’d expect from James Potter. But with Lily’s encouragement and careful advice, his words began to take shape. She steered him, nudging him in the right direction.

There were moments of frustration—James was a disaster with anything that wasn’t a Quidditch strategy or prank, and this was, in his mind, far too serious to be a joke. But Lily stuck by him, offering a steady hand when his confidence faltered, teaching him how to make the words meaningful.

The tone of the letters shifted as they continued. At first, James wrote about what he thought you would want to hear—grand gestures, over-the-top declarations that, in hindsight, seemed ridiculous. But Lily patiently worked through them with him, showing him that it wasn’t about showiness—it was about connection. The real connection. The sort of connection that wasn’t about impressing you with his charm, but letting you see who he really was. She made him laugh, made him reflect on his own growth, and made him understand that this wasn’t just some passing fancy.

Their letters became a sort of symbiotic process. James would write something a bit too much, and Lily would dial it back with a comment about being too self-deprecating or too dramatic. He’d write again, taking into account her feedback. Then, Lily would send him back something that was genuinely thoughtful about what he could say to you—subtle things like, “She likes someone who listens, not just talks,” and “Remember, be genuine. It’s okay to be nervous.”

They’d find themselves exchanging letters, not just for the sake of figuring out what to say to you, but out of a shared sense of friendship, a bond that neither of them had expected to form.

They started to know each other better—not just as the Head Girl and the Head Boy, but as two people who were learning to be better versions of themselves. James began to appreciate Lily in a way that went beyond admiration—he respected her, her intelligence, her patience. She had a depth to her that he hadn’t quite realised before.

And Lily, for her part, couldn’t deny that James was more than just the loud, arrogant Quidditch star he used to be. He was thoughtful. He was kind. And beneath that cocky exterior, he was actually a lot more humble than anyone gave him credit for.

—

When the holidays ended and the students returned to Hogwarts, the air was thick with a sort of nervous energy. It was a fresh start after weeks away, and the school had a distinct feeling of a new term—new opportunities, new resolutions. It was also, for Lily, the moment when the plan she had been quietly constructing would need to unfold in full force.

As they returned to their regular routines, Lily began her work behind the scenes. It started innocently enough—casual conversations in the corridors, the library, and the common room. She would slip in little details about James—never overtly, but just enough to plant the seed in your mind.

“Did you hear about James helping that first-year with their transfiguration homework? I swear, he’s actually really good at it when he puts his mind to it,”

You had glanced up from your own work at the mention of James's name, frowning a little, because honestly, you hadn’t thought about him much. Not lately. He’d been busy with Quidditch, as usual. You couldn’t deny, though, that the idea of him being helpful—genuinely helpful—sounded out of character, even for him.

Over the next few days, Lily casually dropped more snippets into conversations. “James, honestly, I’m impressed with how he’s handled being Head Boy. He really seems to be taking it seriously. Even with Quidditch on his plate, he always makes time to help out,” She’d speak with genuine admiration, her voice unconsciously laced with warmth whenever she spoke of him.

At first, you dismissed it. It was all so subtle—so carefully orchestrated—that you barely noticed it happening. But the more Lily spoke, the more you began to pay attention.

One afternoon, you were walking down the corridor to the library when you spotted James on the far side of the hall, surrounded by first-years. You were about to look away when you saw him gently helping one of them with a stack of books, his hands steady, his voice low and encouraging. A completely different side to the usual cocky, mischief-driven James Potter. You’d never seen him like this before. You’d never seen anyone so engaged in something so simple.

That night, when you sat with the girls, Lily mentioned it casually. “James was really great today, helping the first years carry their books. He’s definitely grown up. It’s funny, isn’t it? We always think of him as the prankster, but there’s so much more to him than that. Honestly, I’m starting to see him in a new light,”

You were about to say something dismissive—something that would push the conversation away. But then, you stopped. There was something in the way she said it, so earnestly, that made you pause.

“Why do you keep talking about him like that?” Dorcas asked, raising an eyebrow at Lily.

Lily didn’t even bat an eyelash. She was smooth. “Why? What do you mean? He’s really changed, that’s all,”

“She has a bit of a point,” You immediately regret backing Lily. Why did you say that?

You weren’t sure what was happening to you. Why, when you closed your eyes that night, did your thoughts drift to James? Why, when you caught his smile in the corridor, did your heart feel like it skipped a beat? Why did you feel the need to brush your hair just right every time you passed him?

What was Lily doing to your head?

—

Lily Evans was a lot of things. Bright. Commanding. Intimidating when she wanted to be. But above all else, she was strategic. And once she caught on to the fact that you had—finally—developed something resembling a real, actual crush on James Potter, it was game over. For you.

You just didn’t know it yet.

“You need a break,” she said, as if that weren’t a suspicious statement from someone who had spent the last week stress-annotating every page of her Arithmancy textbook.

You glanced at her warily. “A break from what?”

“Studying. The common room. Yourself.” She sipped her tea primly. “We’re going to the library,”

“You think the library is a break?”

“Yes, because you’re not going alone this time,” she said. “We’ll revise together,”

You narrowed your eyes. “You hate revising with other people,”

“I don’t hate it,”

“You said—and I quote—‘group studying is a punishment for introverts who can’t read in silence.’”

Lily gave you her best innocent expression. “Wow. That doesn’t sound like me at all,”

Still, she wore you down. As she often did. And twenty minutes later you were being marched into the library under the pretense of productivity.

You weren’t entirely sure when you’d clocked it. Maybe it was the faint hum of nerves in Lily’s step, or the way she seemed to be leading you rather than walking beside you. But then you turned the corner near the back tables, and there he was.

James Potter. Sat alone at a table by the window, sunlight catching on his hair like it was doing it on purpose. His head was bowed, pencil tapping rhythmically against his lip as he read, and for once he looked almost serene. Normal. Thoughtful.

“Oh,” Lily said, not even bothering to feign surprise. “James. Didn’t see you there,”

He looked up, blinking at the both of you, then smiled—wide and easy. “Hey. Fancy running into you two,”

You turned to Lily with a look. She smiled sweetly and gestured to the empty chairs. “Plenty of room. Come on,”

You gave her a long-suffering sigh, but joined them. You didn’t miss the way James straightened up a little when you sat down. Or how he nudged his textbook closer to make space.

“We’re reviewing Potions,” Lily said, as if that was the plan all along. “James, you’re good at Potions, right?”

He gave a modest shrug. “Decent. Do you need help?”

She said nothing. Just looked at you. Pointedly.

“…Sure,” you mumbled, flipping open your book. “Why not.”

—

Later that week, it happened again.

You and Lily were walking down toward Herbology, cutting across the greenhouses when a burst of motion caught your eye near the Quidditch pitch.

James was there. Not flying, not showing off—but hovering gently just above the grass, alongside a very nervous-looking first year. The kid was wobbling on their broom, fists clenched white around the handle.

“Easy now,” James called, encouraging but calm. “Keep your knees loose. You’re thinking too hard. Let the broom do the work,”

“Is that Potter?” you asked, squinting.

Lily followed your gaze and made a noise like she’d just noticed. “Oh, yeah. I think he’s mentoring first years this term. Sweet, right?”

You turned back toward him. The wind ruffled his hair, and he reached out to steady the kid’s broom with a gentle hand, his voice low and kind and patient. It was… not a side of him you saw often. Or ever.

Your stomach did a thing.

Lily nudged you. “You’re staring,” she sang under her breath.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m observing,” you said flatly. “For science.”

“Sure. For science,”

—

By the third encounter, you were onto her.

This time, Lily “forgot” her notes in the Divination tower and asked you to come with her to get them. But when you reached the corridor, who was leaning against the wall chatting with Professor Sinistra?

That’s right.

James bloody Potter.

“…Hi?” he said, eyes flicking between the two of you.

Lily acted delighted. “Oh! James! What’re you doing up here?”

“Dropping off the star charts for Astronomy club,” he replied.

Lily gasped. “Look at you. Responsible and helpful,”

You turned your head slowly, muttering under your breath. “You planned this,”

“I absolutely did not,” Lily said, far too brightly.

You stared.

She smiled wider.

James, to his credit, just looked confused.

And maybe—maybe—a little hopeful.

—

Later, in the common room, you finally snapped.

“You’re setting me up,” you accused.

Lily beamed, completely unbothered. “Yes. And you’re welcome,”

“I didn’t ask for your interference,”

She crossed her arms and leaned against the sofa. “No, but I got tired of watching you pretend not to like him every time he breathed in your direction. So I decided to help you skip to the part where you realise he’s more than just a pretty face with Quidditch shoulders,”

You covered your face with a groan.

“Oh come on,” she said. “You like him,”

“No.”

“You do,”

You peeked between your fingers. “He was really sweet with that first year,”

Lily smirked. “I know,”

You slumped further into the cushions. “I hate how well this is working,”

“I’m a genius,” she said modestly.

And honestly? She kind of was.

—

It wasn’t long before Lily noticed that she didn’t have to nudge you in James's direction anymore. You started coming to her with your own observations. It started innocently enough.

“Did you see James helping that second-year with her Transfiguration homework today?” you asked, as you sat in the Gryffindor common room one chilly evening. “It was kind of… sweet,”

Lily's lips twitched in a knowing smile, but she hid it behind the book she was pretending to read. “Oh, really?” she asked casually, though her voice was laced with an almost imperceptible hint of amusement. “That sounds like him,”

And then, the more you noticed these things, the more you found yourself noticing him. The way his hair always fell in that messy way, no matter how much he tried to push it back. The way his eyes seemed to light up when he was talking about something he loved—Quidditch, of course, but also the way he spoke about his friends, his teammates. His honesty, unpolished but real. How, after all these years, you hadn’t truly seen him for what he was—someone who, despite his flaws, actually tried to do the right thing, even when he didn’t have to.

The realisation hit you slowly, like a wave creeping up the shore. You liked James Potter. You were attracted to him.

And that made you feel insane.

—

It was a Tuesday, and the usual hustle and bustle of Potions class filled the air as students shuffled into the dimly lit dungeon. You were seated next to Lily as usual, one row behind the Marauders, but that day, for some reason, your focus was nowhere near the task at hand. You were supposed to be preparing a Draught of Living Death, but your eyes kept straying to James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter, who were across the room, clearly engaged in some kind of prank plan.

It wasn’t even subtle. They were making faces at each other, stifling laughs, and it was so obvious that Professor Slughorn wasn’t even pretending to ignore them. You couldn't help the smile tugging at your lips as you watched James pass something to Sirius behind his cauldron, a quick handoff of some joke ingredient that was almost certainly going to explode in someone’s face.

“You’re staring again,” Lily pointed out with a grin, her voice low enough so that no one else could hear.

You blinked, realising that she had caught you, yet again. “What? No I’m not, I’m paying attention!” You quickly turned your focus back to your potion, though it was already too late—the glint in Lily’s eyes told you that she knew the truth.

She raised an eyebrow, still looking amused, and shook her head. “It’s okay. I mean, I did call it though,”

You groaned, slumping in your seat, feeling your cheeks flush. “I’m insane,” you muttered to yourself, so quietly that only Lily could hear. “What am I supposed to do? He’s been a complete arse to me for years, and now I’m falling for him? I’m a lunatic. Someone, take me away to Mungo’s. Commit me now. I’m beyond saving,”

Lily’s laughter bubbled up, and she didn’t even try to hide it. “Oh, come on, you’re not insane. You just like him. It’s not the end of the world,”

You shot her a glare. “Lils, I hate him. I have hated him for six years. Six years! He’s loud, he’s cocky, he’s arrogant. And now I want to—what? Be all gooey-eyed at him?”

She shrugged, the smile still dancing on her lips. “You’re allowed to change your mind, you know,”

“About him?” you said, pointing dramatically toward James, who was still engaging in some prank or another, his laugh unmistakable even from across the room. “What is wrong with me? Maybe I need a head examination. Maybe I just need to stop thinking about it altogether. Because this? This is crazy,”

Lily laughed again, a sound that was half sympathetic, half mocking. “I think you're being a little dramatic, don't you?”

“Drama's my middle name, Lils,” you muttered, sinking further into your seat, your face growing hot as you tried to ignore the fact that, even now, you could feel the pull of James Potter’s presence across the room. “Ugh. What do I even do? I can’t just talk to him. He’s so annoying. I can’t believe this is happening,”

Lily's tone turned more serious as she leaned a little closer, her voice softening. “Maybe… maybe you should start by just talking to him. Like, really talking. Not about Quidditch or anything that’s just… surface stuff. Maybe actually get to know him, without the whole cocky idiot routine he’s always doing,”

You frowned, looking over at James again, who had just leaned back in his chair, grinning at something Sirius had said. You shook your head, resisting the pull. “I don’t know, Lils. This whole thing is just… confusing,”

Lily sighed dramatically, resting her chin on her hand. “Yeah, I get that. But you know, I think he’s just a little misunderstood. He’s not perfect—he never has been. But… I think he’s worth getting to know. And I don’t think you’d regret it, if you gave him a chance,”

You stared at her, wide-eyed. “Are you… are you implying something here?”

Lily raised her hands in mock surrender, her eyes twinkling. “I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying… you should give him a chance to surprise you,”

You let out a long, dramatic groan. “What is wrong with me? I need help,”

—

Later that evening, you found yourself sitting in the Gryffindor common room, trying to ignore the noise around you. You were perched on the edge of the couch, pretending to study, but your mind was elsewhere entirely. Not on the anonymous love letters, but on James.

How had it happened? How had the most annoying person you’d ever met—someone who had spent years making fun of you, pranking you, and generally being an all-around nuisance—suddenly become someone you were seriously thinking about? It didn’t make sense. And yet, here you were, sighing over him like some lovesick fool.

“Everything okay?” Lily asked, sliding into the seat next to you. She had that familiar, knowing smile on her face—the one that made you feel like she could see straight through you. “You seem distracted,”

You let out a frustrated breath. “I’m an idiot,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands. “I’m an absolute, utter idiot,”

Lily laughed, clearly enjoying your inner turmoil. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just human,”

“Human, my arse,” you grumbled. “I’m supposed to be in control of my emotions. I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. And instead, I’m obsessing over James Potter. I mean, James Potter. What is wrong with me?”

Lily’s laugh was warm and understanding. She didn’t press you for more, though she did, at the back of your mind, know something you didn’t. She knew that you were slowly starting to see James for who he really was. And she knew that, when the time was right, it wouldn’t take much for him to see you for who you truly were, either.

But for now, all she had to do was sit back and watch the inevitable unfold.

—

By March, the weight of the upcoming mock NEWTs had hit Hogwarts like a bludger to the ribs. The once-lively Gryffindor common room was now filled with students hunched over parchment, quills scratching like beetles in the quiet, anxious air.

Even the usual chaos of the Marauders had simmered into a tense sort of focus—less pranks, more sighing, and an abundance of sugar quills chewed to bits while everyone tried to pretend they weren’t on the verge of collective academic collapse.

You’d taken to escaping the chaos by spending more time in the library, where the silence was less oppressive and the chances of being interrupted were, blessedly, low. There was something grounding about the musty scent of old books, the feel of parchment under your fingers, and the soft rustling of pages turning around you. Here, at least, you could pretend to have control over the mounting panic.

You didn’t expect to see him there.

It was a Thursday afternoon. The sky outside was grey and moody, a typical March sulk, and you’d made your way to the far side of the library looking for a quiet corner. Your bag was heavy on your shoulder, the strap digging into your collarbone, and your fingers were already ink-stained from a particularly ambitious essay you'd abandoned halfway through breakfast.

You turned down one of the aisles and paused.

James Potter sat alone at a study table, bent over a thick Potions textbook, hair sticking up in that ridiculous, familiar way, glasses slightly askew, brows furrowed in concentration. His quill tapped thoughtfully against his lips as he scanned a particularly long paragraph, completely unaware of your presence.

There were no Marauders in sight. No Sirius lolling about with a smirk, no Peter sneaking sweets, no Remus patiently annotating with colour-coded inks. Just James. Quiet. Focused. Normal.

It was weird.

You hovered there, unsure for a moment. James Potter was not someone you’d ever associated with solitude. He belonged in groups. In crowds. Loud, chaotic ones. He was a whirlwind of motion and noise and cheeky grins. But now—

Now, he just looked… Tired. Still. Almost soft.

You blinked. Once. Twice. And then, before your brain could talk your body out of it, you approached.

“Mind if I join you?”

James startled, looking up as though you’d just Apparated beside him. His expression shifted rapidly—surprise, confusion, and then something else entirely. Something warmer.

“Oh. Er—yeah! Yes, absolutely, yeah, course you can,” he stammered, quickly moving his things to make space for you, nearly knocking over his inkpot in the process. “Didn’t expect company,”

“I didn’t expect you to be in here,” you replied, sliding into the seat beside him and placing your books on the table. “Alone, I mean. No gaggle of mischief-makers in tow,”

He gave a sheepish laugh. “Yeah, I figured I’d actually try to… I don’t know, pass transfiguration this year. Trying this whole ‘focus’ thing,”

You arched an eyebrow. “Look at you. All grown up and responsible,”

He mock-scowled at you. “Don’t make it weird,”

You smiled despite yourself. “I’m stressed about the Potions exam,” you admitted after a moment. “I feel like Slughorn could hand me a list of ingredients and I’d still forget what a bezoar does,”

James gave you a surprised, almost earnest look. “Do you want to revise together? I mean—I’m decent at Potions. Got a weird knack for it. I could help,”

You tilted your head, eyeing him. “You? Helping me revise?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he said, grinning now. “I can be serious when I want to be,”

“Can you?”

James snorted. “Okay, I try to be,”

You laughed, and somehow that broke the tension. The two of you slipped into an easy rhythm. You started with Potions, him explaining the nuances of antidotes and the precise slicing technique needed for Sopophorous beans.

His explanations were animated—hands gesturing as he talked, voice fluctuating with a kind of earnestness you’d never quite noticed before. It made sense why he was such a good Quidditch captain; there was something undeniably compelling about the way he communicated, even when it was just about brewing Draught of Peace.

He didn't mock you when you forgot something obvious. He didn't interrupt. He listened.

And when your hands brushed across the table, reaching for the same note at the same time, he didn't flinch away. He just smiled.

Then the subject drifted. From Potions to Charms. From Charms to Transfiguration. From school to House gossip to whether centaurs secretly judged the students during Care of Magical Creatures.

Somewhere along the way, the edges between awkward and easy blurred.

There were pauses, of course—comfortable silences where you simply worked, and longer ones filled with light teasing or surprising bursts of genuine conversation. Like when he told you about his mum’s obsession with over-feeding the stray street cat, or how Sirius once bewitched his bed curtains to play harp music every time someone said his name.

It was weird, how easy it was.

It was weirder, still, when you realised you’d lost track of time.

“Blimey,” James muttered, glancing at the high windows. “It’s practically dark out,”

You blinked, checking your watch. “We’re late for dinner,”

“I was supposed to meet the team for a strategy review,” he said, rubbing a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more.

As if summoned, Peter popped his head around the shelf with a harried expression. “There you are!” he said to James, and then looked at you, visibly surprised. “We thought you’d fallen in a cauldron or something,”

James gave an apologetic shrug. “Lost track of time,”

Peter eyed the two of you, then turned his gaze back on James and raised his eyebrows very pointedly. “Riiight,”

You and James exchanged a glance, and then you both gathered your things and followed Peter out.

—

When you entered the Great Hall late, your friends were all over you.

“Where were you?” Dorcas asked, half-standing.

“Don’t say the library,” Marlene warned. “We know you left for the library, but you didn’t come back for hours,”

“And with James Potter?” Dorcas added, now openly gaping.

You groaned, sliding into the seat beside Lily. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

“It sounds like you two met up for a shag,” Marlene suggested, delighted.

“Absolutely not,” you said, head thunking dramatically onto the table. “He was helping me with potions. That’s all.”

Lily grinned, rubbing your back. “So you finally cracked, then?”

You peeked up at her with a groan. “I can’t stand how smug you look right now,”

Dorcas leaned in eagerly. “Wait—you like him?”

You sighed and sat up. “I begrudgingly have a crush on James Potter. There. I said it. I hate myself. I hate him. I hate everything. Kill me now.”

The table burst into laughter. Marlene actually clutched her chest. “I knew it. You’ve been making heart eyes for weeks,”

Lily looked positively radiant. “It’s okay,” she said soothingly. “It’s only taken you, what? Seven years?”

You scowled. “This is the worst timeline.”

Still, you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

—

Meanwhile, James was in the middle of a complete overshare.

“I panicked,” he said, flopping dramatically onto Sirius’ bed. “She just walked over and sat down. And then we actually talked. Like properly talked. And she laughed, Sirius. She laughed. At my jokes,”

Sirius grinned from where he was perched at the edge of Remus’s bed. “So you didn’t ruin it. Colour me shocked,”

James threw a pillow at him. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m being Sirius,” Sirius deadpanned.

Remus groaned. “Not this again,”

Peter snorted, settling at the foot of his own bed. “So what now? You two just revise together like it’s no big deal?”

“She asked to join me,” James said, like it was still unbelievable. “And I didn’t mess it up. I even helped her with Potions,”

Sirius gave him a sly look. “You like her,”

“Yes,” James said, no hesitation. “Obviously. I’ve liked her for ages. And now she’s actually… noticing me. And it’s terrifying,”

“What happened to cool, confident James Potter?” Remus asked with a faint smile.

“He’s dead.” James exclaimed. “He doesn’t exist,”

Sirius cracked up laughing.

James groaned, grabbing another pillow. “Promise me you lot won’t screw this up for me,”

“Course not,” Remus said. “We want you to be happy,”

“Speak for yourself,” Sirius muttered. “I liked it better when he was hopeless,”

But he smiled anyway.

—

From that point on, library sessions became a thing.

At first, it was casual. A few times a week, whenever you happened to run into each other. Then Lily started suggesting you go together—“oh, James said he’d be in the library after dinner, you should head down,”—and it became routine.

You tried to tell yourself it was just studying. That was all.

But it wasn’t.

You and James talked about everything—from exam stress and professors to more personal things. Like how he hated how he used to treat people, especially you and Lily. How he couldn’t believe he’d wasted so much time being a prat. How he’d let his ego make choices he still regretted.

“I was a total wanker,” he said one evening, sitting across from you, fiddling with the end of his quill. “Back when you and Lily were still friends with Snape. I was just… angry all the time. Jealous, maybe. I don’t know. But I was awful. And I’m sorry,”

You blinked. The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard.

“Thanks,” you said softly. “That actually means a lot,”

He gave you a small smile. “I just—I want you to know I’m trying. Not just for you. For me, too,”

And you believed him.

Which was maybe the scariest part.

Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t just a passing crush anymore.

You were really starting to fall for James Potter.

—

It was a Friday afternoon, the eve of the Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw Quidditch final, and James Potter was, predictably, in full strategising mode. You’d barely sat down at your usual table in the library before he launched into a spirited rant about formations, wind direction, and something called “chaser rotation efficiency” like he hadn’t just spent the past two hours at practice already barking the same things at his team.

You, meanwhile, were fighting a losing battle against a headache and the slow, creeping guilt of having left your Potions essay untouched for two full days.

“—and I swear if McLaggen swerves left again when I signal right, I’m going to charm his broomstick to fly backwards—”

“I forgot my quill,” you interrupted, sighing dramatically and digging fruitlessly through your satchel. “Great. That’s perfect. That’s exactly what I needed today,”

“Oh—here,” James said, gesturing vaguely to his bag without pausing his train of thought. “There’s loads in there, probably. Knock yourself out,”

You slid his satchel toward you, still only half-listening as he rambled on, now something about wind tunnels and Ravenclaw’s new Keeper. You unzipped the bag and fished around, fingers grazing parchment, a broken sugar quill, and several unidentifiable sticky objects before landing on a whole bundle of rogue writing utensils.

And then—your fingers brushed something else.

Smooth. Firm. Familiar.

You pulled it out.

Gold-foiled parchment.

Your breath hitched.

It was folded and refolded a dozen times over, edges fraying, the once-glossy surface dulled and creased. There were small ink stains on the back. A faint smudge of what might have been chocolate. You didn’t even need to open it to know what it was.

But you did anyway.

You shouldn’t have. You knew that. But your hands acted faster than your brain, and before you could stop yourself, your eyes were scanning the page.

Your name was there, in that now-unmistakable handwriting. The curves and flicks that had haunted your thoughts for nearly a year. And the words—oh, the words. Soft and intimate and so completely James that you were stunned you hadn’t pieced it together before.

I know I said I wouldn’t write you anymore, but I’m afraid I can’t help myself. The truth is, I’ve been terrified of saying it out loud, of giving you something you don’t need or want. But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve loved you for so long, in ways that I can’t even put into words. I’ve watched you, really watched you, every day, and I’ve noticed things about you that—

You were halfway through reading it when James looked up from his notes, mid-smirk.

“I know my bag’s a bit of a disaster zone, but come on—it can’t be that hard to find a—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

His smile dropped.

You slowly looked up, the letter still in your hands, your fingers clenched tight around the gold paper. Your voice, when it came, was a whisper. Distant.

“…It was you?”

Silence.

James stared at you.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

You saw it—the flicker of panic, the rapid calculations behind his eyes, the moment he considered denying it.

But he didn’t.

He just nodded. Once. Barely perceptible.

You rose from your seat with a quiet scrape of your chair.

“I— I need to go.”

“Wait—” James started, standing as if to follow you, but you were already gone.

You didn’t look back.

—

James slumped back into his seat like the air had been knocked out of him.

He felt like he might be sick.

He'd known it was a risk. He’d always known. That’s why he never sent that final letter. That’s why he buried it in the bottom of his bag with the other forgotten things. Because if you ever found out…

And now you had.

He ran both hands through his hair and groaned into the table.

Lily found him twenty minutes later, still in the library, head buried in his arms.

“James we need to— What happened?” she asked immediately, sliding into the seat beside him. “You look like someone hexed your soul out,”

James didn’t lift his head.

“She found the letter,”

“…What?”

James groaned again. “I had it in my bag and she went in for a quill and she found it. Read it. Said ‘It was you?’ and then just—left.”

Lily’s eyes widened.

“What? James, that wasn’t the plan—!”

“I know,” he said miserably. “Trust me.”

Lily didn’t wait for more. She stood, grabbed her bag, and strode from the library like a woman on a mission.

—

She found you in the girls’ dormitory, door slightly ajar, the room quiet except for the faint rustle of parchment and the erratic, uneven sounds of your breathing.

The gold-letter lay open on your duvet, surrounded by all the other ones you’d carefully saved. The edges were frayed and thumbed from how often you’d reread them, but now they were scattered like fallen leaves, forming a halo around your crossed legs.

You didn’t look up when Lily entered.

She sat beside you quietly.

For a while, there was only the sound of your sniffles and the occasional tear hitting paper.

“I feel insane,” you said eventually, voice shaking. “I— I didn’t think— I never imagined it would be him,”

Lily reached out gently, plucking a letter from the bedspread. “You mean to tell me you never noticed the handwriting?”

“I never thought to look,” you mumbled. “Why would I? It was James Potter. He was—he was awful for so long,”

“But he isn’t now,”

You looked at her then, eyes red, lips trembling. “No. He’s not,”

There was a long pause.

Lily tilted her head. “You really like him, don’t you?”

You groaned, flopping backwards onto your pillow with a dramatic sigh. “I guess! I don’t—I didn’t think I did, not like that, not really, not until recently, and now—now I don’t know what to do, Lily,”

Lily smiled gently. “It’s okay. It’s… a lot. I know that,”

“It’s so much,” you moaned. “It’s like my brain is having a meltdown. All the letters—I loved the letters, and now they’re his letters and it’s like this huge secret just blew up in my face and I think I want to cry but also yell but also maybe kiss him and I don’t know what order those things go in!”

Lily laughed softly. “That’s the grief talking,”

You sniffled. “Grief?”

“Yeah,” she said solemnly. “The five stages of realising you’ve been in love with James Potter,”

You gave her a look.

“I’m serious. Denial—you definitely had that one early. Anger? You stormed out of the library. Bargaining—we’re doing that now. Depression is when you go quiet and start rereading all his letters while questioning your entire existence. And acceptance—well,”

“I’m not at acceptance yet,” you insisted, even as your voice wobbled. “I’m still in a very dramatic spiral,”

“You’ll get there,” Lily said kindly. “Just… breathe, okay? You’re allowed to freak out. But this—this doesn’t have to be bad,”

“He lied to me,”

“He didn’t lie,” Lily said gently. “He just… couldn’t find the courage to tell you the truth,”

You fell quiet, chewing your lip. “Was this your plan all along?”

Lily hesitated. “Not this exact ending, but… I knew. For a while. And I may have nudged things along,”

You groaned again, grabbing a pillow and burying your face in it. “You kept it from me?”

“It wasn’t mine to tell,”

You peeked out. “He’s really upset, isn’t he?”

“Like a kicked puppy,”

—

James was falling apart.

The Marauders tried their best to be supportive.

Which, unfortunately, amounted to Sirius offering him chocolate, Remus recommending deep breathing exercises, and Peter saying things like, “Well, at least it’s out now?”

“Out?” James choked. “It’s out like a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a greenhouse! She’s going to hate me,”

“You’re being dramatic,” Sirius said. “She likes you. Even I can see that,”

“She liked the version of me who wrote the letters,” James said. “Not the idiot who shoved them in a bag and hoped they never saw the light of day,”

“She liked you, mate,” Remus corrected. “You were being yourself in those letters. You just… didn’t know how to show it in person,”

James rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

“No,” Sirius said, surprisingly firm. “Not unless you give up now,”

James looked at him.

“You’ve come this far. She knows now. You can’t back down. Not unless you’re okay with always wondering what would’ve happened if you tried,”

James took a deep breath.

“I want to try,”

“Then try,” Remus said, clapping him on the shoulder.

—

You stayed up most of the night rereading the letters.

Every word hit differently now.

The soft musings. The little jokes. The genuine awe in the way he’d described you.

James Potter had written them all.

And somehow, that made your heart hurt in the most complicated, overwhelming, real way.

By morning, your mind was no clearer—but you knew one thing.

You needed to talk to him.

—

James didn’t wake up until nearly noon.

He jolted upright in bed with a strangled noise, heart racing, hair a chaotic mess of pillow creases and stress, the realisation slamming into his chest like a Bludger—he’d missed practice.

He’d missed practice.

On the day of the finals.

There was a beat of stunned silence in the common room, broken only by Peter’s stifled gasp as James scrambled down the stairs, knocking over a chair, his wand, and nearly himself in his blind panic.

“Shit—shit—shit—”

“James, mate, calm down,” came Sirius’s voice, too calm, too amused for the situation.

“I missed practice, Sirius! Finals practice! I'm the captain! I was supposed to run drills, go over the formations—McLaggen was probably leading it, and now the team’s going to think I don’t give a damn—”

“Breathe,” Remus added, flicking his wand to fix James’ mess of a hairdo mid-spiral.

“I can’t—breathe! I should be—kicked off the team, I should sub myself out—”

At that, Sirius sat up properly, ruffling a hand through his dark hair. “Okay, whoa, no. What are you on about?”

James didn’t answer. He was halfway dressed, chest still heaving, hands shaking so badly he couldn’t even fasten the buttons.

“I mean it,” he muttered, voice lower now, harsher. “Maybe I shouldn’t play,”

“You’re literally the best Chaser in the school,” Peter said, face scrunched in confusion.

“I’m also a disaster. You didn’t see her face yesterday. She looked—like I’d broken her, or something. I can’t concentrate, I can’t think—I can’t lead the team if my brain’s stuck on whether or not I’ve ruined the only real shot I had with her,”

“James,” Sirius said carefully, sitting on the edge of one of the sofas. “You don’t have to ruin everything just because your crush found out you have feelings,”

James shot him a look. “It’s more than that and you know it,”

Sirius shrugged. “I do. I also know you’re being an idiot,”

“I panicked. I didn’t mean for her to find the letter—”

“No one thinks you did,” Remus said gently.

“Then why did she run?”

Sirius gave him a flat look. “I dunno, maybe because she’s been falling for you and just found out the sweet, romantic mystery boy she’s been dreaming about for a year is the same idiot who hexed her potions cauldron in fourth year? Maybe it was a lot?”

James dropped heavily into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

He muttered something into his palms that sounded suspiciously like, “I hate everything,”

Sirius stood. “You can’t sit this match out, Prongs,”

“I might make things worse,”

“You won’t,” Remus said.

“You’re just scared,” Sirius added. “And you should be. Feelings are terrifying. But you either play today and show her you’re still you, or you hide away and let her think she was right to walk away,”

James didn’t answer.

—

You were pacing the corridor outside the Gryffindor common room like a lunatic.

You’d spent half the night re-reading the letters again, still overwhelmed, still processing, but ultimately—and maybe most importantly—feeling guilty.

You hadn’t meant to run out on him like that. You did still care. A lot. Too much.

So you needed to say something. Maybe not everything. Maybe not a confession, not yet. But something.

You asked a third year if they’d seen James. They hadn’t.

You tried the Quidditch pitch. Empty.

Eventually, you made your way to the prefects dorms, hesitating at the door before quietly pushing it open.

“…sub myself out…”

You froze.

James was sitting on his bed, dressed in his Quidditch uniform, looking like the ghost of himself. Sirius was pacing. Remus and Peter were quiet. And then—

“Oh,” you blurted.

All four heads turned.

You immediately wanted to melt into the floor. “I—uh—I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I was just—um—I came to wish you luck. For the match. Lily and I are gonna watch for Marlene, obviously, and I know you were really going on about it yesterday so… yeah.”

Your cheeks were burning. You tugged at the sleeve of your jumper and avoided eye contact like it would save you from death by embarrassment. “Anyway. Yeah. Good luck,”

You turned and practically sprinted out the door, pressing both palms to your face the moment it closed behind you.

Inside, there was a beat of silence.

Then Sirius’s slow, satisfied, “She so likes you,”

James didn’t believe it. But still—he sat up straighter. There was a faint flush in his cheeks, a tiny, hopeful ember reigniting.

He wasn’t going to sub himself out.

Not now he knew you were watching.

—

The match that afternoon was nothing short of brutal.

Ravenclaw had a reputation for smart plays and clever feints, and they came in swinging with strategy and speed. But James was a force. It was like someone had lit a fire under him—every pass was clean, every dodge intentional. He was focused. Sharp. Alive in a way he hadn’t been in days.

The crowd in the stands was on fire.

You’d never really been the biggest Quidditch enthusiast—not like Marlene or even Dorcas, who pretended to be bored most games but secretly had a very complex internal fantasy league ranking system. But today? You were completely, helplessly, entirely invested.

Your throat was raw from shouting. You didn’t even care that Lily kept elbowing you in the ribs every time you shrieked James’s name louder than was probably acceptable for someone not dating him. (Yet.)

“I’m sorry,” you rasped after the sixth time, cupping your hands over your mouth as James executed an absolutely outrageous dive to steal the Quaffle from a Ravenclaw Chaser. “But that was hot. That was so—Lily, did you see that—?”

Lily didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t grinning. “I saw it. The whole pitch saw it. You are so painfully gone for this boy it’s almost tragic,”

You shoved her shoulder, cheeks on fire, unable to wipe the dopey grin off your face. James was glowing—wind-swept, flushed, every movement clean and confident and completely alive. It was unfair how good he looked flying. Like it was something stitched into his DNA.

Gryffindor was ahead. Barely. And the entire stadium was one collective heartbeat waiting for the final move.

It came with a streak of red and gold as the Seeker bolted upward—Marlene’s signature move—and then a roar from the crowd when she clutched the Snitch in her hand, grinning like a maniac.

“Yes!” you and Lily screamed in unison, nearly falling over the bench in front of you.

Below, the team rushed to meet her midair, swarming in a tangle of hugs and back pats, and James—James looked up toward the stands, searching, scanning, finding you.

Your breath caught. He grinned, absolutely beaming, and you—without thinking—grinned back.

—

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing. It looked like every single student in the house had packed themselves in to celebrate the win. There were butterbeers flying, someone had enchanted the couches to bounce like trampolines, and music blasted from one corner where Sirius had commandeered the record player.

You tried to stay off to the side with Lily and the other girls, laughing and pretending to be just another teammate’s supporter, not the girl who had maybe-sort-of-definitely admitted feelings for the captain.

But they were not having it.

“Go talk to him,” Dorcas demanded, poking you hard in the ribs.

“He just won the Cup, obviously you have to congratulate him,” Mary added, dragging you a few steps forward.

“I will! Just—” You resisted, flustered. “I need a second. Or ten.”

You didn’t get ten.

Because moments later, James appeared near the fireplace, sweaty and still in uniform, laughing at something Sirius said, absolutely radiant. And the girls all but shoved you in his direction.

You stumbled a bit, clutching your butterbeer like a life raft. He noticed you instantly.

His smile faltered. Just slightly.

You walked the rest of the way on your own, heart hammering like a snitch in your chest.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” James replied, voice quieter than usual.

You stared at each other for a long moment.

Then Sirius, bless his idiotic timing, called from across the room. “Oi! If you’re gonna stare at each other all night, at least do it while snogging! Save us all the agony!”

You blinked. James blinked. Your face caught fire.

You coughed, trying to rally. “Congratulatio—”

“I like you.”

You blinked again. He was staring at you now, so intently, like you were the only person in the room. The words spilled out of him like they’d been waiting on his tongue for weeks.

“A lot. It might not even be liking anymore—I think I might actually be in love with you. Which is terrifying, obviously. I mean, do you know how scary that is? I didn’t mean to say that just now but it’s true and now it’s out there and I can’t take it back and I am so definitely panicking right now what am I doing—”

“James.”

He stopped.

You took a step closer.

“I like you too.”

Silence.

Then James let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a laugh and maybe a choke. “You do?”

“I do,”

“Like, like-like me?”

You rolled your eyes, grinning now. “Do you want me to write it in a letter that I’ll never send to you?”

“Okay, wow,” James let out a short laugh, one your grateful breaks the tension a little. “Too soon, too soon,”

He looks at you with unbridled affection as you return the laugh with an unapologic “Sorry,”, and he can’t seem to help himself.

“We should kiss now, right? Wait—should I have asked that? That sounded stupid—so stupid—oh my God, what is wrong with me, I’m gonna go cry in a corner—”

You interrupted him the only way that made sense.

You kissed him.

He froze for half a second—just long enough to register that it was actually happening—and then he melted into it like he’d been waiting forever. His hands hovered for a moment before settling, warm and firm, at your waist. His mouth was soft, gentle, hesitant in the best way, like he was afraid he’d wake up and realise this was all a dream.

But it wasn’t. It was very, very real.

And, unfortunately, also very public.

“Oi! You’re in public, you know!” came Marlene’s unmistakable cackle from across the room.

You broke the kiss, face flaming as you realised—oh no—everyone had seen.

Like… everyone.

James looked equally shellshocked. You both stared at the cheering, whooping, laughing room of Gryffindors, then at each other.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Kill me now.”

James laughed, looping his arms around your shoulders and holding you tight, radiating smug glee.

“No can do,” he said into your hair. “I’ve been waiting years for this,”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“And yet,” he grinned, “you like me anyway.”

You looked up at him. “Unfortunately.”

And yeah, okay—maybe it was chaotic, and soft, and totally unplanned—but your first kiss with James Potter was exactly as ridiculous and wonderful as it should’ve been.

Lily caught your eye across the common room after the commotion of the kiss settled into a hundred knowing glances and too-loud whispers. She made a very obvious, very exaggerated “go!” motion with both hands, then shoved her way across the crowd to reach you.

“We are not doing this in front of thirty nosy Gryffindors,” she said under her breath, looping her arm through yours and all but dragging you toward the dorms.

“Wait, what’s happening—”

“Privacy, darling. Trust me,”

She glanced back at James, who was still slightly dazed, and jerked her head at him. “Potter. Move,”

He blinked. “Yeah—yep—coming.”

“Also,” she added over her shoulder to the room at large, “if anyone so much as breathes near the Head Boy’s dorm in the next hour, I will personally hex your toes off,”

There was a smattering of laughter, but everyone—whether out of respect or fear—gave a collective nod of understanding.

You didn’t even fight her on it. You let her guide you through the winding corridors until James was unlocking the door to his private dorm, a quiet space tucked away on the top floor of Gryffindor Tower.

He stepped aside to let you in first. You walked in slowly, half-expecting something chaotic, like prank supplies or an entire wall of Quidditch posters—but the room was surprisingly clean. A little messy around the edges, sure—a few rogue socks, a quill left in an ink bottle too long—but warm. Lived in. His.

“Your curtains don’t match,” you said, for lack of anything better.

He chuckled nervously. “Yeah. Peter charmed them once to be the colours of the Weird Sisters and I’ve never managed to get them back properly,”

You nodded slowly. “Cool,”

A pause.

Then—

“You’ve liked me since fourth year?”

It slipped out without warning. You hadn’t meant to say it, not so quickly, but the words burned in your chest. That letter, the gold-foiled parchment, the confession—it was still vibrating through you.

James looked startled, but only for a second. He nodded once, soft and certain.

“Yeah,”

You swallowed. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Because I was a little idiot. Arrogant. Immature. A menace, honestly. You hated me,”

“I didn’t—hate you,”

“You did,”

“…Okay, a little, maybe,”

That made him laugh.

“But honestly— I didn’t think I deserved to like you back then,” he said. “You were smart. And kind. And so real. You were always thinking about things, you saw people. I was just the loud idiot on a broom,”

You were quiet, because hearing it like that—laid out so plainly—made your heart ache.

He was in front of you now, barely a foot away. You thought he was going to kiss you again, but he didn’t.

Instead, James reached up and gently cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs grazing the apple of your cheeks like you were made of glass and starlight. And then he just looked at you. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he was committing every inch of you to memory.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper, “how much you make me feel.”

You couldn’t speak.

So instead, you leaned up and kissed him.

This time, there was no chaos. No crowd. No interruptions. Just you, and James, and the warmth of something blooming between your ribs.

It was slow—achingly so—your lips brushing his like a question. He exhaled into you, a soft, broken sound, and kissed you back like you were the answer.

It was… everything.

The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove itself. One that said: I see you. I’m here. I want this.

Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you murmured, “Thank you,”

He pulled back just slightly, brow furrowing. “For what?”

You looked up at him, heart thundering.

“You didn’t make this some huge thing. You didn’t… turn it into a game, or a bet, or something loud and performative. You liked me. And you didn’t hide it, but you didn’t push me either. You just… were. You were you.” You blinked. “Thank you for being you,”

James’s face crumpled just a little, like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or cry. One of his hands dropped to your waist, the other curling behind your neck like he needed the anchor.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

“I don’t think you know,” he said hoarsely, “how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that,”

You smiled, dizzy with it all. “Well. Get used to it,”

His lips brushed yours again, so soft it was almost nothing. “I’m really, really in love with you,”

Your breath caught.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then you kissed him again.

And again.

And again.

-MDNI FROM THIS POINT ONWARD.-

It started soft—careful, like you were both still testing the weight of the moment. His hands cradled your face like you were something fragile, something precious, something he’d been terrified of holding wrong for years. But each time your mouths met again, the kiss deepened. Grew bolder. A little less hesitant. A little more sure.

Your fingers tangled in his hair—so soft, so stupidly soft—and James let out a noise against your mouth that had your heart stuttering in your chest. The hand cupping your cheek slid down, fingers grazing your jaw, your neck, until it found the curve of your waist and settled there, grounding you.

He was warm. Too warm. Like every inch of him was heat and adrenaline and the barely-contained relief of finally, finally having this.

You tugged him closer.

He didn’t hesitate.

Your back met the edge of the desk behind you, his chest flush with yours, and suddenly there was no air left between your bodies. Just the solid, real weight of him—every inch as solid and strong as you’d imagined when he walked through the halls like the sun had chosen him to orbit around. But here, like this, he was just James. And he was looking at you like he could drown in the sight of you.

His thumb brushed along your hipbone, under the hem of your shirt, and your whole body lit up like you’d been cursed—like every nerve ending had just remembered it was alive.

“Are we—?” he started to ask, breathless.

You kissed him again before he could finish. “I don’t know,” you murmured. “But don’t stop,”

James definitely didn’t stop.

His hands wandered with a careful hunger—like he wanted to memorise the shape of you, not just with touch but with reverence. His mouth followed the same path, trailing kisses from the corner of your lips down the line of your jaw to the soft skin beneath your ear. When he whispered your name there, barely audible, your knees buckled.

You gripped his shirt, fisting the fabric at his chest to stay steady. “God, you’re—” You stopped yourself before the rest could fall out, but the look in his eyes said he’d heard the whole thing anyway.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something—maybe something funny, maybe something devastating—but you kissed him before he had the chance. This time slower, more deliberate, your mouths fitting together like puzzle pieces that had always been waiting for the right alignment.

And it worked. Somehow, it just worked.

The kind of kiss that felt like you’d been chasing it your whole life.

James groaned softly into your mouth, and that noise did something catastrophic to your brain. One of his hands slid up your back, fingers spread wide like he was trying to anchor himself to you, and when you opened your eyes for half a second to look at him, you found him already watching you—eyes blown wide with want, with feeling, with everything.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against your skin. “For so long,”

James kissed you like a man starved after that—still gentle, always careful, but no longer pulling back.

It was clumsy in places, breathless in others. Too many teeth in one kiss, your shoulder knocking into a stack of textbooks in another. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

You were on fire.

And James was the match, the spark, the sun itself.

At some point, his forehead pressed to yours. You both just breathed. Hard. Laughing softly between gasps, because of course it was James who made kissing this addictive and this stupid.

You were lost in him.

In the feel of every inch of him pressed against you—his hips pinning you to the edge of the desk, his body surrounding you like a forcefield of lean muscle and freckled skin.

Heat was unfurling like liquid fire in your veins, but his mouth still traced over your jawline and across your cheek like he couldn’t stop. Like you were precious.

You gripped the fabric of his shirt, tugging hard enough to bring his gaze back to yours and then holding it, your breath hitching when you caught that look in his eyes, and his hips moved—just once, and just a little—and god, what that did to you. How it sent desire flashing like a lightning bolt down your spine to pool low in your stomach, and you had to bite down on your lip to keep from gasping out loud.

His fingers curled around your hips, digging into the soft flesh through your jeans, and then he pulled you closer like he couldn’t get enough. Closer still, until you were practically draped over the desk, your thighs parted and hips flush with his, and he was devouring you—his touch, his kiss, with no sign of being full.

God, he wanted everything.

His hands mapped out the line of your waist, your ribs, your spine, and everywhere you could feel the warm, rough slide of his touch you burned for more. Your heart was beating so fast you were sure he could feel it pulsing through your skin, and when you rolled your hips up towards his you were just as surprised by the noise you made as James was.

He inhaled sharply, swearing softly, and there would have been time to be embarrassed if you weren’t too busy being turned to mush.

“God that was hot,” James practically breathes out the words, hungry eyes half hidden behind fog-covered lenses as they drag down your body.

He looked utterly ruined already. Hair a mess from you running your fingers through it, shirt rumpled from when you couldn’t keep yourself from touching him. Wanting him.

You reached up to cup his face on impulse, your fingers tracing the lines of his cheeks, his jaw, before sliding your fingers across the arms of his glasses, delicately pulling them from his face. “D’you need these?”

The smirk that spreads across his face is just a little bit smug, but it still does things to you. “Depends,” he said, still breathless. “Are we planning on doing anything that would necessitate me being able to see?”

You laugh, dropping both your voices, and it comes out sounding rough. “Maybe not,” you say, slipping the specs into the front pocket of his shirt. “Do you need to be able to see to kiss me?”

His eyes are half-lidded, and you could count each of his eyelashes from the way he’s looking at you, lips still swollen from a few minutes ago. “No,” he murmurs, leaning down to brush his mouth over yours again, “but it does help with the view.”

He took your chin with his finger, tilting your face up so he could take in the sight of you properly. A slow-burning warmth unfurled in your stomach—no, lower than that, and for a few seconds you were both just looking, and it felt almost more intimate than the last few minutes.

“God, you’re… blurry,” he whispered, and you can’t help the sharp laugh that echoes out of your throat.

“Bugger off,” you said, without any real intent behind it. You weren’t even sure why you were acting so shy—maybe you were just overwhelmed by the situation, the feelings, or the way being with James just felt. Whatever the reason, he seemed to find your nervousness amusing.

He chuckled, dipping his head to press a kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear, right there at the edge of your jaw where you were softest. “I’m kidding,” he murmured. “I’m nearsighted. And you’re definitely close enough for me to see,”

He pulled back just enough for the smirk to return, the tips of his fingers grazing over the strip of exposed skin between the hem of your shirt and the waist of your jeans and sending a shiver down your spine. His mouth was still curved in that maddeningly smug smile, but his voice was so low when he continued to talk. “I’m gonna take your shirt off now, okay?”

The question comes out quiet and gentle, but there’s a heat to it too. Asking what you want, asking what you’ll let him have.

You manage a breathless, “okay,” and his gaze is still fixed on you when he lets his hands slide up under your shirt, calloused fingers dancing over the bare skin of your waist.

Every point of contact seemed to sizzle, nerve endings you didn’t even know you had sparking alive beneath his touch. You felt like you were trembling, like every breath hit was a jolt of pure, liquid feeling.

His eyes were still trained on your face as he drew your shirt over your head, gaze drifting across your exposed chest with an unabashed—and kind of feral—kind of reverence. “God, you’re perfect—”

He pressed a kiss to the spot just below your collarbone, and you could feel the rasp of a day’s worth of stubble against your skin, burning down to your very bones. Both his hands splayed across your ribcage, like he was trying to memorise the shape of your body by touch.

You can hear the sharp intake of breath he takes when his fingers catch the edge of your bra, and he’s already murmuring again, his voice a low, wrecked sound against your bare skin. “Can I take this off too?”

You answer by helping him fumble with the hooks, the heat from his skin and his gaze almost too much to bear. By the time it hits the floor somewhere behind you, his mouth has found the delicate, thrumming hollow of your neck, and his hands are wandering lower. Across your stomach, tracing over your curves to slide across your hipbone and dip under the waist of your jeans.

Any coherent thoughts you’d been clinging on to up until this point were gone, lost in a haze of heat and want. Every touch was electric, his mouth searing a path down your neck, across your shoulder, across the bare skin of your collarbone, until he’d left a trail of warm, open-mouthed kisses along the apex of your breasts.

“You sound so good,” he whispered, the words catching against your skin. “Taste so good.”

He was everywhere, surrounding you, all his attention on the body under his touch. His nose grazed the sensitive skin just above your nipple, just a gentle brush at first, and then he flicked the tip of his tongue across the peak of your breast and every nerve in your body went white hot.

“God—” the single syllable comes out as a broken gasp. A plea, maybe, a wordless begging for more.

He chuckled softly, a dangerous, wicked sound, and then he closed his mouth over your nipple and sucked. It felt like he’d lit a fire in the pit of your stomach, like it was all you could do to breathe, and he wasn’t even finished. One of his hands was still holding your hip—steadying you as he switched his attention to the other, teeth scraping just enough to make the heat in your belly flare brighter, deeper, all of your muscles tensing at once.

Every part of you felt like it was on fire, and you were so empty. The ache between your thighs was insistent, demanding attention you couldn’t give it. You let out a breathless whine, shifting to try and get some friction, and when he raised his head to look at you, eyes all half-lidded and mouth still slightly slick, you thought you might actually go insane.

You were so caught up in the moment that it took a second longer than it should’ve to notice the cocky smile plastered across his face. He was watching you writhe under his touch like it was the best show he’d ever seen.

“You good up there?” he said teasingly. “Look like you’re about to combust.”

“Bastard,” you managed, and it sounded as breathless as you felt. You reached up to bury a hand in his hair, tugging on handfuls of messy waves and relishing in the way he cursed softly under his breath. “You’re a goddamn tease.”

He gave the underside of your breast one last wet kiss, then started pressing a line of kisses up your body towards your mouth. “A tease, am I?” He said between kisses, his voice still low and rough. “I don’t know, sounds more like I’m trying my best to be a gentleman instead of rushing into the action,”

“Some gentleman,” you laughed, and that time it came out more of a gasp than anything else. He’d drawn himself up to full height, looking down at you with a smirk that was half amused and half smug, and god, he was handsome. “You’ve got me half naked on your desk, I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of gentlemanly,”

“That’s not my fault,” he said, mock-offended, and you let out a bark of laughter. “You’re the one who started it. With the shirt, and the kissing. All my good intentions went right out the window,”

You were still giggling—his hand was now tracing idle circles on your hip, gentle and tender—but his touch was driving you insane. He was everywhere, burning through your skin, and all it did was make the heat beneath your ribs worse. You took a deep, shaking breath, trying to slow down your heart.

Your voice came out much more timid than you expected. “You’d probably better finish what you started, then.”

His eyes caught yours, and the smile that spread across his face sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Are you asking me to take your pants off, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes at the endearment, but it was impossible to stay irritated with the way your heart was jumping into your throat. “I’m asking you to take your pants off, actually,”

He raised an eyebrow, expression still cocky but edged with a touch of surprise. He looked so good like that—glasses missing, mouth pink and kiss-swollen, eyes fixed on your every move. “Consider it done,”

He took your chin in one hand, his touch almost teasing, tilting your head back to give himself full access to the line of your neck. His other hand drifted to rest on your side, pulling you away from the desk to push you over to his four-poster instead.

It was a bit undignified, stumbling backwards while he was still glued to your neck, but somehow you both managed to land in a heap on the mattress, with him on top. The sheets rustled in protest, and god, you could just feel his weight on top of you, pinning you to the mattress and setting fire to every point of contact.

You barely even noticed him pulling off his own shirt and pants, your mind too clouded with desire to pay attention. You just watched, taking in the sight of his bare chest and the sharp planes of his muscles, his lean and strong and all you could do was reach up to run your hands down across his shoulders—over the freckles and moles and scars that covered his skin.

He let out a strangled sound when your hands slid over the waistband of his boxers, his eyes fixed on your face, his whole body rigid under your touch as the fabric drags down his thighs. He was breathless, his breathing coming fast and shallow, but he still managed to speak.

“You seem to be missing a few things, if you haven’t noticed.” His voice was still that same, annoyingly smooth, but there was a rasp to it too. Like talking was suddenly more difficult than it should have been.

And yeah, okay, he had a point. You hadn’t even realised you were still wearing jeans until now, but it was quickly becoming an issue. He was still pinning you to the mattress, but you managed to lift your hips up under him enough to reach the zipper on your pants.

He sat back on his heels, watching you struggle out of your jeans—he reached down to help when your legs got tangled, and you swore the smirk on his face when he got the second leg off was almost wolfish. “Careful, there, you almost kneed me in the bollocks.”

“Too bad, I was aiming for them.”

He laughed, running a hand up your bare thigh, fingers tracing across the edge of your underwear and making your whole body burn. “Nice knickers.”

“Shut up,” you said, but your voice was already hoarse, half from the effort of talking and half from the way every little touch seemed to send lightning straight to the pit of your stomach. “You literally have snitches on your boxers, you’re not allowed to make fun of me,”

“For your information, they’re my lucky boxers,” he said, as if it was the most logical thing in the entire world. “And they seem to be working,”

You were about to comment on the ridiculousness of that statement, but then he let his hand brush over the damp patch in your panties and every thought in your head evaporated in about ten seconds flat. “Oh, fuck—”

His touch was agonising. Just a single, gentle stroke traced across the edge of your underwear, but it felt like being set on fire. “You’re so wet,” he murmured, still watching your face like the world’s most beautiful train wreck, and the way he’s smirking is just a little bit cruel. “Is this all because of me?”

You should’ve found the teasing infuriating—maybe even patronising, but your head was spinning and you were so turned on you couldn’t think straight. “You know it is,” you managed to gasp out, arching your hips up into his touch and desperately trying to find more friction.

His thumb pressed across your clit through your underwear and the gasp that came out of your mouth was practically obscene. “Good,” he said. “I like that.”

He was shifting back on top of you, and his mouth was on your neck, hot and wet and distracting, and you’d almost forgotten about his thumb until it moved again—a slow, torturous circle that had you whining. “God, you sound so good,” he murmured against your skin. “Can I take these off? Please?”

If you’d had even a second of self-control left, you probably would’ve found the way he was almost begging for it adorable, but as it was all you could manage to do was nod.

You felt more than heard him swear, and the next thing you know he’s hooking his fingers around the elastic of your underwear, pulling them down your legs with a speed that says he’s having trouble keeping his own eagerness in check.

He sat back once you were completely naked—just you, sprawled out on his four-poster, bare and trembling and wanting. Every part of you felt like it was on edge, like you’d fall apart as soon as he touched you again.

He was looking at you like he was starving, eyes wandering across every inch of your body. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, “Merlin, look at you,”

You couldn’t help but shiver under his gaze, the feeling of helplessness sending another jolt of heat down your spine. You’d almost gotten used to seeing that cocky smirk of his, but now it was gone—replaced by a look you couldn’t place, like he was in awe of you.

You watched helplessly as he shifted, his body covering yours again, bare skin against bare skin. His cock was already hard against your thigh and you were so empty that you knew nothing except the urge to have him as close to you as possible. “Please,” you managed to say, words a gasp as he traced a finger over your hip.

He groaned softly at the desperation in your voice, and then he was reaching down, his fingers finding your opening and sliding in. All you could do was moan out loud, clenching around him and aching for more. “God—” His voice was ragged, rough, like he was using all his willpower just to keep himself from going too fast. “That’s it. That’s it,” he murmured, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You’re so tight.”

“You’re gonna destroy me,” you gasped out, as he slowly started to pump his fingers in and out. “I—” Whatever you’d been about to say dissolved into another moan. “Please, just—”

“I’ve got you,” he said, and another kiss, against your collarbone. “I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you,” And then he added a third finger, and you were certain you wouldn’t even be able to string words together anymore.

“Oh god—oh, god—” Your back arched again, hips lifting off the bed, and he curled his fingers again and the pleasure of it was so sharp it almost hurt.

“Just like that? You like that?” He murmured softly against your skin.

You weren’t even sure how to answer that, your brain so overwhelmed by heat and pleasure that all you could do was let out a helpless whine.

He kept pumping his fingers, working you open, and you were trembling with the effort of trying not to let go just yet. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, and god, he was so cocky like this. “Just be patient—”

You gasped out something between a laugh and a moan. “Patient? You have some nerve—”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of nerve,” he said, and then he pulled his fingers out with another sound from your throat. You were about to complain, but he kissed you before you could—a brief brush of his mouth on yours that was so distracting you almost didn’t notice him moving until he was between your thighs.

He had one hand on your hip and the other wrapped around himself, and the way he’s looking at you makes your whole body ache.

“You ready?” He asked, and his voice is still rough and a little breathy. You nodded, words failing you, and the sound he made was almost desperate.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, and then the tip of his cock was right at your entrance and you were trembling so badly you were almost whimpering.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he promised, and then he started to press in. It was a torturously slow stretch, every inch of him filling you like you were made for him. You’re still too full of him—you clench around him without meaning to, and all of him shudders.

“Oh my god,” he says, and it comes out like a gasp, and when he’s finally in all the way you feel like you might cry, like he’s touching all of those parts of you you’ve been waiting for him to find.

“Oh, god,” you moan, and it’s all you can manage. It’s just too much—the feeling of him, the stretch of your body, the heat in your ribs that you can’t seem to breathe around. It’s like he’s everywhere, and you’re not sure you want it to ever stop.

“I’ve got you,” he says, and he’s starting to move, “that’s it, breathe. Just feel me.” He leans down to kiss you, messy and sloppy, just a brush of open mouths before you’re arching off the bed and his lips are on your neck.

“You look so god damn good like this,” his thrusts are slow, deep, and they’re already driving you mad. “All spread out for me.” You can’t even answer him in words anymore, every sound slipping out of your mouth a high, breathy whine.

He keeps up his torturously slow pace for what feels like a small eternity, and every time he pushes in you can feel him against the inside of you, like your body was made to take him in. “You feel so good,” he’s murmuring, “God, why haven’t we done this before?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t been a coward for the last three years—” Your response is humorous, lighthearted, and falls almost completely flat as it comes out more desperate than goading.

But everything feels so good—he feels so good, the slow drag of his cock filling you over and over, his hands on your thighs holding you open just for him, his teeth and mouth everywhere they can reach.

He laughs, the sound coming out as half-moan, and it’s incredible how he’s somehow still acting cheeky when he’s like this—like the whole world has shrunk down to the two of you and there’s still room for playfulness. “Maybe if you hadn’t been so blind you would’ve noticed me sooner,” he says, and he’s still teasing, like he isn’t literally inside you, and you’d hit him if you had the brainpower. “You could’ve had this the whole time.”

Your face is so flushed it feels like you’re on fire, every muscle in your body tense and trembling. You dig your nails into his shoulders, trying to find some kind of anchor. “You’re still a cocky bastard, you know that?” But it’s hard to keep up the banter, and all it comes out sounding like is a soft whine.

“I know,” he grins, and he’s so smug you’d almost hate him if you weren’t so desperate for him. “God why didn’t I know sex felt this good-?” He leans down again, his mouth hovering over yours, the heat of him so close that you can feel it and it burns.

“Maybe I’m just that good,” you manage to say—and yes, okay, your voice is half a gasp and the words are broken, breathless by the way he’s still moving inside you, but you still manage.

He laughs again, sharp and ragged at the edge, and you feel like you’re being unwound like some old toy, your whole body vibrating like a live wire. The stretch of him is almost too much to bear.

He’s still smirking when he says, “And you call me cocky,”

He’s picking up the pace, but only just enough to make you whine again, his head dipped to mouth at your throat again.

You’re so tight around him it’s like he’s trying to make you come apart one piece at a time, his breath warm against your skin as he keeps whispering. “But you’re right, you feel so damn good—”

He’s losing control, losing his smugness, because despite what he said about patience he looks like he’s ready to go over the edge already. But he’s still got that smirk on his face, like even now, when he’s all ragged breaths and desperate thrusts, he’s still teasing. “I should’ve done this sooner. Should’ve taken you back here back in fourth year. Should’ve had you like this when I first started thinking about you,”

His hands are on your hips, his thumbs digging into your hipbones like he’s trying to hold himself back from just snapping and going wild on you.

“Should’ve had every day in fifth year," he’s panting now, and he’s still going just as slow, making it feel like you’re being taken apart, piece by piece. “Would’ve been better than those stupid pranks.”

You can’t even laugh—you just can’t, every nerve in your body is set off like a firework. You manage, “You’re- you’re terrible,” but then you’re arching your hips up into him, your body taking over despite yourself.

“I’m terrible,” he agrees, but he’s grinning, he’s breathless and there’s a sweat on his forehead and he still looks infuriatingly gorgeous. “Doesn’t change the fact that I want you so bad I can’t think straight. Couldn’t, back then. Just followed you around like an idiot.”

“You were an idiot,” you manage, and he’s moving faster now, his arms shaking on either side of you. “You-ah—” You’re falling apart—you can feel it happening—“you were an arrogant bastard—”

He’s kissing your neck and it just makes you louder, your words coming out in ragged gasps. “I know,” he says, like he’s laughing, and you would want to smack him if he didn’t feel so good. “I was an arrogant bastard who was in love with you,”

The words hit you like a bolt of lightning. You open your mouth to respond, but right at that moment he thrusts in a way that hits that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, and the sound that comes out of you is so indecent.

“You—oh, god—” You’re trembling, you’re coming undone underneath him, and he’s doing his best to keep up the pace but you can tell there’s something desperate taking over. “I’m- god, I can’t, I’m so-“

He’s losing more and more control, his breathing ragged and his own body shaking as like he’s just barely holding himself together.

“Please,” it comes out like a gasp, “just come for me, please, come on-” And he’s begging, now, like he couldn’t stand it another minute more, “I just want you to come, please, you’re so perfect—”

He’s pressing right against that spot, over and over, and you’re so on edge you think you might be dreaming. “I’m gonna— oh, god-”

His hand has snuck down between you, fingers moving in tight, fast circles on you clit, and everything is so close and so hot you could die— “God, you look perfect, come on, that’s it, you’re so good—“

The tension in you is snapping, and you’re on the edge, you’re so close you can’t see straight. “Please, I— I-“ you’re there, you’re there, you’re going to fall but he’s falling too.

“Come on, you’re so close, just come-“ He’s begging again, and you’re shaking so hard you feel like you might fall apart—and then you do, and the pleasure hits like a lightning bolt, and you’re crying out loud, the sound breaking like a whimper, and you feel like you’re going to fall apart.

“Oh, god-” His body’s shaking, the breath leaving his chest in ragged gasps, and you’re just clinging to him, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm and shaking so hard you think you might go insane. “Oh, god, oh, god-”

It didn’t really help that James was still going.

“God you’re so beautiful,” he’s saying, “God, you’re so beautiful, you’re so good, you’re so-“

Another wave comes over you like a shockwave, and it’s almost too much, you’re so sensitive and over-whelmed you feel like it’ll break you, but he’s still going, still moving inside you, still driving you straight through the edge of pleasure and over it into something bright-hot and almost frantic. “God, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come—“ He’s falling apart, and he’s never looked better. “I’ll pull out I promise—”

You can’t find the words to answer him, but you manage a nod, your whole body trembling as you cling to him.

He swore, and he’d almost be swearing with that same cocky smirk if it weren’t for the fact that he’s falling apart completely, gasping out “You’re gonna kill me, you’re gonna-”

His whole body trembles, and then he’s pulling out, just in time, his body going rigid, his mouth finding yours in a messy, desperate sort of kiss. And he’s still shaking, still panting against your skin, his forehead pressed against yours like he’s never going to let go, watery ropes of his come left decorating your pussy and your torso.

“Fuck,” he’s panting, and he’s still shaking but there’s a smile on his face, like he’s drunk and blissed out and just happy. “Just- give me a minute, just a minute-”

You just lie there, feeling like you’ve just been set on fire and left to burn, and he’s pressing kisses wherever he can reach, on your neck, your temple, the corner of your mouth, until both of you are finally still, just lying wrapped up in each other.

He’s wrapped himself around you like he’ll never move again, his face buried in your neck, and your whole body feels like it’s come unglued.

After a few minutes, he lifts his head to look at you, and that smirk is back, the bastard. “So,” he says, and there’s a sly look in his eyes. “Did I live up to the hype?”

“There was no hype, James, you were a virgin,” You laugh shortly with a roll of your eyes, shifting your legs a little wider open to accommodate for the stickiness between them.

“Ouch.” He winces dramatically. “You’re gonna ruin my ego.”

He’s looking at you with so much heat you’re half-convinced he’s about to go for round two, but then he shifts, pulling away to lie down next to you, your legs tangled together. He’s still grinning, a smug sort of half-smile on his face.

“Don’t look so damn pleased with yourself,” you grumble, but you’re still so buzzed up and he’s looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.

He’s looking at you with a kind of reverence you’ve never seen before, but he covers it up with the same stupid smirk he always wears. “So,” he says, like he’s casually mentioning the weather. “You, uh… had fun?”

You laugh—that’s a severe understatement of the year—and you can’t help but smile at the boyish enthusiasm in his expression. “Yeah,” you say, a little softer. “I did.”

He grins at that, and then he’s rolling on top of you again, covering you with his body like a blanket. “I’m assuming that means we can do this again sometime.”

The words come out as the same obnoxious cockiness, still cocky and self-assured, but there’s something almost… nervous underneath it, like he’s not really being blasé at all. You hum, tilting your chin back enough that he can bury his face in your neck. “Yeah,” you say, and you wrap your arms around his back, tracing the knobs of his spine with your fingers. “Yeah, we can probably do this again. But maybe take me on a date first next time,” You laugh.

He grins against your neck, his mouth still leaving lazy kisses on every part of your skin it can reach. “That’s fair,” he murmurs, and his breath on your neck sends a shiver through you. “I have to romance you first. I can do that.” His teeth nip at your earlobe, and you can feel the sharp edge of of a grin. “I could even be a gentleman about it, if you wanted.”

“You? Be a gentleman?” You fake gasp, like it’s the most ridiculous suggestion you’ve ever heard. “Absolutely unheard of.”

He snorts, and you can feel the smile on his mouth, hot and wet against your skin. “You’re laughing, but I could be incredibly charming if I wanted to,” He’s still just mouthing at you, running his teeth over the soft underside of your jaw. “You read my letters,”

“Yeah,” you admit, almost against your will. “I did.”

He pulls back to look at you with a lazy, smug half-smile. “And they were charming?”

You roll your eyes at him, but you’re still smiling. “They were… acceptable.”

“Acceptable,” he sighs sadly, mock-disappointed. “I don’t know how I feel about being reduced to ‘acceptable’. I put a lot of work into those letters, you know.”

But he’s grinning, his chin propped up on your chest with his chin, like he’s waiting to get a response. “Come on. I’m at least worth ‘good,’ right?”

“Yeah, alright,” you give in, even though ‘good’ isn’t nearly enough to describe his letters. “They were good. They were… nice.”

He pouts, like a kid who did a drawing and didn’t get a gold star. “Nice? Jesus, you do not understand the concept of positive reinforcement.”

“Sorry,” you say, with your best attempt at earnestness, “how about this? They were fantastic. World class even. You should be writing love letters professionally.”

It takes him a moment of studying you to realise you’re joking, but then he sighs in mock-agony, burying his face in your neck. “I can’t believe I’ve fallen for a girl who’s mean to me,”

“Yeah,” you say, and you’re laughing, now, your whole body shaking with gales of laughter. “You’re really just… the world’s biggest loser.”

He huffs good-naturedly, his face still hidden in your neck. “Says the girl whose been attracted to me for years,”

“Says the boy who wrote me sappy-ass love letters like a Victorian maiden,” you retort.

He laughs at that, but it’s not mean or mocking. “It’s a wonder you didn’t catch on, honestly,” he mutters jokingly, “I laid it on so thick I thought even you would see me pining tragically through all the ink I used to write about how obsessed with you I was.”

You bite back a smile at that, rolling your eyes at his mock-exasperation. “God, you’re dramatic.”

His mouth presses a soft, wet kiss under your jaw, and he murmurs against your skin—“You like it, though.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

And he’s right, because you do—you do like him, when he’s all bluster and bravado and bullshit, and you like him like this too, when he’s gentle and reverent and a tad bit vulnerable. “Yeah,” you say, and it’s soft. “I do.”

[xo2dee]

Hello! I saw your requests were open and I wanted to ask if you would be willing to write some soft Vergil smut, A lot of body closeness/bratty conversations/long kissing and all that stuff? Or anything like that! Have a great day and thank you for writing fics!!

PAIRING: Vergil/(Fem)Reader. WARNINGS: MDNI/18+ ONLY. Vaginal Sex, Creampie, Soft!Vergil. WORD COUNT: 1,721.

A/N: thank you for the request! love me some comfortable and soft vergil

DMC MASTERLIST

In the hours of the night, you found yourself restless and on the cusp of a dream if not for the stirrings of yearning attention from your lover’s newfound neediness.

Moonshine glimmered throughout the window above your head, your legs twisted with another behind the warm and freshly cleaned sheets before your eyes focused on the petals of an Orchid perched atop the windowsill. Your tired eyes nearly drifted closed against the sheen of the moon as it reflected off the petals in a shadowy embrace, the strap of your negligee sliding off your shoulder once more as your chest expanded with the sigh at sight of a lonely cloud capturing the moon the same time you felt the incessant prodding of the man behind you. Soundlessly you felt him move forward to graze your shoulder with his lips, pulling you to the surface of wakefulness before you could fully drown in sleep as his fingers continued to tug and pull on the strap of your lingerie.

A nose dug its way into the space behind your ear afterwards, and the arm, heavy and secure, constricted around your waist tightened before a long rumbling sigh vibrated from his chest and into your spine. You waited for the inevitable grumble of whatever he was going to say, but instead Vergil only hummed and skimmed his nose down towards your neck instead, “Hmm.”

You leaned back into him, the bare skin of his ivory shoulder coming into view as your eyelashes fluttered as your fingers found his forearm along your abdomen, “What are you ‘Hmm’-ing about now?”

“Your perfume’s changed.” His face moved close enough for his chin to slide along your temple, and you almost laughed at his small, dejected tone. He never would get used to you switching things up on him so often.

A shrug had your bodies molding together even more, “Well, yeah, I told you I bought a new kind.” Vergil only grunted his acknowledgment before he moved back to entertaining himself – and entertaining himself being pulling at the fabric of your negligee every which way he could. It was almost like he was hinting at something, oh Vergil, the so quiet and proud type.. He wouldn’t openly voice his desires unless it was born of frustration, using his movements to get his point across and if he was trying to make it known he wanted something… Insatiable Vergil as well, given you were still wet and trembling from the transgressions from earlier. You sighed and feigned nonchalance, “If you’re gonna just tug on it, take it off.”

“No,” Vergil fingers trailed down in a taunt over your hip to the hem of your gown, lifting it up a fraction as his knee began to slide forward to urge your legs apart for him before you felt the smile in his voice at his tease. “I’m admiring.” His voice was soft and warm as it tickled your ear – full of life as he enjoyed the time alone he had with you since for once Vergil was allowed a moment of respite from… everything.

You allowed entry of his knee as you opened your legs, and Vergil took the initiative to press forward enough to lift your leg over his hip before situating himself more comfortably behind you. Chills erupted along your body you knew he hummed at, the evidence of his desire sliding up in-between you as you felt his fingers curl a fist into the hem of your gown. “As long you don’t rip this one.”

A very rare and small snort blew air into your cheek, the fingers disappearing from your gown to pull your panties to the side in preparation, “You act like you don’t have a drawer full.”

You rolled your eyes and fought off the gasp at the press of his cock into your opening so eagerly, your mind flitting through the various lingerie you owned just to entice him – and, all the ones he’d ripped in the past in his passion to get his hands on you. A pout adorned your face as the arm around your stomach moved, sliding up silkily along your chest until your felt his fingers secure a hold onto your chin before the pad of this thumb stroke you there. “So? What’s wrong with wanting to look nice? You’re the one who rips them with your teeth.”

Vergil’s body shook with the dark chuckle he gave, finding humor in your tone and conviction before he squeezed your cheeks affectionately… yet not disagreeing with you had said. Your foot slid against the silk of his pajama pants atop his thigh, noting he’d only pulled them down enough to free himself (and when had he done that?) whilst his torso remained as bare as always when he slept. Another low hum rumbled out his throat as you felt the wisps of his hair tickle your cheek, then he was nosing along your warm skin as he continued to prod at your entrance. Gentle he was feeling then, but he wasn’t above being impatient as well since that particular part ran out.

“And whose fault is –” he turned your face to him, only the glisten of icy eyes seen to you in the moonlight before he leaned down far enough to tease a kiss along your lips, and then abruptly pushed himself inside of you with a keening hiss, “that?”

You whined as he pushed up far enough to fully seat himself inside of you, his face falling forward enough to capture you mouth with his as he wasted no time to begin rolling his hips in long, slow, and deep strokes in and out of you. He swallowed your noises that time around, not willing to break away from the kiss at any point as your fingers gripped what parts of his skin you could find to find any leverage in the way your body was already surrendering to the pleasure he was giving you. Vergil’s fingers squeezed your face once more at the same time his other hand dipped down into your clit as he began to circle a pattern atop of it to get you off quicker. You could feel yourself melt in his hold, whines and gasps he greedily savored with his tongue as you began to absentmindedly rock with his thrusts.

And you knew from there with the softness Vergil was providing, the sensitiveness from your trysts before, and his proficient knowledge on just how your body worked, it wasn’t going to be a long session that time. For you, or him.

With the pressure of his touch and the firm, slowness of his thrusts, it was only a matter of a minute or so before you were dangling off that mouthwatering point, braced and ready to freefall into your release. And Vergil huffing into your wet mouth led on the fact he wasn’t faring any better, the softness something he craved yet had such a hard time disrupting making his body react harder and tighter than ever before, and Vergil’s desire to keep you close and on his mouth affected you in the way that had your mind spinning into euphoric insanity. Of course you had been right too, and when your lover groaned loud enough into your mouth to make your teeth vibrate and when a deep push inwards of his pelvis as his fingers lightly pinched your clit made you squeal, you were careening back into your climax once more.

Your release was instant and blinding, making a chain reaction of the moonlight dance behind your eyes, and you clutched him like a lifeline feeling how your knees turned to jelly with the force of your orgasm. He spilled inside you not soon after as well, completely overwhelmed by the feeling of your insides squeezing him so tightly and the moan you whined onto his tongue, spreading warmth to your very core and claiming you once again as his. You continued to shake as he rode out the aftershocks of his pleasure, turning blissfully boneless in the wake of your release and feeling the frantic beat of his heart alongside yours. 

Vergil eventually released your lips with a sigh, his head falling to rest along your collarbone as you turned onto your back to see him before swiping your hand along the sweat along his cheeks. Your other hand began to swipe through the tresses of his hair too, feeling him hum in complete contentment from the sensations as you waited for him to gather his bearings. Because you knew then, neither of you were tired enough to actually fall asleep, and if Vergil’s appetite was still unsatisfied, you knew you were in for a long night. Especially with the way you two had been toying with each other all night as well… Something that made you eye him warily as he absentmindedly began to draw shapes into your thigh, like he wasn’t plotting more in his mind.

You sighed, “That’s three times, Vergil.”

He grunted into your flesh, arms sliding around to hold you closer before you felt him lightly nibble at your neck, “You haven’t complained.” Okay, he had you there, but you were pretty sure he was losing the bet of not being able to not ruin your lingerie since it was soaked. He also was still supposed to be admiring you only too, but had gotten his way each and every time you moaned the tiniest bit at him. A horrible bet actually… You telling him you bet he couldn’t last all night not ripping the gown off of you after you modeled it for him, and then him betting he could and keep you pliant underneath him before you came undone over and over again without so much as a thread missing from your body.

There had to be a loophole somewhere for you to win…

However, Vergil was never a quitter, and he liked to remind you at all times whenever he got to hold something against you. Like then, when you felt his lips curve upwards at your throat before he began to tug at the bodice of your negligee, and you felt your eye twitched for the oncoming gloat.  

“And, I still haven’t taken this… gown off. The bet’s still on.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

[seresinhangmanjake]

What He Likes

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Summary: When five daughters of Great Houses arrive on Giedi Prime, Feyd is meant to select one as a wife. But out of all of the foreigners on his territory, it is the Princess of Kaitain’s handmaid that catches his eye.

Notes/Warnings: Feyd is possessive as usual.

Words: 3100

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen likes what he likes. There’s no complexity to it. No hidden criteria. What he likes is decided in a straightforward manner based solely on gut instinct, and questions of whether or not it is wise to like what he likes do not follow. He simply sees a thing, enjoys how it looks, and therefore, likes it.  

When the eligible women of five Great Houses stand before him in a neat little row, he likes none of them. Four Ladies and a Princess, all of whom do not hit him in the gut with that feeling, and all of whom have flaws fatal to the name of House Harkonnen. 

Atreides—a lame attempt at a peace offering. Fenring—a Bene Gesserit witch. Corrino—a spoiled, royal brat existing under the shadow of her eldest sister. And the other two, Kenric and Wallach, have faces he cannot be expected to look upon for the rest of his life. 

Not one brushes the cusp of satisfactory. Not one is good enough to take for a bride. But then, as he dismisses them so they may return to their quarters before the evening meal, Feyd spots a thing he likes. 

The Princess’s handmaid. A woman who pays him not a lick of attention as she trails the royal out the door. A woman who forces the pace of his heartbeats to thump twice as fast.

Perfect, he thinks. Stunning.

And without hesitation, Feyd selects his wife. 

—

Reader POV

“The na-Baron has sent a guard to collect you,” Fenring’s handmaid informs you as she comes back into the room, tying a robe around her waist and plopping down on her assigned bed beside Wallach. 

A lump settles in your stomach. The na-Baron—the man who has encouraged your future demise at the hands of the Great Ladies due to the attention he has neglected to provide them in favor of keeping his eyes on you. 

Over seven days, they’ve been ignored entirely, as has his sense of propriety. He has invited you to dine beside him, filling your plate before bothering to notice if the women of high status have had their plates filled. He has asked you questions and listened attentively to the answers you’ve felt obligated to provide. He has ensured you’ve had a seat of phenomenal vantage to witness his arena duels, seeking you out and smirking at you as lifeless bodies slide off of his blade. 

For every new morning there comes a new method of making fools out of the women who could have your neck sliced open should they so choose. And now, so it seems, he intends to bring that trouble into your nights.

“Why?” you ask, trying to cast aside the painfully obvious. You would be thrilled if one of the other handmaids could chime in with something unexpected, something not nearly as vulgar as what you’re imagining he wants from you. 

Wallach and Fenring shoot you a look that suggests you can’t possibly be so ignorant. 

“Why do you think?” Atredies says. “I’m surprised it took him this long.” She swipes a comb through her long locks before pointing the end of the tool at you. “You need to find a way to end whatever this is before it gets you executed. Our Ladies are just as irate over the situation as the Princess.”

Irate—a gentle word. Requests from the Princess have been trivial to a degree you’ve never before dealt with in her servitude. She has snatched any opportunity to humiliate you, degrade you. It is a burden you have shouldered with grace, but so long as the na-Baron refuses to find enjoyment in your torture, your unprotested compliance will continue to mean nothing to the Princess. 

You wish he would laugh with her, just once. It would do you a world of good. But he’s not required to amuse the Princess. He does not have to bow to anyone since the Harkonnen’s growth in power shifted the hierarchy of the Houses. 

“What do you propose I do?” you ask. 

“Let him have you,” Kenric says. “Let him get you out of his system. If he’s no longer infatuated with you, he will finally choose a bride.”

You blanche but you do not immediately dismiss her suggestion. Kenric’s handmaid is older than you by at least a decade, and when she speaks, the rest of you listen. She has watched handmaids come and go from the mistakes they have made. She has seen how replaceable a young woman of humble birth with a limited skill set is. She knows the fights worth fighting and the fights worth surrendering, and there is much to be learned from her experience. 

“That simple?” you say. 

“If you make it that simple,” she replies with a nod. Then she grabs you by your shoulders and spins you around, lightly shoving you toward the door. “It’s for your own good. So go.”

Your heart batters your ribcage as you recover from a stumble. Your first steps are hesitant, unsure if you’re doing the right thing. But you collect yourself, and without looking back, you continue onward, coming face-to-face with a towering figure; pale, a ghost stark against the shadowed hallway. 

“Do not lag behind,” is all he says before he turns on his heel.

You follow him through darkness, past door after door, rounding corner after corner until he finally halts and gestures for you to enter a room. Knowing it isn’t a choice, you step inside. 

You’re relieved to find the space decently lit from the glowing orb of white light hovering near a desk. You scan the area. His bedroom, each inch of it covered top to bottom in black. Painted walls, marble floors, drawn curtains, furniture—all a shade so deep that if you peer too long at any given section, your mind will begin to play tricks on your vision. 

“What’s your name?” suddenly greets your ear in a gravelly voice. Your body flinches and your head whips in the direction of the sound. Somehow, you hadn’t noticed him leaning on the wall with his arms crossed, his brow low, his chin tilted toward his chest. 

He stares at you. Intensely. Unceasingly. A gaze that reaches past what you’ve witnessed in your lifetime. You’ve seen a lover’s stare between couples, but this is different, and it’s clear you’ve lived naive to how deeply a man can look at a woman. 

Heat blooms on your face. “My name?” You hadn’t noticed that he’d yet to ask. To be fair, though, no one ever asks for your name. Perhaps he understands the danger of doing so in front of others. 

“You have one, I assume,” he says. “Or do I need to give you one?”

You frown. “I’m not a slave.”

The na-Baron’s lips twitch in a smirk. His chin lifts and you get a full view of his face. The angles of his cheekbones. The straight line of his nose. The edge of his jaw, sharp from the shadows butting up against his illuminated alabaster skin.

He’s beautiful—you can’t pretend otherwise. A rare kind of beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes no sense. Strange, alien beauty that wreaks havoc on your heart rate. 

You haven’t let yourself appreciate just how beautiful he is prior to now, always making an effort to look downward in his presence. And thank goodness you had enough sense. Had you taken a moment to truly observe him, you might not have been able to resist admiring. 

“Then tell me your name,” he says, and gulping down the knot in your throat, you do as he asks. He tests the word on his tongue. He nods. “Good.”

“Good?”

“I like it,” he tells you. “Which means I don’t have to change it.”

You tamp down your offense, steeling your face as you remind yourself of how little control you have. A handmaid versus the na-Baron of Giedi Prime. Your odds are poor. 

“With all due respect, my Lord, what is it I can do for you?”

His eyes continue to be invasive, hungry, like the lions you used to read about in your spare time. Practically uncanny. The na-Baron captures the predatory glare of the beast so well that they could stand side-by-side and you would not be able to decide which of the two is more menacing.

Pushing off the wall, he slowly closes in on you until he’s a single pace away from colliding with your body. His smirk drops, then he says, “How would you like to be my wife?”

Your lungs seize. Death flashes before your eyes, a scene more horrific than what you’ve been conjuring over the last handful of days. Instead of the Princess’s hand around your neck, all of Kaitain will be chanting for your head on a spike. If they hear of the handmaid who went to Giedi Prime as a servant only to attempt stealing from the Princess, they’ll drag you to public slaughter. The handmaid who overstepped her bounds—let us make an example of her betrayal. 

“I asked you a question,” he continues, yanking you from your thoughts. 

You take a breath. “My Lord, I am not the offering from Kaitain. I am the Princess’s handmaid.”

Blue orbs lazily rake up and down your figure. You contain a shiver. “Yes, I have eyes.”

“Then you know she is the one for you to choose.”

“The Princess does not suit my taste,” he admits shamelessly, unbothered. His gaze falls to your lips, neediness passing between you as if he’s desperate to claim them with his own. It quickly fades, and he meets your eyes again. His voice is soft when he says, “The Emperor should not have sent you with his daughter. He knows what you look like. It is not my problem if he is foolish enough to tempt me with something better than what he views as his best.”

The dangerous flattery makes your stomach flutter, but then it flips unpleasantly. “There is no better choice than the Prin–”

“That was not a statement up for debate.”

Your teeth pierce the delicate flesh of your inner cheek. “You have many other options,” you say.

“And I have decided you are one of them.”

At your lack of retort, the corner of his lips quirk. He’s dead set, and you’re not sure you have the manipulative abilities to change his mind. Still, you try.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the blood for it, as you know,” you say in a final attempt. “Noble blood mixes with that of its status.”

“Noble blood does what it wants. That’s why we have all that we have, wouldn’t you agree?” he says, and you do agree. You have to. Noble blood knows only how to take. “There is no logic to me selecting the Princess. Should I marry her, you will be brought along as her handmaid, and she will find herself alone in a cold bed while I will be keeping you warm in mine. Is that the kind of marriage you think she envisions?”

He allows the question to hang in the air, and in that time, you imagine what he’s suggesting. You imagine the Princess shunned to another room. You imagine his body on top of yours in the bed that stands behind him, his mouth attached to your neck, sucking in time with the thrusts of his cock. Against your will, you imagine how he would feel, the pleasure he would grant you over and over, and you shake your head to banish the thoughts. 

It can never happen. You know what the Princess wants. Should she become the na-Baronness, she will want him as her husband in more than name alone, alliances solidified through multiple heirs, the power dynamic rebalanced. For that to occur, his affection and a willingness to sacrifice his dominance is required. And you cannot be the thing to throw that plan into a state of turmoil. 

“If I give myself to you now, will you be satisfied?” you ask. 

His brow pinches, the expression on his face nestling somewhere between irritation and confusion. “For tonight,” he says. “But what of tomorrow night, and the night after? Am I expected to have you once and never again?”

“Anything more will put my life at risk upon my return to Kaitain. If the Emperor learns of it, it will be an embarrassment, and regardless of whether or not you choose the Princess as your wife, he will have me killed for daring to be a threat to your union,” you tell him. “And if you do choose her and I return here as her handmaid—though I suspect she will be selecting a replacement soon enough—she will kill me the second she sees anything other than disgust on your face when you look at me.”

A beat passes. The na-Baron hums. He reaches up and takes a lock of your hair, rubbing the strands together and curling them around his finger. A wave of goosebumps makes its way up your arms. 

“Then I suppose you should not return to Kaitain,” he says. 

Your head jerks back. The hair falls from his grasp. “What?”

“If your life is at risk, then you will not leave Giedi Prime. The Princess can go, but not you. The Ladies, the other handmaids, I will send them back tomorrow,” he says. He leans down, his nose mere inches from yours. His breath blankets your skin. “But not you.”

“You can’t just do that,” you whisper, but you know they’re wasted words. There’s already an overarching sense of loss on your side of the room. 

His hand returns to your face and a gasp catches in your throat as his knuckle grazes down your cheek. 

“Of course, I can,” he says. “The Houses bend to Harkonnen will. I can do whatever I want; have whatever I like.” He cups your chin and runs his thumb over your mouth, pulling down on your bottom lip before releasing it. “And what I want is you. So I will have you.”

Your pulse thrums, ears ringing. “Solely for the sake of sating carnal desire. Being your wife is not nec–”

“Carnal desire is a present concern,” he says. “But I will not have another claiming you after I have done so. What’s mine is mine. You will be my wife, and in time, we will know one another in all ways.”

The uproar. News will spread like wildfire, and you are unlikely to survive its rage. The other Great Houses will do nothing, you know, as they do not have the means or might to push against the Harkonnens, but Corrino? The Emperor? 

Surely the na-Baron is aware of the intellect of Kaitain’s leaders. He must understand that the snubbing of the Princess will undoubtedly incite retaliation from the Emperor. And you’re fairly certain in which form that retaliation will come. Where the Sardaukar's strength would fail against Harkonnen forces, their assassins’ infiltration would not.

“I’ll protect you,” he says. “If they dare, I’ll protect you.” 

You could scoff. 

Protect you. Why bother?

Surely, he doesn't want you enough to go to those lengths. You aren’t import–

Suddenly, his hand is sliding around to the back of your neck, and your face is involuntarily heating, and he's muttering a faint “come here” as he quickly draws you into a kiss.

There’s a softness to it that offsets his hardness. A gentleness in the caress. But he has caught you unprepared, cut you off at your thoughts, and the shock has you planting your palms on his chest and shoving.

His lips are parted, his chest expanding and deflating with heavy inhales and exhales. He says nothing as unexpected regret sinks into you—regret that isn’t there simply because he is the na-Baron and you are a servant who shouldn’t be bold enough to interrupt him as he’s doing as he pleases, but regret rather because for that brief moment he felt…good, and you’re overwhelmed by the sense that you’ve cheated yourself. 

You want to try it again, just to see, just to test the feeling, just to understand why you crave more. So you let the tenseness in your shoulder muscles relax. Your heavy lungs release a long-held huff of air. He watches your guard collapse at your feet. 

Slowly, he reaches for you again, but he pauses just as you are ready to feel his touch as if expecting you to flinch, to run, to hide. You do none of those things, so his fingers knit into your hair and he guides your lips back to his. 

Soft still—gentle—but then it changes to passion and greediness, and like the strike of a match, every inch of you is consumed by a flushing fire. Your heart races. Your brain fuzzes. Appendages tremble until the pleasant pressure of his lips on yours settles into your bones. 

His tongue seeks entrance and you willingly open for him. When your tastes blend, his arm sneaks past yours to lock around your waist and he jerks you forward, welding your chest to his. 

The Princess slices through the haziness in your head and you feel the intrusive instinct to end what is happening, but you can’t quite bring yourself to do it. The capability is just out of reach, and it floats further and further away with each second of him kissing you; kissing you as if trying to prove to you how right this is. And you suppose he is succeeding because the thought of stopping makes your gut twist in protest. 

Then he groans—a sound that reverberates throughout your entire body, that makes your veins pulsate and your nerves tingle—and any lingering fear of the repercussions of betrayal dissipates to a barely detectable twinge; enough to permit the removal of your restraints. 

With newfound freedom, you grip his shoulders and attempt to bring him closer than physical bounds will allow. You let your tongue play with his. You nip at his lips. You think you’ve lost your mind, maybe slipped to an alternate universe where this makes sense, but his arm clutches you tighter, anchoring you to reality. 

Well before you’re ready, he breaks apart from you, and with great difficulty, you keep yourself from chasing after his lips like a magnet drawn to its other half. 

He grins at your obvious struggle. 

“You’ll do just fine as my wife,” he says, his hand coming around to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes back and forth along your cheekbone. Another peck lands on your lips. “You might even find yourself enjoying the position…and everything I intend to offer you.”

[nicromancytarot]

WHAT WILL YOU LOOK LIKE IN 5 YEARS?

This is a general reading based on a collective of people. Take what resonates and leave what doesn’t. If you don’t feel the pile resonates with you, don’t be scared to try another, if it still doesn’t feel right, that’s ok! Maybe our energies aren’t as connected and my readings are not for you.

I do these strictly for fun and educational purposes. I do not charge for these readings, and I do not fake readings. I would tell you the cards I get for the readings, but I pull like 15-20 cards each reading and that is just slightly a strenuous task to write them all down lmao.

PICK A CARD READING

I asked my spirit guides what you will look like in 5 years time, pick a picture to find out what they had to say!

PILE 1

Golly gosh, my sweet pile number 1’s, I must tell you the cards I got for this.

2 of pentacles, 8 of cups, 4 of cups, Moon, Page of cups, Tower, 10 of swords, High priestess, 2 of wands, Queen of swords, 5 of pentacles, Lovers.

We’re a little bit hectic over here if you can’t already tell. I wouldn’t say this is anything to worry about however.

Starting off! I feel that your physical appearance is going to change a lot during this era of your life, whether that be you go through a bunch of phases, try new things, receive procedures etc. I feel that a lot of you may feel stagnant in how you look during this time, you may find that you’re right on the cusp of looking how you want, but are struggling to get there. Some of you may begin to notice features of your own mother poking through, others may start to look more mature and possibly take on a more maternal appearance — this could be seen in having a little more maturity to your body perhaps after childbirth, or even just beginning to put your appearance on the back burner if you have kids that must take the forefront of your mind.

I have a feeling that a lot of you will go through a major glow up around this time, which is great, however! The motivation will arise around some sort of betrayal or major shake up like heartbreak, whatever it is will instantly get you feeling like you need to take more care of yourself, and becoming much brighter and just looking happier because of it.

The change in your appearance during this time will certainly mark a new beginning and major change in your life, it will really be that first step to a fresh start.

You may begin taking more care of your body, and specially your skin, perhaps spending more money on the highest review products, or just even investing in some long term serums that you know work wonders for your skin. (Please be careful with how much you spend on this stuff lol, you can definitely find cheaper stuff with amazing properties if you look hard enough) This could also imply that many of you will begin working out and eating healthier around this time as well, ensuring that your self care is the top of your priorities.

And finally, our lovers. Now I would say this will bring a new love opportunity to you, but when I first thought this card was present, it was actually the king of wands that caught my eye in the middle of the deck. You’re going to love yourself a lot more, love looking at yourself in the mirror, and just overall feeling more like yourself. You will love who you have become. Good luck my lovelies, get that beauty on!

Physical features: Intense eyes/eye makeup, wearing lots of black and mysterious colours, becoming skinnier or leaner, muscle building could be applicable, stubborn features you can’t quite get rid of (perhaps a bit of flab on your thighs, something that just makes you look more mature, still hot as hell by the way), some of you may stop shaving for a period of time, black hair, spiky jewellery, silver jewellery, cold toned makeup, clothes, gems etc.

PILE 2

Hello my pile number 2’s, how’s it going? Starting off strong we already have the two of cups, so I’m sure this appearance will be highly negated by the status of your relationships, specially those that we deem romantic. I’m seeing that during this time you are trying different things and may even be getting advice from family and friends about what to wear or what things to CONSCIOUSLY consume — I cannot stress it enough that money is big talk here, I need you to be very aware on what you’re spending your coins for, I wouldn’t recommend any expensive surgeries that could end up going wrong, specially lip injections/filler.

Anywho! You could be being very intentional about the way you appear, perhaps with ensuring you do enough research into new products before purchasing them, or even investing in a personal dermatologist, colour coordinator, personal trainer etc — it’s all very well thought out.

Your glow up, if there is one, may be motivated by some sort of competition, so perhaps just ensure you don’t get too deep into all of that. Knight of pentacles appears twice here, so I’m definitely getting the message that you will be investing a lot of time and effort into your appearance, liking the way you look could be a long time coming.

You’ll have a lot of tips to share with people around this time for sure.

God damn it, I flipped the deck for more info and we got the tower. Ok! Dramatic changes. PLEASE BE CAREFUL WITH PROCEDURES!!! I really feel like this is something I need to say with all seriousness. You go for lip filler, you’re coming out with sausages glued to the absence of your lips, also heavy chance you can get scammed when trying to get something done. I would absolutely not recommend any plastic surgery of that kind — however you can get away with waxing (I’m specially getting your bikini line lmao), eyebrows threaded, hair done professionally, professional makeup, nails etc — that’s all fine, but I’m getting a really big feeling to tell you to avoid any plastic surgery, specially if you’re from the UK.

I’m being told you need to embrace your natural features, things that you’ve hidden before can be very alluring when you learn how to harness them. A lot of you may look young for you age, honestly embrace it, you’re going to look twenty at fifty, and the rest of the world will sag, so good on you!

Physical features: doe eyes/very loving expressions, unconventional features that make people look twice (perhaps drawing on moles, or not covering up already existing ones), you could thrift most of your clothes (and get really good at it), may lean into more blues for colours, spending a fair bit money on accessories or hair/makeup etc, whimsical clothes, wearing reds/red lipstick, leaning more into the traditional looks from your culture.

PILE 3

Hello my wonderful pile number 3’s! Ok firstly, this is YOUR time for real, if you grew up without being conventionally attractive, this is your justice coming straight in and giving you that unthinkable glow up. Now this won’t be entirely easy, you will have to put in a fair amount of effort to receive this effortless look, which is fairly ironic given the name. Anyways, I’m seeing the need to take control and allow yourself to focus on your own appearance, people may tell you “looks aren’t everything” or “personality matters the most,” and while they are not far off, it’s not hard to assume they grew up with the privilege you yourself may have not been lucky enough to hold badge of. As it always goes, money is of the essence here, and you may need to spend a fair amount to get that look you desire — obviously do it with a conscious consumer mindset, and don’t go overboard.

I’m seeing that you may join a community of sorts, like a subreddit with the best tips, or perhaps confide in a super cool witch that makes bank off people requesting beauty spells — something of the sort anyways. The people you meet through this community, whatever it is, will help guide you to harnessing your best potential. Now I will say that you may meet some that are a little misguided or too deep into it all, so be aware of what you consume and who you listen to, ensure it’s all ethical and worth your while.

Some of you may actually have to have a glow up for work, like it could be something so minute like having to do something nice with your hair, or having to wear a specific uniform that will just make it all pop and you will receive an abundance of compliments and attention. I’m also getting the message that you could have a new job with/or new uniform that like lowkey makes your eyes pop and you have that moment of realisation to what colours work the best for you.

My main message however is to make sure you don’t lose yourself in echo chambers that end up spewing shit about lookmaxxing or some weird ass phrenology. Like please be aware lol, I’m sure you’ll be fine.

Physical features: Looking intimidating or unapproachable, looking more expensive, glow up that will 100% make people wonder how the hell you did it, appearance change through work (new uniform, hair, makeup), wise appearance, type of person someone sees once and never again but always thinks of, wearing warm palettes (yellow, orange, red, brown), tired/experienced eyes, thrifting clothes/making something old look new

[jinusajas]

11/30/24; 06:07pm

itoshi rin x fem.reader

the chilly weather had finally gotten to you, making you suffer from a severe cold that made your head ache as you became even more congested as the hours passed by.

altogether, you just weren’t feeling well, with your form curled up in a fetal position. you did your best with tucking your body inside your comforter, but the constant chills and overall aches your body was experiencing became a great hindrance to your movements.

as you lay in bed, experiencing what had to be a fevered haze, you thought you dreamt of your phone ringing, echoing a familiar love song that you often associated with your beloved boyfriend. deep down, you knew that your phone was settled beside you on your nightstand, yet your arms felt as heavy as lead, rendering you unable to move even an inch.

so you wallow in your misery, doing your best not to cry yourself to sleep even when you felt like a gross ball of mucus. with your headache slowly turning into a sharp migraine, you felt as though you were on death’s door, unable to recover as you fell into the dark abyss…

in your restless slumber, you heard the sounds of your door unlocking coupled along with some heavy footsteps. the faint scent of a familiar cologne manages to break through your stuffiness, making your eyebrows furrow in response. an exasperated sigh of your name was heard before the same heavy footsteps began walking away from you.

on the cusp of waking up, you became more aware of some sounds in the kitchen-

something boiling in a pot-

a knife slicing through what you assumed were vegetables-

and the same heavy footsteps.

curious as to who was in your apartment, you let out a soft moan and unravel yourself from your cocoon of blankets. you struggle with sitting up in bed, wiping the sleep from your eyes while blindly reaching for your phone. keeping one eye open, you saw what had to be a plethora of text notifications and missed calls from one person-

rinnie ♡

your boyfriend of close to two years now.

of course he was the one who came into your apartment. after all, you had given him your spare key after celebrating a year together with him-

“about time you woke up.” you gasp, completely taken out of your reveries now. your eyes meet with his bored gaze as he stood in the doorway with a steaming bowl in hand.

“nnnooo! you can’t shee me like this! i’m a grosh ball of mucus!” oh, if only the earth could swallow you whole right now! here you are, with a nasally voice, filled to the brim with mucus as sweat ran down your brow. you were a mess in comparison to your beloved rin, who stood proudly in a deep navy blue sweater that fit him to perfection along with some jeans that suits his tall frame.

rolling his teal eyes at your theatrics, rin settles himself next to you on your queen-sized bed. “you’re right, you are a gross ball of mucus.”

“hey-“

but rin manages to cut you off when he rests his forehead against yours, all while balancing the bowl within his hands. he scoffs a bit but still places a chaste kiss against your damp skin, “but you’re my gross ball of mucus.”

his teasing words makes you sniffle a bit, your momentary panic steadily melting away when you asked him, “you shtill luv me?”

“i never stopped.” rin answers your question with zero hesitation, now bringing the bowl of what appeared to be rice porridge closer to you. “i got worried when my texts and calls went unread and unanswered, and i figured you were sick.”

he scoops up a spoonful, blowing on it before feeding you the warm and comforting porridge. you swallow the rice porridge and shiver a bit, basking in how warm it felt as it traveled down your throat, immediately soothing it. while rin worked on feeding you the rest of it, you shakily admit to him, “i didn’t want you to shee me like thish… me bein’ all nasally and grosssh…”

your boyfriend simply rolls his eyes at your dramatic words, continuing to feed you the rest of his porridge. as he was taking care of you, you began to realize how lucky you were to have him. itoshi rin was honestly the best thing that’s ever happened to you. sure, when you first met, he had an almost unhealthy obsession with soccer and becoming the best striker-

but you helped with expanding his world and giving him the love he truly needed.

and you were certain that the reason he was here with you now was because of a single fact-

the depths of his love for you.

i never stopped.

you repeat those words in your head, grinning when rin finishes with feeding you the porridge. a single brow remains lifted in question when he offers you a cold bottle of water along with some medicine. “what’s got you grinning like that?”

you finish taking your medicine and drain the entirety of the water bottle, letting out a relieved sigh when you felt life seeping back into you. meeting his gaze, you eagerly wrap your arms around his back, forcing him to quickly settle the empty bowl on your nightstand as you pulled him into bed with you.

rin says your name once more, but this time while pinching at your cheeks. you giggle in response and decide to meet his gaze. “you… you’ve got me grinnin’ like that.”

his eyes soften upon hearing your answer, brushing back your damp strands of hair. “really now?”

you hum in agreement, already hiding your face within his chest the moment rin settles into the bed with you. “mhmm…” letting out a yawn, you curl your body closer to his, all while sleepily murmuring, “shtay with me…”

you felt the way rin’s chest expands when he lets out a huff, but doesn’t quite deny you of your need to be close to him. instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, bringing your form closer to him. “i spoil you too much.”

you hid your face deeper within his chest, feigning sleep upon hearing his words-

however, you were certain that he could still feel your smile.

end notes: i just wanted to write something cute for my fave soccer boyfriend (⺣◡⺣)♡ also, i am just as dramatic as reader is when i get sick 😭

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[navybrat817]

Like There's No Tomorrow

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: When you make a rash decision after you're passed over for a promotion again, Bucky encourages you to follow your dream. It's the start of an unforgettable journey. Word Count: Over 3.4k Warnings: Insecurities, impulsivity, reflecting, slight angst, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning and the best, okay?). A/N: Writing this was very personal and therapeutic after my recent work experience. While I can't actually live this life, I know Firecracker and Daredevil will have many adventures together. Also for @the-slumberparty's Eight Types of Love Challenge (Ludus - Road Trip / Surprise)❤️ Thanks to the beautiful @whisperlullaby for the encouragement and @buckyownsmylife for giving this intro a look and assuring me it wasn't garbage, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You quit your job on a Friday afternoon.

On paper, it appeared to be an ordinary day. Nothing different from your usual routine. You got up, brushed your teeth, showered, dressed yourself, gave your boyfriend a kiss, selected a caffeinated beverage, and got to work. While you wouldn't call your job your dream job and some of the tasks were monotonous, you were good at it and you cared about your teammates.

In fact, they were one of the reasons you stuck around for as long as you did.

“Just wanted to say you've done a lot for us and we wouldn't be where we are without you.”

“I’m so sorry. I hope this doesn’t get you down.”

“I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better.”

“For what it’s worth, they made a mistake.”

Tears filled your eyes as you looked through the messages a few of your teammates sent after the promotion announcement was made minutes ago. There was an overall mixture of surprise and confusion when they heard you didn’t get it. They knew how hard you worked to move up and how badly you wanted it. You wished you hadn’t gotten your hopes up since that usually led to disappointment.

Of course, you were happy for the candidate who got the job. It wasn’t their fault you didn’t advance. Their success called for celebration. It didn’t make it any easier for you though and it didn’t lessen the hurt that you were passed over once again for something you were more than qualified for.

You somehow held it together though, not wanting everyone around you to see you break. Crying was reserved for the bathroom, your car, and home. Plus, you had shown enough vulnerability to management during the lengthy process and aftermath. They didn’t deserve an ounce more.

Especially after you were told that the value you provided wasn’t enough.

“I know this outcome is disappointing, but this isn’t a setback. You still have a lot to be proud of,” your manager told you the day before when you received the email entailing that you didn't receive the promotion and why. “Take the feedback we’ve given you and use that to get to the next level next time.”

He was only trying to help, but who would want to try again when they’re told they aren’t enough more than once? If the intention was to fuel your fire, they snuffed it out. Then again, your feelings were so raw because you hadn’t given yourself enough time to digest the news. Being told you were just out of reach was salt in the open wound, stinging much more than it should have as you tried to figure out what you did wrong.

Because you had to have done something wrong, right? Were the words you wrote in your application not eloquent enough? Did you not display the right amount of confidence in your interview? Why were you always on the cusp of greatness, but never quite there?

Blinking the moisture from your eyes, you straightened up and began to type again. Personal feelings aside, you had a job to do. You needed the income. You also had to prove that they were wrong in overlooking you. Again.

But as the sound of your fingers flying across the keyboard became white noise in your head, Bucky’s words from earlier in the morning shimmered into your mind.

“Just quit, Firecracker. They don’t deserve you and you deserve better.”

Bucky Barnes, your boyfriend. The kind of man you didn’t think was real until he came into your life. Gorgeous, faithful, doting, protective - you thought men like that only existed in books. He supported and hyped you up every time you went for a promotion and wiped away every tear when you didn’t get it. Your crying and self-doubt broke his heart, and this morning may have been the last straw for him.

Maybe it was the last straw for you, too.

Glancing around the office as you saw everyone else typing with minimal conversation, the room had never looked more lifeless to you. There was nothing about the place or the job that inspired you, so why continue to give yourself over to a place that didn’t give back to you in return? Why stay in a place that dulled your shine?

The sudden realization hit you square in your chest that you didn’t want to be there anymore.

“Have a great weekend, team. Good luck and thanks for everything.” You sent in a message before you could stop yourself.

You had never had an out-of-body experience before, but it was as if your spirit was beside you as you began to close the programs on your computer. Glancing at your desk after you set your phone to voicemail, you realized you had hardly any personal touches in your space. Except for the photo of you and Bucky.

He was your one bright spot in the building.

With the utmost care, you put the photo in your bag once you shut everything down. Your heart sank as your gaze swept over your team, an uncomfortable pit settling in your stomach as you went to see your boss. Disappointing anyone always brought you a sense of dread and you didn’t want to let him or anyone else down, but you were thinking of yourself for once.

You owed yourself that.

“Hey,” your boss smiled as he glanced up from his desk before he noticed you had your bag. You shifted on your feet when his cheerfulness shifted to concern. “What’s up? Are you clocking out early?”

“Not exactly,” you answered, gripping your bag so hard your hand began to ache.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat.

You didn’t know how to respond because it wasn’t okay and nothing he could say or do would change how you felt. You didn't want him to try and sway you to stay. The heartbreaking part was that he was, overall, a good boss. He taught you a lot and helped you better yourself. So did the team as a whole. They were rock stars. Each and every one of them.

But now they weren’t enough to make you stay and maybe it was a blessing in disguise that you didn’t go anywhere with your job.

So with a bittersweet smile, you uttered, “I quit. I’m sorry.”

You tossed your building key onto his desk and turned away before he could reply. Your mind raced as you put one foot in front of the other and ignored the stares of your coworkers who caught on to what had just transpired. It was hard to breathe, but your steps for once felt light instead of heavy. Your boss may have called out for you, but you didn’t dare look back. Not when you couldn’t stay in there another minute.

What you didn’t expect was for Bucky to be waiting outside as you went out of the door.

Your boyfriend managed to take your breath away every time you saw him and today was no exception. All 6’4” of him, he decided to cover his beefy frame with one of his favorite leather jackets, a fitting shirt, and tight jeans. His stormy eyes zeroed in on you as he pushed away from his old pickup truck and ran a hand through his chestnut hair. He was stunning.

He was yours.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you blurted out as you raced toward him. “Get me out of here. Please.”

But why was he there? You didn’t plan to meet up with him until after work and your shift was only a little over halfway over. Did he want to surprise you?

He caught you easily with his large hands before you could stumble into him. “Whoa, easy. Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door and helping you in. Your hands trembled as you buckled yourself in, your body in flight mode because you had to get away from the office. He wasted no time getting in and peeling out of the parking lot, the building becoming smaller and smaller in the distance.

You weren’t even sure how far away he drove before he pulled over and stopped the car since you didn’t look behind you. Resting your shaking hands on your thighs, the high of walking out dissipated until it left you cold. Reality sank in. Would it pull you under?

“Talk to me,” Bucky urged, his voice calm and gentle instead of demanding. “Please?”

“I quit my job,” you whispered, your gaze set in front of you, but not seeing anything in focus. “I couldn't do it anymore.”

Bucky leaned over to turn your face toward him, sympathy and understanding filling his eyes. “Oh, baby, I knew today would be the tipping point. Waited most of the morning for you to walk out,” he said. You were about to question how he could possibly know that, but he could read you better than anyone. “Just a feeling I had.”

“I quit my job. I quit,” you said again, your breathing more shallow than before he engulfed you in a warm and grounding embrace. Your fingers twisted in his jacket as you breathed him in. Sandalwood and citrus were scents you now associated with love because of him. “What did I do?! I didn’t even give notice. I just tossed my card down and left. Fuck, I just burned my bridges with everyone there.”

You stifled a sob as you hid your face in his neck. You swore to yourself that you would never be that person who walks out on a job, but you did just that and screwed over your entire team. Would any of them understand why you did it or accept an apology? How long would it take for that guilt to go away since you essentially gave up after the words of kindness and encouragement they gave you?

“Breathe, baby. I’ve got you” he whispered, rubbing your back as you steadied yourself. “Yeah, you quit today. And maybe you burned a bridge, maybe not. But I couldn’t be fucking prouder of you.”

“You’re proud that I walked out on my team?” you asked, whipping your head up so fast you were lucky you didn’t get whiplash. “They don’t deserve to deal with that. Not to mention, I have nothing lined up.”

The thought of starting over again made your stomach drop again. The job market could be a terrifying and hopeless place. What if you couldn’t find anything? Or what if you burned through your savings by the time you did?

“I’m proud that you walked away from something keeping you down. After everything you’ve done for them, I’m sure most of them will get why you couldn’t do it anymore,” he assured you, the corners of his lips turning down when you sniffled. “And don't worry about not having something lined up. We'll figure it out.”

“We?” you questioned. Bucky was your boyfriend, but this wasn’t his problem.

“Yeah, we,” he said, pointing between the two of you with his forefinger. “You and me. I'm in this with you.”

Your heart melted before logic tried to take back over. “I should just go back there and apologize. I can say that I-”

He framed your face and pressed his warm lips to yours before you could say another word. He coaxed you to return the kiss with ease and you responded with parted lips and a sigh. His kisses left you lightheaded as sparks ignited, threatening to explode if you went much further. Which was why he stopped to let you catch your breath.

“No. You’re not doing that,” he said, his scruff tickling your forehead as he pressed a kiss there. He knew that was a weakness of yours and it instantly stopped you from arguing. “We're going on an adventure and we can’t do that if you’re chained to a desk.”

“An adventure?” you repeated with uncertainty.

“Yeah. We’re going to drive and see where it takes us,” he said, his lips touching your forehead once more before he started up the car again. “Just need to grab a couple of things before we go.”

“What about work for you?”

“It’s taken care of,” he assured you. He wasn’t the type of guy to lie, but when did he have time to plan this? Neither one of you had mentioned going anywhere.

Leave it to Bucky to do something impulsive to make you happy.

“Okay,” you said, trusting him and deciding to play along with his endeavor. “You said we need a couple of things. What do we need? Besides the essentials.”

“Your laptop. And a journal if you don't feel like typing.”

You refrained from rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. My laptop so I can apply for new jobs and pray that they don’t reach out to my now previous boss as a reference, right?”

“Oh, no,” he chuckled, a playful smirk on his face when you swung your head toward him. “The laptop is so you can write like you've always wanted to. And the journal if you prefer to write some of your thoughts and ideas down by hand.”

“Wait. You want me to write on this trip?” you asked, making sure you heard him correctly.

“Yeah, I do.”

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Your boyfriend was certifiably crazy, but you loved that about him. “Bucky, no. I can't just write,” you said.

“Why not?” he shrugged.

“Because it doesn't pay the bills or provide security,” you replied.

Writing was a silly hobby that you did from time to time to help you channel your emotions or escape from the real world. At best, it was a dream. Nothing more. He knew that. At least, you thought he knew that.

At the end of the day, it wouldn’t put a roof over your head or food in your stomach. How were you expected to hold onto dreams that wouldn’t take you anywhere? And at what point did you stop believing in them and yourself?

When did you start thinking so cynically?

“But working a job you're not passionate about just to provide safety is the better option? There’s a difference between doing something you love and doing something you’re good at when your heart isn’t in it. You’ve done the latter for years now,” he said with a huff as you inhaled. “That isn't living and you’re lying to yourself if you think it is.”

Your eyes narrowed as his words sank in, your shackles raising. “No, it isn’t living, but it’s the most practical thing I can do! And, yeah, I am good at my job because I worked my ass off!” you argued, taking a breath. You didn’t want to start crying or snap at him when he was right. “Or at least I was good at my job. And I would’ve done my best had I advanced, but I couldn’t even accomplish that.”

Which begged the question of why you applied. The higher title and pay would’ve been nice for recognition and comfortability. You believed you earned it. But was it what you wanted to do for the rest of your life? Was that your path when you looked toward your future?

You hadn’t taken into account your own desires and values.

“Hey,” he said softer than before. “I wasn’t trying to-”

“And say I do try and write for real. How can I even enjoy this adventure knowing I'm probably just going to fail again?” you asked in a small voice.

How many hits could you take before your armor cracked?

Bucky's jaw clenched. “And that's exactly why I'm glad you finally quit. You've had so many people over your head telling you that what you do isn't enough to achieve what you want. And now you believe it,” he said, his hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough that you feared he’d bend it with his strength. “Fuck that and fuck them for making you feel that way.”

Your mouth fell open as you stared, his fury for and defense of you making your chest tighten. “I…”

“Why can’t you be a writer, huh? Why not try? You’re talented and I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. That’s where your heart is and it shows with every word,” he pressed, knowing you put your whole self into your creative outlet. “And listen, we have money set aside for the time being and more than enough for this excursion. So, I don’t care if writing doesn’t pay the bills for a while as long as you’re happy and doing what you’re passionate about. We’ll have each other and that’s enough in my eyes.”

Contemplating his words, you had to give him credit. The job wasn’t something you did because you were passionate about it. You did it because it was safe and expected of you when in many ways it held you back. Besides, what did you have to lose at this point? If you didn’t try, you’d never know. You’d look back one day and regret it if you let the chance pass you by.

Why not do something impulsive?

Why not make the most out of the moment you were in?

“Okay. You’re right. I should try to write and we should go,” you nodded, taking a deep breath. “Let’s grab a few things and see where this trip takes us.”

“There she is,” he smiled over at you, making your heart swell. “There’s my Firecracker.”

The nickname would always warm your heart. “You know, this actually sounds a bit like that book idea I had the other day,” you said, excitement seeping through your veins. Your fingers twitched a bit, too, with the urge to write. “Do you remember? I told you about it while we were eating pizza.”

Bucky took one hand from the steering wheel to grab yours. “I remember everything you've ever said.”

“Flattery will get you everything, Daredevil,” you said, biting your lip to keep from smiling too wide. “So, we're really doing this. We're just leaving?”

“Not just leaving. We're taking a long overdue road trip," he said, bringing your hand to his mouth to kiss it. “You deserve it.”

“We both do,” you said, the uncertainty leaving your body more with each passing second. You even turned off your phone so you wouldn’t be tempted to look at any emails or messages. “We deserve to live today like there’s no tomorrow.”

“‘Like there’s no tomorrow’,” Bucky quoted back to you with a hum. “Sounds like a good book title.’

“I’ll have to write it down so I don’t forget,” you smiled, linking your fingers together. “And don’t forget your journal, too. I don’t want you to miss a thing.”

“I won’t forget it,” he promised.

“Bucky?” you asked, swallowing as he gazed over at you. “Thank you. Really.”

It felt like you could breathe again without a weight in your chest. You didn't feel perfect, but you felt good. All thanks to him. You didn’t know what you’d do without him.

“You don’t need to thank me, baby, but I should thank you for letting me take you away,” he winked, keeping your hand in his as he faced forward again. “Makes me feel like a real hero, even though you wouldn't let me storm the castle.”

Oh, he wanted so badly to go off on your manager, but there was no need. “You are a hero,” you said. He saved you without knowing. “But try not to speed, Daredevil. I don’t want us to get pulled over before we get started.”

He groaned, but nodded as he let off the gas. “I’ll try not to speed. Need to make sure I get you to where we’re going safely.”

“I trust you.”

You would find out soon enough that Bucky had a list of things written in his journal that he planned to do with you on this trip. Everything you had ever said in passing that you wanted to do or try, but never could because of work. Because he paid attention to you. And you were right.

You deserved to live today like there’s no tomorrow.

And he wanted to be by your side while you lived your best life.

So, lovelies, where are they doing on their trip first? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[stanart4clearskin]

tutoring art donaldson

- art isn’t stupid by any means but sometimes school work can just get so tough for him that he honestly has no clue what he’s doing

- his grades are slipping and he’s on the cusp of having to take a break from the tennis team if he can’t get his grades up

- his coach recommends that he goes to the library where they have tutors who can help art in whatever subjects he needs and begrudgingly the blonde decides to go (he doesn’t like having to admit that he’s bad at something. it makes him feel like more of a loser than he already is)

- when he gets to the library he’s sent off to some random tutor which happens to be you

- the first thing art notices is that you’re pretty. not in like a victoria secret supermodel way but in that girl next door way that kinda leaves him breathless

- he introduces himself and it’s awkward as fuck. sure he’s talked to many other pretty girls and he’s usually charming but the fact that you’re pretty enough to catch art’s eye and never be seen at any frat parties is a little jarring to him

- you introduce yourself and ask him what he needs help in. art loves how you’re not judgmental when he says he needs help in a shit ton of subjects

- every weekday art will head to the library after practice to study and little by little his grades are improving

- when art finally doesn’t need a tutor he’s torn between attending more sessions (even though he hates studying) just to see you or finally man up and ask you out

- he goes with the latter by slipping a piece of paper into your notebook that has his number and says some cheesy pickup line

- he waits all night to see if you’ll even bother texting him and he’s constantly checking his phone. you don’t end up texting him that night and he feels like the biggest idiot in the world. he keeps saying to himself how he should’ve known you weren’t interested and blah blah blah

- however the next night art does receive a text from you

(you are pink art is blue)

fuck i’m so sorry i just saw your note

i’d love to go on a date

great! does tomorrow work for you?

what time?

7?

yeah i’m free then

cool cool cool

wear something nice tomorrow

define nice

like fancy nice

- the date goes perfectly and he walks you back to your dorm like a gentleman should and you end the night by kissing him!!

- but then art being the needy little shit that he is, that kiss turns into a make out session which then gets heated and bam he’s eating you out cuz all he wants to do is make you feel good

part two

[qvrcll]

nsfw, fem reader + borderline phone sex

teasing coriolanus snow through a line whilst he’s out parading himself as a peacekeeper with new responsibilities and goals? absolutely.

the ordeal is messy at first. you’re not sure if this is a good idea in the first place (considering the whole good man act he’s piecing together to get back to the capitol, so fragile already) but what is there to lose? you miss him terribly and on the off-chance, you get to catch him off guard, much to his dismay.

so, it starts.

“snow, there’s a caller out for you,” a stone faced peacekeeper yells, voice like gravel. really, not a mouth for conversation, so snow goes as much as to nod before reaching the relevant station. his hands are clammy, oddly, and he wishes the call were from back home. tigris, grand’maam… you.

you, who has kept his faith in this place with just images in his mind. memories.

but to hope is to lose and to lose is beneath him - so, snow keeps his wits about him. he finds a seat and sticks to it like glue, spreading his back and finding space for his feet as the machine ahead whirrs gently. there’s no one here at this point of time - calls are short and rare, which reminds him to not bide his time too much, to not panic and, admittedly, he’s never felt his heart in his throat until now.

“hello?” his voice is crisp, weak in its echo.

there’s cracking on the other end, before a face blends within the static, a smile already tinged in the viewer’s feedback. teeth he recognises by sight alone, smile he recognises by warmth alone.

it’s you.

“coryo? god, is this thing working?” you gasp, and he would laugh if the urge to have you wasn’t overwhelming his senses. his nose was already twitching, reddening with an onslaught of emotions as he could hear your words transmitting clearly over the machine’s whirr, “oh my god! coryo!”

the two of you break into smiles and he can sense you on the cusp of tears - not that strange, knowing he’s been away from you for far longer than he ever has. the remedy is always sweet: he coos at you, reassures you.

“have you been crying? what, you missed me?” he asks, clutching the receiver tighter and then loosening his grip a little. there’s a smile in his voice, but you can already see it.

you shift, curling the telephone cord around your finger and nodding, “of course i’ve missed you, coryo. have been missing you so much,” your voice is dripping with the spell of his absence, to which snow sadly smiles at. of course you’d been missing him.

but then, something slips up. time, his breath or the strap of the slip you’re wearing - pretty pink, a rememberable flush of salmon that hugs your body firmly, from what he can see. he almost misses it, almost chooses to focus on the wall nearby instead, out of courtesy. because it was surely a mistake, a little slip up (ironically). but when you fail to pull it up, instead staring at him like he was the loon here, he clears his throat.

“w… well, how have you been?”

“good.” (did you just scoot closer or did he imagine that?)

“how’d tigris… (cough) been?”

“she’s great.” (okay, your thigh definitely hitched up on purpose.)

two questions and he’s already losing his mind. he knows there are no others in the room, but he feels wholly lost, a string of yarn being pushed against nimble fingers - and when he finally looks at you, a warning painted in those azure eyes, he can finally see what you’re getting at. your face is prettily composed, like he remembers, but there’s heat in your shoulders. an ache that he wants to get beneath, curl against his fingers.

he steels himself, gripping the receiver harder and feeling his jaw tighten under the effort of staying calm, “what are you doing?”

you act dumb, of course. there’s that smile - same as before. sickly sweet and barely squashed off of your face as you stare at him, “doing what, coryo?”

“you don’t think i’m dumb, do you? i can see what you’re trying and it’s-“ he casts a wary look behind his shoulder, and spots no one, not a soul, “it’s unfair.”

“unfair?”

“precisely.”

“is this unfair too?”

before he can even squint at that, ask you what exactly you mean, you do your worst: drop the slip and reveal what’s beneath. the skin of your chest is as he remembers, your fingers skirting against your nipples. it all makes his leg jump, his heart clinch uncomfortably under all those bones and all that blood. he’s already hissing, moving closer.

“what the hell are you doing?” he asks, though there’s no malice in his voice. no reprimand. just a small fear and a large amount of desire that spills into a small whimper when you lean back and have the decency to lower your fingers past your belly and beneath.

“i missed you coryo,” you practically eat the words, moaning softly into the receiver as you work yourself open until it’s quite enough. but it never is - you know this and so does snow. one of his many faults, his dexterity that is - pretty, nimble fingers that reach parts of you that need teasing, pushing. fingers that go farther and don’t come back until you’ve had your fill. but you’re making do with what you have and that’s partly why he grits his teeth.

he knows he can do it better.

“talk to me,” he licks a stripe against his lips, eyes zoning in on you. he can’t see below for certain, but with the soft sounds that leave you, he’s plenty satisfied. besides, the thought of those stone faced peace-keepers stepping in and taking an eyeful of you gets him angrier than he would like to be, “how does it feel? good? better than mine?”

“no, no, never-“ you gasp, craning your head backwards and angling your body so you’re resting your weight on your free elbow, “never, coryo - ah - you’re better. need your fingers.”

he feels a strain in his pants. a pain is forming in his dick and the blood is rushing soon down, and he knows this is unruly. unadjustable. he could lose his position. but maybe that’s the thrill in it, isn’t it? closing an eye to his duties is rather easy, and as he palms his dick through the svelte material, the groan that leaves him is inarticulate and roughly pushed out of his throat.

“poor thing needs me all the time, don’t you?” he gasps, palm catching on that sensitive area down below, “have you been doing this - fuck - since i’ve been away?”

he spreads his legs, palming harder and somehow, messier. though the static betrays him, the feedback in the device in front of him does him wonders: your face, contorted just the way he loves it, your fingers inventing some thick, loud sound the more you work your way into your cunt, the weight of your release hung above the two of you like a threat.

“just my fingers - ah - been using ‘em” you cry out, voice high suddenly, “miss you so much. i can’t do this. i need you here - ngh - coryo!”

the noise that leaves you is heavy and it hits him so hard his dick throbs in his pants, so he presses harder onto the muscle and moans painfully slow.

“shit - miss you so much, sweetheart,” he picks up his ordinary pace, “when i’m back home, i’ll give it to you good.”

“promise?”

“fuck - i promise.”

the seconds of orgasm are embarrassing. he clutches the screen and stares open-mouthed at you. wishes he could kiss every bend and curve, every dot and line, but as soon as he feels himself about to spill into his pants, the line cuts. there’s a darkness washing over the screen and he can no longer hear your voice through the wasted receiver.

it clicks - those stupid call times. he’d probably used all his minutes.

he clenches his fist and loosens it up, tossing the receiver back into its apt position. and as much as he is exasperated as he is disconcerted, he composes himself.

several minutes later, a peace-keeper enters. stone faced and dull, just as he remembers them.

“time’s up, snow. get back to your room.”

snow nods, pinching one look at the dark screen of the feed before walking out. as he steers clear of the room, a thought occurs: he better get back home quick so he can fill you up the way you both like best.

(requests for snow / tbosas are open!)

© 2023 qvrcll. do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[writing-for-soup]

A Man and His Horse - Charthur Fic

“That cannot be true,” Charles said, chuckling dismissively as he ushered Taima up a ridge. They were getting close; the mountain river Arthur’d heard about was supposed to be a great spot for salmon.

This endeavor all started that afternoon, when Charles had quietly cornered Arthur by his lean-to. Dutch’s favorite enforcer had been out on a job for the last ten days when he’d finally ridden into camp looking grimy and grisly and gorgeous.

To say Charles was…pent up at this point would have been an understatement. He was practically vibrating with anticipation to see his man in the flesh again. It’d been nothing but cold nights and his own hand for far too long. Not wanting to appear overeager, however, Charles waited at least a couple of hours before he approached Arthur.

“Successful trip?” he asked, watching as Arthur dunked his head and scrubbed his face at his wash station. Arthur looked up to him from his stooped position and grinned, his strikingly clear eyes framed perfectly by dewy wet lashes. Charles had to press his fingernails into the meat of his palm to avoid reacting.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d come see me,” he replied, straightening to dry himself off, cocky grin still intact, “I missed you.”

“Arthur-” Charles warned, looking around to ensure nobody was within earshot.

“I know, I know, no need for your serious voice,” Arthur grumbled, waving Charles off with one hand while he started working on the buttons of his shirt, “It was successful, thank you for askin’.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Charles forced himself to look at something other than Arthur as the man peeled his shirt from his shoulders, retrieving a clean one from his trunk and seeming to take forever to get it on. One tiny peak from Charles was enough to get a rumbling chuckle out of Arthur.

“See somethin’ you like, angel?” he drawled, new shirt left hanging open on his broad shoulders.

“Arthur-”

“Mister Smith, I mean to say,” Arthur corrected himself, palms up and out in surrender as he continued chuckling like the evil, bad, evil man he was. Charles let himself get close enough for a quick slap to Arthur’s arm with the back of his hand.

“I’ve told you-”

“Not in camp, I know, I know,” Arthur defended, his smile falling to something more serious as he took a moment to look at Charles properly, eye-to-eye. “I’m sorry, just hard sometimes when I’ve been gone and you look so…” 

“So?” Charles asked, arms crossed on his chest and doing his best to look fed up with Arthur, regardless of how far it felt from the truth.

“Sorry, I can’t tell you in camp. Against the rules,” he said mockingly, his cocky grin returning. Arthur even turned to face away from Charles to button his shirt, depriving the other man of one last glimpse at that hairy chest and belly he missed so much.

“I see you’re busy,” Charles dared to bluff, half-turning away, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Arthur was turned around quick as a shot, on the cusp of reaching out to stop Charles from walking away. 

“Don’t be like that,” he pleaded, gone all apologetic and soft like he did at the slightest provocation from the younger man. He stepped closer, shirt tragically buttoned to the top but smelling a fair sight nicer than he had on arrival to camp. “Whaddya need?”

Charles took a measured step closer, careful to keep enough space that it wouldn’t look untoward from a distance. He let the air between them hang heavy, focusing his eyes on Arthur’s belt buckle before flicking up to the man’s eyes for his killshot.

“You,” he said, deep and smooth and practically sultry, more than enough to get Arthur riled up on the spot.

read the rest on ao3 for sweet cowboy smut

[jasmines-library]

As a girl who listens to a lot of metal (all kinds, especially death tbh), I always try to find fics abt the batfams reaction to that, but there’s not a lot to find.

You think you could write that? <3 totally fine if you don’t want/can’t, it’s just such a small thing I think they’d be really interested in!!

Metalhead

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Note: As a metalhead, how could I refuse? Also Jason definitely listens to metal.

Word count: 0.7k

⛧ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

You hadn’t really been paying much attention to what was happening around you. You had your headphones in and were tapping your hands and feet along to the drum of your music. It was turned up quite loud, so you didn’t notice Jason calling your name from across the Batcave as he returned from his patrol.

“Hello? Y/N?” Jason tried again but was still left with no answer as you continued to be absorbed in your music as you watched the screens.

Rolling his eyes, Jason moved closer, the sound of his footsteps resonated throughout the cave. As he approached you, he could hear the muffled sound of your music escaping your headphones. It was loud, with a distinct guitar sound playing overtop.

When Jason tapped you on the shoulder to gain your attention, you flinched slightly and turned around quickly to face him, hand reaching instinctively for the weapon at your hip. Though once you realised it was your only Jason you let your guard down and slipped your headphones off.

“Hey Jay. What’s up?” You asked him.

“I’ve been calling you.”

“Oh. Sorry.” You shrugged. “I was listening to my music. I guess it was louder than I thought it was. What can I do for you?”

“I was just going to ask you if you needed anything from upstairs.”

You pursed your lips in thought for a moment before shaking your head. “No, I’m all good thanks.”

Jason nodded.“What are you listening to anyway?”

You hesitated. It’s not as if you were ashamed of your music, it was just something you had never shared with them before. Between patrol and training, sitting and listening to music together wasn’t one of your priorities.

“...metal?”

“Metal?” Jason squinted. He hadn’t pegged you for being into metal.

“What?” You frowned, confused by his reaction. Worried what he was going to think.

“Nothing.” He hummed. “Just surprised me is all.”

Taking off your headphones from around your neck, you handed them to him. “Wanna listen?”

“Sure.” He placed them over his own ears and you pressed play on your phone. Soon enough he was humming along to the song.

“You know it?” You asked him as he tapped along to the drum solo on the chair.

“Oh yeah. They’re a great band.” Jay replied. “I wish you had told me you liked them sooner. We couldn’t have listened to them together.”

And you did. You and Jason began to listen to metal together quite frequently. Whether it was when you were training or if the two of you had some spare time in the evening. The both of you would sit and listen to it, sharing recommendations, seeing who could scream the loudest along to the vocalist or just jamming out together

It spread pretty quickly through the manor that you enjoyed metal. And although the others were less keen sometimes they would tap along.

Particularly Damian, who liked to imagine he was in some sort of dramatic fight from a movie whenever it played over the aux in the cave.

Dick and Tim were…less keen. They would listen to a few songs, but often would ask to change it to something a little less heavy.

Sometimes, you would catch Tim listening to it once in a while. It was one of his guilty pleasures. He even asked you once for recommendations ‘for a friend’.

Dick was an avid listener of rock music, so although he was not a huge fan of the heavier death metal, he found that sometimes his music strayed onto the cusp of metal but he wouldn’t listen purposefully to it.

Since they found out that you like metal, jamming sessions became a frequent, not just with Jay but with the rest of them too. And even Bruce would join in occasionally. Though, an effort was made to make sure that when Alfred was in the house it wasn’t too loud because none of you wanted to cross that bridge.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

BATFAM TAGLIST:

@hearts4robs @aestheticdaisies @hell-o-kittys @xxrougefangxx @mamapucket @harleycao

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

The Lookalike (Part 4)

☒ Summary: The first thing you remembered after your death was an argument. “No, this isn’t one of my fucking sluts.” The man behind you exhaled, frustrated. “This is a present for you. Something to help you work through your Alastor fixation.” You awaken in Hell as the near-spitting image of a certain infamous radio host. Unfortunately for you, you immediately fall into the clutches of his nemesis. Even after your escape, Vox continues to obsess. 

☒ Warnings: hermaphrodite!reader, deer!reader, crying!reader, they/them pronouns used, explicit sexual content, reader is in Hell for a reason, Valentino, canon typical scenarios.

☒ Series links: Part I Part2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6 Part 6 BONUS SCENE Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Epilogue

Ironically, at his console, surrounded by the feeds of thousands of cameras, was one of the few places Vox could be guaranteed privacy. Ignoring the emails that pinged in, and clearing his schedule for the next half hour, Vox loaded up the footage that had been tormenting him for the past week.

The camera wasn’t quite at your eye-level, but close enough. Alastor, leaning over you, his voice low and salacious, picked up crystal clear by the microphone at your lapel.

“Sweet little pretender, you are going to lay quite still and let me tend to you.”

Just the sound of Alastor’s voice was enough to send chills through Vox’s spine, and he swallowed, plugging the feed for the video directly into the back of his head as he unzipped his pants, his cock already hard, sore from the times he’d already beaten off to this. With the feed plugged into his head, the video was a true first person view. He couldn’t really feel Alastor’s body against his, but he could imagine, he could watch the Radio Demon getting hard, could listen to the soft, sticky sounds of kissing. Vox’s hand closed over his cock, pumping up and down as he watched. His arousal was a sick, dirty ache, but still it needed release; the tip of his cock wet and weeping.

A fake Alastor had been a sublime thing, hearing how Alastor would succumb, seeing from your expressions the way his ears would fold back when he was on the cusp of orgasm, hearing a voice that could double for Alastor’s whimper Vox, Vox, Vox. That had been great, but it wasn’t the real thing. It wasn’t “Are you really going to climax, just from a little kissing?” said in Alastor’s teasing tone. He’d heard that tone a hundred times before, paired with a sly tilt of the head, but never, not in Vox’s wildest dreams, had he imagined this. Alastor over him, the hard length of Alastor’s cock pressed against him, as Alastor teased.

“Fuck yes. Fuck yes, I’m gonna cum.” Vox swallowed again, his movements becoming more frantic as he played the footage again from the beginning. The Alastor in the video didn’t reply, but Vox was beyond caring. Shit, this was hotter than anything.

“I suppose I don’t see the harm. Hold still, now,” said Alastor, as the kissing noises began, the soft suckling and little distorted whimpers, all against the urgent plap, plap plap of Vox’s hand around his erection, close to the precipice despite his self-abuse. He imagined himself in your place, beneath Alastor, in Alastor’s fucking bed. Damn. The thought of that alone was enough to drive him wild.

“Fuck,” groaned Vox through gritted teeth as he came over his console, cock pulsing almost painfully in his hand. A thick line of cum hit the panel in front of him, spatter hitting the screens on each side.

Alastor had destroyed the camera, but he still had those few moments of footage. A sliver of what there might be. Alastor and you, sharing a soft, sensual embrace. The sound of kissing. Your breath hitching. Alastor’s breath, hitching in the same way. The hiss of static and the soft whine of a faulty capacitor discharging, the animal bellow of a stag in rut. The thought of all of these possibilities, of any of these possibilities was a fire in the corner of his mind. He wanted more. He needed more. But he couldn’t even get you back, let alone Alastor.

“You mean you didn’t make them sign a contract?” Valentino peered at him over his big pink glasses.

“What? No! I thought you did! Fuck!”

Valentino waved an arm dismissively. “Just send someone to go get them, they can’t have gone far.”

“They’re in the fucking hotel, Val.”

“What? With Alastor?” Valentino laughed to himself.

“Yes with fucking Alastor.” Vox felt a spark run from his antenna to his neck, his eye twitching. “Fuck!”

Vox thought of himself a resourceful man, however. When he needed something this badly, he always found a way to make it happen. Setting up a meeting with the King of Hell wasn’t easy, but it was the best way to get what he wanted. More.

He’d set up the meeting in the Voxtek boardroom, the most impressive meeting room he had, the long table in the center of it overshadowed by the windows on each side looking into his aquarium.

“Your majesty,” Vox beamed at Lucifer, hands folded behind his back. “Welcome to Voxtek. Can I offer you refreshments?” He inclined his head to the trolley he’d had brought in, loaded with carafes of drinks, plates of cake and fresh fruit.

“Yeah, I guess.” Lucifer returned none of Vox’s unctuousness, pacing to the meeting room table and sitting down. “Let’s get this over, shall we? I’ve got important… stuff.” He waved his hand.

Exactly what Lucifer’s important stuff was wasn’t clear to Vox, but it didn’t really matter. The important thing was that everyone at the hotel was either a friend or an employee of Alastor, except for Lucifer. Vox had it on good authority that Lucifer and Alastor had beef. And that was something he could use to his advantage.

“Nice sharks, by the way.” Lucifer gestured to the tank against the east wall of the boardroom, where Vox’s pets swam as Vox fetched him a coffee.

“Uh, thanks.” Vox took the seat across from Lucifer, the pitch for his proposal in his hands. “I raised ‘em.”

“Maybe I should get a pet,” said Lucifer, looking past Vox as he narrowed his eyes at the tank.

Maybe you should go fuck yourself, thought Vox, but he fixed his face into a smile instead. He really needed to win Lucifer over. “About the project for your daughter’s hotel,” he said.

Lucifer perked up at the word daughter, and Vox felt himself relax slightly. “I’ve put together a few proposals,” he continued, spreading the documents on the table. For someone younger, he would have done a powerpoint presentation, but bitter experience told him that the older generations were unlikely to sit through such a thing. Paper or bust. And unlike some people, Vox wasn’t entirely inflexible on the media he used. “Here we have the sinstagram banner ads, of course the targeted marketing, the sinfluencer sponsored content.” Vox spread out the glossy full-page promotional photos under his claws. He’d had his marketing team compose the entire pack, sparing no expense, and was pleased to see a spark of interest in Lucifer’s eye as the king looked at the bright, glossy images. “Then of course on the more traditional media, we can run newsreels, maybe even a docudrama!” He pushed the paper towards Lucifer, large text reading Hell’s Greatest Hotel.

“This looks very nice,” said Lucifer, pushing the paper back. “But what do you want for it?” Nothing in Hell was free, after all.

“A little favor,” said Vox.

Lucifer’s mouth twitched to the side. Doubt. “How little?”

Vox weighed his options. If he pussyfooted around the matter, that was likely to make Lucifer more suspicious, not less, and if Lucifer thought he was some kind of voyeur, he would never be allowed the hotel with Lucifer’s daughter in it again. “I want you to install some cameras and microphones in the bedroom of your facility manager, Alastor,” he said, as if this was a normal thing and not something he had been furiously masturbating over half an hour ago.

“What?” Lucifer made a face. “Why?”

“He’s my business rival,” said Vox, which was true.

“He’s Charlie’s friend,” said Lucifer, turmoil showing on his face.

“What your daughter doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“But if he loses his business…” said Lucifer, with a complete lack of understanding of how Hell’s media industry worked. Vox let it slide.

“Then you can swoop in and save the day,” said Vox, keeping his tone encouraging. “It’s a win-win.”

Lucifer’s gaze slid to the glossy photos, and Vox let him stew on the offer a little before he spoke again. “Just think of how many guests this would get you.”

Lucifer nodded slowly, biting his thumb. “Charlie would be pleased…”

“And it would be because of you,” said Vox, leaning in a little closer. “Like it should be.” And not because of Alastor, he left unspoken.

“Yeah.” Lucifer nodded again, with more certainty this time. “You’re right, TV man. It should be because of me.”

“We’ve got a deal, then?” asked Vox, with a sly grin. “Because it’s sounding to me like we’ve got a deal.”

[fallstaticexit]

When your Gen X, boomer cusp boy mom mother can't read the room to save her life.

AN: If anyone is interested in some more Lyric lore, you can check out my TikTok for part one and part two of her backstory. Trigger Warnings: pregnancy loss, depression.

prev / next

Myrah: Oh, my sweet boys! I missed you so much!

Sonny: So you went and got married, huh? Didn’t think to tell us, mama?

Olive: [whispers] Girl, not your mom getting her groove back.

Lyric: [groans] See, this is what I’m talking about...

Nina: [whispers] This was not on my Myrah visit bingo card.

Ernest: We eloped. Nothing too fancy, since it’s both our second marriage. I can send some photos your way, just got to get them developed.

Mel: Developed?

Myrah: My Ernie is an old soul. Very old school.

Sonny: Uh-huh. How old exactly?

Lyric: Isn’t there a dinner we’re supposed to be eating or something?!

Myrah: Oh, that’s right! Everyone sit, I’ll bring out the food.

Sonny: Yeah, maybe get this man a shirt while you at it..

[awkward silence]

Sonny: How’d you meet my moms, man. What’s all this about?

Mel: This isn’t some life insurance scam, is it?

Myrah: Boys!

Ernest: We met at a Divorce Support Group.

Lyric: [sucks teeth] Why are you still going to those? You were divorced over 30 years ago...

Myrah: There’s no expiration date on support! I can still go. We take a trip to Cancun every year.

Ernest: She was telling her story about being a young mom in a loveless marriage, and I really felt that. I was a young father, too.

Sonny: [grumbles] Tuh. Ya don’t say?

Ernest: I asked her to join me for coffee one day, and well, the rest is history.

Myrah: Ernest completes me. We don’t let things like our age keep us from being happy. Ernest satisfies me in ways you can’t imagine-

[Everyone groans]

Ernest: Meeting your mom really changed my life, kids.

Olive: I get it. It happens to the best of us. I fell in love with a beautiful, elegant, rich older woman, and my life has never been the same. I’ll probably never fall in love again.

Sonny: ?????

Myrah: Thank you, Olivia. Kids, I just want you to be happy for me. Don’t I deserve that?

Lyric: This is weird! You get married without telling anyone, and it’s to some guy who’s like half your age. Why would you think we wouldn’t be upset about this?

Myrah: Well, honey, you’re not a little girl anymore. I can do as I please and not have to tiptoe around what my children think. I’m allowed to live my life however I want.

Ernest: Your mother’s right. And I think if you gave me a chance, I could show you how I can be a great father figure and role model to you and your brothers.

Lyric: Am I in the twilight zone?? What the hell is happening right now??

Ernest: Ah! Little man’s burgers! Must of slipped my mind. I guess age is catching up to me.

Sonny: Mhmmm, which is how old again?

Myrah: I’ll get it. Sit tight, baby.

Lyric: [sneers] You! Did you know about this?

Sonny: What! No!

Mel: I mean, you did say you talk to mom everyday. She never mentioned this?

Olive: Can we get these dishes passed around or...

Sonny: I mean, she mentioned having a friend name Ernest once but I’m thinkin’ he’s some old guy she met!

Ernest: [chuckles] Yeah, I get that alot. I normally go by EJ. Ernest Sr. is my father’s name.

Sonny: Uh-huh... and who yo daddy? Probably went to school with him...

Myrah: Alright, got one burger for my big strong, handsome grandson!

Myrah: What? What’s the matter?

Lyric: Mom, there’s cheese and stuff on it! He doesn’t like that! He’ll only have it plain!

Myrah: Ok! Ok! No problem! I’ll just pluck it off! I-I didn’t know-

Lyric: You would have known if you’d bothered to get to know him at all! You don’t know anything about any of your grandchildren, Mateo especially! All you care about is that he’s a boy.

Lyric: You don’t listen to me when I tell you about things that overwhelm him. You don’t listen to me at all! I’m not going to let you make him feel invisible like you did me.

Myrah: Lyric, wait! Please don’t leave like this! Talk to me, Sunshine!

Olive: Um. Thanks for the to-go plates, Mrs. M. I bet it would have been really good when it was fresh.

[tires screeching]

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

can I request a platonic Yandere Nagito Komaeda x twin sister reader, with Nagito being older by his twin by a minute?

Twin of Yandere Nagito Komaeda

Nagito is an enigma

Through and through

Devoted to the idea of hope and those who represent it

Often neglecting the innermost parts of himself that would make any other normal person falter

Now add on a twin 

Someone to share in the misery his ultimate skill brings

So it’s very early that misfortune and fortune plague your life

It would be fine if you both had an ultimate ability and were equally obsessed with hope

But you're not

And when you are finally seen by those who know Nagito, you instantly break the stereotype of the matching twins

On the surface Nagito doesn’t seem to like you

A conclusion many of his current or former classmates come to after watching your dynamic

“Ah~You’re hope is exhilarating, I can only hope to be a stepping stone to your greatness!”

“...Nagito maybe don’t hold her hands she looks real uncomfort—”

“Oh! I’ve forgotten Hajime there was something I was sure would ignite your search for hope as well!”

He blatantly ignores you 

Passing the salt to the person on the other side of you if you ask

When counting people in the room he leaves you out

When going on trips that you’ve tagged along, he doesn’t even raise an alarm when the others notice a missing member in their travel group

“Nagito!? Where’s your twin?!”

“I appreciate the attention but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Playing dumb is not going to help your case!”

Naturally, you incur the favor of everyone else

Recognizing your quiet introverted behavior likely stems from your brother’s neglect 

It’s no twin but having attentive friends helps

But it’s not nearly as simple as that

Not with Nagito 

Never with Nagito Komaeda

“(Y/n) I think I’ll hate you forever!”

“W-what?!”

“Nagito!? How could you say that!? Apologize right this minute!”

In a silent bout that even as a twin you can only catch an inkling of Nagito has ordained that he must be distant

While the extent of his ultimate ability played an odd and unmeasurable balance of luck and unluck

he seems to have a better idea than any on how to avoid his bad luck from affecting the ones he loves ie. You

Nagito comes off as very flippant when speaking about his parent’s deaths and many don’t bother questioning further he’s weird anyway

But if they did it’d be interesting to know what Nagito’s last interaction with your parents was before they so unluckily died at the hands of hijackers

It plagues your dreams and nightmares

“Nagito! We pick Nagito!”

“Over the poor runt, sheesh that’s cold. How does it feel kid to be the lucky one.”

“I…love you all so much.”

You don’t like to talk about that day and neither does Nagito 

But through very roundabout forms of communication, he’s conveyed that depending on how much he loves dictates the unluck that’s meant to strike them

And thus you’ve settled to continue to deny the memories you have of your brother staring blankly with those swamp-green eyes

It’s hard but as a twin you’re certain he cares

After all, why would he have fought so hard to have you stay in the dorms with him

Why would he make his schedule visible so you could visit

Why would he make your favorite breakfast—even if an appliance  was likely to explode again

On your end as his twin it’s a lovely mystery you will never want to solve

On Nagito’s end there is a mystery and he’s finally on the cusp of discovering it 

“Uh Nagito who’s hair is this?”

“Haha only the most hope-filled kind!”

“Uh okay…i think I’m just going to toss this–”

“Don’t touch my stuff, please. I won’t be liable if your hand breaks within the next 24 hours!”

He’s made the stark realization that who he claims to adore is heavily linked with who experiences the most bad luck

This applies to all but the ultimates he so adores

So naturally all hope to one day dote on his twin rely on the hopeful future Ultimates can bring

So unless you are able to be deemed an Ultimate he refuses to endanger you

And if that means pretending you don’t exist to your face making you question everything then so be it

Besides his little talent allows him some freedoms 

A few locks of hair a month

A lost photo of you from an album ending up in his pocket

The burning corpse of an admirer of yours from some random meteorite making a precise landfall

If he’s ever asked about this he’d never share

The simple thought of doing so could back fire terribly on him

“They’re my twin. They can handle whatever I throw at them.”

You’re going to have to 

Until he can guarantee you won’t end up suffering because of him

When he’s sure he can protect you properly he might actually admit it

Admit that on the day you both lost your parents he’d made a point to love them the most that day

[raayllum]

Spark notes on "Callum lost his true heart" in S2. Excellent true heart meta here by @kradogsrats on how the concept works more generally that I would 100% recommend reading before coming back here

The true heart is a gift of childhood. For a few wonder-filled years, we each have innocent eyes to experience the world’s beauty in a simple way. 

We see Callum on the cusp of being 15 undeniably believing that the resolution to the war can be that simple (even if we know well before S7, wherein Aaravos directly says they have similar views of how the world works, that Callum does not hold onto this simplicity for long). This is demonstrated, as Krads points out, in Callum's conversation in 1x02:

CALLUM: Can't you just make peace with them? HARROW: It's not that simple. CALLUM: It seems pretty simple to me. You don't want to die, I'm sure the elves and dragons don't want to die, so everyone agrees.

This emphasis on what people want over what they're devoted/committed to ("I'm sure they don't want to die" -> "I am already dead") is similar to Ezran's in arc 2 ("We all want peace and we all want love [...] you want to hurt someone else") that is both dismantled and upheld ("You want Janai to attack!" / "I want them to hurt"). To hammer it in further, Harrow even denotes that Callum is operating under the illusion of childhood, where adults have all the power/freedom.

What happens, I think, over the course of season one and season two is a bit of a domino effect, with Callum making choices in season one that season two continually 'knocks' down so to speak. The first and easiest example, perhaps, is Callum's choice in 1x03 between staying and trying to save Harrow... or choosing his little brother, who will remain in danger the longer they stay at the castle (Runaan and Viren both presenting strong antagonistic forces) and even worse danger the longer the egg remains.

Callum glanced out a tower window and saw Ezran in the courtyard searching for him. But how could he leave the tower when the king was in so much danger? Callum tried to think of what the king would want him to do. “I’m coming, Ez,” he called out the window. He gave one final look back at the door to King Harrow’s chamber, then bolted to the spiral staircase. He took the stairs two at a time, trying not to look at the dead bodies strewn on the way to his little brother.

—Book One: Moon novelization

Now, this choice makes sense. It is in many ways just another version of the same one (choosing Ezran and his safety) that Callum had made earlier this same episode. Both are more complicated choices ("the right thing, I hope" does not beget certainty, and therefore does not beget simplicity) but we'll get to that in a moment.

The final domino set up in season one for Callum's true heart is, I think, choosing to destroy the primal stone. The reason I say these are the dominoes, so to speak, is because each of these choices are made in a very distinctly Callum-y way, by which I mean: he thinks to a certain degree he can skirt the consequences.

This is not to take away from the weight of the choices Callum is making — they're still sacrifices, they're still honourable, he's still aware that he's risking Something — but there's still clearly a 'block' of some kind between "this is what I'm choosing to sacrifice" and "this is the full consequential weight of my sacrifices".

For example, the primal stone means a great deal to Callum. He states that "without this, I'm nothing" and it's a great powerful tool of magic. However, when Callum destroys it, it is currently unknown to him that this means no more magic, point blank. The consequence for his choice is steeper than he'd imagined, and now he has to live with the reality of it (for a time, anyway, but it's not like the journey to primal magic isn't gruelling, anyway).

But as we grow up, we are forced to make choices, sacrifices, compromises. And they change us forever. 

The same happens when it comes to learning about Harrow's death. Callum was happily writing him a letter two episodes ago, reassuring Ezran in 1x03, etc etc. And yet:

Callum made a sacrifice, then convinced himself that maybe he hadn't, and had to face the devastating reality of what he knew was most likely, on top of why Rayla wasn't able to tell him for the same reason(s) he couldn't tell Ezran.

I also want to highlight Claudia (and Soren)'s betrayal of Callum as well for two reasons. The first, and less interesting/important one in some ways (to me, anyway) is that if Callum's betrayal of 7x02 contributes to the last vestiges of Ezran's true heart being snapped to pieces, it would make sense that Claudia's betrayal would likewise contribute to Callum's.

The more interesting/important facet of the Callum/Claudia breakdown is, to me, what happens before Claudia shows her true colours, and whereupon she hasn't done anything (knowingly) wrong to Callum yet, and still:

RAYLA: Callum, I know you trust them, but if we let them come with us, by the time we know the truth, it'll be too late. Do you understand? We'll lose everything. CALLUM: So what do we do? How can we figure out if it's help, or a trap?

Callum has already made a Compromise. He trusts Claudia, but Rayla doesn't, and he ultimately trusts Rayla more than Claudia, even this early on, the same way he trusted Ezran more than Claudia (and didn't trust Claudia with Ezran, then) in 1x03. So he goes along with the illusion plan, which would've been pretty crappy to do to an old friend if Claudia (and Soren) had been genuine in their offer to help.

So I think in quick succession over a few days, most if not all of Callum's true heart gets shredded to pieces within the first few episodes of season two. Barring that, I think 2x07, specifically the choice to do dark magic, takes whatever remains.

AARAVOS: You call it corruption. I call it compromise.

'Could he really bring himself to go through with his plan? What if he didn’t succeed? What if he compromised his beliefs and it was all for nothing? […] But Rayla was in trouble.' —book two: sky novelization

While Aaravos lists off choices, sacrifices, and compromises as though they are separate things, and occasionally they can be, I think more often than not in life and within TDP that they are all the same thing.

Do you choose (sacrifice) your father or your baby brother? Do you sacrifice your oldest friendship (compromise) to ensure your travelling party can be safe? Do you use dark magic (a compromise, a sacrifice of yourself) to save someone you love?

And Callum's dark magic use falls into his previous pattern of you made a choice, and you knew there would be consequences, but you never dreamed it'd be This. And finally — finally — in 5x08, Callum makes a choice with the full knowledge of the consequences, of exactly what he's risking — and what he refuses to sacrifice.

His true heart has been gone for a while by this point, I think — but within the narrative, Callum is an adult from 5x08 onwards. He knows undeniably what he'll sacrifice and why, and what he won't.

(Something something sacrificing your true heart to protect the person who is your heart and your truth.)