#operation: all that glitters

[iydiamartinx]

TERRITORY, MARKED II

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader ft. Dick Grayson

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 2.1k synopsis: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park—but when his older brother tags along one day and takes a little too much interest, Damian decides one thing for certain: this was not supposed to be a shared friendship. a/n: I decided to combine it with another request I received to make this the part 2 y’all have been asking for 🩵

Damian knew something was off.

It started with the glances. The subtle shifts in conversation whenever he approached. The way you and Grayson—Dick—would exchange these brief looks, like you were sharing some silent joke he wasn’t invited to.

It was insulting. No—infuriating.

This was supposed to be his friendship. His space. His routine. You were his friend. Not Grayson’s. 

At first, Damian tried to ignore it. Tried to convince himself he was overreacting. Maybe his brother was just being his usual obnoxious self. Maybe you were just… humouring him.

But the evidence was piling up too quickly for him to ignore.

Grayson was starting to show up at the dog park more often. Then you started asking if it was okay if he was invited along. And then came the final straw—one afternoon, just as Damian was about to leave, he doubled back to grab the water bottle he’d forgotten on the bench… only to see the two of you walking off together, laughing, neither of you having noticed him.

It was all suspicious. Highly suspicious.

And so, Damian did what any rational twelve-year-old assassin raised by the League of Shadows would do.

He launched an investigation.

“I need surveillance,” he said flatly, arms folded across his chest as he stood in front of the Batcomputer.

Jason looked up from where he was cleaning a pistol, one brow already arched in suspicion. “On who?”

“Grayson. And Y/N.”

Tim spun slightly in his chair, squinting. “Wait—Y/N? As in Dick’s dog park friend he never stops talking about?”

“She’s not his friend,” Damian snapped, voice sharp with offence. “She’s mine. And Grayson and her have started acting suspicious.”

Stephanie leaned around the monitor. “Aww, are you jealous?”

“I’m being cautious,” Damian corrected with a scowl. “There’s a difference. They’re hiding something. I need confirmation.”

Cass blinked slowly. Then nodded.

“Thank you,” Damian muttered, grateful someone understood the importance of betrayal.

Duke, who had been sitting quietly with a protein bar half-unwrapped, finally looked up. “Let me get this straight—you want us to help spy on Dick… because you think he’s stealing your friend?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “He is stealing her.”

“Okay.” Duke took a bite. “And this isn’t just you being twelve and melodramatic?”

Damian didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned back to the Bat computer and brought up a file he’d already prepped—complete with time stamps, satellite footage, and a grainy photo of you and Dick walking to your car. Side by side. Smiling.

“Evidence,” Damian said grimly, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “But I need more. This tells me nothing of what they’re trying to hide.”

The others exchanged a look—equal parts amused and knowing. It wasn’t hard to guess what was going on between you and Dick. Especially with how happy Dick seemed to be lately, Steph and Cass had even caught him humming on his way out the door the other day.

Jason chuckled under his breath, tossing his cleaning cloth aside. “Kid’s already built a case file,” he said, standing. “Might as well help him.”

Operation Find Out What Those Two Are Hiding was surprisingly successful.

Within forty-eight hours, Damian had assembled a full investigative task force. Tim handled the digital trail. With a few taps and zero guilt for the invasion of privacy, he pulled location pings, overlapping time stamps, and even access to security footage from the café down the street. 

Stephanie, armed with glitter gel pens and far too much enthusiasm, took charge of the psychological profiling. “Body language doesn’t lie,” she said, flipping through candid snapshots she’d printed and annotated with notes like ‘eye contact: flirty’ and ‘distance: suspiciously close.’

Cass…no one knew what she was really doing all they knew was she was able to get the candids for Stephanie without being seen.

Duke volunteered to monitor Dick’s mood whenever he was at the manor, noting things like “that he was happier more than usual” or that “he smiled at his phone three times in a row.”

Jason, of course, took it too far. He attempted a staged “coincidental run-in” at the dog park—sunglasses, hoodie, and a golden retriever he borrowed from a neighbour. It was a solid plan in theory… until Dick recognized him instantly.

That failed mission had one upside: it’s how you met Jason. Who you learned wasn’t named Todd, like Damian kept calling him—at least his first name wasn’t. While he learned you were a pretty cool chick and that he absolutely loved your dog. 

And Damian—naturally—had taken to shadowing the two of you himself. He followed from rooftops, behind trees, under benches. He was determined to catch you both in the act—to find out what exactly you two were hiding from him and that if you lied and that Dick was truly your favourite. 

And then, finally, it happened.

On Friday afternoon. You and Dick stood near your car just outside the park, laughing about something he said. You reached up, probably to fix his collar, still laughing under your breath when Dick leaned down and kissed you.

Damian burst out of the bushes so fast the squirrels scattered.

“AHA!”

You jumped, half-screaming. Dick whipped around, startled. “Damian?!”

“I knew it!” Damian shouted, pointing at you both like he was delivering a verdict in a courtroom. “You two betrayed me!”

“Dami—” Dick started, hands raised in surrender.

“No!” Damian growled. “You were supposed to be my friend! He already has everyone else! He has Alfred, he has Father, he even stole Titus!”

Titus, who had come to the park alongside your husky and Haley, stood dutifully nearby. At the accusation, he gave a quiet chuff, more confused than guilty.

Dick opened his mouth, possibly to argue that he had not, in fact, stolen the dog—but thought better of it. One look at Damian’s furious expression told him now was not the time for logic.

You blinked, torn between guilt and trying not to laugh. “Damian…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped, spinning on his heel. “Unbelievable. I trusted you.”

“Says the one spying on us,” Dick called after him.

“I regret nothing!”

You sighed, shooting Dick a look that landed somewhere between why are you both like this and I’ll handle it. He raised his hands in surrender, clearly trying not to smile, and stayed behind as you jogged after Damian.

“Hey—wait up!”

He didn’t slow down. Not at first. He stalked ahead, shoulders stiff, fists clenched, radiating righteous betrayal in every step.

“Damian,” you said more gently, catching up beside him. “Can you just—stop for a second?”

He did. But he didn’t look at you.

You stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Look, I get why you’re mad. And I’m sorry you found out like that. But can I explain?”

His eyes narrowed, arms crossing tightly across his chest. “Go on, then.”

You took a breath. “We’ve been going out and we didn’t tell you because… we weren’t even sure where it was going. It’s still new. We didn’t want to make things weird if it didn’t work out.”

Damian said nothing, but the way his jaw clenched told you he was at least listening.

“I didn’t keep it from you to hurt you, Dami.” Your voice was soft, honest. “I didn’t stop being your friend. You’re still my favourite person to talk to at that park. That hasn’t changed.” You smiled a little, tilting your head to meet his wary gaze. “It never will.”

Damian glanced up at you, uncertainty flickering behind narrowed eyes—but the tension still clung to his small frame like armour not yet set aside.

“And now that you know Dick and I are… seeing each other,” you continued carefully, watching his expression, “that just means we get to hang out more. I promise—no more secrets. No weirdness. I’ll even bring my dog around to play with yours outside the park. And I’ll make sure Dick doesn’t always tag along, so you and I can still have our talks. Just the two of us.”

Damian stared at you for a long moment. His scowl didn’t vanish entirely—but it wavered. Just slightly. The hard lines of suspicion around his mouth eased, and that sharp, ever-scrutinizing glare lost some of its bite and he stopped looking like he was preparing to exile you.

“You’re not just saying that to get me to stop being mad?” he asked, eyes narrowing—not with anger this time, but with cautious hope.

“I am saying it to get you to stop being mad,” you admitted, lips curving. “But I also mean it.”

A huff escaped him—equal parts reluctant and resigned.

“…Fine,” he muttered, arms folding. “But I’m still watching you both.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He looked at you then, fully, with narrowed eyes and a serious edge to his voice. “If he hurts you, I’ll replace all the sugar in his apartment with salt.”

You grinned. “That’s fair.”

And just like that, he turned and marched back toward the bench, shoulders squared, chin lifted, every step radiating the proud dignity of a boy on a mission.

You followed behind him, a quiet smile tugging at your lips.

Dick raised his brows as the two of you returned. “We good?”

Damian didn’t answer. He just sat down on the bench with all the grace of someone doing you a favour.

“If you hurt her,” he said flatly, eyeing Dick without blinking, “I will make you regret it.” Dick opened his mouth, but Damian steamrolled ahead. “We’re watching a movie at the manor tomorrow. You’re both coming. And I pick.”

You bit back a giggle as Dick shot you a helpless look. You just nodded, already amused.

Dick shrugged in surrender. “Fine. But if you pick Kill Bill again, I’m leaving.”

Before Damian could respond, five voices shouted in unison. “Can we join?!”

You and Dick jumped as bodies popped out from behind trees, the vending machine, a parked car—Tim, Steph, Cass, Duke, Jason and even Bab’s all coming to gather around you all.

Dick groaned and nearly facepalmed. “Were all of you idiots spying on my date?!”

You covered your mouth to muffle your giggles, eyes crinkling as you looked down at Damian beside you. His arms were crossed, face as impassive as ever—but there was the faintest hint of smug satisfaction in his expression as Dick launched into a full blown scolding.

“Welcome to the family,” he said dryly.

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[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you and john go undercover to infiltrate an arms dealing ring in paris. you take your roles a little too seriously.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.3K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), semi-established relationship (no label yet), fake marriage trope, espionage stuff, mild plot, mild mentions of insecurities, thigh riding/thigh grinding, dry humping, dirty talk, biting/marking, john is needy, making out, hair pulling, john walker’s praise kink, unprotected p in v sex, cowgirl/riding position.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was so fun to write & can be read in the same ‘universe’ as “bite the hand that needs you” !! lowkey I’m becoming john walker trash ,,, expect more fics of him because he’s delicious. I loved this sm & I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Covert operations were never considered your expertise — in fact, they were completely foreign to you, so outlandish that you wanted to crawl out of your own flesh. Discomfort comes with new territory, with putting on some new facade for the sake of a mission.

The ripstop mesh of your suit is gone, exchanged for a gaudy dress that seems torn from the cover of some business magazine, fabric the color of bruised plums. It’s awkward, constricting; you’re squirming in your seat.

Valentina had sent you all trailing after an illegal weapons manufacturer in the heart of Paris, superpowered machinery being bartered off to the highest bidder.

There were too many hands involved, too many bad people getting their hands on equipment that could level buildings if used improperly. It seemed like a threat that might’ve required Bob’s help, but he was still out-of-commission.

Admittedly, you weren’t sure why Bucky had put you and John up to the task as bait; it set your nerves ablaze, trying to step into a role that was the antithesis of your personality.

While you and John were out masquerading as a husband-and-wife duo who owned a technology company, the rest of the team were infiltrating an underground warehouse.

Given the newfound nature of your relationship with John, it made the predicament all the more humorous. No one knew, but the irony of being paired together for something of this nature had made you laugh, initially.

If you’d known about the blisters gnawing at the flesh of your heels, you might not have been so enthusiastic to volunteer yourself for this.

A tangle of nerves sat heavy within your stomach, a tight knot that continued to bounce around your belly, prompting you to bounce your knee. The stiletto pumps you wore blistered and chafed at your heels, the sensation grating.

Grenadine syrup oozes onto your tongue at the first sip of an iced Shirley Temple, perched at the countertop of a bar that seems excessively lavish. Everything is pretty — the scenery, the city, the hotel’s interior.

The atmosphere is light, casual; though, you’re actively avoiding looking over your shoulder. Tension curls within your muscles, your posture abnormally rigid; any attempt to relax is met with resistance.

John is talking with the target — pressed, tailored suit clinging to his musculature, blonde tresses less disheveled, smile easy; too trusting, too naive. You remind yourself that this is all an act, that you’re both Avengers playing pretend.

It’s difficult to discern if he’s enjoying himself or not — he’d rather be fighting, you think, expelling all of his frustrations into a few henchmen.

Nevertheless, you’re making a valiant effort to enjoy yourself; this was a free hotel stay, after all. Beyond the thin, sparkling window panes of the Hotel George V, you catch a glimpse of Paris’s glittering cityscape.

There’s a peculiar solace you find in the teeming nightlife, and much of the hotel’s clientele screams wealth and lavishness. It’s a life that you never had, growing up — now, being an Avenger, it was all within your grasp.

Even when you served with S.H.I.E.L.D, your assignments never took you to France. Despite the intensity of the mission at-hand, you were thrilled to be somewhere new.

As the liquid evaporates from your glass, you’re left with a twinge of disappointment, sucking what remnants you can from the bottom, ice half-melted. Sliding the empty vessel aside, you peer over your shoulder, noticing John’s gaze directed toward you, waving you over.

Act the part; the reminder repeats over and over again, a mantra screaming from the forefront of your mind. Gliding from the stool, you straighten out your dress, knees wobbling as you steady yourself on your stilettos.

With a tremulous exhale, your gait is somewhat poised, unpracticed; anyone observant enough could tell that you were one step away from fumbling over.

Pointed heels click against marble tile as you join them at the table, beaming and bristling with a fake excitement.

John notices the tremor in each step, unbalanced, and he finds it cute, in the way one finds a newborn foal to be cute.

He can taste the discomfort that rolls from you in anxious waves, and so he attempts to soothe you in the only way he knows how.

“Mr. Bertesy, this is my wife,” He introduces you without missing a beat, the words smooth, lacking an ounce of hesitation. John is better at this than you thought, smiling as if he’s won the lottery. “She’s also helming the company.”

Andras Bertesy — the name held some familiarity, a Hungarian arms dealer, prominent in much of central and eastern Europe. His features are gaunt, narrow; he reminds you of a spider, his physicality noticeably spindly.

Andras regards you with a thinly-veiled perplexity, as if he’s attempting to pierce through whatever barrier you’ve concocted. He remains seated, reaching for your hand with suave cordiality.

“Charmed, madam.” He carries a heavy accent, sitting heavy within his voice as you meet him halfway for a handshake. Instead, it’s taken a step further when he presses his lips to your knuckles.

Unphased, you offer him a pleasant smile; John’s jaw tenses, though it’s a subtle gesture. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bertesy. I hope my husband’s been good to you.” Teasingly, you let your hand perch atop John’s shoulder.

With a listless chuckle, Andras nods, hand withdrawn to the table. “Your husband tells me of your interest in my work.” He muses, purely absorbed with striking a business deal.

Pulling up a cushioned chair to the table, it’s wedged beside John’s, space nonexistent as you sit down, folding one leg over the other. It relinquishes the sting in your feet, and you vow to never wear stilettos again.

“Yes,” As if to play up the facade, you reach for John’s hand, posture posh and prim. “We’ve been searching for something revolutionary, to take our company in a new direction. We think your work might be the key to that.”

Admittedly, John is mildly impressed with you — you’re swift to turn on the bubbly charm, the same charm he’d fallen for, and cater to the man’s inflated ego. You’re quick-witted, though he feels the anxiousness through your grasp alone.

As if to placate your nerves, John absentmindedly trails his thumb over your knuckles, pretending to be engrossed by the conversation at-hand.

This wasn’t part of his skillset, disguises and the covert, but being with you made it tolerable. “My wife and I would be interested in striking up a business deal.” John interjects, flashing a false smile.

My wife; for someone merely adopting a role, he doesn’t seem like he’s acting when he says it. A beat passes, cerulean hues shifting to gaze at you lovingly, your heart lurching within your chest.

Heat curls over the back of your neck, a brief hitch settling within your throat before you swallow it down. Digits tense, woven together, prompting you to shift within your chair, facing your target.

“I am certain that we could come to some arrangement,” Andras hums, his hawkish glower still picking you apart, a knife attempting to pierce through your defenses. “Assuming you’ve enough money.” He laughs.

John chuckles too, a noise that sounds so characteristically sardonic. “Name your price.” Part of you is amused by how serious he’s taking this, as if he’s going for an acting award.

Andras quirks an eyebrow, hands pressed together as he appraises the both of you. “I must reconvene with my associates,” More shady dealers? There’s a veiled perplexity written on John’s face. “Aren’t you curious to know what you’re purchasing?”

The warehouse — an anxious coil forms within your belly, teeth catching against the inside of your cheek. This is all supposed to be some distraction while they’re running infiltration, which prompts you to clear your throat.

“We’re very curious,” You concur, trying to navigate through the sudden uneasiness you feel. Bertesy doesn’t seem naive, but you’re also a poor liar. “Though, we’re pressed for time, and —”

“Of course. You must be very busy people,” Andras murmurs, tapping his fingers together. “Perhaps, a private viewing? Transportation would be provided, and we can cement our transaction.”

John’s mind is turning, turning again, attempting to think of something quick. His communicator is sitting in the waistband of his belt, growing heavier as minutes tick by.

The idea of playing into Bertesy’s proposition seems dangerous, unpredictable. Neither of you have your suits in-reach, no defense, and even with John’s super-soldier stamina, the odds are looking rather grim.

As if on-queue, a humming noise pierces the tenuous silence, awkward and grating, causing your heartbeat to climb dramatically. John clears his throat, flashing a brief smile before he moves out of his seat.

“Got a call I need to take, excuse me,” John shoots you a sideways glance, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be back, honey.” He says it as if it’s dripping with sweetness, and you have to stifle a laugh.

Before departing, he squeezes your hand, and that isn’t acting; it’s sincere.

Gooseflesh crawls along your spine, stomach a tempest of nerves as you face Andras, forcing a cordial smile. John walks away, slipping into a marblesque corridor, his voice beginning to taper off into a dismal hum.

Left alone with a dangerous arms dealer, you didn’t say much, unsure of how to progress the conversation. Though, you were intrigued by him — no one simply took to this line of work without being catapulted in that direction.

“How long have you been married to Mr. Wayne?” Andras questioned, and you very nearly laughed at the surname of John’s persona.

John Wayne — he loved Westerns; you bit your tongue to keep from snickering.

“Three years.” It sounded natural, and you tried to ease up, force yourself to relax. Your hands folded atop your lap, digits picking at the stitching of your dress in an attempt to relieve yourself of nervous tension.

“Americans, hm?” It was difficult to discern if he was interrogating you or simply facilitating conversation to fill the silence. Either way, you decided to answer truthfully to keep the peace.

“Both of us, yes,” A cough stirs within your throat as you proceed to make up a half-truth of how you met. “We met at a previous job, and it seemed to grow from there.” It was like a lament of your life beneath the shoddy disguise.

“How sweet.” The sudden sharpness of Andras’s voice makes you shift uncomfortably within your seat, heart threatening to rip from your chest. His gaze is poignant, discomforting; you want to look over your shoulder for John.

Silence crackles between, a terse hush that could be cut with a knife. Beneath the table, your fingers curl into your dress, fraying the stitching as you wrack your brain for something intelligent to say. Coming up short, your only hope is to wait for your partner to come back.

Andras cants his head to one side, wisps of brown hair moving with it, brows pinching together. “You seem familiar,” Shit — please don’t recognize you. “Are you certain that I haven’t seen you anywhere before?” He questions, and the anxiety builds against you.

With the formation of the New Avengers, your face plastered worldwide, someone was bound to know you if they scrutinized hard enough. An awkward laugh spills from your mouth. “That’s flattering, Mr. Bertesy. I must have a common face.”

Before the conversation could shift into a more accusative direction, John returns, much to your relief. He gives you a brief glance, putting on another mirthless, fake smile.

“Sorry about that — business calls,” He stands beside you, stance involuntarily protective, as if he’s a barrier between you and Bertesy. “Would you be willing to meet us in an hour, Mr. Bertesy? Name the place to meet.”

Andras regards you with something indiscernible, making your blood run cold as you avert his gaze, leg bouncing violently beneath the table. You’re wanting this to be finished, and it seems to be heading that way.

Wordlessly, the Hungarian removes a nondescript business card from the pocket of his blazer, offering it to John without missing a beat. “One hour. Look for a black horse.” He replies, abruptly standing up from his seat. “I look forward to your patronage.”

Scrambling from your seat, your feet ache again with the pressure of your stance, backs of your stilettos digging into your heels. Andras ends the interaction there, departing from the hotel’s lobby, a spot of black against the ivory.

Once he’s gone, you feel as if you can breathe again, tension unfurling from your shoulders in one fell swoop. Smoothing your hands over your dress, you’re eager to return to your room.

John is pensive, twirling over the business card between his fingers. ‘DARKFORCE SYNDICATE’ is all it says, stamped with the head of a black horse.

“Seems a little obvious,” He scoffs, sneering at the shady name; a seedy name for a less-than-moral organization. Tucking it into the pocket of his suit-jacket, he glances at you. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” With a tremulous exhale, you attempt to expel your nervous energy, feeling lighter now that he’s gone. No longer playing the part, you clear your throat. “I think he was getting suspicious. He said he thought he recognized me.”

Smug, John’s mouth twitches with the ghost of a smirk, hand skimming over the small of your back. “Think he needed to keep his eyes off of my wife.” He teases, though it stirs some flickering fire within you, a familiar heat crawling along the back of your neck.

“Your wife wants to go upstairs and get out of these godawful heels.” Your remark is lighthearted, keeping the mood playful in the wake of the growing intensity. Even then, you weren’t out of the clear just yet, but it gave you room to breathe.

John’s smirk grows, cocksure as ever, a flicker of amusement passing over his features. “Thought you’d collapse if you took another step.” His statement earns him a look of veiled frustration from you, but he isn’t entirely incorrect.

His attitude has changed; it’s tolerable, but he still has a habit of callousness and being unnecessarily harsh at-times. Less with you, more with the others. John’s gotten soft for you, more vulnerable — he’s still getting used to the feeling.

Admittedly, he’s terrified of losing you now, like he lost Lemar, lost Olivia. Beneath the flawed exterior, there’s a man left, attempting to reclaim his roots, try and better himself despite the world looking down on him.

Offering you his arm, you’re quick to accept, taking measured steps to ensure that you make it to the elevator, unscathed. His bicep is thick and taut beneath your palm, warm even through his expensive blazer.

Inside of the elevator, you decide to pry about his supposed ‘phone call’. “Where is the team at with the warehouse situation?” You asked, leaning against the metal railing behind you.

“Bucky said they’re cleaning up, but he wants us to catch Bertesy,” John murmurs, fishing out the communication device from his waistband. There’s a GPS watch too, keeping tabs on the others. “We’ve got an hour to kill.”

A soft ‘ding’ reverberates throughout the corridor, eerily hushed for this time of night. The hallways are glistening, pristine — you’ve never seen anything like it. Dimly-lit braziers mark your path as you return to your temporary lodging.

As soon as you cross the threshold into your room, you kick your heels off, black stilettos soaring toward the chaise lounge in the center. The room came equipped with an open fireplace, extravagant bed, and the bathroom — a luxury shower.

“Do you think Valentina could incorporate some of this into the Watchtower?” You muse, nose wrinkling as you settle down onto the ivory cushion, sprawling back with a soft exhale.

“She’s cheap.” John utters, tone flat as he grabs a duffel bag from beneath the bed, containing his suit and his still-bent shield. It’s become something of a staple, mildly sentimental, and he can’t bring himself to get rid of it.

The playful banter you shared before begins to wane; he becomes focused before a mission, before a fight. A sliver of you wonders if it’s because of what happened in Latvia, and the thought makes you grimace.

Tossing his suit-jacket aside, he’s already itching to be back in his kevlar and tactical gear, loosening the tie as if it’s choking him. He’s quiet, and it prompts you to stand, bare feet crossing cold stone as you inch closer.

“We’ve got an hour to spare, John,” The softness of your cadence is unmistakable, giving him pause as he stops in the middle of undressing. “We’ll handle this — just relax.” You soothe, noticing the tension simmering within his posture.

He’s coiled, ready to go; it’s an amalgamation of military training and past trauma, constantly on-edge, expectant for the unpredictable. John tries to loosen up, sitting on the edge of the bed with a begrudging huff.

“I want to get the job done.” He’s eager, hungry to complete a mission, like a trained attack dog. Even still, John is attempting to unravel some of the rigidity enforced upon him, but it’s a process.

“I know. We’ll get it done,” Sitting next to him, your toes barely brush over the cold marble, hands loose within your lap, nail picking at the stitching of your dress. “Bertesy said an hour, and we have fifty-two minutes left.”

There’s an impatience present, and he doesn’t enjoy waiting around; the deep breath before the plunge. If it weren’t for you sitting beside him, he would’ve been pacing.

Hesitation has never been his strongest suit, driven by impulsivity that only seemed to crush him after Lemar passed. Though, he’s tried to get better, reminding himself of his training, where he’s come from.

He just wants to make sure you’re safe.

Blonde lashes flutter in rapid succession, cerulean hues shifting from curtain-shrouded windows to you, gaze becoming a touch shadowed. You look gorgeous in that dress — he wanted to tell you before, so he settles on telling you now.

“You look beautiful,” John murmurs, low and husky, as if his sudden shift in cadence is a deliberate choice. A fleeting smile crosses his features, faint as he appraises you. “Should’ve told you before.”

He knows what he wants to do with those fifty-two minutes.

Flustered, you can’t help but smile, preening beneath his kinder compliment, giving a lackadaisical shrug of your shoulders. “Thanks,” You hum, but you don’t feel pretty; you feel like an imposter. “I don’t feel beautiful.”

Perplexed, John decides to push the matter, head cocking to one side. “Why not?” He struggles with his own insecurities, but nothing regarding physicality. Even then, he thinks you’re breathtaking, violet silk molded to your curves.

“I don’t know,” You confess, huffing a nervous laugh before you stare absentmindedly into your lap. “I feel stupid in this dress, worse in heels. It’s like I’m an imposter in my own skin or something.”

John understands the sentiment more than you fully realize. He doesn’t always understand himself, or his rage — it’s a labyrinth he’s still navigating, and like you, he’s still healing. He nods, shoulder brushing against yours.

Quiet, you steal a glance at him, heart beginning to thrum with an erratic beat. His beard is scruffy, a shadow of a darker blonde, tresses somewhat disheveled after removing his tie.

After you slept together two weeks ago, things have felt different; the tension is prevalent, unspoken feelings crackling between, and he gets increasingly protective of you. You don’t mind it, but the team notices the sudden shift in his demeanor.

He’s staring at you, gaze lingering on your mouth, over the delicate slope of your jaw, over your throat, which bobs when you swallow. John’s countenance softens, a rarity reserved only for you in private moments like these.

“Think you’re perfect.” He murmurs, brows creasing together as if he’s concentrating on something. A subtle hitch bubbles within your throat, breath catching on the exhilarating feeling of his words, hands stilling.

Unable to keep from smiling, a familiar tendril of heat coils within your belly, causing you to shift against the mattress. “John …” Before you can try and fully express your feelings, you feel his hand press against your thigh.

Though, you’re quick to indulge him and yourself, tilting in until your mouth clamors for his. Lips meld together, passion oozing through like thick honey, saccharine, eliciting a yearning that he tried to bury before the mission.

His beard scratches against your mouth, a pleasant prickling that reminds you he’s real, flesh and blood, a beating heart. John exhales; a steady, exaggerated sound, attempting to cling to the fine line of restraint.

The communicator is eerily quiet; he’s expecting Bucky to ping him, but he’s eager to take advantage of what time you have together.

Much of the past two weeks were agonizing; stolen glances in the training room, fleeting smiles shared over breakfast with the team, kissing in the corridors where the cameras can’t reach. He wanted you, you wanted him.

A delighted shiver grips your spine when his calloused digits tease the hem of your dress, threatening to push beneath. Hands find the muscled expanse of his chest, firm underneath your palms, warm to the touch.

Lips collided in a heated exchange of fiery affection, your stomach flooding with molten heat. John kisses you as if he’s burning alive, nearly flush against you, other hand cupping your jaw.

“John, I … Is this a good idea?” It is a wonderful idea, but you’re uncertain if squeezing this in beforehand would make things worse; for both of you. You’re still in the thick of a mission — things could change instantaneously.

Foreheads brush together, noses ghosting over another as he huffs a placating chuckle. “We’re married, remember?” His signature smirk pulls at his mouth again. “There’s a lot we can accomplish in forty-six minutes.” He murmurs.

His cheeky remark makes your insides turn with an excitable heat, and you want him terribly. “You’re a needy husband.” You tease, throwing caution to the wind, and his lips are back on yours with a thrilling haste.

John can’t help himself, a grunt splitting through his chest, raw and taut, each kiss leaving the both of you sputtering for any scrap of air. Your fingers are fumbling with the buttons of his dress shirt, trembling with exhilaration.

Between deepened kisses, he coaxed you closer, strong hands drifting to the swell of your hips as he urged you into his lap. Skirts shuffled, fabric hastily adjusted as he slotted you atop one thigh, muscle firm and tense between your legs.

There was a sense of relief he felt, lost within the labyrinth of your lips, passion burning with a searing intensity. Whatever stress that he’d felt before began to unfurl from his shoulders, abandoned to the sanctity of your presence.

Crisp fabric untangles itself from his musculature, revealing his abdomen to you, which you caress with reverent touches. John feels you adjust against his thigh, catching the pleading whine that coagulates in your throat.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Lungs burned, wilted in the flame of his kiss, evoking a breathy moan that ripped through your diaphragm. Hips lurched forward, a sluggish roll as friction grew between his thigh and your clothed nethers, nearly making you writhe.

John catches you in the act, rucking your dress up around your hips, lips stilling against yours. “Need it that bad?” His voice is dangerously low, husked cadence curling around you, making you squirm.

Embarrassed, you nearly retreat from the intensity of his gaze, but he doesn’t let you, hands firm against the swell of your hips. He’s strong enough to move you without breaking a sweat, effortless, grinding you into the muscle of his thigh.

“John,” A warbled whimper splits your throat, the noise raw and needy. He’s getting off on watching you like this, cerulean hues burning with heat, an incendiary stare. “I—I …” Words turn to ash in your mouth.

In a clamor of bodies, your knee happened to brush over the growing tent in his trousers, eliciting a low groan from his lips. That seemed to momentarily silence his lascivious remarks, much to your satisfaction.

He gives you a pointed stare, knowing that you’re winding him up with the constant grinding and your damned knee, bouncing into his groin. “Stop it.” John hisses with no real malice behind it, only frustration.

The picture of faux innocence, you shrug, and he cages you against him, stifling another grunt mouth hot and fervent as he kisses you. You accidentally shift again, knee brushing over his erection.

Again, he drags you over his thigh, taut muscle thick through his dress slacks, watching your countenance blossom with bliss. There’s an excitement prevalent, something daring; you’re in the middle of a mission.

A sharp moan punctures your lungs when he jostles his thigh against your core, biting back a dirty smirk when your hands curl into his chest. “Yeah? You like that?” John murmurs, low timbre echoing beside your ear, causing you to shiver.

With an eager nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his thigh. The sensation sends shockwaves through your body, arousal coalescing between your legs.

Still, you rocked yourself atop his thigh, unable to smother a whimper as kisses began to cease, foreheads pressed flush together. John’s breathing is a touch labored, hot breath pluming over your features, bones aching with desire.

“I want you,” Your confession makes his brain short-circuit, trapped within a haze of desire. You’ve nearly forgotten about everything else, allowing it to simply diminish into the background. “John, please.” A low moan echoes from your mouth.

John tries to curb the smugness, but it’s swiftly replaced by his hunger for praise, validation. His mouth climbs toward your throat, beard burning your flesh, but the sensation is borderline intoxicating.

He’s getting a little rough, but you don’t care, hips erratically urging themselves into his thigh, friction tingling against your cunt. “Mind if I leave marks?” John grunts, pearlescent teeth scraping over the column of your throat.

“Please, please.” Gasping, he’s quick to take your sensitive flesh between his lips, suckling a hickey into your neck without a second thought. A muted buzz surges through him, muscles coiled, cock throbbing incessantly.

The grizzled scratch of his beard prickled against your neck, goosebumps icing your spine, filling you with anticipation. He’s still rocking you into his leg, mouth a tempest as it storms over your throat, teeth nipping at your flesh.

Dizzying moans slip past your lips in noisy droves, feathering beside his ear, hands gripping your haunches like a vice. A hoarse ‘Jesus’ hisses beneath his breath, a subtle noise that you nearly miss.

An urgent ache throbs within his cock, which continues to strain with obvious need against his pants. Between the friction of clothed bodies and wandering hands, John is wanting to take it further.

A sharp gasp penetrates your lungs when his mouth roughly sucks another mark into your jugular, laced with exhilaration and an excitable zeal. His communicator buzzes in his pocket; he ignores it.

Your hands are crawling over his chest, one palm dropping to the rather obvious bulge. Insistent, your hips urged in a rhythmic dance, grinding yourself still against the taut muscle of his thigh.

Lips momentarily collide in a messy kiss of tongue and teeth, the both of you clawing for one another, succumbing to baser instincts. Throaty whines escape you, consumed by his kiss, one that ached with desperation.

He stops, only to press kisses over the freshly-formed hickeys, visage dropping to your throat, lavishing your skin in endless kisses. There was something raw about him, exuding strength, caging you in over his lap.

“Jesus.” John groans, low and heady into the hollow of your throat, feeling one of your hands fist at his blonde tresses. The other kneads against his cock, ripping another grunt from his chest.

A coil pulls taut within his abdomen, an intensity that he had become acquainted with, lips parting as he continues to let you ride his thigh. “Want you inside of me.” Through a strangled whine, your words make his jaw tick.

It’s as if you’ve reached into his being and turned on some primal switch, feeling his grasp grow tight against your thighs. Undeterred, your hand grinds over the swell once more, as if tempting him, goading him into taking you then and there.

A shadow passes over his stare, cerulean hues eclipsed by desire as he shifts his thigh, muscle making contact with your core. A hitch forms within your throat when his hands fist at your dress, hastily dragging it towards your hips.

Admittedly, you were just as pent-up as he was, desperate to feel him inside of you. Arousal began to coalesce between your thighs, an incessant ache that spread throughout your belly, a fire that demanded to be extinguished.

In a frenzied clash, your lips were on one another again, feeling his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. Teeth knock together, moans swallowed through greedy kisses, fabric being manhandled past your thighs.

Hands fumble for his belt, and he’s grunting into your mouth like some feral animal, cock throbbing incessantly when you unzip the front of his pants. John doesn’t waste a second — neither of you have the time to spare.

Time has slipped your mind, but you estimate that it’s growing slim, hands steadying themselves against the nape of his neck. You hovered, soft palm guiding his length to your slick cunt. John inhaled — a sharp, poignant noise that signaled relief.

Intermingled sighs of passion float between faces, hot and wanton, your thighs twitching when you sink onto his cock. The sensation makes you dizzy, muscles shaking with the sting of exertion.

“John,” A gasp is pulled from your throat, raw and hoarse as he fills your cunt, hands tensing over the swell of your hips. “You feel so good.” You moan, unabashed, heat licking over your flesh as if you’re feverish.

The praise makes him keen, mouth pressing a kiss to your jaw, beard scratching ragged over your soft skin. He’s gripping you like a vice, strong enough to guide you effortlessly onto his cock, friction bristling when you roll your hips.

It was a sluggish start, agonizingly so, bodies finding moments to grow accustomed to one another, finding familiarity. You drew yourself up, his cock filling you in such a pleasant way, nothing discomforting about it.

John shuddered at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together; the pace begins to increase.

Neither of you hear the communicator thrumming; though in John’s case, he doesn’t seem to care in the heat of the moment. Each urge of your hips is drawn-out, intended to savor. “That’s it,” He husks, caressing your hip. “That’s my girl.”

It’s innocuous, the nickname — simple, but it sets off a catalyst within you, a furnace of heat that blankets your bones in fire, wasting away to ash. You’re moaning beside his ear against, fingers fisting at his blonde tresses.

The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.

Calloused, careworn palms rubbed circles into your hips, wishing that he ripped your dress, instead. Regardless, John’s trapped in the same desirous haze that you are, chests brushing together, bodies leaving no scrap of distance.

Skylights pool in through darkened windowpanes, blanketing you in some euphoric glow. He thinks you’re beautiful, and some small part of him wonders why you’re indulging him like this, but John’s quick to push it aside.

His smug swagger and bravado seems to dissipate when he’s buried himself into your cunt, as if it’s nearly shut him up completely.

“So good at this.” You breathe, knowing how it sets him off. John kisses you, fleeting, hips jolting against yours as one hand leaves your hip, shifting to the coalescing warmth between your thighs.

If it weren’t for the mission, he would’ve fucked you right into the mattress, maybe break the headboard, but he’s restraining himself. Even then, you look so pretty in his lap, riding his cock as if you’re made for him.

A whimper of bliss bubbled from your lips as you became invigorated in your pace, rocking yourself up and down along his cock, aided by the sudden pressure of his thumb against your clit. It draws another moan from deep within your diaphragm.

Your pace was tantalizing, nothing too swift to let it feel sloppy and rushed, yet fervent enough to make his head swim with the haze of desire.

A familiar coil of heat began to unfurl within the pit of your stomach, just as it did his own. A sharp inhale inhabits your lungs, one of a dizzying surprise as he circles over your clit, sending tingles through your spine.

Thighs twitched, the action alone bringing you closer to the precipice of your release. His cock throbs inside of you, nearly kissing your cervix with each downward movement.

“Christ,” John huffed, countenance focused yet wrought with ecstasy, muscles in his stomach tightening up. “You close?” He grunts, voice low and gravelly, itching something lascivious within your brain as you clench around him.

With a disheveled nod, you don’t stop, maintaining the same pace, a steady rhythm that’s winding the both of you up. His groans make your stomach turn with exhilaration.

With a brief jolt of his hips, he bucked up into you, cock hitting new depths, toying with your pearl as you squirmed within his lap. Gooseflesh ices your spine, mind clouded with a salacious haze, bringing you closer to an ecstatic oblivion.

Even as he crescendoed into his own release, he continued to circle your clit, lips peppering themselves along your exposed collar. A string of murmured expletives escape him.

Nails dug into the nape of his neck, a choked sob wracking through you as you clung to every shred of friction. John huffs, letting your hips stutter into more of an erratic rhythm as you soar toward your orgasm.

Euphoria crashes into you, white-hot and blinding, the tension unfurling from you in one wave. The coil snaps, cunt clenching around his cock, evoking another low groan from his mouth.

Stars floated across your vision in the wake of your release, a moan of ecstasy rippling through your chest. John’s name spills from your tongue over and over again, as if it’s the only word you know.

The pressure between your thighs begins to wane as he holds steadfastly to your hips, chest heaving with labored breaths in the afterglow. It’s hushed, save for your ragged breathing as you come down from your peak.

Fingertips gently shift his blonde tresses back into place, sweeping over his hairline. John adjusts your position enough to pull out, heartbeat beginning to climb down from its exhilarated pace.

“You okay?” John asks, watching as your head bounces in a brief nod. A smile crosses his features, faint, as if it’s only reserved for you, lacking the usual sarcasm.

“We should clean up, before …” With a click of your tongue, you gesture to his GPS, sluggishly climbing from his lap with wobbling legs. The both of you need to be prepared, and that includes getting your suits on.

“Right.” A twinge of disappointment stirs within him, wishing that it would’ve lasted longer; or that you were both back at the Tower. The facade of your false marriage fades; you’re back to the mission.

Before you depart, you plant a chaste kiss against his lips, as if to remind him of your affections.

John watches as you grab your duffel bag, making for the bathroom with a bit of a spring in your step. He’s getting soft, wanting to pursue a relationship with you, but there’s fear prevalent, still.

He’s ditching the suit-jacket and slacks, exchanging the suave outfit for tactical pants; kevlar and body armor that feels more comfortable. John follows after you, nearly dressed, and you’re perched along the rim of the bathtub, wrestling with your boots.

“Need help?” He offers, and you’re moderately embarrassed, still fumbling with the knots in the laces that won’t come apart.

“Yeah,” Defeated, you’re losing the fight with your boots, ripstop fabric thick enough to stop knives, perhaps a bullet or two. “I didn’t expect to have trouble with the knots.”

The purple dress is pooled on the floor, forgotten, but the memory will be burned into your mind for weeks to come. John steps closer, crouching down between your legs, shoulders broad, marred by indents of your nails.

He’s quick at unraveling the knots and tangles in your boot-laces, glancing up at you from his kneeling position. “When this is all over, I’m taking you out.” John states, matter-of-factly, as if you’re both in agreement.

Bewildered, you fight to smother your smile, but it appears, still curling at the corner of your mouth. “It took you long enough to ask.” You hummed, fingertips reaching to caress over his bearded jaw.

With a sardonic huff, John’s mouth twitches into a smirk, cerulean hues glittering with a humorous gleam. He’s so handsome, smug; he’s grown on you to the point that he’s covering you like ivy.

“Wouldn’t be a good husband if I didn’t.”

[ducksido]

Hallo ❤️

Can I request the all the housewarden (+ace and deuce) with yuu who is the definition of "trust me bro".

Like yuu is sharing the most ridiculous plan and ended up 100% successful. Every plan they do is flawlessly executed wkdkkekd.

It can be a plan to stop an overblot or something, you decide for the scenarios or just reactions kskdk

(content warning: malleus breakdances)

Riddle Rosehearts — “The Flamingo Stampede Strategy” Riddle: “Yuu, we’re going to be disqualified. This isn’t regulation—”

Yuu: “Trust me, bro.”

Riddle watched in horror as you lured Heartslabyul’s enchanted flamingos out of their pens and into the obstacle course race. The birds charged like a pastel cavalry, knocking over every other team’s contestants while Yuu rode one like a polo horse.

Yuu crosses the finish line victorious, absolutely unbothered. Riddle has an aneurysm on the spot… but also holds up the trophy anyway.

Riddle (internally): This is illegal. This is immoral. This is genius.

Leona Kingscholar — “The Sleepy Bluff” Leona: “This is a serious match, herbivore.”

Yuu: “Exactly. So let’s pretend I’m dead.”

Leona nearly walked off when Yuu laid motionless in the middle of the Spell Arena. The other team surrounded them, confused. Just then—WHAM! A surprise trap spell exploded under their feet, launching them out of bounds.

Yuu sat up with a yawn and dusted off their robe. “Told ya. Trust me, bro.”

Leona stared. “You’re insane. I like it.”

Azul Ashengrotto — “The Legal Loophole Heist” Azul: “There is no way we can beat that merchant’s prices—”

Yuu: “Unless we find a clause in his contract that voids the entire deal.”

Azul blinked. “...That might actually work?”

Ten minutes later, Yuu stood at the merchant’s stall, calmly citing ancient maritime trading law from a scroll they “borrowed” from the library. The merchant turned red, sputtered, and fled.

Azul looked at Yuu with reverent horror.

Azul: “Would you like a part-time position at the Lounge? I’ll pay double.”

Kalim Al-Asim — “Operation Elephant Drop” Kalim: “We need to get the fireworks to the roof fast, but the stairs are blocked!”

Yuu: “...Have you ever heard of rooftop pachyderm transport?”

Later, Kalim is screaming joyfully on top of a magic carpet… dragging a heavily enchanted elephant balloon full of fireworks, piloted by Yuu, who is directing it like a seasoned festival general.

The fireworks launch perfectly from the elephant’s trunk. The crowd cheers. Kalim hugs Yuu.

Kalim: “That was the coolest thing EVER! How did you even—?”

Yuu: “Trust me, bro.”

Vil Schoenheit — “Sabotage by Sparkle” Vil: “We’re competing in a runway show. Do not embarrass me.”

Yuu: “So I replaced our rival’s setting spray with glitter glue.”

Vil: “YOU WHAT.”

During the show, the rival model walks out—only to freeze mid-pose as their face sparkles uncontrollably under the lights. Their makeup clumps and flakes. The judges gasp.

Vil steps onto the runway next. Untouchable. Radiant. Victorious.

He glares at Yuu backstage.

Vil: “...I cannot condone this.”

Yuu: “But?”

Vil: “…You have terrifying instincts.”

Idia Shroud — “Tetris Takedown” Idia: “This raid boss has a 0.4% clear rate. We’ll never—”

Yuu: “I rearranged the dungeon tiles so it traps the boss AI in a loop.”

Idia: “That’s cheating!”

Yuu: “It’s creative problem solving.”

You and Idia watch the screen as the terrifying flame serpent glitches into the wall and starts spinning endlessly.

Idia wheezes, tears in his eyes.

Idia: “You’re terrifying. You’re amazing. Marry me. Wait—IGNORE THAT.”

Malleus Draconia — “Dragon Dance Deterrent” Malleus: “This mage’s duel is serious. Are you sure this will work?”

Yuu: “Malleus. Trust me, bro. Start dancing.”

You play a ridiculous beat on a speaker. Malleus, ancient and dignified, starts breakdancing in front of the challenger.

The opponent is so horrified and confused that they forfeit on the spot.

Malleus dusts himself off. “...I do not understand mortal tactics.”

Yuu, grinning: “But it worked, didn’t it?”

Ace Trappola — “Reverse Uno Bomb” Ace: “We’re not gonna win the card tourney like this.”

Yuu: “We play Uno cards in a poker tournament.”

Ace: “...You are the worst and best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They slam down a Reverse and then a Draw 4 in the final hand. Their opponent short-circuits from confusion. The judges allow it, citing no rule against using enchanted Uno cards.

Ace cackles. “TRUST ME BROOOO!”

Yuu: “That’s my line.”

Deuce Spade — “Make it Explode” Deuce: “We need a distraction. Just a small one.”

Yuu: “I rigged the vending machine to explode Mentos and cola on command.”

Deuce: “...WHAT.”

They press a rune. The vending machine detonates in a sugar bomb. Everyone runs.

Deuce: “We’re gonna get expelled—”

Yuu: “But we got the key, didn’t we?”

Deuce: “…I fear you. But I trust you.”

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

contact: HUSBAND💍💢 (DO NOT OPEN)

[ Sylus x f!reader ]

he asks what you saved him as. you dodge. he lets you—for now. but when your phone lights up mid-breakfast… he sees it. and he never lets things go.

ABOUT | 3.5k. fluff. comedic tension. mutual pining. spiraling girlfailure MC. smug menace Sylus. twins as chaos gremlins

TAGS | slice of life. flirting. banter. phone-based chaos. accidental intimacy.

NOTE : This story came as a request from @someprettyname, who pitched the idea with the perfect mix of chaos, delusion, and romantic doom. I simply couldn’t resist. It’s got Sylus, a cursed contact name, and the kind of spiraling girlfailure energy that lives rent-free in my heart.

IF I'D KNOWN...asking Kieran what he was reading would lead to this, I would’ve done the sensible thing and lobbed my entire cup of tea at him instead. Not hard—just enough to scald. Or, at the very least, shut him up.

“Apparently,” Kieran said, turning a page with the solemn intrigue of someone unearthing a state secret rather than flipping through a lifestyle magazine from the waiting lounge pile, “what you save your partner as in your contacts directly correlates with relationship longevity. It’s, like, a whole study.”

I blinked at him from the edge of the couch, cross-legged, one sock slouched pathetically down my ankle like even my clothes were losing the will to participate.

“That’s not a study. That’s clickbait.”

“It’s neuroscience,” Luke chimed in, somehow making everything worse by sounding confident. He was upside-down in the armchair, legs hooked over the back like a smug little bat. “Oxytocin response, personal language imprinting, affectionate tagging. All linked. I read a paper on it.”

“You read a BuzzFeed quiz,” I said.

“No, that was after,” he replied, contemplative. “To confirm my results.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. What did you even say to that? Congratulations, you’ve weaponized delusion?

Kieran shut the magazine with a flourish and gave me a look like I was a particularly slow puzzle piece. “So?” he asked, faux-casual. “What do you have Sylus saved as?”

I stared at him.

Then at Sylus.

Then regretted ever being born.

Sylus didn’t even glance up from the holopad he was scanning, thumbs moving in that precise, surgical rhythm that always made me feel like he could disassemble a bomb—or a person—without blinking. He hadn’t said a word the entire time, which only meant one thing: he was definitely listening.

That’s how he operated. Silent observation. Strategic patience. And then—just when you least expected it—the perfect moment to psychologically ruin you.

“I—what?” I laughed. A terrible idea. It came out too loud, too bright. The laugh of someone hiding something very stupid, very unhinged, and very true.

“Oh no,” Luke gasped, kicking his legs in delighted horror. “You’ve got a name. You have a name.”

Kieran leaned forward, eyes glittering like a journalist sniffing out a scandal. “It’s something feral, isn’t it? Like Champ Daddy. Or—God—Meow Meow Murder Man.”

“Excuse you,” I sniffed. “That’s private.”

“That’s not a denial,” Luke pointed out, still upside-down and grinning like he had five seconds before the villain’s lair exploded and he was fine with it.

And then—of course—Sylus looked up.

Just once.

That’s all it took.

No words. Just a glance over the edge of the screen. Brows lifted slightly. That quiet, clinical interest he always wore when cataloguing your emotional weaknesses.

“Well?” he asked, voice low. Mellow. The kind of mellow that made you aware of how sharp the blade was beneath it. “What’d you save me as?”

I died.

Just a bit. Quietly. With dignity.

I smiled like someone caught smuggling twenty kilos of emotional contraband through airport security. “Why do you care?”

“Research,” Luke supplied.

“Curiosity,” Kieran added.

Sylus didn’t say anything. Just kept looking.

Not accusing. Not teasing. Worse—interested. Calm. Patient. Which, from him, was a declaration of war.

I stared back, brain frantically flipping through every lie I’d ever told and wondering if now was the moment to add another.

I didn’t lie. Not really.

But I also wasn’t about to admit that I’d saved him under HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) and set his contact tone to the Onychinus anthem so I’d know—without question—that it was him texting when I was spiraling through my third existential scroll of the night.

I wasn’t proud of it. But I was delusional. Quietly. Tastefully. With a touch of grace.

“It’s just your name,” I said, breezy and innocent. “You know. ‘Sylus.’ Totally normal.”

Kieran snorted. Luke cackled.

Sylus said nothing. Just tilted his head, the faintest degree, like a crow spotting something shiny.

“Hm,” he said.

One syllable. One syllable with the weight of a dossier. Then he returned to his holopad like he hadn’t just slipped a microchip of psychological doom beneath my skin.

I looked at Kieran.

I looked at Luke.

I looked at my tea and considered drowning myself in it.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

I was normal. So, so normal.

So normal that I’d definitely go home tonight and absolutely not open my contacts app.

And definitely not change anything.

Definitely.

…Right?

Wrong.

So, so wrong.

Because two hours later, I was curled on the left side of my bed—the side I insisted I didn’t always sleep on, even though the right side looked suspiciously pristine—and staring down at my phone screen like it had personally betrayed me. Which, to be fair, it had.

HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) glared back at me from the top of my favorites list. Untouched. Intact. So alarmingly unhinged I wanted to launch myself backwards through time and slap the past version of me who thought it was hilarious.

Spoiler: it was hilarious.

Just… not right now.

When I’d first typed it in—on a mission, no less, during a half-sane lull between dodging rooftop snipers and failing to unlock a biometric lock—it had felt brilliant. Like a private joke between me, myself, and the delusion I fed like a very spoiled housecat.

He’d given me a ring. A real one.

Well. Technically it was a repurposed championship ring from some long-ago boxing match, but he’d slipped it onto my finger after a particularly nasty fight and said, “For luck.”

That was it. No heat. No deeper meaning. Nothing even remotely vow-adjacent. But my brain, ever the traitor, had orchestrated a full remix of the wedding march and sent me hurtling into an alternate reality where that gesture meant everything.

So naturally, I immortalized it by saving him as HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) in my phone. The rage emoji was for balance. Because my coping mechanisms were 90% sarcasm, 10% fear of actual feelings.

But now... now he knew something.

Not everything. But enough to make me feel like I was teetering on the edge of a very sharp rooftop, hoping the wind stayed kind.

I turned the screen off, set it beside me, then immediately picked it back up again. Because apparently I had the self-restraint of a soggy napkin.

The name stared back, smug as sin.

I hovered over “Edit.” Didn’t press it. Pressed it. Didn’t save.

God.

What if I changed it now and he somehow noticed later? What if he’d already seen it? A glimpse? An emoji? A vibe?

Worse—what if he hadn’t? What if the twins had just infected his brain with their oxytocin-tagging nonsense and I was the only one spiraling?

…No, that tracked. That sounded extremely me.

I sighed and flopped back against my pillow, which let out a low puff of air like it, too, was disappointed in my choices.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to know.

Okay, no. That was a lie. I absolutely didn’t want him to know.

But part of me—some shameful, masochistic fragment that had clearly watched too many fake-dating dramas—wondered what he’d say if he did.

Would he laugh?

Would he tease?

Would he—God forbid—change my name in his phone, too?

And if he did… what would it be?

Nightmare Girl™? Collateral Damage? Do Not Engage Without Caffeine?

Or worse. Something nice. Something gentle. Something that would melt me into a socially anxious puddle of goo I could never recover from.

My phone buzzed once.

I flinched so hard I nearly launched it into the ceiling.

System update.

I exhaled slowly through my nose and said aloud, like I was on some kind of deranged mindfulness app, “It’s just a name. It doesn’t matter.”

Then I shut the screen off, tucked the phone under my pillow like I was putting it down for a nap, and rolled over to the cold, untouched side of the bed.

I didn’t change it.

I could’ve.

But I didn’t.

Not because I was brave. Or honest. Or committed to transparency in modern digital romance.

No.

I didn’t change it because, somewhere in the shame-saturated crawlspace of my delusion-riddled lizard brain…

I wanted him to see it.

And that—more than anything—was the problem.

By the time Saturday rolled around, I had fully convinced myself I was back in control of my life.

Which, naturally, meant everything was about to go spectacularly wrong.

I hadn’t planned on seeing him that day. That was what made it worse. I wasn’t wearing my “emotionally stable and casually indifferent” outfit. I didn’t have talking points. Or backup banter. I hadn’t even exfoliated.

And yet—there he was.

In my kitchen.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Is that… my pan?” I asked, blinking from the hallway, tugging my sleeves down over sleep-wrinkled wrists.

Sylus didn’t look up. Just flipped something sizzling in my non-stick skillet with the kind of precision that suggested he’d done this a thousand times. His hair was still damp at the ends—fresh from a run, or a shower, or a very long, very moody shampoo commercial.

“You said your fridge was on strike,” he replied simply. “I brought eggs.”

He nodded toward the counter. There they were: a full carton of eggs. And toast. And coffee. And—of course—my apron.

“You’re wearing my apron,” I said.

“It was this or ruin my shirt.” He shrugged, unbothered. “You left it hanging by the door. Implicit consent.”

“I use that apron to deep-fry things. It smells like fear and oil.”

He finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes cool, voice dry. “Then it suits me.”

I stood there for a beat, vaguely aware that I probably looked like a stunned Victorian child who’d wandered into the wrong play. My hair was doing something unholy to the left of my temple. My socks didn’t match. One sleeve was half-stuffed into the cuff of my pajama pants like it had given up halfway through getting dressed.

This was not the image of composure I wanted to project.

And yet—he didn’t seem to mind.

He turned back to the stove. Quiet. Focused. Efficient.

Like he hadn’t just let himself into my apartment at 8:30 a.m. and decided to cook breakfast like we did this all the time.

(We did not do this all the time.)

I hovered in the doorway. “Did I… invite you?”

“You said, and I quote,” Sylus began, adjusting the burner with the grace of a man in complete control of both fire and social tension, “‘Come by whenever. Just don’t let the twins in unless you want chaos at dawn.’”

He slid the eggs onto a plate—perfectly done. Soft in the middle. Crisped at the edges. Exactly how I liked them.

Of course he knew that.

I collapsed into a chair and stared at the back of his head like it owed me rent.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was: avoid prolonged eye contact, and pray the contact-name incident dissolved into the same black hole as every other weird moment we refused to acknowledge.

But Sylus didn’t forget things.

He remembered everything.

Which meant he was either pretending not to care—or waiting. For the right moment. The exact second when dragging it back up would have the most devastating effect.

He handed me the plate without a word. Then set a steaming mug beside it.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I said, stabbing the yolk before it could pass judgment.

“I can survive.”

“You’re not surviving. You’re thriving. This is suspiciously gourmet for someone who once ate a protein bar he found in the glove compartment.”

Sylus sat across from me, calm as Sunday morning. “I read a manual.”

“You read a manual on eggs?”

He tilted his head. “I like to be prepared.”

I bit into the toast—and hated how much I loved it. Not because it was delicious. But because it felt like something. Like he was already part of things I hadn’t meant to share.

Like I didn’t want him to go.

My phone buzzed from where I’d abandoned it on the end table behind me. I ignored it. Probably a news alert. Or Kieran sending me another random fact about Sylus.

Sylus glanced toward the sound. “Want me to check that?”

My mouth was full. I nodded before I thought twice.

And that was it.

The moment.

The one I would later refer to, in my head, with capital letters and dread: The Beginning of the End.

Because Sylus stood. Walked across the room. Picked up my phone. Turned it over.

And froze.

Just slightly.

Not dramatically. Not enough to trigger outright panic. But enough to notice.

My stomach hit the floor.

He turned, phone still facing him. Not me. Him.

Then he looked up.

Met my eyes.

And smiled.

Not the polite kind.

Not the dangerous kind, either.

The knowing kind.

And he said—

“You’ve got a message.”

Then he walked back. Calm as anything. Sat down.

Placed the phone beside my coffee. Face-down.

Didn’t mention the name.

Didn’t tease.

Just waited.

Like he wanted to see if I’d admit it first.

Like he knew everything.

And wasn’t finished yet.

The room felt different.

Not colder. Not tense, exactly. Just… still.

Like standing at the edge of a lake and realizing—too late—that the water wasn’t calm. It was holding its breath.

Sylus didn’t look at me. Not directly. But his presence was unmistakable—like the steady burn of a fire at your back. Quiet. Measured. Unrelenting.

I kept my eyes on my plate like the eggs were going to offer guidance.

They didn’t.

They just sat there, smug in their perfect seasoning, slowly congealing while I tried not to spiral.

I took a sip of coffee I didn’t need. It burned the tip of my tongue. I said nothing.

He didn’t press.

And that was the problem with Sylus—he never pressed. He simply gave you the silence. Just enough rope to hang yourself with.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a moment.

I shrugged. “You made breakfast. I’m eating it. This is me being grateful.”

He let out a sound. Barely audible. Somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Do you usually eat in tense, stony silence when someone brings you food?”

“Only when they break into my apartment to do it,” I said, eyes still locked on my eggs like they might offer a lifeline.

Another pause. And then—

“You could’ve just told me.”

I blinked. “Told you what?”

I knew what.

Of course I knew what.

But I wasn’t about to hand him the knife and hold still.

He tilted his head. Finally met my eyes.

That look—quiet, analytical—like he didn’t need words to dismantle you. He could do it with patience alone.

“What you saved me as,” he said, simply. “You could’ve told me.”

I swallowed. “It’s not that interesting.”

“Is it not?”

“It’s just a name.”

His gaze didn’t shift. Didn’t push. Just held.

Then he leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows—revealing scars, old and clean, and veins etched sharp like topography you didn’t realize you’d memorized until it was right there in front of you.

“I think you’re lying,” he said, not unkindly.

My heart decided now was a good time to audition for a prison break.

“I don’t lie,” I replied.

“No,” he agreed. “But you deflect beautifully.”

My fingers tightened around the mug. “Well, thanks. That’s a weird compliment, but okay.”

Silence again. Long. Weighted.

The toast on his plate remained untouched. I wasn’t sure he’d ever meant to eat it.

When he finally spoke again, it was quieter. No edge. No game. Just… honest.

“You’ve been doing it since the twins brought it up. Every time I’ve looked at you since then, you shift.”

I didn’t answer.

“And you practically gave me your phone,” he continued. “Which you never do. You always leave it face-down on the table. Angle the screen away when we’re close. Mute notifications if we’re in the same room. But today… you handed it to me.”

I cleared my throat. “I didn’t think—”

“Yes, you did.”

I looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t goading me. He wasn’t smug. He wasn’t trying to win.

He was just telling the truth.

A quiet cataloging of all the small things I thought I’d hidden.

Which somehow made it worse.

“So what?” I asked. “What does it matter if I did?”

His brow lifted a fraction. “Depends on what it said.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You saw it.”

“I did.”

My stomach folded in on itself. Not violently. Just… inevitably. Like paper creasing in slow motion.

“Are you going to say something?”

He shook his head once, calm. “I don’t think I have to.”

I pushed my plate aside and stood before I could second-guess it. My hands found everything—table edge, pajama tie, back of the chair—restless, unfocused.

He watched me.

Not like I was fragile.

Not like I was guilty.

Just like he was present.

In a way most people never were.

“Do you think I meant it seriously?” I asked. Unsure whether I felt embarrassed, angry, or just stupidly exposed.

He stood too. Unhurried. Close.

“I think,” he said gently, “you didn’t expect me to see it.”

I nodded once. “So now what?”

Sylus reached for the phone. Turned it over. Tapped the screen once. It lit up. His thumb brushed across the glass, and for one panicked second, I thought he was deleting something.

Instead, he looked down at it.

And smiled.

A faint, private thing.

“I’ve been called worse,” he said. “At least this one’s got a ring to it.”

He handed it back to me.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t retreat.

Just waited.

And this time…

I didn’t look away.

The silence stretched.

Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just stretched thin—like the hush inside a cathedral, where every thought echoed louder in your own head.

I held the phone in both hands like it might explain itself. Like I could offload all the emotional wreckage of the last twenty-four hours onto one glowing rectangle and be absolved.

But, of course, it didn’t say anything.

It just sat there. Still locked. Still glowing. Still stamped with the one contact name I hadn’t changed.

Still proof.

“You’re not going to make fun of me?” I asked.

The question came out quieter than I meant it to. Fragile. Like thin ice underfoot.

Sylus didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But his voice softened at the edges.

“No,” he said. “Not for this.”

My mouth opened, but no words came.

And because I couldn’t stand still, I drifted. The long way around the table—brushing a chair, skimming the counter—like a satellite refusing to orbit too close.

“I wasn’t trying to be weird,” I said. “Or clingy. Or… intense. It was just a thing. A ridiculous, harmless, no-one-will-ever-know thing.”

Sylus watched me, but didn’t interrupt.

So I kept going. Because stopping meant listening to my own thoughts, and frankly, no thanks.

“It started as a joke. Something I’d change later. But then I didn’t. And then it felt like changing it would mean admitting it mattered.”

I glanced down. The screen glowed back. Still bright. Still damning.

“And I guess it did matter. Just... not in the way I thought.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t fill the silence with soft reassurances or easy deflections.

But something shifted in the air. A quiet gentling. Like something bracing had eased.

I forced my fingers to unlock the screen. Turned the phone toward him. Slowly. Like peeling back a bandage.

“You can delete it, if it’s weird,” I said. “Or if it crosses some boundary. Or if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll just blame Siri. She’s always inserting emojis without consent.”

He didn’t take the phone.

He didn’t look away either.

Instead, his fingers reached—not for the screen, but for my wrist.

A light touch. A thumb brushing the inside, where the pulse beats quick and traitorous.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m… surprised.”

“That I’d be ridiculous?”

“That you’d let me see it.”

I couldn’t hold his gaze after that. Something about the way he was looking at me felt too precise. Not cruel—but exact. Like being traced.

Still, I didn’t step back.

He let go slowly, then reached into his own pocket. Pulled out his phone. A few taps. A swipe.

Then he turned it around.

I squinted.

WIFE 💍❤️ (Don’t pretend you’re surprised)

I stared. Swallowed. Opened my mouth. Closed it again.

“That’s not subtle,” I whispered.

He stepped closer. “It’s honest.”

There was no smile. Not really. But something flickered beneath the surface—quiet, certain, a little dangerous.

The kind of look that said yes, I meant it.

The kind that made you wonder just how long he’d been waiting to say so.

I laughed then. Sharp and breathless and absolutely real.

“You’re insane,” I said.

He shrugged. “You started it.”

I looked down at my screen.

Then back at his.

And finally—at him.

“You really think I wouldn’t want that too?” he whispered.

And that—more than the name, more than the emojis, more than the ridiculous, ridiculous spiral of it all—was what undid me.

Because he did.

God help me, he really, truly did.

And maybe now... I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t want it, too.

thank you for reading, and happy 500 followers!

[prettygirl-gabi]

Mornings Like This

Pairing: Mom!Paige Bueckers x Mom!Reader

Fandom: WNBA- Dallas Wings

Summary: Kids surprise you and Paige with breakfast-in-bed on Mother’s Day.

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @iwasbored-okay

There’s a soft rustle at the edge of the bed, the kind that usually jolts me awake when one of the kids is up past bedtime—or when Hunter has to pee and refuses to go unless someone “guards the hallway.”

But this time, I’m floating in that syrupy space between sleep and wake, warm under the comforter with Paige tucked behind me, one arm draped loosely across my waist, her breathing steady and slow against the back of my neck.

It smells like syrup.

Wait.

Syrup?

“Shhh!” a tiny voice stage-whispers. “You’re gonna spill the juice, Hunt!”

“I’m not!” Hunter whispers back with all the volume of a mini bulldozer.

I peek one eye open just in time to catch two little heads ducking behind the edge of our bed—one with curly brown hair bouncing with every move, the other with a floppy pajama hood that’s half falling off his head.

Everlynn and Hunter.

Of course.

“Mama’s moving!” Hunter hisses.

I close my eyes quickly and fight the smile creeping up my face. A few seconds later, the mattress dips slightly at the end. Someone climbs up.

“I’ll put the tray on the blanket, okay? You give Mama the card, and I’ll do Mommy’s.” That’s Everlynn. She’s got the bossy, big-sister energy on lock.

I feel a small hand press something against my arm.

The smell of pancakes is stronger now.

“Okay,” Hunter whispers proudly, “one… two… three…”

“MOMMY! MAMA!” both of them shout at once, and Paige practically jolts up behind me, nearly smacking foreheads with me in the process.

“What the—?” she mumbles, eyes squinting open. Then her whole face softens as she takes in the sight at the foot of the bed.

Two kids beaming.

A very wobbly tray holding two pancakes shaped—sort of—like hearts.

A mug that says Best Moms Ever, clearly a DIY job with paint smudges. And two handmade cards written in glitter glue and magic marker.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” they yell again, louder this time.

Paige lets out a sleepy laugh, hand going to her heart. “No way you guys did all this on your own.”

“We had help,” Everlynn says proudly, puffing her chest a little. “Titi Azzi and Titi Caroline came super early and snuck in the back door. We made breakfast and cleaned and—”

“I cut the bananas!” Hunter interrupts, clearly his proudest contribution.

“You did,” Azzi’s voice floats in from the hallway, and a second later, she’s peeking into the room with a big smile and an iPhone in hand, clearly ready to document the whole thing.

“Titi’s babies made a whole breakfast operation this morning.”

Caroline follows her in, holding a juice box and sipping it like a mimosa. “I was the sous chef-slash-chaos manager. But it was all their idea.”

I sit up slowly, still half-swaddled in Paige’s arms, my voice thick with emotion. “You guys… really did this for us?”

Everlynn nods solemnly. “Because you’re the best mommies in the world.”

Hunter climbs into Paige’s lap like it’s his designated throne, snuggling into her chest.

“And because we love you. And we made you pancakes shaped like love.”

Paige laughs into his hair. “Shaped like love, huh?”

“They’re a little… creative,” Caroline says delicately, eyeing the tray.

“Hey, at least the kitchen is still standing,” Azzi teases, slipping around to the far side of the bed.

She sets down her phone and tucks her legs under her. “Can we stay while you open your cards? The kids are really proud.”

“Of course,” I say, reaching for the glittery construction paper.

Mine has my name written across it in huge bubble letters: MAMA Y/N. The inside is filled with little hearts, a stick-figure drawing of me holding hands with both kids, and a poem that makes my throat close up.

Roses are red, pancakes are sweet,

You’re the best mama and can’t be beat!

You read me stories and braid my hair,

And snuggle with me in the rocking chair.

Love, Everlynn & Hunter (but mostly me, I wrote it)

I laugh, wiping my eyes as I look at them. “This is… this is beautiful.”

“You didn’t even get to the glitter stickers,” Everlynn says, pointing. “Look at the unicorn! That’s you.”

“Unicorn?” I tilt my head.

“Because you’re magical!” she says, like it’s obvious.

Paige opens hers next.

Her card is covered in basketballs and smiley faces, with a big HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY MOMMY scrawled across the top. Inside is a drawing of her dunking a ball—with a superhero cape on.

“I made you Super Mommy,” Hunter explains. “Because you play basketball and save people.”

Azzi nudges him. “Like a real-life hero, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” he nods proudly, curling deeper into Paige’s arms.

Paige’s voice cracks a little when she says, “Best card I’ve ever gotten, buddy.”

“Can we eat the pancakes now?” Everlyee asks, practically bouncing.

“Only if you sit up here and eat with us,” I say, holding out an arm.

She scrambles in beside me and rests her head on my shoulder.

Azzi and Caroline start divvying up the plates, handing us all pieces of the slightly lumpy but delicious-smelling pancakes.

Caroline slips me a bottle of whipped cream like we’re passing secret contraband. I shoot her a grateful grin.

“Okay but wait,” Azzi says, snapping another photo, “this lighting is too cute. Everlyee, smile. Hunter, say syrup.”

“Syrup!” he yells with a mouth full of pancake, and we all laugh.

An hour later, the tray’s been cleared, there’s syrup in the sheets, and both kids are now sprawled across our laps like satisfied cats.

Azzi and Caroline have made themselves at home on the armchair and floor, respectively, both sipping coffee from mugs Paige got made for them last Christmas that say World’s Coolest Titi.

“This,” Paige says quietly, stroking Everlynn’s hair, “might be the best Mother’s Day yet.”

I glance at her. The morning sun is hitting her just right—golden and soft. Her hair’s a little messy from sleep, her eyes tired but warm, and her smile…

“Definitely the best,” I whisper.

She catches my hand and laces our fingers together over the blanket.

“Can’t believe they’re this big already. Wasn’t it just yesterday that Hunter was learning to walk and Ever was scared of bees?”

“Still scared of bees,” Everlynn mumbles, half-asleep.

“And Hunter still walks like a baby giraffe sometimes,” Caroline adds.

“Hey!” he says from Paige’s lap, pouting.

Paige smirks and kisses the top of his head. “You walk like a superhero now, baby. You’re our little Flash.”

Azzi’s already tearing up. “You two are raising the sweetest kids. Like, it’s insane. You need to write a parenting book or something.”

“Chapter One: Let Your Best Friends Help Sneak In Before Sunrise,” I say, smirking.

“Chapter Two: Bribery via pancakes,” Caroline adds.

Hunter suddenly perks up. “Can we do this again next year?”

Paige looks down at him. “You mean surprise us with breakfast and glittery cards?”

“And bring Titi Azzi and Titi Caroline?”

“We’ll make it a tradition,” I say. “Deal?”

“Deal,” both kids say at once.

Later that afternoon, once Azzi and Caroline have gone and the kids are running around in the backyard with water balloons, I find Paige in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher with that little content smile she wears when everything feels right in the world.

I wrap my arms around her from behind and rest my chin on her shoulder.

“You know,” I murmur, “there are a million things I love about being a mom. But getting to do it all with you? That’s the best part.”

She leans into me, turning her head slightly so our cheeks touch. “Right back at you, babe.”

We stay like that for a long moment, just soaking in the quiet.

Until a water balloon hits the window with a splat, followed by two giggling voices shouting, “Mommies! Come play!”

Paige grins. “They’re gonna soak us.”

I kiss her cheek. “Yeah, but they made us pancakes shaped like love. We kind of owe them.”

She grabs two towels from the counter and hands me one. “Let’s go get drenched.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[neonbonded]

Fatherhood Is a Full-Contact Sport

♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: dad!headcanons, domestic chaos, tag-team toddler warfare, sticker abuse, ego injuries, public humiliation (soft), wife-led mischief ♡ a/n: you didn’t mean to start a war… but once your kid picked a target, you had to support them. teamwork makes the dream (dad meltdown) work.

Caleb

It starts with the socks.

You and your kid exchange a look over breakfast—just a slight twitch of the eyebrow, a smirk over toast—and Caleb should have known. He should have.

But he’s got stars in his eyes and jam on his fingers, and he’s too busy cutting your kid’s pancakes into perfect little hexagons to notice you’ve already swapped his socks.

They’re pink. With glitter hearts. And the words “#1 Trophy Husband” stitched in sparkly thread.

He puts them on without looking.

And then?

Operation: Bully Dad begins.

—

Phase One: Language Manipulation. You teach your kid to call him “Captain Cranky.”

Every time he sighs? “Okay, Captain Cranky.”

When he says no to dessert? “Ugh, classic Captain Cranky.”

He stares at you like you betrayed him. You just sip your coffee.

“I am not cranky,” he mutters.

From under the table: “You’re literally pouting right now, Cap.”

—

Phase Two: The Snack Swap. He reaches for his favorite protein bar in the pantry.

Finds a note instead.

"Too slow, Captain Cranky. We needed it more. For… missions"

He spins around.

You and your kid are already on the couch. Sharing it. Making dramatic yum noises.

“I swear to god, you two are a menace.”

You both say it at the same time: “A menace to CRANKY.”

—

Phase Three: The Betrayal. He finally gets a break. He’s lying on the floor with your kid on his chest, playing spaceship noises.

It’s quiet. Peaceful.

Then your kid leans down and whispers: “Mommy says you talk in your sleep. About kissing her toes.”

His eyes FLY OPEN.

You’re across the room, hiding a smile behind a throw pillow. “I said what I said.”

He groans and drags both of you onto the floor with him. “Unbelievable. My own family.”

You grin. “You love it.”

He kisses your temple, then your kid’s forehead. “You have no idea.”

Xavier

It starts with a whisper war in the hallway.

You and your kid peek around the corner like spies on a stakeout—clipboard in hand, checklist ready.

Mission Objective: Tease Daddy Until He Short Circuits.

Xavier is at the kitchen counter, pouring cereal into the mug he always insists is “just more ergonomic than a bowl.” He’s wearing socks with swords on them. A gift from you. He takes them very seriously.

You circle “Target Acquired.”

—

Phase One: The Wrong Name Game. Your kid walks in casually.

“Hey, Xylophone.”

Xavier glances up. “Hello.”

No reaction.

Not even confusion.

So your kid tries again, louder. “I said Xylophone.”

Xavier frowns faintly. “Yes. I heard. Are we experimenting with sound-based naming systems today?”

You lose it from the hallway.

—

Phase Two: Sticker Warfare. This one’s your idea.

While Xavier’s reading on the couch, your kid climbs into his lap with all the innocence in the world—and slowly starts covering him in dinosaur stickers.

One on his cheek.

One on his temple.

A brontosaurus on his neck.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Finally, he blinks over his book. “Is there a… theme?”

“Jurassic Daddy,” you say sweetly, passing by.

He nods thoughtfully. “Very well.”

Doesn’t even take them off.

—

Phase Three: The Hidden Alarm. Your kid sneaks your phone into Xavier’s jacket pocket.

Sets a timer.

In two minutes, it’ll go off. Loud. In the middle of him doing birdwatching on the balcony.

He’s squinting into the trees, focused and serene—until a digital duck quack blares from his coat.

He freezes.

Then calmly pulls out your phone, stares at it like it’s a new lifeform.

“...Is this my punishment for using your mug?”

You and your kid high-five from the doorway.

—

That night, you’re brushing your teeth when you feel arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You smile at his reflection. “Even when we bully you?”

He hums. “Especially when you work as a team.”

He’s got a triceratops still stuck to his sleeve.

You leave it.

Rafayel

It starts because Rafayel wouldn’t let your kid put googly eyes on the blender.

A crime, truly.

So now?

You’re at war.

You and your mini-me form an unholy alliance before breakfast. The mission is clear: mess with Rafayel all day. Confuse him. Fluster him. Bring him to his knees (with love, obviously).

—

Phase One: The Sketch Swap He leaves his current canvas in the studio—half-finished, ethereal, probably titled Longing for Lemuria II: A Study in Violet Silence.

You and your kid sneak in.

When he returns, the dreamy mermaid now has a mustache. And laser eyes. And a speech bubble that says “My dad has stinky feet.”

He gasps like you physically struck him.

“You defiled my muse?!”

You shrug. “Consider it a collaboration.”

Your kid adds: “We made it better.”

He puts a hand to his chest. “You’re both going to artist jail.”

—

Phase Two: The Fashion Sabotage He goes to pull on his favorite pants—the flowy, artsy ones with the embroidered moons—and finds they’ve been replaced with hot pink yoga leggings from your drawer.

You: “I think you could rock them.”

Your kid: “Slay, bestie.”

He stares at the pants.

Then stares at you.

Then changes into them like a man on a catwalk.

But he’s muttering the entire time. “This is emotional abuse. I’m filing a glitter-based complaint.”

—

Phase Three: The Cookie Theft He opens the cabinet for his secret stash of lavender shortbread.

Finds an empty tin and a note inside:

“Stolen in the name of justice. Your blender crimes have consequences. —The Chaos Coalition”

He screams. Loudly. Then walks dramatically into the living room and collapses across the couch like a Victorian woman fainting on a chaise.

You toss him a goldfish cracker.

He glares.

Then eats it.

—

That night, he pulls you close in bed, head on your chest.

“I hope you both know,” he whispers, “that I am keeping a list.”

You run your fingers through his hair. “Of what?”

“Every emotional injury I sustained today.”

Your kid peeks in the doorway. “You forgot we replaced your shampoo with whipped cream.”

He gasps.

But honestly?

He’s never felt more loved.

Zayne

It begins when he finds his stethoscope floating in a bowl of cereal.

“Do you have a reason,” Zayne asks slowly, very calmly, “why my hospital equipment is now... infused with oat milk?”

Your child blinks up at him. “It was cold and needed a bath.”

You, from across the kitchen: “Honestly? Sound logic.”

He closes his eyes. Sets the stethoscope on the counter. Says nothing.

That was your warning shot.

—

Phase One: Renaming the Routine

You and your kid refuse to call anything by its normal name.

Zayne walks into the room, setting his laptop down with surgical precision.

You: “Look out. The Ice Cube Cometh.”

Your kid: “All hail Frost Daddy.”

Zayne: “I am literally holding your dental insurance forms.”

You both clap like he told a joke.

He blinks. Once.

“...What’s happening right now?”

—

Phase Two: The Hospital File Swap

He opens his neatly labeled folder before work.

Finds a glittery drawing titled “ME + MOMMY + FROST DAD = BESTIES FOREVER 💖”

Also, you’ve replaced his bio with:

“Zayne: World’s Coldest Softie. Will cry at piano music and is afraid of butterflies.”

He reads it. Stares at the paper.

Puts it back.

And takes it to work anyway.

—

Phase Three: Sticker Surgery

He showers. He gets dressed. He puts on his favorite button-down.

Then glances in the mirror—and freezes.

There’s a little cartoon Band-Aid sticker on his jawline.

Purple. With a smiley face.

You don’t even try to hide your laugh.

His jaw tics.

“I’ve conducted heart transplants with less sabotage than I face in this household.”

You pat his cheek. “And yet, you’re still so lovable.”

“Debatable.”

—

At bedtime, he’s halfway through folding laundry (into immaculate rectangles, obviously), when your kid leans against his side.

“Hey Dad?”

“Yes?”

“We bullied you good today.”

He pauses.

Then quietly nods.

“You did.”

You sit beside him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“But you liked it.”

“…No comment.”

You kiss the spot beneath his ear. “Tomorrow we’re calling you Doctor Cuddles.”

He exhales. Resigned. But soft.

“…Fine. But only inside this house.”

(You do not respect that boundary.)

Sylus

It starts before 9 a.m.

Sylus—warlord, tactician, red-eyed nightmare of the underground—walks into the living room fully dressed for a meeting with a black-market arms dealer.

Hair slicked. Suit sharp. Brooch in place.

You and your kid are waiting for him.

He stops. Narrow eyes. Tilt of the head. Suspicion.

You smile sweetly.

Your kid lunges forward.

And slaps a bright pink unicorn sticker onto his briefcase.

Dead center.

Sylus just… stands there.

“…Is this meant to be intimidation?”

You: “We’re marking our territory.”

Your kid: “Now the bad guys will know you have backup.”

He looks down at the sticker.

Then at you.

And says absolutely nothing.

But he takes the damn briefcase.

—

Phase One: Name Disrespect

He’s mid-hologram conference when your kid walks in, climbs into his lap, and announces to the entire Onychinus leadership:

“This is Mr. Grumpy Fangs. He doesn’t like it when I boop his nose.”

Sylus doesn’t even flinch.

Keeps talking about supply routes like there isn’t a giggling toddler poking his cheek on live cam.

Later?

He finds out you recorded it.

You send him the clip labeled:

“POV: You’re a villain and your child is your boss.”

He replies with one word:

“Traitor.”

Phase Two: Crow Brooch Chaos

You’re in the middle of folding laundry when your kid comes sprinting in, giggling with something clenched in one hand.

Minutes later, you hear Sylus’s voice—flat, deadly.

“Why… are there googly eyes on my crow?”

You don’t even look up. “Balance. Every villain needs a little whimsy.”

He turns to your kid. “Did you do this?”

“Team effort,” they chirp.

Sylus glares at the glittery-eyed brooch sitting on his chest.

Then sighs.

And doesn’t take it off.

Until hours later.

(He leaves it on his desk. Keeps looking at it.)

Phase Three: Tactical Sabotage

He walks into the war room.

Finds the giant wall map—his map—covered in crayon scribbles.

He blinks.

“Did someone… add butterflies to the Northern quadrant?”

Your kid: “It needed joy.”

You: “And balance.”

He stands there in silence.

Then mutters: “You’ve both become a security threat.”

You blow him a kiss.

That night, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket off, tie loose.

You crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around him. “Did we push you too far today?”

He grumbles something unintelligible.

Then rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You kiss him slow. “We know.”

He exhales.

“…You’re not going to stop, are you?”

“Nope.”

Your kid shouts from the hallway: “TOMORROW YOU’RE GETTING GLITTER STICKERS!”

He closes his eyes. Bends his head to your shoulder.

And mutters:

“I should’ve stayed in the shadows.”

(He never means it.)

[deadsetobsessions]

“Did this place pick up a ghost when I was dead or something?”

Tim whipped his head towards Jason, who looked mildly perturbed.

“You too?!” Tim demanded.

“What?”

“The ghost! I kept thinking it was a hallucination, you know? But even when I laid off of the caffeine, there’d be a fucking shadow at the edge of my vision! At night! You saw it too, right?” Tim rambled, increasingly agitated. “It even moves the fucking coffee mugs! I know where I left my favorite mug, and it sure as hell wasn’t in the sink!”

Jason blinked at him, face morphing into concern.

“Replacement, when was the last time you got some sleep?”

Tim inhaled. “Jason, I swear to god I will replace all of the shampoo in your twenty six safe houses with glitter glue if you don’t tell me whether you saw it or not.”

Jason nodded immediately. In his defense, Tim grew up to be a scary motherfucker. Diabolical little shit would have been a fucking terrifying villain.

“I knew it.”

——

Danny hummed. Tim was going to freak when he found his cowl three inches to the left.

He merrily avoided all of the set up cameras by simply going invisible and intangible, save for his arms that he uses to sweep the cowl to the side.

He could hear the static on the cameras. Danny grinned. Operation Gaslight, Ghostkeep, Girlboss is on.

——

“Tim-” Dick started, only to be cut short by Tim whirling around and jabbing a painful finger into his chest.

“You owe me this, for that Arkham comment when B went missing.”

Dick raised his hands in surrender, guilt flaring.

“Drake, what kind of pointless scheme are you getting us in, now?”

“Not now, demon brat.” Jason elbows the kid. “Just go along with it.”

“Look.”

“Well. I guess we were right, yeah, Tim?” Duke muttered, eyeing the moved cowl. “My ghost-sight isn’t seeing anything. Not even wind movement.”

“What’s going on, boys?”

“B, there’s a ghost in the manor.”

“He’s freaking out because it moved his coffee mug like three times.” Steph chimed in.

——

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen anything weird, lately?”

Danny tilted his head. “No…?”

“Not even in the house?” Jason asked.

“Shadows? Anything?” Dick asked, eye bags prominent on the normally exuberant man. Danny snickered inwardly. They’ve been up for three days trying to “catch” the ghost.

“Uh. I mean the floorboards creak sometimes? But in terms of shadows… I think I saw them outside? Kind of looked like Batman, actually. But my eyesight gets bad at night. Why?”

Danny could see in the dark just fine.

“Nothing! Let me know if you see anything, okay?”

“Uh. Sure? Maybe you guys should… get some sleep?”

“Uh-huh.”

The bats file out of his room.

——

Danny locked glowing green eyes with Tim and Dick. He did some quick thinking and contorted his ectoplasm into something more grotesque.

“Kkkhggggghkkkkeeee!!!” He screeched.

“AHHHHHHHHHH!” The two of them screamed, both bolting and throwing things at him. It was impressive how fast they backpedaled.

“That was close,” Danny muttered. He quickly scribbled on Damian’s whiteboard with conspiracy theories and dipped before the rest of the bats came thundering.

He fell into a light sleep just as Stephanie checked up on him, work done.

[kxsagi]

Hello girlie I loved you april fools day post. I wanted to ask if u could make abt crack post the blue lock boys being police officers. Like rin is in the drug invetigation bc with his tongue outside he looks like he is on crack😂. Could you pls make it for isagi,rin,sae,bachira nagi and Kaiser and maybe Ness. 🩷

“𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢'𝐦 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐫”

a/n: ASNFSLNGSLNGS I LOVE THIS REQUEST

(don't know art credits)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, ness alexis

isagi yoichi – “the golden retriever cop who accidentally becomes the face of justice”

he’s not even supposed to be out there. he’s just vibing. assigned to desk duty because he’s “too emotionally involved” (he called a suspect “bro” during a chase), but he still ends up in every major bust because he “took a shortcut through that shady alley for fun.” 

has no idea how he keeps getting tangled in crimes. one minute he’s picking up a coffee, the next minute he’s wrestling a jewel thief to the ground while still holding his caramel macchiato. 

will 100% try to de-escalate situations by talking about soccer. “sir, you don’t have to rob this bank. have you considered football?” 

is weirdly beloved by the public. grandmas bake him pies. criminals call him “that one nice cop.” internal affairs doesn’t know whether to promote or arrest him. 

famous quote: “you have the right to remain silent, but like, if you wanna talk about your trauma, i’m here, bro.” 

itoshi rin – “narcotics officer who looks like he invented cocaine”

they only put him in narcotics because every time he walks into a room, people assume he’s either: 1) the supplier, 2) high off his mind, 3) both. 

has that look. the messy hair. the tongue constantly sticking out. the eyes that say “i haven’t slept since 2012.” when he stares at you during interrogation, you confess out of fear, even if you didn’t do anything. 

his motto is “if it looks suspicious, tackle it.” he once tried to arrest a 5-year-old holding powdered sugar. 

drinks black coffee that tastes like war. has never smiled on duty. the closest he’s come is a slight smirk when someone sneezed and he got to yell “possible contaminant.” 

he doesn’t do paperwork. he just sends his reports as voice memos that are five minutes of silence and one “they were lying.” 

famous quote: “do drugs look at you the way i do? didn’t think so.”

itoshi sae – “internal affairs king, aka the fun police for the police” 

his job is to catch corruption. and he loves it. like a little freak. his coworkers hate seeing him because if he’s in your department, someone’s getting fired. 

interrogates officers like a disappointed dad. says things like “you stole evidence bags for what? to impress your tinder date?” while looking at you like you’re a worm on the pavement. 

refuses to join team-building activities. said “i’m not building anything with idiots.” 

once investigated himself for conflict of interest and found that he was, in fact, too perfect to be guilty. 

he lets no one get away with anything, except rin. but only because he doesn’t want to fill out paperwork. 

famous quote: “just because you’re wearing a badge doesn’t mean you’re not stupid.” 

bachira meguru – “undercover cop who ends up forming emotional connections with every criminal”

he’s supposed to be subtle. blend in. instead, he walks into an illegal casino wearing glitter and a hello kitty shirt, and somehow they all believe he’s just a quirky new member of the gang. 

laughs too loud. reveals his real name by accident. once shouted “FBI, freeze!” during karaoke because he got too into the role. 

his sting operations always go sideways, but it’s okay because the suspects love him. like, “this is bachira. he’s chaotic, but he’s family.” 

he’s single handedly dismantled three criminal rings just by being himself. they trust him too much and end up confessing while painting his nails. 

famous quote: “okay technically i wasn’t authorized to go undercover, but i was bored and they had snacks.” 

nagi seishiro – “cyber crimes detective who hasn’t left his chair since 2021”

works in a pitch-black room with eight monitors, a gaming chair, and a suspicious number of empty pringles cans. doesn’t even show up to roll call anymore. they just assume he’s alive if the servers are still running. 

he hacks faster than people blink. cracked a billion-dollar crypto scam while watching anime in a tab next to it. accidentally hacked NASA once because he was bored. 

he only talks in internet slang. someone once messaged him a serious question about a murder suspect and he responded with “lmao idk he looks sus.” 

has a robot dog named “proxy” that does his patrols. was supposed to be temporary. it’s now got its own badge and a little hat. 

famous quote: “technically i’m not asleep, i’m buffering.” 

kaiser michael – “traffic cop with main character syndrome”

he turned a boring job into a reality TV show. gives tickets like they’re autographs. will literally tell you “you’re welcome” after citing you for illegal parking. 

rides a motorcycle with LED underglow, blasting german techno. wears designer sunglasses at night. 

pulls people over not based on violations, but on vibes. once ticketed a guy for “driving a beige car and ruining the aesthetic of the road.” 

he’s gotten reported 27 times for arrogance, but all his violations mysteriously disappear. probably because the chief owes him money from poker night. 

famous quote: “this isn’t about road safety. this is about setting an example. and the example is: look at me, i’m flawless.” 

ness alexis – “forensic analyst who thinks he’s starring in a drama”

takes blood samples like he’s in grey’s anatomy. has a dramatic gasp every time he finds a single fingerprint. 

writes his reports like novels: “and in the crimson shade of blood splatter, the truth was finally revealed...” 

doesn’t walk, he glides into crime scenes wearing latex gloves like they’re part of his personality. 

he’s scarily smart, but emotionally volatile. cried once because the lab’s coffee machine broke and said “how am i supposed to solve murder on decaf?” 

takes kaiser's orders like gospel, but also keeps a secret blackmail folder “just in case.” it's organized alphabetically and color-coded. 

famous quote: “i speak three languages: DNA, sarcasm, and disappointment.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[moonselune]

I've been playing alot of harvest moon/stardew recently and was wondering how the companions would react to a tav or durge prefering to settle down for the farming life post game. I know Shadowheart would love it anyway but Astarion would be the type to groan about the summer heat at times.

Btw love your work ❤️

Awh thank you! I freaking love stardew valley, I actually got to the point where I would see things in real life and be like oh i need that for my bundle...

Minthara:

Minthara had agreed to come with you back to your little patch of dirt. That was the first miracle.

She stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the rows of squash you'd lovingly planted weeks ago. Her elegant armor had been swapped—begrudgingly—for leather trousers and a dark green blouse with the sleeves rolled up. She claimed she only wore it because it “blended well with the shadows.”

In reality, she looked dangerously attractive, and you told her so often enough that it stopped earning you eye rolls.

“I still don’t see the appeal,” she muttered one morning, kneeling beside you in the loamy soil as you both weeded a row of carrots. “Endless dirt. Scratching at the ground like a deep gnome grub. You truly believe this is more fulfilling than conquering the Underdark?”

You grinned, pushing your hair back and letting the sun warm your face. “The carrots don’t scream when I pull them out of the ground.”

Minthara snorted—an actual laugh, short and sharp. She caught herself, frowning like she hadn’t meant to let it slip.

“I could grow mushrooms,” she said after a pause. “Real mushrooms. Not these surface-dwelling imitations.”

You perked up. “You want to farm?”

“I do not want to farm,” she snapped, yanking a weed a little too aggressively. “I simply think someone must bring standards to this pitiful excuse for agriculture.”

That night, you caught her carefully organizing mushroom spores in neat rows in the shaded part of the garden, whispering Drow words of encouragement under her breath.

And every evening, she helped you without complaint. She said it was only because you were “hopeless on your own,” but there was a softness in her touch when she handed you tools, when she brushed dirt from your face. Once, she found a fat, horned beetle in the lettuce patch and spent nearly an hour observing it before letting it crawl onto her hand and releasing it at the edge of the forest.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured that night, curled beside you on the porch. The stars glittered above like Underdark crystal formations, distant and sharp.

“You already have,” you whispered back.

She didn’t argue.

Karlach:

Karlach loved it from the very first moment she stepped onto the farm.

“This place is sick!” she bellowed, boots thudding across the dirt as she chased one of the goats around the field. “Look at this little beastie—oh, she’s got attitude! Just like me!”

You could barely keep up with her enthusiasm.

Where you had slowly learned the rhythm of the fields, Karlach plunged headfirst into it—planting, harvesting, repairing fences with her bare hands. She named every single animal and gave them nicknames too. Your prize ram? “Sir Headbutt.” The hen with the limp? “Motherclucker”

You’d wake some mornings to find her sitting in the barn, curled up with your herd of goats, one snoring against her shoulder as she scratched behind its ears.

You stood in the doorway, arms folded. “I’m starting to think you love the goats more than me.”

Karlach looked up, grinning that wild, warm grin. “Babe. You don’t chew cud and you hog the blankets. These little sweeties are pure, no complaints.”

You made a show of gasping in betrayal, and she laughed so hard she nearly toppled into the hay.

She was clumsy with gardening, planting seeds so deep they never saw the light of day, but she didn’t care.

“I’m all about the brawn of the operation, baby!” she said, hoisting a broken fence post like a weapon of war. “You’re the one with the gentle hands. You’re the heart. I’m just the muscle.”

You couldn’t count how many times you found her fixing things, adding improvements. She built a rainwater system for the fields, oiled the hinges of every barn door, and even made a small, hand-carved sign with all the names of the animals.

She hung it crooked on purpose.

And on summer days, when the sun burned and the sweat clung to your back, she'd scoop water straight from the well and splash it over both of you, laughing as you sputtered.

“You look good with dirt on your nose,” she’d say, brushing it off with her calloused thumb.

And you’d smile, because she was the kind of fire that didn’t burn—it warmed. And here, among the goats and gardens and peace, her flame could finally just... flicker, without fear.

Lae'zel:

No one had expected Lae’zel to take well to the slow life of a farm. She had always been all sharp angles, roaring fire, and a blade ready at a moment’s notice. But then again—no one had expected her to stay, either. And she did. With you.

What none of you accounted for was how seriously she’d take the training of the livestock.

"These creatures lack discipline!" she declared one morning, standing in the field, arms crossed and unimpressed as a trio of goats casually ignored her barking orders and continued to gnaw on the same patch of fence they’d been told—repeatedly—not to chew.

She turned to you, eyes narrowed. “Do they understand Common?”

"They understand,” you said, trying not to laugh as a particularly rebellious chicken pecked at her boot. “They just don’t care.”

You would have offered to help, but you were too busy melting at the sight of Xan, the tiny Githyanki infant wrapped securely to her chest in a sling you had made together. Lae’zel had first insisted that she didn’t need it—that she could carry her hatchling in her arms at all times like a proper warrior—but even she couldn’t argue with the convenience of two free hands. Especially for chicken combat.

You’d find her some mornings standing in the pasture, her face serious as she recited commands to the goats and hens like they were soldiers on a battlefield. "Form ranks! Maintain spacing! No, Clucker, no! That is not your perch—”

And all the while, little Xan would nap contentedly against her, a bundle of soft green skin and big yellow eyes, utterly unmoved by the chaos of the yard. Occasionally he’d gurgle and tug at her leathers with one hand. Every time you saw the two of them, your heart swelled nearly to bursting.

You leaned against the fence one afternoon, watching as a pig stubbornly refused to move out of Lae'zel's designated “training circle.”

“You know,” you said, grinning as she glared at it with more intensity than she had ever shown a goblin, “maybe farming isn’t about commanding obedience.”

“It should be,” she replied sharply. “They would be more efficient.”

Still, you saw her lips twitch when a goat headbutted her in protest. And she didn’t stop them from clambering all over her later when you both sat in the grass and let Xan play in the sun.

Shadowheart:

The house was small, sun-dappled, and always smelled like hay and something baking. Scratch lay sprawled across the front steps most days, belly-up, completely spoiled. The owlbear—too big for the barn, too curious to be penned—had taken to nesting in the orchard, gently knocking apples from the trees like it was performing some kind of divine rite.

Shadowheart had fallen in love with it all faster than even she expected.

You found her in the mornings tending to the goats with a quiet, practiced grace, her long hair tied up messily, a smear of dirt across one cheek that she never noticed. Her cleric’s robes had been replaced with linen tunics and earth-toned skirts—though her armor still hung by the door, just in case.

“What happened to the chicken pen?” you asked once, only to be met with a long sigh and her pointing silently toward Scratch—muddy, feather-covered, and absolutely unrepentant.

You were never alone. Not really. The animals had adopted you both. Scratch followed you everywhere. The owlbear guarded the house like it was the holiest temple. You even had a few stray cats that Shadowheart swore she didn’t feed, but you caught her slipping them treats more often than not.

Still, there was one part of the land she hadn’t explored yet—because you were keeping it a secret.

You worked on it in the evenings, tucked away behind the western slope of the hill. A dozen rows of posts were driven deep into the soil, with the first few vines already climbing, green tendrils reaching for the sky. You’d been studying grape varieties, borrowing books from Gale, and mapping sun paths like your life depended on it.

And finally, one golden evening, you took her hand and said, “There’s something I want to show you.”

She followed without question, her fingers warm in yours, and when you rounded the hill, her breath caught.

“You—” she started. “You planted a vineyard?”

“For us,” you said simply. “I know you love wine. I thought… one day, you could make your own.”

She stared in stunned silence, eyes glossy in the light.

“This is…” Her voice trembled, and she smiled so wide you saw the dimples that only showed when she was truly, deeply happy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” She launched herself at you, arms thrown around your neck, kissing you with such fervor that you stumbled backward into the half-dug earth. “You sappy, wonderful thing. I don’t deserve you.”

“You absolutely do,” you whispered, burying your face in her hair.

And from the other side of the hill, the owlbear let out a low hoot of approval—promptly followed by Scratch barking and barreling toward the two of you like a freight train.

“You know,” Shadowheart said as you braced for impact, “we might have too many animals.”

“I regret nothing.”

Jaheira:

Jaheira had said no at first.

She’d crossed her arms, brow furrowed in that eternally war-hardened way, and declared she was not the “settling down type.” A Harper, a druid, a warrior—too much duty still ran in her blood, and she wasn’t one to lie to herself.

And yet, you often found her on the porch in the morning, sleeves rolled up, tending to the basil or trimming back the ivy that tried to swallow the trellis. Her hands were calloused, steady, already shaped by years of coaxing life from the soil—and the moment she touched the earth here, she remembered. Not war. Not rebellion.

Peace.

She fit into the rhythm of the farm as if she’d always belonged. Milking the goats, harvesting herbs, reorganizing the tool shed within an inch of its life.

“A sharpened blade is less likely to betray you than a dull one,” she’d say when she caught you leaving shears in the dirt. You tried—gently—to get her to stop sometimes.

“Jaheira,” you’d say, handing her a mug of tea in the shade, “you’re supposed to relax. Remember that? The whole ‘breathing’ thing?”

She’d huff, but her smile would betray her.

“I’ll rest when the tomatoes stop growing unevenly,” she’d mutter, before adding with quiet fondness, “Besides… this is good work. Healing work.”

And the best days—the very best days—were when her children visited.

The younger ones would come tumbling down the trail with satchels and stories, running up to greet their mother, who stood like a pillar of strength at the garden gate. The number of times Jaheira had to pry Fig from a scarecrow as she was practising her 'wrestling moves' was one too many. You’d watch her soften visibly, smile lines crinkling, arms open as they piled into her.

They helped with the animals, with mixed results. One of them always ended up covered in chicken feathers, another face-first in a flowerbed, and Jaheira would roll her eyes while secretly delighting in every second of it.

It was domestic. Soft. Loud and messy and full of warmth.

Every now and then, you’d catch her staring out over the fields as the sun set, a quiet melancholy in her eyes. You knew she felt the pull of Harper duty—that someday, she’d have to return to that life. But she never pulled away from this one.

And you never stopped reminding her: “This moment is yours. Don’t let it slip away.”

Gale:

Gale loved farm life. Maybe a bit too much.

He delighted in every step of the process—from sowing seeds to baking fresh bread in the stone oven. He was the first to rise (with magically summoned coffee, of course), and the last to go to bed, always muttering about “optimal composting cycles” and “rotational planting enchantments.”

You never had to worry about the crops failing. Not when Gale enchanted the soil to stay perfectly moist and fertile. Not when your scarecrow occasionally waved to you and politely asked for new clothes.

And that might’ve been fine.

Until he started taking the produce to Blackstaff Academy.

"Look at this carrot!" he’d proclaim with the glee of a proud parent, holding up a perfectly orange, absolutely normal vegetable.

Then he’d bring it back.

And it would be the size of a horse’s leg, glowing faintly, humming with a magical pulse, and—for reasons unknown—smelling like cinnamon.

"Gale!" you’d exclaim. "It’s a carrot. It does not need to be arcane-tuned!"

“But imagine the nutritional value!” he’d insist, delighted. “It now increases constitution by two points for an hour! Also, I added a small glamour charm—look, it sparkles in the moonlight!”

You buried your face in your hands. “It was for stew. Now it looks like it is for a health potion with a beard.”

The tomatoes came back one week with eyes and a faint sense of existential dread. The potatoes exploded on contact with fire. A single cucumber once tried to recite Elminister.

You instituted a new rule: No magical alterations unless specifically requested.

Gale apologized with his signature dramatic charm, bowing deeply and presenting you with a bouquet of roses (grown in your garden, made of light, that sang quietly when touched). You forgave him. Eventually.

You did catch him sneaking a pumpkin to his satchel the next week. You pretended not to see it.

After all, the man who once swallowed a Netherese orb deserved a little whimsy.

But gods help him if your wine starts talking.

Astarion:

The summer sun blazed above your little stretch of farmland, turning the sky into a wide, cloudless expanse of light and heat. Cicadas sang from the trees. The golden fields shimmered. You were sweating through your shirt, but you'd gotten used to it by now. Not everyone had, though.

“I am wilting,” Astarion declared from the shade of a fig tree, fanning himself with a piece of parchment and looking like the most glamorous corpse in Faerûn.

You were knee-deep in the garden bed, dirt up to your elbows, pulling weeds with the satisfied sort of grunt that only came from knowing your tomatoes were going to thrill the next farmer’s market.

“You know, you are wearing a magical ring that lets you walk in the sun,” you reminded him, not even glancing back.

“Yes, and I am grateful,” he said in a tone that was both long-suffering and exasperated. “But that doesn’t mean I must enjoy it. Honestly, do farms not understand the concept of ‘shade’? Or a cool breeze? Or a bloody parasol?”

You chuckled and wiped sweat from your brow. “I can take the ring back, you know. Could always go back to lurking in crypts and brooding in velvet.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “How dare you.”

You turned just in time to see him stalk toward you, predator grace still intact despite his muttering.

“That was a threat, wasn’t it?” he said, tone mock-scandalized. “You’d condemn me to a shadowed existence just to win this argument?”

Before you could get a word out, Astarion planted both hands on your chest and shoved. You stumbled backward with a yelp, landing with a mighty splash in the nearby pond, water closing over your head with a slap. When you surfaced, spitting water and pushing your hair out of your face, he was at the edge of the pond, arms folded, grinning.

“Next time you threaten to take away my precious accessories,” he said smugly, “perhaps you’ll remember who you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, I remember,” you said, swimming toward him with a grin of your own. “I also remember that you’re a terrible swimmer.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you—!”

You grabbed his ankle and yanked. Astarion screeched like an offended seagull as he tumbled in after you, limbs flailing in the most elegant way a vampire can flail. The water swallowed him with a splash, and when he resurfaced, gasping, you were already laughing.

“Well,” you said, treading water beside him. “You’re cool now.”

His curls were plastered to his forehead, pale skin gleaming with pond water, clothes clinging in all the right places.

“I loathe you,” he hissed, completely unconvincing as he waded toward you.

“You love me,” you replied, and when he tried to dunk you under, you laughed even harder. He did try to drown you (with affection), and the pond echoed with splashes and laughter long into the afternoon.

Wyll:

Wyll loved the farm. Really, truly loved it. He dove into farm life with the same unshakable optimism he brought to battle: sleeves rolled up, a bright smile on his face, and an absolutely terrible sense of crop rotation.

“Look!” he said, beaming, holding up a vaguely wilted carrot. “That’s my fifth one! It only took me six tries!”

The carrot was... lopsided. And slightly blue.

You peered at it. “Wyll... did you plant it next to Gale’s ‘experimental vegetables’ again?”

He gave you a sheepish grin. “Maybe?”

Despite his noble upbringing, Wyll took to labor like it was second nature. He loved feeding the chickens (even if they pecked at his boots), singing as he milked the goats (who responded by trying to eat his shirt), and tending the soil (even if he constantly mixed up which plants needed full sun or partial shade).

But he tried. Gods, did he try.

He’d wake up before sunrise to help gather eggs and bring you wildflowers with muddy fingers and a bashful smile. He gave names to every single pumpkin, saluted the cows like old comrades, and taught the pigs how to sit. (One of them sort of learned. You suspected it was coincidence.)

The vegetables he harvested often ended up a little too bruised, or crooked, or tiny—but he presented them with the proud air of someone who had just defeated a demon lord.

“This one’s for you,” he’d say, placing a funny little beet in your hand like it was a diamond.

And honestly? It was perfect. Because Wyll’s joy was infectious. His laughter echoed over the fields. His presence made every sunrise feel warmer, every day brighter. Even if his corn always grew sideways.

“I might not be the best farmer,” he’d admit, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I’m exactly where I want to be.”

And when you kissed him, fingers brushing dirt from his cheek, you couldn’t help but agree.

Halsin:

If anyone was born to thrive on a farm, it was Halsin.

Where others groaned about early mornings and sore backs, Halsin greeted the day with that warm, deep voice and a calm certainty that made the roosters crow more enthusiastically. Shirtless more often than not, with the morning light catching on his golden skin and broad shoulders, he looked like a god of the harvest incarnate—muscles flexing as he hefted hay bales like they were pillows.

You tried not to gawk every time he wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his tunic.

(You failed often.)

“I thought you were a druid,” you teased one day, leaning on a fencepost, watching him load the cart with fresh hay. “Shouldn’t you be turning into a bear and napping under trees or something?”

Halsin smiled, the kind of smile that settled in your bones like warmth. “Being one with nature doesn’t mean shying away from hard work. Besides, the goats get nervous when I shift. And they like it when I talk to them.”

He said this while gently stroking the head of a particularly moody billy goat, who stared up at him like he hung the moon.

You raised a brow. “Are you telling them secrets?”

“I’m telling them not to eat your herb garden,” he said. “Again.”

It wasn’t just his strength or his ease with the animals—it was the way Halsin belonged here. The land responded to him. Trees leaned in closer. The soil felt richer. Even the bees seemed to hover around him longer than they should’ve. And when the chores were done and you sat together beneath the old oak with your hands dirty and your hearts full, it felt like everything was in balance.

He never rushed you, never questioned your need for this life. He only helped shape it into something stronger, steadier. More alive.

And when he pressed a kiss to your temple after a long day, murmuring about stew for dinner and the chickens needing checking, and building some new play equipment for the goats -and the orphans, you couldn't help but smile.

Because your druid? He wasn’t just a bear in the forest. He was the heart of this little farm.

OMG how freaking wholesome was this, I did it more as a drabble style as I kinda had rambling thoughts about this, but I hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[yua0ra]

𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐨 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐄𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭™

(𝐟𝐭. 𝐚 𝐒𝐥𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧-𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲)

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

WARNINGS: downbad!mattheo x slytherin!fem!reader, SFW, english is not my first language. not proofread | fluff ☏

SUMMARY: Operation: Matty Falls in Love™, where the plan is very much in motion—even if Mattheo is pretending it's not.

WC: 2.4K AN: Here's part 2! Enjoy...

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

The first Monday back after the weekend hit like a hex to the face.The castle felt like it had been dipped in ice overnight, your breath curling in little clouds as you trudged down the corridor toward Advanced Potions, clutching your book bag like it could shield you from the cold—and the overwhelming dread of homework returning.

You weren’t expecting much out of the day. Maybe some leftover holiday biscuits if you were lucky, and a chaotic lesson in Potions if Theo was feeling particularly dramatic.

What you definitely weren’t expecting was to walk into class and see Mattheo Riddle already at your shared table.

And not just at it—claiming it.

He had your usual seat pulled out, a folded scarf over the back of the chair like a little cushion, and—most shocking of all—a warm, steaming mug sitting in front of it.

He spotted you before you could fully compute the situation, his eyes flicking up, then widening like he’d just remembered how to breathe. His mouth opened, then closed again. And then opened again.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little rough from the cold—or nerves? “Uh. Morning. I, um… I made you tea.”

You blinked at the mug. “You made me—?”

“It’s peppermint,” he said too quickly. “I think. You said once you liked it. I mean—you were talking to Pansy, not me, but I was… nearby.”

There was a pause.

Then: “I’m not creepy.”

You blinked again, then smiled softly, touched and a little stunned. “That’s actually… really sweet. Thank you.”

You slid into your seat, fingers brushing the warm ceramic. The tea smelled perfect—minty, calming—and you tried to ignore the way Mattheo’s shoulders visibly relaxed when you took a sip and smiled at him again.

He looked like a puppy who’d just been told he was a very good boy.

Meanwhile, across the room…

Operation: Matty Falls in Love™ was in full, silent-screaming effect.

“Target accepted tea,” Theo whispered like a MI6 agent, ducking behind a stack of cauldrons. “Repeat, tea has been accepted. We’re a go.”

“She smiled. Look at that smile!” Enzo hissed, elbowing Blaise. “That’s a real smile. That’s a 'maybe-I-want-to-wear-his-hoodies' kind of smile.”

Blaise was scribbling notes like a madman. “That’s a level six emotional reaction. Possibly seven. We’re talking soft-giggle territory.”

Draco, ever cool, sipped his coffee with a smirk. “He’s going to ruin it in three… two…”

Back at your table, Mattheo was passing you ingredients without you even having to ask, murmuring the correct stir count under his breath and keeping a hawk eye on the flame.

He was calm. Focused. Controlled.

Until you leaned in.

Just a bit. Just enough to check the potion’s color, your face close to his, the scent of your shampoo completely wrecking his ability to do basic math.

His elbow bumped the ladle.

The ladle knocked over a vial of powdered moonstone.

The vial plopped into the cauldron.

The cauldron erupted.

Glitter. Pink fizz. A puff of heart-shaped steam and a high-pitched honk like someone had charmed a goose.

Slughorn let out a scandalized shriek and leapt backward. Half the class screamed. A few ducked under tables.

You coughed through the pink mist, eyes wide—then started laughing.

Not mockingly. Not nervously. Like it was genuinely the funniest thing that had happened all day.

You grinned at Mattheo, who looked like he might actually melt into the floor from embarrassment. He was covered in glitter. His fringe was stuck to his forehead. He looked like the aftermath of a Valentine’s Day explosion.

“I think,” you said between giggles, “you just invented a love potion for unicorns.”

Mattheo stared at you for a second, dazed. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Well,” you shrugged, cheeks a little pink. “Unicorns deserve love too.”

You were still smiling at him—glitter and all—when Slughorn finally regained control and started yelling about “reckless behavior” and “inappropriate potion glitter.”

Mattheo didn’t even flinch. He just kept looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth watching.

Across the classroom, the boys were losing their minds.

Draco stood and bowed sarcastically. “Ladies and gents, he’s dead. He’s in love. It’s over.”

“I have never seen a man combust with such grace,” Theo declared, writing “chaotic glitter potion = success???” in Blaise’s notebook.

“His hair’s sparkling,” Enzo said reverently. “Even his hair wants to impress her.”

Blaise closed the notebook slowly. “Phase two complete. We move to Phase three tomorrow: hallway proximity and accidental shoulder brushes.”

Draco smirked. “Don’t forget the book drop.”

“Ah yes,” Theo nodded. “The classic oops let me help you pick that up while our hands touch and soft music plays.”

Back at the front, Slughorn assigned Mattheo a week’s worth of extra clean-up duty for “unauthorized potion experimenting.”

You leaned over and whispered, “I’ll help, if you want. I mean… it was sort of my fault too.”

Mattheo blinked, stunned. “You… would?”

You gave him that same shy smile, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear. “Of course. I like glitter. And unicorns.”

Mattheo was silent for a moment. Then, very quietly: “I think I’m in love with you.”

Your eyes widened.

His eyes widened more.

“I MEANT—not in love! Just… love. Like. In a—LIKE GLITTER LOVE. PLATONIC—"

You were laughing again. He buried his face in his hands.

From across the room: “Phase three is writing itself,” Theo whispered dramatically.

- ★、

The glitter eventually faded (thanks to three different Scourgify charms and Theo’s aggressive commentary), but the effects of the “unicorn love potion incident,” as it was now being called in the halls, definitely did not.

By the time lunch rolled around, Mattheo was already on high alert. Blaise had winked at him four times that morning. Theo kept humming love songs whenever you were in a ten-foot radius. Enzo tried to accidentally lock the two of you in the corridor near the Astronomy Tower “just to see what would happen.”

And Draco? Draco was just having the time of his life being smug.

Mattheo flopped down at the Slytherin table with the energy of a man who had survived war. His hair was still a bit sparkly. His soul? Cracked.

"You're all insane," he muttered, stabbing his mashed potatoes like they personally offended him. “Completely deranged.”

"You're welcome," Blaise said cheerfully, peeling an orange with the precision of someone plotting a six-month seduction arc. “You're getting more one-on-one time with her than ever. That’s not deranged. That’s strategic.”

Theo leaned forward across the table, eyes glinting. “Exactly. And today’s strategy is… drum rolls please!: Shared Library Timeeeee!. Blaise has already rigged the schedule—”

“I did no such thing,” Blaise said, looking wildly guilty.

“—so you’re both paired for this week’s Herbology research project,” Theo continued, ignoring him. “Ms Sprout gave you both the same topic: Mandrake root temperament shifts in cold weather. Romantic, innit?”

“Yeah,” Draco deadpanned. “Nothing gets the blood pumping like magical screaming vegetables.”

Mattheo groaned and let his forehead hit the table. “This is going to kill me. I’m going to die in the library. She’ll find my cold, glittery corpse next to a mandrake diagram.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Enzo said, nudging him. “We’ll make sure you look good for your funeral. All black. Silk cravat. Maybe a single red rose.”

Meanwhile, you were sitting with Pansy, Daphne, and Millicent a few tables down, trying very hard not to smile as you kept catching snippets of their ridiculous whispering. You could feel Mattheo glancing your way every few seconds—even when he pretended not to—and you couldn’t lie… it was cute. Like really cute.

“Honestly, they’re so obvious,” Daphne said, smirking behind her goblet. “Mattheo looks at you like you’re a sacred artifact.”

“Or like he’s seen the face of Merlin himself,” Pansy added. “You breathe and he blushes.”

You flushed, nearly choking on your juice. “Okay, stop. It’s not like that.”

“It is exactly like that,” Millicent chimed in, casually shoving a bread roll into her mouth. “Boys don’t brew peppermint tea unless they’re in love or about to propose.”

You set your drink down carefully. “He’s just being nice.”

Pansy raised a brow. “Sweetheart. This morning he let you pick the dragon scales first during Potions. That boy is ready to die for you.”

Before you could respond, Mattheo stood from his table, clearly unaware of the spectacle he was making just by existing. He looked across the room, caught your eye—then promptly tripped over the bench.

“Yep,” Pansy said, sipping her tea with zero sympathy. “Utterly doomed.”

- ★、

By the time the last bell rang, you were already gathering your things, heart doing those tiny, ridiculous flips it always did now when you knew you'd be seeing Mattheo. You kept telling yourself it was just the Herbology project. Just a bit of partnered research. Academic. Professional.

But the butterflies in your chest clearly hadn't gotten the memo.

The library was quiet, soft candlelight casting golden puddles across the ancient oak tables and high shelves. And there he was — already seated at your usual corner table near the back. You stopped for a second in the doorway without meaning to, just… staring. Mattheo hadn’t seen you yet.

He was nervously organizing parchment into neat little stacks. Then reorganizing it. Then messing it up and trying again. His quill rolled off the table once — he caught it mid-air with a muttered, "Bloody—" — and then he immediately sat up straighter, clearly fighting some sort of internal battle about whether he looked too slouched or too stiff. He tested both. Adjusted his collar. Rubbed the back of his neck. Stared at his ink bottle like it had personally betrayed him.

You bit your lip, a smile tugging at the corners. It was kind of criminal, how adorable he was when he thought no one was looking.

And then… he spotted you.

Mattheo blinked like he was seeing a mirage. Like he genuinely couldn’t believe you were walking toward him. His mouth parted, but no sound came out for a full five seconds — and then he scrambled to his feet so fast he bumped the table and knocked over a stack of parchment.

"Hi," you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as you sat down across from him. Your voice was gentle, a little hesitant, but warm.

“Hi,” he said, finally, voice rough like it had been hiding under a blanket all day. He was staring, his gaze flicking across your face like he was trying to memorize something. “Um. You look… warm.”

You paused, mid-quill unzip. “…Thank you?”

“I mean—like, not hot. Not like that. Not that you’re not—hot,” he said, voice rising an octave in panic. “I just meant… you have a scarf on. And, um. Sweater. Layers. Seasonally appropriate.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, a deer caught in wandlight.

“…Thank you,” you said again, trying not to laugh as you tucked your scarf a little tighter. “You’re very… observant.”

Mattheo let out a long, painful sigh and dropped his head onto the table with a thud. “I am so bad at this.”

You giggled, opening your notes. “At conversation?”

“At everything involving you,” he mumbled, forehead still pressed to the wood. “I swear Theo jinxed me. Or cursed my brain. Or poisoned my pumpkin juice.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “Is that what this is, then? Flirting?”

Mattheo’s head jerked up like you’d poured ice water down his back. His ears instantly went pink.

“I… I mean. I would, if I knew how,” he admitted, voice barely louder than a whisper.

You smiled — and not the usual, polite sort. No, this one was soft and quiet and just for him. You reached over and gently tapped your quill against his, like a tiny little kiss between ink-covered friends.

“Maybe I could teach you.”

Mattheo looked like he’d been hit with a Confundus charm. His cheeks were full-on red now — a deep, brilliant shade that made his freckles stand out like stars. He swallowed hard.

“Okay,” he said, almost shyly. “I’d really like that.”

Meanwhile, a few aisles down, Theo ducked behind a shelf of Magical Fungi Through the Ages and hissed into a rolled-up scroll like it was enchanted for secret messaging.

“Target is giggling. I repeat, Target is giggling. Operation Matty Falls in Love is in full motion.”

On the floor beneath a nearby table, Blaise sipped from a contraband coffee thermos and replied into his own scroll. “Phase shared library time: Confirmed. Proceeding to next phase: ‘Oops, our hands touched while reaching for the same mandrake diagram.’ Timing window: approximately five minutes.”

“Copy that,” came Draco’s voice from the far end, hidden behind a decorative tapestry and looking deeply unimpressed. “But if you make me read one more page of Herbal Sex Magic just for cover, I’m calling it off.”

“Worth it,” Blaise said, grinning.

Back at your table, you and Mattheo had actually managed to start reading through the research notes, though your knees kept bumping beneath the table, and each time they did, Mattheo jolted like he'd been hit with a Stinging Hex.

“So… Mandrake temperament shifts,” you said, glancing at him, trying to focus.

Mattheo nodded, looking determined. “Right. Mandrakes. Loud little bastards. Not romantic.”

You laughed softly. “You don’t have to keep pretending you’re not adorable.”

Mattheo blinked. “I—I’m not pretending. I mean—I am pretending. But only because you’re you.”

You tilted your head. “And what does that mean?”

He looked down at the parchment, fiddling with the corner of a page. “Means… I don’t want to mess it up. Being around you. It’s like…” He trailed off, glancing sideways, his voice a little hoarse. “It’s the only time I want to do things properly.”

You froze for a beat — not because he’d said anything loud or dramatic, but because it was genuine. Sweet. Scarily earnest, for someone who usually pretended he didn’t feel things. It made your heart thump, wild and soft and very, very real.

“Matty?” you said gently.

He glanced up, eyes wide.

“I think you’re doing just fine.”

He beamed. Blushed again. And you both bent your heads over the same page, shoulders nearly touching now.

Across the room, Theo silently held up a victory fist.

Blaise high-fived him behind a bookshelf with dramatic flair.

Draco sighed into his book.

[viktateapot]

GALA ✨ (Batboys)

Dick Grayson:

"Why did I agree to this?" You muttered, trying to maintain your balance on the uncomfortable heels. The blue satin dress, a gift from Dick, was gorgeous, but you felt like a silk sausage. It was an official event in Gotham City. Champagne, tuxedos, and the bored faces of the rich. As if you didn't have enough adventures with Dick Grayson.

You spotted him at the snack table, chatting casually with an important sponsor. His hair was slightly disheveled, and his tie was slightly crooked. A perfect cock. He looked at me, and his face broke into a wide smile. "You're gorgeous!" You could read his lips before he pushed off the table and headed towards you.

When Dick came up to you, he took your hand and kissed it. "Oh, you're so beautiful, my little bird."

"You look disheveled. Or have you already ridden the chandelier?" You said, gently straightening his tie.

He rolled his eyes. "It was just one damn time. You can just forget about it?"

"No, you're a damn acrobat. I know it was a long time ago, but it feels like it was yesterday"

And as we stood there, surrounded by glitter and tinsel, you realized that the most beautiful treasure of the evening was not the dress, the jewelry, or the champagne. It was Dick. With his restless energy, his genuine kindness, and his ability to turn even the most boring evening into an adventure. And for that, you loved him the most.

Jason Todd:

"Damn, I hate this," Jason growled, looking down at you. His gaze practically burned a hole in your red dress.

"Calm down," you replied, adjusting the strap of your dress. "You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to this assignment."

We were both undercover at this stupid party, and I had every reason to believe that Jason was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. To be honest, he was just as uncomfortable in the crowd as you were. But we had a job to do, and the red dress was part of the plan. The important thing was to keep Jason from making a fool of himself.

"Jay, go get some champagne."

He snorted and, without saying a word, headed for the bar. You sighed. It was going to be a long night. The main thing was that Jason didn't blow the whole operation to hell.

You continued to stand and wait for Jason, but you felt someone's hand touch your waist, and you turned around.

"Hey, beautiful, do you want to meet me?"

You looked at the man coldly, but before you could respond, Jason appeared next to you. He put his arm around your shoulders, his eyes filled with rage. "I'm sorry, but she's taken," he growled, his eyes never leaving the man. In that moment, you realized that no matter how much Jason hated the gala, he would not allow anyone to touch you.

Tim Drake:

This dress looked like it was made of moonlight and morning fog. You felt like a fairy who had just arrived at a ball. The irony of the situation was that in real life, I had to wear armor more often than romantic dresses. But today, for Tim's sake, you decided to make an exception.

A gala in Gotham City. A crazy mix of pathos, hypocrisy and potential threats. But if Tim is around, even the most dangerous event turns into an exciting game. "You look a little pensive," he said. "Is everything all right?"

You smiled and stroked his cheek. "Everything is fine. I'm just thinking about how much I love adventures, especially when you're around." Tim blushed and turned away, straightening his tie. He was always so embarrassed when you started talking about your feelings.

"Don't get distracted," he muttered. "We have a job to do." And he was right. We were here for a reason. Bruce got suspicious and asked us to keep an eye on a suspicious character.

"What have you found out?" You asked, snuggling closer to him. "He's been associating with the underworld. He's probably planning something bad."

"Well, then we need to stop him," you replied, ready for action. Tim nodded and looked at you with admiration. "You're always so fearless. That's what I love about you." He stopped and blushed even more.

You laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "What, my Robin? Can't finish your sentence?" He just rolled his eyes and pulled you by the hand. "We should go. The game is starting."" And at that moment, you realized that even in that stupid dress and at that pretentious gala, you felt happy. Because you were with the person you loved.

Damian Wayne:

The silk of the dress was pleasantly cool against your skin, contrasting with the warmth of Damian's hand wrapped around your waist. You leaned into him, feeling his tension. He had never been fond of these gatherings, and you knew it.

"Do you want to leave?" you whispered in his ear. He shook his head slightly, but didn't pull away. "I'm here for you," he replied, and that was all you needed to hear. In this room full of falsehood and pretense, his presence was like a breath of fresh air. With him, you felt safe, at home.

You smiled, pulling back slightly to look at his face. Even here, in the midst of the crowd, Damian stood out. His sharp features, his piercing gaze – he was like a predator, lost in a world of social events. And yet, he was here, with you, for you.

"What if we took a little run?" You whispered, knowing he would understand your meaning. He raised an eyebrow slightly, but a light appeared in his eyes. "Run away to where?"

"It's a surprise," you replied, taking his hand and pulling him towards the terrace. The fresh night air was a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the ballroom. You led him to the edge of the terrace, where you could see the glittering lights of Gotham City.

Damian leaned against the railing, taking in the view of the city. You stood beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. In the silence of the night, the only sounds were the distant hum of traffic and your own breathing.

"You know," you whispered, "it doesn't matter where we are, as long as we're together."

He squeezed your hand without saying anything. But you knew that he felt the same way. In that moment, under the starry sky, Gotham didn't seem so scary. As long as you had him by your side.

In general, offer some ideas for ff in the comments...🙏

[esote-rika]

Could I request Spencer with a really socially awkward reader(gn) who has to meet the team for the first time and just sort ends up hiding behind Spencer?

Feel free to ignore this if you're not up for it :)

Anon, thank you so much for this! I’m sorry it took a little long, but I hope you still enjoy it <3 Cute little drabble of Spencer being the best bf ever.

Contents: Mentions of alcohol, but otherwise, it’s just fluff!!! gn!reader.

Your hands are clammy when he takes them, a clear sign of your discomfort. Immediately, Spencer’s face softens, his features dappled pink and blue from the colorful lights of the bar. Neither of you drink, but his team is celebrating a case they successfully closed, and he’d mentioned it would be a good time to introduce you. The atmosphere is relaxed, after all, inhibitions dulled by alcohol and the knowledge of a job well done. 

For them, at least. You are operating under something entirely different. Nerves. Lots of it.

“You made it.” Spencer says brightly, before he wraps an arm around you and ushers you to their table. His team is all bright, welcoming smiles, and teasing remarks when they see you. You recognize them from the pictures, this group of people he’s come to know as his family. The cheeriest woman, Penelope Garcia walks up and gives you a big hug. Not expecting it, you stand there awkwardly, too busy wondering if you should return the gesture, but by the time you make up your mind, she’s already pulling away. 

Oops. You bite back a wince at your social blunder and manage a smile. 

“Spencer has told me all about you.” You say over the loud, thumping music. 

A chorus of replies. He spends all his time talking about you too, and You two are so cute, and I can’t believe Spence didn’t introduce you to us sooner! Lovely platitudes that you nod at. What exactly do you say to them beyond a thank you? Desperately, you wrack your brain for responses. Be witty, you chide yourself, charming. Make them like you.

But your words fail you in this moment, as they so often do. Small talk seems hollow, perfunctory instead of sincere, so you smile and nod politely as the comments continue around you. The more they go on about how it is to meet you, the more you seem to shrink into Spencer, smiling politely in response. You hope, desperately, that it's enough.

Once the initial round of introductions dies down, Spencer pulls you to a quieter table. The back of your neck is warm from all the attention, and you're worried his team may think you're being too clingy or antisocial. Surprisingly, his team doesn’t comment on it, moving on to get drinks and join the dance floor. Other people may have found it rude to retreat like this, but truthfully, you’re glad for the reprieve. 

Spencer’s hand is warm and heavy on your hip, pulling you tightly to his side. “Are you okay?”

You hum, nodding against his shoulder. “Your team’s nice.” 

“They are,” you feel his lips on your forehead, “But they can be a lot.”

You peak over his shoulder to look at the dance floor. Derek is in the middle of it with a few ladies, while JJ, Emily, and Penelope have their own little dance cluster. “They’re nice.” you repeat, “They just seemed excited.”

He chuckles, “Mhm, that’s because they’ve been wanting to meet you for weeks now.” 

You feel him pull back, and you have to fight back the urge to cling to him. He meets your gaze, brown eyes warm and glittering in the dim light. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not too overwhelmed?”

“I’m fine. I’m glad to have met them.”

He smiles, pleased that his reminders for his team had worked. He’d told them of your tendency to be awkward around new people and had asked them to accommodate it when they meet you. He’s just as nervous and eager for your introduction to be nice, but your comfort is of utmost importance to him. 

For a brief moment, he worried it wouldn’t work, but his team is gracious enough (and so excited over the fact that he has a relationship) that they’ve put on their best behavior and backed off immediately once they caught signs of your discomfort. You’re easy enough to read, and they’re highly trained profilers. 

“They already adore you.” he says, nose buried in your hair. 

You laugh, “You sure? I don’t know if I’ve made the best impression.”

“I’m sure.” his lips ghost across your hairline, “You weren’t even that bad. They’re used to so much worse.”

“Is that so?”

He nods, ducking down to press his lips to yours. “Need I remind you that they have to deal with me?”

Even more laughter escapes you, and you’re immediately put at ease, even more so than before. How could you not, when your boyfriend knows exactly what to say? Perhaps not to other people, but he’s so attuned to you and your needs that you just kiss him back in thanks.

[riddlesrizzler]

This Could’ve Been an Owl

summary: somethings are left better as an owl... characters: jim! mattheo. pam! reader. dwight! draco. stanley! theo. kelly! blaise. andy! enzo warnings: none, just poor draco word count: 1.2k

The meeting was scheduled for 9:00 a.m.

At 9:07, the coffee pot was still sputtering like it was about to explode, Enzo had somehow broken his granola bar into four unequal, crumbling pieces, and Blaise was halfway through a monologue about how the new client’s assistant looked “mysteriously like a cursed Siren” and “definitely blinked sideways.” No one was listening. Except Theo, who stared blankly into his mug like it might transport him somewhere else.

You sat near the end of the conference table, doodling in the margins of the meeting agenda you had printed yourself - not because you cared, but because you were the only person who Draco didn’t openly accuse of being a spy. Your latest sketch was of a dragon incinerating a tiny stick figure labeled “Draco.” It was breathing glitter fire. You smirked and tilted the page slightly so Mattheo could see it.

He bit back a laugh - that sharp, breathless sort of grin he always wore when the two of you were silently conspiring. He leaned back in his chair, his quill spinning between his fingers. Cool. Careless. Definitely about to do something stupid.

Draco cleared his throat for the third time.

“Right,” he snapped, slapping a clipboard down with unnecessary force. “Now that we’ve all decided to grace the office with our presence-”

“I’ve been here since eight,” you said sweetly, not looking up from your doodle.

Mattheo coughed to cover his snort.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “-we can finally begin. Item one: someone - and I will find out who - placed an undetectable expansion charm on my filing cabinet. When I opened it, I was temporarily sucked into a dimension of-of-clowns.”

There was a long pause.

“Sounds like a personnel issue,” Theo muttered, deadpan.

Mattheo raised a hand. “Did you happen to see your performance review while you were in there?”

Blaise burst out laughing. Even Enzo wheezed around a mouthful of granola.

You smiled, pressing your hand to your mouth like it might muffle the giggle clawing its way out. Mattheo gave you a sidelong glance, and the shared triumph of this is going well passed silently between you.

Draco did not share that sentiment.

“I am compiling a list,” he said darkly, flipping to a page titled Suspected Troublemakers in aggressive block letters. “It will be submitted to upper management by end of day.”

Mattheo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Is that the same list where you put ‘Suspicious Soup Behavior’ next to Enzo’s name?”

“I knew that bisque was cursed,” Draco barked.

“It was from the breakroom,” Enzo offered helpfully. “Pretty sure it was labeled ‘Mattheo’s.’”

Mattheo blinked. “I don’t even eat soup.”

You rested your chin on your hand, watching all of this unfold with mild amusement. Honestly, Draco brought it on himself. He held these meetings like they were Auror interrogations, and somehow always ended up the victim of some minor magical sabotage. The fact that he hadn’t yet realized it was a two-person operation - orchestrated mostly from your desk and carried out with Mattheo’s charming recklessness - was a miracle.

Draco slammed his clipboard shut. “Enough. Item two: The break room incident-”

“Which one?” Blaise asked. “The cauldron explosion? Or the time the enchanted toaster tried to duel me?”

“The glitter bomb hidden in my teacup,” Draco hissed. “I’m still sneezing sparkles.”

Mattheo tilted his head innocently. “Are you sure it wasn’t your personality finally showing?”

You couldn’t hold back the laugh that slipped out - sharp and warm and completely unprofessional. Draco turned his glare on you.

“Don’t look at me,” you said, shrugging. “I only printed the meeting agenda. Which, by the way, doesn’t say anything about glitter bombs.”

Enzo tried to raise a hand. “I kind of liked it. You looked festive.”

Draco muttered something about incompetence and stormed toward the whiteboard, where he began drawing a complex diagram titled “Office Sabotage Network.” He included tiny, cartoonish caricatures of everyone at the table - yours had a halo. Mattheo’s had devil horns. Blaise’s was winking.

You leaned sideways, whispering to Mattheo behind your hand, “Do you think he’ll realize the glitter was charmed to explode with sound if he yells?”

Mattheo grinned at you, wide and gleaming. “Ten galleons says he finds out in the next sixty seconds.”

As if on cue, Draco turned around. “Now-listen carefully-”

BANG.

A shimmering cloud of pink and gold exploded over his head, raining glitter down on the table in elegant, sparkling sheets. Draco shrieked. Blaise screamed in solidarity. Enzo applauded.

Mattheo casually dusted off his lapels and looked over at you like nothing happened.

You smiled at him - that slow, knowing smile that said, We’re the best team this office has ever seen.

Across the room, Theo sipped his coffee, nodded, and muttered, “Finally. Some entertainment.”

It was the next day, the morning after the glitter bomb incident, when Draco Malfoy arrived precisely thirty-seven minutes early.

He was wearing tinted goggles. His wand was gripped like a sword. His cloak had been replaced with what looked suspiciously like a dragonhide apron, and he muttered under his breath as he tiptoed through the office, checking doorknobs and breathing heavily through his nose.

You watched him from behind the reception desk, sipping your tea.

“Do we think he’s… okay?” you asked no one in particular.

Mattheo leaned his elbows on the counter, hair messy from the wind and lips curved in that familiar, conspiratorial grin. “He’s fine. He’s just been... glitter-traumatized.”

“Is that a real condition?” you asked.

Mattheo’s voice dropped a notch as he leaned a little closer. “Want to help me find out?”

You gave him a sideways glance, pretending your heart didn’t trip over itself. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re asking me to commit a crime before noon.”

He smirked, tapping the countertop between you with his finger. “Come on, receptionist. Live a little.”

Before you could answer, Enzo appeared, holding a suspiciously oversized croissant and wearing the expression of a man who knew far too much.

“Just to be clear,” he said, mouth full, “are we all pretending that you two aren’t in love, or…?”

You choked on your tea. Mattheo turned and gave him a long, slow blink. “Do you ever start a conversation normally?”

Enzo held up his hands. “I’m just saying - if I had someone looking at me like that every morning, I’d probably have proposed by now.”

Mattheo glanced at you again. His smile shifted, softened. Less teasing. More real. And for a moment, it felt like something charged and unspoken settled in the space between you - a question neither of you had asked out loud.

But before anything could come of it, a shrill, victorious laugh echoed from down the hallway.

“Oh no,” you muttered.

“...He’s sprung the trap, hasn’t he?” Mattheo asked.

“Definitely,” Enzo said. “And he’s way too smug about it.”

Sure enough, Draco reappeared seconds later, eyes wide with triumph and goggles slightly askew.

“I knew it,” he barked. “Don’t act surprised - I saw the glitter residue. The prank empire ends today.”

“Is that what you named this? A ‘prank empire’?” you asked dryly.

Draco ignored you. “I’ve installed anti-prank wards across the office. Invisible, advanced, and regulated by magical law. Any trickery, and-” He paused, then pulled out a little red orb from his pocket. “This detonates.”

You blinked. “Detonates?”

Blaise, walking in with a latte, frowned. “Like…explodes?”

“No,” Draco sniffed. “It alerts me.”

Mattheo tapped the orb lightly. “So it yells at us?”

Draco bristled. “It’s an alert system!”

“Right,” Mattheo said, turning to you with a glimmer in his eye. “Definitely not a glittery magical snitch.”

Enzo reached for the orb. “If I charm this thing to meow every time it goes off, does that count as sabotage or improvement?”

“Touch it and I hex your eyebrows off,” Draco snapped.

Mattheo, still watching you, leaned in close enough for your shoulders to brush. “Let me guess,” he murmured, voice low and sweet, “you’ve got a better plan already.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You think I don’t?”

“Oh, I know you do,” he said, eyes flickering to your mouth for just a second too long. “The real question is… do I get to help?”

Your breath caught slightly. The way he looked at you - like he already knew the answer - made it hard to remember why you hadn’t crossed that line yet.

Thankfully - or unfortunately - Enzo spoke up.

“Or,” he said casually, “you two could just go on a date already and stop setting the building on fire with your eye contact.”

Mattheo didn’t even flinch. He just turned back to him, still smiling. “What do you think the glitter bombs were? Foreplay?”

Draco sputtered.

Blaise nearly dropped his latte.

You blinked at Mattheo, somewhere between mortified and impressed.

He arched a brow at you. “Too much?”

You shook your head slowly. “Only slightly.”

There was a pause, and then-

BANG.

The red orb Draco had been holding suddenly burst into shimmering purple mist. It clung to him like fog, swirling and hissing, before erupting into a chorus of cats meowing furiously.

Enzo blinked. “Okay, so maybe I touched it a little.”

Draco screamed something about betrayal and stormed out, the orb still meowing behind him like a haunted nursery rhyme.

Mattheo turned to you again, grinning.

“So,” he said. “Lunch break prank planning?”

You smiled, eyes lingering on him longer than you meant to. “Only if you buy me a muffin first.”

He offered you his arm like it was an inside joke. “For you, anything.”

[sabrinajenre96]

Pairing: Dr. Michael Robinavitch x Doctor!Reader (fem) 📎 Warnings: Fluff, family chaos, dad jokes so bad they might be a medical emergency, light language, mentions of past teen pregnancy, one (1) Belgian Malinois with too much energy, and an 8-year-old attempting crazy scientific experiments. 📅 Series: The Robinavitch Chronicles

tagging: @kmc1989 @nowandajenn @stefanmikaleson1864 @beebeechaos @sweetwanderlust05

🩺 Summary:

Welcome to the barely controlled chaos of the Robinavitch household—where the operating room is somehow less stressful than breakfast time. Dr. Y/N is a badass senior resident, Michael a genius attending with the patience of a saint (most days), and their three kids—Sawyer (teen with a sass level over 9000), Alex (mad scientist in training), and Spencer (tiny terror in a tutu)—keep them on their toes. Add in Kojo, their overprotective Belgian Malinois who thinks he’s part babysitter, part security detail, and you’ve got a family sitcom disguised as a medical drama.

Expect: snack-fueled standoffs, bubble bath bribes, science experiments gone rogue, and enough love to keep this whole circus together.

Paging all readers: Things are about to get adorably unhinged.

Author note: You can share and tag me, but I forbid anyone from stealing my work and making it yours. I put my heart and soul into coming up with this series. Unfortunately, I have witnessed creators coming across this problem.

Episodes:

Episode one ~ Chaos in scrubs

Episode Two ~ Saturdays Are for Pancakes and Trouble

Episode Three ~ Interrupted: A Bedtime Tragedy

Episode Four ~ No Locked Doors, Just Trauma

Episode five ~ Babysitter’s Survival Guide

Episode Six ~ Parent-Teacher Purgatory

Episode Seven ~Camp Chaos & Royal Decrees

Episode eight ~The Littlest Doctor

Episode Nine ~ Operation Birthday Surprise: Paging Dr. Daddy

Episode Ten ~ Threat Level Spencer

Episode Eleven ~ The (Not So) Scary Medical Masquerade

Episode Twelve -Operation: No One Find Us (Please)

Episode Thirteen -Paging Dr. Mom and Dr. Dad – Career Day Chaos

Episode Fourteen- Code Pink: Spencer Silence

Episode Fifteen - Shift Leader Spencer” – Operation: No Grandma, No Peace

Episode Sixteen - aloha chaos: the Robinavitch's edition

Episode Seventeen - Memoirs of a Mini Mob Boss” – Life According to Spencer Robinavitch

“Episode Eighteen -The Case of the Midnight Brownie Bandit”

“Episode Nineteen - The Glitter Queen’s Sixth Birthday: A Sparkly Roast

“Episode twenty - No Interruptions”

Episode twenty-one -The Return of the Mini Mob

Episode twenty two - "Tiny Heart, Big Drama"

Episode twenty three - "Operation: First Date (With Kojo On Duty)"

Episode twenty four -Episode Title: “Big Sisters, Secrets & Snitches”

Episode twenty five- “The Test”

Episode twenty- six - Episode Title: “Ghosts in the Parking Lot”

Episode twenty -seven - “Sisters, Secrets & Spencer’s Showdown

Episode twenty eight - "A New Day at The Pitt"

Episode twenty nine -"A Day in the Life of the Robinavitch Family

Episode thirty - “The Saturday Choice”

Episode thirty-one - “A seat at the table”

Episode thirty two -“Kojo Appreciation Day”

Episode thirty three -ROBINAVITCH HOME

Episode thirty four -“Almost There”

Episode thirty five - “Welcome, Jake”

Episode thirty six - Final Chapter: “The Legacy Continues

Epilogue: A New Beginning

[cryoculus]

— OPERATION: HEARTFIRE ⟢

burnice has a conspiracy under her belt. lighter needs a drink that isn’t nitro fuel. you were just doing your job. and the sons of calydon are the biggest enablers in all of new eridu.

★ featuring; lighter lorenz x gn!reader

★ word count; 5k words

★ tags; fluff, comedy???, stakeout missions, bartender!reader, the girls are soft for lighter, super light angst like it's basically a smidge

★ notes; howdy! welcome to my zzz debut! this was a gift for my good buddy @redhotchampion <3 still so happy we've been friends for so long, we got to appreciate lighter in all his boyfailure glory :3c please enjoy abject stupidity in 5k words or less!

READ ON AO3

It was supposed to be a sleepover.

Blankets, snacks, that one Astra Yao documentary Lucy refused to admit she liked—they had all the ingredients. Piper was already dozing off in a beanbag chair with a cookie halfway to her mouth. Caesar, in one sock and a cape she’d fashioned out of someone’s jacket, was humming a triumphant theme song she made up on the spot. Lucy was pretending to scroll through her phone, but was secretly paying close attention. And Pulchra? Pulchra was in a chair, arms crossed and pretending she wasn’t counting the seconds until she could leave.

But then Burnice stood on the coffee table with a no-good smile.

“All of you, hear me out!”

Pulchra didn’t even look up. “No.”

“Yes,” Burnice interjected, holding up a glitter-covered folder like it was a holy relic. “I discovered somethin’… insane. Like completely impossible, horoscope-influencing insane.”

Caesar gasped. “Did someone finally try to fight Lighter and win?”

“No, worse,” Burnice giggled, “He’s in love.”

A beat of silence passed through the room, as four sets of eyes stared at Burnice with abject confusion.

Lucy snorted. “No he’s not. That guy would rather flirt with his gloves than a real person.”

Burnice grinned like a demon who’d found a loophole in a contract. “That’s what I thought. But then…” She opened the folder with dramatic flair, revealing blurry, grainy photos of Lighter loitering outside Reverb Arena. “Thursday nights. Every week. Leaves at 9 o’clock sharp. Returns before midnight. He’s smiling in two of these, Lucy. Smiling.”

“So what?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “People smile all the time, Burnice. Maybe he saw a cute Bangboo in there.”

Despite Lucy’s sound argument, Caesar leaned in anyway, eyes wide with disbelief. “Wait. Does this mean Lighter has a secret partner? Or like a crush? Or a—what’s it called—a situationship?”

“Oh my god,” Pulchra muttered. “This is beneath all of us.”

“No it’s not,” Piper mumbled from the beanbag. “This is like, way above me. Wake me up when someone confesses or explodes.”

Burnice dropped a printout onto the floor like she was slapping down evidence in a courtroom. “Our suspect goes by Echo. Probably just a name they use when they’re on the clock. They’ve been bartendin’ at Reverb Arena for a little over two years. My sources said that customer satisfaction is a perfect five stars!”

Lucy snatched the page. “You literally printed this from their public profile off Inter-Knot. This is just their work bio and a blurry selfie!”

“Exactly,” Burnice nodded with mock-solemness. “They’re too normal. Suspiciously normal. Who the heck’s that balanced in this economy?”

“They’re just a bartender,” Pulchra groaned, standing up. “And I’m just leaving.”

“No you’re not,” Burnice said sweetly, “because we’re doing recon. And I heard Echo just happens to be best friends with the best masseuse in all of New Eridu.”

The Cat Thiren froze mid-step, ears twitching like someone just offered her tuna and lies.

“You’re so predictable!” Lucy groaned in contempt.  “Are you seriously going to believe that, Pulchra?”

She scoffed but it’s half-hearted at best. “N-No, I’m not going because of the masseuse. I’m going to make sure you psychos don’t get banned from another bar.”

“Sure,” Piper yawned. “I’m in it for the mission. Gotta make sure Lighter isn’t doin’ shady stuff, too.”

Caesar gave a dramatic fist-pump. “Operation: Heartfire is a go!”

“No one’s calling it that!” Lucy argued.

“Yes we are,” said Burnice and Caesar in unison.

Pulchra sat back down with a long, weary sigh. “Someone better buy me a beer after this.”

Tonight is just another Thursday night at Reverb Arena.

The lights are dim, flickering just enough to keep the corners shadowed, and the bass rattles through the floor like it’s trying to shake the rust off the pipes. Somewhere overhead, a skate deck screeches against concrete, followed by laughter and the unmistakable thud of someone wiping out. You wipe down the bar for the third time in as many minutes—mostly to keep your hands busy. The wood’s scratched and stained, but it holds stories better than anything new ever could. Someone down the row slaps their palm against the counter for a refill, and you’re already moving.

They don’t need to ask what they want. You’re good like that. Attentive, but not too much. Present, but never prying.

You’re Echo here. No last name. No questions. Just the one behind the counter, keeping the glasses full and the night from tipping too far in either direction.

That’s when you spot him.

He doesn’t enter so much as appear, like he was always here and the light just caught him late. Lighter moves with the kind of casual alertness that makes people steer clear without realizing why—jacket slung low on his frame, boots quiet against the concrete, a glint of something sharp behind his sunglasses. He stalks toward the bar with his hands in his pockets and the Outer Ring still clinging to him like smoke. 

Same seat as always. Same quiet nod.

You’re already halfway through pouring before he’s even spoken.

“Echo,” Lighter says, and the sound of your alias on his lips carries like it means something. “Busy night?”

You glance out across the bar. One of the skaters nearly collides with a metal beam overhead. Someone in the corner is yelling at a Bangboo that’s ignoring them. The jukebox in the back is playing a remix that’s been skipping for the last thirty seconds. You return your gaze to the seasoned fighter sitting in front of you.

“It’s Thursday,” you tell him casually. “The regulars come out to pretend they’re unpredictable.”

Lighter’s mouth twitches with amusement as you slide the drink across. It’s not what he usually orders, but it’s what he actually likes—and the thing about Lighter is, he never says a word about the switch. You’re pretty sure you could serve him something godawful, like beer mixed with orange juice, and he’d knock it back like it was top-shelf.

You still remember the first time you met him. Lighter came in trailing behind the Phaethon siblings, looking like someone doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn’t suspicious of everything within a fifty-meter radius. Belle and Wise were your regulars—the kind of people who knew everyone and tipped generously if you confirmed any of the rumors they heard. But the guy they dragged in that night didn’t seem like the type to hang around bars for conversation—let alone subtle intel exchanges.

He’d sat right where he’s sitting now. Watched everything, said almost nothing. But now?

Lighter shows up every Thursday night, 9 o’clock, on the dot. He still doesn’t say too much, but he made it a point to remember your name—the one you use here, at least. You lean in a little, elbows resting on the bar, letting your weight settle like you’re in no hurry to move. There’s no rush tonight—never is, when Lighter walks in like he’s got all the time in the world and none of it to spare.

“You know,” you begin, voice low enough to match the mood but clear enough to carry, “most people who show up like clockwork eventually start talking about themselves.”

Across from you, Lighter’s hand lingers at the rim of his glass. He doesn’t lift it yet, but he does trace a slow, thoughtful circle around the edge with one finger, the ice inside shifting with a soft clink. 

“That a threat?” he asks quietly.

You smile. Not the forced kind you give rowdy patrons or overeager flirtations, but a small, genuine thing that slips out before you can stop it.

“No,” you say, “just an observation. Though I guess it could be a challenge, if you’re the type that needs incentive to speak.”

That earns you something—a huff of breath, maybe even a quiet laugh, though it dies quick. He’s still guarded, but you’ve been behind this bar long enough to know when someone’s starting to drop their shoulders, even just a little.

“I do talk,” he says after a beat, lifting the glass. “You just gotta catch it.”

You raise a brow. “What, like a myth? A rare phenomenon?”

He takes a sip, not answering right away. You let the silence stretch, but it’s not uncomfortable, just lived-in. Familiar, almost. That’s what he is now in a strange way—familiar. Like how a regular storm sounds through a leaky ceiling: irritating the first few times, but eventually comforting and predictable. A presence you notice more by its absence.

“You always show up on Thursdays,” you say. “Same time. Same seat. Same red scarf too, I think.”

He leans back slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. “It’s clean.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. Just... consistent.”

You polish a glass as you speak, not really needing to, but it gives your hands something to do while your brain keeps circling the puzzle of him. A man like Lighter—sharp around the edges, quiet like a warning—doesn’t keep habits without reason. He doesn’t frequent places unless he’s already decided they’re safe. Or useful.

Or both.

“So what is it?” you ask. “What keeps you coming back? The ambience? The weird drinks? Or am I just that good at pretending not to listen?”

This time, he does look at you. Not directly—his head tilts a little, those sunglasses reflecting the low, shuddering lights—but enough that you feel it. That slight shift in gravity when someone really sees you.

“It’s quiet here,” he says.

You blink. “It’s a skate bar built into a glorified sewer.”

Lighter shrugs. “Still quiet where it counts.”

And that’s it. That’s all he gives you. But it’s more than he ever used to; more than he gave anyone the first dozen times he walked in, tense and silent and perfectly still, like he was waiting to be ambushed by the music itself. You don’t let the moment fade just yet. There’s a faint ember in his words, and you know how to coax it into something more.

"Quiet, huh?" you repeat thoughtfully, spinning the next clean glass in your hands. “That’s a strange reason to come to a place like this. Most people come here to lose themselves in the noise.”

“I don’t lose myself,” he replies.

He lifts his drink in response—half a deflection, half a warning. But you’ve danced with colder men and charmed information from the tightest-lipped dealers in New Eridu. You know better than to push. You don’t need a bulldozer. You just need the right pressure points.

So you pivot, because the trick isn’t in asking what matters.

It’s in asking what doesn’t, until it does.

“Alright, what do you lose yourself in then?” you prod lightly, staring at the modified glove on his arm. “You strike me as the type who beats people up for fun and reads romcom novels to relax.”

Lighter actually snorts at that. It’s barely audible, but you catch it, a real unfiltered sound. That’s a crack in the armor, and you file it away.

“No romcom novels,” he says. “And I don’t beat people up for fun. I do it only when there’s a valid reason to.”

“Uh huh,” you hum curiously. “But you do beat people up? If my memory serves me right, Wise called you the Undefeated Champion, didn’t he?”   

He stiffens slightly, but composes himself fast enough for you to wonder if it was just a trick of the light. 

“That’s not a title I asked for, not really.” 

Lighter says it flatly, like it’s more of a burden than a brag. His fingers tighten slightly around the glass, the faint scrape of his glove against condensation sharp in the air between you.

You nod, letting that hang for a second. “So, no romcom novels. You don’t beat people up for fun. Just professionally, then?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions for someone who claims they’re not listening,” he says dryly.

You lean in a little with your elbows on the bar again. “I listen. I just don’t pry. There’s kind of a difference, you know?”

Lighter studies you from behind his shades, and you get the distinct impression he sees more than he lets on. It’s unsettling, if you’re honest. You’re used to being the observer—the quiet constant behind the bar, reading people without being read in return. But with him, it’s like the tables have turned. Like you're the one under the microscope now, and he’s just waiting for the pieces of you to click into place.

“So what are you listening for?” he asks eventually.

“Patterns,” you answer. “Tells. The way people shift when they’re lying, or when they’re about to tip into something they don’t want to say.”

“And me?”

You tilt your head. “You talk like someone who doesn’t want to be known.”

He looks away at that. Not far, just off to the side, like the bottles lining the shelves might rearrange themselves into a convenient distraction.

“I don’t,” he agrees.

“Fair.”

A few seconds pass. Long enough for someone down the bar to slap their palm for another round. You pour, deliver, return. By the time you pay attention to him again, Lighter has already cleared his glass. 

“Have you ever fought in the Hollows?” you ask as you move to pour him another round. Like it’s a trivia question. Like it isn’t laced with landmines. “Now that I think about it, you kinda look like the type to help around with things like that. The Sons of Calydon are the ones keeping the peace there in the Outer Ring, right?”  

Lighter doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t deflect, either.

“Yeah,” he says eventually as he takes a sip. One syllable. All muscle and gravel.

You nod at his answer, slow and quiet, like you were expecting it. Shortly after, you dry your hands with a threadbare towel that’s seen better days. You glance toward a crowd of teenage-looking girls that just entered the bar, but you don’t pay them much mind as you turn your attention back to Lighter.

“That tracks,” you murmur. “They say the Sons show up when no one else does.”

Lighter doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t deny it either. You take that as permission to keep going. Your fingers tap lightly against the bar—four beats, then pause, like a heartbeat that stutters. You speak again, but this time it’s softer; quieter than the music, meant just for him.

“You know, I lost someone in Lemnian Hollow back then,” you say. 

And just like that, the mood shifts.

Lighter doesn’t move, but something in the air tightens. You can feel it in the space between you, taut and tense like wire.

You don’t usually do this, offer truths this raw. You’ve spun a thousand stories for a thousand patrons, baited hooks with laughter or tears, depending on what they needed. But this one? This one isn’t bait. It’s bone-deep. And you’re offering it not to reel him in, but because—for some reason—you think Lighter might actually understand.

“He was my brother,” you say, eyes fixed on a smudge of dried citrus on the countertop. “That guy didn’t look like the hero type. He smoked too much, said weird shit like ‘milk is soup for cereal.’ Total dumbass.”

Lighter doesn’t react, but you think you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

You keep going.

“He was one of those volunteer Hollow raiders. Honorable idiots who think they can save the world just because their Ether aptitude is just a touch above the standard readings. He’d been working a string of clear-outs when Ethereals just started pouring through like floodwater.”

The towel’s clenched in your hands now. You hadn’t noticed when that started.

“He helped pull out a family that got trapped in there. Sent them through a fissure that led to the outside. But he... he didn’t make it,” you murmur with a hint of sadness. “According to the carrot data they showed me, something came after him. Something strong enough to collapse three corridors just by walking.”

You look up at Lighter then, and this time, you let him get a glimpse of it. The grief. The ache. The part of you that never stopped wondering if it would’ve been different if you’d said something, done something, warned him not to go out of the door of your house that day. 

“My brother died making sure they lived,” you say. “And the city gave him a line in a footnote. No monuments or ceremonies. Just a name on a spreadsheet under ‘casualties.’”

Lighter’s jaw is set. His glass rests untouched in front of him and when he speaks, like something dragged across a battlefield.

“That’s how it usually goes,” he says. “When the job’s done right, no one remembers who did it.”

You nod once. “Yeah. Guess that’s why I started remembering for him.”

The silence after that feels different. It sits between you like shared armor. You see it in the way his posture shifts—barely noticeable, but the edge in his shoulders is gone. The glass finally reaches his lips again.

You lean your hip against the bar. “You ever lost someone like that? Pretty sure everyone has, one way or another.”

He sets his drink back down, and it takes him a moment to find the words.

“I did. Back when I was still part of a mercenary guild,” Lighter starts. “There used to be four of us. We weren’t good people, but we were good at what we did. Ether clearance, Hollow sweeps, suppression runs in no-man’s zones. We didn’t get medals. We got paychecks and burn scars. Maybe a little bit of Ether corruption, but nothing that can’t be fixed.”

You study his face, what little you can see of it behind the sunglasses and lowered head. His voice doesn’t waver, but it has weight now. Heavier with every word. For a while, Lighter just watches the way the condensation trails down the side, like he’s reading something in the motion.

“They died all at once,” he continues. “There was no warning. No radio call. No final words. One minute they were there, and the next… they weren’t. It wasn’t even a big mission, just recon. In and out. The kind of job you do a hundred times and stop thinking about.”

His fingers curl slightly, glove creaking at the knuckles.

“I was the one who told them it’d be fine.”

You nod slowly, taking his words in. Because that’s the part that matters. Not the loss, but the blame. The quiet, festering guilt that he’s been carrying like a second spine.

Your voice stays soft. “You couldn’t have known.”

Lighter doesn’t answer. But silence, too, can be a kind of confession.

The quiet lingers, but it’s shaped by loss, shared and heavy, yet far from unbearable. For once, neither of you is trying to fill it. You both just… let it be.

Until movement down by the skating rink pulls at the edge of your awareness.

It’s subtle. You only catch it because the room’s changed tone—less noise, more watching. One of the teenage girls from earlier has just adjusted her seating, back turned now, but it’s too perfectly casual. The kind of positioning people do when they want to hear without looking like they’re listening.

Still, you clock it.

Your gaze sweeps across the group—no more than five of them. They laugh a little too loudly at something. One tosses her head like she’s brushing off a joke, but her eyes flicker toward the bar mid-motion. The Cat Thiren in their midst is doing a not-so subtle job of looking like she would rather die than be part of whatever nonsense is going on there. 

But collectively, they’re all trying very hard not to look like they’re watching you and Lighter.

Which means they absolutely are.

You glance at your present company. Lighter hasn’t noticed—or if he has, he’s doing a damn good job of pretending he hasn’t. Still nursing his drink, sunglasses low on the bridge of his nose now, expression unreadable. But there’s something in the way his jaw tenses. Like he’s starting to feel it too.

You lean forward again, elbows brushing the bar as you keep your voice level.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” you murmur. “But are you used to getting followed?”

He raises an eyebrow at your inquiry.

Then, softly: “Sometimes. Depends who’s asking.”

You snort under your breath. “Cute. I’m asking because I think we’ve got an audience.”

Lighter tenses just a fraction before subtly taking a glance at the girls from the corner of his eye. You’re not sure if he even sees them with his back turned, but when he groans a little too dramatically, you figure that they’re probably not out for his life or anything dangerous like that.

“Are they friends of yours?” you ask. 

Lighter tilts his head just enough for you to catch the sardonic glint in his expression. “Not unless the definition of ‘friend’ now includes people who do stakeout missions on you.”

“Stakeout missions…” you echo, the words slow to leave your mouth, like your brain’s still catching up to what your ears just heard.

Then it hits.

“Wait. Are you serious? You’re being staked out? Right now?”

Lighter doesn’t answer, but the upward twitch of his brow says it all.

You turn your head—casually, discreetly, like you’re just surveying the bar—and sure enough, now tucked into a booth in the far end, you spot a suspicious cluster of energy drinks, snack wrappers, and teenaged chaos barely disguised as a group hangout. The tallest one whispers something while gesturing wildly with a straw. Another adjusts a pair of comically oversized sunglasses like she’s in a spy movie. A third is actively hiding behind a dessert menu. The Cat Thiren still looks like she wants to end it all.

You squint. “Is that… a PowerPoint printout?”

Lighter sighs like a man resigned to his fate. “If it looks flammable, then yes. Probably Burnice’s doing.”

You stare at him. “You know their names?”

“Well, it would be hard to be part of the Sons of Calydon if I didn’t.”

Oh.

Lighter downs the rest of his drink in one practiced tilt, glass hitting the bar with a soft clink. He exhales—not the dramatic kind, but the kind that says I should’ve known better than to think I’d get through one night without this.

“Guess I better deal with them,” he mutters, already sliding off the stool with the weight of a long-suffering older sibling heading into a middle school recital he didn’t sign up for. Then—unexpectedly—he turns back to you. “You coming?”

You blink. “To… what, exactly?”

He jerks his chin toward the booth of undercover chaos. “To the inquisition. Least they can do for dragging you into whatever nonsense this is... is explain.”

You’re not entirely sure what you expected. Definitely not that. “You want me to come with you to confront your teenage stalkers.”

“Yeah, none of them are teenagers,” he says, brushing something off his coat. “They’re enthusiasts with questionable ethics. Big difference.”

You hesitate, then push your glass aside with a shrug. “Sure. Why not. I live for being confused.”

Together, you make your way across the bar. It’s only a few steps, but the booth of girls clocks your approach like a pack of startled deer—if deer had a pile of folders and comms disguised as earbuds. Burnice is the first to react, subtly trying to hide a half-eaten churro under a pile of fake dossiers.

Lucy just groans. “Oh no.”

Pulchra puts her forehead on the table, and Caesar practically waves over the targets of their mission as if the whole point wasn’t to get their attention.

“Ladies,” Lighter says dryly. “And Caesar.”

You try not to smile.

Piper straightens up and gives a sleepy salute. “Hello, citizen. Have you heard the good word about Operation: Heartfire?”

Lighter ignores that. “Echo, meet the reason I can’t have nice things. Burnice, Lucy, Caesar, Pulchra, and Piper.”

The girls stare. Then they stare harder. Then Lucy blurts, “We weren’t spying on you. Well, kind of, but you were just—adjacent! We were mostly focused on him.”

“That’s not any better,” you say, amused despite yourself.

Burnice snaps out of her panic spiral first. “Echo! Great to meet you officially! Huge fan of your drink layering technique, by the way. So precise. So… emotionally resonant.” You try to say something but Burnice has already whipped out a glittery notepad designed with flame doodles. “Now, real quick, would you say Lighter leans more emotionally avoidant or emotionally constipated? It’s for charting purposes.”

“I’m right here,” Lighter says.

“We know,” Lucy deadpans.

You fold your arms, tilting your head at him. “So… are they always like this?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just slides his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to look you dead in the eye.

“Yes.”

Eventually, the chaos settles—if only because everyone runs out of breath.

Burnice is the first to cave, dropping her notepad like a loaded confession. “Okay, fine. We thought you two were dating.”

There’s a collective inhale. A moment where every gaze pivots—either to you, or to Lighter, or both, like they’re waiting for fireworks or a scandalous declaration.

You blink. “Sorry—what?”

“We weren’t sure,” Burnice adds hastily, hands up like that’ll soften the blow. “But Thursday nights? The smiles? The way he suddenly started refusing my Nitro Fuel to sample your cocktails instead? Suspicious!”

“That's your standard for romance?” Lighter asks, deadpan.

“Honestly, yeah,” Piper says, not even blinking. “We’re all just a bunch of weirdos in the Outer Ring.”

“Don’t get us wrong.” Caesar, bless her, leans forward with a sincerity so genuine it borders on heartbreaking. “It’s just that… Lighter keeps to himself most of the time. Which is fine! But it’s also easy to forget that people like him don’t always say what they need. Big Daddy told us to keep an extra eye out for you, you know?”

Pulchra mutters something under her breath about this being painfully sentimental, but she doesn't leave. Lucy on the other hand, looks to Caesar like she agrees, but wishes that she was the one initiating the heart-to-heart.

“So we’re all out here ‘cause wanted to make sure.” Caesar smiles. “That if there was someone? They wouldn’t be the kind of person who’d end up hurting him.”

No one says anything for a beat. Reverb Arena is still busy, but this little pocket of it feels quieter now. Lighter just looks at them, and then at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he exhales through his nose.

“Ridiculous,” he says quietly. “All of you.”

But his voice holds no real venom.

Burnice grins. “So… you are dating?”

Lighter glances at you—then quickly looks away, running a hand over the back of his neck like he suddenly regrets every decision that led him to this moment. There's a flush creeping up his ears, barely visible under the low bar lights, but unmistakable all the same.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this. Flustered. Not in control. Like someone caught mid-step, trying to decide if it’s safer to backpedal or just barrel forward.

He clears his throat. “We’re not— I mean, it’s not— That’s not what this is.”

The girls stare at him. Then at you.

Then Burnice, far too delighted, stage-whispers, “Yet.”

For a moment, your heart warms from the stakeout-mission-turned-heart-to-heart. But then your eyes drift to the papers scattered on their table. You don’t know what’s worse—the implication that you’re dating Lighter, or the fact that your public work profile is being passed around like it’s a classified document.

“I can’t believe you printed this,” you mutter, staring in horror at a low-res photo of yourself—bad lighting, crooked smile, uneven eyeliner. The caption underneath reads: 'Echo: Professional Bartender or Secret Heartthrob?' with a five-star graphic sketched beside it.

Burnice grins. “That’s one of your best angles!”

You give her a look. Then, despite yourself, you head behind the bar, reach for the good liquor, and start mixing anyway. If you're going to be emotionally obliterated in public, you might as well be hospitable about it.

Drinks are passed around. Something sweet for Caesar (with an edible flower she immediately starts poking), something strong for Pulchra (who mutters a quiet “bless you” when she takes the first sip), something fruity for Piper, and whatever Lucy demands without actually naming a drink. Burnice gets water. She doesn’t know why, but she accepts it with grace.

You’re rinsing out the shaker when Pulchra sidles up to the bar, eyes just shy of expectant.

“So,” she says, tone oddly cautious, “are you really best friends with the best masseuse in New Eridu?”

You blink. “The what now?”

Pulchra’s face freezes in perfect realization.

Behind her, Burnice takes one step too many in retreat.

“You—!” Pulchra growls, and then she's vaulting over the side of the booth with claws out and murder in her eyes. Burnice screams, Caesar cackles behind her drink, and Lucy buries her face in her hands.

Lighter leans over to you, downing his third glass. “So. Still think you’re just a bartender?”

You roll your eyes. “Will you always come with this much chaos from now on?”

“Only when I’m lucky,” he says, too quiet for anyone else to hear. 

And when you look up, he’s watching you—not the way someone watches a bartender or a teammate or even a curiosity. It’s steadier than that. Like he’s still figuring out whatever the hell just transpired tonight, and maybe he’s okay with taking his time.

Outside, the night keeps humming. Burnice narrowly avoids a claw swipe. Caesar declares Operation: Heartfire a success.

And beside you, Lighter stays just long enough for your hands to brush as you pass him another drink.

Not dating. Not even close.

But maybe not just adjacent, either.

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[midniqhtt]

james buchanan ‘bucky’ barnes

masterlist • marvel • 04/04/24

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

𑣲 video games I @twoghostsfromeden

Sam Wilson attempts to teach Bucky how to play video games, but you have a different idea

𑣲 just like dad I @ladyfallonavenger

The Reader loses Bucky in the snap and life presents a whole new challenge.

𑣲 coming in hot I @nexusnyx (ao3 link)

When your best friend Sarah recommends you a mechanic of her brother’s trust, all you can think about and pray to is that he doesn’t rip you off. Your car is your prized possession and amidst all the worry and concern of your medical studies, drowning in even more debt sounds as suffocating as it would be. Of course, you never thought of the possibility of the mechanic being the problem. A hot, polite, gentle, and silent-type of problem. Drowning in debt would be easier to navigate than the blue of Bucky Barnes’s eyes.

𑣲 wallpaper I @cosmicbucky

bucky finds out how to change the wallpaper on your phone, and takes every opportunity he can to do so. until one day he doesn't have the heart to.

𑣲 consequences I @duuhrayliegh

𑣲 letters to santa pt2 I @ellemj

𑣲 need and wants I @/ellemj

𑣲 against the rules I @/ellemj

Bucky's trying to fuck you senseless so you'll have to sleep over. Isn't that how a friends with benefits situation is supposed to work?

𑣲 i hate you I @/ellemj

y/n has these weird mind powers where she can feel others feelings or make others feel hers...she accidentally during a very heated fun time projects everything she is feeling to Bucky, basically doubling his pleasure

𑣲 trust I @kgficz

Set during the end of ‘Captain America: The Winter Soldier’. You had been forced to work as a nurse for Hydra’s soldiers, you never expected The Winter Soldier to be one of them. What happens when he starts to care about you?

𑣲 glitter and goo I @welldonebeca

When you have to go on a mission to a different planet together, Bucky is hit by a mating ritual flower, and some feelings you two have been hiding come up

𑣲 accidental pic I @mostlymarvelsstuff

Reader recives Buckys nudes accidentally

𑣲 just friends I @cadaverousnight

A night of drinking makes Bucky bold and a harmless text makes him bolder

𑣲 worlds collide I @espinosaurusrexex

The world is ending. And there are two types of people: The ones that embrace the last pieces of happiness left, and the ones that just don’t bother anymore. When those two clash, there’s no way of knowing what will happen. But maybe, some hopes and dreams aren’t so different after all and the both of them get a chance at becoming more than just acquaintances.

𑣲 refuge I @/espinosaurusrexex

You had a track record of cracking tough cases, but this one proved to be your breaking point. The Winter Soldier was out there, thirsting for blood, operating in total anonymity, and leaving a trail of bodies in the cold Colorado snow. Then, just as a snowstorm was about to paralyse the town, Bucky Barnes appeared on your doorstep – lost, sweet, and in dire need of help. It all seems too good to be true, but what happens when his secrets come to haunt him and Bucky’s blurred past reveals a predicament neither of you saw coming?

𑣲 happy little accidents I @/espinosaurusrexex

In a world after the war, Bucky tries to get pieces of his old self back by joining an art class. He meets you and instantly falls head over heels. Now he just has to work up the courage to ask you out.

𑣲 serious questions I @/espinosaurusrexex

Bucky agrees to go on a date to make his colleagues shut up. Now, he just feels sorry for the poor woman that has to spend an entire evening with him. He really tries to make it work, though, because he actually enjoys her company.

𑣲 bad boys don’t buy flowers I @/espinosaurusrexex

Bucky would have never thought, he’d be chasing after a girl. Not when all of them usually fell at his feet. But when he finds himself entangled in a deal born out of a desperate argument with his assistant, he realizes there is nothing he wouldn't do for you: The independent florist who is adamantly dragging him to the homeless shelter every chance she gets. There is just one problem: Bucky doesn't know how to tell you. And the teasing from his friends is certainly not making things easier for him...

𑣲 new slang I @/espinosaurusrexex

𑣲 remember me I @/espinosaurusrexex

After a fight against the most notorious Hydra agent of all, Steve and you discover that your assumed diseased friend Bucky is still alive. Old wounds resurface as you are confronted with the grappling reality that you have lived vastly different lives for the past 70 years. Will he remember your shared history? And most importantly: does he still feel the same?

𑣲 unexpected I @pellucid-constellations

With all of his rough edges and impassive glances, Bucky Barnes looked to be the last person you’d find at an elementary school bake sale. Too bad Steve couldn’t make it, and dealing with a class hopped up on sugar wasn’t a feat you could manage alone

𑣲 i need him like water I @/pellucid-constellations

You think Bucky’s having an affair. He thinks… well you aren’t sure what he thinks. But he must notice the living room light is left on. Every night.

𑣲 flowers in the compound I @/pellucid-constellations

That girl from the flower shop seems to be taking up a lot of Bucky’s time.

𑣲 grip I @/pellucid-constellations

You knew Bucky didn't like his arm. You just didn't know how much until he accidentally hurt you with it.

𑣲 counting I @/pellucid-constellations

Time heals all wounds. Bucky’d been holding onto that proverb ever since blip. But time had never been particularly kind to him, so he opted to keep track of the sweet girl’s in his apartment building instead, the one that made him banana bread and took him to diners at two in the morning. Sometimes, you didn’t keep the same schedule. That made Bucky panic.

𑣲 everybody talks I @nickfowlerrr

𑣲 come back to you I @buckyalpine

What happens when a time travel mission ends up with a version of Bucky from the 40′s standing on the time travel platform.

𑣲 did you hear I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 40s bucky w/ nurse!reader I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 sunshine I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 spiral I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 pick me I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 untouched I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 tongue twister I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 wait what pt2 pt3 pt4 I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 can you not pt2 pt3 I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 choices pt2 I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 drabble I @/buckyalpine

𑣲 aching I @bbyboybucket

After Reader gives Bucky a massage, he realizes how much he likes her touch

𑣲 tiny match maker I @jamdoughnutmagician

Adjusting to his new life outside of the superhero business, Bucky makes the acquaintance of a very young, inquisitive girl.

𑣲 metal arm brrr I @bombsonboard

Every problem needs a solution. Bucky just isn't the biggest fan of yours.

𑣲 the cards were dealt I @bucky-fricking-barnes

Bucky and Y/N are the children of the two most prominent mob bosses in New York. When their parents use them as part of a deal, they’re left to figure out how their lives fit together.

𑣲 a different kind of valentine pt2 I @holylulusworld

Your fiancé breaks your heart on Valentine’s Day out of all days.

𑣲 happy birthday big grump I @/holylulusworld

Your new neighbor is a professional grump. No reason to not be nice to him on his birthday.

𑣲 april fools day (stucky x reader) I @/holylulusworld

Steve and Bucky ask you to join their prank.

𑣲 siren be bound to me I @darkdemeter

He is your captain. There is no place you'd rather be than by his side, nothing you could ever want for that is not him. You owe everything, your entire self, to him. And yet overboard and on the tide you set sail across in search for a great and ancient treasure, a song continues to seep through the cracks of your heart and soul... a song so familiar yet unknown.Forgotten. And Bucky reminds you yet again that there no place else for you that isn't beside him, that there is nothing out there

𑣲 curiosity killed the cat I @queers-gambit

after rescuing you from kidnappers, you overhear your boyfriend-turned-savior complain about how clingy you've become

𑣲 i’d back off if i were you I @thighs-of-betrayal-blog

𑣲 an unforgettable love I @/thighs-of-betrayal-blog

𑣲 hold the door I @/thighs-of-betrayal-blog

You’ve never met your new neighbor, not until an incident happens involving the apartments elevator. 

𑣲 out of practice I @drabbles-mc

reader is a mom, bucky hasn't dated in like 70 years

𑣲 next door to love I @jobean12-blog

When you made the move to the city you never expected your new neighbor to be so sweet and helpful...or hot.

𑣲 this spells love I @/jobean12-blog

Bucky is your best friend and he really is the best but he wants more, he wants everything, but the idea that it could ruin your friendship and he could lose you is too much...

𑣲 boom clap I @/jobean12-blog

Before tonight you wouldn't have been able to label your relationship with Bucky but after he gets home earlier than expected from a mission and shows up at the bar everything changes.

𑣲 everything you want I @/jobean12-blog

there’s no one you trust more than your husband and he always knows exactly what you want.

𑣲 meet my family I @skaye44

Your parents want to meet your boyfriend Bucky which you agree, but the whole family invites itself along for the meeting.

𑣲 my sun my star pt2 pt3 I @cosmos-coma

You wait up late for your boyfriend Bucky to return from his mission, but it isn't Bucky who finds you

𑣲 my everything I @mrsbarnesblog

The last thing that Bucky ever expected to see was the love of his life from the past trapped in one of the Hydra bunkers in the cryofreeze chamber. Yet here he was almost two days later, staring at your still unconscious body through the window at the medical wing, imagining the horror and disgust on your face when you found out that he was no longer the innocent and happy boy you knew before

𑣲 i trust you I @/mrsbarnesblog

when Bucky comes back from a mission with a knife wound there is only one person who can convince him to get help

𑣲 5+1 I @mrs-elsie-barnes

Whether it's on a mission, a work event or a holiday, your sleeping arrangements never seem to work out as planned. It doesn't really bother you until...it does. Confronted with a night sleeping apart, you and Bucky finally talk

𑣲 just like that I @navybrat817

Bucky suggests staying in a hotel together before an undercover mission, which would be fine if you didn't have a massive crush on the super soldier.

𑣲 begin again everything i wanted I @sergeantbuckybarnes

When you go to meet your friend at her work you see a cute guy had been stood up, so you’re going to be the best date of his life.

𑣲 amnesia I @/sergeantbuckybarnes

During a fight in Madripoor you get hit in the head resulting in forgetting the last ten years of your life. And most important, your boyfriend.

𑣲 diamonds I @angrythingstarlight

𑣲 chubby!bucky I @/angrythingstarlight

𑣲 more chubby baker! bucky I @/angrythingstarlight

𑣲 blow me away I @/angrythingstarlight

You just discovered that your boyfriend has never had a blowjob before and that’s a travesty. Good thing you’re about to blow his mind.

𑣲 not so bad I @literaryavenger

It's Bucky's birthday, but doesn't want to make a big deal out of it.

𑣲 happy birthday I @/literaryavenger

It's your birthday and the only person who doesn't seem to be excited about it is you

𑣲 body and soul I @theladybarnes

Reader has a conversation with Sam that leaves her a little confused before her date with Bucky. Includes probably the best romance movie quote to ever grace films.

𑣲 you’re my desire pt2 I @marvelouslizzie w/ @/notafunkiller

Your best friend drags you out on a double date. You were supposed to be Steve Rogers' date, but plans change pretty quickly and you end up in Bucky Barnes' arms.

𑣲 she chose me I @notafunkiller

Steve's hopes get crushed when he wrongly assumes you'd choose him over Bucky.

𑣲 bucky has a crush I @assembletheimagines

𑣲 buckyvision pt1 pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt5.5 pt6 pt7 pt8 pt9 pt10 I @fictionalmemoirs

𑣲 eye for an eye I @christowhore

you come home one night to find bucky in bed with another woman. after threatening divorce, he begs for your forgiveness and tells you he'll do anything. he should’ve known to always be careful with what you wish for.

𑣲 just one more minute I @/christowhore

you grow tired of bucky constantly leaving you in dark when it comes to his feelings. finally, you have enough.