#stone: ...raise your yeah yeah yeah...?

[catboythanatos]

the tiktok trend thats like "making our parent read brainrot phrases" but its streamer robotnik making stone read them ok thank you

[willowser]

HMMMMMM interesting to think about arranged marriage with prince shouto...............

i think he wouldn't know. what to expect with you. i think he'd have an idea, as in, what his father, the king, has taught him; the duties of a wife, where your importance ranks in relation to his duties. what he's not meant to discuss with you, like politics and matters at court and foreign relations. how you will speak to him. what to buy in the event that you become...unhappy. a nuisance.

("and she will," enji had muttered, briefly glancing up from the parchment on his desk to fix shouto with a look he didn't understand. "they always do.")

you don't meet until the royal wedding, when you're coming down the long aisle of the grand cathedral, dressed up in a swathe of silk and lace. a thin, gossamer veil hides you from him, but he can feel the ardor in your eyes, the intensity burning through the material. it doesn't seem real until your bare face is only a breath from his own, until he has to see the earnestness in your stare, too.

your kiss is simple and chaste, nothing spectacular, something that leaves his mind as soon as it's over. ever a todoroki, a hundred other things enter his mind, all regarding his now iron-laid obligations: it's vital he meet with advisor keigo to reiterate the plan to establish his authority among the council; general aizawa is in attendance to the wedding, and shouto has not yet received word on his opinion of the new king's ideas to modernize their armed forces; midoriya is somewhere, no doubt wanting to go over state affairs again.

truthfully, shouto doesn't spend long "celebrating". there's already too much that's required of him, hardly enough time to even scarf down a few bites of the banquet laid out before he's being chartered off into discussions on foreign relations and infrastructure development. maybe once or twice does he look back to check on you, chatting pleasantly with his mother and sister at the front of the great hall, and that's satisfying enough.

it's not until much later that he sees you again; freshly bathed and wearing something sheer and long and white, atop his bed.

or his marriage bed, he must remind himself.

enji didn't spend long going over consummation, with him or either of his brothers—natsuo, red-faced and annoyed at the very subject, always storming off, and touya had seemed well-aware of the process, at the time (back before he'd been ex-communicated). it had sounded simple: strip off your dress, get his cock out and into you, and only retreat once he was sure his seed had been spilled.

—so he's not exactly sure what to do or think or how to feel, when you're laid bare and reaching up to hold his face.

it's so startling that he sits back on his knees, to frown where he's looming over you.

you stare at him quietly, like you're expecting him to say something, and he only has a moment to wonder if this is you becoming an unhappy nuisance—what had been the answer, to solve this, anyway?—before you let out a soft laugh.

"c'mere," you tell him, sitting up, too, when he keeps his distance. "i want you to kiss me."

"i already have."

"yes," you laugh again, amusement glowing in your eyes, like the warmth off the fireplace, as you reach for the ties on his trousers. "but you're meant to do it again."

and up until then, he'd felt confident in his achievements, his executions; he'd managed a lot today, in one evening, and he had a lifetime to manage more. it was a good a start as any, he'd thought, but now—

shouto almost can't get the words out when he feels your hands ghosting up the inside of his shirt, nails tickling over his ribs. "a-am i?"

you wrap your arms around his waist in what could be a hug, scooting forward to look up at him with your chin against his chest. "yes," you smile and—it's familiar in a way, how touya would whenever he was teasing. "you're my husband, you're meant to kiss me whenever i want."

that—was not something his father had ever said, he was sure, and it was a too-rare exchange between his own parents. now that he thinks about it—and he does, then, because he's faced with the reality that he doesn't know as much as he should—he's not sure the former king and queen even sleep in the same room, much less the same bed.

much less hug and touch and even smile, the way you do now.

there's no argument he can make against it, aside from finding keigo to find his father to verify the truth to such a statement, and he's only meant to retreat from this bed on one condition.

and if this is what it takes to meet that—then shouto supposes he'll have to do it, for now. he's a brand new king, after all, and it would seem he still has much to learn.

[bylerist]

saw someone claim that mike "ignored will all last season" which… wow. that is certainly a sentence. 

so i decided to put all of their scenes together and speed them up -  just to show how much time they actually spend together. and while doing that i noticed this.

when you speed up mike’s monologue, it becomes even more clear just how un-romantic it is. the sound is so eerie… and by the end, it literally sounds like an alarm. like the scene is screaming something is very wrong here. something’s not right. 

edit: more sped up byler here :)

[thestuffedalligator]

The thing was a mound of flesh and mottled skin, as big as a barn and the shape of a pumpkin. Four tentacles as thick as trees hung limp at its sides; teeth ringed the gaping mouth at the top of its head like a crown.

A huge, sad whale eye the colour of wine stared at the knight. She could see her reflection in the jelly surface.

“We don’t know what it is,” she heard. “Some kind of monster that makes a perfect copy of whatever it eats. They think that was how the Dark Lord made his armies, feeding his minions to it so that it would make hundreds of copies of them. Do you recognize it?”

The knight opened her mouth. She hesitated. “Yeah,” she murmured, drawing out the word. “We found it in the Dark Lord’s tower, right?”

“That’s right. That’s where it ate you.”

The knight turned around and looked at her other reflection. This one appeared to be about ten years older, and had doffed her armor for a loose blue tunic and breeches.

She was holding a cup of tea. She had pressed another cup into the knight’s hand when she woke up here. It had been a shock finding herself suddenly out the obsidian dungeons of the Dark Lord’s tower and into this tall room of stone and straw. The warmth of it in her hands steadied her a bit.

“Everyone else in the party was worried, but then it started making copies of you,” the copy went on, staring up at the tentacled thing. “And all of the copies helped fight against the Dark Lord, and we won, and peace was restored across the land, but then nobody could figure out how to kill the damn thing or just to make it stop. Dozens of copies of us in a day, hundreds in a week, and then someone decided that the only thing we could do is just bring the thing here, seal it off and hope it starved to death.”

She sipped her tea. “Anyways, that was two-hundred years ago and it’s slowed down a bit. It can only make a new copy of us every few weeks now.”

The knight looked down into her tea. The copy had also draped a blanket over her shoulders.

“I have so many questions,” she said.

“I figured.”

“How can it be two-hundred years? I can still remember breaking into the tower. That feels like it was just minutes ago.”

“It was, basically. Your brain is a perfect copy of the original you’s brain at the exact moment she was eaten.”

“But the quest is just — done?”

“Yep. You missed some of the things that needed tying up afterward. There was a war, and a dragon, and some business about a ring.” She waved a hand. “It was before my time. Things are pretty settled now.”

“My parents?”

“Passed away about a hundred-and-fifty years ago. I’ve been told that they were very proud.”

The knight nodded. “Um. I don’t know if you know — we had an elf in our party—”

“I’m aware.”

“I — right. Obviously. Um. It’s just, after everything was done, I was going to ask her—”

“One of us did. She said yes. She outlived her. A couple of us have tried to reach out since then, but she wants to be left alone for a while.”

The knight considered this. “Uh — right,” she said eventually. Her fingers tightened around the tea cup. “Um. What do I do now?”

Her older copy shrugged. She had let her hair grow out again, the knight noticed. There were a few strands of grey against the black. “That’s up to you, I’m afraid,” she said. “A lot of us are finding work as soldiers and sellswords. We’ve done it for so long that most armies know we’re reliable and don’t tend to turn one of us away. Most of us are just sort of spreading out, wandering the world. Some of us keep in touch.”

The knight frowned. “What do you do?”

Her copy paused, tea cup half raised to her lips. “Sorry?”

“You said it only makes a new copy every few weeks now. So you just stay here and wait for a new one to show up?”

She lowered the cup. “Well,” she said. “I guess I just — I know what it can be like, waking up here in the dark, and it — it can be horrible trying to figure all of this out on your own.

“So I thought that what I’d do is just stay here with a pot of tea, and whenever I see myself again, I tell her that — that she’s not alone.”

“We aren’t?”

“Of course not. We’re all in this together, you know.”

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[ilovolderman]

You Said What?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You accidentaly call Bucky babe during a mission briefing in front of the whole team.

Word Count: 506

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating

A/N: This is a short story that came to my mind while I was studying, so I had to write it down. Hope you like it :)

Everyone’s crowded around the mission table. It’s too early, someone definitely stole your last coffee, and you're still rubbing sleep out of your eyes when Steve starts explaining the recon plan with way too many acronyms.

Bucky’s next to you, legs slightly touching, flipping a pen between his fingers like he’s not just waiting for a reason to pull your chair closer. He’s staring straight ahead like a good soldier, but you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye every time your knee bounces.

You're trying to pay attention. Something about rooftops, safehouses, surveillance drones and you’re barely following when—

“…and Barnes, you’ll be on overwatch with Y/N.”

And you, running on 2 hours of sleep and one granola bar, lean toward Bucky without thinking.

“Did you hear that, babe?”

Silence.

Cold. Dead. Silence.

Everyone looks at you.

Nat squints. Sam raises both eyebrows so high they disappear into his hairline. Peter drops his pen. Steve, bless his heart, blinks like someone just smacked him with a frisbee.

Bucky doesn’t breathe. Your soul detaches from your body, floats toward the ceiling, and screams.

You scramble. “I—I said bro. Like, ‘Did you hear that, bro?’ That’s what I said. Like a…cool, soldier-y nickname. Haha.”

The room is quiet again. No one believes you. Especially not Sam.  “You said babe. You said it casually.”

Bucky doesn’t even look at you. He’s locked in full Winter Soldier mode, eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall like he’s trying to transcend to another timeline.

“I think she said brrr,” Bucky offers, stone-faced. “She’s cold.”

“She’s wearing a hoodie,” Peter mutters.

You laugh way too loud. “It’s the energy in here. Very chilly.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, arms crossed, staring straight ahead like if he makes direct eye contact with anyone he’ll combust.

Steve slowly turns to him. “Barnes?”

“…Yeah?”

“You cold too?”

Bucky shrugs. “Freezing.”

You know he’s going to murder you in the hallway. Probably kiss you breathless after. But first—death.

Steve stares a moment longer. Then—mercifully—moves on. But the damage is done.

Nat doesn’t. “So… bro, huh?”

You glare at her.

Later, when the meeting is already over, you burst in Bucky's room, already talking. “I told you this would happen, I told you I’d forget—”

Bucky slams the door shut and corners you. “You said babe. In front of Rogers.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I wanna crawl inside a ventilation shaft and disappear.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and pulls your hands away.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs, leaning in.

“…What?”

“I liked it.”

You blink up at him. “You liked almost being exposed?”

“No,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “I liked hearing you call me babe.”

Your heart stutters.

“…Say it again.”

You grin. “Babe?”

Then he kisses you like the whole building isn’t even real. Like the only thing in the universe is your mouth and his hands and the way you said it without even realizing.

A/N: i just wrote a lil part 2 about them, it’s not a direct sequel but if you feel like cheking out, here it is. hope you like it, and thanks for reading <3

[vinnyvamppp]

To Be Desired

⭐: No Goggles Mark, Mohawk Mark, #17 Mark/Sinister Mark, Mentions of Invincible (requested!).

Synopsis: Variants of your childhood best friend spawn across the globe, and you find yourself in the crossfire of their previous lovers. What happens when you experience the parallel pleasure they offer?

Warnings: Power Struggles, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Morally Grey, Nipple Play, Fingering, Pussy Eating, Overstimulation, Public Sex, Squirting, Rough Sex, Switch!Reader, Switch!Invincible Variants, Plot changes for convenience, Matching Freaks, Position Changes, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Invincible Variants x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5,239 (PART TWO HERE)

“You won’t believe what just happened, oh man!” Mark exclaimed with glee; an unfamiliar look of pride swam within his irises. It was the night he received his powers; a deep crater buried itself into your driveway from his failed landing. “What?” you questioned, prying your front door open as he entered. There were scuff marks littered across his naked upper body, battered and bruised from his knightly adventure. “It was incredible. I—I flew,” he explained, his hand gesturing excitedly. This was a dream of his; he would craft makeshift suits and detail desired escapades to save the world. However, for it to come true was another story.

“No way! This… this is a funny joke,” you sputtered. One doesn’t usually acquire powers at random, but in this dimension, who knows? “No, really. I took a huge leap off my roof, not really expecting anything,” he interrupted to soften the already ridiculous landing of his story. “You know, and I just took off.” The topic was so exhilarating; the thought of questioning him hadn’t dawned upon you. He leaned against the back of your couch, crossing his arms as you two reminisced.

“Wait—why were you jumping from the roof anyway? What if nothing happened and you fell?” you questioned with a raised brow. “I know, I know, it’s stupid. But I was curious and decided to give it a try,” he rationalized quietly, fingers nervously scratching his nape. “Aw… I want powers now,” you feigned sadness as you sulked. It was your attempt at being amusing, but truthfully, you felt left behind. Was it envy? Was it the need to feel important? Was it the fear of him leaving you behind to begin his journey as a hero? You didn’t know at the time. His expression became tinged slightly with guilt. “Hey, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get powers soon,” he reassured you, but it was too humorous to be sincere.

“Yeah… soon. Real funny, wasn’t it?” you said to yourself as your body perched against a rooftop. It was the second day of the Mark variants ravaging Earth like their playground. The once-majestic towers now stand as skeletal frames, their glass windows shattered. Debris litters the streets, a tragic mix of shattered concrete and twisted metal, and the air hangs heavy with the scent of smoke and ash. Heroes formed makeshift shelters and sifted through rubble for survivors.

The Mark you once knew was head over heels for Atom Eve. It was no secret; he was a lost puppy whose ears would perk at the sound of his name on her tongue. Utterly devoted. Sickeningly in love. You were the very last to discern his truth. The two were written in stone, but it left a bitter taste in your mouth that you had long since gotten over. Until now. You were late to the news of the world's destruction. A strangely familiar face appeared on the news, a version of Mark that made your chest tighten. Within your family, a strange ability was acquired—a power bred through evolution to ensure survival in a world full of the unknown. Once in a lifetime, through a series of visions, you would discover a pivotal moment in time to peer through. That moment was now. Eighteen variants were loose internationally, each with their own tragic story and love interests. Six had dated or lost their Atom Eve, five had slain their worlds' Amber, and six had been devoted to you.

Helping where you could, you began assisting in fighting off the weaklings who figured now was the best time to attack Earth. Micro tears riddled your uniform as you tore through them mercilessly, all through a look of pity. There were days you'd resent this “job” you'd granted yourself, the little recognition and appreciation you'd receive from the public. How selfish of them—and you. You wanted an excuse to have this world fair alone without a need to rebel when no one would notice. As luck would have it, a voice suddenly dawned behind you, his body floating midair and adorned with the appearance of your dearest friend.

Mohawk Mark

“Oh, shit… I know you,” he rasped, his expression twisted into a cocky grin. His stature and pose were that of confidence—and a man who caused insurmountable damage to those he met. “You look just like her,” he continued, his feet finding purchase on the ground as his stride increased. “Sorry, you've got the wrong one—try finding her—” Just as you spoke, static buzzed in your skull—a low crackling hum that drowned out the edges of the memory before it fully formed. It was there—just beyond reach—shrouded in white noise.

The harder you focused, the more the static swelled, but for a moment, the interference cleared. A voice—the ghost of a feeling—and just as quickly, it was swallowed again. You understood the gist; he was indeed one you would find yourself tangled with. “Looks like you’ve been through some tough shit—mind if I join you?” Without waiting for a response, he lunged forward, grappling you in a powerful embrace. His intent wasn't one of danger but instead of safekeeping despite his demeanor. Reflexes took over as you slammed against his cranium with the strength you could muster, effectively knocking him back.

"Fuck, you're a feisty one," Mohawk Mark growled, his breath hot against your ear. "I like that shit. Let's see how you handle this." His chuckle was condescending—yet a thrill shot through you. “‘Won't be handling shit,” you quipped before biting into his neck—just rigid enough to draw blood. He groaned, his flight knocking you two back into an alleyway.

Similarly to your Mark, he seemed attracted to strength, his veins pumping with lust rather than adrenaline. Holding a firm grasp of your jaw, his lips collided with yours in a searing and blood-stained kiss. The muscle of his tongue forcefully parted your lips as he sought to taste you against his own. Finding yourself against the wall, your legs wrapped around the width of his waist, your ass snugly hovering over his pelvis.

He pulled away every few seconds to watch your expression succumb to your selfish wants. Sex with the enemy was enticing and you weren’t letting him escape any time soon. “You planned this?” you murmured between the saliva-ridden kisses. “That would be telling. You know enough if you’re agreeing to this.” His voice grew to tease as he licked his lips—mirroring his satisfaction before peppering kisses down your exposed neck.

His version of sex was rough, with small increments of romance—only reserved for the best prize. With muffled groans, his teeth harshly nipped their way lower, his fingers tearing through the fabric of your suit. As he continued down your now-exposed cleavage, his tongue ran along the scantily clad lace of your bra. Staring up at you, he let out a mischievous snicker before his teeth snagged the cup and tore it from your chest—leaving it discarded on the ground.

“Shit… was fucking not enough? Had to ruin my clothes too,” you complained as your hips bucked against his pointedly. This earned a guttural grunt from the flesh of your breasts, as he heaved out a response. “You’ll forget about them anyway,” he dismissed as he continued until your panties were the last to be removed. The cool air dusted your wet cunt—its arousal seeping through your folds like honey. Its chill made you shiver and like bees to nectar, his tongue feasted before his eyes.

Hoisting you up, your thighs rested against his shoulders as he knelt, the angle allowing his tongue to slip inside your already spasming pussy. An unusual pink hue dusted his cheek as he stared up at you in utter bliss. Your fingers dug into his forearms, your puffy folds pressed against his lips as he devoured you. With your head resting against the wall, your hips ground themselves relentlessly against his tongue.

"Mmm, shit, already soaking wet for me," he taunted, pumping his tongue in and out of your tight cunt. His tongue—rough and textured—lashed out to lap at your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. His groans sent mild vibrations through you as his fingers reached up to paw at your tits, nipples stiffened in the cold air. You couldn't help but moan as he ate you out with relentless intensity, his tongue plunging deep into your folds. His calloused hands roamed your exposed flesh, pinching and kneading your breasts, twisting your sensitive nipples until they grew numb.

His hands couldn't stop their exploration—they explored what he had lost many years ago. Sparks flew as his tongue circled against your clit, flickering the bundle of nerves with a speed inexperienced before. Every time you neared the precipice of your orgasm, his tongue would flatten as he sucked your clit—ruining the rhythm. You tugged his hair with a frustrated groan, and his eyes rolled into his skull with an amused moan.

Finally pulling away, he stood to his feet. His lips parted to speak when suddenly, “Hurry the fuck up,” you said curtly with exasperated gasps. With lidded eyes, a Cheshire grin settled across his features. “Yes, ma’am.” Prying his suit off, he palmed his dampening erection. For once he fell silent as anticipation ate away at you both. As he freed his cock from the confinement of his boxers, it slapped against his lower abdomen.

It stood with a veiny girth—the tip kissed a rosy red like his many mistresses' lipsticks. With a pleased hiss, he stroked himself briefly—eyes just barely losing focus from the buildup before he plunged himself into you. Your pussy hugged him with a familiarity that felt like home, the painful stretch soon becoming one of bliss. His hips began to quicken, wanting to see your fucked-out expression like never before.

However, his greed overwhelmed him as the stimulation grew difficult to ignore. His usual grunts and growls diluted into groans and profanities. The alleyway echoed with the cacophony of moans that mingled in the air—inharmonious, yet emotion-filled as a flame flickered within your core. “I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” he grunted, a grin etched into his lips. “N-None of them—no ssslut compares to this. Only pussy I need—only woman I want.” A groan interrupted his sentence as your cunt contracted around him—swallowing him at the base.

That’s right—every harem formed and woman fucked was so he could ruin the image of you that plagued his mind in its grief. The vulnerability of it all made your toes curl, even if it wasn't much.

The fingers pawing at your breasts began kneading them like stress balls, until they were red. Truthfully, he missed every inch of you—not that he would admit that, especially since you weren’t exactly his. A high-pitched moan ripped from your throat as he continued to bounce you on his dick. Pre-cum coated your insides as the sounds of arousal grew louder, his balls tightening. With every thrust, he could see the air physically leave you, the scuff marks from brick marking your skin.

He could barely tell where to focus his eyes—on your tits or face? Both were gorgeous but fuck, he should just kidnap you and take you home with him, right? “Fuuuuck, Mark… I’m g-go—” you groaned as your fingernails indented into his skin, a pain and pleasure-filled gasp crawling from his throat. “Fuck, yeah…” he said, his raspy voice cracking with the slightest whine. “Take it… s-shit, take it…!” It was a growl as his eyes fluttered shut to hide his eyes practically rolling around his skull. With a clenched jaw, his dick began to milk itself. The pleasure mounted as your impending orgasm washed your body in a sweat-breaking heat. Just as he came, your cunt spasmed, once he pulled out, something within snapped as an aroused gush squirted from you.

His groin was now coated in your scent, taste, and the result of your rough fucking. The pleasure racked your brain as tears threatened to spill over. Noticing this—and pleased with his efforts—he let out a short chortle, a hand coming up to swipe your folds and have a final taste. His expression turned into a feigned sob as he silently teased—his tip running a line between your folds and ass, resisting the temptation to fill your asshole with his seed. Once you two were settled from your high, he spoke up. “Had fun, babe.” Your eyebrow lifted at the newly coined pet name.

Suddenly, a muffled voice in his ear caught his attention. “Shit…” he muttered with an annoyed grimace at Angstrom ruining his amusement. “Go on,” you beckoned. “Not yours anyway—so no need to stick around.” It was a light jab—one he received with a satisfied smirk before taking flight. “Doesn’t matter—I’ll be back,” he replied curtly before disappearing into the horizon.

You stood there—naked—processing what just happened. "Shit, I need a new suit from my apartment.”

Variant #17 Mark (I wouldn't even keep you as a slave in my Empire!) Or Sinister Mark (personalities are similar in the comics, so imagine what you will.)

"You thought you could hide from me?" he said, peering down at you with a friendly grin for someone so domineering. Staring down at the man’s shadow, his cape billowed in the wind. Unlike the other Marks you’d caught a glimpse of, this one barely had a bruise on him. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he finished before he landed softly on the ground. As he approached, you remained still, eyebrows creasing into a frown. “I’m not—” You were abruptly cut off by a low voice as his head tilted to stare into your eyes. “Don’t play stupid. My version of you had the same power—but she resisted our cause.” His voice was tinged with pity as he frowned; he decided to take another route in his approach.

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll leave if you come with me,” he offered with an outstretched palm. You vehemently shook your head in disagreement. “I’m not going—it'll disrupt the timeline.”

“Why does that matter?” he asked.

“What makes you think I won't resist either…?” you retorted, causing his eyebrows to raise slightly in thought. “I’ll change your mind—and give you what you missed out on in my world.” It was such a matter-of-fact opinion—one rooted in a determination to outclass any obstacle that might deter him. Curiosity bested you the moment you turned to face the chaos erupting in the streets as a strong gust of wind obscured the debris. He was behind you. His fingers draped over your waist as he took flight—and to… your apartment? “I’ve been watching you for a while now… I know all about your preferences. Let’s have some fun, shall we?” His lips just barely grazed your ear.

Amongst the hands that roamed your body, a sense of longing lingered in every squeeze and grope. While being one of the strongest—and surely the most vile—his personality could be charming like your dimension’s Mark. Even if feigned for manipulation. He spun you around to face him, that polite smile etched into his face again as his body betrayed innocence. The erection forming within his costume became difficult to ignore—but he found a distraction. A touch, a handhold, and finally—a kiss.

“Let me show you what it's truly like to be satisfied.” His words were reassuring, yet they felt more directed toward his version of you rather than now. His tongue swept into your mouth, tangling itself in a wet heat as he sucked the air from your lungs. The warmth of his fingers spread across your cheek as his tongue attempted to delve impossibly deep. The taste was better than you imagined—not that you expected any less. If anything, finding him in a forgiving mood proved to be favorable.

His fingers shifted from your face to the back of your costume—in his attempt to be gentle, he tore the cloth from your body like tissue paper. In an instant, his costume was discarded in the corner, leaving him in snug boxers that hugged his dick. Before you knew it, you were pinned against the bed—a hand flush against your throat as he shrugged slightly. “Didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said, an amused huff exiting his nose as you exchanged knowing glances.

The remaining hand gently pried the panties from around your hips and down the length of your legs. His eyes fell upon the wet patch that seeped through the thin fabric—as the semblance of a pleased grin stretched across his lips. Focusing his attention once more, his fingers slowly parted your folds, watching as your velvety walls peeked through the slit. Its warm flesh was inviting—something he had yet to try since you retaliated so often against him at home. Just why couldn’t you be this welcoming? So willing to be corrupted? So… morally gray at the least.

Pressing two digits inside your warmth, he watched it conform to the size of his fingers. An obvious shiver ran through him with each moan that vibrated from your throat—as he imagined you hugging him and wrapped around his cock in plea. The sensations set your skin alight with gooseflesh—and each time you attempted to scurry away from his gift, the hold around your neck tightened ever so slightly. He was such a brat.

Your hips ground into his hand, clit colliding with his palm in gentle waves. As his fingers slowly retracted, his cock shyly peeked from the pocket of his boxers. His patience was running thin as he adjusted himself at your entrance—and slowly pushed through. A loud sigh escaped his lips as he bottomed out, his head falling backward as he quietly cursed under his breath. Mirroring his restlessness, your foot hooked around his lower back and pressed him deeper. A drawn-out moan echoed from your throat; he was barely holding on as he gnawed at his lip to contain himself. Reflexively, his hips stuttered before setting a relentless pace—pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes that hit all the right spots.

“Already so wet for me… pathetic. Fucking slut.” His words struck a nerve within—as you repulsively tightened around him, earning a whine. Your moans echoed through the room, mingling with the slap of skin against skin and Mark's grunts of pleasure. He hammered into you like a man possessed—his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he drove you toward climax.

The long thrusts stimulated every inch of his dick—the veins kissed with every grip of your cunt. “Did your version of me not do it for you?” you teased before taking a sharp breath at his relentless pace. “Y-You really don’t know when to be quiet,” he gritted. “But n-no… not like this. You're much better. I would take you to be a part of my empire.” He replied, his jaw tightening as his hips drilled into you with renewed conviction at the thought. A second you—not the one he’s attempting to keep as a slave for disobeying—but one he could trust to blindly follow his power. His grin grew wolfish as his other hand overlapped your throat—his gaze shifting between your bouncing tits and pleasured face.

The slight closure of your windpipe didn’t allow for much noise—but no matter, Mark began to sing like you’d never imagine. It was strange—the sound was much louder due to your silence as you clawed at his skin. His voice began to crack as his tightened jaw began to slack. "F—fucking incredible," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "I knew… you'd be worth every s-second of c-...chasing you down," he sputtered as his length began to twitch inside you.

Seeing someone as strong as him unravel before you was a greater sense of accomplishment than becoming a hero itself. With a closed-lip groan, he began overstimulating himself with the effort to get you off. “Haaa… I’m c-close. Ugh…!” you muttered through strangled gasps—as the deprivation of air made you lightheaded and sensitive. Every nerve ending inside your cunt doubled as you went taut beneath him. “C’mon, fucking cum for me,” he heaved.

His thrusts became sloppy as he came inside without warning—doubling over as a consequence. An unfamiliar sensation painted your insides. You both saw stars as silence pierced the room—the slick produced coated his cock in a glaze. Through bated breaths, his fingers finally released their grip around you as you coughed out a response. “I have to admit… you’re hard to deny,” you said, momentarily spent as you lay before him. “Swee—” He was cut off by a voice in his ear.

It was Angstrom demanding his presence over the city. “What a nuisance,” were the final words you caught as he muttered under his breath. Every version of Angstrom was a hindrance to this Mark—nonetheless, he suited up to leave. “I’ll return—and you will join me,” he said confidently, as if there was no argument to be made. You nodded absentmindedly and sighed. Just what had you done?

No Goggles Mark

“Dude…! You’re so cool—what is that? I’ve never seen any powers like that in my world,” he said with an amused expression as he snickered at your agony. You stared up at him, your heartbeat suddenly quickening when meeting his gaze. A look of recognition flickered within his eyes. “Hey, I know you,” he said, his feet touching base on the ground as he approached you with a widening grin. “I’m not sure you know me exactly…” you replied, backing away as your eyes searched for a route to escape—his friendliness had truly taken you aback.

“Who do you work for?” he asked, words flying from his mouth without a care as he approached closer. “You're way stronger than the Guardians of the Globe dudes I fought.” He fought who?! A sense of dread filled you as a new series of questions plagued your mind. If this one could ruin the team to filth—then just how strong was he, and what exactly did he want? “I don't want to fight you, man,” you somewhat pleaded; he frowned with disapproval. “Fight? No, man… but it seems like you’re in trouble, dude.” The topic switched again—his gaze now behind you—as a flurry of aliens attempting their takeover waltzed through a portal. You didn’t have the heart to tell them it was a failed crusade before it began.

Taking a stride forward, a strong arm suddenly wrapped around your waist as you two were propelled to a lone-standing structure where steel beams and concrete floors remained. “Put me down,” you bruised him as you backhanded him into the metal beam. While he had a smile on his face, momentary irritation settled across his features. The painful sting ran to his cock. “Aw, what's the matter?” he asked, standing to his feet as you both came face to face once more.

“It would be hot, but I don't want to fight, dude. I’ve missed you. I promise I’ll be gentle… at first.” The delivery was more seductive—dropping an octave—as he approached you, hands outstretched and finding purchase against your hips. One thing other variants wouldn’t admit—was the supple touch of the right woman could caress their soul.

“I’m not the me you want,” you replied. “You can just be the one I have anyway,” he said. He was indeed serious—and while less terrifying than the other Marks you’d encountered, his strength was menacing nonetheless. “Then let’s see what other talents you’ve got.” Your response made his expression brighten with a new goal in mind. At that, the grin on his face widened as he leaned down and captured your lips in a fierce, dominant kiss.

His tongue forced its way into your mouth, battling yours for dominance as he ground his hips against yours. You two stumbled around the enclosure—footsteps echoing in the empty building. Mark’s hands cupped your ass, squeezing roughly as he whispered crude compliments into your ear. "Nice ass," he growled appreciatively, his fingers caressing the soft flesh. He couldn’t articulate it well—but you were truly beautiful in every universe—and he couldn’t wait to have his share.

Your fingers traveled up his muscled back as body heat pooled across your fingertips. Eagerness unlike any other began to rise as you longed to touch every inch of him. Hero costumes were peeled from one another, and you found his groping becoming progressively obsessive. His hardened cock stood awaiting stimulation as he bit back his urges—sacrificing the time to feel you once more.

Guiding him to the floor, you seated yourself against his lap—your legs hooked over his forearms. He was always too quick to finish battles, and that even applied to sex. Just the tip. That's what you two agreed upon. Sinking onto his cock—its girth filled you deliciously. The wet sound of arousal followed by his restrained groans filled you with delight; it was amusing to see a Viltrumite struggle to contain himself.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… and 6! On every sixth shallow thrust, you would contract your muscles—gripping his dick like a vice as every vein received a kiss from the gods inside your cunt. It had him crazed—wanting more of your warmth than you were willing to give. “F—fuck, babe, you’re killin’ me,” he hissed with an unforeseen weariness shaking his voice. “Can I?” he started. “No.” His expression hardened at your words. “You’re ruining the—” Before he could finish, he inhaled sharply as his head fell back. “Am I…?” you asked with feigned curiosity. It was undulating in a rhythm that drove him wild. He groaned beneath you—his hands digging into his palms as he fought his urges to misbehave.

The sound of your ass slapping against his pelvis filled the air—mingling with your moans and cries of pleasure. Anything would be worth trading; he could watch his dick disappear within your cunt nonstop. His impending release redoubled his efforts—pounding into you with a ferocity that sent you hurtling over the edge.

The excitement overwhelmed him as he sheathed half his cock inside—the spreading warmth and moisture making his thighs quiver beneath you. His balls tightened, painfully so—that alone ripped a pornographic moan from him. If he could fuck you as desired, he wouldn’t be nearly as needy. Your combined moans echoed through the infrastructure—and you were certain that with the windows gone, someone could hear—but the thought was out of sight and out of mind. Pre-cum beaded down his length as it was smeared each time he entered your warmth. “M-Mark…” you muttered; he nodded fervently behind you as his jaw locked.

“Y-You ready for it, babe?" he asked with a faltering grin as sweat tickled his brows. Leaning your full body weight against him—you felt your orgasm building quickly. The pleasure reached new heights as you both milked each other dry for the sake of proving a point. Your body instinctively began to lurch forward as your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave. The tip of his cock was bedecked with a foam ring of cum. Mark would’ve begun convulsing had it not been for him carrying you—instead, his body stiffened as he let out a tight-lipped groan. You could’ve sworn you saw his toes curl too—but who knows? His pale skin was flushed a hue of red as his body thrummed with an aftershock.

Once you’d come down from your high, a satisfied grin beamed at you. "Dude, that was incredible," he murmured, a satisfied grin on his face. "We should do this again sometime," he said—as if this was some casual fling, not that you would mind.

Before you could respond, a message in his ear interrupted the conversation. “Ugh… this always happens; I have fun, and then—dude…” he sounded exasperated as he hurriedly redressed—reluctantly wishing you a botched farewell. “I like you. You’re coming with me.”

Feel free to request more lmao

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[dykebehaviour]

messy high sex with loser!stoner!ellie

cw: established relationship, stoner!ellie, getting high together, high sex, fingering r!receiving, oral r!receiving, face sitting, light dom/sub, messy.

wc: 3k

the garage is hazy.

not just like mood lighting hazy, actually hazy. smoke curling from the fat joint burning in ellie’s fingers, lazily drifting up into the dim glow of a single yellow lightbulb swaying from the ceiling. one of the windows is cracked, but it’s not helping.

you’re both stoned out of your minds.

ellie is spread out on the old couch she dragged in from someone’s porch last spring, legs wide, head tilted back, looking criminally hot in her ratty flannel and grease-smudged jeans. her hair’s a mess, her cheeks flushed, and she’s smiling at nothing.

correction: she’s smiling at you.

“you look like a little baked blueberry,” she says, grinning sideways. “like, if a fruit got high.”

you blink, then immediately dissolve into giggles. “that’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

“thank you,” she says proudly, handing you the joint.

you take it, still laughing, and inhale deep. the hit burns, sweet and earthy and sharp, but it slides down smoother than it should. you hold it in. then exhale, slow.

your head tips back against the pile of blankets you’re both sprawled on. the garage smells like weed and motor oil and that weird pine soap ellie insists on using. there’s a half-dismantled gun on the workbench, a crumpled bag of chips on the floor, and your girlfriend’s calloused hand resting lazily on your inner thigh like it belongs there.

“y’know,” she says after a beat, her voice slower now, “i think this is my favorite place on earth.”

you glance over. “your… garage?”

“yeah. got all my favorite shit in here.” she nods, dead serious. “my comics. my weed. my girl.”

you snort. “you named your comics before me?”

“okay, but to be fair, you don’t have cool drawings inside of you.”

you hum, pretending to pout. “yeah…but i give you really good head.”

her face breaks. “holy shit,” she wheezes, nearly choking on air. “that’s the hottest and dumbest thing i’ve heard you say. you’re so gross. marry me.”

you’re already laughing when her hand slips further up your thigh. the teasing suddenly shifts, fingertips dragging under the hem of your shorts, featherlight. intentional.

she’s still giggling as she leans over you, but her gaze is darker now. hungrier. “c’mere,” she murmurs, crawling over your lap like she’s forgotten how knees work. “wanna kiss you.”

you meet her halfway.

it’s a high kiss; deep and lazy, a little too wet, all teeth and tongue and muffled laughter. you’re both buzzing, warm and giggly and aching underneath it all. her lips taste like weed and cherry gatorade. her hands are rough where they slide up your hoodie, dragging fabric with them.

she fumbles a bit with the hem. “why do you wear so many layers?” she whines. “god, i just wanna suck your tits.”

“you’re so romantic,” you giggle, arms already raised to help her. “truely a poet.”

“shut up,” she mutters, grinning as she kisses down your neck, licking a stripe right under your ear just to be annoying. “you love it.”

you do.

you love her messy, stoned affection. the way her mouth finds every inch of skin like it’s her job. the way she’s already pushing you back down, crawling between your legs, hoodie bunched around your ribs and her hand sliding under your waistband like she needs to be touching you.

“you’re already wet,” she groans, burying her face in your neck. “fuck, baby-how?”

“i’m high and you’re hot,” you mumble. “do the math.”

ellie groans, full-body and ridiculous. “you’re gonna kill me.”

she’s breathing heavier now, hand pushing your underwear aside. her fingers are warm and eager and way too blunt at first - you both gasp when she presses too hard, then immediately start laughing.

“shit-fuck-sorry,” she stammers. “i forgot what fingers are.”

“you have them, ellie. it shouldn’t be that hard.”

“yeah, well, you’re distracting.” she kisses your jaw, your shoulder, her voice dropping. “you make me forget everything but how fucking good you feel.”

you gasp when she finally gets it right, two fingers dragging slow and slick through your folds. teasing. pressing.

“fuck,” you breathe. “ellie-“

“yeah, baby?” her voice is rough. “you want me?”

you nod.

“say it.”

“i want you,” you whisper, tugging her closer. “want you inside.”

that’s all she needs.

she groans again, louder this time, like it physically hurts her to hear it. then she’s pushing inside, slow, messy, deep, and your back arches, fingers digging into her shoulders.

“god-fuck..ellie.”

she watches your face as she fucks you, eyes half-lidded, messy strands falling into her eyes, high and wild and completely, totally obsessed with you.

“you look so fucking hot right now,” she pants, thrusting slow and hard. “gonna make me come in my pants just watching you.”

“you better not,” you gasp, nails raking down her back. “you’re working. you’re on the clock.”

she barks out a laugh and kisses you; sloppy and rough, her rhythm faltering as she rocks into you faster.

your legs wrap around her waist. the couch creaks. you’re half on the cushions, half sliding to the floor, and neither of you care. she adds a third finger, crooked just right, and your hips buck so hard she nearly falls off.

“jesus fuck-you’re-“

“say it,” she growls.

“you’re fucking good at this,” you moan. “this is way better than your boring ass comics.”

“oh my god,” she pants, blushing furiously. “never say that during sex ever again.”

you both dissolve into giggles. her fingers never stop.

your high peaks as you crash into your orgasm - loud, shaking, stars behind your eyelids. you’re still whimpering when she slows down, pulling her hand free with a filthy little sound and a grin so smug you want to slap it off.

“that was hot,” she says, voice thick. then she licks her fingers clean and immediately chokes.

“ellie?!”

“i forgot i had cottonmouth,” she coughs, eyes watering.

you’re dying laughing as you roll next to her, fully on the couch. “you dumbass.”

“you’re still dating me,” she croaks.

“unfortunately.”

she kisses you anyway. slow and messy and stupidly sweet.

you groan and grab her flannel, yanking her down on top of you again.

“take your pants off.”

she doesn’t argue.

it’s frantic - ellie kicking her jeans off, boxers bunched around one ankle, her shirt caught halfway over her head as she fumbles with it - and you’re giggling through your second wind, already crawling into her lap.

“you’re gonna suffocate me with your tits,” she wheezes, face buried in your chest.

“that’s the goal, dummy.”

you push her back and straddle her face. her eyes go wide, her hands flying up to grip your thighs, and then-

“oh my god,” ellie chokes out. “is this-are you actually…fuck-“

you sit down slow.

her mouth is already open.

she moans like she’s being fed something divine, her tongue immediately lapping at your pussy, licking from your entrance up to your clit in long, flat strokes. her hands are digging into your thighs like she’s trying to anchor herself, her mouth wet and messy and desperate.

you grind down, gasping, and ellie whines, eyes fluttering shut, tongue circling your clit, her whole body jerking when you tug her hair.

you look down. her eyes are glazed and heavy-lidded, lips shiny, nose brushing your pussy like she wants to drown.

“you’re such a loser,” you pant, hips grinding.

she pulls back just enough to mumble, “yeah, but i’m your loser.”

and then she sucks your clit into her mouth and you collapse.

the second orgasm hits harder, your thighs clenching around her head, your nails digging into her scalp, your whole body twitching as you ride it out on her face, eyes rolling back. ellie moans into you, humping the couch beneath her like she’s getting off just from eating you.

you slump off her lap like you’ve been shot.

“holy fuck,” you breathe, hair plastered to your forehead. “i think i forgot my name.”

ellie looks ruined.

her face is soaked, her cheeks flushed, her lips red and puffy. her flannel’s still on, but it’s hanging open now, her tank top bunched under her tits, her boxers askew. she looks like the definition of wrecked.

and she’s grinning.

“worth it,” she croaks.

you snort. “you’re disgusting.”

“thank you,” she says with a dumb smile. “i’m in love with you.”

“…so like. can we have sex every time we get high?”

you laugh, “babe, i think you’re addicted to me now.”

“yeah,” she mumbles. “way better than my comics.”

you roll on top of her and kiss her again, tasting yourself on her tongue.

and yeah, maybe the garage smells like weed and sex and burnt rubber.

maybe you’re both too high to walk straight for the next hour.

but ellie’s arms are warm around you, and her lips are soft, and she kisses you like she means it - every time, every breath, every word.

perm taglist: @yasmilks , @natsheretic , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 <3

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake’s Coworkers (ft. The Fenton Family)

It’s not that Tim doesn’t like the Batfamily. He tolerates them just fine. Damian is great for sparring (if you like sparring with a tiny murder machine), and Jason’s brand of dark humor isn’t too bad once you get used to it. Dick’s a bit too much sometimes, but overall? Fine. Totally fine.

But the thing is… they’re just his coworkers.

And it never really clicks for the Bats until Danny Phantom joins the Justice League and everything starts unraveling.

———

The revelation comes during a League meeting. They’re strategizing about some ghost-related chaos, and Danny floats into the Watchtower, bright and glowing.

“Oh, hey, Tim,” Danny greets casually, giving him a little wave.

Tim doesn’t even look up from his tablet. “Sup.”

Superman looks between them, confused. “…you two know each other?”

Danny grins. “yeah, he’s my brother.”

Dead silence.

“WHAT?!” Bruce’s bellow shakes the entire room.

Tim finally looks up, unfazed. “What? Did you think I just spawned into existence?”

“You have a brother?!” Clark sputters.

“Two siblings, actually,” Tim corrects, utterly nonchalant. “Danny’s the younger one. Jazz is the older one. She’s great. Super organized. Kept me alive in middle school.”

Bruce’s eye twitches. “Why—why am I only learning this now?”

Tim shrugs. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Relevant?” Diana repeats, incredulous. “You’re the brother of Danny Phantom and it’s not relevant?”

Danny, who’s been munching on some ectoplasm candy, jumps in: “Honestly, Tim’s always been kind of private about his personal life. We just figured it was his way of coping with the whole ‘raised-by-rich-neglectful-aunt’ thing.”

“Yeah, about that,” Tim interjects, glaring at Danny. “Thanks so much for dumping me with Aunt Janet, by the way.”

Danny shrugs sheepishly. “Mom and Dad panicked! They thought you’d get ghost-napped next!”

“Uh, correction: Aunt Janet left me to raise myself, so that plan was awesome.”

Bruce, trying to keep up, interrupts: “Hold on. Your parents left you with Janet Drake?”

“They didn’t know she sucked at raising kids,” Tim deadpans. “And to be fair, they did call. A lot. I just didn’t pick up.”

Jason, who has been cackling this entire time, leans forward. “Wait, wait, wait—so you’re telling me that the Replacement’s entire family is a bunch of ghost hunters?”

“Yup.” Danny pops the “p” with a grin.

“You’re kidding me,” Steph says, borderline hysterical.

Tim sighs, clearly over it. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Jazz keeps the parents in check, Danny handles the ghost stuff, and I… stay out of the way. It’s fine.”

“FINE?” Damian glares. “Drake, you’ve been fraternizing with ghost hunters while working with a vigilante group, and you think that’s fine?”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Dami, chill. It’s not like it affects work. You’re my coworkers. They’re my family. Separate categories.”

Cue collective Batfamily malfunction.

———

Later, Danny is chilling in the Batcave, feet kicked up on the Batcomputer, chatting with Alfred. The rest of the Bats are still spiraling.

“Tim, we’ve lived together for years!” Dick exclaims, sounding genuinely hurt. “How are we only your coworkers?”

“You’re not my family,” Tim explains, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Danny and Jazz are my family. You guys are my teammates. It’s different.”

Jason throws his head back, laughing. “Oh my god, Replacement, you’re stone cold.”

“I’m not cold,” Tim argues. “I just don’t think we need to make it more complicated than it is. We work together. That’s enough.”

Meanwhile, Danny is wiping tears of laughter off his face. “Oh man. Jazz is gonna love this.”

[girlrotterr]

— "𝑃𝑈𝐿𝐿 𝐼𝑇 𝑇𐒆 𝑇𝛨𝛦 𝘚𝐼𝐷𝛦 𝛢𝛮𝐷 𝐺𝛦𝑇 𝛢𝐿𝐿 𝑈𝑃 𝐼𝛮 𝐼𝑇."

𝑃𝛢𝐼𝑅𝐼𝛮𝐺: gymrat!abby x reader

𝘚𝑌𝛮𐒆𝑃𝘚𝐼𝘚: gymrat!abby headcannons.

𝐶𝑊!: smut . oral sex . shower sex . semi-public setting . switch!abby . fingering

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who, the first time you spot her, it’s through the fogged-up mirror—mist curling in the corners, the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing above. She’s locked into the squat rack, her ragged black tank cutting at the sleeves, blonde braid swaying with every move. You’re in the middle of your set, but something in your rhythm slips. You try to recover, act like it’s nothing—but your heart's pounding. She doesn’t see you then. Not yet. But you notice everything about her.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who pushes through the last rep with a quiet grunt, lost in the grind, like nothing else matters. Who lets the bar fall to the ground with ease, wiping sweat off her jaw with her forearm, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. Who stretches between sets, back muscles flexing like they were sculpted from stone.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who seems out of reach until one day, you catch her watching you—just a fleeting glance, a brow raised, lips curling like she’s trying to keep the smile hidden. You almost trip on the stairmaster. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. The next week, you’re early. She walks in right after you—no headphones, just a soft, almost quiet “Hey” as she passes by your machine, her voice still warm from the workout. Your stomach does the thing.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who starts picking the machine next to yours more often than not. She leans in during a break, eyes flicking toward your arms. “Tuck your elbow in more—yeah, just like that. You’ll feel it way deeper.” You do. But the real shock is the way her hand brushes yours, just a second too long. She doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t need to. Just backs off like it never happened, leaving you blinking, mind spinning.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who you catch staring at you now—not through the mirror, but head-on. And when your eyes meet? She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Just holds it, like she’s daring you. Like she’s challenging you. It’s subtle. A slow burn, a growing tension. She never asks for your number. Never follows you out the door. 

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby where one night, the gym’s nearly empty, and you’re both stretching in the back corner. The lighting’s softer here. The silence, heavy. “You here every Monday?” she asks, leaning back on her palms, sweat still clinging to her collarbones, eyes never leaving you. You nod, not to sound eager.“Pretty much.” She gives you that crooked smile—half shy, half smug. “Cool.”

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who has you questioning your own self-control as she disappears into the locker room. You wait for a moment, the sound of the gym buzzing around you, and then—without thinking—you grab your things, heading in the same direction. The door closes behind you with a soft click, and the silence that fills the space is thick. She’s there, leaning against the wall, her eyes locking with yours as if she knew you’d come. 

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who, when you don’t say anything immediately, walks up and presses herself against you—just enough to make you feel the heat of her body, the firmness of her muscles, the soft pulse of her heartbeat. She tilts her head slightly, her breath warm against your skin, her lips barely brushing the edge of your jaw. “You’re not shy, are you?” she teases, voice low, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t need one. Her hands slide down to your hips like they’ve always belonged there, tugging you in until your chest meets hers. Her eyes burn into yours—sharp, locked-on, daring you to pull away. But you don’t. Can’t. And when she kisses you, it’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s demanding—like she’s taking what she’s already claimed.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who kisses with desperation, tongue teasing the seam of your lips until you cave with a breathy moan, your body melting into hers. Her hands are everywhere—gripping, roaming, mapping you out like you’re something she’s studied for weeks. She breaks the kiss just to drag her mouth along your jaw, her teeth catching your neck, and when she hears that sharp gasp? She smiles against your skin like she planned it.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who fists the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head without pause, her gaze sweeping across your bare skin with something close to reverence. “Fuking look at you,” she mutters, voice low, like a growl born deep in her chest. Her palms find your chest, warm and rough, thumbs circling your nipples until they tighten under her touch.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who dips her head, mouth closing around one nipple, tongue swirling, sucking just enough to make your knees weak. You gasp, hands tangling in her braid, holding her close, steadying yourself. But she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. Her mouth and hands just continue to move in sync, worshipping you piece by piece. She eventually  pulls back, breath uneven, eyes locked onto yours, her gaze hungry, as she tugs her shirt over her head—broad shoulders, carved arms, muscles flexing with every move. She presses against you again, skin to skin, her body full of heat, and this time, her kiss is even slower. Hungrier.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby whose fingers work fast, unbuttoning your pants with a confidence that makes your breath catch. She pushes them down, and you step out without thinking, now standing in nothing but your underwear—her gaze darkening, chest rising with every breath. She hooks two fingers along the waistband, yanks you close. You can feel her now. The tension. The want. She groans, low and guttural, like she’s barely holding back.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who lifts you like it’s nothing, carrying you across the locker room, laying you down on the first flat surface she can find. She kneels between your legs, hands running up your thighs, firm and possessive. “You alright?” she rasps, voice softer now. You nod, dazed. “ngh yeah… fuck, ah!”

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who hooks her fingers into your underwear and pulls them down slow, like she wants to savor it—wants you to feel every second. She tosses them aside like she doesn’t plan on letting you wear them again. Her hands push your thighs open, her tongue dragging up the inside of one, hot and slow. You shudder. “Look at me,” she says. And you do—just in time to see her smirk before she finally dives in.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who eats like she lifts—focused, intense, relentless. Her tongue finds your clit, circles, sucks, licks like it’s the only thing that matters. You cry out, hips twitching, but her arm wraps around your thigh, keeping you steady. Then her fingers join the rhythm—slipping inside, curling just right—and your world starts to blur.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who lifts her head just enough, her mouth glistening. “That’s it, baby… fuck, you take it so well. It’s okay—cum for me.” she growls, and it isn’t a request. It’s a command. You cum, your body convulsing as you scream her name, your whole body arching off the bench, legs trembling, your pussy aching with intensity. The sound of your cries becomes louder, mingling with the wet sounds of Abby’s tongue still flicking along your oversensitive bud.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who slows her pace, watching you with something close to awe as she crawls up your body, mouth brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss. She presses her forehead against yours, the heat between your bodies making it hard to think—until the front door creaks open. Someone is coming in.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby whose eyes widen, hands tightening on your waist as you both freeze, breath caught in your throats. You whisper, “Shower. Now.” And before she can argue, you're dragging her toward the showers—her half-buttoned jeans hanging off her hips, shirt and sports bra left behind. She follows without protest, chest rising and falling like she just finished her last set at the gym, stumbling into the steam-filled stall. The water turns hot too fast, clouding the glass, and you pin her against the tile—hair soaked, droplets sliding down broad shoulders and carved abs.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who opens her mouth to speak, but you’re already on your knees, licking a slow path up the inside of her thigh. One arm wraps around her hips to hold her steady. “We gotta be quiet,” you murmur, breath ghosting over her. “You think you can do that?” She only nods, bottom lip caught between her teeth—but the second your tongue flicks over her clit, her hips jerk, a soft gasp slipping out. You glance up just in time to see her head thud back against the tile, eyes screwed shut. “Shit…ngh..”

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who really tries to stay still—she does—but you’re ruthless. Your tongue moves in tight circles, then dips lower, back up to suck her clit, fingers spreading her open just to see how wet she is, how messy it’s getting. The obscene sound of it is half-muffled by the stream of water pounding the tile behind you. She bucks hard into your mouth, thighs trembling as she grinds down, chasing the rhythm. Her hips stutter every time your tongue slips inside, one hand clawing at the wall for balance, muscles flexing, abs tensing with every stroke. “f–fuck—” she groans. 

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby whose nipples are hard from the heat, water dripping down every curve of her body as she throws her head back, moaning through clenched teeth. She’s trying so hard to stay quiet, but her body betrays her—hips rolling, thighs squeezing around your head, grinding down on your mouth like she needs to come or she’s going to lose her mind. Your hand snakes up her stomach, fingers grazing her chest, rolling a nipple between your fingers just to watch her shiver. And the sounds—god, the sounds—slick and loud, barely covered by the hiss of the shower. ˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who finally breaks, a gasp caught in her throat, body locking up as she comes, mouth parted in a silent cry, fingers digging into the fogged-up glass. You don’t stop. Not until her thighs shake and her hips pull back on instinct, overstimulated, breathless.

˚. ꒰Gymrat!Abby who slides down the wall, collapsing onto the tile with you, water still pouring over both of you. She looks at you with wide, dazed eyes, lips parted, cheeks flushed.

And just like that, she needs to train harder— to earn the way you screamed her name.

[tojisteddy]

John Price who has ditzy!reader as their neighbor. | cw: mdni, fluff, suggestive content, age gap (30s John and late 20s reader)

You’re always peeking on your top toes over the stone wall that separates his property from the main road and ogling over how John takes care of his property. It’s lush and green, full of trees and trimmed hedges, full of beautiful flowers beds, hanging plants from the porch, perfectly bricked path that leads to the backyard, and John is there tinkering at the working bench.

You’re not as discreet as you should be when you’re peeking, it was easier for the older man to notice you because you let out little grunts when you try to look over the wall. Manicured nails and curly hair popping out while your big brown eyes take in the enchanting scenery. And you can’t help but look at John, watching him unconsciously flex his muscles and his back while wiping away the sweat that grows on his forehead— he’s a total dream. And then he’d turn around, hearing he hears the ‘click, clack’ of your kitten heels as you scurry away.

You’re a pretty little thing, he can’t help but eye you himself. He decides to see that little brain work, catch you slipping. Right as you get on your tip toes to peek over the stone wall, your eyes fall onto the new, large carved flower pots that sit near the shed. You can’t help but daydream about the flowers he’ll use. Maybe petunias, or marigolds, or some pink and yellow peonies—

“Are you gonna stare the whole time, or use your words?”

You slipped, chills running through you as you fell back immediately to the pavement. There’s laugher from the other side of the wall and then you hear the gate click open, revealing the man you’ve been staring at without him knowing.

“I- I didn’t,” you pant, hand over your chest, heart racing “I didn’t notice you there.”

“Well I noticed you,” he smirks, coming over and gently taking you by the hand, “You alright? Not hurt are you sweetheart?”

“Not at all.” You hum, dusting yourself.

“You’ve been spying over my wall, yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, playful, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “That’s not very neighborly is it love?”

Your chest pounds out of your chest, you stutter out, “I-It’s just- It’s so pretty! I saw it from up there!” You point, over to your little cottage just a walk at so away. A shabby and old stone two story house, with shrubbery growing out of country and vines climbing up the sides of the home.

He can’t help but get lost in your big brown eyes, your bottom lip pursed out as you try to explain to him why your innocent in this situation, not even realizing that John could care less about it. He just wanted to get closer to you.

Be neighborly.

He gives you a nod and understanding smile, “Why don’t we make your yard pretty too, could use a bit ‘f work, a little lady like you might need some help.”

And you nod, bright eyes and bushy tailed, squealing in excitement, you jump into his arms unexpectedly, taking John off guard.

“Thank you Mr. Price! You’re the best!” And you jump up and down, skipping away, “I have to finish some things at home but I’ll come back tomorrow! See ya later!” and you give him a big wave with your two hands.

You’d be the death to that old man.

John Price who teaches ditzy!reader how to build out her own flower beds with some old spare wood he had in the shed. He’s all the more patient with you even when you ask, “Why do you have to sand it down?” And “which nails do we use again Mr. Price?” He finds you to be the cutest thing on the planet. You don’t even realize that hes had his large hand on the small of your back this entire time but you’re so focused, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. You only seem to only be able to take in one thing at a time.

John Price who has to hide his boner when you come over in nothing but a tight pair of shorts that hugs your ass and hips ever so perfectly and a small t-shirt that lifts everytime your raise your arms.

You tilt you head to the side, blinking twice, then smiling, “You alright Mr. Price?”

No, no he wasn’t.

But he’d simply smile, rushing you off to go back home since it was getting late. You’d furrow your eyebrows but oblige, ever so cutely waving goodbye. And right as the door to his locked shut, John was rushing to take a cold shower.

Ditzy!reader who doesn’t realize John is fully flirting with them. And he’s tried it all, getting close, saying cheesy pick up lines, making the hairy man show off his body. And of course all you do is stupidly giggle, and shy away, peeking over at the older man as your heart thumps so fast, the heat rising under your brown skin.

“Mr. Price you sure are silly, huh?” You always say, smoothing down your skirt nervously. You believe his actions are just accidents. Like his hand on your back, or his sweet compliments on your outfits and your pretty face, and the way he wipes crumbs off your face and licks his thumb that make your guts spin in delights. He must be kind to all the women he talks to.

John Price who takes it upon himself to inform you hes going to kiss you since you looked utterly stunning under the moon and twinkly lights glow after your weekly dinner in his garden.

You were already magnetically pulled together already, and you kept squirming, pushing your beautiful breasts up unconsciously in your mint green corset. Delectable.

“[+]?” and you hum in response, his face right in yours, his cheeks red as ever, pink lips hovering over yours.

“Uh-huh?”

“I’m gonna to kiss you.”

“O-oh!”

And he softly kisses you, once. And then pulls away. But he can’t help but want- no need to feel your lips on his once more. So he kisses you again. Your eyes shoot open but you melt into him, eyes closing and lazily throwing your arms over his shoulders, deepening the kiss. His beard scratching your face ever to lightly. John pulls you into his lap, capturing your lips in a way that makes you lose yourself. It’s nothing but sweet from the pie John made, that you both indulged in.

“I like you,” John finally admits, with a breathless sigh, “I like you a lot, birdie.”

“Really?” You ask, big eyes widening, utterly shocked, “Since when?”

And he can’t help but laugh, your a ditzy little thing.

His ditzy little thing.

a/n: defeating the writers block and disappointment from earlier with John. Please heal me.

most recent masterlist

[dismalflo]

loving is easy

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ✩ 4.3k words

summary: Being friends with idiots is hard. how long will it take them to realise you and Remus are dating? or a series of events where you become progressively more obvious.

cw: fluff, steamy makeout towards the end but no smut, established relationship

Somewhere between late night study sessions and early morning conversations, you fell in love. To your amazement Remus fell in love with you too, his honeyed words and soft touches taking on a new meaning. What started as quiet,  timid affection bloomed into an all consuming devotion. Happy and safe. 

At the start, you both decided to keep it quiet, nurture it by yourselves with no interruption. But time has a way of slipping past unnoticed, and now the two of you are in deep, and no one else has caught on. It’s not as if you’re hiding, exactly; you and Remus just prefer the intimacy of privacy. And honestly, there’s a quiet thrill in watching how long it takes your friends to figure it out.

The great hall.

The smell of toast and tea lingers in the air as you trudge through the double doors of the Great Hall, hair still mussed from sleep and jumper slightly askew. It’s far too early for the kind of noise James Potter is making, voice echoing off the high stone walls as he waves his hands dramatically about something you don’t have the energy to decipher.

“…and I told her, I don’t care if you hexed my quill, I’m still not going to that—”

He cuts off mid-sentence, eyes flicking past Sirius to you. His mouth snaps shut like a trap. Sirius glances behind him, curious about what could possibly silence James of all people.

You offer a sleepy wave as you shuffle closer, barely catching the way Remus’ head lifts from his folded copy of the daily prophet. His gaze finds you instantly. A slow smile tugs at his mouth, and his shoulders visibly relax, as if just seeing you settled something in him.

“Morning,” you murmur, sliding onto the bench beside him, bumping your knee lightly into his under the table. He shifts just slightly, his hand coming to rest on your thigh in a gentle squeeze, grounding and familiar. You hide a small, content smile behind your cup of tea.

Across the table, Sirius raises an eyebrow over his plate of eggs. “You look like you got hit by a bus.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Remus beats you to it, not even looking up from his paper. “Leave her alone, Pads. Some of us don’t spend an hour in front of the mirror every morning.”

Sirius scoffs, flicking a crumb at him. “Jealousy is a disease, Lupin.”

James is still watching you—narrowed eyes, brow slightly furrowed, as if he’s trying to do complex equations in his head. You glance his way, and he startles like he’s been caught.

“You alright?” he asks, eyes flicking briefly to Remus, then back to you. “You look—well, not great.”

You blink at him over your tea. “Cheers, James.” you deadpan, “I’m just tired.”

He opens his mouth to say more, maybe apologize, but Lily slides onto the bench beside you with a rustle of parchment and the kind of purpose only she can manage this early in the morning.

“Did you start the Transfiguration essay yet?” she asks, nudging your elbow meaningfully. “Because McGonagall will have your head if it’s late again.”

You groan, resting your temple against your palm. “Started it, yeah. Finished it? Not even close.”

Lily sighs, long-suffering but fond. “Library after lunch.”

You nod, and the two of you slip into an easy rhythm—first the essay, then weekend plans for Hogsmeade. Remus stays quiet beside you, content to listen, a soft, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

At some point, without saying anything, he sets his paper aside and starts assembling a plate. Two slices of toast, a spoonful of marmalade, a soft-boiled egg, a handful of your favourite fruit. He doesn’t announce it or fuss, just places it gently in front of you, brushing a few stray crumbs off your sleeve with ease.

By then, James and Sirius have resumed their conversation, judging by the rising volume. Lily spots Slughorn across the way and excuses herself with a quick goodbye, already halfway across the room before you can respond.

You turn back to your tea, only to pause. The plate of food wasn’t there before but it’s exactly what you would’ve gotten for yourself. Toast arranged neatly, marmalade on the side. You glance sideways. Remus is already reading again, pretending not to notice your looking.

Under the table, your hand finds his. You link your fingers, gentle and grateful, and when you squeeze, he squeezes back. It’s warm, steady. 

You lean in slightly, just enough so he can hear you over the breakfast chatter.

“Thank you,” you murmur, thumb brushing along the back of his hand.

Remus doesn’t answer right away, eyes still on the paper; but the smile tugging at his lips is unmistakable. Quiet. Fond. Yours.

“It’s nothing,” he says softly, in a way that means everything.

You open your mouth to say something more, because it's not nothing and Remus is the sweetest boy you know, but Sirius cuts in from across the table, dramatically dropping his fork and fixing Remus with a mock-offended glare.

“Why don’t I ever get breakfast made for me, Moony?” he demands, gesturing wildly at your plate. “You’ve known me longer. I’m charming. Handsome. A delight, really.”

Remus doesn’t even look up. He just turns a page.

“Because you’re a right wanker,” he replies, so evenly it takes a beat to register.

Sirius gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been wounded. “The audacity! James, did you hear that?”

James snorts into his tea. “Hard to miss. He’s not wrong, though.”

“I’m hurt,” Sirius insists, turning to you with wide, dramatic eyes. “He used to be so sweet. So gentle.”

You glance at Remus, one brow raised. “Did he?”

The infirmary.

If Remus had to pinpoint the worst part of the full moon, he doesn't think he could. The way his body is violated and his mind succumbs to bestial madness is high up there. Or maybe it's the way his mind is tormented month-round, collapsing from exhaustion afterwards and being plagued with worry for the next. A vicious, never-ending cycle. This time, he thinks, it's waking up the morning after the full moon.

Though he can tell it was a particularly bad one, it’s not the aches and pains. It’s waking to you, curled in an armchair at his bedside, asleep. Remus hates that you worry so much, that it affects you. Your neck is at an awful angle, and there's a faint crease between your brows, even in sleep.

He exhales, the breath barely more than a rasp, and your lashes flutter in response. You shift, not fully awake at first, and then, like something clicking into place, you sit up straighter, eyes flying open.

"Remus," you say softly, already pushing yourself to your feet and crossing the space between the chair and the bed. Your hands find his arm gently, carefully, as though you're afraid even your touch might hurt. "You're awake."

He tries to offer a weak smile, but it falters before it can fully form. "Unfortunately."

"Don't say that," you murmur, frowning as your hands glide down to check for injuries, the kind that bandages don't always catch.

“I’m fine, dove,” he lies, out of habit more than belief.

You ignore him. “Let me get you some water,” you say, already moving toward the small table where a pitcher and glass had been left. You pour it, return, and sit beside him on the edge of the bed, holding it to him with steady hands.

He accepts it, grateful but quiet, sipping slowly. When he’s finished, you set the glass back on the nightstand with a soft clink.

His brow furrows. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice hoarse but laced with genuine confusion. “You usually come after I’ve woken up.”

You hesitate, brushing a bit of hair away from his damp forehead. “You… woke up early. Just for a little while.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I know.” Your hand stills against his temple. “It wasn’t for long. James came to get me. Said you were–” You glance away for a moment, mouth tightening. “You were in pain. And saying my name. Over and over. Apparently Sirius and Madam Pomfrey had to hold you down to get a calming draught in you.”

Remus goes still. Shame rolls through him like a fresh wave of fever. He looks away, down at the rough wool blanket, his hands balled in the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the words bitter on his tongue. “I shouldn’t have– I didn’t mean to wake you. You didn’t have to come.”

“Stop being silly,” you say, almost fondly, but there’s a steel thread beneath it. You reach for his face again, gentle but firm, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Of course I came. You think I’m going to stay in bed while you’re in pain, calling for me?”

He starts to respond, some garbled protest forming in his throat, but you cut it off by leaning forward and pressing a quick, sure kiss to his lips.

It’s warm. Soft. Gone before he can even react.

He blinks at you, stunned.

“I’ll always come,” you say simply, your fingers still resting at the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to be sorry for needing someone, Remus.”

Silence settles between the two of you.

You don’t say anything, and neither does he. It’s not awkward. shifting just slightly on the mattress, curling one leg up under you, you begin brushing the hair from Remus’ forehead again—gentle, patient sweeps of your fingers, like you have all the time in the world. His hair is still damp with sweat, a little tangled, but you don’t seem to mind. You just keep smoothing it back, over and over, letting him rest in the rhythm of it.

Remus closes his eyes. Not to sleep but just to relax. The silence swells around you, filled only by the quiet sounds of the castle waking up; distant footsteps, the occasional creak of old wood, and your even, steady breaths.

Eventually, his voice slips through the hush, barely more than a whisper. “Where are the others?”

You smile faintly. “James is with Regulus. Doing God knows what. Hopefully sleeping.” You roll your eyes, affection bleeding through the exasperation.

That gets a faint huff of a laugh from Remus, which quickly dissolves into a wince. He presses a hand to his ribs.

“And Sirius?” he asks.

You glance toward the door. “Went to get breakfast. Said you’d need something solid, not just Pomfrey’s apparently sad excuse for toast.”

Just as you say it, the door creaks open and Sirius steps inside, a paper bag tucked under one arm and two cups in his hands. The scent of butter and cinnamon trails in with him.

“Speak of the devil,” you murmur.

Sirius pauses when he sees the two of you. You're still perched on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly against Remus’ temple, the other curled in your lap. Remus’ eyes are open now, glassy with exhaustion but softer than they’ve been in days. The two of you are close and something about the look on your faces makes Sirius stop mid-step.

Then he just clears his throat and steps forward, saying nothing about it. “Brought food.”

He places the bag and drinks on the nightstand with uncharacteristic care, glancing once more between the two of you. His gaze lingers on Remus, searching for signs of deeper pain or unease, but seems satisfied by what he finds.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says softly, stepping back. “See you later, Moons.”

There’s a quiet fondness to it.

“Thanks, Pads,” Remus says, voice rough but genuine.

Sirius nods and slips out the door with barely a sound.

-

Sirius finds James exactly where he expects: sprawled on one of the beaten-up sofas in the Gryffindor common room. Less expected is Regulus, curled under James’s arm, head tucked into his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. James looks half-asleep, fingers lazily combing through Regulus’s hair, while Regulus is clearly pretending he hadn’t just dozed off.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “For Merlin’s sake,” he mutters, stepping over the hearthrug. “Is there something in the Gryffindor water this year? Everyone’s getting domestic.”

Regulus lifts his head just enough to shoot him a glare. “You sound like you’re sixty.”

“And you look like you’re two seconds from sucking your thumb,” Sirius shoots back, dropping down onto the coffee table with a dramatic sigh. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, then looks squarely at James.

“You’ll never guess what I just walked in on.”

James, ever patient when Sirius is in a mood, lifts a brow. “Tell me.”

Sirius jerks his chin toward the entrance of the common room. “Remus is awake. Looks like hell, obviously, but that’s not the point. The point is…” He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing meaningfully between the two of them. “Y/N was there. Sitting right beside him. Touching his face. Whispering. Very softly, I might add.”

James frowns. “So?”

“I’m just saying,” Sirius drawls, “it was very couple-y.”

James lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “No way. They’ve been like that for ages, they’re just friends, mate. Remus would’ve told us if they were dating.”

Sirius nods, like that settles it.

Regulus snorts into James’s shoulder.

“What?” Sirius narrows his eyes.

“You two are incredibly dense,” Regulus says without looking up. “They are dating. It’s obvious.”

James and Sirius look at each other, then back at Regulus in perfect unison.

“No offence, Reggie,” Sirius says, raising a brow, “but they’re our friends. I think we’d know.”

“You think you’d know,” Regulus says flatly. “But you don’t. Because Remus is private and stupidly noble, and your friend is just as bad. Do you really think he’s going to announce it over breakfast? What would he even say—‘pass the marmalade, I’m in love’?”

James blinks.

Sirius blinks.

Then they both burst out laughing, as if Regulus is mental.

The black lake.

With the summer months fast approaching, and a week passing since the full moon, the warm weather has called for a relaxing day on the shore of the black lake. You're laid out on a blanket with Remus sat beside you, your head resting on his thigh.

With closed eyes, you can picture the peaceful look on Remus’ face as he reads with his fingers twirling in the ends of your hair.

The sun is warm where it filters through the branches above, casting soft, dappled patterns across your skin. Somewhere behind you, someone splashes into the lake with a shout, followed by a chorus of laughter. But it all feels far away.

You sigh, content, eyes still closed. “If I die right now,” you murmur, “tell Madam Pomfrey I went happy.”

Remus huffs a soft laugh, the vibration of it echoing down through his thigh. “Bit dramatic,” he says, though there’s affection in it.

“Mmm,” you hum, noncommittal. “We’ll see what you say when it happens.”

Another beat of silence. You think he’s gone back to reading–until his fingers pause, then still.

“Everyone’s out of the dorms tonight,” he says casually, “some ravenclaw party, or something.”

You open one eye, peering up at him. “You planning to go?”

Remus shakes his head. “No. I thought maybe… you’d want to come up for a bit. To mine.” His voice dips a little lower. “Just us.”

“I’d love to,” you say simply. “You and me. No interruptions. I’ll finally have you all to myself.”

Remus’s eyes soften. He sets the book aside, turning his full attention to you. “You already have me,” he murmurs.

Your only response is to wiggle your eyebrows suggestively, the grin on your face unmistakably wicked. Remus gives a soft, breathy laugh and shakes his head. “Minx,” he says, voice full of fondness.

You're just about to respond–something equally teasing on the tip of your tongue–when there’s the familiar thunder of approaching footsteps.

Before either of you can move, Sirius throws himself down onto the blanket with a loud oof, landing half across your legs and knocking Remus slightly off balance.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, even as you’re giggling.

Sirius groans dramatically as you swat at him, your hand smacking against his shoulder with no real force.

“You love it,” Sirius replies, grinning like the absolute menace he is.

Before you can retaliate with some biting remark, a familiar voice calls out from behind.

“Y/N!” Lily’s voice rings clearly through the warm air, her red hair catching the sunlight as she approaches. “You coming to the greenhouses? Marlene’s already started without us and Dorcas is claiming all the best pots.”

You sit up with a groan, shoving Sirius more forcefully this time. He rolls onto the grass with a theatrical oomph that earns an eye-roll from Remus.

“On my way!” you call back to Lily, brushing grass off your legs. You turn to Remus, eyes softening, your hand brushing his wrist. “Later?”

He nods, that quiet little smile playing on his lips. “Later.”

Sirius waves lazily from the blanket, still lounging, and you hear him shout a cheerful “See you later, Y/N!”

The two of you start walking toward the greenhouses, and once you’re out of sight, Sirius suddenly sits up. Remus catches the shift in his mood, the way he straightens, a more serious look crossing his features. 

Then, as if deciding to finally ask whatever's been on his mind, he looks at Remus, his voice quieter than usual. "You two are friends, right?" he asks, a slight edge of curiosity in his tone.

Remus, who’s watching you walk away, doesn’t hesitate. "Yeah. Of course." He’s telling the truth, you might be his girlfriend but you were his friend first and you're his best friend now.

There’s a brief pause, and Sirius nods slowly. He makes a soft sound, tapping his fingers absently on the grass, clearly stewing in his thoughts. Remus knows he’s trying to find the right words, the ones that aren’t too blunt but also get at whatever Sirius is really thinking. After another long stretch of silence, Remus sighs, deciding to make it easier.

“Spit it out, Pads. You're not very tactful.”

Sirius huffs a small laugh, a little awkwardly, before shifting on the blanket. He rubs the back of his neck, clearly conflicted. “I was just thinking,” he starts, “You… fancy her, don’t you?”

The question hits Remus like a sharp poke to the ribs. He looks over at Sirius, surprised at the bluntness, then immediately thinks Oh. He can’t help but chuckle lightly, thinking Sirius has finally put it all together–that he and you are already together.

“Well, yeah,” he says nonchalantly, his gaze drifting back to you. “I do.”

Sirius, however, just stares at him for a moment, blinking in confusion. “You… do?” He asks slowly, his brows furrowing in disbelief. “So, why are you not doing anything about it? Do you need help telling her?”

Remus freezes for a second, eyes narrowing. The warmth in his chest from the thought of you is still there, but now it comes with a pinch of amusement. He opens his mouth to respond, but then quickly closes it. Sirius really has no clue, does he? Remus can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head.

“I don’t need help, Pads,” Remus says, his voice an easy mix of affection and slight exasperation.

Sirius scoffs, “If this is some mopey werewolf bullshit, I don't want to hear it. You deserve to be happy, Moony.” 

“I am happy,” Remus stresses, “I’ve done all I need to.” he nods at Sirius, hoping that the boy can read between the lines.

“Okay.” Sirius sighs.

The dormitory.

The evening sun casts its last golden rays over the horizon as the two of you find yourselves alone in the quiet of Remus's dorm room. The noises of the day have faded to a dull hum, and it’s just the two of you now–no distractions, no interruptions.

Remus’ heated touch is wandering, hands gripping whatever part of you he can get to. His mouth is warm on your neck, doting but rough, anything else you were thinking of doing tonight quickly erased from your mind. One of your hands is buried in his hair while the other drifts upwards to his neck and jaw. 

“Rem,” you sigh, breathless and lightly pulling his hair to move his mouth upwards. 

A breathy laugh comes out of him, before he captures your mouth with his own. You sigh into his mouth, and he takes it gladly, his hands moving down to your hips shifting you closer in his lap. His eager kissing is warm, acting like a man starved.

You shift your hips, wanting to be closer, feeling him against you. It elicits a groan from one of you, that gets swallowed between you. Remus’ grip on your hips becomes firmer, working to guide you in your efforts grinding against him, and your moans become more frequent for it.

“Fuck,” he pants, pulling back to look up at you, his grip on you not faltering. He shifts a hand to toy with the hem of your top. “Can I take this off?”

“Please.” you reply breathless and he smiles at you planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth before moving your shirt up and over your head. 

Remus moves in again, his mouth mean as it skims across the top of your breasts. It's bliss.

Neither of you notice the door opening until a scandalised gasp echoes through the room. “Bloody hell!” James squeals, immediately throwing a hand over his eyes and turning around so fast he nearly maims himself on the doorframe. “I’m blind! I didn’t need to see that!”

Remus scrambles to wrap a blanket around your shoulder as you shift to move off his lap. Once the blanket is secured, Remus’ hands grip your waist tightly and he looks at you, eyes pleading, begging you not to move. 

Sirius lingers in the doorway, eyebrows shooting straight into his hairline as a wicked grin stretches across his face. “Well, well, well,” he whistles, arms crossing as he leans casually against the frame. “When you said you’d done all you need to, I didn’t think you meant you were shagging her. I thought you were a gentleman, Moony.”

Remus, who’s gone a shade redder than any of the Gryffindor banners, pulls the blanket tighter around your shoulders and groans. “Can you both just– piss off?!” His voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and he sounds more desperate than angry.

You stifle a laugh against his shoulder, only mildly mortified but mostly amused.

Remus shoots Sirius a glare, ears flushed pink. “That–that was me telling you she’s my girlfriend, you sod.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, in perfect unison, James–still hiding behind his hand–and Sirius both shout;

“What?!” 

“Alright, alright,” you interrupt, amusement clear in your voice despite the heat in your cheeks. You’re still tucked against Remus, the blanket barely doing its job, and your shirt’s rumpled on the bed behind you. “This is really fun, guys, but could you maybe turn around so I can put my shirt back on?”

James lets out a garbled sound still shielding his eyes. Sirius sighs but obliges. 

“What the fuck,” Sirius mutters, and James echoes it softly, bewildered and still shell-shocked.

You grin as you press a quick kiss to Remus’ lips, gentle, grateful, and a little teasing. He’s still beet red, poor thing, but the moment your lips touch his, some of that panic in his eyes melts into warmth.

Then, with a deep breath and no small amount of dignity, you swing your legs off his lap and slip your shirt back on. Remus helps you straighten it without thinking, hands ghosting over your sides like he can’t not touch you, even in the middle of the world’s most embarrassing interruption.

Once decent, you move to sit beside him rather than on top of him, though you don’t go far. Your knees still touch. Always.

“Alright, you can turn around now,” you call lightly, brushing your fingers through your hair.

James turns slowly, eyes still suspiciously squinted like he’s worried he’ll see something scarring again. He takes in the scene, both of you sitting side by side on the bed, fully clothed now but clearly together, Remus still flushed and you not bothering to hide your smug little smile.

“So…” James begins, narrowing his eyes, “when did this start?”

You glance at Remus, who looks as though he’d prefer the full moon over this interrogation.

“Be honest,” Sirius adds, crossing the room to drop dramatically into the armchair by the window. “If you say, like, last week, I will riot.”

Remus sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “October.”

James blinks. “October last year?”

You nod innocently. “Started with studying. Got a bit… distracting.”

Sirius makes a sound like he’s just been betrayed. “You mean to tell me you two have been together for months and didn’t say anything?”

“It’s not like we were hiding it,” Remus mutters.

James gestures wildly. “You were definitely hiding it!”

You exchange a look with Remus, who just shrugs helplessly.

Sirius groans, dragging a hand down his face as if it's all too much to bear. And then, with the weariness of a man forced to admit defeat, he mutters:

“For fuck’s sake… Reg was right.”

Remus smirks, finally relaxed again. “You gonna be okay, Pads?”

“Absolutely not,” Sirius says, already slumping further into the chair. “You’re disgusting.”

But he’s grinning.

James just shakes his head, still in awe. “Next time, just tell us.”

You reach for Remus’s hand, lacing your fingers together, and smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

masterlist <3

[colouredbyd]

We Will Be Okay

poly!marauders x fem!reader

summary: After days of silence, you’re attacked and left broken. Only then do the Marauders realize what they’ve done. Their apologies remind you that, even in darkness, you're not alone.

w/c: 4.6k

warnings: Angst, emotional vulnerability, emotional hurt, major argument ,mentions of injury / physical harm, guilt , violence (graphic), hurt/comfort

a/n: lowkey more angsty than what i planned :D

part two masterlist

It started quietly. Like most heartbreaks do.

You’d been off all day, and somewhere deep down, you were hoping someone would notice. That maybe one of them—just one—would catch the way your hands trembled when you picked up your quill, or how you hadn’t touched your food since breakfast. But the hours passed like shadows stretching long, and no one looked your way with concern. Not Sirius with his careless charm. Not James with his golden heart. Not even Remus, who could read poetry between the lines of silence, but somehow missed the silence in you.

You weren’t angry then. Not really. You were something smaller, something colder. Disappointment had a way of settling in your chest like frost—beautiful and quiet and cruel. You walked beside them through the halls, their laughter echoing against stone walls, and tried to match their rhythm, but your steps felt wrong, like they belonged to someone else.

You asked them to meet you after Defense. You hadn’t said much—just that you needed them. Your voice had been thin, barely tethered to your throat, but James nodded distractedly, Sirius brushed his lips against your cheek like a promise, and Remus gave your hand a soft squeeze. You held onto that gesture like a lifeline.

They never came.

You sat outside the greenhouse as the sky turned a muted gray, your cloak pulled tight around your knees. The wind bit through the seams. You waited. Five minutes. Ten. Thirty. A full hour. No footsteps. No familiar voices. No Marauders. Only the hollow ache that curled in your stomach like something starved.

When the cold crept into your fingers and the numbness reached your spine, you stood, slowly, as if your bones had aged a hundred years in a single hour. You didn’t cry until you were halfway back to the common room, and even then, it was silent. Just wet cheeks and the burn of being forgotten.

By the time you pushed through the portrait hole, the weight in your chest had turned molten.

They were there, of course. Sprawled across the common room like they had never made a promise to you. Sirius lounged on the couch, his grin lazy and effortless. James was on the floor, tossing a snitch between his hands. Remus sat by the fire with a book open, though his eyes weren’t reading.

Your voice was quiet when it came. “Must’ve been a good practice.”

James glanced up, flashing a bright smile. “Yeah, brilliant actually. Padfoot nearly killed me though, bloody show-off.”

Sirius chuckled, stretching like a cat. “You’re just mad I scored.”

“You never showed up,” you said.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward you, the air around them suddenly heavier.

“What?” James blinked.

“After Defense. I asked you to meet me.”

Remus straightened in his seat. “You said you were fine.”

“I lied.”

The silence that followed was not surprised. It was guilty. The kind of silence that knows what it missed.

“I waited,” you said, your voice thickening. “Outside. For an hour. I was freezing. I was crying. I felt like I was coming apart and I waited because I thought one of you might care enough to come.”

Sirius stood, brows furrowed. “Wait, we didn’t know—”

“You didn’t ask.” The words came sharp, bitter on your tongue. “You didn’t even look.”

James stood too, hands half-raised. “Love, we had practice. You didn’t say—”

“You don’t need me to say anything when Remus limps after the full moon. You’re all around him before he even opens his mouth. When Sirius gets a letter, you can feel it without even reading it. And when James is quiet, you know the sadness before he does. You read each other like scripture. Like something sacred.”

Your voice cracked, but you kept going.

“But me? I’m invisible unless I’m breaking in front of you.”

“No, that’s not true,” Remus murmured.

“Isn’t it?” You looked at him now, the ache in your chest shining through your eyes. “I go silent, and none of you flinch. I pull away, and you let me. I stop laughing, and you just talk louder. Do you know what it feels like to be surrounded by the people you love most and still feel completely alone?”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “You could’ve said something, baby.”

“I did. I said I needed you today. I asked for one thing. One moment. One chance to not have to carry it alone.”

James stepped closer, slower this time, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “You’re being unfair.”

“No. I’m being honest.”

There was a long breath between you. The kind that hangs before something shatters.

“You’re not mind-readers,” you said, looking at Remus again, voice quieter now, more tired than angry.

He nodded slightly, guilt lining his expression. “We’re not.”

“No. You’re not. But you read each other. You always do. You feel it. You respond to it.”

You blinked, and a single tear slipped down your cheek.

“But not me.”

This time, no one spoke. Not to deny it. Not to argue. Not even to explain.

You stood in the middle of the common room, feeling like a ghost in your own life.

And they just watched.

Like they finally saw you—only after you broke.

You didn’t speak to them for four days. You didn’t sit beside James in the Great Hall, didn’t brush shoulders with Remus as he passed you your favorite quill in Transfiguration, didn’t catch Sirius’s eye when he hovered behind you on your way out of class, searching your face for something—anything.

You were polite. Distant. Deadly quiet. A nod here, a murmur there. But nothing real. Nothing kind. No softness left in your gaze, no warmth in the corners of your smile.

It was worse than screaming.Worse than fury.It was absence. And it was killing them.

James had started bringing an extra pumpkin juice to breakfast every morning, still setting it beside him out of instinct, only to watch it go untouched, growing warm while he sat beside it like a boy with no idea how to undo the damage he helped cause. Remus had stopped asking questions aloud. He already knew the answers—or worse, knew he didn’t deserve them. He buried himself in parchment, eyes red-rimmed from nights spent rewriting apologies he couldn’t find the courage to speak, because what words could reach a silence like yours?

And Sirius—he was unraveling. Coming apart at the seams. Pacing the corridors at night like a man possessed, all sharp movements and bitten lips, a storm held barely in check. He didn’t sleep, didn’t speak unless he had to. The glint in his eyes had dulled to something dangerous. He looked like a ghost who couldn’t stop haunting the last place he’d seen you smile.

They tried everything. Notes slipped under your dormitory door—ink smudged with trembling hands, hearts poured into parchment. Waiting for you after class, offering hesitant smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. Gentle words murmured like confessions into a silence that refused to give anything back.

But you remained untouched.

Because for once, just once, you needed them to feel it. To feel what it was like to be ignored. To be pushed aside. To ache alone. Even if it shattered you, too.

It happened on the fifth day.

The air had turned bitter, the kind of cold that felt personal—something that clawed beneath your robes and curled into your ribs. The soft amber light of the afternoon filtered weakly through the cracked greenhouse windows, shadows slanting long across the tables as you repotted Fluttering Ferns with numb, clumsy hands. Professor Sprout had given you space, sensing the storm in your silence.

But peace was a fragile illusion. It always was.

By the time you stepped outside, dusk had begun to fall, painting the world in hues of gray and gold. You moved like something hollow, each step heavy, each breath scraped raw against the walls of your chest. You were so tired. So endlessly tired.

Tired of pretending it didn’t hurt. Tired of missing people who didn’t seem to miss you back, at least not when it mattered most.

You didn’t hear the first hex. Not until it was too late.

One moment, you were standing beneath the bare branches, the cold threading through your fingers. The next, a bolt of red light slammed into your chest, knocking the breath from your lungs as if the world itself had struck you down.

Your legs crumpled beneath you. The ground rushed up fast, unforgiving, your palms scraping across dirt and gravel as you landed hard. The ache in your ribs bloomed sharp and immediate, spreading outward in shuddering waves. You gasped, but no air came. The world narrowed to a pinpoint, and you blinked rapidly, trying to stay conscious.

A second curse hit. This time your shoulder—a crackling burst of pain that felt like lightning poured straight into your bones. You cried out, or tried to, but it came out a hoarse gasp. The pain was immense, searing through the muscles and down your arm until your fingers went limp.

And then the third hit you like a whip.

It tore through your side, slicing clean through fabric and flesh. You screamed then, you know you did, because it felt like the scream came from somewhere deeper than your throat. Somewhere buried. The pain was bright and brutal, wild like a creature with no name.

Blood soaked through your robes, warm and sticky. It slid down your ribs in rivulets, staining your skin in rivers of red. You tried to reach for your wand, to move, to crawl, but your limbs betrayed you. Your fingers twitched and spasmed, nothing more.

You were trembling. Shaking so hard your teeth chattered. Your body was going into shock, you knew that. Part of your mind screamed to stay awake, but the rest of you just wanted to rest. To close your eyes and let it be over.

Then came the laughter.

It was low, mocking, and cruel.

Rosier’s voice, thick with amusement, cut through the haze of pain. “Isn’t it pathetic?” he sneered, his words slipping into your blood-slicked skin like poison. “The Gryffindor princess thinks she’s untouchable. Thinks the world will bend to her.”

Mulciber’s laugh joined, jagged and dark, ringing through the trees. “She’s nothing without her little pack of fools.”

You tried to turn your head, tried to look at them, but your vision was swimming—dizzy, unfocused. You could taste the earth on your tongue, gritty and sharp, and the world was starting to spin in the most awful way.

The words felt like daggers, slipping between your ribs, cutting deeper than any spell could. You couldn’t even find the strength to lift your wand, to scream. All you could do was lie there, broken, helpless, blood pooling beneath you like a dark promise.

The fourth curse hit your ribs. Something cracked. You felt it. Something inside you gave way completely, not just bone, but something more fragile. Your spirit. Your hope.

You thought of James’s gentle eyes, the way he’d always saved you a seat. Of Remus’s quiet steadiness, his soft laughter. Of Sirius, loud and brave and furious, looking back at you in the corridor, hoping for a smile that never came.

What if this is the last thing they remember of me?

You were just a bleeding body in the woods. Just another cautionary tale. Just another girl the world didn’t save.

“Doesn’t even matter if she dies,” Mulciber sneered. “Who’s going to come for her now?”

But the world had already started to fade. Everything was slowing down. The cold wasn't biting anymore. It was crawling in.

And in that final, terrible moment, you wished—not for a miracle, not even for revenge—but for a hand to hold. 

Just one. To remind you that you weren’t alone.

But no hand came. And the world went silent.

You don’t know how long you lay there. Time ceased to exist, and all that was left was pain, a tidal wave that swallowed every inch of you. The only thing that tethered you to the world was the cold, the bitter cold that gnawed at your limbs, the faint buzzing in your skull, and the odd, rhythmic thumping of your heart.

It wasn’t until the wind shifted, until the first rays of dusk began to curl their fingers through the trees, that the world came back into focus.

And then there was nothing—no air in your lungs, no strength in your body, only a strange detachment. The stars above you were a distant thing. So far away, so far beyond your reach.

It had been four days. Four days of desperate hope that you’d walk into the Great Hall, that you’d knock on their door, or slip back into your usual routine, but you never did. Every corner they turned, every moment of looking into the spaces where you used to be, only made it worse.

James couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. He could barely remember the last time he’d felt anything other than the sharp ache of your absence.

Remus hadn’t said much at all. He’d been quieter than usual, retreating into his books and their shared study sessions, but they both knew—he was spiraling. Not as visibly as James, but you could see it in the way his hand trembled when he flipped through the pages of his Potions textbook or how he would glance at your usual seat at dinner and then look away, like a wound that couldn’t heal.

Sirius? He had become unrecognizable. His smiles were gone, replaced by a constant scowl, and when he wasn’t throwing punches at the walls or muttering under his breath in frustration, he would pace the corridors, muttering your name like a prayer, a curse, a plea. If anyone had asked, they’d have thought he was furious, but if you looked closely enough, you’d see the raw pain underneath it all, the brokenness no one dared acknowledge.

They were walking, not really speaking to each other, not really aware of where they were going. James’s eyes kept flicking to the doorways as though you might suddenly appear from behind one, and Remus’s fingers were twitching with the need to reach out and touch you. Sirius’s hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight, trying to keep himself together, but everyone could see the storm brewing in his eyes. It was like they were waiting for something to give, for something to break.

And then someone came rushing toward them—a student they didn’t know, pale, wide-eyed, their steps panicked.

“Why are you three here!?” the student asked, breathless, eyes darting back down the hall behind them. There was no greeting, no civility, just the sharp edge of disbelief.

The Marauders stopped in their tracks, confusion rippling through them. “What do you mean?” Sirius asked, his voice hoarse, his brow furrowing. “What’s going on?”

The student’s eyes flickered nervously. “You don’t know?” they said, voice trembling slightly. They looked between the boys, clearly startled by the way they seemed to have no idea what was happening. “She’s in the Infirmary. Everyone knows. Everyone knows.”

James’s heart slammed in his chest. His mind struggled to catch up with the words, but they pierced through him, leaving nothing but a hollowed-out, agonizing ache. “What… what do you mean? Who?” he managed to choke out, but he knew. Deep down, he knew.

“(Y/N)” the student said, their voice trembling now. “She’s hurt. She’s really hurt. Bad. Really bad. They found her out by the greenhouse, half-dead… blood everywhere.”

James’s breath hitched. Remus’s face went ashen. Sirius froze, his hands falling to his sides. The world seemed to go still for a moment, as if the reality hadn’t quite sunk in yet. And then, as if something inside each of them snapped, they turned on their heels, all rushing toward the Infirmary.

Every step felt like a thousand miles.

Sirius, usually the calm and collected one, was the first to lose control. He ran faster than the others, his mind already spiraling. No no no no—the mantra echoed in his brain, a chant that couldn’t stop. He could barely feel the cold stone of the floor underfoot, only the pounding of his heart in his chest as it thudded in his ears.

James’s voice cracked as he called out to you. “Please… please be okay…”

And Remus? He was already half a step behind, his steps hurried but strained. His heart was pounding in his throat as a mix of guilt and panic twisted his insides into knots. I should’ve done more. I should’ve done something.

They reached the Infirmary door, slamming it open, breathless, panic-stricken, and there she was.

The sight of you, broken and bloody, was something they weren’t prepared for. Something they’d never wanted to see.

You were there, lying on one of the beds, pale, drenched in sweat and blood, and the entire room seemed soaked in it. It pooled at your side, staining the white sheets a stark, crimson red. Your robes were ripped, jagged tears in them, and your skin was bruised and battered. Blood was still trickling from a gash on your temple, down your neck, staining your collarbone. Another wound on your side was still bleeding, the cut too deep for any normal healing charm. And the bruises, dark and swollen, bloomed over your arms, your legs, everywhere.

James felt like the floor had just disappeared beneath him.

He stumbled forward, his hands shaking as he reached out for you, but stopped himself, not knowing how to touch you, afraid of making it worse. He was too late. He had been too late. He couldn’t hold back the tremor in his voice as he called out to you, “Y/N, please… please wake up, please… We’re here, we’re here, love…”

Remus fell to his knees beside you, his breath ragged as he looked over every inch of you. The color drained from his face as the realization hit him—he hadn’t done enough. He hadn’t saved you when he should’ve. “I—I should have been there,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. “I should have seen it. Why didn’t I see it?”

Sirius… he didn’t know what to do. His chest was tight, every word in his mind coming out as French curses under his breath. “Putain… non, non, non…” The words came out as angry sobs, harsh and jagged. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry… please, please be okay. I—I can’t lose you. I can’t—” His voice cracked, the rawness of his panic making his chest ache. He reached for your hand, but his fingers were trembling so violently he could hardly make contact. “I should have protected you, damn it…”

And then James collapsed beside you, his whole body trembling. He broke down, tears streaming down his face, his shoulders shaking violently as he sobbed uncontrollably. “I—I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please, I never meant to hurt you. Please—don’t leave me. I can’t—I can’t live with myself if you—”

Remus tried to pull James back, his own hands shaking as he gripped his shoulders. “James… calm down, my love, breathe, breathe,” he urged desperately, his voice filled with pain, but his words were faltering, as if his own chest was collapsing in on him. “We’ll fix this. We can fix this—”

But James was beyond hearing. The panic was rising in him, clawing at his throat, choking him, until it felt as though he couldn’t breathe. His sobs were louder now, broken, desperate.

Sirius had fallen silent, staring at you, his eyes wide, frantic, as if he was seeing the reality of your injury but couldn’t believe it. He kept muttering in French under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “Mon Dieu… no, this can’t be real. Please, no—not like this…”

The scene was chaos, the air thick with their grief, their guilt, and the blood that kept staining the floor. Their world had shattered, and all they could do was stare at you, broken and bleeding, and wonder how they’d ever put the pieces back together.

It had been a week since the infirmary bled scarlet.

Seven days since your unconscious body was carried in, limbs limp, robes torn and stained the color of mourning. Since your blood had dried beneath their trembling hands, since Madam Pomfrey had pushed them out of the room with a glare sharp enough to cut bone. Seven days since the world tilted on its axis and none of the boys had been able to breathe quite right.

Now, the hospital wing was cloaked in silence. A strange, reverent quiet. The kind of stillness reserved for cathedrals and funerals.

You were no longer on the brink of death—but barely.

Wrapped in bandages, some still stained pink. Salves coated your bruised ribs. A potion-infused cloth was tied gently around your temple. You hadn’t said much since waking. Not to them, not to anyone.

And yet they came. Every morning. Every hour they could.

Sirius would sit by your bedside, speaking in low, broken French, brushing your hair away from your eyes even when they were closed. James paced endlessly, muttering half-formed thoughts to himself, fingers twitching like they itched to hold your hand but feared the weight of your rejection. Remus had taken to reading to you—old poetry, mostly—his voice soft, barely above a whisper.

None of them said the thing they were all thinking: We thought you’d die. And we weren’t there.

The days that followed bled into one another, soft and silent and slow, as if time itself were limping alongside your broken body.

The Infirmary lights were always dim now, flickering like candles at a funeral. The scent of antiseptic clung to every breath. You stirred in and out of consciousness—each awakening a slow crawl through pain. Your body felt like it had been stitched back together with trembling hands and tears. Every breath hurt. Every inch of skin screamed. But you were alive. Barely. Beautifully. Tragically.

And they were still there.

Your boys.

Silent. Fragile. Hollow.

They never left your side, not for a second.

Sirius sat nearest to your bed, always in the same chair, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his fingers tangled in his hair. He didn’t speak, not really. He whispered sometimes, soft little French nothings like prayers he didn’t know he was saying. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, the gleam in them long extinguished. Once, you caught him reaching out, like he meant to brush a curl from your forehead. But his hand stopped midair and trembled there before falling back to his lap like it weighed a thousand pounds.

James looked the worst, like he hadn’t slept since they found you. His curls were unwashed, his face ghostly pale, dark shadows carved beneath his eyes. He paced most of the time, back and forth in quiet fury, hands flexing helplessly, like there was something he should be doing, could be doing, but didn’t know what. And when he wasn’t pacing, he was crying. Quietly. In corners. He tried to hide it, but you heard it. You always did.

Remus was the stillest, the softest. He barely moved at all. He read aloud sometimes, in a voice that cracked and shook. He fluffed your pillow, changed your bandages, held your hand gently, like it might crumble in his. But his silence said more than any of it. He was unraveling at the seams, guilt eating through him like moths through silk.

The healers came and went. But the boys—your boys—they stayed. And though none of you spoke much, though your voice was weak and their courage was weaker, something lived in the silence. An apology. A hope. A promise not yet spoken.

It was evening again. The sky bled lavender and gold through the infirmary windows.

Remus was the first to break the silence.

“You used to hum when you read,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Did you know that?”

You blinked slowly. It was the first time you’d responded at all.

“I didn’t realize I missed it until it was gone.”

Sirius looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor. His eyes were rimmed in red. “I miss everything. The way you laugh. The way you argue with me like you’re not scared of me. Even the way you kick me in your sleep.”

You shifted slightly in the bed, a wince ghosting across your face. James immediately straightened, panic in his eyes. “Do you need Pomfrey? Are you—are you okay? I’ll get her, I—”

You shook your head gently.

He collapsed back into the chair, dragging his hands down his face.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered. “I keep thinking about it—about that night. I keep seeing you bloodied, in the dark, broken, and I—I can’t fix it. I’m supposed to fix everything.”

“You’re not,” you rasped, voice weak and raspy.

The room fell still.

James looked up like he’d just seen a ghost. “What?”

You exhaled slowly. “You’re not supposed to fix everything.”

Sirius stood abruptly. “We didn’t see you. We didn’t hear you. And then we nearly lost you and we—” His voice cracked. “I—I didn’t get to say I was sorry.”

Your eyes found his. And for the first time in days, you saw him. Really saw him. The grief swimming in the gray of his irises. The guilt carved into the sharp edges of his cheekbones.

“I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” you whispered.

“We’ll wait,” Remus said immediately. “We’ll wait forever, dove.”

James dropped to his knees beside your bed, forehead pressed to the mattress beside your arm. “I love you,” he sobbed. “God, I love you so much, and I keep thinking if we’d just listened, if we’d seen you, you wouldn’t have been out there alone—”

“I thought about you,” you murmured. “When I was on the ground. I thought about how mad you’d be if I died.”

That shattered something in all of them.

Remus leaned forward, pressing a trembling kiss to your knuckles. “You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to be left behind.”

“I didn’t want to be the girl who needed,” you said. “But I did. I needed you.”

Sirius stepped closer, his voice barely holding together. “I’m so fucking sorry, mon cœur. I didn’t mean to make you feel small.”

“You didn’t make me feel small,” you whispered. “You just stopped making me feel anything.”

James sobbed harder.

And then you reached for them. Shaky, slow, but open.

They came at once. A tangle of limbs and apologies and muffled cries into hospital sheets.

Remus’s forehead pressed to yours. James held your hand like it anchored him to the earth. Sirius whispered every endearment he knew, over and over again, until your breathing slowed.

“I’m not okay,” you said.

“We’re not either,” James replied.

“But we’ll be.” Remus promised.

And in that tiny, broken moment, surrounded by your boys and your wounds and your silence, you believed him. Just a little.

[mssorceressupreme]

Our Deal | F.W

———

Pairing: Fred Weasley x hufflepuff!reader (works for any house really, except gryffindor for story purpose)

Summary: stuck in detention with Fred for a prank you never did, grants you the deal of a lifetime. Fred would help you get with your crush, Oliver Wood, and you get him with his, Gabriella Moon, in time for the Yule Ball. Though, as you spend more time teaching each other how to "flirt", complicated feelings start to arise.

Warnings/content: hufflepuff!reader, subtle enemies to lovers, mutual pining, jealous!fred, protective!fred, jealous!reader, mentions of alcohol, parties, quidditch injury, injured!reader, tension, flirting, kissing, teasing, Yule Ball

Wordcount: 6.8k (got carried away and kinda wrote a mini fic 😭🙏🏼)

———

“This is entirely your fault,” you snapped, bending down to scrub at the sticky residue on the stone floor. “I had nothing to do with that prank.” The potions storage room air reeked with the scent of something foul, probably from whatever concoction had spilled from the shelves earlier today. All thanks to that stupid explosion caused by none other than the twin's prank just outside the room.

You gestured around at the remnants of the prank—green goo still dripping from the shelves, a set of abandoned dungbombs rolling near the base of Snape’s desk. Crossing your arms, you huffed as you glared at Fred, who was leaning against the wall with that insufferable smirk, clearly enjoying your misery.

Fred chuckled, tossing a sponge into the air and catching it lazily. “Yeah, yeah, tell that to Snape. You just happened to be there, hands covered in fluorescent goo, looking guilty as hell, which might I add, doesn't help with your case.”

“I was cleaning up the mess, Fred, not causing it” you gritted out, shoving the bucket closer to him. “Unlike you, who just stood there laughing while George ran for his life.”

Fred grinned, bending down to soak his sponge in water. “Ah, Georgie. Quick on his feet, that one. Maybe you should take notes for next time.”

Lucky for George, he managed to escape Snape's fury, leaving the stupendous detention task of reorganising and cleaning the entire potions storage room to the two of you.

“There won’t be a next time because I don’t do pranks,” you retorted. “Unlike some people.”

Fred gasped, pausing from squeezing the water out of his sponge, “No pranks? No mischief? Merlin, what a dull existence.”

You scowled, but your lips twitched. “Not all of us live for chaos.”

“You sure? Because you seem to enjoy my company a lot for someone who claims to be innocent,” he teased, turning his attention to scrubbing the fluorescent goop from the floor.

“Oh, shush If I weren’t such a good person, I’d leave this room right now and tell Snape about the other pranks you and George are planning.”

Fred turned to face you, holding back a doubtful laugh as he momentarily stopped scrubbing, “You wouldn't dare, Y/L/N.” his tone sprinkled with a hint of mockery.

You rolled your eyes, dipping your sponge back into the murky water. “Unfortunately you're right.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Because you secretly like me?”

“Because I’m not a snitch,” you corrected smugly. ____ An hour later, you were balancing on a stool, reaching for a jar of pickled salamander eyes while Fred stacked vials below. You glanced down at him, waiting for him to pass you more vials for the higher shelves.

A small played on his lips, Fred exhaled softly before handing you another vial, “Alright, since I do feel a tiny bit bad about dragging you into this, I’ll make it up to you.”

You raised your brow suspiciously. “How?”

Fred’s smirk returned. “The Yule Ball's coming up, right? I’ll help you get with whoever you want."

"In return, you promise not to rat me out about, oh, I don’t know, the prank in the Great Hall last week. Or the one from two days ago in McGonagall’s class. Or the—" He continued but you interjected swiftly.

Your eyes widened slightly, finally registering what he just offered. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, placing another vial on one of the lower shelves. “You name the bloke, and I’ll be your personal matchmaking genius.”

"You're kidding." You pressed your lips together, skeptical.

"Am not." He affirmed, "Go on, the look on your face says you have someone in mind Y/N."

A slow grin spread across your face, but you hesitated. "No one in mind." You shrugged.

Fred folded his arms, eyeing you up and down before tilting his head to the side, "I'm sensing...someone....taller than you?" Yeah, no kidding.

Without thinking you retorted, "Yeah obviously he's taller than me." Your hands flew at the speed of light to cover your mouth while turning to face away from Fred.

You hoped to hide your flushness, but you ended up losing your balance on the stool in the process. "Merlin, don't tell me you're quite literally falling for him." Fred quickly held your waist, steadying you before you could meet the ground. You grabbed his shoulder for support before adjusting yourself and returning to your respective task of arranging the vials on the upper shelf. You hadn't planned on telling anyone about your secret crush on Oliver Wood, but here you were, letting these words slip aimlessly out of your mouth.

Fred took your silence as an answer, curiosity lingering in the air.

"Ah, so there is someone on your mind." He pressed, "And who’s the unfortunate sod you fancy?"

You paused, feeling the heat of his gaze from below, "Oliver Wood..." You mumbled all too softly; even the house elves, with their sharp hearing abilities, wouldn't be able to decipher what you said.

Exhaling, you got down from the stool, standing in front of Fred and avoiding eye contact at all costs. He took slow tentative steps toward you, bending down to your level so he could hear, "Come again?" You could feel his breath on your skin.

Your eyes found his, not registering how close he was, "Oliver Wood." Your face tainted a light shade of red.

Fred choked on air, a loud chortle escaped him, "Wood? The Gryffindor Captain, Mr. ‘Quidditch is My One True Love’?"

"Shut up," you mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks. You placed a hand on his chest and shoved him away playfully, "Don't tell anyone! I'll vanish off the face of this earth if you do."

Fred laughed, shaking his head. “Blimey, you’ve got high standards.”

“I barely know him, but he’s just—” You sighed wistfully. “He’s so kind and driven and—”

“Obsessed with Quidditch?” Fred interjected.

“Yes, but in a dedicated way,” you said dreamily.

Fred snorted. "Merlin, alright, fine. I’ll help you. But just know that if I have to listen to you swoon over Wood for the next month, you owe me more than just detention duty."

You beamed. “Deal.”

“Good. Because I might need your help, too.”

You tilted your head, furrowing your brows. “With what?”

Fred leaned forward conspiratorially. “Gabriella Moon.”

"Gabriella? As in, my Gabriella?"

"I didn’t realise you had ownership over her," Fred mused. "But yes, your Hufflepuff friend."

You nodded, grinning. "Oh for sure, I can definitely help with that. Piece of cake."

Gabriella was in your house, a sweet and kind Hufflepuff, and you got along with her well. Setting her up with Fred should be a simple, easy, task.

"Alright, Weasley. You’ve got yourself a deal."

Fred held out his hand, and you shook it—sealing a pact neither of you realised would completely change everything.

"Our deal." He affirmed.

____ The deal meant spending more time together. At first, it was simple things—giving each other tips, practicing flirting, and being seen together enough to spark curiosity.

One evening in the Great Hall, Fred joined you at the Hufflepuff table. Your friends sat with you, but you were so engrossed with Fred, that everyone seemed to disappear into the background, feeling as though it was only the two of you in the hall.

Fred leaned in with a smirk after placing a dinner roll on your plate, which he knew you enjoyed pairing with butter. "Alright, say I’m Oliver—how would you charm me?"

You exhaled dramatically. "Fine." You turned to him, putting on your best smile. "Hey, Oliver, fancy seeing you here. Do you always look this good after practice?"

Fred chortled, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice. "Merlin’s beard, that was atrocious."

You gasped, smacking his arm. "It was not!"

"It was!" Fred wheezed, clutching his chest. "Try again, but maybe without sounding like a lovesick poet."

You scowled but tried again. "Alright, then. How about this—‘I hear you’re the best Keeper Hogwarts has ever had. Think you could keep me?’"

Fred blinked, then groaned throwing his head back. "Oh, that was painful."

You shoved his shoulder, laughing. "I hate you."

"Sure you do," he teased, winking. "Now, do I get a turn?"

"Go on, then," you challenged, crossing your arms.

Fred turned, propped his elbow on the table, and smirked. "Hey, Gabriella," he began, "are you a Snitch? Because you’ve got me chasing after you."

You stared at him, face scrunching up in disgust. It was as though you had just witnessed a crime.

He wiggled his eyebrows before taking a mouthful of peas, chewing as he awaited your response.

You burst out laughing. "Oh, that’s horrible. No wonder you need my help."

Fred's mouth dropped, "Excuse you, that was a good chat up. Thank you very much."

You both laughed, completely unaware of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs watching the way you two bantered—how Fred’s eyes softened when you laughed, how you bit your lip when he grinned. You weren't super close to Fred, just casual friends, but you had to admit, these few recent days had you seeing him in a different light, he was more carefree around you, cheery, and you felt yourself coming out of your shell, all thanks to him.

You were confident in approaching Oliver now, and all the more excited for it.

____

"No, no! Merlin, Fred, you're going to scare the girl away if you look at her like that." The next few days were all about perfecting your tactics, anything to impress your targets, of course.

"Like what?" He sat beside you on the couch in the Gryffindor common room. It was a Saturday, and naturally, most students were either at Hogsmeade, outside, or sleeping in, leaving most of the space to the two of you.

"Again! Again..." You waved your hands, ushering him off the couch. "Pretend I'm Gabriella, and I'm sitting on a bench somewhere nice. You've just walked into the place, and you see her."

Fred straightened his shirt, retreating from the couch, before strolling over to you again, a devious smirk painted on his face, his hair slightly tousled and messy. He held his chin up high, and his arms swayed beside his lanky figure as he approached you.

"Y/N? Fancy seeing you here!" He beamed, pretending to act out the scenario.

"Wrong." You corrected, "Not Y/N, Gabriella." You flashed your brows, and he exhaled, walking away to take his place once again.

He strolled to you, once more, "Gabriella! Haven't seen you in a bit! What brings you here?"

You nodded, indicating he was doing a decent job so far, encouraging him to continue.

Fred plopped himself beside you, your knees were touching and he extended an arm around you.

"I"m good! This is my favourite place to unwind actually." You fake-mocked Gabriella, pretending to be her in this situation.

"Well, then I guess you'll be seeing me here more often, darling." Fred leaned in, you could feel his body heat against you, and you blinked before shaking your head.

"Darling? You barely know the girl!" You chuckled, and Fred's eyes glinted with awe as you threw your head back, he had not realised it, but your laughter ignited a warm honey like feeling in his chest.

"Fine, what about love? Baby? Babe?"

"No no, save those for when you're actually with her, but I suppose 'love' is a good place to start."

"Alright, love." He teased, and you playfully smacked him but an idea popped into your head, and immediately, you got into character.

"If you say so, Oliver." You pretended to act as if you would in this scenario with Wood.

Fred, still seated next to you, glanced down from your eyes to your lips.

You leaned in, tilting your head and gazing from his left eye, to his lips, then to his right eye. You smiled sweetly, blinking slowly as you gave Fred your full attention, staring at him with doe-like eyes, "So, Oliver, how was quidditch practice today?"

Fred gulped, eyes blinking rapidly as he coughed, "G-Good."

You smirked, lowering your voice, "I'm sure it would've been better if I was there with you." You bit your lip as you glanced at his lips.

"You should come to the next one." Fred responded softly, smiling as he leaned in, ever so slightly, one arm still wrapped around you, and you were fully within his proximity.

You could feel your breaths against each other; his scent crept its way to your nose, and you scrunched it. He smelt like fresh grass on a hot summer's day and clean laundry in the fresh breeze, something you'd never noticed before.

There was a moment of comfortable silence, but the portrait door clicked open, and some students returned from their trip to Hogsmeade.

"That was, uh, something I'd say if I was with Oliver." You quickly dismissed this, leaning back to a comfortable distance. Fred cleared his throat, and removed his arm, "Yeah, that was good. See, told you I was a good teacher."

You scoffed, "You? Please that one was all me."

"S'pose you are getting pretty good at this, annoyingly so, in fact." He hummed and you mouth dropped slightly,

"Is that a compliment?" You beamed, wiggling a happy dance in your seat.

"Don't get too cocky Y/L/N, I have yet to see you interact with him." Fred laughed, attempting to hide his awe for your little dance.

____

Days passed, and you found yourself spending an increasing amount of time at the Gryffindor table, supposedly to get closer to Oliver. But somehow, you always ended up next to Fred, bickering, laughing, sharing food.

People noticed—Hermione tried, and failed miserably to hide her excitement for you two, George outright smirked, Ginny started whispering to Harry, smiling at the thought of the two of you, Ron was amused at how Fred could pull someone as gorgeous as you.

Only you and Fred knew about your deal, to them, they saw this as a newfound friendship, alliance, even...romance? Hermione seems to think the latter describes your relationship perfectly.

You brushed it off, for you knew that you were only helping each other, and once the deal was over, you would go back to normal.

The topic of quidditch was no foreign topic at this table, Harry making remarks about how he'll confront Malfoy, Angelina and George talking about the Nimbus 2000, Oliver and Fred discussing a new game plan.

"Hey Y/N, why don't you come watch us at practice today after lunch, it'll be fun." Oliver invited you, and you blinked in surprise.

"I'd love to!" You chimed, "How could I pass on a chance to support the best quidditch team at Hogwarts?"

Oliver beamed, laughing softly at your enthusiasm, "Ooh careful now, don't want Hufflepuff's quidditch team to hear that now do ya?"

"Consider me an ally of both teams." You chuckled, and he grinned, smiling warmly at you.

"Surely you become an honourary Gryffindor for the day?" Oliver raised his brow, before taking a bite of his toast.

"Won't miss me too much when I switch back to Hufflepuff would you?" You teased.

"Then I'll just ask you to join Gryffindor again."

You were about to pour yourself some orange juice, but Oliver moved at the speed of light, "Here, let me." He poured a glass for you, then one for himself. "Fred? Some for you too?"

"Nah mate, I'm pretty full."

Fred silently watched the two of you interact; a part of him was happy and proud, seeing the way you effortlessly interacted with Oliver, but there was this foreign feeling inside him. Like a splinter poking him from the inside, if that were even possible.

His eyes darted from you, to Oliver, then back to you.

Each time you paid attention to Oliver, laughed at his quips, his charm, a small part of Fred wanted that attention from you, again.

He wanted you for himself.

Fred shook his head, dismissing all these thoughts, where were they even coming from? He knew one thing thought, he was being silly thinking about you like this.

However, Gabriella was starting to become a long-forgotten thought.

The only person consuming his mind lately, seemed to be…you.

Fred exhaled, taking a sip of his water, hoping to refresh his mind from whatever nonsense he thought about.

It didn’t matter anyway because after this deal was done, and you were happy with Oliver, that was it. You’d go your separate ways, well, mostly. That was, after all, the whole point of you becoming close with Fred.

"By the way, is it alright if I bring a friend?" You asked Oliver.

"The more the merrier!"

"I'll bring Gabriella." You whispered trying to contain your excitement, nudging Fred who was seated beside you.

He was quickly snapped out of his thoughts, "Oh, yeah, that'll be great."

____

Later that afternoon, you sat in the stands with Hermione, Gabriella, and Ginny, watching Gryffindor’s practice. Oliver was in his element—focused, determined, calling out plays.

Your eyes were glued to him, who looked impossibly handsome as he soared through the air, his hair ruffled by the wind. He turned, caught your gaze, and waved with that signature kind smile of his.

Your heart stuttered and a faint blush crept on your cheeks, moments like this only pulled you in deeper. Part of the reason you fell for him, was that one day you were lost and he helped you find your way to class. Being younger than him, he felt the duty to lookout for his juniors, he was patient, kind and made you feel right at home when you felt lost. His kindness was just so endearing.

"Go Oli!!" You cheered, and Oliver waved at you again.

"Nicknames already?" Hermione, seated next to you, smiled knowingly and you chuckled as a response.

"Fred looks really determined today, isn't that a good look on him?" You nudged Gabriella, hoping to steer her focus onto Fred.

"Yeah, he does look kinda cute." She agreed, grinning up at him. "Also, thanks for inviting me Y/N, this is really nice." Gabriella turned to you, smiling sweetly. She was a kind soul, much like you, always helping others and making sure everyone felt comfortable. Of course guys would fancy her.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Fred. His red hair caught the sunlight in a way that made it seem almost golden, his strong frame relaxed but still commanding attention as he sat on his broomstick, laughing with George.

There was something about him today—maybe the way his sleeves were rolled up, or the effortless confidence he carried. And for some reason, your found your heartpace steadily increasing as you continued observing him.

No. No, this was about Oliver. You shook the thought away and focused on the Gryffindor Captain instead.

Moments later, Angelina, Oliver, and Katie flew over, beaming. “Oi, you lot! Come play a friendly match with us!” Angelina called, gesturing eagerly.

You hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know... I’m not really—”

“Come on, it’s just for fun,” Oliver encouraged, flying closer. His eyes met yours, playful and inviting. You wanted to impress him. So, against better judgment, you stood and dusted off your robes. The four of you made your way down to the grassy field, and used some spare brooms.

Ginny, Hermione, and Gabriella exchanged amused glances but joined in as well.

You borrowed a broomstick—the nearest one, which happened to be Fred’s. "Can I?" You smirked, turning to Fred who took a quick break, reaching into his bag for his bottle.

"Yeah yeah, if you break it I'll crack your head." Fred teased, before chugging his water. With that, you kicked off the ground, feeling the rush of wind as you soared into the air.

The game was lighthearted, filled with teasing and playful competition. You and Oliver found yourselves in the same airspace often, exchanging witty remarks and laughter.

It felt effortless, easy. Below, Fred stood watching, arms crossed, watching in amusement as you 'bonded' with Oliver. Though you weren't sure if amusement, was the right word to use here, seeing how he kept tapping his foot.

“You’re getting the hang of this!” Oliver grinned, flying beside you.

“I’m just trying to keep up,” you joked, glancing at him.

So caught up in the moment, you didn’t notice the Bludger hurtling toward you until it slammed into your shoulder with brutal force.

Pain exploded through your arm, and your broom wobbled violently beneath you. You gasped as your grip faltered, and before you knew it, you were falling.

The ground rushed toward you, and you thudded harshly on the grassy patch. Ouch.

Oliver flew down hastily, but before he could reach you, Fred was already there, kneeling beside you, face pale.

“Are you daft?” he scolded, voice tight. “Didn’t you see that Bludger?”

You winced, trying to sit up. “It wasn’t that bad—”

“Not that bad? You fell from twenty feet up,” he snapped, his hands hovering over you like he didn’t know where to touch in case he hurt you further. “You’re going to the hospital wing.”

Oliver finally reached you, eyes filled with concern. “You alright?” He looked from you to Fred, who was still kneeling beside you, jaw clenched.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, but Fred wasn’t having it. Before you could protest, he scooped you up effortlessly, ignoring your weak protests.

“You’re being overdramatic,” you huffed, but your heart betrayed you, beating erratically against your ribs as Fred carried you toward the castle.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he shot back, striding forward without a second glance at Oliver, who remained standing on the pitch, watching with an expression that hinted he had figured something out.

He observed as Fred held you close, furrowing his eyebrows slightly, "Hm." He was so sure that you and Fred were just friends, but the way Fred acted today made Oliver doubtful.

The others stayed back to practice, you assured them that you were fine, and that there was no need to come. ___

Madam Pomfrey fussed over you, muttering about reckless students and dangerous sports as she poured a bitter healing potion down your throat. “You’re lucky it wasn’t a full-speed hit,” she chided, waving her wand to mend the bruising on your shoulder.

Fred stayed beside you the whole time, leaning against the infirmary bed with that signature mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “So, you were trying to impress Wood, huh?” he mused, arching a brow.

“Shut up,” you muttered, cheeks warming.

“Not my fault you nearly died doing it,” he teased, nudging you playfully. “Maybe I should give you some lessons on how to survive Quidditch.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I should give you lessons on how to stop being so intolerable.”

Fred smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You laughed, the earlier pain fading into the background as the two of you fell into easy conversation.

He stayed with you the rest of the day until you felt better enough to head back to your dorm.

____

The next day, the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match had the entire school buzzing with chatter. The game was brutal, with Slytherin coming in close, though Gryffindor still came out victorious.

The moment the Snitch was caught, the stands erupted into cheers, the players celebrating mid-air before descending to the field. You watched Fred among them, his face lit up with triumph. When his eyes met yours, something unspoken passed between you.

And you weren’t so sure anymore if Oliver Wood was the one making your heart race.

You, Hermione and Gabriella made your way down to the team, "You guys smashed it out there." You chimed, clapping for the them.

"Couldn't have done it without your support." Oliver walked over to you, hi-fiving your hand which you extended for him.

"You played amazingly, especially in the second half! Fred—the way you hit the bludger right before it touched the ground, just, wow!" Gabriella beamed, waving her hands around expressively.

"Hey, all in a day's work." Fred expressed, cockily brushing his hands together which earned a giggle from Gabriella.

"You know, you should come to the party tonight, hosted by yours truly." Fred shuffled closer to Gabriella, extended his arms as he gave himself credit for hosting the party.

"More of a team effort actually, he just talks too much." Lee quipped, "But yeah, you guys should come. Gryffindor common room, at 7."

"We'll be there." Gabriella replied for the two of you, twirling her hair as she smiled sweetly at Fred.

You were happy for her truly, especially Fred, who was grinning back at her, engaging in a new conversation about what'll transpire at the party tonight.

You were happy. Yes, you were.

But, does someone who is supposedly happy for their friend, feel a pit in their stomach every time they watch them with their respective crush?

____

"How do I look?" Gabriella asked, gesturing to her outfit, fitted flared blue jeans and a yellow peplum top, with a yellow bow to accessorise.

"You look stunning, Fred's going to love it!" You chimed, "Oh wait, here-" You helped straightened her bow from the behind, "Perfect."

"Look who's talking, Oliver's going to swoon over you when he sees you in that black dress!" Gabriella stood beside you, looking in the full body mirror, shaking with excitement for the party.

The two of you made your way over to the Gryffindor common room, met with a few ravenclaws and fellow hufflepuffs by the portrait entrance.

It was no surprise that the common room was alive with celebration and merriment. You and Gabriella stepped inside, immediately greeted by George and Lee, who enthusiastically showed you around.

"Welcome welcome! You guys look great!" Lee hyped you two up, always the enhusiast.

Laughter, chatter, and the warmth of victory filled the space. As your eyes scanned the room, they landed on Fred and Oliver by the fireplace, who spotted you and beckoned you both over with bright grins.

After a while of lively conversation in the group, you and Gabriella naturally parted ways—her heading away to the couch with Fred while Oliver guided you to where his friends stood.

You chatted and laughed, but something felt off. Your attention was divided, and no matter how much you tried to focus on Oliver and his friends, your eyes kept finding Fred’s.

Across the room, you noticed his eyes constantly meeting yours, just as much as yours longed to find his.

You were snapped out of your gaze when one of Oliver’s friends playfully nudged you, shoving a drink into your hands. “Come on, have some firewhiskey on me! You’ve got to celebrate properly!”

"Oh wow, where'd you manage to get that?" You asked, curious as to how he managed to sneak in alcohol. Granted, he was older than you so it was fair to assume he was more daring when it came to liquor.

"I have my sources." The guy wiggled his brows, "Come on, drink up Y/N, join us!"

You hesitated. “I’m good, really.”

“Oh, don’t be a buzzkill. Just one!” He pushed again, grinning as if it were a challenge.

“I said I don’t want to.” Your voice was firmer now, but he rolled his eyes.

Oliver sensed your discomfort and interjected swiftly, “Knock it off Felix. She doesn’t have to drink if she doesn’t want to.”

"Alright alright, you're just a wee girl after all innit." Felix chuckled, "More for me then."

Wee girl? Merlin, who does he think he is? You scoffed to yourself, shifting closer to Oliver.

Still, the group laughed it off, and you suddenly felt uncomfortable, wanting to be anywhere but here. You excused yourself quickly, heading upstairs to a quieter gryffindor study room.

The party noise faded, and you sank into one of the couches, taking a deep breath.

A knock came at the door, before it slowly opened.

Truthfully, a wave of relief washed over you when you saw Fred entering, his usual smugness replaced with something softer. “Saw Felix being a git, it's safe to say he won't ever bother you again.”

Fred's implication that he had a word with Felix made you all the more relieved, you exhaled softly, nodding.

You smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

He stood at the doorframe for a second, inspecting your state before slowly walking over. The couch dipped upon the weight of him as he sat beside you.

“You okay?” He nudged you with his body gently.

You nodded, looking forward though you felt his gaze on you. “Yeah. Just needed a minute.”

He listened intently, offering you the silence you much needed after the earlier commotion.

There was a pause before you turned to face him, “How’s it going with Gabriella?”

Fred shrugged. “Good,” he lied, then exhaled. “Alright, fine. She’s nice, but I think I bored her to death. She’s talking to Neville about some plants now.”

You chuckled. “Plants are fascinating.”

“To you, maybe. Not exactly my best topic,” Fred admitted. "Might buy a bouquet or two, but other than that I'm clueless."

"If you do, red roses are the way to go. She loves them, practically every girl does."

"Including you?"

"I adore them. Sounds a bit basic but they're a classic for a reason, they're just so...romantic." Your eyes glistened as you spoke about roses, dreaming of the day someone would buy you flowers.

"Noted, I'll pass a good word to Oliver." Fred chuckled, smiling at the way your eyes lit up, but his smiled disappeared when you frowned, a sigh escaping your lips.

“I think I’m losing it with Oliver. I feel like a total idiot for not drinking in front of him and his friends."

Fred shook his head. “Nah, you’re not an idiot....maybe a little, but not a full blown one." You slapped his arm playfully, but he continued, raising his hands in defence, "If anything, that makes you better than them. You don’t need to do anything to impress him, so what if you don't feel like drinking?”

"I don't think I'll face him again, if his friends hate me, he'll probably grow to dislike me." You groaned, burying your face in your hands.

"Nothing a little flirting can't solve," Fred was optimistic, attempting to cheer you up in this moment of despair, "Next time you see him, get more touchy. When you laugh, place a hand on his arm, lean on him, lean in to him...y'know, the usual."

"Ugh, in front of his friends?" You grumbled.

"All the better, shows you've got game." He continued to give you tips on how to approach Oliver again later, helping you plan your next move.

It was only fair of you to return the favour, leaning in slightly. “Right, so, lean in when you talk to her, like this,” you said, demonstrating the closeness.

Fred swallowed, blinking at you. “Like this?” He mimicked you, your shoulders were touching all the more, your face near his neck, his mouth a few inches away from your forehead.

You nodded, voice softer now. “And maybe say something like… ‘Your eyes are a remarkable shade of hazel, I never noticed how stunning they were until up close now. They sparkle beautifully in the moonlight, yet they manage to shine even brighter when you're caring.’”

It was meant for Gabriella. But as you spoke, something in your chest tightened. You were speaking to Fred. Really speaking to him. His hazel eyes met yours, and he leaned in once more.

His mouth parted slightly, as his eyes darted to your lips then back to your eyes. You found yourself leaning in too, your breathing became heavy.

Your heart felt like it was going to pounce out of your chest with the rate it was beating.

The air between you stilled as you both realised the weight of your words.

Before he could respond, the door creaked open. You and Fred jumped apart just as Oliver and Gabriella entered, looking at you both in confusion.

“There you are, we were wondering where you two had vanished off too.” Gabriella remarked, her eyes darting from Fred to you.

Your heart raced and Fred's face flushed a shade of red. Though completely innocent, if felt as though you were caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing.

Flustered, you quickly went to Oliver, while Gabriella made her way to Fred.

The rest of the party carried on, fun and lively, but you couldn’t shake the strange feeling that lingered. No matter how much you tried to focus on Oliver, your gaze kept drifting back to Fred.

____

The anticipation leading up to the Yule Ball had everyone on edge. With the Yule Ball near approaching, the talk of the castle revolved around the ball; students asking each other to the dance, flowers being exchanged, and whispers filling the corridors.

You woke up that morning with only one name in your mind—Fred Weasley. It was irritating, really. You weren’t supposed to be thinking about him. You liked Oliver. You were going with Oliver. And yet, Fred’s stupid, mischievous grin had invaded your thoughts like an unrelenting charm.

At breakfast, you sat with Gabriella at your usual hufflepuff table, chatting about the Yule Ball. She was gushing about how beautiful everything was going to look, the magical snowflakes, the ice sculptures, the romantic lighting. You smiled along, but your mind was elsewhere. Across the hall, Fred was laughing with George, but every so often, you swore you caught him glancing at you.

After your 'Defence Against the Dark Arts' class, you walked out with Harry, Ron, and Hermione when Oliver approached. He was holding a bouquet of red roses, his confident smile making you a blushing mess.

"Y/N," he said warmly, holding out the flowers. "Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the Yule Ball?"

You paused, then beamed. "Of course, Oliver. I'd love to!" He pulled you in for a warm hug while students around you cheered, and whistled loudly.

You were happy—you really were. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? But as you took the roses, a strange heaviness settled in your chest.

Later that day, you found yourself with Fred, helping him prepare to ask Gabriella. You were ranting about Oliver, swooning over how charming he was. Fred, though smiling, was already fuming inside. He wanted to be happy for you. He wanted to believe this was all fine. But every word you spoke about Oliver grated on his nerves.

"Do you think Gabriella will like this?" Fred asked, holding up a box of assorted chocolates, changing the topic quickly after countless nods and 'that's great' as a response to you gushing over Oliver.

You turned to him, considering. "Yeah, she will, can't go wrong with chocolate. You got this, Freddie!"

"Right," he said, running a hand through his hair, looking more uncertain than usual. He was prolonging it, he knew it. He didn't want to ask her. He had someone else on his mind now. But what choice did he have? You were already going with Oliver.

When he finally did ask Gabriella in the courtyard, you cheered for him, clapping as she said yes. It was the right outcome—technically, you both won. And yet, watching Fred grin as he hugged Gabriella filled you with an unexpected wave of envy.

_____

The Yule Ball arrived in a flurry of excitement. You walked down the stairs with Oliver, arm in arm, dressed in your most elegant red gown. Across the entrance, you saw Fred with Gabriella. You both gave each other thumbs-up and smiled, though your smile never quite reached your eyes, nor did Fred's.

As you approached the entrance, Oliver and Gabriella walked in first, conversing with each other, leaving you and Fred standing alone for a moment.

Fred shoved his hands into his pockets before breaking the silence, "So…we both got what we wanted."

You exhaled, forcing a smile. "Yeah…we both got with our dates. All too smoothly, I might add."

You both chuckled, but there was an undeniable weight in the air.

"You look nice, cleaned up well for Oliver eh? Lucky bloke." Fred joked, though his voice was laced with subtle serious undertone.

"Hm, you don't look like a grindylow for once, I see you clean up pretty nicely too."

He chuckled softly, removing his hands from his pockets. Neither of you moved, it was as though a silent message of 'please stay here with me' was shared.

You hesitated before extending your hand. "Thank you, Fred. For everything."

He took your hand, shaking it lightly, but neither of you let go. There was a static, a spark, if you would, something both of you didn’t want to ignore. You both looked down at your touching hands, then back to each other.

Oblivious as to what the other party was thinking, the two of you decided to ignore it, let go, and move on, for the better, right?

"So, that's our deal done then?" you said slowly, though regretting it.

Fred swallowed hard, nodding. "Yeah. I'll, uh…see you around school then."

Your heart clenched, but for the sake of the ball, you put on your best grin. "I'll see you around, Fred."

You then turned to Oliver who was a few steps ahead, extending his arm to you. As you walked with him into the ballroom, you turned back one last time.

Fred was still standing there. You waved. He waved back, smiling—but his eyes told you that there was something masked beneath that smile. Gabriella came up to him, and they walked inside together, you turned forward to let them have their moment.

The ball was everything you imagined—beautiful, magical, enchanting. Oliver was the perfect gentleman, twirling you around the dance floor, kissing your hand, your cheek, your forehead, even. He got you punch, held the door open, pulled out your chair, he was the ideal guy, truly ticking off all your boxes.

You smiled at him, but your heart was never quite satisfied, there was a space yet to be filled.

And you hated that you knew why.

Your eyes kept drifting to him. He was dancing with Gabriella, but his mind was far away. Uncomfortable. Lost.

You chuckled to yourself, shaking off this silly feeling, turning your attention back to Oliver, who was explaining about his latest tactics for the upcoming Quidditch match with ravenclaw.

____

Later that night, Oliver walked you back to your common room. He leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to the back of your hand. "Goodnight, Y/N."

You lips curled up into a grateful smile, thanking him for the wonderful evening, but as he turned to leave, something inside you snapped.

If something was wrong, you needed to fix it. Merlin, what's the point in waiting? If something didn't feel right, your gut knew that you had to fix it right away. And this, was one of those moments.

You turned on your heel and ran in your red gown. Through the castle, past students, up and down staircases—you had no plan, no direction, just a need to find him.

Until you did.

At the main staircase, you froze. Fred was at the bottom, looking up at you. He was holding a bouquet of red roses.

Your throat tightened, immediately regretting your decision. "For Gabriella?"

Fred shook his head. "No." He stepped forward, "They're for you."

Your paused, holding your breath as he started walking up the stairs, to you.

"Y/N, I—" Fred hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "I don’t want Gabriella. I don't think I ever did, truthfully. I just…I wanted to be with you. And I was too much of a git to see it until it was too late."

Tears burned at your eyes. "Fred—"

"I don't care about the deal. I don't care about anything except you. I don't want to ever lose you Y/N. And if I have to watch you with Oliver one more time, I think I might actually go mental."

He was close now, the roses in one hand, the other reaching for you.

You let out a shaky laugh. "You're such a git, you know that?"

Fred grinned, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek and tucking it behind your ear. "Yeah. But I’m your silly git, if you'll have me."

You didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. You surged forward, crashing your lips to his, your hands gripping his suit. He dropped the flowers, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

It was passionate, desperate, hungry, everything you had ever wanted but had been too blind to admit. The kiss of two people who were starving and desperately in need of each other. Fred savoured every bit of your mouth, as though tomorrow would never come, ending with a sweet peck.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, a grin sprawled across that deviously handsome face of his, his hair messy but Merlin, it was such a look on him. "So, I take it that’s a yes, love?"

You laughed, leaning your forehead against his. "Yes, you fool."

Fred cupped your face, thumb brushing over your cheek once again. "Best deal I’ve ever made."

[theliving-radio]

I for real want a continuation of dragon baby sibling accident 😭😭 it’s so cute 💖💖💖 like how would Lilia react to seeing a baby dragon again and seeing Malleus just gush 100x more over the baby dragon prefect!! It’s just all so cute 🥹

A continuation from this: Baby Sibling turning into a Baby Dragon

“Lilia, hand me back my Baby Sibling!”

“No! Look how cute they are! And they are so docile too! You were a menace, even while still in your egg!”

Lilia was currently hanging upside down on the ceiling in the Diasomnia Dorm. Thankfully he was holding your baby dragon form up right.

“Father, I think it’s best to hand Malleus the Prefect.” Silver mentioned as he stared up at his adopted father, who was happily swaying you side to side while walking on the ceiling.

“Oh he’ll get them back in just a bit- Oh my Sevens! One of their scales are off colored on the back of their hind leg! Just like yours when you were a hatchling!”

“HAND THEM OVER!”

Other Diasomnia students who were in the lounge were able to watch their Dorm Leader huffing and puffing as he demanded to see the transformed Prefect.

At this point of time, they were all used to Malleus’s behavior towards his Baby Sibling. One of the strongest mages in Twisted Wonderland being a total loser for their adopted Baby Sibling?

Yeah, that’s their dorm leader.

You look at Lilia upside down face, he smiles at you when slowly blink at him and let out a happy chirp.

The bat fae lets out a high pitch squeal.

You’re so freaking cute!

“LILIA! I DEMAND TO HOLD MY BABY SIBLING!!”

“Watch your tone boy! I’m not giving them to you if you keep acting like a brat!”

Malleus huffs and begins to pout as he watches Lilia coo and play with you. You let out a small squeak and that’s when Malleus finally decided he had enough. Using magic, he lifted himself off the ground and floated up to the ceiling,

Lilia glances over at the younger fae and squints his eyes. “Really now, you’ve come to take them from me? Can’t this old fae just appreciate the newborn peacefully.”

“You’ve had their full attention for far too long-,”

“It’s been 15 minutes!”

“I will be taking my Baby Sibling back.”

Malleus reaches out to take you from Lilia, but before doing so, you squirm in the bat fae’s hand…

And jump out from his grasp, away from Malleus.

The whole dorm screams and scrambles to catch you before you’re able to hit the floor.

Your chubby, dragon body feels itself falling, and a small voice in your brain was screaming “WEEEEEEEE”.

Just then you began to start flapping your wings, decreasing the speed of your fall and go into more of a glide.

Students were running and shoving one another to try and reach you in hopes to catch you so you wouldn’t hit the dorms cold, stone floor. But you had a destination in mind:

The silver haired knight.

Silver wasn’t running around or shoving others to catch you, instead he stood perfectly still and raised his arms out, perfectly catching you.

You let out happy chirps and squeaks. “Again! Again!”

“No! Not again!” Malleus was able to understand you and floats back down to where Silver was cradling you in his arms.

Both students stare at each other, waiting for one to make the first move. Silver looked down at your tiny figure, and he couldn’t help but boop your nose. You try snapping your teeth at him which only caused him to chuckle.

“Silver…” Malleus was beginning to become impatient.

“Yeah I know. I’m not like my father.” Silver lifts you with both hands and passes you over to Malleus.

The Dragon Fae went back to smiling as he cradled you against his chest. “Hello my Baby Sibling.”

You stare up at the fae prince and let out a squeak.

Malleus had the urge to bang his head against the wall, you were so cute!

A small sneeze left your tiny mouth, the sound so small not many would hear it. The whole Diasomnia dorm was in awe on how adorable you were.

Lilia descends from the ceiling and looks around. “By the way, where is Sebek?”

“I sent him to stall Professor Crewel from making an antidote to turn the prefect back to normal.”

There was a long pause after that, and Lilia lets out a wheeze before bending over to laugh. Silver only shook his head in disapproval.

The poor half-fae was surely going to get in trouble with his professors…

[bluelockmaniac]

📽 "𝐂𝐔𝐓! ... 𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐂𝐔𝐓!?"

ft. actor!itoshi rin x costar!reader

synopsis. it was finally time to 'act out' the long awaited kiss scene with your celebrity crush, itoshi rin! but when the director yells 'cut!' . . . you both don't stop?

notes. gn!reader, 1.1k wc. popping back in for a bit hehe :)

three months and at least twenty-five near heart attacks later, you were finally about to film the long-awaited kiss scene with none other than the man of your dreams– itoshi rin. and, as fate would have it, it would be your first kiss too! killing two birds with one stone had never felt so terrifyingly thrilling.

having been chosen to co-star with the famous actor in a conventional romance movie had already been surreal enough, but now, after what felt like an eternity of rehearsals and stealing glances at your celebrity crush, it was finally time to place your pretty lips right where they belonged– on his.

the set was filled with blurred murmurs as the crew made their final adjustments, the cameras maneuvered to align their lenses perfectly, the lights flickered as the technicians adjusted them to a soft glow. surprisingly, you were not feeling nervous (rather, excited) though the same could not be said about rin who was seated on the plush prop couch in the middle of the carefully arranged living room set, his fingers drumming impatiently against the cushion.

you took your place behind the apartment door, knuckles barely grazing the wooden surface as you waited for your cue.

the movie director then cleared his throat into his fist and raised the clapperboard. “quiet on set,” he bellowed, and the room instantly fell silent. 

“ready,” thump 

“set,” thump 

“action!”

and the scene commenced.

you knocked on the door and a heartbeat later, rin’s voice floated from the inside– low & collected. 

“the door’s open.” 

short. simple. but most importantly, steady. it seems like he had finally settled into character.

twisting the doorknob, you stepped inside, shutting the door gently behind you. the air between you shifted the moment your eyes met rin’s cerulean gaze. you looked away almost immediately, heat creeping up your neck. pretending to be in love with him wasn’t very difficult when, in truth, there was no acting at all.

“i didn’t think you’d actually come.” rin’s voice was calm. he placed his mug down on the table, then threw his arm over the back of the couch as you approached and sat next to him.

“you called, didn’t you?” you turned toward him, tilting your body slightly as you took the time to scrutinize his face. his expression was unreadable, but you knew the script. furrowing your brows, you breathed out a soft huff. “liar,” you murmured. “you knew i was going to come.”

a ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. then, without hesitation, his arm dropped from the couch, sliding effortlessly around your waist as he pulled you in, closer, until you felt the warmth radiating from him. 

“yeah,” he admitted, “i did. you’ve always been easy to read, after all.”

your heart skipped a beat, but you kept your composure. barely. “cocky as always, i see.”

you scooted closer to him, the space between you turning into nothing as you buried your face into the warmth of his neck. your hands moved to rest on his chest, and you inhaled the familiar, rich scent of his cologne before sighing softly. 

“i missed you, kai,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his skin.

secretly you wished there would come a day when you could whisper rin instead, not his character’s name.

there was a long silence and you contained your excitement for what’s to come like the competent performer you are. after the silence had stretched long enough, your trembling fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and you pushed yourself up. your eyes glistened with professional tears and your voice cracked at just the right moment. 

“i said i missed y–!”

the rest of your line was stolen.

without a word, rin’s hands found your face, fingers firm as he pulled you in, and then– his lips crashed onto yours. it wasn’t gentle. not hesitant either. it was rough and a bit reckless, too. it portrayed his scripted (or was it?) longing for you after 'years of absence' perfectly. his lips moved languidly against your own, and when a quiet whimper escaped you– definitely part of the script (cut yourself some slack, it was your first kiss for god’s sake)– you felt him shudder slightly.

your arms snaked around his neck as you began reciprocating the kiss more eagerly, with one tear cinematically slipping down your cheek. rin’s hand skis down to hold your waist while his nose brushes against yours fleetingly every now and then. it may be wishful thinking but with the way he’s passionately kissing you, you start to think that perhaps rin hadn't been acting this whole time. just like you.

“beautiful… perfect…” the movie director whispered under his breath, wiping a tear of pride as he casts glances at the camera crew filming the two successful stars. with a deep inhale, he readied himself, gripping the clapperboard. 

and–

“CUT!” his crisp voice rings through the set, signaling the end of the scene.

but you don’t pull away.

and neither does rin.

rin took pride in his career as an actor. he’d always been a professional, detached, the kind of actor that did what ought to be done and moved on. no strings, no unnecessary connections. but that was all prior to this because gosh hell would have to freeze over before he lets go of you now.

your lips were magnetic, and from the way you crawl onto his lap, fingers tangling in his hair, kissing deeper, he knows you could feel it too. a soft gasp escapes him as he lands back against the plush pillows of the couch, your weight on top of him, but neither of you seem to care.

the director blinks.

huh. odd. maybe you two didn’t hear the signal, though he was certain his voice was loud enough. “CUT!” he tried again, his voice slightly louder.

but you two were in your own world, too lost in each other to register the world around you.

“i-i said CUT!”

still, neither of you budge. the cameras kept rolling, the crew remained silent. someone sniffles in the background. perhaps, the director thinks, this is even better- like real lovers. you two depicted the raw emotions suspiciously well.

and so, when the film was released, that extended moment (the one where neither you or rin heard the call to stop) was actually kept! the movie was a massive hit, and you two may have started dating after this (the only justifiable course of action after the stuttering and embarrassment that came from you two after the realization).

of course, the director’s frantic shouting had to be muted post-production with advanced editing platforms. oh, and–

the part where rin had accidentally moaned your real name instead of your character’s? yeah. that was cropped out completely.

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