#there is another draft of this in my drafts

[divorcedfranklangdon]

John Shen + his iced coffee

[vicciouxs]

[randomshyperson]

darling, can I be your favorite? - wanda maximoff x reader

summary: A game night at Agatha’s takes a chaotic turn when an old truth surfaces - one that Wanda didn’t expect, and one you thought had been buried by time. Sometimes, even the deepest love begs to be reassured.

warnings: jealousy; mentions of past sexual relationships; possessive behavior; magic-fueled argument; emotionally charged sex; explicit smut; fingering; oral sex (f receiving); praise kink; possessive!Wanda; soft aftermath; emotional vulnerability; affectionate teasing; pillow talk; mild angst with comfort; canon divergence. | words: 4.730k

a/n-> I wrote this as a draft, a couple of weeks ago, when I was going through a very intense Agatha's obsession period, and I totally forgot about it. I was not sure I would use it in a bigger fic because I do want to write immortal, vampire, etc y/n's, but since I didn't, you guys can read it while I work on the upcoming series.

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

"Have you ever slept with my wife?"

The question fell like a thunderclap in the middle of a warm evening.

Silence followed it - dense, choking. Even the soft creak of the porch swing seemed to hold its breath.

You froze, arm still slung casually behind Wanda’s chair, the other hand mid-motion with the wine bottle tilted at a precarious angle. Agatha, across from you, mirrored your stillness, eyes wide, glass of red paused just shy of her lips.

Oh, you should’ve known. This was a terrible idea.

Go out with the witches, they said. Catch up. Share a drink. Invite the literal embodiment of Death, what could possibly go wrong?

It was supposed to be a pleasant night. Drinks on the porch, old stories, the comfort of familiar magic humming softly in the twilight air. But among the four of you, it was always hard to tell who had the sharpest claws - or the most fragile ego.

Your gaze flicked briefly to Wanda, who hadn’t moved. Her hand rested lightly on her thigh, but the tension in her knuckles betrayed her. Her eyes were locked onto Agatha with a heat that could’ve ignited the vineyard around you.

Of course, Agatha was the first to recover. That self-satisfied chuckle of hers was the sound of a match striking.

“What?” she said, tossing her curls over one shoulder like this was just another girls’ night and not a potential crime scene in the making. “Sweetheart, what kind of question is that?”

But Wanda didn’t blink. Her tone was even, and that was far more dangerous.

“A simple one, Aggie.” She leaned back, lacing her fingers on her stomach with rehearsed calm. “Did you two ever sleep together?”

You sucked in a slow breath and, with a tight-lipped smile, retracted your arm from behind Wanda’s chair. The bottle met the table with a soft clink as you moved the wine glass slightly out of reach. Your laugh - dry and brittle - escaped before you could stop it.

“Maybe we’ve had enough to drink for tonight. We should probably - ”

“We’re not leaving,” Wanda interrupted sharply, still staring at Agatha, “until she answers.”

You shifted in your seat, mouth already forming another protest when Rio spoke. Her voice was deceptively calm, but the gleam in her eyes was anything but.

“She?” she asked slowly, arms folding on the table, one brow arching. “What, Y/N can’t answer for herself? Or are you implying Agatha would… what? Force something? Be the only one to blame?”

“I didn’t say that,” Wanda replied coldly.

The atmosphere cracked - subtle, like a shift in the wind before a storm. You could feel it, static in your blood.

And then, Wanda turned her head toward you.

"So?" she asked, voice softer now, velvet over steel. “Tell us, darling - did you and Agatha ever sleep together?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked, maybe a little desperately, at Agatha, who, naturally, had decided to abandon ship entirely. That traitorous witch was lounging back, a slow grin tugging at her lips. She didn’t even bother to hide it. Especially not when Rio’s left hand slid beneath the table and gave her thigh a slow, possessive squeeze.

You watched it happen. You felt it happen. And still, you were the one on the spot.

“Go on,” Rio said, her voice like dark honey. “Tell us if you fucked my wife.”

Your chair scraped loudly against the wood as you stood up, hands raised, gesturing wildly.

“Okay, no - this is a goddamn trap. I’m not stupid. I’m not answering that.”

“Oh, why so jumpy?” Wanda asked, a chuckle breaking through - but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s just a silly little question. We’re all friends here.”

“Debatable,” Agatha muttered under her breath. No one acknowledged it.

You laughed again. Hollow. “Nice try.”

“Darling,” Wanda said again, the smile falling away now. Her voice was raw silk. Dangerous. “Answer. My. Question.”

You sighed deeply, raking your hands through your hair. “I’m three hundred years old, Wanda.”

She arched an unimpressed brow. “That’s not what I asked.”

You groaned. Crossed your arms.

“You know I’ve been with other people before I met you.”

Her voice dropped. “Yes. Other people. But that’s not what I asked, either.”

You turned your eyes to Rio, who hadn’t blinked once since the start of this witch trial. She looked positively serene in her menace.

“I…” your throat tightened. “I want to go home.”

Wanda sighed, low and tight. “Darling, I swear - ”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Agatha snapped, standing abruptly, chair legs screeching against the wood. “Yes, Maximoff! Yes, we slept together. A hundred times. For fun. Out of boredom. Just because we could.”

The air trembled as her voice rose, the kind of voice that could split spells in two.

“You have no idea what eternity feels like, alright? We were friends and - what's the word the young ones use now… fuckbuddies, yes? That. We were that. Long before she decided to cross the ocean and play superhero. Then she met you. It's all good. It never meant anything like what I have with Rio. Or what she has with you. So, really, what are you even doing?”

The explosion was literal.

It happened fast. Magic burst like shrapnel. Spells lit the porch in violent flickers. Furniture launched into the air - an end table shattered against the railing, and you ducked just in time to avoid a cursed candlestick flying past your head.

You weren’t even sure who was fighting whom. At one point, you’re almost certain Wanda and Rio turned on each other, until Agatha yanked her wife out of the chaos with a flash of smoke and a hissed incantation. In the confusion, Rio still managed to catch your arm with a glancing slice - a clean little souvenir.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye properly. Just a muttered curse, a strained wave, and the metallic scent of blood on your sleeve as you guided your very pissed-off wife back to the car.

Wanda didn’t speak the whole drive home. Arms folded tight across her chest, lips pressed in a silent pout, gaze locked out the window. You just shook your head the whole way, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, trying to remind yourself that this was fine. That this wasn’t the first magical brawl you’d had to walk away from, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

The boys texted, cheerful and blissfully unaware. Billy, ever the optimist, had been the one to suggest the “moms’ night out.” A bonding experience. Something soft. Easy. He hadn’t accounted for jealousy spells and poorly buried history.

You replied simply:

“All good at Agatha’s. Hope your night was fun too. Love you.”

The house welcomed you with silence. The kind that echoes in corners and stretches across old wooden floors. You locked the door behind you, Wanda already halfway up the stairs without so much as a glance back. Her coat slipped off her shoulders and vanished midair with a lazy flick of magic.

You sighed.

Dropped your keys in the bowl by the door. Followed.

Neither of you spoke as you peeled off your clothes - the remnants of what was supposed to be a cute little night: soft slacks, silky blouses, the faint smell of wine and sandalwood still clinging to the fabric.

It was only once you were both half-undressed in the bedroom, the moonlight casting gentle patterns across the bedspread, that you couldn’t take her silence anymore.

“Wanda,” you said, voice low but sharp. “Can we talk about tonight?”

She stood with her back to you, fingers slowly working the buttons of her blouse. Her voice came clipped. “There’s nothing to say.”

You huffed a dry laugh, arms crossed loosely as you leaned against the edge of the dresser. “For you, maybe. You’ve been ignoring me since we left.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” she replied flatly. But she avoided your eyes.

You shot her a look that said really? And she sighed again, softer this time.

“I was thinking.”

You shifted your weight, still watching her. “I don’t like the silent treatment.”

She chuckled bitterly. “And I don’t like that you slept with our friend. But, you know, that’s life.”

“Oh my god.” You groaned, tugging your shirt off in one fluid motion and starting to work on your zipper. “This is absurd. You know that, right?”

“I quite agree,” she said dryly, snapping her gaze away from your exposed skin the second your shirt hit the floor. She turned, flustered, fingers unhooking her bra with brisk determination.

“I’m talking about you, Wanda,” you muttered, voice rising a little. “Getting worked up over something that happened a century ago.”

She barked out a sharp laugh and opened the closet, pulling a nightgown with far more force than necessary. “Worse,” you added, “over something that meant nothing.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, eyes narrowed. “It meant nothing. Yet you did it. Hundreds of times, apparently. Just for fun. Like she said.”

“I didn’t even know you back then!” you snapped, incredulous.

The room pulsed with heat - part frustration, part something else, quieter and more tender. You hadn’t wanted to yell. But there was something under her sarcasm that stung. A crack in the armor.

She didn’t answer right away. Her jaw tightened, and she turned slightly, clutching the fabric of her gown as if it might shield her from this conversation entirely.

But she just gives a short, breathy laugh - a sound too bitter to be real - and shakes her head as she steps out of her pants.

For a fleeting second, the weight of the fight evaporates. There she is. Your wife. Bare but for her dark panties, her body bathed in the soft light coming through the curtains.

And you forget how to be mad. You forget the argument.

Until she turns back toward you, and her eyes, glassy and red at the edges, stop you cold.

The frustration in your chest vanishes instantly. You straighten, step forward, and your voice softens like instinct.

“Darling,” you say, barely above a whisper, your hands cradling her cheeks, “why are you crying?”

She sniffs, lashes fluttering as she tries to blink the tears away. Her gaze avoids yours, but she leans into your touch like her skin remembers you better than her pride does.

“If you don’t talk to me,” you murmur, brushing your thumbs along her cheekbones, “how am I supposed to make it better?”

Her hands rise to your forearms, light and hesitant, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed this comfort. Her cheeks are flushed, and for a long moment, all she does is breathe unevenly.

Then, finally, her voice cracks through the quiet.

“Three centuries is a long time, Y/N,” she begins, barely audible. “I’ve only known you for seven years.”

You don’t interrupt. You just listen.

“I know it’s silly, I know,” she continues, voice wavering, “but… you and Agatha have this thing. This rhythm. This history. She’s always throwing it in my face - how well she knows you, how she can predict you, finish your thoughts. And she’s so - so aggravating about it.”

She laughs weakly, then sniffles again, eyes still not quite meeting yours. “And I just… I’m afraid I’m never going to get there. That I’ll always be this late chapter in your life. That I’ll never matter as much.”

Your heart aches at her honesty.

“Oh, Wanda,” you breathe, pressing your forehead to hers. “That’s not true. That’s not true at all.”

She closes her eyes when you kiss her temple - soft, slow, reverent. Then you pull her close, wrapping your arms around her, grounding her in your warmth.

“I love you so much,” you whisper against her hair. “You know that, don’t you?”

She shakes her head, just barely, and your hands gently guide her face back to yours.

“I do, Wanda. I love you a terrifying amount. And yes, Agatha and I have history. But she’s not more important than you. Just like I’m not more important than Rio.”

Your fingers trace calming circles along her waist as her breathing begins to even out.

“We do love each other - Agatha and I - but it’s a different love. Yes, we had sex. But we never made love. We never broke the laws of nature and brought life into the world like she did with Rio. And I’ve never loved someone like I love you.”

Her eyes search yours now, uncertain and wet. You hold her face again, more firmly this time.

“I’ve lived for centuries, Wanda. But it’s only with you that I’ve felt truly alive. Happy. Like I belong somewhere.”

You kiss the corner of her lips, soft and slow.

“I don’t know where these insecurities came from,” you murmur, brushing her tears away with your thumbs, “but I’ll spend every day proving you wrong. Every single day, I’ll remind you how loved you are. What do you say to that?”

Your attempt at lightness breaks the tension just enough. She lets out a teary little laugh and bumps her forehead gently against yours.

“I say…” she whispers, voice trembling, “you better start now.”

She leans in first, lips brushing yours without urgency, just breath and warmth and something far too tender to rush. You both stay like that for a while - nose to nose, hands resting lightly on bare skin, letting the quiet carry all the weight words couldn’t.

When your hands begin to move, it’s with a slowness that almost feels sacred. You know exactly where to touch - where her skin burns hotter, where she arches, where she melts. Your fingers trail down her back, pausing just long enough to tease, before pressing into her hips and lifting her effortlessly into your lap.

She doesn’t stop kissing you - deep and unhurried, her tongue moving against yours with the kind of longing that makes your bones ache. She moans softly when you break the kiss just long enough to ask:

“Shower or bed?”

But the way she clutches your jaw and kisses you harder is answer enough. You're lucky you made it as far as the bed.

She falls back against the mattress with a gasp, her hair fanned out like a halo in disarray. You move to follow, but she tugs you down with her, mouth never leaving yours, legs wrapping tightly around your waist.

The friction when your bodies align makes both of you shudder. Clothes half-on, half-off, hearts racing, and breath hitching.

You look down at her - cheeks flushed, pupils blown, lips kiss-bruised - and think this is what eternity was always meant to feel like.

Your lips trail down Wanda’s throat, lingering at the base where her pulse jumps under your mouth. Her fingers tangle in your hair, her legs tightening around you with a quiet urgency she hasn’t put into words yet.

She’s warm, flushed, her skin humming under your palms. Every breath she takes is just a little shakier, a little more desperate - and it draws something low and primal from inside you.

You kiss along her collarbone, slow and reverent, until her breath hitches and she arches up to meet you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whisper against her skin, your voice already rough with want. “So, so beautiful, Wanda…”

She exhales shakily, but instead of softening, something sharper slips into her expression. Her hand cradles your cheek for just a second, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, and then she says - quiet but certain - “I want you to forget her.”

You blink, breath catching.

She leans up to kiss you - not gently, this time, but deep, wet, almost possessive. Her fingers clutch at your sides, pulling you tighter against her until there’s no air left between your bodies.

“I want to be the only one you remember,” she whispers into your mouth. “The only one who ever made you feel like this.”

Her hips roll up against yours, grinding with slow, aching precision, and the friction makes you gasp.

You answer with your hands, gripping her thighs, pushing them apart just a little further. Her panties are soaked, clinging to her, and the heat of her against you makes your whole body throb.

“You are,” you breathe, your voice uneven. “You already are, Wanda - fuck - there’s never been anyone like you.”

But it’s not enough. Not for her.

“Then prove it,” she says.

Her fingers curl into the waistband of your underwear and tug - insistent, wordless. She strips you down without hesitation and pushes her own panties off in a single, impatient motion. The moment you’re bare, she pulls you into her again, gasping at the skin-to-skin contact, her legs locking around you like she needs to keep you there, tethered, owned.

“Say it again,” she whispers, her mouth at your ear now, her nails dragging lightly down your back. “Say you love me.”

“I love you,” you murmur into her hair. “God, I love you.”

Your hand slips between you, fingers finding her soaked and aching. She shudders as you circle her clit, your strokes slow and deliberate. Her hips stutter, trying to chase more, but you keep the rhythm steady.

She whines in frustration and grabs your wrist.

“Inside,” she pants. “Now. I want you inside me.”

You oblige - because how could you not? You push in slowly, letting her stretch around you, savoring the way her breath trembles and her eyes flutter closed.

She gasps when you're fully inside her, her arms wrapping around your shoulders as if anchoring herself to this moment, this feeling.

“You feel so good,” she moans, her voice breaking into a breathless laugh. “So good - better than anyone else, right?”

You thrust slowly, deliberately deep. “Wanda…”

“Say it,” she demands again, her voice strained. “I want to hear you say I’m better than her.”

Your breath catches as you rock your hips into her again, and she tightens around you at the praise in your voice.

“You are,” you groan. “You’re better. The best. No one’s ever made me feel like this.”

She moans, high and desperate, nails digging into your back now, and you love the way she falls apart when she feels worshipped.

You keep the pace slow but deep, driving into her with just enough power to make her eyes roll back. She keeps clinging, gasping, her legs wrapped tight and her lips seeking yours over and over like she’s scared you’ll disappear.

“You're mine,” she says through gritted teeth, her voice raw. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, thrusting harder now. “Only yours, Wanda. Always.”

Something breaks in her then. She pulls you down into a messy, desperate kiss, hips jerking against your hand in time with your rhythm. You can feel her building - her walls fluttering, breath hitching, thighs trembling.

“Don’t stop,” she cries. “Don’t stop, don’t stop - ”

You don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

Her release crashes over her like a wave - her whole body arching, a broken moan leaving her throat as she clings to you like she’ll drown without your touch.

You groan against her neck, the world blurring around you both.

After, when you’re breathless and tangled and coated in sweat, she still refuses to let you go. Her fingers rest lightly on your spine, her cheek pressed to your shoulder, and her voice - softer now - fills the silence.

“I meant it,” she murmurs. “I want to be your best. Your only.”

You press a kiss to her temple, still catching your breath, and answer simply:

“You are.”

Wanda doesn’t wait this time.

The moment you’re fingers move out, she shifts you both on the bed, her thighs straddle your hips, and her fingers grip your wrists, pushing them into the mattress above your head. Her eyes - glassy, burning - search yours with something between a challenge and a plea.

“Let me,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Let me use you. I need to feel it.”

Your heart stutters. You nod. You’d give her anything.

Wanda kisses you - fierce, almost bruising - and she grinds down against your stomach, soaking and needy, desperate for friction. Her breath hitches, and she breaks the kiss just long enough to sit up on your lap. The sight is devastating - her flushed chest rising and falling, her thighs tight around you, her fingers trembling as she reaches between her legs to line herself up with your thigh.

She doesn’t ride your fingers. She doesn’t ask for your mouth.

She rides your body.

The slick heat of her folds drags along your skin as she rocks forward, her hands planted firmly on your chest. She sets the rhythm, grinding her clit against your hip bone like she’s chasing something she’s been denied for years.

You moan under her, completely helpless to do anything but watch her fall apart.

“I want to hear you,” she breathes, her voice already breaking. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?” you manage to ask, breathless, utterly entranced by the way she moves - by the way her wetness smears across your skin, by the needy roll of her hips.

“That I’m better,” she pants, leaning down again, her mouth hovering over yours. “That I’m better than her. That you’ve never felt this way with anyone else.”

You blink up at her, stunned by the sharp ache in her voice.

Then you speak - raw and reverent.

“You’re the best I’ve ever had, Wanda. No one’s even close. No one’s ever touched me like this, made me feel like this. It’s you. Only you.”

A sound leaves her throat - half gasp, half sob - and her pace falters for just a moment before picking up again, faster now. She leans into your shoulder, moaning as she grinds against you, desperate, frantic, like she’s trying to brand the memory into both your skins.

Her walls flutter around nothing, her clit dragging over the line of your hip, and you can feel how close she is - how badly she wants to come from this alone.

You free your hands from hers gently and cup her face, guiding her to look at you again. “Let me touch you,” you whisper.

She nods, dazed, panting. “Yes - God, yes - please - ”

You flip her with ease - just enough to roll her under you - and immediately settle between her thighs. She moans at the shift, at the sudden emptiness, but then you’re there - mouth warm, hands steady, tongue pressed flat and slow against her soaked folds.

Wanda cries out, her back arching off the bed.

You hold her hips still as you suck her clit into your mouth, slow and deep, and you swear she’s trembling already.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” you murmur, lips brushing her as you speak. “This is mine, Wanda. No one else’s. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you if I have to.”

She’s already shaking her head, eyes squeezed shut, too overwhelmed to answer - but you don’t stop.

You fuck her with your mouth until she’s begging. Until her fingers clutch at the sheets, then at your hair, and her thighs start to close around your head.

“I’m gonna - oh God, Y/N - fuck, I’m - ”

She comes with a choked moan, clit pulsing against your tongue. But you don’t stop.

You moan softly as you keep licking her through it - slower, deeper, dragging it out until her legs tremble violently under your grip.

“Too much - ” she whines, trying to squirm away, but you pin her hips down, unrelenting, drunk on the taste of her.

“You said you wanted me to never forget,” you murmur, tongue still working her oversensitive flesh. “I’m making sure of it.”

Her next orgasm builds too fast. It rips through her with a sob, her fingers tangled in your hair like she’s holding on for dear life. Her voice breaks open as she moans your name, high and hoarse and wrecked.

When you finally pull away, her chest is heaving, her thighs soaked and twitching, her body flushed all over like she’s burning from the inside.

You crawl back up to her, kiss her slowly, and wipe her tears with your thumbs again.

And when her trembling fingers cup your cheek, she whispers, raw and hoarse:

“Mine.”

You kiss the corner of her lips. “Yours,” you promise. “Always yours.”

The air is thick with heat and the scent of sex, but it’s the quiet that lingers most.

Wanda lies boneless against you, one leg thrown over your hip, her cheek pressed to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as she catches her breath. You hold her close, tracing lazy shapes along her spine, the softness of her skin still slightly damp beneath your fingertips.

Neither of you rushes to speak. It’s a sacred kind of silence. The kind that feels earned.

Eventually, you feel Wanda shift - just enough to rest her chin on your chest and glance up at you with glassy, blissed-out eyes. She’s flushed and glowing, her hair a wild mess over her face, and you grin as you tuck a strand behind her ear.

“You okay?” you murmur, voice husky but gentle.

She nods slowly. “Better than okay.” Her smile is sleepy, but a little shy, too. “Did I… go too far?”

You blink, then laugh softly, lifting your hand to cup her cheek. “Wanda. That was hot as fuck. If that’s what jealous and possessive feels like, I might have to make Agatha say something smug more often.”

Wanda gasps and hides her face in your chest, groaning. “Y/N!”

You laugh louder this time, wrapping your arms around her and pulling her close. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

She mumbles something against your skin, clearly flustered, and you kiss the top of her head.

“But seriously,” you say, quieter now, “we didn’t cross any lines. You didn’t hurt me. I didn’t push too much?”

Wanda shakes her head, nuzzling against you with a soft sigh. “You were perfect. You always are.”

“Debatable,” you whisper with a crooked grin, earning a small swat to your side.

You let the moment settle again before you shift just slightly, enough to look into her eyes.

“I get it, you know,” you murmur. “I really do.”

Wanda frowns softly. “Get what?”

“The feeling,” you admit, your voice dipping into something more vulnerable. “Of wondering if someone else meant more. If you’ll ever measure up to something you weren’t part of.”

You pause. Breathe. Let the words come slowly.

“Sometimes I think about Vision. The Mind Stone. That… connection you two had. And the twins - before they were mine, before I got to call them ours. I wonder if I’ll ever compare to what you had with him. If you’ll ever look at me the way you looked at him.”

Her breath hitches, and you almost regret saying it. Almost.

But then she cups your face and kisses you - slow, deep, and full of something so real it nearly brings tears to your eyes.

When she pulls back, she presses her forehead to yours and whispers, “I’ve never looked at anyone the way I look at you. Never loved anyone the way I love you.”

You blink hard. Your throat tightens.

“He wasn’t my soulmate, Y/N,” she says. “He was comfort. He was safety. He gave me something when I was lost. But you… you found me. You brought me back to life. You’re the one who made me feel again.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just wrap your arms around her, tighter than before, and bury your face in her hair.

“I don’t care what fate or magic or some glowing rock decided,” she murmurs. “I choose you. Every time.”

Your voice is a little wrecked when you speak. “God, I love you.”

She smiles against your cheek. “I know.”

You pull back just enough to look at her again. “And just so we’re clear,” you add, grinning as you lean in close, your voice dipping with playful warmth, “you’re also definitely the best I’ve ever had.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, blushing to her ears. “Stop.”

“Never.”

You both dissolve into quiet giggles, tangled up in each other like vines, warm and safe and endlessly close. And even with everything unsaid still lingering in the shadows, what remains between you feels stronger than ever.

There’s no need to rush. Tonight, you’ve got time.

And tomorrow, too.

[maispourqouuui]

Tim, adding a box with "loss of an organ" onto the side of the bingo chart, then realizing there's two identical boxes now: Eh I don't care I'll just lose another one

Jason: You can't do that

Tim: It's my fucking bingo card what are you gonna d--

Jason: It's cheating

Tim: It's not a competition

Jason, while swiping out of the note on his phone with a draft of a name tag listing specific injuries that rogues fighting Red Hood could aim for: ... It can be

Tim: [blink] You think I could get my appendix to look like I've got appendicitis

Tim: Can you get it removed like just in case

Jason: I have no idea

Tim: Don't copy me

Jason: I am not about to cut myself open AGAIN for a bingo card

Batman: You've been increasing the risk of getting sprains by slightly readjusting your landing positions when you do parkour.

Red Robin: Lie

Batman: And you've been hiring assassins to target yourself.

Red Hood: Those are rumors; I would never ever do that. And if I happened to end up with an acute non-displaced rib fracture well I guess that's just the way the world works

Tim, to Jason over lunch: I made a bingo card for different injuries I bet I'll get this year

Jason: That's interesting. I might try that but I got this gnarly stab wound I don't want to go to waste so I think I'll count that

Tim: Well, it's 11 am the first of January, so, I'm assuming you got it last month and in that case no

Jason: I'm not fucking dumb I got it today

Tim: ... Okay

Jason: It's actually I think still bleeding but I haven't gone to Leslie's. I've been putting it off for like five hours

Tim: I thought that was ketchup

Jason: NOOO THIS IS MY FAVORITE HOODIE

[sabxynsweet]

sweetheart!reader giving mattheo a handmade gift (like one of those cute d.i.y. ones) and shes all nervous to give it to him but its like the nicest thing anyone has ever gotten him :3

sweetheart!reader gives mattheo a gift

you're all so super telepathic because i have "mattheo gives sweetheart!reader a gift" in my drafts, thank you for the request angel <3

You knock on his door, shifting your weight between both your feet as you hold your hands behind your back.

Mattheo opens the door, already expecting you.

“Sweetheart.” He smirks, like it's a greeting.

“Hi.” You smile, tilting your head up to look at his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything beyond that - he doesn’t have to. He simply opens the door wider to let you in.

“How was your day?" He mumbles, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you in.

"That's what I usually ask." You laugh, feeling floaty already from his presence.

"Sue me for copying you." He says, "You are a very inspiring conversationalist."

"It is one of my many qualities." You play along before you squeal when you remember why your hands are still behind your back.

“I made you something.” You say with a smile, he looks at you with a tilt of his head.

“Yeah?” He grins.

You hum, rolling your sleeves up to reveal four bracelets - a pearl bracelet you always wore, a silver bangle, a pink beaded bracelet with red hearts and a black one, which you slip off your wrist.

You hold it out to him and he furrows his eyebrows in confusion, not moving to take it.

“I made this for you.” You say cheerfully, he slowly moves to take it from you, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Have you never received a gift before?” You joke before your smile falls when he simply looks down at you with eyes that say 'more or less.'

It wasn't that he had never received a gift before, Theo - who was the only one who knew his birthday - always gave him a little something, whether it was book or a vintage lighter or a cologne. Technically his wand was a gift from his parents.

But this is different, he examines the bracelet, there’s an array of beads - silver, green and black - his favourite colours (though you’ve argued with him that black is not a colour) and a few pearls mixed it that match your own pearl bracelet.

It’s very unlike you but it is so him.

He can't remember the last time he's truly cried but as he thinks about you threading the beads together - carefully curating them to match him - he applauds himself internally for being so brave holding it together.

He doesn’t say anything, he can’t say anything, you take his silence for distaste.

“You don’t have to wear it!” You rush to say, “I was just in Hogsmeade the other day and I saw these in the bead store and I thought they were perfect, I know it’s not really your thing-”

He cuts you off with a kiss, one that you melt into very quickly.

“I really like it.” He says earnestly when he pulls away, he thinks about how much he really likes you.

Mattheo slips on the bracelet without another word.

You smile, your cheeks hurting with how wide your smile was.

“I never thought I’d see the day Mattheo Riddle wears a friendship bracelet.” You tease.

“Friendship bracelet,” He raises his eyebrows, “Is that what we are?”

He pulls your body flush against his, gazing down at you with his full focus.

You look up at him with wide eyes, your head spinning a little, he smirks at your reaction.

"I'm messing with you," he murmurs, his mouth inches away from yours before he leans in to kiss you.

You never expected him to like your present enough to wear it and you can't help but feel proud of yourself.

"I'm happy you like it." You mumble along his lips.

"I really do." He promises when he pulls away fully.

There's a pause of silence.

"How was your day?" You murmur, he laughs before kissing you again.

He wore his bracelet for the rest of the night and the day after that, then the entire week and if he never took it off after that, well, everyone was too scared to comment on it, anyway.

taglist: @fallingwallsh @espressqe @theodoresvalentine @fanfictiononly4 @genuinelyfloatingsouls @fayezasstuff @glittervame @wxnterwidow333 @thalibaby @cminoko @blainea98 @randomfanpage

[caitlinclarksbiceps]

Hold Me Down

𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 : W! Sonia x W! Reader

𝗪𝗖 : 2.3k

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 : none

a/n : I love love loveeee writing for sonia citron. Please send me more requests if you have any in mind! (Requested by 🏷️ @jupitermoonbaby )

Today’s a big day! It’s the Washington Mystics facing off against the Atlanta Dream, which means you’re gearing up to play against your girlfriend, Sonia. It’s kind of a hilarious situation, really. She’s out there guarding you like you're just another player on the court, no softness in her eyes, no hint of affection, and definitely no sign that you two are anything more than fierce competitors. It’s almost funny how everyone can see the tension, how tough she looks while she swipes the ball from your hands without a second thought. But deep down, you know her way better than anyone else ever could. You see past the intense exterior she shows to the world. You see the real Sonia, the one with the soft bubbly, personality hiding beneath that tough facade.

Rewind to your freshman year at college when you first crossed paths at tryouts for the women's basketball team at Notre Dame. At first glance, you thought she might be more than a little intimidating, her personality seemed as unyielding as it gets, and you figured it might be hard to connect with her. But oh girl, you were wrong! Once you started hanging out and getting to know her better, it was like peeling back layers of an onion to find a sweet little softie hiding beneath all that bravado. Just a few months later, you two hit it off and officially became a couple, excitingly revealing your relationship to the world. Friends and teammates were thrilled for you both, cheering at how perfect you seemed together.

On the court, your chemistry was undeniable. It was as if you and Sonia were playing with a shared brain. Every assist you made led directly to her shots, and she reciprocated flawlessly, wherever one of you went, the other was right there, almost like you were glued together. It felt like a beautiful dance, and everyone noticed how well you performed as a duo. But then came graduation and the real test of your relationship. With the draft coming, decisions had to be made. Sonia was picked by the Mystics, and you ended up with a spot on the Dream, which meant, unfortunately, that you would both be heading in different directions.

Now, that separation? It’s been tough on Sonia. Back in college, she followed you everywhere—literally, she’d tag along even when you were off doing earthly things like, well, using the bathroom!

You still remember one time when you grabbed a roll of toilet paper and said, “I’m going to poop. Alone.”

She blinked. “Why would you go through something like that without me?”

You stared. “Sonia. It’s pooping.”

She trailed behind anyway. “I’ll wait outside the door. We can talk.”

“Girl-”

“Babe, emotional support isn’t limited to public spaces.”

You shut the door.

“Let me know if you need anything. Like a wet wipe… or moral encouragement!”

You nearly screamed.

Another time, you tried sneaking out of your dorm early for a 6 AM solo workout.

You quietly closed the door, tiptoed down the hallway, turned the corner—and screamed.

Sonia was already standing there, in full gear, holding two granola bars.

“Going somewhere without me?” she asked, deadpan.

You blinked. “How did you even know?”

“I sensed a disturbance in the girlfriend force.”

One time you said, “I think I need some space.”

She gasped, stepped back dramatically, and said, “Is this enough?”

You sighed. “Sonia, we’re still holding hands.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “Just like you wanted.”

One night in college, Sonia showed up outside your dorm with a backpack, a blanket, and exactly one sock.

You opened the door. “Sonia. Why are you barefoot?”

She looked up at you like a sad puppy. “I miss you. Can I sleep over? I brought my emotions.”

You crossed your arms. “Didn’t we just hang out for seven hours?”

“Yes, and it was the best seven hours of my life,” she sniffled. “But then I remembered I have to sleep alone, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I’m very delicate.”

You sighed. “You live two floors down.”

She held up the blanket dramatically. “Two floors too far.”

Distance has never been her thing. You figured you could manage the long-distance relationship, but for Sonia, it’s a different story. On that dreaded day when you both had to part ways, she was practically on the verge of tears, FaceTiming you non-stop, telling you every second about how miserable she felt without you. To everyone else, she’s this tough, cold powerhouse on the court, but you know the real her—soft, clingy, and head over heels in love with you.

By the time the game rolls around, the arena is buzzing with excitement. You can’t help but smile with pride as Sonia nails a three-pointer, bringing the crowd to its feet. It’s both of your first pro games, and as intense as it feels to be opponents, you sorely miss her. Months have passed since you last saw each other after the draft, and between training sessions and busy schedules, it’s been nearly impossible to find a free moment together.

During the halftime break, you catch a glimpse of her looking your way—her eyes searching for you, but she can’t break away since you both need to stick to your respective locker rooms. The Mystics are up by ten points, and honestly, you’re torn. Do you feel bummed because your team is lagging behind, or are you happy to see Sonia killing it as a top scorer? Then your phone buzzes, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Hello, gorgeous. I can’t wait to spend time with you later (づ￣ ³￣)づ” That adorable text from Sonia instantly puts a smile on your face.

Finally, the game wraps up with the Mystics taking home the win. You try your best to look disappointed, but inside, you’re beaming with happiness for Sonia’s success. After packing away your gear in the locker, you hear the sound of hurried footsteps approaching. Turning around, you’re met with Sonia running toward you, grinning like a kid in a candy store, her arms wide open for a hug.

“Babbyyyy!” she shouts with an excitement that nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs as she envelops you in her embrace. You can’t help but laugh, pushing her away just slightly so you can catch your breath.

“Oh my god, Soniii!” you chuckle, both of you lost in that moment of pure joy and connection. Even amidst the competitive spirit of the game, it felt like home to you, and that made it all worthwhile.

“Oh my gosh, I’ve missed you so much!” Sonia exclaimed, her tall frame leaning in as she showered your face with soft kisses, smothering you in playful affection. She started to affectionately sniff every inch of your face and neck, making you giggle uncontrollably from her exaggerated antics.

“Stop! You’re going to wipe my face off!” you laughed, trying to gently push her away, though there was no seriousness behind your words.

“I just can’t help it! I’ve missed you way too much!” Sonia replied, her voice full of genuine longing, as she enveloped you in a bear hug, squeezing you tightly as if letting go would somehow tear the universe apart.

“Hey, could I crash at your place for the week?” she asked, her voice adopting that cute, pleading tone that always melted your heart. “We’ll head back to Washington after our game next week,” she added, a hopeful look in her eyes. How could you even think of saying no? It had been ages since you two shared a real moment together. You nodded eagerly and leaned in to plant a quick kiss on her lips, which only widened her infectious grin.

As you drive to your apartment, Sonia was already buzzing with excitement, rattling off a list of all the things she wanted to do with you while she was in Atlanta. “Okay, first off, movie night! I’ll handle dinner, and then we absolutely have to go bowling! Oh, and let’s catch the sunset while having a picnic—it’ll be so romantic! And how about we try making some TikToks together? That could be hilarious!” The excitement in her voice was contagious, and you couldn't help but chuckle in response.

“Yeah, I think we were planning on that already,” you said, matching her vibe.

“I seriously miss you—like, a lot,” Sonia admitted again, making it sound heartfelt as if it were the hundredth time she'd said it. “And I miss you, too,” you assured her, your eyes sparkling with love as you gazed at her.

“You know, back in my apartment in Washington, sometimes I just wish I could magically go back to college so I could be with you every single day,” she confessed, her voice quivering slightly. The way she spoke made your heart ache a little.

“I get that, but hey, at least we still manage to see each other,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Barely,” she shot back, her hands tenderly caressing your thighs while her other hand expertly controlled the steering wheel. You couldn’t help but tease her a bit.

“Look at you, all soft and cuddly, when just the other day, your teammates were calling you the one with the poker face!” you chuckled, recalling those Instagram reels where everyone couldn’t help but agree that Sonia was the queen of the serious look. At your playful jab, she rolled her eyes dramatically, giving in to laughter.

“Shut uppp!” she said, playful annoyance dancing in her eyes.

“Well, I want to be the only one who gets to see this clingy side of you,” you remarked, which made her cheeks flush with joy.

Sonia tapped your leg lightly. “Okay, but like... be honest. Were you actually trying to break my ankles on that crossover in the third quarter?”

You laughed. “Please, I did break your ankles. I saw your soul leave your body for a second.”

“Oh my god, rude!” Sonia gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “I let you have that. Out of love. It was a gift. You’re welcome.”

You smirked, turning toward her. “A gift? Babe, your knees buckled like a folding chair.”

Sonia snorted, swerving a little as she laughed. “Shut up! You wanna walk home?”

“I dare you,” you shot back, grinning. “You’d last two minutes without me. Three, tops. You’re clingier than my sports bra after practice.”

“Rude and accurate,” she said, poking your thigh. “I missed this. I missed you. Like, seriously—it’s been so dry without you. My plants died. I started talking to my vacuum. Her name’s Sheila.”

You burst into laughter. “Oh no, not Sheila!”

“Sheila’s loyal. Unlike someone who crossed me over in front of thousands of people!”

Once you finally arrived at your apartment, you both hurriedly took a shower and brushed your teeth, just like an old couple in a romantic comedy. Then, you plopped down on the couch, wrapping yourselves up in cozy blankets while picking a movie to watch. It felt so right, like no time had passed at all. The warmth of her presence brought you so much happiness, and you could hardly believe how easily your bond remained unbroken even after months apart.

You had barely hit play before Sonia was already inching closer, wrapping herself around you like a human scarf.

“Babe,” you said, laughing. “You’re literally on top of me.”

“That’s because I’m cold,” she mumbled, already halfway buried under your hoodie.

“We’re under two blankets.”

“Cold... emotionally,” she deadpanned.

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your position as she dramatically draped her leg across yours like a possessive octopus.

“Can you breathe?” you asked.

“Don’t need to,” she replied. “I’m living off your love now.”

You snorted. “You’re so clingy.”

“I’m not clingy,” she said, tightening her grip. “I’m... efficiently attached.”

You laughed, brushing a crumb out of her hair. “Did you just snack in my hoodie again?”

She looked up innocently. “Maybe. You’re my emotional support pantry.”

While Watching the movie Sonia pointed at the screen. “You’d totally survive this horror movie. You’d throw me at the killer and run.”

You playfully acted shock. “Excuse you, I’d be the one saving you. You’d trip on literally nothing.”

She nodded solemnly. “Facts. I tripped during warmups today.”

You cuddled closer. “Don’t worry. I’ll always pick you up.”

She paused, looked at you with a soft smile, and whispered, “Promise?”

You nodded. “Always.”

Hours passed and you felt thirsty, you shifted slightly, trying to wiggle free. “Okay, I need to get up and grab some water.”

Sonia immediately tightened her limbs around you like a boa constrictor. “No.”

“Babe—”

“You leave, I die.”

You blinked. “You’ll be fine for two minutes.”

“I won’t!” she wailed, dramatically burying her face in your neck. “Do you want my ghost to haunt this couch?! Is that what you want?!”

You sighed, trying not to laugh. “I’ll literally be ten feet away.”

“And that’s ten feet too many,” she sniffled. “Please. I’m fragile. Like a croissant. A sexy, emotional croissant.”

You stared at her. “...Did you just call yourself a sexy croissant?”

“I contain multitudes.”

Eventually, you negotiated, you got up to grab the water, but only after making Sonia a little blanket burrito and promising to yell “I love you!” from the kitchen every 10 seconds.

You only made it five seconds before she yelled, “I miss you!!”

When the movie was about to end you noticed that Sonia had dozed off in your arms, her head nestled comfortably against your neck. A smile crept across your face as you realized how perfect the moment was, your heart felt like it could burst from happiness. Gently, you reached for your phone and snapped a quick pic, capturing the cozy scene of Sonia holding you close, both of you lost in your own little world. Just moments after posting it on Instagram, your phone blew up with notifications, each one more amusing than the last.

“Soni, this isn’t you!” one fan joked in the comments, while another chimed in, “Sonia the koala?” and yet another quipped, “Is this really Sonia? Or is this AI?” You couldn’t help but laugh at the playful comments flooding in. Eventually, you turned off your phone, sinking back into the comforting embrace of your girlfriend until sleep gently took you both, wrapped up in each other.

[nekonaps0]

Second years with a reader who's had a crush on them (separately) for some time now and instead of confessing just suddenly went for a kiss in an unexpected situation? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

One kiss

✦gn!reader

✦characters: second years

✦you guys have so cutie ideas!!!! My heart can’t take it 🤌

Riddle Rosehearts

He was scolding someone again. Probably Ace. You were just standing there with him in the garden, listening to his lecture about hallway etiquette when you couldn’t take it anymore.

He looked so adorable when he was stern.

The way his cheeks puffed slightly.

The way he gestured with a gloved hand.

So when he turned to you and asked,

“Don’t you agree?” you leaned forward, grabbed his collar, and kissed him.

His brain blue-screened.

You pulled away before he could react, wide-eyed at what you just did.

“I—I’m sorry, I—!”

Riddle stared at you, eyes huge and face blooming red.

“You…” he blinked, touched his lips, and whispered, “You kissed me.”

You flinched. “I—”

“…I… don’t mind with it… just please warn me next time.”

(Ace be like: 🧍‍♀️)

Ruggie Bucchi

You were both walking back to the Ramshackle, the sun low, shadows long. Ruggie was joking about how lazy Leona was and how he should start charging him extra.

You laughed. He was so comfortable, so real.

Then, without thinking, without planning, you reached up and kissed his cheek.

He stopped mid-step. He turned to you slowly.

“Uhh. Did I just—did you just—was that a kiss?!”

You were already walking ahead, heart pounding. “Maybe.”

“…awww, what the hell, you tryin’ to give me a heart attack?” He jogged to catch up, ears twitching and grin wide. “You really like me, huh?”

You looked away. “Depends.”

He chuckled, then threw an arm around your shoulders. “Don’t be shy now, you like mee….”

Azul Ashengrotto

You were both in the VIP room after a long shift. Azul was rambling something about finances, contracts, something clever and analytical.

You weren’t listening.

You were watching his mouth. And then, you just leaned across the desk and kissed him.

Right on the lips.

He froze. Like someone unplugged him.

You pulled away. “Sorry, I—uh—I’ve liked you for a while. B-But I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable!”

“…You just…” Azul pushed up his glasses, dazed. “That wasn’t part of the negotiation. I wasn’t… prepared for that variable.” His whole face turning red.

He cleared his throat. “Would you… be willing to draft a contract for that kind of affection? N-not that I’m demanding! I just—”


He stopped. And he look everywhere but you and he quietly murmured

“Can I kiss you back…?”

Jade Leech

It was quiet in the greenhouse. Jade was watering some rare mushrooms, humming.

He looked calm, mysterious, completely unaware that your heart was a hammer in your chest.

“Jade,” you said softly.

“Yes?”

You walked up, took his face in your hands, and kissed him, slow and shy.

He didn’t stop you.

When you pulled away, your breath caught.

He stared at you, expression unreadable, before his lips curved into a sly smile.

“My, what a rare specimen of courage. Did you know I like surprises?”

“W-Was that okay…?”

Jade stepped closer, lifting your hand to his lips.

“More than okay. But I’d like another demonstration… for scientific purposes, of course.”

Floyd Leech

You were stuck in the kitchen helping him with dish duty. He was being a pain. Splashing water. Complaining. Annoying you nonstop.

And yet… you adored him.

He was drying a plate when you suddenly said, “Floyd.”

“Huh?”

You stand up on your tippy toes and kissed him.

The plate fell and shattered.

Floyd stared at you like you’d grown another head. Then… A big, toothy grin.

“OH~, SHRIMPY, THAT WAS CRAZY. DO IT AGAIN!!”

He swept you into his arms and kissed you back, hard, before spinning you in a full circle.

“You’re mine now, right? RIGHT?? No backsies!” He chuckled

The dishes stayed dirty but now your lips are swollen~

Kalim Al-Asim

It was a warm day. Kalim was playing music on his tablet while humming, offering you juice, laughing brightly about something silly.

You were both dancing in his room, and you couldn’t stop staring at him. He spun, giggled, turned to you—

And you kissed him. Right in the middle of a laugh.

He gasped when you pulled away.

“WHOA!! That was—!! I mean—I liked that! Did you just kiss me?!”

You nodded, shy.

Kalim immediately pulled you back and kissed you again, giggling.

“Can we do that more?! That was like a festival surprise! You’re amazing!!”

Jamil Viper

You were in the kitchen, watching him slice vegetables with precise, practiced motions.

He was muttering about Kalim, about responsibilities, about how busy he was. And there you are couldn't stop looking at his lips.

So when he turned toward you to ask something, you just did it. You stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

Jamil’s eyes widened, hands stilling.

“…What was that for?” he asked quietly.

“I couldn’t help it. Sorry…”

He looked down, then let out a slow breath.

“…You really are troublesome.”

You looked away, but then… He gently grabbed your wrist and tugged you closer.

“…Next time, give me a little warning. So I can kiss you back properly.”

Silver

He was dozing off again in the woods, head tilted back, hair glowing in the sun.

You didn’t want to wake him. So you leaned in and kissed his cheek, light as a whisper.

He stirred, opened one eye.

“…Mm…Did you… kiss me?”

Your breath caught. “Maybe...”

He blinked slowly. Then he smiled.

“…Then I must be the luckiest knight alive.”

You laughed, flustered. “You’re not mad?”

Silver shook his head, soft and dreamy.

“No. But next time… let me hold you when you do.”

..............................................................................................................................

[betty-fran]

#the campy queerness of k/s in particular and tos in general #is about queering conventions around gender performance as well as homoeroticism in itself and not only for vulcans #and the franchise has been especially craven about that and largely running hard from it since at least the wrath of khan #tos was such a revelation in 2024 and 2025 but i'm very glad i discovered it properly at last. great time for it honestly. (via @anghraine)

So I just discovered a cool conversation that spun off from one of my tag monologues on a gifset—I'd seen the initial tag peer review, but hadn't realized they'd gone further than that until @ladytharen tagged me. Yet again I didn't want to pester the original gifmaker too much, so I decided to respond separately to the part I found especially interesting.

For context, these were my original tags on the "This little thing? Just something I slipped on :)" Kirk captivity scene from "Tomorrow is Yesterday":

#captain gender strikes again! #i appreciate the read on this scene as 'captain kirk is a queer guy flirting with random 20th cent dudes holding him captive. bicon' #but personally my read is 'captain kirk is a queer guy deliberately leaning into effeminacy to fuck with hypermasc douchebros #from the very era in which the show was made irl. bicon' #it's definitely flirty but it is an aggressively feminine-coded flirtiness that's going to triply bother these kinds of guys #ngl i feel like kirk enjoys fucking with gender norms in all directions just because of who he is as a person (his true gender: diva) #but it's extra fun when it lets him troll ultra-military assholes neurotic about their own masculinity who are trying to intimidate HIM #(these guys aren't his type at all - christopher is much more that - but as usual that's not the point of the flirtation #k/s is nerd4nerd but also troll4troll)

I was really intrigued by this response from @mycroftrh, and thinking about it again on this inauguration of Pride month.

#yeah#in a certain context queerness and effeminacy are power#these are also unfortunately often the same contexts where queerness can get you hate crimed#but if you’re gonna be beat up/killed anyway…#you might as well make the homophobes maximally uncomfortable first

Yep, exactly. You can absolutely see the moment when he decides on exactly which side of his personality he's going to use for maximum effect on these gender policing, homophobic, ultra-military, paranoid bigots from the 60s:

I do think it's interesting that the full scene includes not only Kirk's bisexual chaos gremlin diva genderfuckery (enrichment for him!) but moments of fear and defiance:

He doesn't drop the flamboyance until he wants to, though. And the framing, lighting, angles etc only serve to emphasize their attempts to loom even more over him, aggressively get into his space, gesture right at his face to unsettle him, and his refusal to be intimidated by these fundamentally pathetic responses that are by no means free from real danger, just silly and contemptible nevertheless. It's not that he's too disdainful or amused at his own hijinks to understand how easily this could go very wrong. He simply has no respect for these men and enjoys leveraging their own hang-ups against them.

His eye make-up is also more than usually noticeable in the close-ups in this scene—even compared to other scenes in the same episode—which seems maybe not unrelated!

I think it's also worth pointing out that, TOS make-up aside, Kirk's navigation of gender performance in the original series is ... let's say, idiosyncratic. Most of the 23rd-century male characters are far more inflexible and singular about what gendered roles they're willing or able to inhabit. Kirk specifically is very deliberately fluid and versatile and theatrical about a lot of things, very much including gender performance and sexuality.

[calypso-rt]

HELLO SO some stuff is happening to me rn with my frat boy friend and it gave me an idea for a fic 🙈 Could you do a Frat boy! Rafe x Reader that are just friends and he needs a date for his date function, so he asks her? the theme/idea for the date function is that they get handcuffed to each other for the night and they have to drink a bottle of champagne. Definitely flirty friendship (w lotsa tension) but up to u whether anything actually happens or not!

Love love love your works! 🫶

Cuffing Season

-> Frat!Rafe x Reader

-> A/N: this has been sitting in the drafts for AGESSS but it's out. thank you @rafeycameronsgf for such a fun idea

You’re halfway through a paper on political theory when your phone buzzes.

Rafe 😕:

yo u home? emergency. need you.

You sigh. Glance at the clock. 6:47 p.m.

Another buzz.

i’m outside

You blink.

Sure enough, two minutes later: knock knock knock on your door.

You open it, and there he is. Backward hat. Faded hoodie. Grinning like the devil.

“Hey, genius,” he says easily. “You busy tonight?”

You fold your arms. “You’re aware it’s Thursday and I have three papers due.”

He smirks. “Perfect. Then you’ll need a break.”

“Rafe.”

“Listen.” He leans against your doorframe. “I need a date.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“For the function. The handcuff one.”

You stare. “The what?”

He grins. “It’s stupid. Whole theme is we all get cuffed to our date and have to do challenges together. Drinking games. Obstacle courses. Whatever. My original date bailed. But 's for the best since you’re the only person I trust to win me that title, anyway.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what makes you think I’d say yes?”

He flashes that dangerous smile, the one you’ve seen melt half the campus. "Because you secretly love chaos. And you haven’t been out in weeks."

He’s not wrong. You’ve been buried in your books. And you do like chaos... on your own terms.

Rafe leans in slightly, voice low. "Come on. You know you’ll run circles around these people. I’ll even buy you all your drinks."

You narrow your eyes. "You’re really desperate, huh?"

He smirks. "I’m asking you, aren’t I?"

And despite yourself, despite the very obvious implications of being handcuffed to Rafe Cameron for an entire night, something in your stomach flips.

You sigh. "Fine. But if you annoy me, I’m taking the key and leaving you cuffed to Topper"

His grin turns downright wicked. "Deal."

...

You almost forget why you agreed to this. Until you’re standing in front of the mirror, trying to decide just how good to look.

You’re not a regular at the frat scene. You watch it happen from the edges. You’ve seen Rafe in his element: confident, loud, magnetic, and you’ve always been the one with a knowing smirk in the back of the room, drink in hand, unbothered.

But tonight… cuffed to him?

You smirk to yourself and pick the dress, the one you reserve for nights you want to be remembered.

By the time you’re done, your hair falls in soft waves, your lipstick is a shade deeper than your usual, and your phone buzzes again:

Rafe 😕:

outside. don’t make me come drag you out 👀

You grab your jacket and head downstairs.

When you step out, you spot him leaning against his car, blue jeans, black tee, hands in his pockets.

And when he sees you?

His entire posture changes.

His smirk falters for half a second, like he wasn’t prepared. Then it comes back twice as cocky, but his eyes drag over you like they’re memorizing the view.

“Holy shit,” he says low. “You’re gonna be the reason half this party cries tonight.”

You cock your head. “That good, huh?”

He pushes off the car, crossing the distance in two easy steps. His voice drops. “Better. You’re dangerous like this.”

Your breath catches, just for a second, but you recover fast. “You’re the one who asked for this.”

“Trust me,” he says, leaning in, voice like velvet, “I’ve been wanting an excuse.”

Before you can question that statement, he holds out his hand, handing you some handcuffs. “Cuff me, genius.”

You roll your eyes but your fingers tremble slightly as you fasten the cuff to his wrist, then your own. The click feels louder than it should. When you glance up, his gaze is already on your mouth.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You lift your chin. “Try to keep up.”

The frat house is already buzzing when you pull up. Bass thumping, bodies moving, lights spinning.

Rafe slides out of the car and pulls you with him, the chain between your wrists forcing you closer than you mean to be.

“You good?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing your knuckles, an excuse, probably, to touch you.

You nod. “I can handle a party.”

“Yeah?” His grin turns wicked. “Can you handle being cuffed to me all night?”

You smirk. “Don’t tempt me.”

Inside, people immediately turn. Rafe Cameron, cuffed to you? It draws attention. Whispers. Stares. He eats it up, throwing an arm around your shoulders, pulling you through the crowd with easy arrogance, but you can feel it: the tension in the way he holds you a little too close, the way his fingers flex against your side.

“Didn’t know you had this in you,” he says against your ear when you pass a particularly wide-eyed group of sorority girls.

You glance up at him, eyes glittering. “You clearly haven’t been paying enough attention.”

He stops walking, just for a beat, turns so you’re facing him, closer than close.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly, voice a little rougher now. “You have no idea how much attention I pay.”

Your pulse kicks.

Before you can answer, someone calls your names for the first challenge.

Rafe smirks. “Guess we’ll see if you can really handle me tonight.”

And with that, he tugs you toward the center of the room, handcuffed, heart racing, wondering how in the hell you’re going to survive this night without letting him see how much you already want more.

...

“Cameron! Y/N! You’re up!”

You glance at Rafe, raising a brow. “Remind me again why I said yes to this?”

He grins. “Because you like winning.”

Fair enough.

They call you both to the center of the room where a long folding table is set up, shot glasses in a neat row, alternating liquids. Some tequila, some water, some vinegar (to mess with you), some mystery shots that smell dangerous.

The challenge: One hand each. One person drinks, the other handles the refills. Fastest pair wins.

Rafe looks down at your cuffed hands, then back up at you, eyes glinting. “Guess that’s me and you, superstar.”

You smirk. “Just don’t slow me down.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He leans in close, voice a dark drawl. “Try to keep up.”

The countdown starts. 3… 2… 1… GO!

From the first second, you two are locked in. Seamless.

Rafe flips the first shot toward you with perfect timing. You down it, slam the glass. He grabs the next one, fluid and fast. When it’s his turn to drink, your grip is already on the next glass, waiting.

People start cheering when they see how fast you move.

“Holy shit, look at them!” someone shouts.

But you barely hear them, your whole world is narrowed to the heat of Rafe’s body next to yours, his breath in your ear every time he leans in, the sharp glint of focus in his eyes when he watches you.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs after you knock back a brutal shot without flinching. His hand squeezes yours under the table, fleeting, electric.

You smirk. “Thought you said I couldn’t handle you.”

He laughs, a low, wicked sound. “You might be the only one who can.”

Another round, faster now, you and Rafe moving in perfect sync, like this is a game you’ve been playing forever. The cuffs force you close, shoulders pressed, legs bumping, heat building in every unspoken glance.

By the time you slam the last glass down, the whole room is roaring.

“WINNERS!” someone shouts.

Rafe grins wide, breathless, and turns to you, eyes bright, chest heaving from adrenaline and tequila.

Without thinking, he grabs your cuffed hand and lifts it over your heads, triumphant. “Dream team, baby.”

You’re grinning too, heart racing, not from the win, but from the way he’s looking at you now. Not like a friend. Not like a teammate.

Like a guy who’s been trying to hold it together all night, and who’s about five seconds away from forgetting you’re supposed to be "just friends."

...

The night blurs in a whirl of heat and music and too many shots. You lose count after the third round of challenges, the cuffs feel like part of you now, the weight of Rafe’s hand in yours a constant, grounding thing.

At some point, the crowd thins. People disappear to rooms, to Ubers, to dark corners.

You and Rafe end up collapsed on the beat-up couch in the sunroom, fairy lights flickering, music muffled now, the air cooler against flushed skin.

You’re both giggling at something stupid, an earlier challenge, the fact that you managed to win two rounds in a row even though you’re swaying slightly now. Rafe leans back, head tipped against the wall, eyes half-lidded and fond.

“You’re trouble, y’know that?” he says, voice low and lazy.

You nudge him with your knee. “Me? You’re the one who handcuffed me to you for four hours.”

He grins, tipsy and lopsided. “Best decision I’ve made in a while.”

You should laugh it off. Should tease him back. But something in the way he says it, too soft, too sincere, catches you.

You glance at him, heart thudding a little too fast. “Rafe..?"

He turns his head, meeting your gaze fully now, no smirk, no cocky edge. Just warmth. “Yeah?”

You swallow. The words come out before you can stop them. “I think I… might kinda like you.”

Silence.

Then he exhales a soft, shaky laugh. Runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N.”

Your stomach drops. “I shouldn’t have said—”

“No, no.” He grabs your cuffed hand gently, thumb brushing over your skin. His voice is rough with something like relief. “I’ve liked you since forever.”

You blink. “What.”

“I mean it.” He shifts closer, forehead nearly touching yours now. You can feel his breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint and tequila. “But I wasn’t gonna screw it up. Not with you.”

Your pulse is a wild thing in your chest.

“I don’t want this to be because we’re drunk,” he says softly. “Or because we’re cuffed and everyone else is gone.”

You nod, throat tight. “Me neither.”

He studies you for a long moment, eyes searching, reverent. Then slowly, carefully, he leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek.

Soft. Steady. Like a promise.

When he pulls back, his voice is barely a whisper. “When we’re sober. I want our first kiss.”

You can’t speak, just squeeze his hand in silent agreement. And there you stay, tangled together on the couch, cuffed and incredibly drunk, hearts racing, two idiots too fond of each other to move.

But finally, finally, knowing you’ll get the moment right when the time comes.

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ The Forbidden Room // Poly!Marauders x F!Reader

Summary: A forbidden part of Hogwarts calls to the Marauders. What starts as curiosity quickly turns into something deeper, darker. The room gives them what you desire… but it takes just as much in return. A dark, magical descent into pleasure, pain, and love that refuses to break—even when everything else begins to.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, angst, dark(!), dubious consent, magical coercion, forced orgasms, dom/sub, restrained, dvp, big dick! Remus, rough nipple play, belly bulge, rough sex, gaping, subspace, praise kink, oral (f+m receiving), injuries from rough sex, passing out from sex, aftercare

Words: 6k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The start of the term feast had always been a loud and brilliant affair, but this year, the air was tense. Tension radiated from the professors. Something about the way Dumbledore had stood a little too straight. How his eyes hadn’t twinkled quite the same. Hogwarts was older than any of them could truly grasp, but tonight, even the stones felt older still, as if the building was holding its breath.

Candles floated overhead, their flames flickering from invisible drafts. The chatter of students buzzed around the Great Hall, but at the Gryffindor table, four students huddled in close, caught in their own gravity.

You were pressed between Remus and Sirius, one of your lers draped over the other as you absently picked at your treacle tart, while James leaned in across the table, whispering in a voice that was far too conspiratorial for a school setting.

“He’s going to say it,” James said in a hushed tone, eyebrows furrowed. His jet black hair curling slightly from the effects of the misty rain that you’d all just walked through. “I bet he says it this year.”

Sirius rolled his eyes dramatically. He was lounging back with his boots propped on the bench, looking like royalty slumming it in school robes. “Prongs, love, if you say that again, I swear I’m hexing your eyebrows off your pretty little face.”

Remus huffed beside you, ever the calm anchor to their chaotic buoyancy. He wasn’t touching his food either, but that was because he was watching the staff table with an unnerving stillness, his fingers tapping silently on the table beside your hand.

You nudged him gently with your elbow, “Remus.”

He turned, his eyes softening. “Sorry, my love. Just…  watching.”

James wiggled his fingers dramatically. “The wolf senses are tingling.”

“He’s always like this before a full moon,” Sirius added, fond despite the teasing.

“It’s not for another week,” Remus muttered absentmindedly, but his hand finally found yours beneath the table, lacing your fingers together as his thumb stroked over a scar on the back of his hand.

Then Dumbledore stood.

The hall fell instantly silent. Cutlery paused mid-air, conversations cut off mid-sentence. Dumblefore scanned the room with that eerie kind of stillness, his beard resting neatly against his robes.

“Welcome back, students,” he began, voice echoing without magic. “Before we celebrate the return to our halls, a reminder: as ever, sme areas of the castle remain offline. But this year, I must be absolutely clear: the corridor at the far end of the East Wing, beyond the silver Stair, is not strictly forbidden.”

He paused. The room remained silent. Even the boys seemed to be holding their breath. “An uncontrollable magical accident occurred over the holidays. Do not attempt to enter. We cannot guarantee your safety. And I heed this warning to everyone.”

He emphasised his last word, tilting his head to stare over the rim of his spectacles, looking pointedly at the Marauders.

Your heart dropped. Remus stiffened beside you. James sat upright for the first time all night. Sirius, he smiled. “Well,” Sirius whispered as everyone continued with their conversations and eating. “That sounds like an invitation to me.”

By the time the four of you stood before the Silver Staircase three nights later, the hallway was thick with dust and the scent of forgotten stone. The Marauder’s Map, clutched in James’ hand, glowed faintly with enchanted ink, its intricate lines twitching like veins.

You were wrapped in your cloak, arms crossed against the chill. “You know this is stupid, right?”

“Oh, darling,” Sirius said, grinning, “You know we never let a little stupidity stop us.”

“She’s right,” Remus said quietly, though he stood a step behind you, hand on your lower back. “We shouldn’t stay long.”

“But it’s the last bit,” James said, the boyish excitement in his eyes making him appear hyper. “The map’s complete except for this wing.”

You looked up at him, at the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks, the smudge of ink near his thumb, and felt your resolve waver.

Remus leans in close, his breath warm on your ear. “We’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

And so you walked.

The corridor was narrower than expected, the ceiling lower, the stone darker. Tapestries hung rotted and ripped, as if time had moved faster here. The silence was different. It had a weight to it, thick like velvet.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius whistled lowly. “I think I like it.”

“That says more about you than the hallway,” you tutted.

James let out a short laugh and then paused. “Wait. Look.”

At the far end of the corridor stood a door. It hadn’t been there a second ago. It wasn’t on the map. No knobs. No markings. Just deep, polished wood and the thrum of magic in the air. Remus stepped in front of you. James moved closer, fingers twitching.

“It feels wrong,” Remus voiced wearily.

“It feels like fun,” Sirius replied, never backing down from caution.

Your palm pressed to the wood before you even realised you’d done it. Being drawn to the door. The door clicked.

It opened.

The room was warm. That was the first thing you noticed. Not just heated, warm in the way skin feels after a fever breaks. The air shimmered faintly, like mist catching candlelight. The chamber was draped in deep crimson and gold, fabric floating lazily from the high, invisible ceiling. A fire crackled somewhere beyond sight. There was no dust. No cobwebs. The room breathed.

“It looks like the Gryffindor Common Room if it got sagged by a bordello,” Sirius said reverently.

A single four-poster bed stood in the centre—giant, scarlet and velvet. The mattress indented as if someone had just risen from it.

“It reacted to her,” James said suddenly, his voice a little too quiet.

You turned. “What?”

“The door. The room. None of it happened until you touched it.”

Remus steps toward the bed. “This is powerful magic.”

“It wanted her,” Sirius mused, no longer joking.”

You felt it then, a hum under your skin, as if the room were listening. Waiting. Your mouth was dry. Then the door slammed shut behind the four of you.

The moment the door slammed shut, silence swallowed the air around you. Spinning instinctively, fingers fumbled with your wand, but there was no handle on the door anymore—just flat, polished wood behind you, warm to the touch and pulsing faintly with magic. No seams. No lock. It had simply vanished into the wall.

A flicker of unease clawed its way up your spine.

“Well,” Sirius broke the silence, his tone light but his eyes flicking with alertness, “That’s ominous.”

James stepped forward and tried pushing the wood with both palms. Nothing. Not even a creak. He pulled the map from his pocket, only to find it blank. The ink bled away the moment he opened it.

“Blood hell,” he breathed.

Remus’s eyes were scanning every corner of the room. Always methodical. Always looking for the source. He took a step closer to the four-poster bed and crouched, running his fingers over the floorboards beneath.

“There’s something here,” he said under his breath. “Something old. This isn’t just a concealed chamber. It’s woven magic. Sentient.”

You stayed near the doorway, pulse loud in your ears. “Why would Dumbledore leave this?” you asked, voice softer than you intended.

Remus stood again, brushing his palms together absently. “He didn’t leave it. He did warn us not to come here.”

“We just didn’t listen,” James added, glancing over his shoulder at you. His eyes softened when he saw your expression. “Hey. It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“And if we don’t,” Sirius said, slinging his arm over your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your temple, “ we live here now. It could be worse. Good lighting. Silky bedding. Plenty of wine-coloured drapes to make me feel dramatic.”

Despite yourself, you snorted.

But the magic in the air didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like it was listening. Reacting. The bed was no longer. Instead, the sheets had arranged themselves neatly, smooth and inviting. Four long silk ties now hung from the bedposts, dangling just enough to catch the flickering golden light.

Your stomach twisted. Remus noticed. He stepped toward you and rested a hand gently on your waist. “Do you feel it too?”

You nodded. “Like it knows I’m here.”

Sirius leaned against the bedpost and tilted his head toward you. “Does it feel bad?”

You hesitated. The boys watched you quietly. They always did this– held space for you to speak, even when the room didn’t. You searched for the right word.

“It doesn’t feel bad. Just…intimate. Like someone’s already touched me and I didn’t realise until just now.”

A beat of silence. Then Remus whispered, almost impressed. “It’s reading your magic. Your intent and your need.”

James looked between the three of you. “And if that’s true, what is it finding?”

The question hung there. You didn’t answer. But the room did.

The fire flared, not violently, but in acknowledgement. The bed shifted. The mattress dipped ever so slightly, as if it were inviting weight to settle upon it. One of the silk restraints lifted somewhat off the post, curling gently, lazily, like a finger beckoning.

Remus’ eyes darkened. Sirius stood straighter. James exhaled like he’d been holding his breath.

“It wants to give you something,” Remus wondered. “Or take something from you.”

You swallowed thickly. “But what if it’s both?”

James stepped forward first, not toward the door, not toward the exit that no longer existed, but toward the bed. He brushed his fingertips across the silk, watching it dance around his knuckles.

“I think it’s safe,” he said, glancing back at you. “I think it only does what we ask. What you want.”

Sirius was already toeing off his boots, as if he’d decided the room wasn’t a threat but a gift. “If this is a trap, it’s a blood luxurious one.”

You caught Remus’ eyes. He hadn’t moved; he never rushed. He watched you with careful understanding, his voice quiet and subdued. “We don’t have to. You say the word, and we sit on the floor and wait this out together.”

But you didn’t want to sit on the floor. You wanted to feel them.

The air trembled as your decision took form in your chest. You took one step forward. Then another. Until your knees brushed the edge of the mattress.

“You want us?” James asked again, voice low.

You nodded. “Always.”

Remus moved behind you, hands warm on your waist. Sirius took your hand, kissing the knuckles. James leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder. And the silk restraints, almost gleeful, curled tighter around the bedposts.

The room pulsed like a heartbeat, and the magic began to hum.

As James brushed his lips along your shoulder and Remus’s hands gripped your waist from behind you, you felt the first flickers of it: the room responding to you. Not to your words, or your touch, but something deeper. Something primal.

Your desire.

The air shimmered again. The velvet curtains above pulsed like lungs, inhaling slowly. Candlelight flickered lower, deeper. A chaise longue you hadn’t noticed before melted into the floor. Everything extraneous faded away, until it was just you, your boys, the bed and the tension widening between all of it.

The silk ties coiled tighter around the bedposts, no longer lazy in their movements. They stretched invitingly, waiting to wrap around your wrists. The bed seemed larger now, too, stretching beneath you, padded, soft, perfectly shaped to your body.

You let out a shaky breath. “It’s reading me.”

Remus’s lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Then tell it what you want.”

And you did without a word. You lie back.

The bed caught you like a lover’s hands, the sheets cool against your spine and then warming instantly. Silk restrains slid gently around your wrists, not tight, not binding, just enough to remind you that you were giving up control. But only to them.

James straddled your legs, dark eyes blown wide with adoration and lust, hands skipping up your thighs to push your skirt higher. “She wants to be touched first,” he murmured. “To be wished.”

The roomflared.

Sirius was already at your side, kissing your neck, sucking marks beneath your ear, one hand splayed against your ribs as he whispered, “so pretty like this. All laid out, waiting for us.”

Your shirt unbuttoned itself.

A gasp escapes your lips as the room joins them in the teasing, fabric slipping open with no hands at all, revealing your bra and barestomach. You saw James’ jaw clench. Remus exhausted through his nose. Sirius groaned.

Then their hands were on you.

James kissed down your stomach with urgency. Sirius took yourbra covered breastsin his mouth and hands, his tongue hot and wet, groaning as he sucked your nipple through the material. Remus, still clothed, stood watching for a long moment, eyes glowing gold, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t speak. He simply watched them devour you. You could feel the heat of his hunger from across the bed.

James slipped down between your thighs, pressing kisses over your knickers, teasing you with maddening gentleness. “This is what you want, love? You want my mouth here first?”

Theroompulsed again, and the remainder of your clothes disappeared.

James let out a strangled laugh. “Right. Got our answer.”

And then he was burying his face between your spread thighs, groaning against you, licking long, slow stripes with practised precision. You cried out, back arching, wrists pulling instinctively at the restaurant's. Sirius hummed approvingly around your breast.

“Oh, she’s wound tight already,” James mumbled between licks. “You’re gonna come so fast for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You barely managed to nod, too distracted by Jjames lips sucking harshly on your throbbing clit. The room grew hotter. The air sang with magic, like it was anticipating your orgasm too, and when it hit, you shattered.

The walls shuddered with a golden ripple. The lights brightened, then dimmed again. The bed groaned low beneath you.

James kissed your thighs as you twitched. “One down.”

Sirius kissed up your neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses to your lips as his fingers pinched your hardened nipple. “Think you’re ready for me now, darling?”

You were dazed, breathless, already nodding.

He slide between your legs, chanting soft words against your skin as he gripped his cock, pushing the tip into your eargly awaiting hole, stretching you just enough, curlinghis hips perfectly, pulling pans from your mouth. He didn’t thrust hard. Not yet. The room wouldn't let him. It wanted to savour.

Sirius bent low, forehead against yours, chest pressed to your breasts, whispering, “You feel so good. Every time. So warm. So tight. Like you’re made for us.”

You were already sensitive from your first orgasm, your inner walls tightening with every thrust as Sirius moved without urgency, in and out with slow, methodical movements. His pelvis pushing down against your clit as he moved.

He held eye contact, intense and nodding as your whimpers become more desparate, your cunt clinging to him like a lifeline as everything tightened and tightened until you were peaking into euphoria.

Sirius came with you, a groan and a kiss, his tongue carressing yours as he spilt deep inside of you, whispering your name like a secret.

And then Remus finally moved. 

You felt it before you saw him. The weight in the room shifted.

James kissed your knee. Sirius pulled back slowly, reluctantly, brushing sweat-damp hair from his face.

You turned your head. Remus was naked but your eyes zoned in on his huge cock.

Even after everything, even after knowing him, being with him, you were still at the sight of him. His cock was long, thick, heavy and already leaking. You could barely wrap your fingers around him when you tried.

Sirius and James were already well endowed, filling you to your limit and leaving your pussy pulsing from use. But Remus? You’d be limping after a quick fuck.

He crawled onto the bed, eyes never leaving yours.

“She needs to be ready,” he said, voice hoarse as his eyes continued to search over your body.

James and Sirius helped, moving into action at Remus’s voice.

James kissed you again, fingers dipping between your thighs to spread their release further, prepping you. Sirius rubbed your hips, “breathe, baby. You can take him. You always do.”

Remus lined himself up. His hand shook. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“I want to hurt a little,” you whispered.

The room moaned with you.

When he slid in, slowly, carefully, stretching you wider than you could ever prepare for, you gasped. The sting made your toes curl. Even after James and Sirius, even after the teasing, Remus still made your walls ache to accommodate him.

“Fuck,” he grolwed. “You’re so tight. So good. So fucking perfect.”

He moved with care, but with growing force. Each thrust left you whining. Each drag of his cock made your body feel more open, more raw, more claimed.

The room sang with every sound you made. It matched you.

He was so big. You were already so sensitive, it felt like an endless orgasm was contorting through your cunt as he moved with more vigor than Sirius. By the time he came, his deep inside you, you were whimpering beneath him, stretched wide and panting.

He pulled out slowly, and the movement he did, you felt it, the emptiness. And wet.

Sirius let out a soft sound of awe as Remus gently opened your thighs again. “Fuck. She’s gaping, Moons. You wrecked her.”

Remus brushed a kiss to your knee. “She’s perfect.”

The room dimmed slightly, holding you in that warm, dreamy space after. Magic still pulsed softly in the walls.

And deep in your belly, where Remus had been, you could feel the aftershock of him, the ache, the emptiness, the echo of fullness so deep it had nearly touched your core.

The room knew what you wanted. And it had only just begun.

The room has changed now.

The afterglow from Remus had barely faded. You were still sprawled on the velvet sheets, your limbs heavy, your cunt sore and slick. Yet the air shifted again, like the bed exhales beneath you —a slow, thick breath of darker magic curling around your thighs.

James noticed first. He had been tracing shapes into the bare skin of your leg, soft and seamless, when his fingers slowed.

“It changed,” he whispered.

Sirius, lounging nearby, cock still halfhard, blinked up toward the ceiling. The gold light had dimmed to a deep garnet. Shadows spilt in from places they hadn’t before. The concerns bled into black.

Remus sat at the edge of the bed, and when he looked at you, his expression had changed. Hungrier, darker, as if some leash inside him had slackened.

“She wants more,” he said. But it wasn’t a question.

The bed creaked once more. The sheets beneath your body grew warmer again, slicker, almost damp like arousal made fabric.

You wanted to close your legs. You couldn’t.

The silk ties reformed around your thighs. Not your wrists and not gently either. They slide across your inner thighs and pull. The room opened your legs for them. For you.

James swallowed audibly. “It’s rereading her. Fuck.”

“No,” Remus said lowly, standing now, looking over the bed. “It’s obeying her.”

You whimpered. You weren’t afraid. Not really. You were high on them, on magic, on the flood of something warm and subspace-sweet dripping into your chest like melted sugar.

Remus knelt between your legs. You could already feel the wetness there, your body leaking from earlier—the soreness and the stretch. You were so open, so exposed to them.

He didn’t touch you yet. Not with his hands.

He blew a breath against your slit, and your whole body jerked. “Still so sensitive,” he spoke deeply. “And you want more.”

A mewl slipped past your lips. The shadows on the wall shifted in response.

Sirius stood next. His smirk was gone. His face was stern. But his cock was hard again. And James? He looked dazed. Flushed. Gone somewhere deeper, his pupils blown.

“Tell us to stop,” James said firmly. “Please. If it’s too much, remember your safe words. Red to stop. Yellow to pause. Green to continue.”

You nod in understanding, breathing their names like a blessed dream. They took that as permission.

Sirius straddled your chest, his cock heavy and flushed and pressing against your lips. James took his place beside you, hands tangling into your hair, turning your head as Sirius pushed in.

“Open up, darling,” Sirius cooed, his voice dark silk. “There we go. Merlin, you look perfect with my cock down your throat.”

You gagged, just once, and the bed moaned. The walls pulsed.

Remus was watching it from between your legs. Watching your throat stretch around sirius whilst your cunt twitched open for him. You were soaked—a mess. And still, you wanted more.

“You want to be used,” he said gently. Not cruel. Just stating a fact.

And then he slid in.

You screamed around Sirius’ cock, a wet choked nosie, as Remus’ massive length stretched your sensitive alls again. It hurt and burned. You were still so raw from earlier. But your body welcomed him like it always did – clenching, fluttering, dripping.

He didn’t wait.

He fucked into you with a pace that left you sobbing. Deep, deliberate thrusts that made you feel it in your gut. Your stomach bulged slightly with each push. James saw it first.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, hand splaying across your lower belly, jsut above your pubic bone. “Look. She’s taking all of him. You can see it.”

Remus growled. Ferally growled. He gripped your thighs, pulling them higher, tighter. The silk at your thighs pulled too, straining to let him in even deeper.

“Can feel her clenching,” he bit out. “She loves this.”

Sirius came down your throat with a low groan. Pulled out slowly, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Subspace had dragged you under.

You weren’t speaking anymore; you were just whimpering. Moaning and letting it all happen. James replaced sirius at your mouth, but not with his cock–with his fingers. Two of them, down your throat.

“Breath for me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Take it. That’s it. So fucking good for us.”

Your throat spasmed around his fingers. Your cunt spasmed around remus.

He fucked you harder and faster. Like he needed to break you open.

The room shifted, breathing with you. And then, a mirror appeared on the ceiling.

You could see it. Your body, tied down and used. Remus’ cock spltting you open, visibly bulging your belly. James shoved his fingers between your lips; your eyes rolled back.

And shadows.

Other versions of you. Reflected on the walls.

Naked. Begging. Crying. Taking cock after cock. Smiling through tears.

One shadow whispered, Please don’t stop.

Another: break me.

You came. Harder than before. Your entire body locked, then convulsed. Your legs shook violently. Your vision went white.

Remus didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it. Forced orgasm after forced orgasm, even as you sobbed and begged and arched into James’ chest.

You didn’t remember your safe word. Couldn’t even think what it was. Couldn’t speak it. The room knew. It dulled your fear, thickened your haze, and made your body crave.

James kissed your temple. “Just one more, darling. Let Sirius have a turn. You can do it. One more.”

You moaned in agreement, tears streaking down your cheeks. Remus pulled out, and Sirius slid into your already-gaping cunt.

“Fuck, you’re ruined,” Sirius groaned. “So swollen and so messy. Still begging for more.” He fucked you rough and fast. His hands found your nipples and pinched, tugged, and rolled them until you sobbed.

James joined him. He leaned in and bit your breast, tongue flicking over the peaked flesh. One of them sucked. One bit. Again and again until your nipples were raw, and puffy just like your pussy.

Remus hovered near your head, hand stroking over your scalp. “That’s it, love. You’re so good. So fucking good for us.”

You whmpered. Your body jerked. Sirius’s pace faltered. He was close.

“One more,” James said again, eyes locked on Remus. “Let’s give her everything.”

Remus moved behind you.

“No,” you gasped. But it wasn’t a safe word. It didn’t stop. The room knew the difference. James lifted your thighs.

Remus pressed against your perineum, his tip pushing against Sirius’ cock.

And then, you took both of them.

Sirius and Remus, both in your swollen cunt, stretching you impossibly wide.

You screamed. It was too much. It hurt. It split you. But it burned with something deeper, a need you didn’t understand. They moved in tandem. Both of them, in and out, thrusting, grunting and praising.

James kissed you, held your face, and let you sob into his mouth.

You didn’t know where you ended and they began/ and then you came.

Again. Again. You lost track until you passed out. Until your body gave in, and the room purred, sated again.

The room was quiet now. Too quiet.

You lay in the bed, limp and slick with sweat, throat sore, limbs trembling from the aftershocks of something you couldn’t even name. The air was still thick, but the magichaf slowed, coiled inward, resting, like a beast that had finally fed.

Your body felt hollow. Overused. Your cunt throbbed from being stretched too wide, too deep. Every breath scraped against your ribs. But it wasn’t just your body that ached.

Your mind was fogged, bruised at the edges. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears. But beneath it, something else. More.

The room still whispered.

Sirius sat on the floor with his back to the wall, arms around your knees, head bowed low. He hadn’t spoken since he’d pulled away, breathless, his release cooling on your chest.

James was pacing. Not like Sirius had. James was unsteady, frantic, running a hand through his hair again and again, muttering under his breath.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Something’s wrong. We shouldn’t have–we shouldn’t–”

Remus hadn’t moved. He sat at the edge of the bed, hunched over, holding his hands. His body was still naked. His cock half-hard. His thighs are slick with you. He hadn’t even cleaned himself.

You managed a breath. “Remus,” you rasped. It didn't sound like your voice. He flinched. Your voice was the thing that broke the silence.

Sirius looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed. James stopped pacing and looked at you as if he were seeing you for the first time. Remus turned slowly.

“I hurt you,” he said, voice cracking. “I–Merlin, I knew it, I felt I–but I couldn’t stop. I wanted to.”

You blinked at him. He looked devastated. Haunted.

“No,” you whispered. “I wanted it.”

“You didn’t want that,” Sirius said, finally finding his voice. “Not all of it. Not like that. That wasn’t us.”

James’s hands were shaking. He held up the Marauder’s Map. It was still blank.

“I think it’s affecting us. The room. It’s inside us. It’s changing what we think we want.”

You tried to sit up, but your body screamed in protest. Your belly was tender. Your thighs felt like jelly. You collapsed back with a small gasp. Remus was beside you in a moment. His hands were gentle now, trembling as they hovered over your skin without touching.

“I should have waited, I should have seen it.”

You looked up at him. His green eyes were full of guilt, full og longing. Full of love. “I wanted it,” you repeated softly. “But something’s wrong. I don't know where the wanting ends and the magic begins.”

James knelt beside the bed, his hand came to rest on your ankle. “We need to get out,” he said. “This place, it's not just responding to desire. It’s creating it.”

You glanced toward the mirror. Still there. Still full of your reflections. But they looked different now. No longer cruel. Now they were watching. Some pressed their hands to the glass. Some mouthed words you couldn’t hear. Yu looked away.

Sirius pushed himself off the floor, his limbs stiff and uncoordinated. He crossed to the bed and lay down beside you, carefully, pulling your hand into his. He kissed your knuckles.

“This isn’t us,” he admitted. “We’re us. We tease, we protect, we love, we never hurt.”

You looked between the three of them—your boys. Remus, still shaking. James, frantic. Sirius, silent and circled your hand like a man who’d almost lost it all.

You closed your eyes. “We have to fight it,” you said.

The room listened. Feeling the ripple through the mattress. The whispering stopped. But the shadows didn’t leave. And in the corners of the room, the magic held its breath again. Waiting.

The air shifted again. Not with heat or hunger, but with tension. A stillness that felt final. Like the room knew, you’d made a decision.

James was the first to move. He reached for the Marauder's Map again, though the parchment was useless at present. He held it close.

“I think it’s listening,” he said. “Like it always was. But now we’re speaking back.”

Sirius stood behind him, arms wrapped around himself. His usual swagger was gone, replaced by something quiet, worn.

Remus, now dressed, was not his usual calm, but was trying to cover his shame. His eyes wouldn’t meet yours. But his hand never left your leg, resting there like an anchor.

Taking a deep breath, you attempted to sit up again, slowly.

It took effort. Your body still throbbed, but not in pleasure. “We have to try, together.”

James nodded.

“I think it’s a door. Or a prison. But it’s built on what we want, right? So maybe–maybe we have to want out more than we want to stay.”

Sirius gave a dry laugh. “Easier said than done. It gave us everything. Dark, twisted, perfect little fantasies. And we liked them.”

“I hated it,” Remus said, his voice hoarse. “Even when I liked it.”

The room heard that. The candles dimmed further. You stood. Slowly, with Sirius’s help. Your knees wobbled, but you managed to stay upright.

Then you said it: “I don't want to stay.”

Remus rose beside you.” I didn't want to lose myself.”

James clutched the map. “I want to leave.”

Sirius looked around one more time. The bed, the mirror, the reflections, the shadows of yourselves. He leaned down and kissed your temple. “I want you safe.”

The room groaned. The walls shuddered. The bed unravelled, literally, seams tearing into threads, velvet turning to smoke. The mirror cracked once, twice, then shattered, sending glimmering shards into the darkness.

The door appeared. Plain wood. Just like before. Remus reached for it. It didn’t open.

The magic fought back. The air turned hot again, pressing in. The walls began to pulse, like a heartbeat speeding up. Like rage. The shadows screamed in silence.

The reflections didn’t disappear. They began pounding on the glass walls, dozens of versions of you, of the boys, crying, moaning, clawing to stay.

But you stepped forward. You took their hands—James to your left, Remus to your right, Sirius at your back.

“We don't want you,” you whispered to the room. “We want us.”

Remus took a deep breath and reached again. The door opened.

A single breath of cold air rushed in, real, sharp and clean. Like the castle again. Like freedom. No one spoke. You all ran.

You stumbled down the corridor, James holding you upright, Sirius behind you, wand out, even though he couldn’t explain why Remus ahead, opening every hallway, guiding you back toward the Silver Stair. 

And then, you crossed the threshold, back into Hogwarts proper. It was like waking from a fever dream, clothes reappearing on all of your bodies, like you’d not been naked for the many hours stuck in that room. 

The corridor was dusty, cold and empty. The door was gone. No mirror, no magic. You all stood there maintaining. Then James dropped the map. Sirius sat down hard on the floor. Remus fell to his knees.

And you… You began to cry. Not sobs. Just hot, quiet tears. Because you were safe, but part of you still felt that hum. That echo. Like the room hadn’t let go entirely. And maybe it never would.

The hospital wing was quiet. Not silent, the soft clink of potion bottles, the rustle of parchment as Madam Pompfrey shuffled papers, but calm enough that the breath of your boys filled the space like music.

You lie beneath crisp white sheets, your body still tender, wrapped in soft linens and healing salves. Bruises bloomed beneath your skin, covering your thighs. Your hips ached. Your cunt swollen, sore and overused, still pulsed with the ghost of everything the room had taken from you.

You could barely walk when they’d carried you in.

James had cradled you, whispering soft things against your temple. Sirius had paced behind, snapping at Madam Pomfrey with uncharacteristic tension, until she made him sit. Remus hadn’t spoken, not at first. He’d just held your hand, silent and trembling.

Lies had been told to Madam Pomfrey, about falling down some stairs and needing help because there was no way on Earth any of you would admit to her that you’d all been fucking for hours and now you were ruined.

Now, hours later, you were clean, rested, but still hurting. And your boyfriends hadn’t left your side once.

James sat beside your bed, one hand tucked under your blanket to hold your fingers. He was stroking small shapes against your palm, rhythmic and grounding.

“You scared the hell out of us.”

“I scared myself,” you whispered back.

Sirius was lying at the foot of your bed, his head resting lightly near your knees, one arm curled possessively across your legs. He hadn’t let go of you either.

“You’re not allowed to die in haunted sex rooms anymore,” he muttered. “It’s a new rule.”

You gave a weak laugh. Even that hurt. But it was good. It was light. Remus sat nearest your head, a little hunched, as if he were afraid to touch too much, to cause more pain. His hand ran lightly through your hair, over and over.

“I should have stopped it,” he said defeatedly.

“You did,” you replied. “You all did. We came back.”

Remus finally looked down. There were shadows beneath his eyes, guilt still clinging like a fog. But you reached up. Slower now, sore and trembling, and cupped his jaw.

“I wanted you to touch me, Remus. And I still want you.”

His expression cracked, the relief bleeding through. James leaned down and kissed your cheek. “You’re going to be sore for days.”

“She can’t walk,” Sirius added. “Not even a bit. I had to help hold her while she pissed.”

“Sirius,” you groaned, face heating.

He grinned. “Just saying. You’re fucked. Like, literally. Ruined. And it’s kind of hot, ignoring all the nearly dying part.”

Remus huffed a laugh. “She needs rest.”

“I need you,” you whispered.”

That quieted all of them. You shifted slowly, painfully, and James helped you lean forward enough to rest your head on Remus’s shoulder. His arms came around you like they always did, strong and secure.

Sirius pressed a kiss to your knee, fingers trailing gentle patterns over the bruises. James curled against your other side, his lips brushing your collarbone.

They held you. You all stayed there for what felt like hours—whispering, laughing gently, apologising and kissing each other’s hands, shoulders, and cheeks.

James stroked over your ribs, “We’re still us”

Remus pressed a kiss to your temple. “Always.”

Sirius rested his forehead against your leg. “And when you’re better, when you’re ready, we’ll take care of you properly, safely.”

You smiled, eyes falling shut.

“I know. I love you.”

Outside the window, the sun began to rise. And inside the hospital wing, wrapped in love and softness, you healed.

[wheneverfeasible]

So this is something I’ve been think about for a while and it’s just been sitting unfinished in my drafts but…

What if, after the events of season one, Barb’s disappearance was considered much more suspicious by the townsfolk? After all, she was last seen at the Harringtons’ and that’s where her car was found still. The Harrington name was a popular one, and Mrs. Harrington was well loved in town. But still…it’s an open secret what their son gets up to when they go away.

Barb was last seen in the company of Steve Harrington, and though the cops haven’t indicted the boy with anything, rumors are a nasty thing. Pretty soon, whispers about the youngest Harrington start passing through town. Maybe it starts in the school, maybe it starts by nosy neighbors. In any case, people start giving Steve the side eye.

Maybe people start treating him differently. Some with disgust, some with fear. Maybe Tommy and Carol start distancing themselves from him long before Billy shows up because they don’t want to be dragged down with him. Maybe by the end of his junior year, Steve has been ostracized by his classmates.

And he tries, right? At least at first. He tries to pretend everything is normal, that the rumors and reactions of others don’t upset him. But maybe even Nancy is having a problem with it all. All the reminders of Barb, Steve just trying to ignore everything, and everyone asking her why she’s still with her best friend’s killer.

And maybe part of her does blame him, just as she blames herself, and his not trying to prove he’s innocent is just too much for her. Maybe she doesn’t fully break up with him yet, but she’s definitely pulling away, unable to deal with the painful memories. Or maybe she does break up with him, which only sparks the rumors about him more. Steve, hurt and depressed even though he tried to pretend otherwise, falls even deeper.

By senior year, he’s an outcast. The town treats him like a killer, he has no friends, and his parents would rather take an extended vacation than deal with the issues in the town. After all, everyone is on their side and sympathizing with them, so it’s not like their name is being tarnished. So Steve is all alone. An outcast. A loner. A loser. A freak.

Maybe Steve is fully in depression mode, maybe he’s grown a little prickly and jaded. First day of school, maybe someone spray paints his locker, or his car. He’s had to drop out of all sports, his already mediocre grades plummeting further.

Nancy isn’t cruel. She and Jonathan try to do damage control, try to help, try to explain that Steve is innocent, but it also just makes Nancy want to get to the bottom of it all more. She gets distracted by that, like a bloodhound with a scent, and Steve is just trying to survive his last year of high school.

Except Barb wasn’t the best friend of just Nancy.

Robin Buckley doesn’t trust Steve. She’s been devouring all sorts of true crime articles, knowing that Ted Bundy hadn’t been suspicious either, was considered attractive by many too (she didn’t get it, even without being a lesbian), so she could see how easily Steve could do what they said he did.

So maybe she starts observing Steve, following Steve. Sure, she and Barb had gone different ways, but she still loved her former friend. If she could catch her murderer before he strikes again…

And then there’s Eddie. Eddie who has been watching and listening since he returned for his second senior year. He gloated at the downfall of Hawkins Golden Child at first, but even he could admit things didn’t add up. And…well, what was he supposed to do? He was Freak King after all.

Maybe it (quietly) gets out that Eddie has started selling drugs. Maybe Steve goes for some weed, something to take the edge off. Maybe Eddie is a little worried, but he agrees to meet with him. Maybe they get to talking. Maybe Eddie offers some advice, from one freak to another. Maybe Steve isn’t as bad as he always assumed he would be.

Maybe Steve starts sitting with Eddie and the Hellfire boys at lunch. The town always hated him, so why not? Not like he had popularity to lose, his reputation already in shambles. It would be nice not to have to hide in his car during lunch.

Billy is still an ass when he comes to town.

He heard about Steve, the once Top Dog at Hawkins High, and immediately does what everyone does to establish rank: squares up. Except Steve isn’t alone anymore. This time, Steve has someone in his corner who won’t back down when one of his little sheepies needs help.

And maybe Steve repays the favor by acting as Eddie’s guard dog during his deals, a tight smirk behind dark sunglasses as hands grip a bat with nails in it.

Nancy isn’t entirely enthused with Steve leaning into the rumors of being dangerous, of hanging out with a known drug dealer, and maybe they have a row about it. Maybe Steve accuses Nancy of never having actually loved him, pointed out how quickly she moved on to Jonathan, and that Eddie was the one who stuck by his side and not her.

And of course afterwards he feels back, even though he probably shouldn’t. But he still wants to apologize. So he still goes to Nancy’s to do so, and Dustin still grabs him for help with D’Artagnan, and things continue much the same there…except.

Except Robin still doesn’t trust Steve. Still finds something suspicious. Still been following Steve secretly. And him hanging out with a bunch of kids? Definitely suspicious.

Of course, things start making a little more sense when she follows them on her bike to the junkyard and is almost eaten by a weird dog-like creature with a flesh flower full of teeth for a head. The only thing that saves her?

Steve Harrington and his nail bat.

Things continue on pretty much the same after that. Except Robin is there with Steve and the kids when Billy shows up and she tries to help Steve but gets backhanded and called a dyke by Billy, and Steve goes down and then Billy too. Max still drives to the tunnels and all that.

But after, Robin’s eyes are wet and she asks Steve, flinching slightly when his grip on the nail bat tightens, what about if Billy was right about her. Steve looks at this girl who was drawn into hell because of remembered love and loyalty for a childhood friend and knows that it doesn’t matter if she likes boobies or not, what matters is if she’s okay.

They’re inseparable after that. And maybe Steve starts questioning things about himself too, about why he likes hanging out with Eddie so much, but now’s not the time to bring it up.

Eddie definitely gets drawn in early too, of course, but I’m thinking not until S3. After the truth of the lab being linked to Barb’s death, public opinion of Steve gets slightly better. But only slightly, because he’s already crafted a new reputation for himself, and some people don’t fully accept that he wasn’t to blame at least in part.

So people stop accusing him of being a murderer, but they don’t entirely trust him.

His mom pulls some strings though and he and Robin still work at Scoops, except they’re already besties by this point. And maybe Eddie (and maybe occasionally the rest of Hellfire) come hang around a bunch too.

And maybe, after the Russian torture,the bathroom confession isn’t about Robin’s love life, but about Steve’s.

And Eddie isn’t there with the Russians but he gets dragged in because he and Steve and Robin had plans to meet up after their shift and they never arrived. So he goes to the mall to see what’s up.

Maybe he overhears Steve confessing. Maybe he only heard part of it (maybe just the end part where Steve talks about how Jonathan had been part of his bi awakening and thinks Steve has a crush on Jonathan instead) but he’s there now and now it’s his turn for a crash course in Upside Down 101 while running from Russians and having cars thrown telepathically around.

Does any of this change Billy’s fate? Probably not. I think Billy’s death, and the mall fire in general, might be enough to stir up old rumors about Steve again. Not quite to the same extent, but people are wary of what they’re being told.

And then, idk, S4 happens and besides Robin pining over Vickie, Steve is also pining over Eddie, and they’re both useless about their crushes.

But then Chrissy dies, and maybe Steve was finally going to take his own advice after that terrible date with Brenda, but when he shows up Eddie is already gone and he has a dead cheerleader on his hands.

And fuck. This isn’t going to help the rumors at all.

Aaaaand that’s all I’ve got. This was honestly longer than expected because it was originally just gonna be me going “lol what if people suspected Steve of Barb’s murder and they treated him like how fans write the town treating Eddie post-S4 and Eddie taking him in” and then it became me trying to figure out how that’d work out for the plot.

But yeah. Barb really was last seen at Steve’s so like…it would make sense for him to be a suspect. And it takes basically a full year for the truth to come out, so…yeah. Just a thought I had several weeks that would not stop churning in my head.

Tagging my permanent list, my Hostage Hotties:

@derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-weirdlife @everywherenothere @bumblebeecuttlefishes @hiei-harringtonmunson @estrellami-1 @nebulaoz @renfrisol @tinyplanet95 @hairspraywhore

[bluestempigeons]

If I'm being completely honest I do not think a single pet pigeon is a good idea for most people. And that's entirely fine! I just think that most people love the idea of a bird who wants to snuggle 24/7 but when that bird fails to bond to them within a few weeks, or is a little bit too needy, or that person ends up not having as much time at home as they thought, the bird suffers for it. I genuinely wish more people would go for pigeon pairs. No, they won't want to be touched a lot. But at some point you have to acknowledge that you may not have the time or energy for a single bird, and having a pair is just as rewarding in its own way!

[theamberparadise]

Hello, This is my first time making a request on your block.

Can you do a NSFW and dating headcannon for Jeff the killer and ticci Toby x Jessica Rabbit like s/o ( separately ) , please

HI HONEY IM SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LATE TUMBLR DELETED MY 2K WORD DRAFT AND NOW I HAVE TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN IM SO SORRY

TICCI TOBY AND JEFF THE KILLER X JESSICA RABBIT READER

SYPNOSIS; How would Jeff and Toby react to reader who looks like Jessica Rabbit?

TWs; toxic relationship, blood

A/N; hi hon!! welcome to my blog!! im so sorry this was sooo late tumblr hates me sm, i hope you like this as much as i liked writing it!

ps! i assumed reader is also a killer.

"Seriously, what do you see in him?" "He makes me laugh."

TICCI TOBY

The first time he saw you, Toby was beyond bewildered. Were you real or were you another figment of his twisted imagination?

Nonetheless, his eyes were on you now. And he needs your eyes on him.

His first instinct? Flaunting his muscles at you whenever and wherever he can. Getting a glass of water? His shirt is suddenly off. Fixing yourself in front of the living room mirror? He mutters it’s hot then slowly rips off his jacket. Seeing him during training? He flexes his muscles a bit more.

He thinks this is a widely accepted way of getting girls when really it’s so awkward when he does it.

Second instinct? Getting as close to you as he possibly can just to sniff your scent. Even if you’re just leaning gracefully against a counter, he might walk in, head high, shoulders back while he leans right beside you. Not across, not near, beside. Like there aren't any more spots for him to lean on.

“Toby, hon,” you cleared your throat. “You’re getting a little close.” “Am I?” he cocks his head to the side. “My bad, I’ll move aside.” 

He moves literally three inches away.

His third and final attempt? Leaving you gifts! Although it does leave you confuzzled.

One moment your Versace heels are there, and the next second, you hear your door close and now it’s gone. The next day, you wake up to see your Versace heels back again, with a pair of sword heels from Paciotti– in your size.

More of his gifts would include a sketchy brand of lotion from a drugstore, a cracked eyeshadow palette, and a seemingly used lipstick.

You appreciate his efforts but you couldn’t help but feel perplexed.

Once he notices you haven’t been saying “thank you” to him like you should be, he trudges to your door post-mission holding a bundle of snapped flowers that looked like they were pulled from a couple’s anniversary date (it was) with his breathing awry and ragged.

He keeps his eyes steady on yours. And as soon as you asked what was wrong, he shoves the bouquet in your face, like he didn’t cause you to have an allergic attack.

“Fuh–flowers. For y-you.” You gently press the cloud of petals down. “Okay, Toby– Okay, honey.”

He would still press his gaze onto you like you owed him something (which you did) and after about five minutes, he speaks once again. “Why ha-haven’t you wearing m-my gifts?”

You stay silent, backing away as your heel meets the floor again, your face looking to your side.

You feel his thumb and index gently hold your face in the right direction– where he is, and leans even closer than ever.

“I wa-want you. Do you want m-me t-too?”

Ever since you said yes to him, his ego had been fueled to the MAX.

If somebody even slightly mentions you, he’s on them and joining the conversation he had nothing to do with. “Oh, h-her? Yeah, I pu-pulled her. Not li-like you g-guys can do anything ab-about i-it,” that statement earns Toby a nasty black eye, of which he thankfully didn’t feel, but caused his face to swell for a week. He crawls back to you seeking validation even though it was him who started the mess.

He does anything and everything for you if it means he won’t lose a part of his pride like he did last time with Clockwork. Complaining about the heat melting your makeup off? He’s installing a new air conditioner. Notice a rip in your oh-so-glittery dress? He’s suddenly suitable as a surgeon. Need to detangle your hair? He’s treating it like a frail animal.

It’s the same when you’re on missions together. A rowdy victim scuffs your shoe? “That little sh-shit,” he’s off hacking the poor guy to hell.

He blushes shamelessly when you call him "my boy" or "my good little champ" while pinching his cheeks, makes him feel like one of those guys back in his middle school that would steal his crushes.

And although all of this seems sweet, it doesn’t mean it won’t have toxic tendencies.

His jealousy problems can overwhelm the relationship. He immediately jumps to conclusions every time he sees you hanging out with someone who’s not him. “Why were y-you looking at h-him? You’re not th-thinking of talking t-to him, are you?” “Did you go for a smoke with them j-just now? You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

It hurts, yes, but try to actually pursue another guy and he’ll come crying floods with his knees on the floor, gripping on your dress like it’s his life line.

"Toby, baby, no pulling, please." You try to snag the fabric gently from him. "No, no, no, no, don't leave me-- p-please no, I'm s'sorry," he chokes out, "Never again, hon, please,"

NSFW 

The reason why he takes care of your hair so gently and attentively is because he likes to pull on it whenever he’s fucking you from behind or receiving a blowjob from you. Seeing you wince in pain while you’re so used to being taken care of by him is like cocaine.

He memorizes all the spots you like to reveal in your outfits just by him staring at you for hours on end. He uses this to his advantage and cheekily leaves bites on there.

Purposefully buys you makeup that isn't kiss proof just to see your lipstick stain his lips and his cock. Sometimes, he takes pictures of them and sends them to whoever was bullying him recently.

Have a meeting with the major proxies and need to orgasm in the middle of it? No worries, he’s under your dress sucking your clit like there’s no tomorrow.

Loves it when you wear heels during sex. He cums in his pants by the thought of you stepping on his dick with them.

Once he gets home after a particularly frustrating day of missions, he drops down to his knees and starts humping your leg with his bare cock while massaging your hands and arms through your silky gloves.

He circles his thumb on the seams of your long dress while you give him the best titjobs of his life.

Lives for the idea of you having a wardrobe malfunction in front of him and the other proxies. Lowkey a cuck.

Bites every cellulite line he finds, every stretch mark he finds, kisses every scar you might have and thanks you for even letting him.

Moans a little louder than he’s supposed to when you suck on his adam’s apple.

He finds cumming in your hair so enchanting, seeing milky white beads of his honey absorb into your smooth hair has him groaning.

JEFF THE KILLER

“Holy shit,” were the first words that escaped his mouth when he first saw you. 

I mean, how could he not? Look at you, all shiny and pretty, it’s like you were made by an angel from heaven. He’s seen his fair share of hot supermodels and sexy porn stars, but none of them even come close to a creature as beautiful as you.

His approach for you is… not great.

Catcalling, whistling, and pervy pick-up lines were his first thoughts. “ *wolf whistle* Nice tits, dollface!” “ *imitates animal clicking* Here, kitty, kitty.” “Over here, sweetcheeks!”

He does this especially when he knows others are watching. It’s his twisted way of calling first dibs.

Jeff loves how you play hard-to-get with other guys in a smooth, jazzy way. Even more when you do it to him.

When he feels as if you were ignoring him (which you were) he likes to leave twisted drawings of you taped on your door. Nothing too crazy, just you in your usual outfit of glamour and heels, but this time your boobs are way bigger than they are and your butt is wider than they should be. You figure that it’s how he looks at you.

You crumpled his drawings and threw them away? That’s fine, he’ll just go a little bit further and bring you a severed finger in a ziploc bag with a ring still on it. Surprisingly, the ring is actually a real diamond worth fifty thousand dollars. And it fit perfectly, too!

You thank him a day later and he thinks he’s the sexiest man in the world.

He then takes it even more up the road– weirdly just touching your hair with his grimy hands until you turn around and gently ask him to stop. Taking extreme observation of your face like it’s an art piece. Even stealing your perfume and spraying it on him even though he has never come close to even hugging you.

After Jeff feels like it’s time to go in for the catch, he breaks inside your room while you’re sleeping and hovers over you, caging you with his body. You’re still sleeping, face freshly moisturized and pretty. He lets his ragged, heavy cold breath blowing onto your face to wake you up, and once you do he grins even wider than humanly possible.

“Y’know, you coulda been sleepin’ in my bed.”

Once you said yes, he was on top of the world. He got cockier than he should really be.

He makes uncomfortably loud grunting and throat clearing noises to make everybody look at him and you, with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, beaming wildly like he just caught a bear.

He purposefully makes out with you in public view, not caring about your lipgloss absolutely coating his face

For his bit of toxicity, he isolates you whenever too many people serve as competition.

This stems from his insecurity of not protecting what he should be protecting, so to keep your eyes only on him, he either locks you up in his room or a wide plain full of nothingness.

He ventures and finds you pretty daggers to keep on a garter on your thighs especially if you have a dress with a huge slit, both for show and for protection, even though he’s there beside you practically 24/7.

Goes crazy for you in red. Going out in an all-red outfit for a date? He’s insisting you stay at home.

He lets you use his blood from his mouth slit as lipstick.

Speak to him in that sultry voice of yours and he’s in love forever.

"Jeffrey, baby. Get me my eyelash curler, will you?" "Oh, shit," he groans, throwing his head back. "You sound like sin, sweets."

NSFW

Remember him dragging you back to the house because you wore red? Well, you’re now on the floor, getting plowed into next week.

Also goes crazy for you keeping your heels on during sex, especially when you can’t take it anymore and you’re pushing him off with them, just for him to push your legs up to your ears and fuck you deeper.

He likes it when you keep your dress on while you ride him. It makes the whole thing feel risky– forbidden.

Jeffrey likes you to get messy. One time, you come back from a rough mission looking like utter shit. Hair tangled like matted fur, dress ripped at the seams, stockings ruined, makeup smeared to hell… It took him everything from within to not pounce on you right then and there. Instead, he drags you by the arm, skin bruising under your glove to his bed and makes you look even worse the following morning.

He loves it when you have a full face of makeup and a pretty outfit before you have sex. It’s like a trophy to him– mascara stains on his pillows, your poor dress ripped to shreds on the floor.

Remember your sultry voice? Use it on him when you order him around and his heart will stop. He might cum in his pants without you touching an inch of his pale skin.

He likes making you stumble out of the door, limping out with his cum still inside and your panties in his pocket, leaving you to pray that your dress doesn’t fly up in the wind.

Do you like your bra being stolen from you? I hope so. Because he’s not going to return it after making you strike up a conversation with everyone while your tits threaten to pop out.

He purposefully messes with your clothing, cutting the seams just right so when you put it on it rips at the most ridiculous places. A huge rip from your clavicle to just under your tits. The seam at the slit of your dress lets go when you take a little step.

Loves watching your usually tired and sexy eyes shoot open when he hits that sweet spot.

[lowkeeho]

Hands off, Princess

wc: 0.7k

pairing: Bang Chan (Christopher) x fem!reader

cw: nsfw, mdni, dom/sub dynamic (reader!sub), oral sex (fem!rec + male!rec), orgasm denial, praise kink, spanking, mirror play, mild bondage (wrists bound) lmk if I missed anything !

a/n: this has been in my drafts for a while, thought i’d just post it lol

The silk sheets under your back are cool compared to the heat between your thighs. Christopher’s somewhere near the edge of the bed, leaning back in that damn armchair with his legs spread, one hand on his thigh and the other lazily resting against his lips as he watches you.

The room is dim—gold lamp light bouncing off the floor-to-ceiling mirror at the foot of the bed. Another one above you, mounted in the ceiling. All of it by design. His design.

Your wrists are loosely bound with a silk tie in front of you, slack enough to give you movement, tight enough to remind you who put it there.

“You know what I said,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. It rolls across the room like thunder, dragging through your chest and pooling in your stomach. “Open wider. Show me how wet you are, princess.”

Your breath hitches, but your legs fall open just as he asks, and you dip your fingers between them, gliding through slick heat that makes your thighs twitch.

You hear his breath catch—and then a dark, satisfied chuckle. “Good girl… just like that. Don’t be shy.”

He lets you play for a while. Lets you squirm. Lets you get close—too close. And just when you’re right on the edge, fingers trembling and lips parted in a silent gasp—

“Stop.”

You whimper, hips stuttering, but the look he gives you over the curve of his hand dares you to test him.

“Hands off, princess.” He stands slowly, body unfolding from the chair like a shadow peeling off the wall. “You don’t get to finish until I say so.”

He walks toward you—broad shoulders, tight black tee stretched across his chest, sweatpants slung low on his hips. You barely have time to brace before he’s got your jaw in his hand, thumb brushing your lips.

“Open.”

You do.

And he groans when you do it without question. “That’s my good girl.”

He pulls his thick length out, hard, pulsing and leaking at the tip.

His dick fills your mouth fast, thick and hot, and he’s already setting the pace—deep, controlled thrusts that make your eyes water. He doesn’t hold your head, doesn’t need to. You take it like he taught you, lips slick and stretched wide, throat working to keep up. Spit dripping and choking on it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching. “So perfect like this—gagging for it. Pretty little mouth taking all of me.”

Spit’s dripping down your chin, and your eyes are glassy. You can feel how hard he is. How proud. How possessive.

He pulls out with a low curse, strings of spit connecting you to him, and before you can fully catch your breath, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands gripping your hips to drag you up onto your knees.

The tie around your wrists tightens slightly as he shifts your arms behind your back, and the sight in the mirror in front of you is obscene—your flushed face, ass high, lace panties soaked through.

“You want to come now?” he asks, kneeling behind you.

“Y-yes,” you whisper, voice shaky.

“Too bad.”

He tears the lace down the middle like it’s paper. Doesn’t even bother taking them off fully—just pushes the ruined fabric aside and buries his mouth between your thighs.

Your moan is ragged, high-pitched. His tongue works you mercilessly—slow, then fast, then stopping just to bite your inner thigh until you’re whimpering.

“Still so greedy,” he murmurs against you. “I can taste how bad you want it.”

Two fingers slide in before you can beg again. Deep, curling just right, thumb pressing your clit in slow, taunting circles. You’re trembling, trying not to fall forward. Trying not to come.

“Stay still, princess,” he growls. “Or I stop.”

You manage—barely.

He stands, cock hard and leaking, then shoves in from behind in one smooth, brutal thrust. You scream. He swallows it with his mouth on your shoulder, hand wrapping around your throat just enough to ground you.

“Look at you,” he pants, hips snapping into you with harsh rhythm. “Fucking made for me.”

You’re crying now—pleasure too sharp, too much. The mirror shows everything: your back arching, your ass bouncing against him, your eyes rolled back.

His voice is right by your ear. “You gonna come for me, princess?”

“Please,” you sob. “Please, Christopher—need it, I need—”

“Now.”

And you shatter.

He follows a moment later, slamming in deep as your name breaks from his throat. The tie loosens around your wrists. His lips press to the back of your neck, whispering praise as your body collapses into his arms.

[queerfables]

The real Oasis iceberg is Lock All The Doors lore because yeah yeah, star shaped tambourine, and yeah the '92 version of the song evolved into My Sister Lover, but THEN you learn Noel has also said an entirely different song evolved out of that early first draft.

When I did the Chemical Brothers track, Setting Sun - "You're the devil in me" was the verse of this tune called Lock All The Doors, right? And for some reason, I'd had that song in the early, early days of Oasis. And the verse fit, and I thought, "It's alright, because I'll keep the chorus and I'll just write another verse. Anyway, it took me the best part of twenty years to write another verse. (Back The Way We Came - Track by Track)

And:

Noel Gallagher first began working on a song in the early 1990s. It appears on many lists in his notebooks from that period, which were auctioned at Christie's in 1998. "Half of it was used for the Chemical Brothers track," he recalled to Mojo magazine." I had that song knocking around from before we got signed. I thought I'll use that verse because it fits and I'll write another one. It took nearly 20 years." (Quoted on Songfacts)

Looking at early demos, though, Noel appears to be talking about two separate songs.

Lock All The Doors (with lyrics that match both My Sister Lover and NGHFB's Lock All The Doors)

Coming On Strong (with lyrics that match Setting Sun)

They're both from that early, pre-record deal period when Oasis was working with the Real People so at first I thought maybe Noel had "mixed them up" (ie, lied to avoid saying the words "My Sister Lover" in relation to a yearning heartbreak anthem which all but namechecks Liam in the first line). But! Then I listened to them back to back and, wow, even by Oasis's standards... that's the same song. My ear for music is not what it once was but it's hard NOT to hear it. It's particularly noticeable when you realise Coming On Strong barely has a chorus, but the gap between verse one and verse two fits Lock All The Doors' exactly.

It seems, then, Lock All The Doors has gone through not two but three sets of lyrics. And especially in conjunction with the other two versions, the original Coming On Strong lyrics are delightfully damning. The full set can be found on Genius lyrics, but my favourites are the opening lines:

You're the devil in me that I brought in from the cold Your body's still young and your mind is very old

There's a real undercurrent of illicit temptation here, and I love that second line, which also ends up in Half The World Away, taking on far more philosophical implications in that context. Actually, though, I prefer the version of the line that Noel gave to the Chemical Brothers in Setting Sun. "You said your body was young but your mind was very old". Because, well. It does sound like something Liam would say.

Like maybe in a brazen song full of darkly erotic overtures?

Take me when I'm young and true Was it me or was it you?

(...)

Take me 'cause I'm feeling old All my life I've been so cold Take me when I start to cry Take me, take me don't ask why

Noel and Liam's songs always feel like they're in conversation with each other, and it could be that goes all the way back to the beginning. Because if Liam's first hit was built around this theme, "Take me, take me, don't ask why," and the earliest version of Lock All The Doors echoes the refrain of, "You're coming on strong, you're coming on strong," then... yeah. It's easy to imagine one as a response to the other.

That's my take, at least. But even if you don't want to speculate about exactly what the Coming On Strong lyrics mean, the fact that Noel wrote at least three versions of this song suggests that it was important to him. He was trying to get it right. Perhaps, too, he was trying to walk back lyrics that felt too revealing; he's known to do that, as well. And on the other hand, since Setting Sun and the Coming On Strong demo started their life as part of Lock All The Doors... it's not so far-fetched to think they might be about Liam.

[wingedhallows]

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐄

━━ ꩜ .ᐟ

ᯓ★ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 loser!ellie williams x reader / 4.2k words ᯓ★ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 fluff; suggestive talk (but mostly cute, awkward fluff) ᯓ★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 so this has been sitting in my drafts for months and i really, really needed to get it off my chest. so here you go!

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

The frat house is too loud, the lights are too weird, and Ellie’s clutching her Solo cup like it’s a life vest.

“Why are we here again?” she hisses at Dina over the rim.

“Because,” Dina says, already halfway across the room, “you need to talk to people who aren’t me or a textbook!”

And just like that, she’s gone—swept into the crowd like a traitor.

Ellie sighs, mutters something about “social torture,” and edges closer to the snack table, because if she’s gonna suffer, she’s doing it with pretzels.

That’s when she hears it.

“Well, well,” someone purrs just to her left. “Who’s the cutie with the bad posture?”

She freezes mid-chew.

Turns her head. Slowly.

And there you are—propped against the kitchen doorway like you belong on a poster, drink in hand, smile that could cut glass. You’re looking right at her. And worse—you know she knows.

Ellie stares. “Me?”

You grin. “Unless there’s another hot loser with nervous hands and a hoodie two sizes too big.”

She straightens up instinctively, knocks her cup into a bowl of Cheetos.

You raise a brow, watching the whole thing unfold like it’s a comedy special just for you. “So what’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Ellie,” she says, too quickly. Then clears her throat. “Williams. Ellie. That’s my last name, not a—never mind.”

You hum, stepping a little closer. “Cute and awkward. Dangerous combo.”

Jesse appears like some kind of summoned witness and claps a hand on Ellie’s shoulder. “Oh, hey, you met Y/N?”

Ellie’s already short-circuiting. “I’m meeting her right now. I mean, yeah. I guess. She’s uh—she’s talking to me.”

“She does that sometimes,” Jesse says with a smirk. “You’re surviving though. I’m impressed.”

“I’m thriving,” Ellie says weakly.

You bite your lip to hide a laugh. “Oh yeah? That what this is?” You reach out, pluck a cheese puff off her hoodie like it’s an accessory. “Thriving looks a lot like secondhand embarrassment.”

Ellie rubs the back of her neck, ears burning. “You’re really gonna flirt with me in front of people, huh?”

You lean in just a little. “Sweetheart, I haven’t even started yet.”

And she swears—swears—she blacks out for a second. Just a little.

You’re still standing there with that smug little smile, and Ellie’s pretty sure her heart rate’s legally concerning. Jesse’s long gone, and now it’s just you and her and the thumping bassline of some frat boy’s heartbreak playlist in the background.

She clears her throat, steels herself. She can do this. She’s not a total idiot. Just… 78% idiot, maybe.

“So,” she says, hands in her pockets, rocking slightly on her heels. “You, uh… flirt with all the awkward girls at parties, or am I special?”

You tilt your head, eyes glittering. “You’re special.”

Ellie blinks. “Wait, really?”

You laugh, not mean—soft, fond even. “Yeah. You’re fun.”

“Cool, cool,” she says, definitely too fast. “I’m fun. That’s me.”

You sip your drink, eyes still on her. “You gonna prove it or just stand there looking like you forgot your name?”

“I—” she pauses, narrows her eyes, then squares her shoulders. “Okay, you want fun? Fine. Hypothetical for you.”

You raise your brows, intrigued. “Hit me.”

Ellie points between the two of you. “Say we’re alone. Like, really alone. No party. No music. Just… my hoodie, your lip gloss, and maybe a couch. What happens?”

Your lips part—just slightly—and that wicked smile curves again, a little slower this time.

“Mmm. Sounds like someone’s been thinking about that.”

Ellie’s ears go nuclear red. “N-no! I mean—not like, obsessively. Just like…casually. Once. Or twice. Or like—okay, a lot.”

You step closer, just enough that she smells your perfume—soft, a little sweet, like vanilla and trouble.

“Would you kiss me in that hypothetical?” you ask, tone light but laced with something molten.

Ellie swallows. “Only if you let me.”

You laugh—low this time, eyes warm, like you’re finally letting her win a little. “Permission granted, Williams.”

And oh, she’s malfunctioning again.

“Hypothetically,” she mumbles, eyes locked on your lips.

“Sure,” you say, smiling. “We’ll call it that.”

The living room smells like beer and bad choices. A half-deflated beach ball bounces off someone’s head in the background. Ellie’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet, awkwardly hunched between Jesse and some dude in a jersey, and she knows she should’ve left when the game started.

Truth or dare.

Of course someone suggested it. Of course Dina shoved her into the circle. And of course—you’re here now, perched on the arm of a couch like you’re being painted, drink in hand, legs crossed, smile dangerous.

Ellie’s trying not to look at you. She’s failing.

“Okay, okay,” Jesse says, pointing a mostly empty beer bottle at her. “Williams. Truth or dare.”

Ellie hesitates. “Truth?”

Groans echo around the circle. “Boring!”

You just tilt your head at her. “C’mon, Ellie. You don’t strike me as boring.”

She chokes. “I—yeah. Okay. Fine. Dare.”

Jesse grins. Evil.

“I dare you to kiss Y/N.”

And boom. The room erupts. People laughing, hollering, clapping their hands like it’s a damn sports event. Ellie goes stiff, like someone hit her with a freeze ray. She whips her head to look at you—and you’re already watching her with that same devilish smile, sipping your drink like you’re not the center of gravity right now.

“Oh,” you say sweetly, “are you nervous?”

Ellie blinks. “I—I—no? I mean, yes. I mean, not scared, just like, y’know, socially paralyzed.”

You giggle and slide off the couch with too much grace, sitting up on your knees across from her, face only inches away now.

“It’s just a dare, right?” you whisper, soft enough that only she hears. “Unless you want it to be something else.”

Ellie’s face is scarlet. She swallows hard, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes, panicking in real time.

“I—I don’t wanna mess it up,” she murmurs.

You lean in, voice low, teasing. “You won’t.”

She stares at you like you’ve just offered her salvation. Then—very gently, very awkwardly—she leans in, hesitates a breath away like she’s checking one last time.

You don’t move.

So she kisses you.

It’s short—soft and a little unsure, her hand brushing yours like she doesn’t know where to touch. But her lips are warm and honest, and the second she pulls back, the room explodes again. Jesse’s laughing. Someone’s whistling.

Ellie just sits there, stunned, blinking like a broken robot.

And you?

You’re still leaning close, smiling like the cat that got the very awkward, very kissable mouse.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” you murmur.

Ellie clears her throat. “Y-you taste like cherry vodka and world domination.”

You laugh—bright this time—and she looks like she might actually die.

Ellie doesn’t even remember how she got outside.

One second she was surrounded—noise, bodies, someone shouting about shotgun beers—and the next, she’s out on the porch, hands jammed into her hoodie pocket, pacing in tight little circles like she’s gonna vibrate into another dimension.

The door creaks open behind her.

She flinches. Freezes.

And then—you.

You step out slow, arms crossed, eyes locked on her like you’ve got her under a microscope.

“You okay there, Williams?”

She spins to face you too fast, nearly stumbles over her own feet. “Me? Yeah. No. I mean, yeah, totally. Just needed, like, air. Space. An intermission from the public humiliation.”

You smile—soft this time, none of that sharp party-girl edge, just warmth and curiosity. “Wasn’t humiliation. It was cute.”

Ellie groans, drags her hand down her face. “Oh god, don’t say ‘cute.’ That makes it worse.”

“Worse?” You lean against the porch railing, hip cocked, head tilted. “I thought you were thriving.”

“That was before I kissed you in front of thirty drunk strangers while sweating through my shirt and quoting… whatever the hell I said.” She sighs. “Was I drooling? I might’ve been drooling.”

You laugh, soft and sweet. “You didn’t drool.”

“That’s a relief,” she mutters.

You pause, then step a little closer. “You wanna do it again?”

She blinks. “Drool?”

You bite back a smile. “No, dumbass. The kiss.”

Ellie stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown in the dim porch light. “Like… here? Now?”

You nod once, still watching her. “No crowd. No pressure. Just you and me.”

She hesitates—shifting, fidgeting—then takes a slow, deep breath and steps closer. Your knees bump. Her hands hover for a second like she’s not sure where to put them, and then one finally lands at your waist, the other bracing lightly on the railing beside you.

She’s still nervous. But this time, she leans in on her own.

And when she kisses you, it’s real.

Slow. Warm. A little shaky at first, but then she exhales against your mouth and sinks into it—like she’s been holding her breath all night and just now remembered how to breathe.

You curl your fingers into her hoodie, tug her closer, and she goes—completely—without resistance. Just melts into you like you’re gravity and she’s been off balance her whole life.

When you finally pull back, she’s flushed and breathless and smiling—small, crooked, and so smitten.

“Better?” you ask softly.

She nods. “Yeah,” she whispers. “So much better.”

Then a beat of silence.

“…I definitely drooled that time.”

You laugh, lean your forehead against hers. “Still cute.”

You’re still standing there when she pulls back the second time—kiss-drunk, your fingers still curled in the front of her hoodie like you’re not quite ready to let her go. And neither is she, really.

But Jesse’s yelling something inside about “where the hell is Williams with the lighter,” and the moment’s threatening to shift.

You glance toward the house, then back at her, smile tugging soft at your lips. “You gonna survive in there?”

Ellie snorts. “Physically, maybe. Emotionally? Jury’s out.”

You laugh again and reach for her hand, pressing a little slip of paper into her palm—your number, scrawled quick and messy in pink pen.

“Text me,” you say, like it’s obvious.

She looks at it like it’s a map to buried treasure. “You sure?”

Your grin goes wicked. “Unless you plan on kissing someone else next party.”

She’s already tucking the paper into her hoodie pocket like it’s gold. “Absolutely not. I’ve peaked. That’s it. I’m retired.”

You roll your eyes, nudge her shoulder. “Go home, loser.”

She grins, a little dazed. “Yeah. Okay. Night.”

“Night, Williams.”

She’s halfway down the block when it hits her.

You kissed her. Twice.

You gave her your number.

You told her to text you.

You laughed at her jokes.

You smiled like you meant it.

She stops on the sidewalk, presses her hands to her face like that’ll calm down the sheer voltage buzzing in her chest.

Holy shit.

She likes me. Or at least, she doesn’t hate me. That’s something. That’s huge. That’s—oh my god, I kissed her in front of people. I KISSED HER. And she didn’t run.

She keeps walking, hoodie pulled tight around her face, grinning like a fool.

I didn’t choke.

Okay, I kind of choked, but like… cute choke. Charming choke.

She said I was cute. She called me a dumbass, but like—affectionately.

She touched my waist. She gave me her number. That happened. That was real.

And I didn’t screw it up.

I mean, I probably did a little. But she still smiled. And kissed me again.

I am so screwed.

She pauses at a crosswalk, fishes the paper out again just to make sure it’s still real.

Your name. A heart next to it. Your number underneath. A little arrow that says:

“Don’t be weird.”

She stares at it for a second, then stuffs it back in her pocket and pulls out her phone with shaking fingers.

She types. Deletes. Types again.

Finally hits send.

ellie williams: made it home without getting hit by a car. 7/10 night. could’ve used one more kiss for the road

She stares at the screen.

The three little dots appear.

And she dies.

She’s in her room now—door shut, hoodie still on, standing in the dark like a Victorian widow. The only light is her phone screen.

Your reply comes in fast.

you: bold of you to assume I didn’t want to kiss you a third time

Ellie stares.

She sits down. Then stands up again. Then sits on the floor.

She types.

Deletes.

Types again.

ellie williams: ok but like was that the vodka talking or

you: babe I was sober and looking at you like you hung the damn moon

Ellie throws herself backwards on the floor like she’s been shot. Hands over her face. A little choked, disbelieving laugh escaping her chest.

“Okay,” she mutters, staring at the ceiling. “Okay. I’m marrying her.”

Her phone buzzes again.

you: you kiss like you mean it, by the way didn’t expect that from the girl who panicked when I called her cute

She groans. Clutches the phone to her chest like it’s a love letter and she’s sixteen.

ellie williams: yeah well. maybe i meant it a little. or a lot. maybe i still do.

She stares at that last message for a long second.

Hits send and immediately rolls over and buries her face in the carpet. A beat.

you: I’m free tomorrow night. wanna prove it?

She yells into her hoodie.

Then—

ellie williams: ok but you’re not allowed to call me cute unless you mean it or… do. idk. i’m not the boss of you.

you: oh baby I always mean it

Ellie falls back again, heart a whole explosion in her chest. She’s grinning so hard it hurts.

She looks at the phone one last time, locks it, holds it against her chest.

And whispers to the ceiling:

“…I am so in love.”

6:42pm.

Ellie stands in front of her mirror, staring herself down like it’s a boss battle.

She’s changed outfits three times. The bed behind her looks like a war zone. Flannel shirt? Too “axe murderer.” Hoodie? Too “just robbed a gas station.” Black tee and denim jacket? Too gay.

Which… okay, is accurate. But still.

She settles on the jacket. Pulls it on. Immediately pulls it off. Puts it on again and groans.

She checks her phone for the sixth time in a minute. No new texts.

Maybe she changed her mind. maybe she forgot. maybe this was all a prank. maybe jesse paid her to kiss you and this is a long con and you’re walking into a humiliation vortex and—

Ping.

you: I’m outside :) don’t make me come up there and drag your hoodie-wearing ass out

Ellie jumps.

Grabs her keys. Stuffs her phone in her pocket. She stares in the mirror one last time and mutters: “Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird.”

You’re leaning against your car, arms crossed, wearing this effortlessly hot little outfit like this is casual for you. And Ellie?

Ellie nearly trips on the curb.

She recovers with a half-wave, half-salute that’s so awkward it makes her physically cringe.

“Hey,” she says, trying to sound cool, but it comes out like a dying frog. “Hey. Hi.”

You smile like she’s your favorite joke. “Hey, yourself.”

You look her up and down, real slow. “You clean up nice, Williams.”

Ellie tugs at the hem of her jacket like it might hide her flustered grin. “You, uh—you look… yeah. Wow. Like, unfair levels of wow.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “That nervous?”

“I’m chill,” she lies. “So chill. Like, dangerously chill. Borderline frostbite.”

You walk up close, close enough that her breath stutters.

“Babe,” you say, voice low, teasing, “you’re sweating.”

“I run warm,” she croaks.

You lean in, real soft. “Relax. It’s just a movie.”

She nods quickly. “Right. A movie. Easy. Dark room. Low stakes. Sitting very close to you for two hours.”

You grin. “You gonna make it through the previews, or should I prepare for a mid-date meltdown?”

Ellie grins, finally settling, finally exhaling.

“I make no promises,” she says. “But I brought gum and panic meds, so… we’re covered.”

You loop your arm through hers and start walking toward the theater.

“Perfect,” you murmur. “I brought nerves of steel and a hand you can hold.”

She almost trips again on the way into the movie theater.

The line at the concession stand is long, and Ellie’s already made her first dramatic stand of the night.

“I’m paying,” she says, dead serious, digging into her back pocket like she’s squaring up to fight you and capitalism.

You raise a brow, amused. “Ellie, it’s popcorn.”

“Yeah, and it’s our first popcorn.” She slaps her card on the counter. “Don’t take this from me.”

You giggle and lean on the counter next to her. “Chivalry looks good on you.”

She stiffens like she’s been knighted.

“I—I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits under her breath. “But I’m trying to be, like… romantic and shit.”

“You’re doing great,” you whisper, brushing your fingers against hers.

Her brain short-circuits, but she manages to buy a large popcorn, a couple of drinks, and somehow doesn’t drop anything on the way into the theater. Barely.

You slide into the back row, far corner, and Ellie sits beside you with the popcorn in her lap like it’s a safety blanket. The previews start. The lights dim. And you glance over just in time to catch her cracking her knuckles in slow motion like she’s psyching herself up for battle.

She shifts. Clears her throat.

Does the classic hover-and-drop.

First her elbow nudges the armrest.

Then her arm sort of… inches along the back of your seat.

Then stops.

She’s frozen. Rigid. Terrified.

You smile to yourself, wait a second—then lean in just enough that your shoulder presses against her side, warm and certain.

Ellie exhales. Barely moves. But her arm settles a little heavier behind you.

You glance up at her.

She’s looking at the screen like her life depends on it.

“You good over there?” you whisper.

She swallows. “Totally. I’m—just focused on the plot.”

You grin. “The plot hasn’t started yet.”

“…Right. I’m pre-focusing.”

You laugh, soft, and reach over to steal a piece of popcorn from her lap. Your fingers brush hers.

She flinches. Then looks at you. Like really looks.

And her voice comes quiet this time, nervous and warm: “You’re really pretty, by the way.”

You blink.

Slow smile spreading. “You trying to kiss me again, Williams?”

“I mean—only if you want—”

You don’t let her finish and kiss her.

Right there in the back row, soft and sweet, her hand curling instinctively around your waist. It’s slower than the last time, less nerves, more intention. Like she’s finally realizing you want her just like this—awkward, sincere, and completely gone for you.

When you pull back, Ellie’s eyes are glassy in the dark.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You really like me, huh?”

You press your nose to hers and grin. “Took you long enough.”

She’s still blushing when the movie starts—but now her hand’s laced in yours, and she doesn’t flinch when your head drops to her shoulder halfway through.

And yeah—she misses most of the movie.

But she doesn’t miss a second of you.

The movie ended over an hour ago, but Ellie still hasn’t quite settled. She’s sitting in your passenger seat like she’s afraid to move too much—one leg bouncing, hands in her lap, jacket wrinkled where you held onto her during the last scene.

You’re driving her home slow, like you don’t really want to get there yet.

And honestly? She doesn’t either.

She sneaks glances at you in the quiet. Streetlights flicker gold across your face, and it makes her want to say something wild—something brave. But it gets caught every time, right behind her teeth.

You pull up in front of her building.

Ellie doesn’t move.

You kill the engine. Turn to look at her, brows lifted. “You gonna survive parting ways, Williams?”

She chuckles under her breath, rubbing the back of her neck. “I mean. I’m kinda tempted to fake a power outage in my apartment just so you’ll come upstairs.”

“Oh yeah?” you tease. “That your smoothest move?”

“It’s all I got,” she mutters. “Unless you wanna hear about my Blade Runner fan theory. Real seductive stuff.”

You laugh, warm and easy.

Ellie hesitates.

Then she clears her throat. “Hey. Um…”

You glance over and clock the shift in her voice.

She’s serious now. Barely holding your gaze. Thumb rubbing over her palm like she’s trying to ground herself.

“I know this was just a movie and some popcorn and, like, a public mental breakdown or two—but…” She pauses, breathes in. “I really, really like you.”

Silence.

Her throat bobs. “And I—I don’t know if you’re just being nice or if I’m reading into shit, but I’ve had a lot of dumb crushes and this one’s, like… different. Like I feel it in my ribs. Like when you kissed me the first time, I swear to god I blacked out. And I’ve been trying to play it cool but I’m not cool. I’m a hoodie-wearing idiot and I—”

You reach across the console, fingers brushing hers.

She stops talking.

You’re smiling.

But it’s not teasing this time.

It’s soft.

Real.

“I like you too, Ellie,” you say gently. “I’ve been flirting with you since the second I saw you. And I don’t do that with people I don’t mean it with.”

She just stares at you, frozen like you knocked the wind out of her.

“So yeah,” you continue, voice low. “You’re allowed to like me. You’re allowed to be serious about it. And if it helps—”

You squeeze her hand.

“I’m serious too.”

She lets out this little laugh, half-disbelieving, half-relieved.

“Holy shit.”

You smile wider. “You keep saying that.”

“I know. It’s just… you’re you. And I’m me. And now I’m gonna go upstairs and freak out in my kitchen about how I got kissed three times and didn’t faint.”

You lean across the console. Kiss her one more time—slow, grounding, and full of all the things she doesn’t have words for yet.

When you pull back, you whisper “Text me when you start spiraling.”

Ellie smiles like it’s the only thing she’s ever wanted.

“I will. Promise.”

Then she stumbles out of the car, turns once at the door to watch you pull away from the curb.

And yeah—she texts you four minutes later.

ellie williams: spiraling has begun please advise

Ellie crashes onto her couch the second she walks in the door.

Boots off, hoodie still on, cat immediately climbing onto her chest like so? did you embarrass yourself again or nah?

“Patches,” she whispers, petting her head with one hand and holding her phone in the other, “I think I’m in love.”

The cat meows. Judgingly.

Ellie sighs. Texts you again anyway.

ellie williams: hey what if i told you i almost tripped over the curb when i got out of your car would that ruin the vibe

A second later:

you: only makes the vibe stronger, babe you looked cute doing it

She lets her head fall back against the couch cushion, groaning. “Why are you so nice. It’s ruining me.”

The cat kneads her hoodie like she’s tired of this gay panic.

ellie williams: also i had fun tonight like a lot of fun like i already wanna do it again and the night isn’t even over yet

you: yeah? me too I kinda wanna see you with that panicked look again it’s hot

Ellie short-circuits for a solid ten seconds.

ellie williams: i can spiral in a panic attack anytime, babe tuesday work for you?

you: I’m free. pick the place.

She bites her lip. Brain screaming. You’re letting her choose? The possibilities are paralyzing.

ellie williams: okay i’m gonna pretend i didn’t just spend 10 minutes googling “cool second date ideas that aren’t weird” but like… maybe arcade? or mini golf? or i can just panic in public and buy you a smoothie your call

you: arcade sounds cute I’d love to watch you lose in air hockey while trying to flirt

ellie williams: oh i’m gonna flirt so hard and lose so bad can’t wait

The cat meows again. Ellie rubs her face and whispers,

“She likes me. Like, really likes me. What the hell.”

Then your last message comes in, soft and simple

you: goodnight, ellie love you talk tomorrow, yeah?

She stares, her mouth slightly open and her heart completely done for.

She whispers, “She loves me,” like she’s telling the cat a secret.

ellie williams: love you too night

She turns off her phone, wraps her arms around Patches, and lets herself sink into the couch with the dopiest smile on her face.

Outside, the city’s still buzzing.

But inside?

Ellie Williams is finally calm.