#ASPEN WHEN I CATCH YOU ASPEN WHEN I CATCH YOU ASPEN

[buckets-and-trees]

idk about you but i just KNOW that nomad steve talks you through it. in the most panty soaking gut wrenching way. he’s always tried to hold back a little, be respectful, not be too much, but once he becomes nomad he just stops giving a damn. and he’s so cocky with it too, knowing he can keep going, keep making you feel good. he gets you going and then it’s all “that’s it baby let go” “that’s riiiiight” “that feel good? yeah? ohh look at you” mocking your desperation when you start moaning and gasping GOD i need him.

Just Say When

Characters/Pairings: Nomad!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 3.2k Summary: Saturday, February 10, 2018. A surprise in your apartment the weekend before Valentines.

Content/Warnings: "fluffy" angst; repeated hook ups; Nomad Steve is still soft!dark and a warning all his own; explicit smut (oral: male receiving, vaginal fingering, nipple play, vaginal intercourse, unprotected sex/ejaculation); light dirty talk (there's talking, but it's not nasty dirty talk)

Author Notes: Eighth treat for the Valentine Storygrams.

Previous Part | Exiled Nomad Series

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You sighed as you closed the door behind you, dropping your keys on the small table in the entryway. The trip to UPS had taken longer than expected due to a line of people also shipping back their own Amazon returns. You were looking forward to a quiet evening at home, heating up something easy for dinner, and maybe catching up on that book you'd been meaning to finish.

As you shrugged off your coat, a sound made you freeze. The unmistakable hiss of running water hitting tile came from your bathroom. Your heart leapt into your throat, adrenaline surging through your veins. You lived alone. No one else had a key. There shouldn't be anyone in your apartment, let alone using your shower.

For a moment, you stood rooted to the spot, mind racing. Should you call the police? Grab a weapon? Run? But curiosity and a strange sense of anticipation overrode your fear. Cautiously, you made your way down the hallway.

The sound of water shut off the same moment you entered your room, and you hear very faint shuffling from the en suite bathroom. The door was slightly ajar and steam was billowing out. You hesitated for a moment before gently pushing it open.

The sight that greeted you made your breath catch in your throat. A very familiar, very masculine figure. His broad shoulders and muscular back were on full display as he stood wrapping one of your towels low around his hips.

For a moment, you simply stared, unable to believe your eyes. It had been a little over a month since you'd seen him unexpectedly in that nightclub in Aspen. How was he here, in your shower, as if he belonged?

Certainly sensing your presence, Steve turned, his eyes locking with yours. Without a word, he stepped closer.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, his voice low and husky. "I let myself in."

You stood frozen in the doorway, your mind reeling, pussy pulsing already.

You swallowed hard, your eyes roaming over Steve's damp, chiseled torso. Droplets of water clung to his skin, trailing tantalizing paths down his chest and abs. The towel hung dangerously low on his hips, leaving little to the imagination.

"How did you get in?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Steve's lips quirked into a small, almost sheepish smile. "I may have picked the lock. I needed to see you."

Your heart raced at his words. He needed to see you. Despite the shock of finding him in your apartment, a thrill of excitement coursed through you.

"Steve," you breathed, taking a hesitant step towards him. "What are you doing here?"

He closed the distance between you in two long strides, his large hands coming to rest on your waist. The heat from his body radiated through your clothes, making you acutely aware of how close he was.

“This,” he answered your question by lowering his mouth to yours.

Steve's lips crashed against yours, hungry and demanding. You melted into the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck as he pulled you flush against his damp body. The towel was the only barrier between you, and you could feel the hard planes of his muscles through your clothes.

His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you deeply as his hands roamed your body. One large palm cupped your ass, squeezing possessively as he ground his hips against yours. You could feel his arousal growing, pressing insistently against your stomach.

"I shouldn't keep coming here," Steve murmured against your lips between kisses. "But I need to have you."

You knew you should question this, but all rational thought fled your mind as Steve's lips trailed down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.

Your head fell back, giving Steve better access to your neck as he continued his sensual assault. His beard scraped deliciously against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, holding him close as he lavished attention on your pulse point.

He walked you backwards out of the bathroom and further into your room.

Then Steve stepped back, his eyes roaming over your body with undisguised hunger. The intensity of his gaze made you shiver, desire pooling low in your belly.

"Undress for me," he commanded, his voice low and husky. "Slowly."

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of your shirt to lift it over your head. Steve's eyes followed every movement, darkening with lust as you revealed more skin. Once your torso was fully exposed, you glanced back at Steve and let the shirt fall to the floor.

Steve's hand moved to the towel at his waist. He pulled it away, letting it drop. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him fully naked, his impressive arousal on full display.

Steve's hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly as he watched you continue to undress. The sight of him touching himself sent fire through your veins.

“Keep going,” he insisted.

Next, you unzipped your jeans, shimmying them down your hips. Steve's breath audibly caught as you stepped out of it, leaving you in just your mis-matched bra and panties. At least they were good ones.

With deliberate slowness, you reached behind your back to unhook your bra. You held the cups in place for a moment before letting it fall away. Steve's eyes darkened as your breasts were revealed, his hand moving faster on his cock.

"Don’t stop," he breathed.

Your thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs. You stepped out of them, now fully naked before Steve's hungry gaze.

Steve studied your body for another moment, drinking in every curve and plane. "Come here," he growled.

You moved towards him, drawn like a magnet.

“Kneel,” he said.

You sank to your knees before Steve, your eyes level with his impressive erection. His hand was still wrapped around the base, and you watched a bead of precum form at the tip.

"Open your mouth," Steve commanded, his voice husky with desire.

You complied, parting your lips as Steve guided the head of his cock between them. The taste of him exploded on your tongue as he pushed deeper into your mouth. Your hands came to rest on his powerful thighs, steadying yourself as you took more of him.

"You're always so eager for me," he gloated.

You didn't care. It was true.

Then Steve's fingers tangled in your hair, guiding your movements as you began to bob your head. "That's it," he groaned. "Take all of me."

You relaxed your throat, allowing him to slide deeper. Your tongue swirled around his shaft as you sucked, drawing a low moan from Steve. His hips began to rock, fucking your mouth with shallow thrusts as you worked him with your lips and tongue.

"Fuck," Steve groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Your mouth feels so good."

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder as Steve's thrusts became more urgent. His cock hit the back of your throat with each movement, making your eyes water. But the sounds of pleasure falling from his lips spurred you on, eager to bring him to the edge.

Just as you felt Steve's muscles tensing, signaling his impending release, he suddenly pulled away. You looked up at him, confused and breathless.

"Not yet," Steve panted, his chest heaving. "I want to be inside you.”

Steve's eyes were dark as he reached down to help you to your feet. Without warning, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. He dropped you down onto the mattress, his body covering yours quickly as he settled between your thighs.

His lips found yours in a searing kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth as his hands roamed the curves of your body. You arched into his touch, desperate for more contact. Steve's beard scratched deliciously against your skin as he trailed kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at your pulse point.

"Steve," you whined as he lavished attention on your breasts, his tongue swirling around a nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your slick folds. You moaned as he stroked you, his fingers teasing your labia, circling your clit before dipping lower to tease your entrance. You mewled and arched into his touch, desperate for more friction.

"So wet for me already," Steve murmured against your skin, his voice low and husky. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," you breathed, your hips rocking against his hand. "Only for you, Steve."

He groaned at your words, capturing your lips in another searing kiss as he slipped two thick fingers inside you.

And it was true. You had never been this way with any one else - not so quick to get physically involved, not uninhibited, willing to let him use your body, so ruin you with pleasure. You let him give and take without question.

You moaned into his mouth as he began to pump his fingers in and out, curling them to hit that perfect spot inside you. His thumb found your clit, circling it in tight, precise movements that had you trembling beneath him.

You knew you should stop. You knew this was dangerous, that you were setting yourself up for heartbreak. But as Steve continued working your body, you could only continue to succumb to your desperation for him, the thing that flickered in and out of your life.

"Steve, please," you whimpered, teetering on the edge of release. "I need you inside me."

Steve growled low in his throat, withdrawing his fingers. He positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The raw emotion you saw there – lust, possessiveness, and something deeper you couldn't quite name – took your breath away.

Steve pushed forward slowly, stretching you as he sank into your heat inch by glorious inch. You both groaned at the exquisite feeling of him filling you completely. When he was fully seated, he paused, giving you a moment to adjust to his size.

"You feel so good," Steve murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "So tight and perfect for me."

You whimpered in response, overwhelmed by the fullness and the intensity of having Steve so close, here with you.

Steve began to move, starting with slow, deep thrusts that had you gasping with each roll of his hips. His eyes never left yours as he gradually increased his pace, the intensity of his gaze making you feel utterly exposed and vulnerable.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, snapping his hips forcefully. "To be filled by my cock, stretched around me?"

"Yes," you moaned, your nails raking down his back. "God, yes, Steve."

The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, punctuated by your breathless moans and Steve's low grunts. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, changing the angle to hit even deeper inside you.

"Fuck," you cried out as he struck that perfect spot.

"You like that?" he panted, driving into you relentlessly. "You like how I fuck you?"

"Yes," you whimpered, your nails raking down his back. "God, yes!"

His rhythm became more frantic, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. The intensity of his thrusts had you clinging to him, pleasure building within you with each powerful stroke.

“Then fucking take what I give you,” he said.

Your mind lost everything except the feeling of Steve moving inside you, the sound of skin on skin, and the increasingly desperate noises falling from both your lips. Steve's rhythm became more frantic, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. The intensity of his thrusts had you clinging to him, nails digging into his back as pleasure built within you.

"Open your eyes," Steve demanded, his voice strained.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze, not realizing you’d let them slip closed. The raw emotion you saw there – desire, possessiveness, and something deeper you couldn't quite name – took your breath away.

"I want to see you fall apart," he growled, never breaking eye contact as he continued to drive into you relentlessly. "I want to watch what only I can do to you."

One of his hands snaked between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with practiced precision. The dual sensations of his cock pounding into you and his fingers on your sensitive bud quickly pushed you towards the edge.

"Come for me," Steve commanded, his voice strained. "I want to feel you come around my cock."

His words and the relentless pressure on your clit sent you spiraling into ecstasy. You cried out Steve's name as your orgasm crashed over you, your inner walls clenching tightly around him. The intensity of your climax triggered Steve's own release. “Look so pretty when you fall apart,” he groaned, burying himself deep inside you as he came. “So pretty with my cock inside your cunt.”

For a moment, you both lay there, panting and trembling in the aftermath. Steve's weight pressed you into the mattress, but you relished the feeling of being surrounded by him.

When he finally lifted his head to look at you, his blue eyes were soft, almost vulnerable. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "More than okay."

Steve rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were curled against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as your breathing slowly returned to normal. For a few moments, you simply lay there in comfortable silence, basking in the afterglow.

But as the haze of pleasure began to fade, reality started to creep back in. Questions swirled in your mind - why was he here? How long would he stay this time? When would you see him again, if ever?

As if sensing your thoughts, Steve's arms tightened around you. "I should go," he murmured.

“You say should go, that you shouldn’t have come here, that you shouldn’t have sought me out at the night club, I’m so tired of should’s, Steve.”

“What are you saying?”

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. "I'm saying... I don't know what I'm saying. Parts of this are confusing, Steve. You show up out of nowhere, rock my world, and then disappear again. I never know when or if I'll see you next. It's exhilarating and amazing when you're here, and maybe that’s all this needs to be."

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. The conflict in Steve's eyes was clear. "You can’t mean that.”

“I’m an adult woman, Steve. I’ve built a life for myself. Let me know what I mean. If I make good or bad choices, they’re mine.”

Steve's jaw clenched as he considered your words. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You deserve better than this. Better than stolen moments and uncertainty."

"Maybe," you conceded. "But right now, this is what I want."

Steve searched your face, his eyes intense. "You don't know what you're asking for. The danger I'm in, the life I lead now, it's no life for anyone else."

You sat up, pulling the sheet around you. "I'm not asking to join you on missions or be part of your team, Steve. I'm just asking for this to be fine and not a ‘shouldn’t’ anymore."

He sat up as well and ran a hand down your back. You looked over at him.

“That’s all I could give you.”

Your heart swelled painfully in your chest, but you ached for more. He set your bones on fire and made you feel so good. The logical part of your brain knew this was a dangerous path. But in this moment, with Steve's warmth beside you and the lingering afterglow of pleasure, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"Then give me that," you said softly, meeting his gaze.

And how was this any worse than the fuckboys, the bad relationships that had crashed or stuttered out, or the periods of solitude and celibacy?

"Give me whatever you can," your voice was resolute.

Steve's eyes searched yours, a mix of longing and conflict swirling in their blue depths. For a moment, you thought he might refuse, might pull away and disappear into the night as suddenly as he had appeared. But then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

"Okay," he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Relief flooded through you at Steve's agreement. You leaned in, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. Steve responded immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck as he deepened the kiss.

When you broke apart, Steve rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily.

“I’m thirsty,” you said. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, I’m plenty thirsty,” he replied. “I’ll have some water, but I’ll also have something else when you come back,” he emphasized by slipping his hand between your legs to cup your pussy, curling one of his fingers into your folds, and you moaned.

You quickly but reluctantly pulled yourself away from Steve's touch, shivering as his finger slipped out of you. As you stood, you could feel the evidence of your escapades trickling down your thighs. You padded across the room, snagging Steve's discarded t-shirt from the floor and slipping it on. The soft cotton draped over your curves, the hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs.

The hardwood floor was cool beneath your bare feet as you padded down the hallway towards the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of traffic from the street below.

You pulled two cups out of your cupboard, then opened the refrigerator to pull out your water pitcher. As you pulled the door open, the interior light illuminated the contents, and you did a double take.

There, on the middle shelf, sat a familiar white takeout container that definitely hadn't been there earlier. Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized the logo emblazoned on top - it was from Bella Notte, your favorite Italian restaurant in the city.

With trembling fingers, you reached for the container, already knowing what you'd find inside. As you lifted the lid, the rich aroma of coffee and cocoa wafted up, confirming your suspicions. It was their famous tiramisu, the very same dessert you and Steve had shared that night in September when he'd shown up unexpectedly at your door.

The sight of it brought a flood of memories rushing back.

You’d been fine when he left in September.

You’d been fine when he left the first time.

You would be fine when he left this time.

You would be.

This was fine.

next part: March 10, 2018

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

So this is it! This is the last encounter that brings us now to the original pieces of Nomad Steve March 10 and then March 21 (back when this was one random drable and one follow up).

And what now, you ask? There are four more parts I have planned out for them formally.

read more in the Exiled Nomad Series

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[itsemmiy]

Hey uh heyy emmi have you uh.. checked you artfight recently by any chance

I JUST DID OMGOMGOMGMMMRMFMMDMGMMDGM

[pickingupmymercedes]

Hands on you - Lewis Hamilton NSFW

Part of 1K Jukebox Event

song: Hands on you - Austin George (anon who requested it, I love your big brain, it took me a while but i hope the wait was worth it)

Written as a part 2 to No Chill , but it's a one-shot on its own.

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

genre: smut (you know what they say about the control you exercise in bed being a direct contrast to the one you have over your life, well...)

wordcount: +8k (this one REALLY ran from me, I know I've said it many times before, but this story took a whole life of its own)

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

EXPLICIT CONTENT UNDER THE CUT, -18 DO NOT INTERACT

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The cold of Aspen pressed against the cabin windows, but that wasn’t something Lewis really noticed.

He stood near the fireplace, fingers absently grazing the edge of his glass. The low hum of his family’s laughter drifted from the other room, but his focus was trained elsewhere.

His phone sat on the table, a silent instigator of thoughts he couldn’t quite shake.

He’d known she’d be here—knew before either of them had exchanged a single word about their holiday plans. They didn’t share itineraries or expectations, but somehow, they always knew where the other would be.

This was how they worked, if you could even call it that. A tangle of half-finished conversations and unresolved tension, always stopping just shy of something real.

It wasn’t simple to describe what they were.

She kept him at arm’s length, no matter how much he pushed. And he always pushed.

Harder, closer, testing the limits of the distance she insisted on keeping. But then she’d let him in—just enough to give him hope before pulling away again.

When his phone buzzed, the interruption jolted him. He set the glass down with a deliberate slowness, exhaling sharply before reaching for the device.

Her post though, stopped him cold.

The photo wasn’t anything new; she’d always had a knack for commanding attention without trying.

There she was, poised in front of a grand tree, the red velvet dress clinging to her like it was designed with only her in mind. In a few she stood with her family, the perfect portrait of elegance and untouchable grace. In other, just her.

And the necklace.

Those diamonds—his diamonds—rested against her neck, catching the light as they glimmered.

He ran his thumb over the screen, staring longer than he should have, the tension in his chest almost choking. She’d barely acknowledged the gift when he sent it. A shrug, a flicker of a glance, but then she had worn it for that party.

And she’d worn it tonight. Here.

And he knew why. The gift wasn’t just for her. It was for moments when she wanted to send him a message. For him to see her wear it. For her to let him in, even if only a fraction more.

Lewis smirked, a low chuckle escaping him as he typed out a quick message:

“Red’s your color. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

He set the phone aside again, trying to will himself back to his family.

His brother called out from the other room, teasing him about something he didn’t catch, but Lewis barely registered it, as he kept his hand resting on the back of the couch, knuckles flexing as he stared toward the window.

The phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn’t a post though.

He unlocked the screen, and his breath caught.

The image was impossibly intimate, far removed from the polished perfection of that Instagram one.

She stood before a gilded mirror; her body bare except for the diamonds he’d given her. The velvet dress gone. So were the smiles.

It was just her, raw and unfiltered, the faint smirk tugging at her lips the only armor she wore.

The message attached was simple:

“They went skiing. You know the address.”

Lewis stared at the screen, his jaw tightening as heat rushed through him. And he didn’t think twice, grabbing his jacket, muttering a vague excuse to his mother about needing fresh air.

“You’ve been distracted all morning” she said, her voice knowing. “Are you meeting someone?”

He paused, considering how much to share, but her expression told him she already knew. She always did.

“Something like that” he said, voice low before heading out the door.

The drive through to the red mountain was a blur of snow-dusted evergreens and winding roads. He knew where he was going; he didn’t need directions.

The estate came into view, sprawling and opulent, nestled against the mountains like a secret meant only for those who knew where to look.

He parked the car, his hands gripping the wheel for a moment longer than necessary. The house loomed ahead, every bit as untouchable as she was.

But much like the house, she’d invited him in.

He stepped out into the snow, his sneakers crunching against the ground as he approached the door. It was unlocked—of course it was—and the soft hum of music drifted from within.

He recognized the song immediately. One of his.

He followed the sound through the grand hall, past glittering chandeliers and marble floors that reflected the faint light.

When he reached her room, he froze.

The door was ajar, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her.

She stood by the window, her silhouette framed against the snowy landscape outside. The necklace sparkled against her skin, but it was the rest of her that held him captive.

She wasn’t wearing the red velvet dress anymore. Or anything else, save for the crimson lingerie he’d sent for her birthday—a month ago – and the diamonds around her neck.

Y/n turned slowly, her lips curving into a soft, knowing smile as she met his gaze. “Took you long enough,” she murmured.

The door clicked shut behind Lewis, the sound echoing in the quiet room as if marking the shift in atmosphere.

He stood there for a moment, just taking her in. The way the necklace caught the dim glow of the lamps, refracting tiny prisms of light onto her collarbone. The way the lace hugged her body, framing her in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

His breath came slower, heavier, as he stepped closer, like approaching something sacred and fragile.

Because their relationship was exactly that. Fragile.

“You knew I’d come” he said finally, his voice low, almost a rasp.

Y/n tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable but her lips curling into a faint smile. “Did I?” she challenged, though her tone carried none of its usual bite.

Her gaze flicked over him, the tension palpable as he stopped just shy of touching her.

“You’re playing one of my songs” he pointed out, his voice steadier now, though his chest felt like it might betray him with sound of his own heartbeat.

She chuckled softly, a sound that caught his whole attention. “Seemed fitting,” she replied, her fingers trailing absentmindedly along the chain of the necklace. “You have a way of sneaking into my head.”

Lewis let out a soft breath, his lips tugging at the corners. “That makes two of us.”

He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist before finally making contact. His fingers brushed lightly over the lace, tracing the curve of her hip as though committing it to memory.

Her skin was warm beneath the delicate fabric, and the subtle rise and fall of her breathing was the only movement in the stillness between them.

“Every time,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower. “You do this.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, though her composure faltered just slightly as his touch lingered. “Do what?”

“Pull me in,” he said simply, his other hand moving to brush against her arm. The contact was light but the kind of touch that spoke volumes without needing words. “Just when I think I’ve figured you out…”

She met his gaze, her own expression softening just enough for him to notice. “And yet, here you are.”

Lewis chuckled “Here I am.”, the sound small but filled with something more.

Almost a deference.

He leaned in, his forehead nearly resting against hers as his hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer. The scent of her perfume—warm, rich, and utterly her—wrapped around him, grounding him in the present. On her.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n’s hand came up to rest against his chest, her fingers brushing over the fabric of his sweater before curling slightly. “To what?”

“You” he said simply.

Her breath hitched, just for a second, and he felt it more than heard it.

She didn’t respond right away, but she didn’t pull back either. Instead, she let him guide her toward the bed, their movements slow and unhurried, as though he was afraid she might change her mind at any moment.

When the backs of her legs met the edge of the mattress, she hesitated, her gaze dropping for the briefest of moments before meeting his again.

“I told you” she said softly, her voice carrying a vulnerability she rarely let show. “We’re alone.”

Lewis nodded, his hands moving to cup her face gently. “I know.”

The next moment felt like a tipping point, the air between them charged and heavy. His lips brushed against hers in a kiss that started soft, almost hesitant. But the hesitation didn’t last long.

Her arms came up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. He felt the shift in her—the way her walls seemed to lower, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond them.

His hands moved slowly, tracing the curve of her spine, the delicate fabric of the lace barely a barrier between them. She leaned into him, her body molding against his as though she was finally letting herself give in.

Lewis broke the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breathing uneven. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

Y/n laughed softly, the sound warm and intimate. “You’ll survive.”

He chuckled, his hands moving to her hips as he guided her onto the bed. She lay back against the plush pillows, her dark hair around her like a halo.

The soft lighting cast shadows across her skin, highlighting the curves and lines he’d memorized a hundred times over.

He settled beside her, his hand tracing idle patterns along her arm before moving to her waist. There was no rush, no urgency. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of their breathing and the unspoken understanding that this moment was theirs alone.

“You’re letting go” he said quietly, his fingers brushing over the necklace.

Her gaze softened, her hand coming up to rest against his. “You make it easy.”

The admission hung in the air, heavy with its meaning. It was the closest she’d come to saying the words he’d longed to hear, and he didn’t take it lightly.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, just above the diamonds. His lips lingered there, his breath warm against her skin.

“Good” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

She smiled faintly, her fingers sinking in on the skin just by the edge of his curls as she pulled him closer. “I know.”

The words lingered in the quiet, wrapping around them like a promise. Lewis didn’t reply—not verbally. Letting his actions speak, his lips brushing along her collarbone in a slow line that got her breath catching.

His mouth pressed kisses against her skin like he was mapping her, savoring every inch. Each touch was soft, unhurried, but the weight behind them was undeniable, like he was reminding her of the trust she’d given him in letting him be here, in letting him see her like this.

When he reached the hollow of her throat, he paused, his breath warm against her skin. “You sure?” he asked, his voice low, but there was no mistaking the genuine care in it.

Y/n’s fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, a quiet reassurance. “You’re thinking too much” she teased, though her tone was softer than usual.

Lewis chuckled against her neck, the vibration of it sending another wave of warmth through her. “Can’t help it.”

“Then stop thinking,” she murmured, her other hand sliding along his jaw to guide his lips back to her skin. “Just… be here, with me.”

His chest tightened at her words, but he didn’t let it show. Not just yet.

His kisses trailing lower now, over the curve of her shoulder, down to the edge of her collarbone. The strap of her lingerie slipped under his fingers as he slid it a part of it off her shoulder, baring more of her to him.

She inhaled sharply as his lips followed the path of the lace, his kisses deliberate and exploratory, testing the boundaries she’d so carefully guarded.

And every time she didn’t pull away, every time her body responded with a subtle arch or a quiet sigh, it spurred him on.

“You’re so damn beautiful” he murmured, his voice thick with something that felt too big to name.

Y/n’s laugh was soft, almost self-deprecating. “I think the diamonds are doing most of the work.”

Lewis lifted his head, his gaze locking with hers. “Not a chance,” he said firmly, his thumb brushing against her chin. “They’re just a plus.”

Her lips parted slightly, her teasing retort faltering under the intensity of his gaze. And for a moment there was only the weight of his words hanging between them.

Then, as if to break the tension, she arched an eyebrow. “Are you always this smooth, or is this just for me?”

He grinned, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that way that always seemed to disarm her. “Only for you.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no denying the warmth that bloomed in her chest at his words. His grin softening into something more sincere as he leaned down again, his lips pressing against the center of her chest, just above her heart.

There was no witty comeback this time. Only her fingers threading through his curls, her nails grazing his scalp as she encouraged him further.

Lewis took his time, his kisses trailing lower, over the delicate lace of her lingerie, down to the curve of her ribs.

He paused there, his hand resting lightly on her waist as his lips hovered just above her skin.

“Still good?” he asked again, his voice quieter this time, but no less steady.

Her response came without hesitation. “Yes.”

The simplicity of her answer, the certainty in it, was all he needed. What they needed.

He let out a quiet exhale before continuing, his lips brushing against the soft skin of her belly.

She let out a sound—a mix between a sigh and a laugh—that made him pause. “What’s that for?” he asked, his gaze flicking up to meet hers.

Y/n propped herself up slightly on her elbows, her expression equal parts amused and affectionate. “Your beard. But… don’t stop.”

Her voice dropped slightly on the last part, and it was enough to make him smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He resumed his path, his lips exploring every inch of her. And it wasn’t just about the physicality—though the way her body responded to him was intoxicating.

It was about the way she let him in, the way she seemed to trust him enough to let her walls down, even if only for these stolen moments.

“You’re different like this,” he murmured, his voice soft and sincere.

“Like what?” she asked, her tone curious and unguarded.

“Open” he said simply, his hand brushing lightly against her side. “It’s like you’re letting me see … you.”

She was quiet for a moment, her gaze searching his. Then, with a faint smile, she reached out to touch his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek. “Maybe I am” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned into her touch, his eyes never leaving hers as he pressed a kiss to her palm.

“Yeah” he said softly.

And then he kissed her again, his lips meeting hers in a way that felt like a promise. Y/n’s fingers moved instinctively to the hem of his sweatshirt, tugging at the fabric as their kiss deepened.

But before she could pull it over his head, Lewis broke away, his breathing heavy as he caught her hands in his.

“Not yet” he murmured, his voice teasingly.

She blinked up at him, her lips slightly parted as she watched him. “Oh?” she murmured, her tone laced with challenge, but there was curiosity behind it too.

Instead of answering, Lewis gently pressed her back down onto the bed, his hands firm but careful as he guided her into the soft sheets. The weight of his body shifted as he sat back on his heels, his eyes never leaving hers.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the hem of his sweatshirt and tore it off himself, revealing the toned lines of his chest and arms.

He paused there, leaning over her but not touching, his dark eyes tracing every detail of her expression. His gaze was heavy and she couldn’t help how her pulse quickened.

“You do nothing, love” he said softly into the small space between them.

Y/n’s brow lifted slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching as if to challenge him. Her eyes flicked down his body briefly before meeting his gaze again.

It was her way of asking: What exactly do you think you’re going to do?

Lewis caught the look, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Let go” he murmured, his tone insistent. “Just for a bit. Just for me.”

Her heart skipped at his words, and she hesitated. He could see it in the way her eyes searched his face, as if she were trying to read every unspoken promise behind his words.

Finally, with a soft exhale, she nodded. Her fingers sliding into his, intertwining them tightly.

That soft smile of his lit up his face, easing the intensity of the moment, and for a split second, she relaxed completely under his gaze.

“Good girl” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before lowering himself back down.

He resumed where he’d left off, his lips trailing down her abdomen in slow, deliberate movements. His hands rested lightly on her hips, his thumbs brushing small circles against her skin through the delicate fabric of her lingerie.

Y/n inhaled sharply as he traveled lower, his kisses now brushing along the edge of the lace.

The softness of his lips against her skin was maddeningly gentle, and she felt her body react without thought—her hips shifting slightly, a quiet gasp escaping her.

Lewis paused, glancing up at her with a soft chuckle. “You’re really bad at letting go, aren’t you?”

She smirked down at him, though the faint rush in her voice betrayed her. “Maybe you’re not doing a good enough job convincing me.”

He grinned at her challenge, his hand brushing lightly over her waist before his lips followed, pressing just below her navel. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

Her breath caught as his kisses dipped lower, moving in a painfully slow trail that left her skin tingling.

When his lips finally brushed the edge of the lace, he paused, letting the moment linger as his fingers traced the delicate fabric.

Lewis smiled, a flicker of pride in his eyes as he slid one hand to the edge of the lace, gently pushing it aside.

The first touch of his skin against her folds was electric, and Y/n couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her lips.

Raw and unrestrained. And for a split second, she froze, caught off guard by the sound of her own vulnerability.

His head lifted, his eyes locking with hers, and the look in them was enough to make her forget her hesitation.

There was no teasing this time, no smirk or witty remark. Only a quiet intensity.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice like a low hum that seemed to resonate through her. “Let me in, babe.”

The frailty of the moment—the way her body responded so freely to him, the way she didn’t pull back or try to shield herself—was both terrifying and exhilarating.

And when Lewis pressed another kiss to her skin, his lips warm and soft against her, she found herself sinking further into the moment. Into him.

For the first time, she wasn’t thinking. She wasn’t analyzing or calculating her next move. She was just feeling. And with him, she felt safe.

Lewis kept his kisses, his lips brushing along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, the slow deliberate strokes of his mouth setting her nerves alight. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as his kisses trailed dangerously close to her core but never quite reaching it.

“Lewis…” Y/n’s voice was breathless, frustration and anticipation mixing in her tone.

He chuckled softly against her skin, the warmth of his breath ghosting over her. “Patience, love” he murmured. “I want you to feel every second of this.”

The first touch of his tongue against her clit was featherlight, a flicker that barely lasted long enough to register before it disappeared. Y/n gasped, her back arching off the bed as a jolt shot through her but disappeared just as quickly. Replaced by the maddening sensation of his lips pressing kisses around but never quite where she needed him.

She let out a low groan, her hands fisting the sheets. “This is torture” she muttered, half-laughing, half-desperate.

Lewis grinned against her skin. “Is it?” he teased, his tone laced with mischief. But even as he spoke, he let his tongue drag in slow, deliberate strokes against her clit, building a rhythm that had her thighs trembling.

His movements were being guided by the subtle shifts of her body—the way her hips pressed forward, the sharp intakes of breath she couldn’t hold back.

When she felt him slow again, teasing her with softer, lighter touches that left her clenching at nothing, she couldn’t help herself. Her hand moved instinctively, finding its way to the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his curls as she pressed him closer.

Lewis chuckled and the vibration against her sent a wave of pleasure coursing through her. “Needy, aren’t we?”

She gave him a look, her swollen lips parted “I swear to God, Lewis…”

He didn’t let her finish. Taking her cue and deepening his focus, his tongue working her clit with more pressure now, more intention. Y/n’s breath hitched, her body tensing as he explored her.

And just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, he shifted, sliding a single finger inside her.

Y/n’s head fell back against the pillow, a sharp moan escaping her as he moved carefully, exploring the tight heat of her. His finger curled slightly, testing, searching, until—

“Oh—” The sound tore from her lips, unbidden and raw, as he found the spot he’d been looking for. Her walls clenched around him, her body reacting before she could think.

Lewis grinned to himself, the satisfaction of her response clear on his features.

He pressed into the spot again, slower this time, relishing the way she gasped and arched beneath him.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and full of reverence as he worked her gently. “You feel perfect.”

Y/n couldn’t answer, her words lost in the haze of pleasure. She was on the edge, her body trembling as she clung to him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

And then he stopped.

Her eyes flew open, meeting his as he sat back slightly, his finger slipping out of her completely. The loss was immediate, and she let out a sound of protest, her brow furrowing in frustration.

“What the hell?” she managed, the irritation clear in her voice.

His grin was maddeningly confident as he leaned forward, brushing a kiss to her hip. “I need to get you ready” he said, his tone soft but firm, as though he were sharing a secret. “I want you to remember this. Our first time.”

Y/n’s lips parted, her frustration giving way to something softer as his words sank in. She studied him for a moment. The sincerity in his gaze, the way his hands moved gently over her thighs, grounding her—it all felt so intimate.

After a beat, she nodded, her fingers brushing against his wrist as she intertwined their hands again.

Lewis took it a permission, and his lips curved into a soft smile before he lowered himself back down. His hands rested on her thighs, steadying her, grounding her, before one finger slid to her core.

This time, he didn’t hold back. His tongue found her clit with precision, and as her body arched in response, his second finger joined the first. He moved deliberately, curling his digits to press against the spot he had found earlier, his rhythm unrelenting as he dragged pleasure from her.

Y/n’s breath hitched, her hands gripping the sheets as her body surrendered to him. The combination of his tongue and fingers was overwhelming, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of sensations that left her trembling.

The world around her seemed to fade, the edges of her vision going white as pleasure consumed her. A sharp, euphoric wave crashed over her, and the ringing in her ears drowned out everything else. Her hands scrambled to find purchase, gripping his curls, his shoulders, the sheets—anything to anchor herself as her orgasm tore through her.

Lewis didn’t stop, his touch gentle but steady as he guided her through every shudder and gasp. It wasn’t until her breathing began to even out that he finally slowed, his lips brushing against her sensitive skin as he pressed tender kisses along her inner thigh.

“You’re stunning like this” he murmured, his voice low and rough, still laced with the intensity of the moment.

Y/n let out a shaky laugh, her chest still rising and falling with the aftershocks. “You’re already in my pants, Sir.” she said, her tone feisty despite the lingering haze of pleasure in her voice.

Lewis grinned, his hand sliding along the smooth skin of her thigh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns. “That I am” he teased, leaning in to press a kiss to the sensitive spot just above her knee.

Her laugh grew steadier, though her legs trembled as he continued his soft, maddening ministrations. “Shut up,” she murmured, her tone carrying no real heat.

Lewis chuckled, his breath warm against her skin. “You love it.”

She reached down, her hand brushing against his wrist as she tugged him upward. Her body still hummed from the aftermath, but she wanted him closer, his weight, his warmth.

He obliged, moving up her body slowly, pressing kisses along the way—her hip, her ribs, the hollow of her throat—before meeting her gaze. His dark eyes were filled with something unspoken, something she felt reflected in the way he looked at her, like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered, his voice low but earnest.

Y/n arched a brow at him, her lips curving into a small, teasing smile. “And you’re far too smug.”

His grin widened as he leaned down, brushing his lips against hers in a kiss that was tender and hungry, a perfect encapsulation of everything he felt for her in that moment.

Mid kiss Lewis felt her hips rocking against him, her teasing movements intentional as she grinned up at him with a smugness that made his pulse thunder. “I can feel you, you know?” she murmured, her voice dripping with tease.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, but her words set a fire in him that had him breaking their kiss. He got off the bed, his fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers.

The fabric fell to the floor in a single, though hurried, motion, and his length sprang free, hard and veined, evidence of just how much she’d unraveled him.

Y/n’s lips parted as her gaze fixed on him, and she couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across her face. Her eyes darkened with appreciation, and without thinking, her hands moved to her own breasts, fingers brushing over the lace of the lingerie that kept it from fully spilling out.

Lewis let out a low chuckle, guttural even, as he gave himself a single, languid pump. “You keep looking at me like that,” he teased, his voice barely more than a rumble, “and I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”

She bit her lip, her expression innocent and anything but, and Lewis shook his head, climbing back onto the mattress. Before he could fully settle, she pushed herself upright, her head tilting slightly in question as her gaze flicked downward.

Her intent was clear, and he froze for a moment, his breath catching in his throat.

She raised a brow, a silent, teasing demand for permission. He nodded, but not without a soft warning, his voice strained. “Don’t tease, Y/n. I need to last with you.”

Her lips quirked into a wicked smile, her giggle soft as her hand reached for him.

She wrapped her fingers around his base, her touch gentle as she explored him. Starting at the base, her hand moved to his balls, her fingers playing with them just enough to make his breaths grow heavier.

But when her lips pressed the faintest kiss to his tip, he was done for. His hips jerked involuntarily, and he looked down at her with an expression that was of a man utterly undone.

And it only spurred her on.

Her tongue darted out, the flat of it trailing from his base to his tip, slow and deliberate, before repeating the motion. She maintained eye contact the whole time, the sight of him unraveling beneath her felt like a dream.

Lewis’s groans grew deeper, his hands moving to cradle her face, though his touch was feather-light. Her tongue circled his tip before taking him into her mouth, her pace unhurried, and it wasn’t long before he was moaning her name like a prayer.

When his breaths turned shallow and erratic, he gently pulled her head away, his hands cupping her cheeks as he tried to regain control. His grin was sheepish but endearing, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

“Babe,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “I won’t last like that.”

Her laugh was soft, her lips glistening as she looked up at him with desire. “You sure about that?” she teased, her voice light and playful, but she didn’t push further, leaning back slightly as if to give him the reins again.

Lewis let out a shaky exhale, his gaze locking onto hers with a new intensity. His grin widening as he leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was hungry and unapologetically full of want.

When he broke the kiss she reached over to the bedside drawer, her fingers deftly searching until they closed around a small, foil packet. Pulling it out, she gave him a pointed look, a playful glint in her eyes as she caught the subtle question forming in his gaze.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “What?” she teased, holding the condom between her fingers like it was the most casual thing in the world. “You think I didn’t plan ahead?”

He leaned back slightly, his gaze narrowing as the pieces clicked into place. “So you’re saying,” he began, his voice laced with amusement, “you planned that photo, this whole thing?”

Her lips curved into a slow, self-satisfied smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I mean” she drawled, her tone dripping with playful innocence, “it wasn’t exactly a coincidence.”

And before he could continue his teasing, she tossed the packet toward him. He caught it easily, holding it between his fingers and giving it a closer look. The brand and size caught his attention, and his grin turned smug.

“How’d you know the size?” he asked, his voice thick with curiosity and more than a hint of ego.

She didn’t falter, shrugging again with an air of feigned indifference. “I had a feeling,” she said simply, her tone light.

And just as he was about to say anything else, she plucked the packet back from his hand with a quickness that caught him off guard. Tearing it open with skillful precision. Holding his gaze as she rolled it down over his length, her fingers moving with ease.

Her smug smile only grew as she leaned in, pressing a kiss to his tip through the thin barrier. And the sound he made—a cross between a groan and a low chuckle—had her biting her lip, her own pulse racing in response.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, his voice thick and heavy with want.

“Maybe” she replied, her voice as steady as her hands, “but you don’t seem to mind.”

He leaned back in, his body pressing her into the mattress as his lips found hers again. The weight of him, the heat radiating from his skin, and the way his hands gripped her thighs made her feel like the only thing in his universe.

Lewis shifted his weight, settling between her thighs as his hands gripped her waist gently, thumbs stroking the soft skin there. He caught her gaze, his dark eyes searching hers for any hesitation, any flicker of doubt.

Seeing none, he leaned down, pressing a kiss to her lips.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice low and steady. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

She nodded, her breath catching as she felt the tip of him pressing against her folds. Her body tensed instinctively, and he couldn’t help but notice.

“Relax, love,” he whispered, one hand moving up to cradle her face while the other stayed on her waist, grounding her. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

She exhaled slowly, her body softening beneath him as she let herself trust his touch, his words. The feeling of him—his warmth, his strength, his care—wrapped around her like a cocoon, and she nodded again.

“Good girl” he praised softly, his voice a gentle caress that made her shiver.

Slowly, he began to press into her, inch by inch, his movements controlled and deliberate. His lips stayed close to her ear, whispering reassurances with every breath.

“You’re so tight” he murmured, his voice tinged with awe. “Feels incredible.”

Her fingers clutched at his shoulders as her body adjusted to him, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. When he felt her tense up again, his movements paused, his forehead dropping to hers as he soothed her.

“Breathe, baby” he coaxed, his tone insistent. “You’re doing so good for me.”

She took a shaky breath, her nails digging into his skin. Slowly the stretch became less overwhelming as he stayed perfectly still, giving her the time she needed.

“That’s it” he murmured, his lips brushing against her temple. “You’re perfect, Y/n. Perfect.”

When she finally tilted her hips toward him, signaling she was ready, he began to move again, easing in further until he was fully seated inside her.

The sensation was overwhelming. The heat, the tightness, the sheer intimacy of it. He let out a shaky breath of his own, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he gathered himself.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice laced with concern even as his body trembled from the restraint it took to stay still.

Her lips curved into a small, teasing smile. “More than okay,” she whispered, her voice breathless.

He chuckled softly, brushing his nose against hers before he started to move. His thrusts starting to draw soft gasps from her lips.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with emotion. “Better than I ever imagined.”

Y/n arched against him, her nails dragging down his back as she adjusted to his rhythm. The sounds of their skin filling the room, soft gasps and low groans mixing with the faint hum of music still playing in the background.

But then, her teasing nature resurfaced. She leaned up, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “You’re talking too much”

He froze for a moment, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her smirk enough to make him laugh, the deep, rumbling sound vibrating against her chest.

“Oh, you want me to shut up?” he asked, his grin turning wolfish.

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “And fuck me” she added, her voice challenging and playful all at once.

His grin only grew, his hands sliding down to grip her hips more firmly. “Careful what you wish for” he warned.

And then he moved, his pace quickening as he thrust into her with more purpose. Her head fell back against the pillows, a moan escaping her lips as the intensity increased.

“Like that?” he asked, his voice rough and breathless.

Her body moved with his, their rhythm syncing effortlessly as the tension between them built higher and higher. His hands roamed her body, memorizing every curve, every reaction, as if committing her to memory.

He slowed for just a moment, pressing his forehead to hers as he caught the tension building in her body again, the telltale flutter of her walls around him as her moans grew higher, more desperate.

He smiled against her shoulder, slowing his movements just enough to catch his breath and consider what to do next.

He wanted to draw this out, make it last.

With a shift of his weight, he eased them onto their sides, pulling her leg over his hip as he adjusted their position. She was now nestled in his arms, her back pressed firmly against his chest. The change altered the angle of his thrusts, not as deep as before, but the friction made her gasp sharply.

She whimpered, her head tilting back to rest against his shoulder. He kissed the curve of her neck, one hand sliding down to grip her thigh and keep her leg in place as he moved, slow and deliberate. The other hand found her breast, his thumb brushing over her sensitive nipple through the delicate lace of her lingerie.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.

Her response was a soft moan, her free arm reaching back to wrap around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as she tried to pull him closer. He chuckled, his lips brushing against her ear as he continued to move inside her, the rhythm steady and almost torturous in its slowness.

“You feel so good like this,” he whispered, his voice low and rough.

Her breathing hitched as his hand slid beneath the lace, palming her bare breast and rolling her nipple between his fingers. His other hand pressed against her stomach, holding her securely against him as his hips moved with deliberate precision.

She gasped when his fingers squeezed her nipple lightly, and when his tongue darted out to trace the shell of her ear, she let out a broken moan.

“You’re creaming all over my dick, baby,” he teased, his voice laced with a smug edge. “You’re so wet for me.”

Her cheeks flushed at his words, but the heat pooling in her core only grew. “Fuck” she breathed, her tone half-plea, half-warning.

“Yeah?” he asked, his tone teasing as he nipped at her neck. “Tell me what you need.”

“You” she managed, her voice trembling as his hips rolled against hers, the friction unbearable in the best way.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, his lips trailing down to her shoulder. “Not going anywhere.”

His hand moved from her breast, sliding down to her stomach and pressing gently, as though anchoring her to him. The pressure make her squirm, and she could feel herself teetering on the edge again.

Lewis, ever attuned to her, slowed his thrusts further, the motion gentle but unrelenting. “I want you to feel every second of this” he said softly, his lips brushing against her neck. “I want you to remember this.”

Her body arched against his as his words, his touch, his movements all coalesced into a perfect storm. The tension inside her snapped, her climax hitting and leaving her breathless. Her moans filled the room as her body trembled in his arms, her nails digging into his skin.

“That’s it” he murmured, his tone reverent as he held her through it, his thrusts slowing to let her ride out the waves of her orgasm. “So gorgeous.”

When she finally stilled, her body limp and boneless against him, he pressed a soft kiss to her neck, just above the diamond necklace.

He wasn’t done yet, but he was in no rush. This was about her, about showing her just how much she meant to him, even if she couldn’t say it yet.

Lewis eased himself out of her, his motions unhurried and careful, allowing them both a moment to breathe. But a fleeting moment at last, as with a firm grip on her hips, he guided her onto her hands and knees, positioning her with precision.

He grabbed two pillows from the head of the bed, tucking them beneath her hips to elevate her. The sight before him breathtaking: her back arched, her body pliant, and her skin glowing with their sweat under the soft lighting of the room.

“Damn” he muttered, his voice filled with want as he leaned over her.

He pressed a series of kisses along the line of her spine, traveling from the curve of her shoulder blades down to the small of her back.

“I should personally thank your trainer,” he teased against her skin, his voice laced with amusement.

Her laugh was soft, light, and so utterly her. It had him grinning as he moved back up, angling her face just enough to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

The intimacy of the gesture wasn’t lost on her, and her gaze softened for a split second before her eyes fluttered closed as his lips trailed to her ear.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he murmured, his voice a warm caress that sent a pleasant tingle down her spine.

Her breath hitched, and before she could respond, he took advantage of the moment, angling himself at her entrance and thrusting into her in one fluid motion. The force of it sent a jolt through her, her body instinctively surging forward, but his hands were firm, holding her hips in place.

“Gosh” she gasped, her fingers gripping the sheets tightly.

He froze, waiting for her response, his instincts telling him to be sure she was with him.

Then she turned her head slightly, giving him a look over her shoulder that was just pure need. “Aren’t you moving?”

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, and he chuckled softly. “Impatient, are we?”

“Just shut up and—” Her words were cut off by the sharp inhale she took when he began moving.

His thrusts started slow and deep. He wanted her to feel every inch of him, wanted to stretch this moment out for as long as he could.

His hands roamed over her body, one sliding up her back, following the curve of her spine, while the other remained anchored on her hip, guiding her into the rhythm he set.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, along with her breathless moans and his low groans. As he shifted his angle slightly, the motion of his hips caused his pelvis to press against her, and he noticed the subtle slap of his balls against her swollen, oversensitive clit.

The reaction was immediate. Her body tensed, a strangled moan escaping her lips as her arms buckled slightly under her.

Lewis paused for a moment, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he realized what had her unraveling like that. “Oh, so that’s what’s doing it for you,” he said with a low chuckle, his tone teasing and joyful.

She let out a frustrated groan, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Don’t get cocky”

“Too late for that” he shot back, his voice dripping with smugness.

He adjusted his grip on her hips, pulling her back against him as he picked up the pace, making sure to maintain that angle. Her moans became louder, more erratic, and he knew he was driving her closer to the edge again.

“Lew…” she whimpered, her voice barely above a whisper, but the need in it was clear.

“I’ve got you” he said, his voice steady and reassuring.

Her body tightened around him as the rhythm of his thrusts pushed her closer to her peak. He leaned over her again, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, “You’re doing so good for me. So perfect.”

His words seemed to send her straight to the precipice. Her body trembling with anticipation.

Lewis could feel himself getting close too, the tightening coil in his abdomen signaling his release was imminent. But he wasn’t about to let go without taking her there with him one more time.

With one arm steadying her waist, he slipped his other hand around her body, his fingers finding her swollen clit and taking the place of his balls. His flicks were harsh and fast, the perfect counter to the deep, deliberate thrusts of his hips.

“Lewis—” Her voice broke into a cry, the overwhelming pleasure making her legs shake as her head dipped forward.

Her walls clamped down on him, the tightness making him struggle to keep his rhythm steady. The way she clenched and trembled around him was too much, and as she shattered around his cock, her third release washing over her with force, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest as his own orgasm hit. His thrusts stuttered, then slowed as he spilled into the condom, his body trembling against hers. The heat of his release and the pulsing of her walls combined into a sensation so consuming that it left him breathless.

He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, stilling until he caught his breath before carefully easing out of her.

With a tender touch, he guided her onto her side and pulled her close, cradling her against his chest as their heartbeats gradually steadied.

She looked impossibly soft, her features relaxed, and for the first time, Lewis thought he might be seeing her exactly as she was, no defenses, no walls—just Y/N. But even then, he could feel the tiniest trace of distance, an invisible line she hadn’t yet crossed.

His fingers brushed against her bare shoulder, tracing idle patterns on her skin. “You know,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “for someone who loves control, you’re surprisingly good at letting go when you trust someone.”

She smirked, though her eyes stayed closed. “Don’t push your luck. I might revoke your privileges.”

Lewis chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. “Noted. But seriously,” he continued, his tone softening, “I meant what I said earlier. I want you to feel safe with me, always.”

Her eyes opened, meeting his gaze. For a long moment, she said nothing, her fingers lightly grazing the curve of his bicep.

Y/N stretched against him, her body melting into his as she exhaled deeply. The tension she carried so often was gone, replaced by an almost vulnerable ease.

“I bet you think you’ve got me all figured out now,” she murmured, her voice laced with teasing, though there was a softness beneath it.

Lewis grinned, tilting her chin up so their eyes met. “Not a chance,” he replied. “I think I’ve just cracked the surface. And, honestly? I like it that way. Keeps me on my toes.”

She laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. “Well, don’t get too comfortable. I’m not some damsel for you to swoop in and rescue.”

“Trust me, love, I’d be bored if you were,” he quipped, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together. “I’m here for the full ride—walls, sass, and all.”

She smiled faintly, her fingers trailing up to brush the side of his face. “Why, though?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Why would you want to deal with someone like me?”

Lewis caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Because I see you. The real you. Not the guarded version you show the world, or even the teasing version that drives me mad in the best way. The woman lying here, right now. That’s who I want.”

Her lips parted slightly, as though she had something to say, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to his mouth, as though that gesture could convey what she couldn’t say aloud.

Y/N’s expression softened, though her lips still held a playful tilt. She reached up, brushing her fingers through his short curls before letting her hand fall to the diamond necklace still resting against her chest. “You really have a thing for seeing me in this, huh?”

His eyes flicked down to the glinting diamond, and a slow smile spread across his face. “It’s not the necklace,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “It’s what it means. You’re wearing it for me. That’s enough.”

She rolled her eyes, though her fingers toyed with the necklace almost shyly. “You’re insufferably smug, you know that?”

“Only because I know I’m right,” he teased, leaning down to kiss the corner of her mouth, the faintest brush of lips that left her sighing against him.

She nestled back into his arms, her cheek resting on his chest as her fingertips traced absent shapes on his skin. The quiet stretched between them, not heavy, but filled with unspoken truths and the history they’d built together.

“You’re annoyingly patient too” she said after a long silence, her voice almost contemplative.

Lewis glanced down at her, his brow lifting. “That’s a complaint?”

“It’s an observation,” she corrected, her words deliberate. “Most people wouldn’t have stuck around this long.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Most people aren’t me. And you’re worth it, Y/N. Every bit of it.”

Her lips twitched, her usual sass flickering back as she quipped, “Big words, Hamilton. You planning on carving them into a trophy or something?”

He laughed, his head falling back briefly before he looked at her with pure adoration. “Nah, I’ll just keep reminding you every day.”

Y/N shook her head, her smile growing as she tugged him closer for another kiss, this one slower, softer. When they parted, she rested her forehead against his, the diamond catching the last rays of the setting sun.

“You’re so stubborn” she said with mock exasperation.

“And you love it” he shot back, grinning.

She didn’t reply, but the way she pulled him closer, the way she let herself fully relax in his arms, told him everything he needed to know.

For now, it was enough.

_____________________________________________________________

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[admiringlove]

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. you yearned for adventure, but the thrill you sought quickly spirals into a web of secrets as dark forces converge on hogwarts. with cryptic notes mysteriously appearing and a shadowy figure wielding parseltongue, your identity as a marauder hangs precariously in the balance. as you grapple with mounting responsibilities, the tension between you and the infuriating gojo satoru reaches a boiling point. can you unravel the mystery before it consumes you, or will the weight of the truth prove too heavy to bear?

➵ warnings. gojo being gojo; profanity; dueling; toji ripping people off; mentions of gambling or placing bets; mentions of theft; pureblood gojo being a dick at times; reader being stupid; causing physical harm (burning someone's hand, specifically gojo); fictional slurs mentioned once (1); etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; etc.

➵ word count. 13k.

➵ author's note. as usual, ty for proofreading, my dear aspen. AND on that note, here is chapter two where the real show begins :)

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

One month had passed in agonizing monotony.

The requests had been laughable: a missing toad, students floundering with their grades despite the term having barely begun, and petty attempts at hexing one another in the name of Quidditch rivalries. Even the bludger debacle had been little more than a blip on the radar. Nothing gripping. Nothing exhilarating.

Now, on an unremarkable Sunday morning, you found yourself curled up in the common room, the faint crackle of the fire your only company. Your eyes scanned the dense text of The Rise of Pureblood Families—a tome so ancient it felt like it might crumble to dust in your hands. Professor Fig had insisted it was essential reading for his next lecture, though you suspected he delighted in tormenting his students with the driest material imaginable.

The quiet is abruptly shattered by the sharp snap of the book right in front of your face. You blink, startled, only to see Utahime standing over you, disheveled and very much unimpressed.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing up this early?” she grumbles, collapsing onto the sofa beside you and rubbing the remnants of sleep from her eyes.

“Reading,” you mutter, holding up the hefty volume as evidence. “I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep.”

She yawns, sprawling across the cushions like a lazy cat. “You’re a menace. It’s Sunday. Go back to bed like a normal person.”

“Some of us actually care about our classes,” you tease, leaning your head against her shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “Fig’s got us studying the bloodlines of the founders. Pureblood supremacy and all that delightful rot.”

Her eyes narrow at the title of the book, and she plucks it from your lap with a scoff. “History of Magic: The Rise of Pureblood Families? What on Earth is wrong with you?”

“It’s for class!” you protest, half-whining. “You’re the one who bailed on History of Magic last year. Ancient Runes was your grand pursuit of knowledge, remember?”

“Had I known they’d give me a time-turner if I took both, I’d have made better choices,” she mutters darkly, flipping through the brittle pages. Her eyes catch on a familiar name, and a wicked grin spreads across her face. “Oh, look. The Gojo clan. How utterly predictable.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Of course they’re in there.”

“Of course they are,” she drawls, setting the book down with exaggerated delicacy. “The question is, how many pages do you think he’s read about himself?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even as you silently wished the universe would send you something, anything, to break the tedium of this slow-burning school year. Something big, or dangerous, or impossible. Something worth remembering.

The book slides from your lap, landing on the sofa with a muted thud, and that’s when you notice it—a sliver of something protruding from between the pages, barely discernible against the worn parchment. Utahime is saying something about Quidditch, her words lazy and half-formed, but your attention has already shifted. Slowly, you reach for the book, the weight of its age settling into your palms, and tilt it toward the light.

There it is again. Something thin, fragile, and out of place. You pinch it between your fingers, the texture unmistakable—parchment, slightly waxy and crinkled at the edges. You pull it free, and as you do, your heart gives a faint, involuntary flutter.

The piece of parchment is blank. Utterly unremarkable at first glance, the kind of thing you’d toss aside without a second thought. Yet, there’s a heaviness to it, a peculiar presence that makes you pause. You trace its edges, the uneven cut of the paper catching against the pad of your thumb.

“Hm?” Utahime mumbles, stretching beside you. Her voice is sluggish, sleep-heavy. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing,” you reply, but your tone betrays the lie. You fold the parchment in half, slipping it into your pocket as casually as you can manage.

She doesn’t press further, yawning mid-sentence as she shifts in her seat. “You’re weird. Anyway, did you hear? Itadori's been selected as the new Seeker of our team—”

“Iori,” you interrupt, glancing toward the clock above the fireplace. “Is it alright if I head out? I’m starving.”

“Now?” she asks, blinking at you like you’ve grown a second head. “It’s barely sunrise. The Hall’s probably empty.”

“I’ll check the kitchens, then,” you offer, already reaching for your robe. “House Elves always have something ready. Coffee, maybe a pie or two.”

“Suit yourself.” She waves you off, her voice dissolving into another yawn. “Bring me back a treacle tart if they’ve got one.”

You smile, grateful for her indifference. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As you step through the portrait hole, the cold stone of the castle’s corridors greets you. The folded parchment burns faintly in your pocket, its blank surface somehow heavier now, as though it’s watching you, waiting for you to notice something you’ve missed.

You crouch briefly, tugging your wand from its hiding place in your boot, the smooth wood a comforting weight in your palm. "Lumos," you whisper, your steps echoing unevenly against the cold stone floors, sharp and deliberate in the stillness of the castle at dawn. Reaching the Reception Hall, you hesitate, your gaze sweeping the expanse of shadowed corridors around you. Too early for students to wander. Too suspicious if you were caught.

The Floo Flame waits ahead, green embers crackling faintly in the dark fireplace. You move toward it, fingers brushing the small bowl of Floo Powder resting on the corner table. For a moment, you simply stand there, listening—nothing but the distant groan of shifting stone, before sighing out softly, "Nox."

Satisfied, you take a measured breath, gripping a pinch of the silvery powder, and step into the fireplace.

Your heart thrums like a drumbeat, resonating in your chest, in your fingertips, in the tips of your ears. “Room of Requirement,” you murmur, the words precise, deliberate, the syllables sharp in the still air. You release the powder, and the world blurs in a flash of emerald flames.

When you open your eyes, the Room greets you in its usual, haunting splendor. Shadows dance across towering bookshelves and stretch over the cavernous ceiling. The faint scent of parchment and the warmth of the ever-crackling fireplace mingle with the quiet, electric hum of something unseen—something alive. The air here always felt charged, like a secret waiting to unfold.

You walk toward the long table and its pinboard, the polished surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. Then, a voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and lazy all at once.

“Didn’t think you’d be here this fine morning.”

The sound makes you flinch, your pulse skipping. You turn, already preparing a cutting retort, something sharp-edged and brimming with profanity. But the words die on your tongue the moment you see him.

Satoru. Of course. His silver hair catches the flickering firelight, the perpetual smirk curling at his lips as infuriating as ever. But it’s what he’s holding that freezes you in place. Between his middle and index fingers, he dangles something thin and yellowed—a piece of parchment, eerily familiar, catching the light like a warning.

“You got one too,” you say, your voice low and surprised as you reach into your pocket, pulling out the parchment you’d found earlier. It feels heavier now, though it shouldn’t.

He nods, the motion slow and deliberate, humming under his breath as he strolls toward you. “Indeed. Blank, isn’t it? Curious little thing.”

His gaze flicks to yours, bright and unreadable. He spins the parchment in his fingers lazily, before adding, “Come with me, Fawkes Junior. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“Do you think whoever sent it knows that we’re—”

“Highly likely,” he interrupts, voice maddeningly nonchalant. He brushes past you, the faint scent of mahogany and something sharper lingering in the air. “But let’s see what it is first, shall we?”

You trail behind him toward the long table, your steps hesitant, the weight of the parchment in your hand growing heavier with every passing second. Satoru reaches the table first, his movements unhurried, almost theatrical. He places his parchment down with a casual flick of his wrist, then steps back, fixing you with an expectant look. His pale eyes gleam with something unreadable, his smirk daring you to ask the obvious.

You stare at him, confused, your brows knitting together as you clutch your own parchment tighter. “What?” you ask, your voice defensive, though you’re not sure why.

“Don’t just stand there like a stunned pixie,” he says, his tone dripping with exaggerated exasperation. “Put your parchment down and do the honors, you toad.”

Your lips part in indignation, a sharp retort already forming. “I’m not a toad! You’re the toad.” But even as you say it, you step up to the table, cheeks warm, and place your parchment beside his.

“Right,” you mutter under your breath, steadying yourself. Your fingers twitch as you pull your wand from your robes, pointing it toward the two scraps of parchment. You feel the weight of his gaze on you, sharp and unwavering, as if he’s daring you to mess up.

Sucking in a breath, you focus, the words spilling from your lips with careful precision. “Aparecium.”

For a moment, nothing happens. The fire crackles softly in the hearth behind you, the sound stretching into the silence like a taut thread. And then, it begins.

The ink blooms slowly, almost hypnotically, across the surface of the parchment. Black tendrils unfurl like vines, weaving their way across the waxy paper in intricate patterns. You watch, transfixed, as words begin to take shape, each letter etching itself with deliberate grace. The air feels heavier now, charged with something alive, something ancient.

Your breath catches, and you barely notice Satoru stepping closer until his shoulder brushes against yours. The warmth of him is startling, a contrast to the chill that seems to radiate from the parchment. He leans in, his eyes fixed on the ink as it scrawls its secrets onto the paper, and you can feel the faint buzz of his presence, like static against your skin.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with fascination.

You nod, unable to tear your eyes away, the strange, hypnotic motion of the ink consuming your thoughts.

“It’s a riddle,” you murmur, your fingers brushing over the parchment as you absorb the message. “Where still waters mirror the void, a whisper slithers ancient and coy.”

“A raven-haired calls what none can see, beneath the night's veil by the serpent's decree,” Satoru intones, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. For a heartbeat, his expression is inscrutable, his gaze penetrating, as if he’s searching for answers hidden within the very air around you. Then, without another word, he strides over to the pinboard, his movements fluid and graceful, as he plucks a pin from its holder.

With a deft flick of his wrist, he secures his piece of paper to the board, then extends his hand toward you, the gesture inviting yet commanding. You hand over your parchment, and he makes a point of placing yours before his. He studies the board, the tension in the air thickening as he furrows his brow, lost in thought, his usually playful demeanor replaced by an unexpected gravity.

“It’s so early in the damn morning, so I can’t think of anything coherent,” he admits, his voice tinged with frustration. “You think this could be a prank?” He turns back to you, one eyebrow arched in skepticism.

You shake your head, your resolve firm. “Whoever sent this knows our identity. They know we’re the Marauders. This is serious. Whatever they’ve uncovered can’t be known by anyone else in the school—only us. That’s why the notes are so mysterious and the riddle so convoluted.”

“Right,” he murmurs, a flicker of concern crossing his features. “Unfortunate for us that whoever this shithead—”

“—Language,” you interject, shooting him a mock disapproving look.

“This very mysterious person, bless them, clearly knows who we are and has the ability to slip notes into our things at will.” He leans against the edge of the long table, arms crossed over his chest, the muscles in his shoulders tensing as he considers the implications. “Can I ask where you found yours?” His gaze sharpens and you feel a thrill run through you at the weight of his attention.

You nod, recalling the moment with clarity. “A textbook about purebloods and their family history—lineages and whatnot. We’re studying it in Fig’s class.” The words hang in the air, charged with the gravity of the situation, as Satoru’s eyes narrow thoughtfully.

“Mine was tucked away in my quill case,” he replies, his gaze flitting back to the pinboard, where the riddle still looms ominously. He rubs his chin thoughtfully, an idiosyncratic gesture that somehow amplifies his charm. “Specifically, the one with my family’s crest.”

You furrow your brow, a mix of curiosity and anxiety knotting your stomach. “You think it’s linked to you? To the message?” The anticipation thrums within you, a palpable energy that makes your fingers clench and unclench, as if in a desperate attempt to control the tension building in the air. He casts his eyes downward, the intensity of the moment settling over him like a cloak. “Honestly, Fawkes, I have no clue. But I'd say, to start with the people in that class.”

Just then, the resonant toll of the bell reverberates through the stone corridors, a stark reminder of time slipping away. Sighing, you glance at your wrist, where your watch glints in the dim light. “It’s eight.”

“Breakfast,” you murmur, realization dawning. “Oh, I promised Iori I’d stop by the Kitchens to snag some treacle tarts before coming here. I really should—”

“Just head out first and cut through the dungeons,” he interjects, a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes. “I don’t want to be seen with you anyway. It’s highly suspicious, and let’s be honest, you're you.”

His tone twists the knife of irritation deeper into your gut, and you roll your eyes, exasperation rising like bile. What an absolute git. This was precisely why you loathed him—the unnecessary comments, the incessant teasing, the way he seemed to revel in making your skin crawl. He exuded an aristocratic aura, a smug confidence born from privilege, and it infuriated you how someone so insufferably arrogant could also be undeniably captivating.

“I’d challenge you to a duel, Gojo,” you declare, striding toward the door with renewed determination, your voice steady and defiant. “But I’d be wasting my time on someone I’ve already beaten multiple times.”

“Then you should practice, Fawkes,” he smirks, a glint of challenge dancing in his eyes, revealing the sharpness of his teeth like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’ll be losing soon enough.”

“In your dreams,” you retort, unable to suppress a smirk of your own, even as frustration simmers beneath the surface.

You're nearly at the library doors when a voice calls your name, sharp and high, like a bird swooping down to catch its prey. You turn to see Professor Flitwick hurrying toward you, his small frame bouncing with an urgency that makes you pause. His wand is clutched tightly in one hand, and his robes billow awkwardly around his ankles as he paces forward.

"[L/N]! I've been meaning to catch you about the Dueling Club since yesterday!" he says breathlessly, halting just short of colliding with you. His cheeks are flushed, and you can't help but feel a pang of concern as you swing your bag off your shoulder and pull out a bottle of water, handing it to him without a word.

He looks surprised for a moment but then beams, taking it with a small bow. "Thank you, thank you," he says, uncapping it and taking a long sip. When he hands it back, he dabs at his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, his energy seemingly renewed. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the first meeting of the Dueling Club must happen tomorrow. I've compiled a list of second-year students I believe show great promise, and I trust you'll take the lead in getting them started. I'll announce it to them in class tomorrow morning and send them to you after lectures."

"Of course, Professor," you reply, your tone steady, though you feel the weight of the task settle on your shoulders. "I'll make sure everything is ready."

"Excellent, excellent!" he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of parchment. "Here’s the list. Do give it a look—very talented young witches and wizards on there."

You unfold the parchment as he bustles away, scanning the names quickly. Most are unfamiliar to you, but three jump out like ink bleeding through the page: Maki Zenin, Mai Zenin, and Inumaki Toge. The Zenins, of course, were legendary among pureblood families—sharp-edged and shrouded in rumors of internal rivalries. And Inumaki, though quieter in reputation, carried a name steeped in mystique.

Your thoughts drift to Fushiguro Toji, the senior who had once borne the Zenin name before renouncing it—a choice that was as infamous as it was mysterious. You’d seen him around the castle often enough to recognize his tall, brooding figure, his presence more like a shadow slipping past than a person. His reputation was formidable, a quiet storm of skill and restraint, known for his precision in dueling and his unsettling aloofness. You knew him from the Slytherin Quidditch team and the Dueling Club, though he’d only joined the latter last year under McGonagall and Flitwick’s persuasion. They’d promised recommendation letters and credits to help him secure a spot at the Auror’s Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It wasn’t ambition that drove him—or at least, not ambition anyone could easily understand. The way Utahime spoke of him didn’t help; her tone was always a mix of admiration and unease, as if he were a force to respect but not to trust completely.

You tuck the parchment into your bag as the heavy oak doors of the library come into view. The anticipation of sorting through tomes and chasing down obscure references pulls at you, even if you know it might take hours.

Where still waters mirror the void, a whisper slithers ancient and coy.

The riddle loops in your mind as you step into the hushed sanctuary of the library. You’d spent most of the day—after completing your homework—trying to decode it, poring over textbooks in your dorm and whispering the lines to yourself like some sort of incantation. Still, nothing clicked. There were no voids you could think of. Not unless it was about the Forbidden Forest.

You hoped the restricted section held the answers. If not, you were out of ideas.

Madam Pince’s gaze catches you the moment you step inside. She’s perched at her desk like some sort of malevolent statue, her sharp eyes narrowing behind thin spectacles. With her pale, hollow cheeks and the way her lips press into a disapproving line, she looks less like a librarian and more like an avenging specter. Asking her for permission to enter the Restricted Section is a gamble, but it might be one worth taking—after all, you are a Prefect. You move deeper into the rows of shelves, steeling yourself for the conversation to come.

Your throat feels dry as you wander toward a shelf near the left corner of Madam Pince’s desk. The polished wood bears an engraved plaque: Atlases and Maps. You step into the section, glancing over your shoulder to check on her. Madam Pince’s sharp eyes remain fixed on a pile of returned books, her thin lips pursed in bitterness, as though even their presence offends her.

Maybe, when her mood isn’t quite so sour—which, in truth, is almost never—you’ll muster the courage to ask for access to the Restricted Section. You rehearse excuses in your head: something for History of Magic? Or maybe Magical Theory? Whichever sounds more plausible in the moment. Just imagining the conversation makes your palms damp, the thought of her vulture-like gaze boring into you far worse than any hex.

Pretending to browse, you let your fingers trail lightly over the leather-bound spines of the books on the shelf. The titles blur past, meaningless as your eyes flick back to Madam Pince every few seconds. She hasn’t noticed you yet, and for now, that’s all you need. You try to appear absorbed in the neatly arranged volumes, but your heart thuds against your ribs, loud enough to feel like a betrayal.

Then, a voice breaks the silence—low and far too close for comfort.

“You know you’re not fooling anyone.”

You flinch, the sound startling you so much that your hand knocks into a book, sending it teetering on the edge of the shelf. You barely catch it, spinning around to face the source of the interruption.

“Fushiguro,” you hiss, placing a hand over your chest as you whisper his name, “Whatever do you mean?”

“‘Whatever do I mean?’ Really?” He raises an eyebrow, the scar on his lip catching your gaze as he smirks, his expression a mix of amusement and challenge. “You’re standing near a shelf designated for second and third years, and you’re asking me what I mean?”

“I—I,” you stammer, your cheeks growing warm under his scrutiny, “You’re here too!”

As if on cue, Madam Pince’s ears seem to perk up, her sharp gaze snapping to you with palpable disdain. She raises a bony finger to her lips, a chilling “Sh!” escaping her thin, pursed mouth. You cringe, your shoulders instinctively tensing as Fushiguro grabs your arm just above the elbow and pulls you deeper into the library, away from her watchful eyes.

You walk in a daze beside him, your heart racing like a caged bird as you try to maintain some semblance of composure. The curious glances from a few fellow students make you feel like a fish under a magnifying glass, and you find that looking down at your feet is the safest option.

After weaving through the labyrinth of towering shelves for what feels like minutes, he finally pulls you into a secluded corner where the dim light casts long, flickering shadows. The hush of the library seems louder here, wrapping around the two of you like a heavy cloak. Fushiguro releases your arm and leans casually against the wall, his sharp eyes locking onto yours.

“Care to explain why you’re spying on that ugly old hag?” he asks, his tone laced with amusement and challenge, the corner of his mouth curling into the faintest smirk.

Fuck. What were you supposed to say? That you were one half of the Marauders? That you found yourself here, drawn by a peculiar riddle that felt far too suspicious to be dismissed as a harmless prank? You blink for a moment, your lips pursing as you grapple with the weight of your words. In that fleeting silence, he tilts his head at you, a mix of annoyance and curiosity etched across his features. “Can’t tell me?”

You nod vigorously, your expression filled with both determination and trepidation. His expression shifts slightly, looking as if your shenanigans have piqued his interest. “What do you want, anyway? You don’t have to give me details, but now I’m curious.”

“Restricted Section,” you croak, the admission slipping from your lips with an embarrassing crack in your voice. You cringe at the sound, disappointment flooding over you like a tide of shame. He huffs, unimpressed. “That’s it?”

Your eyes widen as you narrow them at him, summoning the Gryffindor stubbornness that runs in your blood. “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’? It’s not allowed for students to go there.”

“Just because something isn’t allowed, [L/N], doesn’t mean it’s not possible. I've been there loads of times,” he replies, smacking your forehead lightly with a book he had been holding. You hadn’t even noticed it until now. Blinking in surprise, you rub the spot on your hairline where the tome had collided, gazing at him with the indignation of a rule-following goody-two-shoes. “I should report you.”

“You were going to ask Pince for access to the Restricted Section; that’s like inviting detention,” he retorts, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re quite stupid for a Prefect.”

“I am not stupid!” you exclaim, heat rising to your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Your hands grow clammy with frustration, and as he tilts his head, an amused glint in his eyes, you can’t help but feel like a fool caught unguarded. You pause for a few moments, before pursing your lips, “How would we even go in?”

"Ah, you know, just snag a few Invisibility Potions from Snape's office during dinner. He'll likely notice they’re gone, but I’ll replace them by the next morning. Being a seventh-year has its perks—I passed the exam last year and have my license," he says casually, his tone almost teasing. "Though I do need some money for that."

"Money?" you echo, your voice rising in disbelief. "I don’t have much. I’m not a pureblood like you."

"Then it's a no-go, princess," he shrugs, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Forget about it."

"Wait, no—"

"Five hundred Galleons. The potion will cost me four hundred to replace those in Snape's office, and I need a hundred for the trip to Hogsmeade just to fetch you anything at all," he says, sounding as if he’s been haggling his entire life. You scoff, incredulous. "That's a ridiculous amount! Where am I supposed to get five hundred Galleons?"

"Seems like your problem, not mine," he replies, his jaw set, the faintest hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. "This is what I do, [L/N]. Get used to it."

With that, he turns on his heel and strides away, leaving you exasperated. Where on earth could you possibly gather five hundred Galleons? Your allowance barely stretched to a couple hundred for the entire school year, just enough for a few trips to Hogsmeade. Gringotts was where your parents usually exchanged Muggle money for wizarding currency when they visited.

And then, like a lightning bolt, realization strikes you. Gojo. That insufferable white-haired twat probably received more of an allowance than you could even imagine. You gasp softly at the revelation, a plan forming in your mind as you break into a run. Ignoring Madam Pince’s shout, urging you to stop running, you dash toward the only place you think he could be—the Great Hall. Dinner would be starting soon, and with it, a glimmer of hope for your desperate situation.

And there he is, just as you suspected—Gojo, strolling alongside Suguru, his hands shoved carelessly into the pockets of his trousers. Laughter dances between them, a sound that feels foreign to your ears as you call out his name, “Oi, Gojo!”

He turns, an eyebrow arching in that infuriating way of his, as if your presence is a sudden, unwelcome surprise. “Oh, look who decided to grace me with her presence. Fawkes, I really didn’t want to see your face today.”

You huff out a breath, feeling the heat of exertion flush your cheeks. “I need to speak with you,” you manage, your voice tinged with urgency. “It’s important. Prefect things. Please.”

For a moment, he regards you with a bemusement that makes your insides twist. His gaze flickers to Suguru, exchanging a silent conversation that leaves you feeling slightly out of the loop. You nod at Suguru, a brief acknowledgment before your attention snaps back to Satoru, who seems to be weighing the gravity of your request.

“Go on, Suguru, I’ll meet you at the Great Hall,” Gojo finally says, his tone softening as his friend walks away with a casual “Alright.” With Suguru gone, Gojo turns his full attention to you, exhaling a resigned sigh. “What is it?”

“I need five hundred galleons,” you state, your heart racing at the enormity of the ask. “It’s for solving the riddle.”

His eyes narrow slightly, a mixture of disbelief and curiosity flickering across his face. “Why do you need that much money to solve a damn riddle? I mean, I’d give it to you because I have it, but I want to know what it’s for.”

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, catching your breath before continuing, “It’s Toji. He said he’d help me get into the Restricted Section of the library if I give him that much. He’s going to steal Invisibility potions from Snape’s office tonight if I say yes, and then buy them back from J. Pippins in Hogsmeade by tomorrow to replace them.”

Gojo scoffs, rolling his eyes in that trademark manner that both irritates and fascinates you. “That conniving asshole. Why do you want to go to the library? Just think about it, you nag. The answer will come to you. I already solved my part.”

“Because there might be clues- wait, what?” You blink slowly, the revelation dawning on you like a flickering candle. “You solved it? How?”

His gaze sweeps the empty corridor, ensuring the coast is clear before he closes the distance between you, grabbing your arm in a gesture that feels oddly possessive. “Someone with black hair at Hogwarts can speak in Parseltongue,” he murmurs, his voice low and conspiratorial. “I don’t remember your bit by heart, but if you want, we can sneak into the library tonight. Although,” he adds, his expression shifting to one of playful mischief, “I don’t think we’ll need to go in the restriction section at all for this. Remind me what your part was again?”

“Where still waters mirror the void, a whisper slithers ancient and coy,” you recite, the words falling from your lips like the echo of a half-remembered dream. They feel foreign, unwieldy, yet they carry the weight of something unspoken, something inevitable.

Gojo stares at you, his expression teetering between incredulity and amusement. He tilts his head, a hum escaping him—a low, resonant sound that vibrates in the air between you. It’s maddening, the way he always manages to make the most mundane gesture seem deliberate, practiced. You shudder, half at the sound and half at your brain for noticing it. This was Gojo Satoru, after all—the bane of your existence, the splinter lodged in your side since the moment you’d collided with him on the Hogwarts Express all those years ago.

He finally speaks, his voice thoughtful but tinged with that insufferable self-assurance. “Don’t go with Fushiguro. I have a better idea if you really want to sneak into the library.”

You hesitate, narrowing your eyes. “No prefect duties tonight, but the others will be about,” you say, your voice laced with skepticism. “What about them?”

His grin widens, that familiar glint in his eyes—a spark that you’ve learned to both anticipate and dread. “You remember when I told you I was working on something? For us? To make our lives as Marauders easier?”

Something twists in your chest. You know that look too well, the sharp edges of mischief cutting into his usually polished demeanor. Despite yourself, you feel the pull, the gravity that always seems to draw you into his orbit, no matter how fiercely you try to resist. “Yes?” you say, your voice tinged with hope despite the knot of hesitation in your chest. There’s something about him—something that unsettles you. Maybe it’s his intellect, sharp and unrelenting, always outpacing yours no matter how hard you tried to keep up. It wasn’t fair, but then again, nothing about him ever was.

He was always going to be better than you. The pureblood, the chosen one, the untouchable and glorious Satoru Gojo. And you? You were just a mudblood. The word still stung every time it surfaced in your mind, an unwelcome echo of whispered taunts from years past. You hated it, hated how it lingered, how it shaped the way you measured yourself against him. But no matter how much you loathed admitting it, he would always outshine you.

“It’s ready,” he announces, stopping your train of thought as he grins like the Cheshire Cat, every tooth glinting in the dim light of the corridor. “Think you can set aside your idiocy for one night and meet me outside your common room at midnight?”

“For your very kind information,” you say, your teeth gritting with irritation, “I happen to be better at you than a lot of things. But fine. This might be worth it.”

He groans theatrically, rolling his eyes with all the drama of a starlet in distress. “Gryffindors and your ‘knight in shining armor’ act—it’s unbearable!”

“As if Slytherins are any better,” you retort, your voice rising with indignation. “You’re all anarchists! You tried to poison our Quidditch team last year!”

He laughs, the sound sharp and incredulous. “How long are you going to hold that over my head? You hexed me before I even got the chance to do anything! I was in the infirmary the entire night because you made the bones in my arm disappear. Do you know how painful it is to grow bones back?”

You wince despite yourself. You might loathe the boy with every fiber of your being, but even you can admit—albeit silently, buried deep beneath layers of pride—that you may have gone too far that time. Still, Gojo’s grin persists, maddeningly bright, and you find yourself standing in that strange liminal space between rivalry and camaraderie, where annoyance and admiration blur together in a way that leaves you dizzy.

“Midnight,” he says, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Don’t keep me waiting, Fawkes.”

You huff, crossing your arms even as your resolve wavers. “I’ll think about it.”

But you already know you’ll be there. You always are.

It is a quarter to midnight, and the dormitory is cloaked in shadows, save for the faint silver sliver of moonlight sneaking through the half-drawn curtains. You sit up in bed, the ache of sleep pulling at your limbs, and lift your head from the scattered parchment on your desk. Your gaze drifts to your owl, a small tawny creature perched in quiet repose within his cage.

He’s quite small, and no louder than a whisper. His feathers, a soft patchwork of golden brown and deep earthen hues, are flecked with the faintest hints of black and white—an accidental constellation brushed into his down. He looks as though he belongs somewhere else entirely, a creature born of twilight and mystery, yet tethered to you by six steadfast years of companionship. His dark, endless eyes blink once in the low light, and you think, not for the first time, how much you love this bird.

He’s carried your words across distances great and small: letters home to your parents, scribbled notes to friends during summer holidays, even last-minute assignments dropped hastily into professors’ inboxes. And on those long nights when unspoken worries press heavy against your chest, he perches on your desk, watching you with an unfailing patience that no human has ever shown. On the rare nights when sleep overtakes you mid-assignment, he naps beside you, a quiet, feathery sentinel.

You smile softly at the memory, yawning as you stretch, the cool air brushing against your skin when you swing your legs over the side of the bed. The dormitory is still, filled only with the muted sound of soft breathing. You glance around, ensuring no one else is awake, before slipping to your feet and padding silently toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The voice stops you mid-step, sharp and sudden like a lit match in the dark. You turn to see Mei Mei sitting upright in her bed, her arms crossed and her posture exuding the kind of lazy authority that only she can manage. Her calculating smirk catches the faint light, and her eyes glint as though she’s caught you red-handed.

“I—uh,” you stammer, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I’m just… going out?”

“Out, why?” she asks, arching one elegant brow. Her tone isn’t stern—it’s amused. You can tell by the way she studies you that she isn’t actually upset. Mei Mei never bothers with rules unless they entertain her. Unfortunately, watching you squirm seems to qualify.

You sigh, the sound heavy with resignation. “Just a stroll. Nothing exciting. Maybe the Astronomy Tower.”

She makes a low hum of consideration, clearly unconvinced, though her expression doesn’t waver. You’ve gotten better at lying since this whole Marauders business started. At first, it was small white lies—just enough to fend off suspicion from Shoko or Utahime. But now? Now you lie like it’s second nature.

“Alright,” Mei Mei says at last, waving you off with a languid flick of her hand. “But don’t stay out so long that Filch catches you.”

Relief rushes through you like a dam breaking, and you nod quickly, mumbling a thanks as you tiptoe to the door. You descend the staircase with painstaking care, placing each step on the balls of your feet, wincing at the faint creak of wood beneath your weight. The common room is still, the embers in the fireplace glowing faintly like the last sigh of a dying star.

When you finally step out into the corridor, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. For a moment, the world is utterly still—just you, the cold stone beneath your feet, and the faint hum of magic in the air. Your heart pounds in your ears, each beat louder than the last, but you tell yourself it’s nothing. You’re alone.

Until you’re not.

A hand grabs your arm, firm in its suddenness. Panic surges up your throat, and your mouth opens to scream, but another hand clamps over your lips, silencing you before the sound can escape.

“Shh, Fawkes,” a voice hisses, low and urgent, close enough that you can feel the warmth of their breath against your skin. Your heart leaps as you recognize the voice, even before the speaker pulls you closer, draping something over your shoulders in one fluid motion.

“Don’t make a sound,” Gojo whispers. His voice is soft but carries a sharp edge of command, and even through the haze of your panic, you obey.

You blink, momentarily disoriented, as the closeness of him settles over you like a weight. It’s almost unbearable, how near he is. His face hovers inches from yours, his breath steady and warm in the cool corridor air. He moves with precise, deliberate motions, draping something—a shroud?—over both your heads with one hand while clutching a lantern in the other. The golden light from the lantern flickers between you, casting soft, wavering shadows across the sharp angles of his face. He hands the lantern to you in a rush, his fingers brushing yours briefly, before gathering the edges of the fabric and adjusting it around you both.

You stare at him, utterly still, wide-eyed and transfixed. There’s something almost childlike in the way his tongue pokes out slightly between his lips as he concentrates, but it doesn’t diminish the sharpness of him—his cheekbones catching the light, the unruly mop of white hair falling just over his brow. Gosh, he’s beautiful. You hate to admit it, but all those girls who follow him with dreamy eyes aren’t entirely wrong. There’s something about him, something beyond his charm, that’s infuriatingly magnetic.

And with his hair disheveled like this, caught in a quiet moment of focus, you think for a split second—before shaking the thought away—that you understand them.

You keep blinking, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck, before realization strikes like a jolt of lightning.

“Is this what I think it is?” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He glances at you sidelong, huffing out a soft laugh, though his hands don’t stop their work on the edges of the fabric. “If you can tell, I’m impressed.”

You stare at the material draped around you, eyes wide, then back at him. “An Invisibility Cloak,” you breathe, the words almost reverent. “For Merlin’s sake, this is an Invisibility Cloak. Oh, my God. Why do you have an Invisibility Cloak?”

“Careful, Fawkes,” he says, his tone as sharp as it is teasing. “It’s an Invisibility Cloak, not a soundproof one. Stop being so loud.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice even as he pulls the fabric tighter around you both. It feels absurdly intimate, standing so close beneath its folds, like you’re two conspirators bound together by something larger than yourselves.

“Why do you have this?” you whisper again as the two of you begin your slow descent down the stairs.

“Because I do,” he replies simply, his voice laced with that infuriating nonchalance. “And because you’d be hopeless without me.”

You want to scoff, to argue, but you can’t quite summon the indignation. Not when the echo of his voice, low and teasing, sends an unfamiliar warmth unfurling in your chest. “I’m being serious. Why do you have this?”

“It’s a family heirloom. Now, stop pestering me,” he says, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But then, as if compelled by the weight of his own words, he continues, “Pureblood families are weird. They isolate you, treat you like some twisted artifact, and then, when you’re older, they suddenly expect you to make connections, form alliances, carry the name. And just when you’re ready to resent them forever, they hand you gifts like this. It’s as if they think a shiny object will make you forget everything you suffered through.”

He stops abruptly, a flicker of vulnerability flashing in his eyes before adding, “Wait. I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

You can’t resist the grin that spreads across your face. “Oh, please, go on,” you tease, the words slipping out like a reflex. “I like it when you’re the one having a bad time for once.”

His glance is sharp, though not unkind. “Of course you do.”

The two of you walk on, your steps echoing softly in the quiet night as you pass the Quad Courtyard, heading toward the vast hallway that leads to the West Tower. The immensity of Hogwarts often feels like a burden during late-night escapades, every corridor stretching endlessly, but in moments like these, the castle’s haunting beauty makes the trek feel almost worth it.

“I really shouldn’t have brought this stupid lantern,” Gojo mutters, holding it out in mild disdain. “My wand would’ve been enough.”

“Look at you, learning from your mistakes,” you say, glancing up at him with a smile that threatens to linger too long. “Seeing the consequences of your actions for once.”

He shakes his head, a small, knowing grin on his lips. “Laugh all you want, you nag. This is the only time I’m letting my guard down.”

“Wait,” you say, your steps faltering slightly. “Is this the thing you were talking about? The one you were working on? For… our little secret?”

“Oh, I completely forgot,” he says, coming to a halt so abruptly that you almost bump into him. “Stop walking, I’ll show you.”

And so you do. You stand there in the dim corridor, the lantern’s warm light casting long shadows across the stone walls. He shuffles for a moment, reaching into his pocket and pulling out what looks like a simple piece of parchment.

You raise an incredulous eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s it? What’s this supposed to be?”

He shoots you a look, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Watch,” he says, shaking his head at your skepticism. He points his wand at the parchment, his voice suddenly lower, more focused.

“I solemnly swear,” he begins, a mischievous glint in his eye, “that I am up to no good.”

You gasp as the ink begins to spread across the page, winding like tendrils of ivy until intricate patterns form. Your breath hitches as the lines weave together, revealing a sprawling map—detailed, alive, and impossibly magical. It isn’t just a map; it’s the castle.

In bold, elegant letters, the words Messrs Fawkes and Ashen are proud to present the Marauder’s Map appear at the top of the parchment.

“What is this?” you ask, your voice an octave higher, a mixture of awe and disbelief. “And who’s Ashen?”

“A nickname I gave myself,” he says with a lopsided grin. “Because of my Patronus. I’m not telling you what it is yet, but it’s cool, right? Here, hand me the lantern and open this.”

You pass him the glass lantern, its warm light flickering against the curves of the flame within, casting shadows that dance along Gojo’s features. He cradles it effortlessly, his other hand gesturing for you to take the parchment. You obey, gingerly grasping it as though it were a relic, something impossibly delicate. Your fingers brush the edges, feeling the fine texture of the material, old but imbued with something alive.

As you carefully unfold it, the words spill from your lips in a voice barely above a whisper, yet brimming with wonder and affection. “This is Hogwarts.”

He hums in confirmation, a small smile playing at his lips, but you barely notice. Your attention is pulled elsewhere. You squint at the intricate lines and patterns, noticing something unusual—the map seems to move. Small, deliberate shifts catch your eye.

And then, there they are. Tiny footprints, trailing delicately across the paper.

“And that,” you begin, your voice hitching in disbelief, “is it really—”

“Filch,” Gojo interjects, his grin widening into something wickedly triumphant. “Stomping the hallway outside the Great Hall this very moment. Do you see the way he turns every four steps? It’s maddening. Oh, and did you know Dumbledore paces a lot in his study? Back and forth, back and forth. I never took him for the restless type, but apparently, even geniuses aren’t exempt.”

Your eyes widen as you scan the parchment, finding the tiny figure labeled Dumbledore indeed moving back and forth within the boundaries of his study. Your fingers press lightly against the parchment, as if the connection could make it any more real. Slowly, you lift your gaze to meet Gojo’s impossibly vivid blue eyes.

“It shows everyone?” you ask, the disbelief still lingering in your tone.

“Everyone,” he confirms, his voice dropping to a lower, conspiratorial register.

“Everyone?” you repeat, needing to hear it again, as if the weight of such a thing can’t fully sink in on the first try.

He nods, his expression turning smug. “Everyone. Where they are, what they’re doing, every minute, of every day.”

“Brilliant,” you breathe, the word slipping out in a hushed, awestruck whisper. You eagerly unfold another section, the map expanding under your careful hands. New details spill forth—more corridors, more staircases, more figures. Your heart races as you spot the prefects, their tiny forms marked by their names, retreating one by one to their respective dormitories. The intricacy of it all feels overwhelming, as though you’re holding the very soul of the castle in your hands.

“How did you even make this?” you ask, your voice trembling with a mixture of curiosity and admiration.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating low in his throat. “Trade secret,” he says, winking down at you. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he adjusts the cloak around you both, ensuring the edges stay snug. “Now, be so kind as to lead us safely to the library, yeah? The map’s not just for show.”

You glance up at him, still clutching the parchment like a lifeline, feeling its magic through your fingers. “With this?” you tease, your lips curving into a faint smile. “I’d hardly call it sneaking.”

“Call it what you want,” he replies, his grin devilish as ever. “But let’s not get caught.”

The walk to the library feels like a stolen moment, effortless and exhilarating all at once. The hallways are deserted, their vastness echoing only with the muted sounds of your footsteps. Along the way, you suggest leaving the lantern behind—its light now more of a liability than a necessity. You extinguish it carefully, placing it on one of the desks tucked into a shadowed corner. Gojo nods in agreement, and together, you slip into the back of the library, where the shelves hold the deepest secrets of Hogwarts' history.

"I can't tell you how happy this makes me," you whisper, your voice laced with an almost childlike giddiness. The sheer joy of being here, surrounded by endless rows of books, makes you shiver. The scent of old parchment and binding glue fills your lungs, intoxicating in its familiarity. It feels sacred—this darkened library, the weight of knowledge hanging in the air, and the only thing marring its perfection is Gojo, standing there with his usual smirk.

He rolls his eyes, muttering something about you being a "proper nerd," but you brush it off. “Okay,” you begin, turning serious, “I think we can put the cloak away for now. Let’s focus on finding books about voids at Hogwarts. It has to be something connected to the dungeons. Or, maybe, a secret passageway leading out of the castle? There are only six that I know of, but there could be more—”

“There are seven, actually,” Gojo interrupts, his tone maddeningly smug. He pulls the Invisibility Cloak off the two of you in one fluid motion, the fabric slipping through his fingers like liquid moonlight. With a practiced flick, he spreads the map out on the nearest desk, tracing a slender finger over its intricate details. “This one here, the One-Eyed Witch Passageway, leads straight to Honeydukes’ cellar.”

“Bloody hell,” you breathe, your voice tinged with awe. Your eyes light up as you take in the map’s delicate markings, and a mischievous grin spreads across your face. “Can I keep this?”

“Absolutely not,” he says, snatching it away with exaggerated indignation. “You’d rip it or spill tea on it by the end of the day.”

“Rude,” you retort, glaring at him half-heartedly.

He ignores you, folding the map with care as though it were made of glass. “I’ll guard it with my life. Oh, and, Fawkes, when you’re done, don’t forget to give it a tap and say ‘Mischief Managed.’ Otherwise, anyone can read it.”

He taps it with his wand, and the markings disappear just as fast as they'd come. You gasp a little, but then, you nod, mentally noting the precaution. “Right, got it.”

He then motions to the left. “Now, quit gawking and get to work. You take that side of the shelf,” he says, gesturing to the bookshelves nearby. “I’ll start over there.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips as you turn to the towering shelves. The library, vast and infinite in its secrets, stretches before you, and for a moment, you feel like you’re on the brink of discovery. Or mischief. Or both.

Quickly, you spring into action, eagerly pulling out several thick tomes from the shelves. The first one you grab, "The Hidden History of Hogwarts: Tales of Adventure and Intrigue," is intriguing, though not quite hefty enough for your liking. With a determined huff, you rise onto your toes to reach for the illustrious "Hogwarts: A History," along with a few more notable titles, before finally settling into one of the chairs with a soft creak. You spill the books across the table, their spines cracking open like secrets waiting to be unearthed, and begin flipping through their pages as rapidly as you can manage.

Moments later, Gojo occupies a chair two seats away from you, a stack of his own books piled high beside him. You can’t help but steal a glance at him, an inkling of admiration tugging at your thoughts as he immerses himself in the research.

Time slips away, the world around you fading into a blur as your tired eyes scan each page with fervor. You skim through portions that may hold no relevance to your riddle, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. And then, there it is—a recurring echo of the word “void.”

“Void, void, void,” you mutter to yourself, a spark of recognition igniting in your mind. As the realization dawns, you quickly turn to Gojo, tugging at his sleeve and other parts of his shirt with a sense of urgency. “It’s the Black Lake! The Black Lake is where someone with dark hair was speaking in Parseltongue.”

Gojo leans in, a spark of intrigue lighting his expression. “Not just dark. Black hair. A raven-haired calls what none can see, beneath the night’s veil by the serpent’s decree. Someone with black hair might be practicing dark magic at Hogwarts. They can speak Parseltongue, and they've been doing it near the Black Lake for some reason. Whoever sent us that message wants us to know that something terrible could be happening at Hogwarts anytime soon.”

The next day, in the afternoon after lectures have concluded, you're setting up in the dungeons for the Dueling Club meeting—specifically, the chambers reserved for the club. These dungeons were far removed from the ones you and Gojo often snuck into, the ones so off-limits that even the most daring students steered clear. As you position the last training dummy along the far side of the dimly lit room, the murmurs of students arriving behind you begin to fill the air. Then, you hear a familiar voice, smooth and teasing.

"So, I’m guessing you got what you wanted one way or another," Toji says, leaning against the wall with his signature smirk.

You turn to him, your expression knowingly smug. "I did, actually. Got exactly what I wanted."

"I’d say I’m bummed I didn’t get a chance to rip you off," he begins, pushing off the wall and brushing past you, "but it’s okay. I rip off enough people to keep my reputation intact."

"You have a reputation for more than just ripping people off, Fushiguro," you shoot back, a playful lilt in your voice. But as the words leave your mouth, something about his expression makes you hesitate. Before you can apologize, though, he waves it off casually.

"It’s hard to survive on your own after ditching a shitty pureblood family," he says, his tone a strange mix of bitterness and pride. "Well, not that you’d know, but still."

"I’m sure growing up rich had its perks," you tease lightly, testing the waters.

He smirks, a glint of mischief lighting up his dark eyes. "Not at all. Maybe someday I’ll tell you all about it."

"Maybe," you reply, grinning as you move to the center of the room. Across the space, Shoko waves at you, her face a rare picture of enthusiasm as the younger students file in, awe and excitement radiating off them in waves. In one corner, Professors Flitwick and McGonagall stand together, observing quietly, their mere presence a reassuring reminder.

You clear your throat, stepping forward to address the room. "Alright, everyone," you begin, scanning the group and catching sight of a familiar mop of silver hair amidst the crowd. "Welcome to the Dueling Club. My name is [L/N] [Y/N], and I am the Head of the Club. Before we get started, we need to go over some rules."

Your voice is steady and authoritative, carrying over the hushed whispers.

"First, all participants must adhere to safety protocols to prevent injuries," you say firmly. "Every duel will be supervised by either a senior student or a professor. Physical altercations or the use of magical items like cursed artifacts is strictly forbidden. Standard dueling etiquette is a must, and we’ll demonstrate it shortly for those who are new. The duel ends immediately if one participant is incapacitated, yields, or if a professor steps in."

You pause, ensuring their attention is fixed on you.

"Spells that cause lasting harm, such as permanent transfigurations or irreversible effects, are strictly prohibited. The supervising professor has the final say in all duels, and their decisions are final. Younger students—those in first through third years—will only duel peers within their age group for safety reasons. Grudge matches are forbidden. Each duel is limited to ten minutes unless a professor decides otherwise. Spectators must stay behind the safety barriers and are not allowed to interfere."

Your gaze sweeps the crowd, ensuring everyone is following. "Unauthorized dueling outside the club is strictly prohibited," you continue, your tone sharper now. "Finally, missing three consecutive sessions without prior notice may result in suspension from the club."

"Are we clear?" you finish, your voice resonating with authority.

A murmur of agreement ripples through the group as anticipation builds, their excitement palpable as they prepare for the first duels of the term.

"Alright," you begin, your voice cutting through the low hum of chatter, "I need a volunteer, preferably fifth year and above, for a demonstration of how a duel is to be conducted for the younger members. Anyone?"

You didn’t need to wait. You know before the words even left your mouth whose hand would rise first.

Sure enough, Gojo Satoru’s arm shoots up, almost gleefully, his speed outpacing anyone else's reaction by several beats. He wears that same maddeningly smug expression you’d grown far too accustomed to, his silver hair catching the low light in a way that made him impossible to ignore.

You narrow your eyes at him, a silent warning, and gave a brief shake of your head—a clear no. His eyebrows furrow in mock offense, a whine already forming on his lips. But before you could say anything, Professor Flitwick's enthusiasm intervened.

“Ah, Gojo Satoru! Excellent choice!” Flitwick exclaims, motioning him forward with a flourish. “Come on up. A real treat for everyone, this is! We’ll see two of our finest students in action. A duel between Ms. [L/N], our reigning champion—unsurprisingly, given her Headship of the club—and Mr. Gojo, who isn’t far behind her in skill. Pay close attention, everyone!”

Gojo practically saunters his way to the center, brushing past you with deliberate ease, his smirk growing wider as he passed. The sheer arrogance radiating from him was almost palpable, and it took every ounce of restraint not to roll your eyes. He'd lost to you twice last year before the term ended, and you really weren't planning on breaking that streak. You clench your jaw instead, ignoring the simmering irritation pooling low in your chest.

This wasn’t how you’d envisioned the demonstration going. You’d hoped for someone else, anyone else—someone who wouldn’t make such a spectacle of the moment. But now you were here, and there was no backing out.

The two of you take your positions on opposite ends of the room, the circle of students around you buzzing with anticipation. The younger ones leaned forward, their eyes wide with awe and barely suppressed excitement, while the older students exchanged knowing glances, whispering wagers under their breath. You couldn't lose, especially not now, in front of the second-years that held you in such high regard.

“Wands at the ready!” Professor Flitwick calls out, his voice bright with excitement, and you raise your wand with deliberate precision, your movements sharp and controlled.

Gojo mirrored you, of course, but he did it with an infuriating grace, as though the act of lifting his wand were a performance in itself. His blue eyes sparkle with mischief, and as his lips curl into a smirk, he lets out a soft snicker.

“You scared, Fawkes?” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “Think I might beat you?”

“Absolutely not,” you hiss in return, your tone low but laced with steel. “I have an image to uphold.”

The two of you lower your wands briefly, turning to walk the traditional ten paces back. Each step feels heavier than it should, the air between you thick with unspoken challenges. When you finally turn to face him again, your stance is resolute—offensive, calculated.

His, however, is wide, open, almost careless. He was baiting you, leaving himself vulnerable in a way that made your blood boil. He wanted you to strike first. He'd throw quick attacks your way and eventually disarm you. Fine, you thought. You’d play his game. The count started in your head.

Three... two... one.

“Immobulus!” you call, your voice slicing through the room as your wand slashes through the air.

Gojo moves with infuriating ease, dodging the spell as though he’d anticipated it. With a quick, fluid motion, his wand flicks toward you. “Impedimenta!” he counters, the jinx used for slowing things down hurtling toward you faster than you'd expect.

You sidestep just in time, your breath catching as the spell crackles past you. The near miss sent a rush of heat down your spine, but you recovered quickly, slipping into a defensive stance.

The two of you begin circling each other, the space between you electric. He wears that same smirk, taunting, while your face stays set, determination etched into every line.

The duel escalates quickly. Spells ricochet off the dungeon walls, filling the room with flashes of light and sharp cracks of sound. His attacks come faster than they did last year, his movements sharper, more refined. Somewhere deep down, you register his improvement—damn him for it—but you don’t have time to dwell.

This isn’t going to be easy. He’s caught up to you in skill, and though you hate to admit it, that fact makes your blood run hotter. But you aren’t going to lose. So you smirk, sending aggressive attacks one after another, chasing him so he won’t have time to think. “Stupefy!”

You wait, watching for the smallest mistake, the slightest hesitation. And then it comes, just as he dodges your disarming spell—his fingers tighten on his wand for a fraction too long.

You focus as much as you can, your grip on your wand steady as you whisper, “Flagrante.”

The curse hits its mark instantly. Gojo yelps, his wand clattering to the floor as he clutches his hand. The circle of students falls silent, their awe-struck faces illuminated by the faint glow of the curse’s residual heat.

You straighten, lowering your wand and undoing the curse immediately, satisfaction blooming in your chest. Victory, though slightly bitter, is still victory.

Professor McGonagall steps forward, her expression cool and disapproving. “Newer students,” she says, her voice clipped, “are not to attempt what Ms. [L/N] just demonstrated. Flagrante is an advanced curse, highly dangerous, and entirely unsuitable for this setting. Even the most experienced duelists could easily miscalculate.”

You cringe at her words, the satisfaction of your win dimming under her sharp tone.

Gojo, however, seems entirely unbothered. He retrieves his wand, his injured hand cradled lightly in the other. When his gaze meets yours, it holds something you can't quite name. Pride? Annoyance? Maybe both.

But then his lips curl into a soft, almost imperceptible smile. Not his usual smirk, but something gentler, more genuine. It sent a strange, unfamiliar warmth through your chest, one that lingered far longer than you expected.

As the students pair off and separate into groups, Gojo saunters up to you with his usual grin. “Well, looks like your streak is now up to three. Impressive, Fawkes Junior. Although… weren’t you the one always preaching about following the rules? How’d you manage to use a curse on me?”

“When it comes to you,” you smirk, taking a few deliberate steps back while pointing your wand at his injured hand, “I just have to be better than you. Episkey.”

He winces slightly as the healing charm begins to mend the red burns on his pale skin. Slowly but surely, the angry marks fade, leaving his hand looking unscathed, the same snow-like perfection as before. He mutters a quick thanks under his breath.

“Now go,” you say, dismissing him with a flick of your wrist, “Practice with someone else instead of wasting my time. I’ve got to oversee the second-years with the professors.”

“Babysitter duties, huh?” he replies with a smug grin as he steps back toward his group. You have no doubt he’s either about to duel with Shoko or find someone younger to pester for his own amusement. You roll your eyes and turn away, heading toward the younger students to fulfill your Head duties.

The day unfolds in a haze, the heavy weight of your thoughts never quite lifting. Dueling Club wraps up hours before dinner, leaving you with an uneasy stretch of time. Time to rest, perhaps. Or to think—which, as it turns out, is far more exhausting.

The revelation from yesterday refuses to leave you. Someone, somewhere within these walls, was practicing dark magic. And the thought sends shivers down your spine. Hogwarts had always been a sanctuary, a place of learning and wonder—safety, even. But now, its shadows felt longer, its corners darker.

You try not to dwell on it, but how could you not? The line from the riddle echoes endlessly in your mind: A raven-haired calls what none can see. And with how many black-haired students roamed the halls of Hogwarts this year, the task of uncovering the truth felt impossibly daunting. Parseltongue wasn’t exactly something people casually advertised, after all.

Lost in your spiraling thoughts, you almost miss the familiar figures ahead. Turning down the hallway toward Gryffindor Tower, you spot Shoko. She’s leaning against the wall next to an arch, chatting casually with two others with a cigarette between her fingers. As you draw closer, you recognize Nanami and Utahime. Shoko waves you over, her ever-relaxed smile widening as she sees you.

“Hi,” you sigh, letting your shoulders slump as you lean into hers. There’s comfort in her presence, steady and grounding, something that soothes you. “I haven’t gotten time to see you at all so far. How have you been?”

“Irritated, mostly,” she says with a half-smile, resting her head lightly against yours. “You know I’m stuck dealing with two idiots.”

You huff a laugh.

“And you two?” Shoko continues. “You’ve both gotten way too busy, huh? Managing the Dueling Club and the Quidditch team? I’m surprised you’re still alive. And Kento, Prefect duties on top of everything else? How are you even here right now?”

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Nanami mutters, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“And her,” Utahime chimes in, jerking her thumb in your direction with a teasing grin. “She’s been trying to cozy up to Snape, of all people. That sourpuss! I still don’t know why.”

The mention of Snape jolts you, a moment of panic flashing across your face before you remember why she’d say that. Right. Your excuse the first night of the Marauders meeting. You grimace, shifting awkwardly. “Y-yeah. That… uh, hasn’t been going too well. Still isn’t, actually.”

“Don’t bother,” Nanami says flatly, crossing his arms. “He hates all Gryffindors on principle. And you? With the way you’re always trying to one-up Gojo? You’re his least favorite.”

“Speaking of that,” Shoko cuts in, nudging you with her elbow, “Nice job at the duel today. First time I’ve seen you break a rule to win. Miss Perfect, finally showing her rebellious streak.”

Her words pull a soft laugh from you, but the weight in your chest tightens. If only she knew the half of it. If only they all knew. One month in, and you’d already broken enough rules to keep Filch busy for a year. An Invisibility Cloak. The Marauders Map. Sneaking around the castle’s most restricted areas. You’d told yourself it was all for a greater purpose, but still, the guilt lingered.

“Yeah, well,” you say lightly, masking your unease with a grin, “It’s hard not to pick up some bad habits when I’m surrounded by the worst influences.”

Shoko smirks again, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “I aim to please. Speaking of bad habits, don’t think I didn’t notice you and Fushiguro Toji today.”

Your cheeks burn. “I wasn’t flirting!”

“Never said you were,” Shoko says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “That exchange in the Dueling Club? Definitely flirting. Saw it with my own two eyes.”

Utahime gasps in mock outrage. “Didn’t I warn you about him? Ever since he renounced his family name, all he’s done is hop from one pureblood girl to another. That, and making money off of shady bets or ripping people off. I even heard he’s got connections in Knockturn Alley.”

You shake your head, exasperated. “He’s actually quite nice, even though he did try to rip me off. And I wasn’t flirting with him—”

“My eyes say otherwise,” Shoko interrupts, grinning.

“Get them checked,” you retort, narrowing your eyes. “It was a friendly conversation. Nothing more.”

Nanami chuckles, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “I only wish I’d been there to see you let loose for once.”

“Let’s not talk about him anymore, please.” You sigh and steer the conversation to safer ground. “Are you lot going to Hogsmeade next week? I might have to stay back. Flitwick’s been breathing down my neck about the second-years—especially the Zenins and Inumaki. He wants me to give them, you know, special attention.”

Shoko raises an eyebrow as she flicks the stub of her cigarette out of the stone archway, muttering a wordless charm to dissipate it mid-air. You watch as it vanishes completely before touching the ground. Shoko’s casual mastery of wandless magic always left you in awe. It was effortless with her, a talent you couldn’t help but envy. But before your thoughts could linger on your inadequacies, she speaks.

"Have you seen them?" she says, her tone sharp with incredulity. "They're ridiculously good at everything. Honestly, you might end up dragging them into your Quidditch team, alongside that Itadori kid. I caught him practicing the other day—just a casual glance—and it scared me. But for now, I think we've got Mai Zenin and Inumaki Toge in our House. And, well, Gojo and Suguru are there anyway. Oh, and me."

"I’ve only made it to practice once," you admit with a wince. "Too much on my plate this year."

Utahime’s brow arches sharply as she folds her arms. "I can excuse the Dueling Club meetings since you're the Head, but miss another day of practice, and I’m benching you."

"I know, I know!" you groan. "I’m just... stressed, okay? Prefect duties are insane this year, and I’m falling behind on assignments too."

That draws an audible gasp from Shoko. "You? Behind? Bloody hell, what’s the world coming to?"

For a split second, you consider telling them the truth—that you weren’t just behind because of typical school stress. That something far darker was unraveling at Hogwarts, something that made your sleepless nights and frayed nerves feel trivial in comparison. But how could you? The weight of it, the potential to cause panic, was too much. Instead, you shake your head, plastering on a weak smile.

"I don’t know," you say quietly. "I’m just not managing things well this year. But I’ll come to practice tomorrow. I promise."

"You’d better," Utahime warns, but her tone softens slightly. "I need a Chaser. I’m making Itadori our Seeker this year, and since I’m Keeper, I’ve got to step up too. Maki Zenin is quite the Beater, though."

"How’s practice going with him? Itadori?" you ask.

"Bloody amazing," she says, her eyes lighting up. "Kento was there the other day. He can back me up."

Nanami nods in agreement. "He’s... an interesting character. Relentlessly enthusiastic, which is exhausting, but his skill is unreal. Playing by the rules, though? That’s his Achilles’ heel. Iori and I are drilling that into him."

Shoko smirks, crossing her arms. "Speaking of stepping up, Gojo’s been upping his game too. He, Suguru and I were training after lectures yesterday. And then, long past curfew too. Almost till midnight. Although, Satoru left because he had some errands to run."

You pause for a moment. So that's where he'd been before your spontaneously decided meeting last night.

Then, you groan dramatically, throwing your head back. "I’m drowning over here, barely keeping up, and that smug little git is already pulling ahead?"

Your friends erupt in laughter, Shoko shaking her head as she teases, "Seems like beating him might be the only thing to pull you out of your slump, eh?"

You roll your eyes, but a reluctant grin spreads across your face. "It just might," you admit, chuckling softly.

"Okay, Fawkes, hit me," Gojo bursts into the Room of Requirement, a little late after your prefect duties that night. You had arrived directly after rounds, and he was about fifteen minutes behind schedule. He rushes to the long table, shedding his robe in one swift motion and flinging it onto a nearby wooden chair.

You sigh, "Well, I did some research while doing homework today."

He motions for you to begin, and you walk over to the pinboard, tacking up a copied page from a library book. "Parseltongue, as you probably already know, is hereditary and spoken by the descendants of Salazar Slytherin. So my guess would be that all pureblood students at the school could potentially be Parselmouths, regardless of their House. There have been exceptions in the past, although the textbook I got this from didn’t name them explicitly."

"Are you saying it couldn't just be a Slytherin pureblood?" he raises an eyebrow. "This just makes our job harder. There are so many possibilities now. If it were just Slytherin, we’d only have around thirty people in that House to investigate. If we rule out anyone without black hair, that narrows the count by half!"

"I know," you sigh again, feeling the weight of the task. "The book was about Salazar Slytherin, and it mentioned that there have been exceptions where purebloods were sorted into other Houses and still retained the ability to speak Parseltongue. However, we could probably rule out Hufflepuff; the cases discussed only Ravenclaw and Gryffindor."

"There's only like two purebloods in Hufflepuff anyway. They wouldn't be able to speak Parseltongue even if they had it in their blood," Gojo rolls his eyes, his elitism palpable. You say, "Don't be a dick."

"I'm just saying," he defends, raising his arms. "If your entire lineage is Slytherin and you end up a Hufflepuff, it’s a shame, really."

"Focus on our work," you interject.

"Let’s narrow the list down first to all black-haired students. That should make our job easier, right?" he suggests. "Then we can check their ancestry one by one."

"How does one even do that?" you mumble, glancing at the pile of student requests on your desk. "There’s no way—"

"I can handle that part," he replies, straightening his lips as he looks at you. "My father works at the Ministry, remember? I can pull some strings. Or we could find books on magical genealogy in the Restricted Section of the library. It’ll take time, though—probably at least a month."

"We have no way of knowing what this person is doing in the meantime," you sigh, still looking at the requests. "I also have to be at Quidditch practice tomorrow."

"A little overworked, are you?" he teases. "Our little Fawkes is finally having a hard time keeping up."

"Screw you, Gojo," you retorted. "It’s hard being Head of the Dueling Club, a Prefect, and playing Quidditch while doing this with you, nonetheless."

"Quit something, then," he shrugs. "It’s not like Quidditch is going to help you get to St. Mungo’s as a Healer."

"Shoko's doing it," you counter. "So I must too."

"Shoko’s doing it because her family is ridiculous. She’s not a Prefect, if you haven’t noticed. And she’s not Head of a club or Captain of the team. She’s just along for the ride while you’re taking on everything that’s wearing you thin. She’s a pureblood; you’re not."

"Are you saying I’m lesser because I’m a muggle-born?" you ask, furrowing your eyebrows.

He groans. "Are you even listening to what I’m saying? Purebloods, like me, Shoko, and Suguru, are forced to do things we don’t want to! You, however, have the choice. I don’t! I have to be the best at everything because I have the ‘Gojo’ name on my back and the clan on my ass. Shoko has to do Quidditch because she’s a pureblood. She has to take on extra things she doesn’t want to because of her family pressure. If it were up to her, she'd be in her dorm for half the day, smoking away. Do you think I want to be a Prefect? Or that I want to be a scholar? I just am because I am supposed to be. I have to be the greatest—you don’t!"

"But what if I want to?" you say, your nerves fraying. "I want to be the greatest. I want to be as good as you at everything I do, if not better!"

"That’s your choice, Fawkes," he laughs incredulously. "All you have to do is drop one thing, and you won't be so stressed. You can’t possibly do everything you want all the time."

"Maybe I can!" you reply, your voice rising. "And maybe I will."

"Whatever," he scoffs, standing up and grabbing his robe. "Just have the list ready. And work on the normal requests. If you want, ask for my help. If not, piss off."

"Fuck you," you spit, the tension thick in the air. "I don’t need your help."

"That makes my life easier anyway," he retorts with a sarcastic smile as he leaves the Room.

You sigh, feeling the weight of your decisions pressing down on you. What had you just brought upon yourself? You were going to be wrung dry, and it was all your doing. With your head hung low, you start pulling parchments and a quill toward you. You would stay here all night if it meant getting everything done. And the requests? You’d tackle them all. You’d prove Gojo wrong with every fiber of your being.

And perhaps, tomorrow, you’d steal an Invigoration Draught vial from Snape’s office after class to keep up. Yes, that would do.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[boneblushed]

Glitch

synopsis Rafe has a bad fall on the ski slopes. A temporary amnesiac, he falls in love with you all over again.

a/n oh Euro Trip Rafe I have missed you so bad 🥹

The velcro of your left glove snags, the worn edge catching on the handle of your ski pole. You sigh. The gauntlet cuff on the right side isn’t looking much better, all scruffy and threadbare so the underlying skin’s exposed.

“Hold on,” you call out, skidding to a reluctant stop.

It’s high time you replaced them with a newer pair, especially considering you’ve been using the same gear your parents bought you post middle-school growth spurt. But you don’t come to Aspen nearly enough to justify doing so at the moment; not that money’s a particular issue, it’s more so the inconvenience an unnecessary shopping trip will bring you.

“Dude. Again?”

You abandon the broken strap to send Topper a helpless frown. He’s a little way ahead, partially obscured by the crowd, but the exasperation on his face is made evident by his tone.

He draws nearer and glances down at the shaggy velcro, shaking his head disapprovingly. “We’ve gotta buy you a new pair.”

Above him, the sky is a gauzy blue, juxtaposing the sugary white hue of fresh snow.

“Not worth it Top,” you argue. The strap hitches again, an objection. “They’ll barely get used.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he answers, turning again. “Come on. I’m going to buy you a new pair.”

He’ll buy you a new one, your heart sings. And then it stops. You know better than to read into this gesture — he isn’t being chivalrous on purpose; when is he ever? This is the fourth time you’ve had to stop to untangle or readjust, and you’re pretty sure he’s just getting sick of you holding him up. Logic prevails, but your traitorous cheeks warm anyway, demure about the offer.

“It’s fine,” you insist. The velcro barely sticks when you refasten it. Fine enough. “Let’s keep going.”

You continue to push through the horde ahead of you, making your slow way toward the chairlifts. As you near, the ant-like skiers and snowboarders on the mountain become clearer, and you pull down your goggles, blinded by the sun’s glare.

That’s when the accident happens.

All of a sudden, but crashing in dusky orange slow-motion. Some guy hits a rocky bit of the slopes, losing control of his snowboard and nosediving into the snow. It’s a gnarly looking collision, made worse by his concerning lack of helmet, and you share a worried look with Topper before making your way toward him.

“Dude, fucking move—hey, sorry, best friend coming through—”

You startle, halting abruptly. You’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“—sorry, ‘scuse me gorgeous, I’m just gonna squeeze past you real quick—”

“Noah!”

In the split second that follows, you endure several emotions at once. The first: concern heightened ten-fold. Because if Noah’s referring to himself as the best friend, the some guy in question is actually Rafe Cameron.

The same Rafe Cameron that you love to hate, almost as much as your poor heart avows it.

The second: a concerning ache. Right at the centre of your chest, within your ribcage, as if the tired ligaments that hold it together are as weak as your velcro straps. The feeling swells, and you feel your heart squeeze through the cracks.

And then there’s apprehension, some excitement, a sudden bashfulness that makes your cheeks burn.

All round pathetic. You force a smile that’s more a grimace, hoping that Noah doesn’t notice your disquiet.

He pauses en-route, a surprised expression on his face. “Y/N!” He exclaims, breathless. The surprise melts into a mixture of delight and amusement. “Tell me you witnessed him bailing just then.”

You sigh. “Unfortunately.”

“Good,” he replies soberly, linking his arms in yours and tugging you forward. Your ski poles cross in protest, your centre of balance askew. “You’re coming with me.”

“What?” You ask, evidently bewildered. “Noah…”

You twist around and find Topper in the crowd, who shrugs, equally perplexed. Help me, you mouth, though you’re moving ahead too fast for the poor boy to discern it.

“…uh,” you try again, turning back to the face him, “I don’t know if this is —”

“Y/N,” he interrupts matter-of-factly, zig-zagging through the crowd with ease. “If there’s one person that can talk some sense into him, it’s you. I mean, shit, did you see how fast he was going? He’s going to board himself into a fucking coma if he keeps doing stupid shit like that.”

This brings a pause. It’s sort of endearing, really, how fiercely he cares about Rafe.

Your gaze softens a smidge. “You’re a good friend, Noah,” you say. “He’s pretty lucky to have you.”

“Us,” Noah corrects.

Your pulse jolts. “He doesn’t have me,” you reply, frowning a little.

“Everyone else may believe that Y/N, but I don’t.”

And again, a terrifying emotion bounding forth in your chest. “I —”

You’re saved the trouble of sputtering through an excuse by Rafe’s languid groan, a thready-sounding, “Shit.”

The crowd parts at Noah’s command, and the pair of you squeeze through, now face to face with Rafe.

He’s splayed out on the snow with his limbs in disarray, only one of his boots still strapped onto his board. His cheeks are a chilly rouge, dirty-blonde hair sticking out at odd angles. You resist the sudden urge to reach forward and comb your fingers through it.

“Idiot,” Noah mutters, crouching down beside him. “Absolute fucking idiot.”

He unfastens the aforementioned boot and tosses his board to the side, the nose-end looking notably abraded.

“Huh?” Rafe mumbles, a little dazed. He gropes at his purple-hued goggles blindly, pulling them off to squint up at Noah. It takes a worrying number of seconds for recognition to dawn on his features, and when it does, finally, Noah turns around and beckons you forward.

You hesitate, your gaze flitting down to Rafe’s face. “Someone should call Ward.”

“No!” Rafe yells suddenly, attempting to push himself up before collapsing backward languidly. He clutches his left side and groans, his eyebrows pinching in pain.

His discomfort makes you wince. You spring into action without meaning to, that concerning ache in your chest pulling you forth until you’re crouching down beside him like Noah.

“No Ward,” you murmur, placing your hand on his shoulder. “Noted.”

Up close, you can see a cut on his bottom lip, the rough stubble on his jaw all dewy from the melted snow. Your brow furrows. As he tears his gaze away from Noah to face you instead, you brush back his dirty-blonde fringe, searching for any more injuries. He has a graze on his upper forehead and you thumb over it gently, the furrow in your brow deepening with concern.

You glance up at Noah and nod. “Absolute fucking idiot.”

Rafe tries to do the same, but a sharp ache sears through his head when he attempts to turn it again.

“Stop moving it,” you instruct sternly, exerting more pressure on his forehead to hold it in place. “Noah isn’t going anywhere.”

“Have to,” he groans, his voice all gravelly and rough, “make sure he’s still here.”

He’s almost certain that Noah won’t be, that he’ll turn to him and find that the two of you are the only people sitting on the slopes. He imagines it like that scene at the end of Deathly Hallows, everything in blinding white and playing inside of his head.

You know, because he’s almost definitely dreaming if you’re crouching down beside him right now. With a soft hand on his shoulder, another pressed over his forehead. Two points of contact, he marvels, dazed. He squints up at you again, his reverent gaze falling over you in paces, and it feels as though a fog is descending on his surroundings. Everything blurs. He blinks abruptly.

“Dude,” Noah chastises, leaning over Rafe’s torso so that he’s within his line of sight, “where the fuck would I go?”

Rafe’s eyes widen, and he looks between you and Noah, evidently bewildered. “Bro,” he groans after a pause, his head falling back defeatedly. “I’m fucked.”

Your heart lurches worriedly, and you frown, looking over his figure for more injuries. “R’you in any pain?”

“Not physical,” he mumbles, lifting his head tentatively to squint at you. He drops it again and groans, overwhelmed by your closeness. “You’re really fucking beautiful, by the way. It’s messing with my head.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a tell-tale warm creeping up your neck. “Alright, you guys can go,” you say, turning to address the crowd. “He’s totally fine.”

Noah grins down at him, looking equally parts proud and exasperated. “There he is.”

Rafe isn’t sure what that means. All he knows is that he doesn’t feel fine, his head’s all jumbled and there’s a dreadful ache in every one of his limbs. The sound of blood pounding through his ears is unrelenting, and the chill in the air is downright abrasive. Not to mention, there’s this angel reincarnate that’s leaning over him at present, a concerned expression on her face that’s somehow making her look prettier.

Two points of contact, Rafe thinks again, agonised. Your softened features come to him in slow motion, the light reflected in your wide eyes, the shine of gloss on your frowning lips. You look extremely familiar, but he’s having difficulty recalling your name. There’s this overwhelming pull in chest that tells him you’re a big deal to him—his girlfriend, he hopes, aghast and probably deluded. That’s the concussion talking.

Besides, he isn’t even entirely sure that you’re actually real, all things considered.

“We should probably get him checked out, huh?” You ask Noah.

Noah knits his brow thoughtfully, peering down at Rafe. “You good, Cameron?”

“I feel fucking hungover,” Rafe mutters, pushing himself into a sitting position. Your hand falters as he hangs his head forward, and he reaches up, pressing it back into his skin. The rough pressure makes your breath hitch, less languid and more sure than he’s been since he bailed.

“You’re concussed,” you correct meekly, frowning down at him.

Rafe tries to shake his head, wincing as another bolt of pain shoots through it in dissent. “No,” he says, quick to fix his features. He grins dazedly. “I’m Rafe Cameron. And you’re… well, I hope you’re my girlfriend or something, because otherwise this heart attack in my chest’d be pretty concerning.”

You breathe out a scoff, mildly exasperated. A little relieved. If he’s well enough to remember to be an incessant flirt, he’s well enough for the concussion to not have caused any permanent damage.

“Alright, nevermind, no medical attention necessary,” you mutter, sending him a glare. It’s hard to hide the fact that your palms are clammy when you pull them away.

Noah loops his bicep under Rafe’s and pulls him to his feet, steadying him in place. The throbbing in his forehead intensifies, and he groans, staggering forward and doubling over.

“I don’t know, Y/N,” Noah replies then, frowning. “Maybe I’ll give my mom a call, just to be safe.”

“Your mom?”

“Dr White,” Rafe supplies, forcing himself to straighten. He tries to control his breathing, ignore the way his surroundings seem to be spinning.

Everything except you. His focus acquiesces. He must look pale or something because your gaze is apprehensive, this pretty furrow in your brow that he wants to smooth his thumb over. God, he must look pathetic right now, weak and mildly concussed, the aforementioned bail notwithstanding.

So he lies, adding, “Don’t worry about it White, I’m good,” mostly for your benefit—so you don’t think he’s some fucking chump who can’t handle a bit of a tumble.

He wants to impress you, bad. He plasters on another grin, going for roguish and landing on dense. “Would be better if you let me take you out later.”

“No way you’re asking me out right now,” you reproach, sending him a glare. “You almost just died five minutes ago, and that’s the first thing on your priority list?”

“You are, yeah,” he agrees, still grinning. He tries to walk toward you, staggering a little. “Seriously though, this has gotta be fate — bailing real fucking hard and finding a beautiful stranger along the way.”

You blink. “Beautiful stranger?”

“Heavy on the beautiful,” Rafe agrees, lumbering forward clumsily.

“Stranger?” You repeat, and then you falter, glancing down at his feet. “Rafael —”

He loses balance far too quickly for you to intervene, and he falls against you heavily, causing you to topple into the snow. Biting cold on your back, delightful warmth on your chest. His instincts must be somewhat intact, because he manages to hold his weight up despite being right on top of you.

Like, right on top of you. A terrifying emotion sears through your chest. The smatter of freckles on his nose are almost faded, his cheeks a brilliant rouge, snow-burned lips parted slightly. His overgrown locks brush against your forehead, just.

“Sorry,” he breathes out, and then he pauses, his gaze flitting to your lips. In the beat that passes, he agonises over the soft planes of your face, how pretty your eyes are up close. His heart’s just about pounding through his skin. How kissable your lips look, your cheeks, your neck, how right your figure feels pressed into his. His palms feel clammy; that hasn’t happened in a long while. He thinks, oh shit. And then, I’m absolutely fucking fucked.

You swallow, watching his pupils dilate. “Cameron. I need you to focus for a second.”

“Listen,” he murmurs, ignoring you, “D’you believe in love at first sight?”

“Rafael —”

“Because I know we’ve only just met,” he continues, drawing closer still, his heady gaze deepening, “and that — shit, I don’t even know your name, but I’m pretty sure that if I don’t kiss you right now I’m going to go fucking insane. That’s crazy, huh? I think you make me crazy. Have I mentioned that you’re really fucking beautiful yet? It’s messing with my head. Wait — I think I might’ve said that already —”

“Rafe Cameron,” you interrupt again, your eyes widening slightly. “If this is some stupid prank —”

“Prank?” He echoes, frowning slightly. He leans forward a little, brushing his nose against yours. Your pulse jolts. “You’re a prank.” He groans then, dropping his head to your shoulder. Your closeness may quell the pounding a smidge, but not completely. “You’re not real are you? I’m dreaming all of this?”

Your lock eyes with Noah over his head, sending him a worried look.

“Rafael,” you try again, pushing him off you and sitting up carefully. “This isn’t funny. I’m so beyond serious.”

Rafe, still splayed out on the snow, angles toward you with a furrow in his brow. “I’m confused.”

“Noah,” you say then, your voice louder, a little panicked. “I think you will need to call your mom after all.”

Noah frowns, crouching down beside the pair of you. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong,” Rafe answers, groaning in pain as he sits up. “Is that I’ve made a fool out of myself in front of this gorgeous stranger.”

“Ask her,” you continue, your heart feeling a little odd, “how long post-concussion memory loss takes to wear off.”

Noah eyes widen, searching Rafe’s face for any signs of mirth. “No way,” he says. “He’s gotta be fucking with us.”

“There’s an us?” Rafe echoes, raising his eyebrows at Noah. “Dude. Did you know your girlfriend’s a fucking smokeshow?”

“If this is some new pick up line you’re trying,” he replies, eyeing him warily. “It sucks ass Cameron.”

“Oooh, territorial,” Rafe answers, grinning dopily. He props himself up further, leaning closer to you and lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “You’re totally out of his league, by the way. Pretty sure you’re like, out of the Earth’s league.” He frowns. “That doesn’t make sense,” then groans, “fuck. Having a concussion is like drinking on an empty stomach.”

The pillow of his bicep presses into yours, full well engulfing it. You turn to face him, chewing on your bottom lip worriedly. If this was his idea of a prank, you want to believe that he wouldn’t let it go on this long. Especially not when you and Noah look so concerned, the latter retrieving his phone to give his mother a call.

“Hey mom,” he says, sandwiching his phone between his shoulder and ear and getting to his feet. You do so too. Rafe staggers to a standing position far more clumsily. “Yeah — no — the snow’s been sick, but I’m calling because something’s happened with Rafe. No, no, nothing too serious, he’s just a little concussed and may have some temporary amnesia. I was wondering if…”

“Maybe we can go on a double date,” Rafe tries again, grinning hopefully. There’s a bit of snow that’s melted on your bottom lip from the fall, and he aches to thumb over it, tuck his fingers under your jaw. “You, Noah, me.”

“No, no, he remembers me,” Noah continues, sending you a significant look. “But he doesn’t remember — yeah, it’s pretty selective — uh, maybe a few meters? Uh… no, what the hell’s a trigger? I’ll…”

“What d’you reckon?” Rafe prompts.

Noah turns away and you move your gaze to Rafe, half amused, half exasperated. “You, me, and Noah? Who’re you going to bring?”

“You,” he replies, like it’s obvious.

“And Noah?”

“Me.”

You breathe out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. Rafe thinks it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. His already muddled brain short-circuits for the billionth time.

“…half an hour?” You hear Noah affirm, the frown on his features audible. “Yeah — no — it’s been just over that — a trigger like what, though? What d’you mean you don’t know him as well as I do, he’s been coming to our house since he was like six years old…”

You don’t realise your brow’s furrowing until your feel Rafe’s rough thumb brush over it. You startle, feeling your skin warm as you look up at him.

“I’m lucky,” he murmurs, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

You swallow. “Why?”

“You’re worried about me.” His hand drops to your jaw, thumb swiping over your cheek. You swallow instinctively. “And you’re way too beautiful to be worrying about someone like me.”

“You’ve lost your memory,” you answer weakly. “Anyone’d be worried.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He draws closer.

“Which part, exactly?”

“That people would worry,” he answers quietly, his voice gruff. Closer still. “That I’d forget about someone like you so easy.”

“But you have,” you prompt.

“Then remind me, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart, Rafael,” you murmur, trying for a frown.

“Not my — wait.”

The thumb that’s swiping over your cheek freezes suddenly. “Wait,” he repeats, blinking several times. He scrunches his eyes shut, retrieving his hand to clutch it against his forehead. “Wait — fuck.”

You lean forward instinctively, tugging his arm away to look over his features, his concerning graze. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I knew…” he answers, shaking his head and groaning, “…but…shit, it’s so fucking obvious now —”

You furrow your brow in confusion, locking eyes with an equally bewildered Noah.

He holds his phone away from his ear, walking over and surveying Rafe’s features. “You good, brother?”

“Fine, shit,” Rafe curses again, scrubbing his hand over his face before meeting your gaze, chagrined. He grins hopefully. “That might’ve been quicker with true love’s kiss, though.”

You aren’t about to believe that he’s back without concrete evidence. “And my name is…?”

“Mrs Cameron,” he replies seriously.

You let out a scoff, more relief than indignation, catching the twinkle of mirth in his eyes. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”

“Maybe,” he answers, raising his eyebrows, “if you let me take you out I’ll be too busy to bail.”

You roll your eyes. “Nice try.”

“But I’m maimed, sweetheart,” he adds, brushing back his dirty-blonde locks to show off the forehead graze. He pouts for good measure. “C’mon. Not even a pity date?”

You shake your head exasperatedly, catching Noah’s eye over his shoulder. “You’ll take it from here?”

“What? You aren’t gonna hang out with us?” Noah asks, pressing the phone against his chest. “I thought you were my girlfriend, Y/N.”

“Off limits, bro,” Rafe says matter-of-factly.

You’re about to protest when he draws closer and ducks his head, his warm breath on your earlobe cutting you off. “I won’t ever do that again,” he murmurs, the smile on his face audible, “I promise.”

“Good,” you answer, frowning sternly.

“Oh, and Y/N?”

You turn toward him, startling at his closeness. “Hm?”

He grins wider, brushing his nose against your fleetingly. “Missed remembering you bad, dream girl.”

[stylesonfilms]

ink & innocence - 28

word count: 5.1k

i need to up my game on this story im SORRY! <3

The party downstairs carried on, its energy buzzing through the walls like a live current. Music thudded against the floorboards, muffled but persistent, as Aspen and Harry descended the staircase. Harry stumbled over a step halfway down, prompting Aspen to stifle her giggle behind a hand. He turned to her with a faux-serious expression, his brows furrowed, though the tips of his dimples betrayed his amusement.

“Did that on purpose,” he slurred lightly, his grip on the railing tightening in a show of mock confidence.

“Sure you did,” Aspen teased, her voice lilting with laughter. She grabbed his free hand, steadying him as they made their way down. Harry’s fingers wrapped around hers with a lazy, possessive grip, his thumb brushing along her knuckles in a way that sent warmth spreading from her fingertips up to her chest.

When they reached the living room, they settled back into their earlier spot on the couch. Kirsten, to Aspen’s quiet relief, was nowhere to be found— likely off somewhere with her hookup. Isobel sat nearby, her legs draped lazily across Zayn’s lap as she sipped on something new, her lipstick staining the rim of the glass.

“That was pretty badass,” Isobel declared, tipping her drink toward Aspen with a playful smirk. Her hand shot out to lightly fist-bump Aspen’s knee, the motion casual but full of approval.

Aspen huffed and rolled her eyes, but her lips curled into a reluctant smile that she couldn’t suppress. “Whatever,” she replied softly, her attempt at brushing off the compliment falling short when Harry leaned forward to press a slow, deliberate kiss against the back of her neck. His lips were warm against her skin, and she felt his hum reverberate softly.

“Only my girl,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears, his tone brimming with quiet pride.

Before Aspen could respond, Louis appeared in front of them, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. With one hand, he slipped a red solo cup into Harry’s grasp, and with the other, he placed a juice box squarely on top of Aspen’s head.

“Stay hydrated,” he quipped with a laugh as the box toppled onto her lap. He tossed a tin container onto the coffee table before flopping down beside Niall, his laughter loud and carefree.

Aspen glanced at the tin, her brows knitting in curiosity. She leaned forward slightly, trying to catch a better glimpse of what Louis had brought to the table— literally. When he flipped the lid off with a dramatic flourish, her eyes widened. Inside was a neat row of pre-rolled joints, their paper pristine and almost professional, with a small lighter tucked alongside them.

Her gaze darted to Isobel, who was already reaching out to grab one. Zayn followed suit, his easygoing demeanor unchanging as he took one between his fingers and lit it with a flick of the lighter. The sharp, familiar scent of marijuana quickly filled the air, blending with the faint sweetness of spilled drinks and the tangy smell of snacks lingering on the counter.

Harry, however, made no move to join in. His arms remained firmly around Aspen, his cup now balanced precariously on her knee as he pressed another kiss to her shoulder. His lips brushed the exposed skin there, soft and warm, and she felt his low chuckle vibrate through her.

“Oi, Harold, snagging one?” Louis called, holding out a joint in Harry’s direction with a waggle of his brows.

Harry didn’t even glance up, shaking his head as he pressed his lips against Aspen’s shoulder again. “Nah,” he replied casually, his voice muffled but certain. “Got my lady tonight.”

The words sent a flush of heat to Aspen’s cheeks. She turned slightly in his lap, her wide eyes scanning his face. He looked at her with a lopsided grin, his green eyes heavy-lidded from the alcohol but still sharp and focused on her. He gave her hip a playful squeeze, his thumb brushing idly over the girl's skirt.

“What?” he asked, his grin widening as he caught her staring.

“Nothing,” she said softly, her lips curving into a small smile. She tapped his nose lightly with her finger, unable to stop the warm flutter in her chest. “I just didn’t know you smoked, is all.”

Harry’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Is that a problem?” he asked, his tone light but edged with genuine curiosity.

Aspen shook her head quickly, the movement making her hair brush against his arm. “No, not at all,” she assured him. Her voice was steady, though the smell in the air tugged at a faint memory from her past. “I just didn’t know that about you.”

Her sister used to smoke a bit while their parents were out of town, needing a relief from the mess that their parents were. As Aspen was under her care most of the time, it was a regular routine for her to experience.

Harry nodded, his hand slipping down to take the juice box from her lap. He carefully poked the straw through the foil and handed it back to her, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I don’t do it all the time,” he admitted, his voice softer now, like he wanted her to understand. “Just when work gets... a lot. Zayn, Niall, and I will hang out at my place and smoke, but I wouldn’t do it around you.”

Aspen tilted her head, her brows knitting slightly. “Why not?”

Harry shrugged, his free hand rubbing small circles into her hip. “I don’t want to expose your little innocent mind to that,” he said with a teasing smirk. “And I want to take care of you.”

Aspen felt her heart skip a beat, her fingers tightening slightly around the juice box. “But you can drink?” she teased, her lips curling into an amused smile.

Harry laughed, the sound low and rich as he tipped his head back slightly. “Alright, y’got me there,” he admitted, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just say the word, and I’ll never touch another bottle.”

Aspen shook her head with a soft laugh, her chest warming at his sincerity. “No, H. It’s okay. I... trust you. I know you know what you’re doing.”

Harry’s lips parted in a slow smile, his lip piercing catching the light as he rolled it between his teeth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Her eyes sparkled as they met his, the warmth between them palpable even amid the haze of smoke before the sound of Isobel's giggles broke through the median noise. 

"Zayn, stop!" Isobel huffed out into a fit of laughter as her boyfriends fingers dug through her sides in a tickling manner. 

"You stole my joint!" He protested, laughing as his actions came to a halt, plucking it back between his fingers. 

Harry’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, his breath warm against Aspen’s shoulder. “God, those two…” Aspen muttered under her breath, her lips quirking upward in a wry grin as she glanced toward the chaos on the opposite end of the couch.

Harry shook his head, leaning closer to Aspen, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “He’s havin’ me tattoo somethin’ for her next week before the shop opens,” he said, the warmth in his voice laced with amusement. “Did she tell you?”

Aspen turned back to face him, her curiosity piqued, her laugh from moments earlier fading into a softer smile. “No,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What is it?”

Harry clicked his tongue, smirking as he swirled his drink lazily in his cup. “No can do,” he teased, leaning back slightly against the couch. “Must be a surprise, then.”

Aspen narrowed her eyes at him, the playful challenge in his tone sparking something within her. “Please?” she pleaded, her voice dipping into a slightly dramatic whine as she pushed out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “I won’t tell. I just want to be nosy and silently happy for my friend. Pleaaaase?” She grinned as she grabbed hold of Harry’s shoulders, shaking him lightly for emphasis.

Harry chuckled deeply, the sound rich and gravelly as he balanced his cup on his knee. His green eyes twinkled with amusement as he glanced from the couple back to Aspen. “Alright, fine,” he relented, his lips curling into that signature smirk that always managed to make her stomach flip. “But you cannot tell.”

“I won’t! I promise!” Aspen beamed, leaning in closer, her expression practically glowing with excitement.

Harry raised a brow, his smirk widening into something more mischievous as his gaze flicked pointedly down to her lips. “You know,” he started, his voice dipping into a slightly lower register, “I like it when you beg f’me, doll. Trying to send me a message?” He wiggled his brows dramatically, his teasing tone both playful and suggestive as a puff of laughter escaped him.

Aspen’s eyes widened, and a soft, scandalized gasp slipped past her lips as she lightly shoved his shoulder. “Harry!” she hissed, glancing around quickly, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink.

Harry only laughed harder, his dimples deepening as his shoulders shook. “Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though the glint in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t sorry at all.

Aspen huffed softly, willing the heat in her cheeks to subside as she darted a quick glance at the others. None of them seemed to have noticed Harry’s cheeky comment, but the coil in her stomach tightened anyway. She could still hear the rasp in his voice, thickened by the alcohol, his accent drawing out the words in a way that was both casual and impossibly magnetic.

She turned her focus back to Harry, who now rested his arm lazily across her lap, his cup in hand. His lips tilted into a lopsided grin as he spoke again, his gaze flicking briefly toward Zayn and Isobel. “He’s gonna get her eyes right on his chest,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he turned back to Aspen. “I’ll one-up him, though. Get your whole face smack-dab on m’back.”

Aspen rolled her eyes with a laugh, swatting his arm lightly. “Don’t you dare,” she replied, her voice tinged with playful exasperation. “And second, I think that’s sweet. She’s got cute eyes, and she’s going to absolutely freak when she sees it.”

Harry snickered, shaking his head. “Zayn described them as ‘hot blowjob eyes,’” he added, his words tumbling out between bouts of soft laughter as he brought the cup back to his lips.

Aspen froze for half a second, her head tilting slightly as she processed the comment. Harry’s hum of amusement only deepened as he swallowed, his gaze warm and teasing when it landed back on her.

“‘S what a girl’s— or guy’s, I suppose— eyes look like when they give a blowie,” he explained, his tone matter-of-fact despite the wicked glint in his eye. “Down on their knees, lookin’ up type of thing.”

Aspen’s cheeks flushed crimson, and she wrinkled her nose, a mix of surprise and embarrassment rippling through her. The thought of Zayn saying something like that about Isobel sent a swirl of conflicting emotions through her chest—discomfort, amusement, and secondhand embarrassment all at once. She opened her mouth to respond but found herself momentarily speechless, her eyes darting toward Isobel, who was obliviously laughing at something Zayn had whispered in her ear.

Harry’s quiet chuckle beside her pulled her back, his hand giving her hip a small, reassuring squeeze. It was a fleeting touch, but one that grounded her, reminding her that despite his teasing, there was an ease to their connection that felt natural. She exhaled softly, shaking her head at him as her lips twitched into a small, reluctant smile.

"Do you think that?"

"Think what?" Harry tilted his head, feigning innocence, but the glint in his eye betrayed him.

She huffed softly, her cheeks tinged pink. "That she has... those eyes."

His lips curved into that all-too-familiar smirk, the one that sent her heart into a frustratingly uneven rhythm.

"I've seen better," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low rasp that curled around her like smoke. His hand gave her hip a firm, reassuring squeeze, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of her shirt. Before she could even think to respond, his touch shifted, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her lower back with an unhurried ease, his thumb tracing gentle arcs just beneath the hem. "Possibly the fuckin’ best."

Her breath caught, a quiet gasp hitching in her throat as the intensity of his gaze pinned her in place. His green eyes, darkened by the dim light and whatever alcohol lingered in his system, locked on hers with a look that was equal parts teasing and reverent. She felt like prey caught in the sightline of a hunter—cornered and vulnerable, her defenses melting under the weight of his attention.

Aspen’s lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. Her thoughts tangled, incoherent, as heat crept up the back of her neck and bloomed at the tips of her ears. His stare stripped her bare, not in a crude or obvious way, but with a quiet, steady persistence that made her feel like she was the only person in the room.

Harry leaned forward slightly, his movements unhurried, calculated. His hand abandoned her back, trailing along the curve of her waist before settling firmly on her thigh, his touch just below the frayed hem of her denim skirt. The heat of his palm bled through her skin, amplified by the cool press of the silver rings on his fingers. The juxtaposition of warm and cold sent a shiver coursing up her spine, her body betraying her even as her mind scrambled to catch up.

The scent of weed continued to waft through the room, mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol and the subtle notes of Harry’s cologne— something musky, with a hint of cedar that clung stubbornly to his clothes. The voices of their friends became a muted hum in the background, drowned out by the steady pulse of music. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard Liam ask Harry if he needed another drink, but his voice barely registered. Harry was far too preoccupied to notice— or care.

All of his focus, every ounce of his attention, was on her.

Harry’s eyes roamed her face with a quiet intensity, as if committing every detail to memory. The way the loose strands of her hair framed her cheeks in soft waves, the way her lips curved naturally into the slightest pout, their rosy hue deepened by her nervous habit of biting them. He thought of the way the sun caught her features earlier that day— how her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks, and the warm light brought out the flecks of hazel in her otherwise brown eyes. He’d seen it a thousand times before, but still, he’d swear she was something out of a dream.

“Picture fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her, though the words carried enough weight to send her heart into a chaotic flutter.

Before Aspen could fully process what he’d said, his fingers slid further, dipping just beneath the edge of her skirt. The movement was deliberate, slow, as though he wanted to give her a chance to stop him— but she didn’t. His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, the cool metal of his rings creating a stark contrast that left her reeling.

Her breath hitched audibly, the sound so soft it barely reached her own ears, though Harry caught it immediately. He tilted his head, his smirk widening just enough to deepen the creases around his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, betraying the slightest hint of amusement beneath the layers of something darker.

Aspen’s fingers tightened around his shoulder, her nails pressing faint crescents into the fabric of his shirt. The action wasn’t forceful— more a reflex than anything. She wasn’t pushing him away, nor was she pulling him closer. She was caught somewhere in between, her body betraying her confusion as the tension between them crackled like static electricity.

Her voice caught in her throat, but she didn’t need to speak for Harry to know what she was feeling. The subtle shift of her breathing, the way her pupils dilated as her wide eyes searched his face, the faint tremor in her hand as it gripped his shoulder— it all told him everything he needed to know.

And yet, Harry wasn’t rushing. He wouldn’t. Every touch, every glance, was measured, deliberate. He was entirely in tune with her, and it wasn’t just about the physicality—it was about her. How she’d respond, how she’d feel. The anticipation thrummed between them, heavy and heady, as though the entire room had dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the two of them in its wake.

"H, what're you—."

"When are y'gonna let me see those eyes again, huh?" He murmured, his tongue slow and deliberate as it came out to wet his lips. 

Harry tightened his grip on her thigh, kneading the flesh between his palm. Aspen couldn't help but follow the movement of his tongue with shy eyes, meeting his again. Only to have them looking right back at her.

"I believe I asked you a question, little mouse. Are y'gonna be good and answer me?"

Aspen couldn't help but squeak out a noise, about to turn her head to make another check before he caught her chin. 

"You're going t'give us away, Asp. Now, answer me."

She huffed through her nose, and despite the blush on her cheeks from embarrassment, her chest ignited.

"W-whenever," She whispered, her brown eyes flickering to his lips and back to his eyes. 

He chuckled softly, low and slow as he brushed the tip of his pinky along the thin material of her panties that covered the mound of her cunt. She sucked in a small breath at the touch that took her by surprise, fisting the shoulder of his shirt momentarily before relaxing again.

"Whenever, huh? Even if I took you to the guest room again? Or what about in the Uber back to my place? What if when we got back to mine," another brush of his pinky, "and the moment I closed the door? Would you let me push you down to your knees? What about wakin' me up and givin' me those sweet eyes from under the blanket, hm?"

Harry's hand took another firm grip of her thigh again, his eyes still locked on hers. He knew well enough that his friends were busied with themselves, talking on and on about hula-hoops to skateboards to weird laws in Switzerland.

Aspen's breath hitched at his words and his gaze. The girls lips parted, as if to say something, before they shut once more. The feeling in her tummy boiled up to her chest and she wanted to scream for him to have mercy on her soaked panties. She shifted in his lap and swallowed, nodding after a few moments. 

"Y-yes, all of those..." She brushed her fingers along the tattoos of his neck, suddenly becoming so interested in the line work that trailed up.

"Y'know what I think?" Harry mused, taking another sip from his cup as he took a look around before back at her. "I think you want it as much as I do. Just need your taste of havin' my cock in your mouth, don't you?" He murmured carefully, cracking a smile when he saw the way her cheeks tinted and her gaze stay on his neck. His shy little girl.

"I've corrupted my sweet little virgin, but don't get me wrong. Fucking love this side of you. Do you understand me?" He squeezed her thigh once more, making her squeak and nod. 

"Aspen..."

"Y-yes, I understand," she breathed out, biting the inside of her cheek. She was about one second away from grinding into his hand, her body betraying her better judgment, when the sharp sound of Niall's voice cut through the smoky haze like a record scratch. The sudden intrusion yanked Aspen back to reality so fast it felt like whiplash.

Harry’s hand slipped from beneath her skirt in a practiced, nonchalant manner that almost convinced her it hadn’t just been there at all. He turned his head towards Niall, his features relaxed, though there was a faint flicker of annoyance that crossed his face—a frustration he quickly masked with ease.

“Refills!” Niall called, his voice carrying over the music as he swaggered towards them, the nearly empty bottle of liquor in one hand and his joint balanced between his lips. He leaned forward dramatically, tipping the bottle over each person’s cup with a lopsided grin. The sweet, bitter tang of the alcohol hung heavily in the air, cutting through the musky scent of weed that had settled in the room like a thick fog.

When Niall waved the bottle in Harry’s direction, Harry shook his head, his lips twitching into a small smirk. “I’m done for tonight,” he said, his voice even but edged with amusement.

Niall raised a brow, the smirk on his face widening as he plucked the joint from his lips and took a slow drag. Smoke curled around his head like a halo before he barked out a laugh. “Oh, Harry’s lookin’ to get some tonight, is he?”

The words hit the room like a bomb, and every head turned toward them in a wave of collective curiosity. Aspen froze, her body going rigid against Harry’s side as heat flooded her cheeks and neck. She let out a soft whine, burying her crimson face into the crook of Harry’s neck, wishing the ground would just swallow her whole.

Harry laughed at her reaction, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her cheek where it rested on his skin. He gave her thigh a reassuring squeeze, his fingers lingering just long enough to ground her, silently reminding her that it was just Niall being Niall. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he shook his head, his amusement clear.

“Speaking from jealousy, Ni?” Harry quipped, his tone smooth and dripping with mockery.

Niall’s eyebrows shot up, and he smirked, gesturing lazily with the bottle. “Jealous? Me? Woah, woah, who says I won’t get any either, huh? Safe to say we might all be occupied tonight, eh?” He nudged Zayn to his right, then Louis on his other side, his grin widening at his own joke.

The room erupted into a mix of groans and laughter, their friends rolling their eyes in unison. Even Aspen couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips despite her embarrassment. As much as Niall’s teasing grated on her, it was impossible not to laugh when everyone else was.

It was true, though. Everyone in the group acted like drunken rabbits once the alcohol hit and the inhibitions dissolved. Niall’s comment wasn’t so much a joke as it was a painfully accurate observation, and that fact only made it worse.

“Well, that’s our cue…” Isobel’s voice rang out, light and sing-song, as she wobbled to her feet. She tugged on Zayn’s arm, giggling as she stumbled slightly. Her sheepish smile did little to disguise the blush creeping up her cheeks.

Zayn caught her with ease, his hands steadying her with practiced familiarity. He chuckled, shaking his head as he allowed her to drag him toward the front door. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, waving a sloppy goodbye over his shoulder.

“Bye, lovelies!” Isobel added, her voice cheerful and slightly slurred as she threw exaggerated kisses to the group.

Harry hummed, patting Aspen’s thigh softly before rising to his feet. He extended a hand down to her, his smirk firmly in place as he pulled her up with ease. “It’s best if we go as well,” he announced, his voice laced with mischief. “For Isobel, of course.”

Aspen rolled her eyes, her blush still clinging to her cheeks as she tucked herself under his arm. “Of course,” she muttered, the sarcasm in her tone light but not unnoticed.

Harry grinned down at her, his arm snug around her shoulders as they made their way toward the door. Aspen reached out, returning high fives and fist bumps from their friends as they called out a chorus of goodbyes.

Her stomach fluttered as Harry guided her forward, his hand resting comfortably on her side. The air outside would feel cool against her heated skin, and she couldn't wait for the slight reprieve. Yet, when she glanced up at him, his jaw sharp in the low light, she couldn't quite fight the small smile that tugged at her lips.

And if Harry turned back to their friends as they walked out, mouthing “Score!” while silently pumping his fist in victory, well, that was for him to know.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The cool night air was a sharp contrast to the hazy warmth of the house, wrapping around them and carrying the lingering smell of smoke and spilled liquor. Harry tapped on his phone with the precision of someone used to keeping his wits about him, even while a slight buzz hummed in the back of his mind. The glow of the screen cast soft light across his features, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw as he confirmed the Uber. His fingers moved fluidly, almost automatic, while his thoughts drifted back to the feel of Aspen against him moments ago, her skin warm beneath his touch, her laugh like a melody he hadn’t realized he needed.

Zayn stood a few feet away, similarly engaged with his phone as he finalized the ride for himself and Isobel. He was grinning faintly, undoubtedly replaying some moment from inside. When Harry tucked his phone into his pocket, his eyes instinctively sought Aspen, and without thinking, he pulled her to him, sighing heavily as she melted against his chest.

The scent of her shampoo, sweet and slightly floral, mixed with the faint smell of weed and sweat clinging to their clothes. Harry rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the peace of having her in his arms. Her hands slid up his back, her palms flat against the fabric of his shirt, and the tension in his shoulders eased. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the soft rustling of leaves and distant laughter from inside, the world around them fading into the background as they simply existed in each other’s embrace.

Aspen’s heart beat steadily against his chest, and Harry couldn’t help but smirk to himself, thinking about how easy it was to feel at home with her like this. She was his calm in the chaos, even if she didn’t know it.

Then, a familiar voice broke through the moment. “I need to pee. Come with,” Isobel slurred, stumbling slightly as she made her way over, her eyes glassy but bright with mischief.

Aspen pulled away reluctantly, looking up at Harry with an apologetic smile. “I’ll be back,” she promised softly, her hand briefly squeezing his before she turned to follow her friend back into the house.

Harry watched her go, his smirk softening into something fonder, though he’d never admit it out loud. He slid his hands into his pockets, glancing over at Zayn, who had been watching the exchange with a knowing look.

“You’re whipped, mate,” Zayn teased, his grin crooked.

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, alright. Like you’re one to talk.”

Before Zayn could retort, the faint hum of an engine drew their attention. A sleek black car rolled up to the curb, its tinted windows gleaming ominously under the streetlights. Both men exchanged a glance, their relaxed postures stiffening as the car came to a halt.

The passenger-side window rolled down with a faint mechanical whir, revealing Leone’s face partially obscured by the glow of his cigarette. The sharp scent of tobacco mixed with the crisp night air, and the tension between the three men became palpable.

Zayn exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he muttered, “Great.”

Harry leaned against the car, ducking slightly to meet Leone’s gaze. His green eyes were sharp, calculating, though his tone was deceptively casual. “What do you want?”

Leone took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke billow lazily into the air before speaking. “I need you two boys next Thursday. Big dealers coming in.” His voice was gravelly, laced with authority that demanded attention.

The cigarette’s ember glowed brighter as Leone took another drag, his free hand shifting slightly. That’s when they saw it—a gun resting casually on his lap, his fingers running along the barrel as if it were a natural extension of his body.

Zayn’s hand twitched at his side, but he kept his voice steady. “You can’t come showing up like this,” he hissed, his tone low and sharp. “Not so public.”

Leone chuckled bitterly, a sound that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. “I own you fools,” he said, his voice cold and unyielding. “And I’m always careful.” His eyes glinted dangerously as he leaned forward slightly, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Thursday. Be there. Don’t make me have to fuckin’ find you twats.”

The window rolled up smoothly, cutting off any response they might have had as the car pulled away from the curb. The taillights disappeared into the distance, leaving Harry and Zayn standing in heavy silence.

Zayn let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “I hate that prick,” he muttered under his breath.

Harry’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Yeah, well, he’s not exactly my favorite person either,” he bit out, his voice low.

The weight of the encounter lingered between them, unspoken but understood. They had no choice, and both of them knew it.

The sound of laughter broke through the tension as Aspen and Isobel stumbled back out of the house, their arms linked and their cheeks flushed from the cool air. Aspen’s eyes found Harry immediately, her smile softening as she made her way over to him.

“Everything alright?” she asked, her voice light, though her gaze flicked between the two men, sensing the shift in their moods.

Harry forced a smile, his hand reaching out to pull her back under his arm. “Yeah, just talkin’ shop,” he said smoothly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Zayn and Isobel exchanged a brief glance before their Uber pulled up to the curb. Isobel tugged Zayn toward the car, waving a cheerful goodbye to Aspen and Harry as they climbed in.

A few moments later, Harry’s Uber arrived, and he opened the door for Aspen, letting her slide in first before following suit. As the car pulled away, the tension in Harry’s shoulders eased slightly, though the encounter with Leone lingered in the back of his mind like a dark cloud. For now, he focused on the warmth of Aspen beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as the city lights blurred past the windows.

[pricegouge]

prompt fill based off this request.

part two of the honey series

rat race

Simon x gn!reader

cw: predator prey dynamic and i really mean it. implied deaths offscreen. MDNI

it's a new maze every time. peg board floor, the walls mounted to it shifting with each session to keep you confused and, lost amid the erratic angles and dead ends. sometimes they're mirrored, reflect your mounting dismay back at you with every turn. mostly, he likes other obstacles, small puzzles you have to solve before continuing on to the next part of the maze.

today's impediment is a little more dire.

you smell it before you see it, the familiar reek of soiled bedding and cloyingly strong aspen. you're not alone.

simon sees the minute you register your predicament, dark eyes becoming hyperfocused when you stiffen up, fear locking your joints. he looms overhead, bad omen hung double in the sky where the glass which prevents you and the rat both from climbing out catches his reflection just enough to mirror him again, superimposes his mask just there above you. inescapable.

you think maybe one of these days he'll make the maze the same and pray it's not this day. you'd rather starve to death within it's confines than let the rat live off your corpse for a few days longer. maybe that's where he'd gotten all those fairy specimen that lined his study, their little shadow boxes visible even now, his largest mount displayed proudly behind his desk, looking over his shoulder at you pityingly. maybe you'll get a spot of honor, too.

but not if the rat finds you, vicious teeth and ravenous appetite. it had come close a few times, clever little nose giving it a leg up on you. simon had never once moved to help as it had closed in, just leaning closer to watch as the rat closed in, eyes darting between the two of you with the sort of anticipation and excitement one usually reserved for a well-balanced match.

so you can't depend on his mercy - not that he's ever given you reason to, really, but you'd hoped -

the pegboard holes are just big enough to catch your toes. you trip as you scurry along, fingers trailing on the walls next to you lest you miss a turn in your haste. not that it really matters, not when each turn looks the same. simon used to leave you little hints, offerings of sweets which would guide you closer to the end. he'd long since stopped that, seemed content to watch you twist yourself into knots for hours before you found a way out if needed. you hoped that wouldn't be the case tonight. the rat rarely ever needed hours to find you.

you stop to catch your breath when you reach the next four-corners. it's a dangerous spot to be, what with all the straight shots where the rat might see you, but it also gives you the most options for an escape if it comes to it, something you've learned the hard way. your chest rises with effort, tiny cloud of condensation collecting on the glass above. beyond it, you see simon's eyes dart to your left with just a little too much excitement and you take off to the right before you can even collect yourself, wood paneling flying by as you run blindly, right, left, left again, one-eighty when you hit a dead end. you huff in frustration, a muted spark flying when your fists clench in frustration and fear. you have options, you know, but you don't like the odds and -

it's surprising how quiet your companion can be, when it suits him. you don't hear the quiet chuffing of his breathing, nor the gentle patter of his little paws as he creeps closer. it's not even the slithering of its tail that gives it away, but the subtle scrape of its whiskers against the paneling, the wall on your left seeming to swell closer as the beast stalks by on the other side of it.

simon had lied, that pointed look from before meant to send you scurrying in the wrong direction - right into the rat's clutches. you'd be more mad, if you had time to be.

the path to the right is short - doesn't let you wander too far away from the beast that dogs you before forcing you to turn left. you're running parallel with it now, or at least you would be if it had kept on its same path. but that's unlikely in this labyrinth, and one right hand turn could send it your way. another could have it barreling down the aisle at you. you dip right as soon as you're able, do it again at your next chance -

and stop dead in your tracks when you see the very end of its scaly tale disappear around a corner up ahead.

faltering where you stand, you take a minute to try and find your bearings, weigh your options as you see them. there's no exit behind, but death could be waiting before and it takes you a minute to remember that if it's not there, it will be around the next corner (or the next, or the next) until you find your way out of here.

so you creep forward, each step placed carefully lest you slip, bare skin squeaking off the cheap wood. you don't make a sound as you approach the blind, not even as you peek around the corner to find the rat still at the end of the path, strong nose raised as if to sniff out whatever might be on the other end of the wall before it. you keep your wits about you, pull your head back to collect a calming breath before darting past the gap while it's distracted, your footsteps coming a little more calmly, a little more confidently as you slink away. you can feel simon's heavy gaze on you, seemingly magnified by the glass overhead. he's rapt now, his unwavering gaze only adding to your stress, nerves a tangled ball of pollen you can't find the end of, can't get a grasp on.

maybe that's why you're too distracted to mind your breathing, the harsh pants of your panic alerting the rat to your presence. it chuffs in its excitement, long body struggling as it tries to turn around in the close press of walls that surround it. you hear the scrape of its little claws, a series of suppressed sneezes it would never emit if it was still in stalking mode. the gig is up.

you don't even bother to look behind you before you're off, feet slamming against the pegboard in your haste. simon's too excited to bother suppressing it, unwittingly leading you toward the exit by how he leans too far forward, a subconscious tell which you try to focus all your concentration on. anything to avoid looking back, avoid seeing the scurrying beast which tails you.

it's gaining is the worst part. you can take corners quicker than it, but it's faster on straightaways and it's only now, as you weave your way through row after row of them that you realize there are a lot of straightaways in this maze. simon's note taking wasn't just for show, it seemed.

right, left, straight, right and right again. teeth snatch at your clothes, sharp enough to tear instead of catch. a mixed blessing as it allows you to slip its grasp this time. you drive yourself harder, chest aching with your labored breath as you try to stay just outside of its range. it squeaks and squeals in its excitement, a terifying littany you can't quite drown out even with your blood pounding in your ears. you focus on trending right because that's the way simon's leaning, are just starting to worry you've misjudged him when you see it: sweet sanctuary, a perfect circle in an external wall, the sweet smell of candy sitting just beyond.

you leap through it as soon as you're able, shriek in fright when you swear you can feel teeth snapping at your toes. but simon shutters the door as soon as you're through it, dull thud of the rat slamming against it the last thing you hear of it for the night.

supine, catching your breath, you watch almost disinterestedly as simon stands and collects the massive box from off his desk, big meaty hands lifting it gently before carrying it off to the other side of the room where he takes a minute to extract the rat and return it to its cage. it nips him, retaliation for a pointless maze, but simon just chuckles darkly, calls it cheeky as he feeds it a grape from his pocket. when he turns back to you, he asks why you haven't had your treat yet and you just shake your head, stomach turning at the thought of sweets right then. or maybe it's because the thought of being treated like just another one of his lab rats leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

the chair groans under him when he sits back down, his fist heavy as it drags over the pad of paper before him, taking more notes. everything about him is heavy and he never lets you forget it - movements purposefully drawn out to emphasize it, as if he's any need for it. even for a human he's a large man, and there's nothing your paltry sparks could ever do against him. you're not stupid, despite what he thinks.

"almost got you that time," he grumbles as he finishes up. you're still laying on your back, processing your predicament. he just uses it as an excuse to slide the paper you're laying on closer, his palm planted frimly next to you, framing you between forefinger and thumb. you don't bother arguing with him, don't see the point.

over his shoulder, some long-dead kin seems to agree.

"you'll be a wet specimen, won't you?" his mask hides his expression when he says it, but his eyes are just as animated as they'd been when he'd lead you astray, gleaming darkly in the low light of his banker's lamp.

you can only pout up at him, confused until he picks you up, turns you so you face the cupboard, one of its door's hanging slightly ajar, the low glint of glass glowing from within. even static it seems to dance, and you imagine the jarred contents within rippling, the mangled little corpses preserved in formaldehyde bobbing along. you shake your head adamantly, fear bubbling back to life in your belly. you'd only seen inside the cupboard once but it had been enough, shelves full of gored little fairies haunting you ever since, constant threat.

simon tuts, as if you're being petulant and contrary. "you'd best shape up, then. can't mount a half-eaten fairy."

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

The hot tub | Rafe Cameron x Reader

Advent calendar day three: Ski trip

Summary: Rafe invites you to spend the week with his family at their cabin in Aspen. Things may happen when you get in the hot tub after a long day going down the slopes

Warnings: 18+, unprotected p + v, slight choking, semi-public (outside), impact play (spanking once)

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

As expected, the Cameron’s cabin in Aspen was breath-takingly beautiful. The walls of the living area were made of round wood, making it seem like you were living inside a tree…with a luxury decor. There were large windows, massive couches, cherry-wood tables, and a classic bear skin in front of the large fireplace. 

You felt like you were standing in a holiday Hallmark movie. 

‘’How many properties does your parents own?’’ You brushed your hand over the plush throw at the end of your and Rafe’s bed, smiling at how soft it felt. ‘’Don’t they have a house in the Bahamas?’’ 

‘’A lot,’’ Rafe replied while putting away some things in the closet. ‘’I lost count, honestly. My dad collects estates and Rose decorates them, it’s their thing,’’ he explained. ‘’I rent the ones we are not using...except the Bahamas house. We keep that one for family only.’’

You nodded, secretly wishing your parents were that rich. You could get used to vacationing in the mountains during winter break. It’s a weather contrast compared to South Carolina. 

‘’Do you come here often? Have you mastered a winter sports during your lavish vacations?’’ 

Rafe chuckled, closing the door of the large closet. ‘’I can’t ski, if that’s what you’re asking me. Or skate. Ice skating is Sarah’s thing.’’ He grabbed his toiletry bag from the suitcase and placed it in the en-suite bathroom next to yours. ‘’My dad forced me to take snowboarding lessons since I was a kid, but I was better at flirting with girls at the ski resort.’’

Shaking your head, you laughed quietly. ‘’What am I not surprised?’’ 

After everyone had unpacked, you bundled in your winter layers and headed down to the ski resort for some winter activities. You and Rafe rented equipment to go down the slopes while Sarah and Wheezie went to the skating rink. 

The afternoon was spent mostly falling on your ass and watching Rafe showing off. He was no professional, but you were impressed as you watched him do stunts — something you could never see yourself doing. 

When the sky started to go dark, you returned to the cabin to warm up and eat dinner. Rose’s cooking skills pleasantly took you by surprise, not expecting her to be much of a chef since she and Ward had a lot of money, but she made a mean baked mac’n cheese. 

‘’Are you sure?’’ you said when Rafe suggested you try the hot tub. 

You had never used a hot tub in the winter — with actual snow around. It sounded cold, but Rafe assured you the warm water would keep you warm…or else he would.

The sky was fully dark outside and snow was falling at a slow pace, creating a beautiful picture as you stepped out in your bra and underwear. When you packed for a trip to Aspen, you didn’t think you would need a bikini. Now you were regretting not bringing one. 

While the warm water sounded pleasant, you couldn’t help but think about how the chlorine of the hot tub will ruin your nice bra, so Rafe came up with a solution.

‘’Just take it off.’’ 

‘’I’m not gonna get naked in the hot tub,’’ you replied, shooting your boyfriend a glare as steam rose from the tub into the cool air. ‘’What if your family comes outside and wants to join?’’ 

‘’I’d rather they don’t. The sight of you in that bra and panties got me so hard,’’ Rafe said, his hand wandering up your thigh. 

You glanced down and through the bubbles of the underwater jets, catching the outline of his cock through his boxers, strained against the material. A light flush covered your cheeks, matching the color of your bra. 

‘’But if you’re that worried about anyone coming,’’ he continued, taking your hand and helping you step in. ‘’My dad strained his back when skiing so Rose is taking care of him. Sarah is probably trying to contact her boyfriend who was not invited on the trip, and as for Wheezie…I don’t know. She’s in her room, reading or watching a movie.’’

You sat on the edge and raised your gaze, eyeing the sliding doors. 

‘’No one is gonna come out here,’’ Rafe promised, reading your persistent worry. ‘’Except maybe a bear.’’

A new fear was unlocked. You turned to the other side and looked over the deck and into the dark forest. ‘’A bear?!’’ 

Rafe grinned, messing with you. ‘’I’m joking. There’s no bears here at this time of the year. They’re hibernating.’’ He hooked a finger underneath the delicate band of your panties, holding back from taking them off with his mouth. ‘’So…will it be with or without the panties?’’

Fuck it. 

You removed both items and let Rafe pull you in the water, the ripples from the jets causing sparks to tingle up your spine as they hit your bare cunt. It felt like using a nice shower head directly on your clit, but less strong. The pleasure was short-lived as Rafe settled you on his lap in a straddling way, a groan leaving his throat when your ass came in contact with his stiff cock. 

You bit back a giggle and loosely slid your arms around his neck. He was so beautiful.

‘’That wasn’t so difficult, wasn’t it?’’ Rafe asked, his hands sliding over your thighs and up your sides, making you feel a bit exposed. 

You rolled your eyes and rubbed your hands up and down his well-defined shoulders and chest, appreciating the time he had been spending with Topper and Kelce at the gym. They were always ruining your and Rafe’s plans, but those gym sessions gave him a body you wanted to bite into. 

You lowered your mouth to his, slowly kissing as the water moved around your bodies. The cold air had caused your nipples to peak, not yet submerged in the warm water. A shiver ran through you and, as if he had read your mind, Rafe’s hands moved to your breasts and began to toy with them. You sighed at the touch and ground your hips against his, relishing the feeling of his hard cock through his boxers as it rubbed against your clit just right. 

‘’I need you. Now,’’ you urged, breaking the kiss and reaching under the water to pull at Rafe's only piece of clothing, your earlier worries about someone catching you naked leaving your desire clouded mind.

Rafe nodded and pushed you off him, which left you confused. You opened your mouth to ask why he had pushed you off, but he motioned for you to turn around and grab the edge of the tub. A moan threatened to slip, realizing what he was doing. He was going to take you from behind. 

You heard the water swish as he moved behind you, and parted your legs so everything was exposed to his view. 

‘’That ass is so perfect,’’ Rafe groaned, giving it a hard smack, eliciting a pained squeak from you, before lining himself at your entrance, a mischievous smirk spreading on his face as he pushed the tip in — only the tip. ‘’Is that what you want, baby?’’ His tone was teasing, playing with you. ‘’No, that’s not enough, uh?’’ 

You whined, pushing back against him. ‘’Please, Rafe, don’t tease.’’ 

Giving in to your demand, he grabbed your hips and slowly pushed until he was all in, feeling your tight walls squeeze him. He moaned at the sensation, giving you a few seconds before starting to pull out until only his tip was inside you and slowly pushing himself into you again, doing this a few times. 

‘’Rafe,’’ you warned again, your core starting to ache, just wanting to be fucked senseless. 

Then, his thrusts were hard and fast as you gripped the edge of the hot tub, water splashing over the edge from the movements. You were holding back your cries, trying to be quiet, but the pleasure was too intense for you to remember. 

Rafe molded his front to your back as he kept pounding into you, kissing your shoulder as his hand was coming around your neck. ‘’You like this, baby? You like when I fuck your tight and pretty pussy?’’

You moaned louder, forgetting about the other Camerons inside the house. 

The next morning was going to be very awkward.

—

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[slaybestieslay946]

Hey! I love ur blog and I saw ur accepting requests for luke castellan, (I’ve never requested a fic before so I’m sorry if I’m doing this wrong lol)

Could I have a fic where reader comes to camp in the middle of the night after getting attacked by monster(doesn’t matter which monster) but after they’re in camp and moved into the Hermes cabin they’re distant and angry because theyre pissed off at the world and the gods. Luke being luke though doesn’t give up on trying to make the reader feel at home and tries his hardest to get them out of their shell. UNTIL reader gets claimed by Zeus and gets moved to the lonely Cabin 1 and can’t sleep so they go back to Hermes cabin and Luke lets them sleep in his bunk w him and fluffy ending of such

Damn that was a lot it’s totally ok if u don’t want to do this!

Thank you!!!

I really love this idea, and I'm so glad you love my blog! Hope you enjoy!

Mystery Girl

MASTERLIST

word count: 2700

pairing: luke castellan x zeus!reader

warnings: minor depictions of violence, readers kind of a bitch but like not really.

a/n: reader is so unbothered i kinda aspire to be her

Late at night, you stumbled through the camp's threshold, leaning on Aspen, your protector. He was equally leaning into you, and you couldn’t tell whose blood it was soaking threw your shirt, yours, or his. 

You could see a few buildings at the bottom of the hill, and a few of them had lights on. 

“Help, please!” You shouted, weakly raising your arm to catch some sort of attention. 

Aspen did the same, his exclamations a mix of real words and pained bleats. 

Eventually, people began emerging from the buildings, rubbing their eyes in exhaustion, trying to work out what was going on. You and Aspen continued to shout for help, shuffling slowly down the hill, praying that you wouldn’t bleed out before you reached the bottom. 

Finally, someone seemed to realise you were in trouble, and a boy about your age began jogging up the hill towards you. His face was mostly calm, and he opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, halting when he saw the blood on your clothes and the used spear in your hand. 

You instinctively let go of Aspen, and rushed forward to seek help.

“Please, help me.” You pleaded desperately, losing your balance and stumbling forwards towards him. 

“Alright, alright.” He said, catching you by the arm and holding you steady, before shouting down at the campers below, “These two need to get to the infirmary! Someone wake the Apollo cabin, yeah?!”

He then turned back to you, holding you steady by the arms and trying to assess the damage. 

“It’s alright, yeah? You’re safe now, we just gotta get these cuts checked out, hm?”

You tried to nod, but found you couldn’t move your head, or your body. You tried to speak, tried to tell him that Aspen needed help too, but your mouth couldn’t move either. 

And then your vision went black. 

*

When you woke up, you thought you were in heaven. It smelt nice, homely. Not that you really knew that home was supposed to smell like. 

It was warm too, and you felt yourself sighing contentedly. If this really was heaven, then you didn’t mind being there all that much. 

After a while, you decided it was time to open your eyes, maybe go and explore the afterlife. 

But when you tried to sit up, you felt a sharp jolt of pain that snapped you back to reality. You let out a small hiss in discomfort, lowering yourself back into the bed. 

Slowly, the memories began to come back to you, leaving school, Aspen forcing you onto a road trip, nearly getting killed by a monster, and finally passing out on the hill of a ‘camp’. 

Heaven sounded preferable. 

You took in the room. It seemed like any old house, a dresser in the corner along with a wardrobe and old floral wallpaper that even covered the ceiling. Until you noticed another bed beside yours, with Aspen asleep on it, and one beside his. 

You remembered the words of that boy who’d run to you, and you figured this must be the infirmary. 

“Hey, Aspen.” You whispered, turning your head to the side and trying to ignore the sting of your injuries.

“Aspen!” You called again, raising your voice, but still he didn’t hear you. He must still be asleep. Lucky bastard. 

You huffed, sinking fully back into the pillows and waiting for someone to arrive. Thankfully, it didn’t take long, and soon enough a young boy was coming in, holding several canisters of liquid. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” He grinned, “How’s the pain?”

“Bad.” You replied, groaning at the thought. 

He chuckled, “Not surprising. You got some nasty scratches from that monster. Here, drink some of this, it’ll fix you up.” 

He offered one of the canisters to you, and you took it, regarding it with a certain amount of suspicion. 

“What’s this?”

“Nectar. It’ll help, trust me.” 

You relented, deciding that it was worth the risk if it would get rid of some of the throbbing in your back. 

And he was right, almost immediately, you felt soothed, and as you drank more, you began to feel energised, like you could conquer the world. 

“What did you say this was? Nectar?” 

“Yep. Food of the gods.” 

“Where’d you get this stuff?” 

“Oh, we get shipments from Olympus every month. You won’t find that at your local grocery store.”

“Woah, woah, woah.” You held up your hands to stop him for a minute, “What do you mean Olympus?” 

The boy's eyes widened, and some kind of realisation struck him. 

“I don’t think I should be the one to break this to you.” 

*

Just a few hours later, everything had been explained to you, and you were kicked out of the so-called ‘Big House’. Nice of them to do that, considering a centaur had just dropped the bombshell that you were the child of an ancient Greek god. 

To be fair though, you probably should have clocked that something was up when you were being chased by a mythical beast, but then again, you did have your hands full. 

Now, you were sitting on the front steps of the porch, waiting for some kid to show you round the camp. 

“Hey, mystery girl! Good to see you’re feeling better.” A voice called out, and you looked up to see the very same boy who had come to your aide on the hill. 

“Oh, hi. Yeah, I’m all good.”

“Cool. Nice to meet you, by the way. I’m Luke.”

“Y/N.” 

“Right, so, I’ll start the tour.” He declared, flashing you another bright grin which you feebly returned. 

He started the tour off at the dining pavilion, then showed you the amphitheatre, then the strawberry fields, the archery range and the lake. 

Finally, he introduced you to each of the cabins, skipping over the empty cabins 1, 2 and 3. 

“And this,” He gestured to the eleventh cabin, “Will be where you’re staying.”

“Woah.” You said, stepping back, “What do you mean staying? I can’t stay here.” 

He looked at you blankly, “You don’t really have much of a choice, mystery girl.”

“Yeah, I do. I can leave whenever I want, you can’t do anything about it.” 

“You wanna get killed by a monster? Because if I remember right, you came awfully close a few days ago. That’s why you can’t leave.” 

“Well I guess I’ll just have to take that chance. Appreciate the tour and everything, but I’m going.” You then turned on your heel and began to walk away. 

There was no chance in hell you were staying in this camp, and if it had to be over your dead body, then so be it. 

However, your desertion was halted by Luke grabbing you by the hand and pulling you back. 

“I’m not kidding, Y/N. You’ll die as soon as you step past that barrier. Just,” He sighed, seemingly exasperated, “Stay for one night. It’s not that bad here once you get used to it.” 

You glared up at him, weighing your options. He seemed pretty serious about this. 

“And you can’t leave Aspen when he’s still in critical condition?”

That broke your resolve.

“Fine. I’ll stay until Aspen wakes up. Show me my bunk.” 

He grinned, and turned back to Cabin 11, showing you inside. 

*

Turns out, Aspen waking up wouldn’t be such a close deadline as you thought. As it turned out, he’d been hit by some kind of poisonous claw from the monster, and had been put into some kind of coma. 

So now, as prior to your agreement with Luke, you were stuck here until he woke up. Which could be next week, or next year for all you knew. 

And yeah, you felt bad for the guy ‘cause he was in a coma, but it was seriously messing up your plans of leaving camp. 

Because you hated camp. 

The Hermes cabin stunk, and it was constantly noisy. Probably because there were so many people in there all the damn time. 

You also sucked at most of the stuff around camp. 

You weren’t exactly nurturing, so it was a no to the infirmary and the strawberry fields. You were an awful shot, and when you had a go in the forges you dropped a mallet on your foot. You were still recovering from that one. 

It seemed the only thing you were even slightly good at was fighting, mainly with the staff Aspen had lent you during the fight with the monster outside camp. Still, you weren’t great, unlike Luke who had insisted on taking you under his wing. 

He sat with you at every dinner and breakfast, and always seemed to be there when you turned a corner, or found a moment of peace. 

Yes, it was very kind of him to try and settle you in, but it was pretty futile, considering all you had wanted to do ever since you woke up was leave, consequences be damned. 

The one saving grace to your boredom was capture the flag. Luke had told you about it on your first day, and it was a game you remembered playing as a kid, and really enjoying. Apparently they ran a game every month, and this coming Sunday would be your first time playing.

The day of the game arrived, and for the first time in your two weeks at camp, you were in a decently good mood, and of course, Luke took notice of this. 

“What’s got you so happy, mystery girl?”

“Nothing. Besides, why do you keep calling me that, you know my name now, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but you're just so private and mysterious. I’m surprised you even told me your name.”

“I wish I didn’t, Castellan, maybe you wouldn’t be here to bug me all the time.” 

“Ouch, don’t be like that. You know I’m great company really.” 

You didn’t reply to that, instead rolling your eyes at him and returning to the task of tightening your armour, struggling a bit with the straps. 

Luke quickly came to your aid, much to your chagrin, helping you adjust the breastplate so it fit properly. 

“Thanks.” You sighed reluctantly, quickly stepping away from him to grab your spear. 

“No problem.” 

*

Soon, the game was well underway, and you quickly realised that you had been given possibly the most boring job, that being guarding the perimeter. Not that you could really blame your team leaders, you were the newest member and logically the most inexperienced. But still, you’d been hoping for something a little more exciting. 

Every now and then you heard the odd shout further on in the woods and raised your spear, but you never actually caught sight of anyone from the opposing team. Or your team for that matter. 

You really had been given the short straw. 

After another hour of standing there, you were about ready to quit all of this completely, throw off your armour and escape camp, agreement with Luke be damned, that was until you heard hurried footsteps, and someone panting heavily coming from behind you. 

You quickly whipped around, to see a girl from the Ares cabin, holding your flag, standing about 50 feet away. 

Then you heard another step of footsteps, and there was Luke, around the same distance away, holding the opposing team's flag. 

You really didn’t want to be caught in the middle of something this exciting. 

They both began to run towards the threshold at top speed, and you stayed standing between them, unsure of what to do. Should you step back and let Luke do his thing, or should you step in to stop the girl. She looked pretty terrifying. 

You whipped your head side to side, continuing to debate, and in the midst of your dilemma, you realised the girl was much closer to you than Luke was. Fuck. 

You had to stop her somehow, but you obviously could just slash blindly at her, you didn’t want to behead her. 

And then, suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree, falling directly in her path, and she leapt back to avoid it, stumbling and also falling to the floor. 

Luke kept running, swerving around the fallen tree and onto your team's territory, cheering as the red flag shimmered and turned blue, and the conch sounded. 

You quickly ran over to the girl, clambering over the tree in an effort to help her up. 

She looked up at you in shock and confusion, but her eyes seemed to be focused on the space just about your head. 

“What’s wrong?” 

She pointed above you, “He claimed you.” She stuttered out. 

You looked to where she was pointing, and saw a lightning bolt shining above your head. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” 

*

Of course you had to be Zeus’ kid. Just your luck, a forbidden child, with some stupid prophetic destiny. 

If you ever met your father, you’d be sure to give him an earful about his part in your conception. 

Almost immediately after capture the flag, you were announced to the camp by Chiron, and then promptly herded into the empty cabin 1. 

And you never thought you’d say it, but you missed cabin 11. Sure, it was a mess, and the kids in there didn’t know how to shut up, but at least it had some semblance of life, unlike your new home. It was barren, and empty, and you hated it. 

It was even worse now that you had your own permanent bed. Before you’d had at least a pipedream of leaving camp and going off on your own again, but now that was entirely gone. Chiron would never let you out of his sight ever again, not now that you were a child of the ‘Big Three’. You were so screwed. 

You tossed and turned for hours in bed, unable to sleep in the unfamiliar environment, and, strangely, uncomfortable with the crushing loneliness you felt. 

You’d never felt lonely before. Your whole life, you’d been pretty much alone, but that was by choice. This time it was by force, and you felt isolated from everyone else at camp. Suddenly you regretted your refusal to make friends. 

So, your feet naturally carried you to the only person you could kind of call a friend, and you weren’t surprised when you landed outside Luke Castellan’s window. 

You gave it a light tap, and he opened his eyes, giving you a sad smile as he saw your face through the window. It looked like he hadn’t slept at all either. 

“Can I come in?” You mouthed through the window, and he quickly nodded, reaching up to open it and let you in. 

“Thanks,” You whispered, stepping down onto the hardwood floor. 

“No problem. Having trouble sleeping?” He asked, patting the spot beside him. You gladly sat down.

“Uh, yeah. It’s really empty there.” 

“Hm, sure is. You sure you didn’t just miss me too much?”

“Maybe I did Castellan.” You declared, shrugging your shoulders as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to say.

 “I’m sorry though, Luke. I’ve been kind of an asshole ever since I got here.” You said, looking down at your muddy shoes. 

“Hey, I get it. It’s an adjustment, that’s for sure. I’ve dealt with worse from newcomers.” 

“Thanks. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, even if it doesn’t seem like it.” 

“Anytime.” 

You both fell silent for a moment, listening to the snores of the kids around you before he piped up again. 

“Hey, I don’t mind you staying here tonight if you want?” He said, his voice slightly awkward. You paid it no mind.

“I’d like that.” 

He moved to the other side of the bed as you removed your shoes, rolling onto the bed beside him. 

You were both silent again for a while, until Luke’s voice yet again came from beside you. 

“I’m gonna have to come up with a new name for you now, huh?”

“What, I’m not mysterious anymore?” You asked, feigning offence. 

“Not now that we’re best buddies. I’m thinking… Sparky!” 

“That is god awful.” 

“Exactly.” 

You snickered under your breath at his idiotic sense of humour, and allowed yourself to sink into the bed beside him. 

And for the first time, you didn’t want to leave.

[freedomfireflies]

The Angel and the Fae

Summary: The one where Harry is an angel that falls in love with a garden fairy.

And even the heavens can't keep you apart.

Word Count: 3.2k

Harry thinks you’re the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.

He decides this the moment he sees you. Resolves instantaneously upon a fleeting glance that you – with your long hair that flows beneath the crown of white lilies atop your head – will be the reason he falls from heaven.

He watches you from the edge of Aspen Hollow. Never once stepping foot past the sacred edge that surrounds the ethereal garden where you preside. Not even a feather from his wings is permitted to dance into such holy ground.

A fawn has crawled its way into your lap. Entrusting you with its care and safety as its eyes fall shut and it blissfully settles into your delicate and soothing embrace. 

You’re speaking to it. Softly. Comfortingly. Trailing your finger from its nose down to its spine.

“There, little one,” you’re cooing. Hushed yet reverent. “Sleep now.”

Harry considers himself lucky to be able to hear the way your heart beats beneath your chest. Steady. Rhythmic. Calm. You’re happy. Content and filled with tranquility.

He detects the exact moment you sense him. Catches the hitch in your breath and the jump of your pulse.

He readies himself to explain – to assuage you. He expects your fear, your resentment. Expects you to cast him out. Forbid him from returning.

Instead, you seem…curious. Hesitant but inquisitive, and when your head turns, his lungs just about cave in.

And in that moment, when your eyes find his, his purpose changes. His entire reason for existence is plucked from one instrument and played on another. A tune so beautiful, so melodious…it makes his heart sing. 

You’re watching him much like he was watching you. But you don’t move from your spot on the grass, instead keeping the fawn safely tucked away in your lap.

You blink, and Harry swears he can feel the flutter of it against his cheek. 

“Hello,” you call quietly, your gentle voice carrying across the few hundred yards from where you reside.

You must know he’ll be able to hear you, and Harry straightens up dutifully, his wings following suit. Expanding some as if to display a sense of chivalry. 

“Hello,” he calls back, equally as soft.

You seem to study him for a moment, and Harry swears this is the longest he’s ever gone without breathing. 

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” you tell him, and he nods once.

“I know,” he admits. “I suppose I just…found it hard to tear myself away.”

You glance down at the sleeping doe on your lap, and he feels his insides twist now that your eyes aren’t on him.

“I apologize if I’ve disturbed you,” he adds, hoping to encourage your attention back.

You hum faintly and brush your palm down the baby deer’s back. “You have not.”

This makes Harry’s mouth curl up into a giddy smile. “Then would you mind if I stay? Only for a moment? I feel quite at peace here.”

You regard him carefully. Inquiringly. “I would imagine an angel is quite often at peace.”

He considers this. “Peace is a privilege,” he finally replies gently. “And it is one that is often lost on me.”

This seems to surprise you, your lips parting delicately as Harry’s pulse begins to thump in his ears. “Then you may stay as long as you’d like.”

His grin doubles in size as he nods his appreciation. “Thank you.”

However, when he remains planted near the tall oak tree that sits beside the edge of the garden, you glance back over.

“Angel,” you call, and Harry’s entire chest caves in. “You’ll disturb me more if you hover like that.” 

He hesitates, looking over the soft but hallowed grass only inches away. “Angels aren’t allowed inside The Garden.”

“Not unless invited,” you correct, and he straightens up. “And I am inviting you in.”

Still, Harry can’t make his feet move, despite the way his wings are desperate to carry him to you. Centuries worth of warnings and guidelines are attempting to remind him of his place, of his duty and his loyalty to the heavens. But that does nothing to dampen his urge to go forth and take.

“Angel,” you repeat with a glimmer in your eye. “Come.”

And that’s all it takes for his foot to instantly cross over into sacred ground.

The moment his wings pass through the invisible barrier, a forceful wind ripples across the garden. Echoing between the trees and the grass as the billowing of air sweeps from flower to flower. All the way to the other side.

You feel your eyes widen as you watch him approach. He’s hesitant but intrigued. And perhaps you know better than to invite him in, but your heart aches to provide the handsome figure a moment of serenity.

He studies every petal and vine as he walks through, wonderstruck by the enchanted orchard. He smiles brightly when a blue jay swoops down beside him, the small bird fluttering around his head a time or two before disappearing back into the branches. 

And the angel laughs. A sound that resembles the moment a wave breaks against the shore. Loud and lively before it settles and softens.

“This is beautiful,” he says, and you nod.

“It represents serenity. A moment of calm before the next stage of life.”

You both look to the small creature in your lap, and the angel’s expression changes. “Are you saying hello…or goodbye?”

You smile gently, trailing your fingers down the sleeping fawn’s spine. “We are saying hello.”

Those clear, green eyes seem to sparkle at you as he grins. “Hello,” he repeats.

You nod again. “She’ll be sent down soon. The moment the sunlight disappears behind the mountains.”

The angel is intrigued, crouching down a few feet away as he studies the way you trail your palm over the soft coat. “Is it hard to let them go?”

“No,” you answer easily, smiling some. “They are meant to live. To flourish. To exist outside of this realm and give back to the earth what it has given to them.”

The garden falls quiet. You feel him watching you while you watch the creature in your lap. He seems to be wrestling against another question and you chuckle to yourself as the fawn awakes.

“Off you go,” you whisper quietly, helping the wobbling baby doe from your lap before it’s bounding toward the grass and disappearing out of sight.

Left alone with the quiet angel, you both stand and turn to each other. Now provided with a better glimpse of his large frame and sizable wings.

He straightens up under your inquisitive stare, feathers fluttering as the wind passes between you. “I appreciate you allowing me in,” he says tentatively. “I don’t mean to break your rules.”

“They are not my rules,” you correct, waving his apology away. “I believe that anyone who needs a moment of stillness should be given one.”

This seems to charm him. “And I believe you are the first and only fairy to think so.”

You grin. “Perhaps. But I’ve never understood the divide between angels and fairies. Both are providers of comfort and refuge. It seems silly to be at odds with each other.”

He hums, and you wonder if you’ve offended him. “I agree,” he says, and you feel your muscles unwind. “But the heavens have a different belief.”

“They believe that just because fairies were created by a different hand, we are not to be trusted," you snort beneath a quiet breath. "That we are all tricksters and supernatural entities unworthy of eternal salvation.”

“Are you?” His tone is playful, and you feel your smile return tenfold.

“I am a garden fairy,” you reply. “I tend to the trees and the animals. I don’t have time for tricks.”

His look of amusement seems to mirror your own.

“And you?” you ask next, gesturing toward him. “An angel without peace is like a heart without rhythm. Why do you come here when you know better?”

He takes a moment to consider his answer. “Truthfully, I don’t know,” he finally responds. “There was a pulling. On my soul. My wings. They led me here and I wasn’t quite sure why.”

“Well, have you found the peace you were looking for?”

His eyes meet yours. “I have.”

Another unspoken moment dances between you as your attention drifts toward the very plumage he displays so proudly. 

You’ve seen angel wings before but never this close. Never when they were near enough to touch. Truth be told, you weren’t sure you’d ever get the chance, and you imagine the quiet angel can hear your heart racing.

But he’s smiling at the way you stare. Seemingly amused by your fascination and wide eyes as you watch the cream-colored feathers flutter against the wind.

“They’re…beautiful,” you admit softly, attention following the curves and dips of each row expanding from his back. “Are they heavy?”

“Not normally, no,” he tells you. “Only in times of great sorrow.”

Confused, you raise a curious brow.

His grin grows. “Each feather symbolizes that of someone I’ve watched over. And when they move on, a piece of their soul stays with me. It lives and it breathes, and it is.”

He steps closer and you feel your breath catch, awestruck by the way the large pennons begin to curl around his frame.

“When their soul is happy, the wings feel weightless,” he continues, a far-off look in his expression. “And when they’re sad, when they cry…my wings cry for them.”

There’s a pleasant sort of ache in your chest. “You’re a guardian angel.”

“I am.” His arm outstretches for you, palm to the sky as he silently requests your hand. “Here.”

Hesitantly but with great keenness, you oblige his instruction, sliding your fingers along his skin.

The moment the contact is made, you both seem to jolt. Magnetized by the feel of his flesh against your own. A stark contrast that’s somehow hauntingly familiar. Soothing in a sense. Destined.

He brings you closer, guiding the tips of your fingers to his wings. Ghosting them across the soft feathers as you suck in a quiet breath and feel the entire weight of the world on his back.

He holds you for only a moment before allowing you to travel the expanse of his wingspan on your own. Delicate strokes along the rows of quills that seem to bask in your touch.

“How do they feel?” he asks quietly, almost as if not to startle you.

Your lips roll into your mouth as you search for the right words. Or any word that could even begin to come close to describing such an ethereal sensation.

“Magical,” you finally say, and he smiles.

“Certainly no more magical than a fairy.”

Smirking to yourself, you lower toward the grass, and extend your hand. Your fingers dance above the blades momentarily before you make a quick snap of your wrist.

Instantly, a flower springs forth from the dirt. Sprouting up out of the soil in full bloom as the angel’s eyes widen.

You pluck it from its roots and straighten back up before offering him the small, dainty lily stem. He steps forward, allowing you to guide the flower behind his ear and tuck it between soft, chestnut curls.

“How do I look?” he asks.

You laugh. “Magical.”

He holds your giddy stare for a second longer before he murmurs, “You’re quite beautiful.”

A bit stunned, you smile, and wave the compliment away. “You must be standing too close.”

With a cheeky hum, the angel suddenly steps back, his wings now fluttering about the air until his feet lift from the ground.

Then, his feathers carry him a few hundred yards away before he lowers back down, studies you, and calls, “Nope. Still beautiful.”

Despite yourself, you laugh again. “You’re quite forward for an angel.”

“And you’re quite timid for a fae,” he retorts, returning to you as a rustle of wind sweeps through your hair. “I was expecting a bit more fearlessness.”

“I’m only fearless when I choose to be,” you tell him. “But I just met you. Why should I share all my secrets when I don’t even know your name?”

The handsome angel considers this before nodding and stepping up to you. “Harry,” he says quietly, as if the answer is reserved only for you. “They call me Harry.”

A stunning name for a stunning man, and you feel your pulse jump while it makes a home in your mind. “Harry,” you repeat, making him grin. “That’s quite pretty.”

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “And what do they call you?”

You lift one shoulder in a gentle shrug. “I suppose I don’t really have a name. Or at least I don’t have anybody to use it if I do.”

His eyes soften while he glances over the crown of delicate white flowers woven between the locks of your hair. “Then I will call you my Lily,” he decides, and there’s a new sort of blossoming in your chest. “If I may.”

You struggle against such merriment. “You may.”

“Good.” He seems equally as enchanted, and for the first time in almost a hundred years, you feel mesmerized by an angel. Then, his chin motions just behind you. “The sun is beginning to set.”

Turning, you find that it is, and your heart soars as you eagerly reach over and take his hand to drag him toward the middle of the garden.

It’s an action made without much forethought, the need to feel his skin against yours almost like instinct now.

For a moment, you both hesitate. Unsure of the presumptuous act until Harry squeezes your palm, and silently encourages you to lead him where you’d like to go.

You take him toward the middle of the meadow, just beside the calm stream of water.

There, you find the baby fawn. Standing curiously on the other side, waiting to bid you goodbye.

You and the angel come to a stop on the edge of the grass just as the sun is filtering between the trees. Casting a golden hue across the orchard and setting the secluded hollow aglow. 

And just as the stars are beginning to take their place in the sky, the sweet doe meets your eye, and lifts its head.

You smile. “Goodbye, little one.”

Its left ear flicks before it turns on its heel, and leaps over the hill. Disappearing from sight as it’s carried into another realm.

Leaving The Garden behind.

Harry seems to hold his breath from beside you as he looks down. “And will it be okay?”

You lace your fingers with his and nod. “It will.”

Silence settles between the trees, between your hearts. It’s comfortable and it’s still and the faint sound of rustling leaves calms your racing pulse.

You look over and allow your attention to trail across his face. Taking note of each line, each edge, each crinkle. The shape of his lips, the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw. The dimples in his cheeks and the dark hairs of his eyebrows.

He’s quite handsome. Alluring, in a sense, yet oddly safe. You imagine this was by design. To help those he protects, and comforts feel more at ease in his presence. 

And while you’re looking at him, you notice he’s looking at you, too. Just as intently, with nothing but admiration. He studies the faint, golden sparkles that litter your skin. The way they glimmer beneath each drop of moonlight, a common feature amongst fairies.

You imagine this isn’t the first time he’s seen a fae’s enchanted flesh. But he indulges in the sight of you, nonetheless. Indulges in your magic.

Then, he steps forward, and you feel the air shift.

“May I confess something?” he whispers, and you sense his slight hesitation.

“Of course.”

With a deep inhale, he tentatively reaches out his hand and ghosts the tips of his fingers along your cheek. “…I feel an overwhelming urge to kiss you.”

Your lashes flutter while the insides of your stomach twist and turn into impervious knots. “Oh?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Mhm. And I know that breaks…every rule in existence.”

“And then some,” you breathe, struggling against the desire to push yourself into his palm. 

You wonder if this is part of the ruse. If perhaps you feel so enamored by him because that’s what a guardian angel does. It encourages you to feel more susceptible. Maybe this pull to him is nothing more than magic.

Still, it pulls you, nonetheless. 

“I want to kiss you, Lily,” he murmurs, moving closer until the front of his chest just brushes against your own. “And I’m afraid I don’t quite know what to do now.”

And you know the admonitions. Know the rules, the history between angels and fairies. You know that his very presence in this garden is inviting trouble into paradise, and yet…you have no yearning to tell him to go. 

Because you don’t want him to go. You don’t want him to take his hand from your cheek. You don’t want him to leave this sacred orchard at all, and even though every fiber of your being, every nerve-ending, and every cell in your body is desperately attempting to warn you…you push into his touch, anyway.

“I think…you should kiss me,” you finally say, grasping onto his wrist.

This answer surprises you both. Neither one of you understand it or have the knowledge to comprehend the repercussions. 

All you know is right here, right now. His hand on your face, his lips much too close, and his aura. His effortless ability to make you feel like you’ve just come home.

His thumb follows the outline of your cheekbone. “Are you sure?”

You squeeze his arm a bit tighter and nod once. “I don’t see why not. What’s the worst that could happen?”

He grins – a wide, toothy grin – and you decide that it might be the most beautiful thing in this whole garden. “What a fearless way of looking at it.”

With that, he kisses you. Presses his lips to yours and takes each strained breath from your lungs.

It’s hesitant and it’s unsure and it’s perfect. A moment in time meant just for the two of you, here beneath the large willow tree and the pale light of the moon.

Eventually, he pulls back, but he keeps himself close. His mouth moving to your cheek while your eyes fall shut.

And you drink him in. His scent, his skin. Memorizing each inch of the angel in your arms as you ask yourself what you did to deserve such wonder.

“I’m afraid I have to go,” he says. But it’s heavy, the way he speaks. “If I don’t return soon, they’ll come looking.”

You nod your understanding and swallow the lump in your throat. “Go,” you whisper. “You have souls to protect.”

This makes him chuckle before a wounded look of remorse settles on his expression, the palm of his hand slipping around the back of your neck.

He dips down to rest his forehead against yours, almost as though looking for balance. Stability amidst a sea of uncertainty, and you’re more than happy to offer it to him.

“My Lily,” he exhales, and the sound of your name on his tongue sends a shiver down your spine. “I am so glad my wings brought me to you.”

Smiling, you nuzzle the tip of your nose against his.

“May they bring you back again.”

The next parts will be all the angst and turmoil and fluff and smut, I swear, I just had to do the background first HAHAHA WE ARE THROWING ALL THE TROPES INTO ONE POT AND COOKIN' BABY!

Amazing credit for the beautiful dividers to @firefly-graphics 💞

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince

[gummydummy19]

A White Christmas

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Male Reader

Summary: You and your boyfriend Steve have the tower to yourself this Christmas :))

Content Warnings: Smut (handjob, use of toys, cum eating, anal, top M reader, bottom Steve Rogers, slight degradation, daddy kink...), fluff, horrible Christmas puns :))

A/N: @sozombiearcade thank you so much for this lovely Christmas request and for being so patient with me <3, I hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas everyone!!xxx

Word Count: 1860+

The streets of New York were packed. People desperately scattered around trying to find a last-minute Christmas present. It was absolutely freezing, or at least that's what it looked like. You were nice and warm up in Stark Tower, with a book on your lap.

You smiled to yourself as you glanced over to the big, beautiful Christmas tree, the neatly wrapped present you bought your boyfriend immediately catching your eye.

The Tower is quiet, aside from your Christmas playlist you have on repeat. Thor and Loki went back to Asgard, Nat and Bruce went over to Clint and his family during the Holidays, Sam invited Bucky to join him and his sister for Christmas dinner and Tony took Pepper skiing in Aspen. Leaving you and your boyfriend Steve alone in the Tower, which you had decorated excessively.

The smell of gingerbread slowly invades your senses and you hear Steve hum along with "Jingle Bells" from the kitchen. Sadly, his happy humming stops and gets replaced by an upset whine and a naughty word or two.

'Language!', you yell with a grin, but when you don't hear a reply, you decide to put your book aside and make your way to the kitchen.

'Stevie, everything okay?' you ask as you stick your head through the doorframe. Steve is looking down at his tray of freshly baked cookies with a defeated look.

"What's wrong, honey? They look great!" you ask as you walk closer.

"I forgot to buy icing." The look on his face breaks your heart, but admittedly the little pout on his face is quite adorable. Truth be told, he has been looking insanely good all day.

Steve is not only an attractive man, he also cares a lot about hygiene. Back in the 40s he didn't have all the luxuries he has today, and when he goes on missions he sometimes can't shower or shave for weeks. So when he's home, he showers and shaves every single morning after his run. He hates body hair, so he was always perfectly sleek...everywhere.

"Oh Stevie, that's okay...they still look good without the icing," you reassure him, looking down at the gingerbread men.

"They look naked." he points out with a frown on his face.

You grin, pulling Steve closer and pressing a sweet kiss on his neck. "I do love my men naked..." you mumble as you nibble on his ear, hoping to cheer him up a little.

Unfortunately, the defeated look on Steve's face didn't go away that easily. "Aw, Stevie..." you cooed, wrapping your arms around him, "you know I hate to see you sad," your lips found his neck again while your arms squeezed him tighter to your chest.

Steve's breath hitched when you found his sweet spot, nibbling on it while your hands gently grabbed his hips, pulling his ass flush against your hardening cock. His hands grabbed the counter for balance as he whined, feeling your bulge grind against his ass.

"I'm sure we can figure something out...let me turn that frown upside down, baby, hmm?"

"Yes, daddy", Steve moaned obediently.

"Wanna touch daddy's cock? Hmm? Would that make you happy? Wanna jerk me off, baby?", you teased.

"Yes, daddy..." he whined.

"Ask daddy nicely, baby,"

"Please, daddy, please," he bucked his hips forward.

"Please, what?" you taunted.

"Please can I touch you, daddy, can I jerk you off, please..." he begged.

"Good boy...of course baby, c'mere," you packed up a little, allowing Steve to turn around. He immediately dropped to his knees and pulled down your sweats, noticing that you were already rock-hard.

"What a slutty boy..." you groaned, spitting in your hand before reaching down to stroke your hard cock.

You groaned at the feeling, letting your eyes fall shut for a second until you heard Steve whine impatiently.

You looked down at him, "Touch daddy's cock, Stevie", you commanded and he immediately did as he was told, squeezing your dick tightly as he stroked it up and down before twisting his first over your tip.

As you felt yourself creep closer to the edge, the tray of cookies caught your eye. You reached over, pulling it closer while Steve sped up his movements around your throbbing cock.

"That's it, baby...be a good boy and make daddy cum."

It only took a couple more strokes until you fell over the edge with a loud groan. Your body shook a little as you tried your best to aim for the platter, covering the gingerbread men with your sticky, white cum.

"Fuck, Steve...", you couldn't help but groan, "good fucking boy..."

You pulled him up against you, fumbling to pull your sweatpants up in the meantime. You let him drop his head on your shoulder as you did the same. Your mouth found the pulse point on his neck, feeling his rapid heartbeat against your lips.

You looked at the counter, observing the wonderful mess you had made. "Look at that, Stevie...your gingerbread men aren't so naked anymore", you grinned, picking up one of the cookies that was covered in cum and bringing it to his mouth. He took a large bite, savoring your familiar taste.

"Delicious...", he hummed, looking at you in adoration. You couldn't help but pull him in for a passionate kiss, tasting the sweetness of his cookies and the saltiness of your...icing.

"I think you deserve to open one of your Christmas presents early, what do you think?"

"Yeah?", he blushed and you nodded, taking his hand and pulling him to the living room.

"Say, Stevie, have you been naughty or nice this year?" you smirked and you pushed your boyfriend back on the couch.

"Is that a trick question?" he grinned, making you smile.

"Hmm," you couldn't help but kiss him again before getting up and grabbing a neatly wrapped box from under the tree.

"Naughty and/or nice, you've definitely been my good boy this year", you praised.

Steve gently ripped open the packaging, his cheeks tinting red again as he saw what you had gifted him. It was a navy blue, vibrating stroker.

"Do you like it?", you asked, grinning when Steve nodded franticly.

"Wanna try it?", you asked, trying to contain the twinkle in your eyes.

He nodded again, this time a bit more shy.

"You want uh...do you wanna...or...you want me to...uhm...", he stuttered, making you chuckle before leaning in closer.

"I wanna use it on you, Stevie, if that's okay?"

"Y-yeah, yes, absolutely."

His enthusiasm alone made your cock stir again.

"That's my good boy," you mumbled against his lips, "take off your pants and play with yourself while I go get the lube,"

Steve's pants hit the floor before you even made it out of the living room. When you got back, merely a couple seconds later, you found him panting on the couch with his cock in his hand.

"Merry Christmas indeed," you stated, dropping down next to him. Your hand quickly took over from his, pumping him a couple times until he was a moaning mess.

"Turn around", you commanded and he obeyed immediately, giving you a clear view of his shaven asshole.

"Fuck, you know, I hate it when they call this America's ass. This is my ass, all mine," you grumbled, giving his cheek a good squeeze followed by a light smack.

"Ah...yes, daddy, all yours, please touch me, daddy", he pleaded.

"Yeah? Want me to touch you? Want daddy to fill your stocking, hm?"

Steve couldn't help but giggle a little at your awful pun, earning him another spank.

"Shut up," you chuckled, before reaching to grab the lube and applying a good amount on his bare hole and your fingers.

Steve moaned loudly as you slid a finger inside, prepping him for your hardening cock. You slowly worked him open, adding another finger while your other hand gently traced his skin.

"Ready for my cock, Stevie?" you questioned after a couple minutes, noticing he was getting harder and more desperate.

"Yes, please...please"

You used some more lube to cover your cock, stroking it a few times before pressing it to Steve's hole. Slowly but steadily you slid inside him. Both of you let out a string of whines and groans, your hands holding onto his hips as you fucked him slowly from behind.

You gave him some time to adjust before you grabbed the toy, adding a little bit of lube to that as well.

"C'mere, Stevie, lean up a bit...like this", you gently grabbed his shoulder, making him lean his back against your chest so you had easier access to his smoothly-shaven cock. The toy slid over him with ease.

"Oh shit, daddy!" he moaned when you turned up the vibrations, stroking the toy while starting to fuck into him again.

"Fuck, baby, doing so good, my good boy", you praised as you picked up the pace, positively destroying his asshole.

Your free hand roamed over his strong, hairless chest, pinching his nipple in the process.

"Ah, f-fuck..." he stuttered, his head lulling back against your shoulder.

you chuckled, "You like it when I play with your nipples, hmm? Such a desperate little slut...look at you, I've only just started and your cock is already leaking", you taunted, feeling the sticky drops land on your fingers.

"Please, daddy...fuck, that feels so good..."

That was your cue to turn up the vibrations, making Steve keen in pleasure. His hands for your arms, trying to keep himself grounded.

You angled your hips up a little, hitting his spot perfectly.

"Fuuucckk, daddy, right there! Please please please can I cum? Can I cum please m'so close...", he begged, tears welling in his eyes.

"Cum for me you fucking slut, cum for me while I fuck your ass."

And he did. Hard.

Steve's cum shot out of his dick in thick ropes, covering his own stomach and chest.

You fucked him roughly through his high, before discarding the toy and pulling out of him.

"Turn around!" you roared, as you jerked yourself off at a fast pace, ready to tumble over the edge.

Steve clumsily dropped to his knees, just in time to catch the hot spurts of cum all over his face.

You yelled out his name, screwing your eyes shut as pleasure consumed you.

"Fucking hell..." you huffed out. Your eyes fluttered open and you were met with an absolutely ruined Steve, leaning exhausted against the couch, covered in both your and his own cum.

You dropped down beside him, pulling him close. "You did so good for me, you're so hot, so perfect...", you mumbled, trying to bring him back down to earth with sweet words and gentle kisses.

"You okay?", you asked, taking in his fucked out look.

"Hmm", was all he could muster, looking at you with a dopey grin plastered all over his face.

"Looks like you got a white Christmas this year, huh?", you grinned.

"Oh, shut up", he chuckled, playfully hitting your shoulder.

The two of you cuddled for a while after that, before taking a nice hot shower together. Though in hindsight, that might have been a bit pointless, since Steve still had to give you his gift too....

Taglist;

@metalbuckaroo @princessayveke @montsepliego @scxrletrecsmarvel @hopelesslyrogers @eclecticpatrolroadlawyer @tfandtws @vicmc624 @ahahafudge @enchantedbarnes @wickedravyn @pono-pura-vida @amayaraestyles @matchat3a @fictional-hooman @sebastianexplicit @peaches1958 @avengersfan25 @jamneuromain @tryingtoliveonmywishes @mrsevans90 @daybreak96 @tiredqueen73 @fallingforunrealisticromance @identity2212 @randomweirdoss @ragamuffin285 @juliaorpll78 @geralts-yenn @imjusthereforliam @bangtanstoeart @squeezyvalkyrie @enchantedbytomandhenry @superduckmilkshake @kingliam2019 @bascmve01 @missgaygurl @foxyjwls007 @mollymal @urmomsgirlfriend1 @luxeydior

[buckets-and-trees]

Camaraderie

Characters/Pairings: raunchy!Bucky x curvy!female reader Word Count: 3.4k Summary: Meeting up with the impossibly hot guy from the thirsty to fuck dating app didn't turn out to be a one-time thing... Hooking up with Bucky Barnes wasn't healthy, and you couldn't quit the habit, but he's so good at what he does, you can't resist the itch for him when it needs to be scratched.

Content Warnings: modern AU, hook up culture/bootycall, established sexual relationship, explicit and rough smut, oral (male and female receiving)/deep throating, 69, vaginal fingering, some overstimulation, multiple orgasms, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex, humiliation, degradation (use of "slut"/"whore"), use of "baby" as a term of endearment, praise, general dirty talk, cum play/marking, taking photos, aftercare

Author Notes: This is a follow-up to Parking Lot Chem, but can absolutely be read as a standalone and/or out of order.

Logistical Notes: My September/final offering for @buckybarnesevents Build-a-Bucky-Bingo 23-24 using the ANTI-HERO and AFTERCARE prompts. I'm also submitting this for @steviebbboi's 200 Follower Celebration (kink prompts: oral sex, overstimulation, mild degradation, dialoge prompts bolded) and @mercurial-chuckles's SMUT-BER fest (prompt: marathon session).

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You know you should never text Bucky Barnes.

Daytime you knows he’s horrible for you.

A relationship would go nowhere with him.

You know it. He knows it.

You’ve both been very clear this is only sex.

Dirty, late night hook ups.

The next morning, you’re always resolved that last night was the last time.

But you don’t delete his number.

He gives you space. So much space. There’s no pressure, and that’s one of the reasons you don’t close the door completely.

Sometimes he initiates a conversation, sometimes it’s you. It goes about four to six weeks like clockwork.

And always after midnight.

Tonight it’s you who sent up the bat signal.

YOU: Hey! It’s been a while! How’ve you been?

HIM: Not bad… How’s life for you?

YOU: Also not bad. I moved - pretty close to where you work, actually…

YOU: You working tonight?

HIM: Got a new job actually. Still night shift, but building security downtown.

YOU: Oh, that’s good though, right?

HIM: Better gig, better pay. Still bad hours, but our fun doesn’t have to end…

YOU: Oh?

HIM: Let me come over when I get off and I’ll get you off.

There’s literally nothing romantic about it.

But you’re aching for a good fuck.

And that’s why you agreed to let this man you’ve been hooking up with in the dead of night in a parking lot for the last eight months to show up for a bootycall between two and three am.

Because it was going to be so late, you told him where the spare key was, told him to let himself in, to come to your bed, and to wake you up when he got there.

The forbidden thrill of that arrangement gave you a bit of a second wind, but when you’d tucked yourself back in bed and done a bit of doom-scrolling, your eyes had eventually drooped and you’d dropped into sleep.

You stir a little bit as you are nudged onto your back, but it’s when Bucky starts in on aggressively groping your breasts, having immediately pushed up the silk camisole you put on, that you groan and come to.

Your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the darkness. Bucky's silhouette looms over you, his calloused hands cold against your skin as he roughly kneads your tender flesh. A shiver runs through you, desire pooling low in your belly.

"Missed these tits," he growls, voice husky with desire.

You arch into his touch, your body responding even as your mind struggles to catch up. Bucky wastes no time, his hot mouth latching onto a nipple. You gasp at the sensation, your hands instinctively flying to Bucky's hair. He bites down, just hard enough to make you whimper, before soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Fuck, Bucky," you moan, already breathless.

He releases your breast with a wet pop, moving to give the other the same treatment. He sucks hard, teeth grazing your sensitive peak, and you whimper. His other hand slides down your body, groping at your pussy over your silk shorts.

“You put these on special for me, yeah?” he probes, and you nod. “Such a whore, though,” he continues. So desperate to let me use you that you told a fucking stranger how to get into your house so he could ruin you.”

His words make you clench around nothing, desperate for him to ruin you just like you know he can. Bucky chuckles darkly when you mewl as he grinds the heel of his palm over your clothed clit.

"Such a needy little slut," he murmurs approvingly. "Bet you've been thinking about my cock all night."

"Took you long enough to get here," you whine.

He doesn't respond, just crashes his lips against yours in a bruising kiss. His stubble scratches your chin, sending tingles down your spine. You clutch onto his bulky arms. His mouth is minty - either gum or mouthwash or mints popped at the last minute - but the rest of him just smells like sweat and faint musk. You doubt he even owns cologne. His body and the way he uses yours are why you don’t fight the itch when it flares up for nights like this.

Bucky breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down your neck. He bites down hard where your neck meets your shoulder, surely leaving a mark. You gasp, arching into him.

"Gonna use you so good," he growls against your skin. "Gonna fuck you 'til you can't walk straight."

"God, yes," you moan, spreading your legs wider in invitation.

Bucky hooks his fingers into the waistband of your silk shorts, yanking them down roughly along with your panties. The cool air hits your heated core and you shiver. Bucky's hand slides up your inner thigh, his calloused fingers teasing your sensitive skin.

"Already so wet for me," he growls approvingly as he cups your sex. "Such a dirty girl."

You whimper as he slides two thick fingers inside you without warning, pumping them slowly. His thumb circles your clit, building the pressure steadily. Your hips buck against his hand, chasing more friction.

"Please," you gasp, clutching at his muscular shoulders.

"Please what?" Bucky asks, curling his fingers to hit that spot inside you that makes you lose all shreds of dignity around him.

"Please give me your fat cock, Bucky!” you beg.

He chuckles again. “I bet you’re such a good girl in the day where everyone else can see you, but you crave this - you crave the depraved things I do to you in the dark. That’s why you’re so fast to beg for me already.”

You moan, and your body trembles with anticipation as Bucky's other hand roams over your chest, then grips your neck, rough and possessive.

He squeezes slightly, and you whimper. “Please,” you croak out.

He withdraws for a moment, but you bite back any sounds of protest as you hear the rustling of fabric, clang of a belt, and the pull of a zipper as he quickly sheds his clothes.

He sits back on his heels, looking down at you as you squirm, holding his thick, hard cock. You lick your lips at the sight, your pussy clenching in anticipation. Bucky strokes himself a few times with the hand that had been in your cunt moments before, spreading your wetness along his length.

"Don’t worry, baby," Bucky coos. "I'm gonna give you exactly what you need."

With his other hand, he grips your arm and pulls you down so you lay sideways across the mattress. You’ve only ever hooked up in his truck, so the freedom of space adds an element of mystery to what hell do with you, and you love it. He kneels with thighs on either side of your head, looming over you, and then he slaps your face with his cock.

You gasp at the sudden contact, and he hits you with it a couple more times. Bucky grins down at you wickedly, clearly enjoying your shock.

"Open up, slut," he grunts.

You obey eagerly, parting your lips as he guides his cock into your mouth. He doesn't ease into it, instead shoving himself deep until you gag around his length. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you struggle to breathe through your nose.

Bucky holds your head in place with his thick thighs, his hips pistoning as he fucks your face mercilessly. The wet, obscene sounds of your gagging fill the room, mingling with Bucky's grunts of pleasure.

"That's it, take it all," he groans, pushing even deeper.

You relax your throat as best you can, letting him use your mouth with abandon. He leans forward, pushes your thighs apart, and buries his face in your cunt.

You moan around Bucky's cock as his tongue laps at your folds, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. He sucks hard on your clit, making your hips buck involuntarily. The dual sensations of his thick length stretching your throat and his skilled mouth on your pussy are overwhelming.

Bucky's stubble scrapes against your inner thighs as he devours you, his left hand gripping your hip to hold you in place. His flesh hand snakes up to squeeze and pinch your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through your body. You whimper and writhe beneath him, struggling to focus on pleasuring his cock as he rapidly brings you to the edge.

"Gonna cum for me, baby?" Bucky growls against your cunt, the vibrations making you shudder. "Want you to cum all over my face while I fuck that pretty little mouth."

You moan around him, the vibrations making him hiss in pleasure. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as he batters the back of your throat, but you don't pull away. You live for these moments when Bucky uses you roughly, treating you like you’re worthless, only a set of holes to be used, because you’re so tired of being good, of working hard, of over achieving, of living up to everyone’s expectations. The only thing he wants from you is your body, and it feels better than any guilty pleasure you’ve ever indulged in before.

Your orgasm hits you suddenly and forcefully. Your body convulses as waves of pleasure crash over you, muffled cries vibrating around Bucky's cock. He doesn't let up, continuing to lap at your oversensitive clit as you writhe beneath him.

Just as it becomes too much, Bucky pulls back, releasing your hips. He slides his cock from your mouth, leaving you gasping for air. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your stomach and yanks your hips up.

"That's one," he growls. "Let's see how many more I can wring out of you before I'm done."

Without warning, he slams into you, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets as he sets a punishing pace. The wet sounds of skin slapping against skin fill the room in the dead of night.

"This what you've been craving, sweetheart?" he taunts, pulling his cock out and rubbing the head of his it through your folds. "My cock splitting you open?"

"Yes, yes, Bucky!” you sound like a cliché porn star, but you know he loves it, and you don’t care about letting loose and going mindless and dumb around him. He doesn’t expect anything more from you.

Without warning, he slams back into you, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

You cry out, the stretch bordering on painful. Bucky doesn't give you time to adjust, he never does. He pursues a punishing pace, and now the headboard bangs against the wall with each powerful thrust.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Bucky grunts, his hips snapping against yours. "You always feel so good around me, baby. Such a perfect little cock sleeve."

His vulgar words send a thrill through you. You moan shamelessly, pushing back to meet his brutal thrusts. Bucky's metal hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, while his flesh hand snakes around to rub harsh circles on your clit. The dual stimulation quickly builds the pressure in your core.

"That's it, take it slut," Bucky growls, his hips pistoning relentlessly. "You love being used like this, don't you?"

"Yes!" you cry out, beyond shame at this point. "God, yes, Bucky!"

He chuckles darkly, then suddenly pulls out. Before you can protest, he flips you onto your back and hooks your legs over his shoulders. He slides back in with a groan, the new angle allowing him to hit even deeper.

"Wanna see your face when you cum on my cock," he pants, leaning down to lick a stripe lewdly up your face.

"Oh fuck, Bucky!" you cry out as he pounds into you relentlessly. The new angle has him hitting your g-spot with every thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

Bucky's eyes are dark with lust as he watches you come undone beneath him. One hand wraps around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your head swim. The other hand grips your hip bruisingly tight as he jackhammers into you.

"That's it, baby," he growls. "C'mon, don't you wanna be good for me?"

You nod frantically, unable to form words as the pressure builds inside you. Bucky's thumb finds your clit, rubbing harsh circles that have you seeing stars.

"Cum for me," he commands. "Now."

As if your body is conditioned to obey him, your walls clench around him rhythmically, but Bucky doesn't slow his pace. He fucks you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you're a trembling, oversensitive mess beneath him. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes from the intensity.

"That's two," Bucky growls, his hips still snapping against yours. "Think you can give me one more?"

You whimper as he squeezes your throat, starting to restrict your oxygen.

Your head swims as Bucky's hand tightens around your throat, his hips never slowing their relentless pace. The mix of pleasure and oxygen deprivation has you floating, barely aware of anything beyond the stretch of his cock inside you and the pressure of his fingers on your windpipe.

"Answer me," he growls, loosening his grip just enough for you to gasp out a response.

"Y-yes," you croak, your voice hoarse. "Please, Bucky..."

He grins wickedly, releasing your throat entirely. You gulp in air as he hooks his arms under your knees, folding you nearly in half as he drives even deeper. The new angle has you seeing stars, each thrust hitting spots inside you that make your toes curl.

“Let's see how much more you can take."

Bucky's pace becomes even more brutal, if possible. The headboard slams against the wall with each thrust, and you hope your neighbors are heavy sleepers. Every nerve of your body is on overdrive, overwrought.

You're trembling, overstimulated and overwhelmed, but Bucky shows no signs of slowing down. His cock pistons in and out of you relentlessly, the obscene wet sounds of your coupling filling the room as he keeps you folded in half. You're vaguely aware that you're babbling, a stream of "please" and "fuck" and "Bucky" falling from your lips.

His hot breath fans across your face as he looms over you, steel-blue eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes you shiver.

"Look at you," he growls, voice rough with exertion. "So fucking desperate for my cock. You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?"

You nod frantically, beyond words at this point. Bucky's hand comes down to rub harsh circles on your clit, and you cry out at the added stimulation. Your oversensitive body trembles, teetering on the edge of another orgasm.

"Cum for me again, baby," Bucky commands. "Show me how much of a slut you are for my cock.”

He pinches your clit harshly, and you scream into another orgasm. And still he fucks you as you shake and tremble beneath him. He’s too big and too strong for you to do anything but take it.

He clamps a hand down on your throat again, and your vision starts to blur at the edges as this filthy god moves like a machine above you. The lack of oxygen intensifies every sensation - his cock pounding into you relentlessly, his thumb still circling your oversensitive clit, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.

Just as it becomes too much, Bucky pulls out. Your legs fall clumsily to the bed, and Bucky moves so he’s sitting on your chest, straddling just below your breasts, and pinning your arms down to your sides as well. He viciously strokes his cock, grunting for a few more moments, before he groans and shoots his load over your face and chest, ribbons of hot, sticky cum hitting your skin.

You gasp and pant, struggling to catch your breath as Bucky's cum cools on your skin. Your body feels like jelly, utterly spent from the intensity of your multiple orgasms. Bucky sits back on his heels, still straddling your chest, admiring his handiwork.

"Fuck, you look good like this," he growls, voice husky with satisfaction. "All marked up and used."

You whimper, too exhausted to form words. Bucky chuckles darkly, running a finger through the mess on your face and pushing it between your lips. You suck obediently, tasting the salty bitterness of his release.

"Such a good little cumslut," he praises, his other hand trailing down to tweak one of your nipples, making you yip beneath him.

Bucky's weight lifts off you as he shifts to the side, his breathing also heavy.

For a moment, there's only the sound of your combined panting filling the dark room. Then Bucky chuckles low in his throat. "That was better than the truck."

You manage a weak laugh in response, still too overwhelmed to form words. Bucky reaches over and flicks on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a soft glow. His eyes roam over your body, taking in the full mess he's made of you – the cum on your face and chest, the bruises already forming on your hips and thighs, the way your pussy is still clenching around nothing. He rolls off the bed and roots round in his discarded clothes, then stands once he’s found his phone.

"Hold still," Bucky commands, raising his phone. You hear the click of the camera as he captures your debauched state. "Something for me until next time."

You should protest, should demand he delete the photos. But a part of you thrills at the idea of Bucky having these reminders of you, of looking at them and getting hard thinking about using you again.

He disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm washcloth. To your surprise, he gently cleans you up, wiping away the evidence of your encounter from your skin. It's an unexpectedly tender gesture from someone who was just fucking you senseless.

"Thanks," you murmur, your voice hoarse.

Bucky just nods, tossing the washcloth aside when he's done. He starts gathering his clothes, pulling them on efficiently. You watch him silently, knowing there was no version of this where he stayed, and honestly you didn’t want him to. You wanted to sprawl freely in your bed and drift away into the few hours of blissful sleep you could steal before having to get up for work and didn’t want to deal with a morning after.

After hunching over and lacing up his boots, he stands, reaches for your hand and pulls you up and to the edge of the bed. “C’mon, get up,” he urges.

Too tired and bewildered to protest, you amble out of bed and follow as he tugs you along, leading you to the bathroom. He turns the shower on, grabs a towel and tosses it over the rod for you. He checks the water temperature, adjusts it slightly, then turns back to you.

He laughs, and you realize your face is broadcasting your confusion. “You’ll sleep better if you shower off the sex and sweat, baby.”

He steals a filthy kiss, licking slowly into your mouth, then ushers you into the shower. “See you next time.”

Next time. The words send a shiver through you, even as your body aches from the intensity of what he’s just done to you.

“I’ll lock the door behind me when I let myself out,” he says.

“Okay,” is all your exhausted mind and body can put together. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he echoes and smirks.

The hot water washes away the smell and grime of the debauchery, soothe your aching limbs, but they don’t wash away the memories of what he did, and you don’t want it to. They go into a collection of how he extracts pleasure from you, and those memories will tide you over for a while on some of the darker nights when you’re feeling particularly horny.

But he’s right.

You won't feel this way in the morning.

But there’ll be another next time, your middle of the night self will win out eventually, you’ll just put it off for a while. Besides, it’s due to be his turn to be he one to break first and put out the feelers for a bootycall.

You won’t say no.

next part: Even Better Than In My Head

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Guarded Desires: Part 3

Fandom: Star Wars - The Acolyte

Pairing: Padawan!Qimir x Princess!Reader

Summary: After an assassination attempt on your mother, she’s asked a favor from the Jedi Council to watch over you and your family until the assailant has been caught. As a result, your mother’s old friend, Master Vernestra, has her padawan, Qimir, be your bodyguard. Based off my imagine here.

Series Masterlist

Throughout the day, Qimir remains at your side. He remains reserved and serious for the most part. You continue to ask him questions about his training and the Jedi way. He finds amusement in your excitement and curiosity, but it's also refreshing.

When Master Vernestra informed him that he as well as other Jedis and padawans would be protecting your family for a time, he didn't expect you to be this way. He's never met any form of royalty. He assumed that they'd be serious and reserved. You clearly proved him wrong.

He's known you for less than a day and he already sees how strong, resilient, funny, caring, and fun you can be. He expected you to be uptight. He was ready to be ignored, but you have made sure to include him in conversations and learn more about him. It feels nice. Nice to be seen as not just a Jedi but also a person. Someone aside from being a Force user and symbol of peace.

At the end of his first day accompanying you, Qimir reflects on his interactions with you. They cause his heart and stomach to go aflutter. He feels himself growing fond of you already and he feels guilty. Jedi aren't supposed to form close attachments to people. He scolds himself as he falls asleep in the room he's been provided in the palace. He can't fall for you. It's not the Jedi way. He needs to distance himself emotionally, he decides as he slowly falls asleep. The last thing on his mind being you.

______________________

You could tell your parents were stressed. With the assassin still at large, the King and Queen did their best to remain level-headed and resilient during this time. But you knew better.

Your parents continued to hold council meetings, each of them ensuring the council that the Jedi would be taking care of things. However, from what Qimir has told you, there aren't any leads. It's been a week since Qimir and the Jedi arrived, promising you safety and protection. Yet, they have nothing to show for it.

You suggested a day trip to the shore to distract your parents. Only your family and your respective Jedi protectors would be accompanying you.

You're building a sand castle with your sisters while your parents lay under the suns. You look up to see Qimir and Master Vernestra watching you. The other Jedis securing the area.

"Do you like Qimir, Y/N?" your sister, Ada, asks.

"Qimir is my friend, so yes, I like him."

"Do you like him like how mama and papa like each other?" Your other sister, Aspen, asks.

You look at her a little confused, "Why do you ask?"

Ada answers, "Because you look at Qimir the way mama looks at papa!"

Your eyes widen in shock and embarrassment. Have you been looking at Qimir a certain way? Sure, you two have grown closer over the week and you find peace in his companionship but do you like him in that way?

You open your mouth and then close it. You're not really sure how to answer. So you decide to change the subject. After all, your sisters can be blabber mouths when they want to be, "How about you find more shells to decorate our castle with?"

"Okay!" the twins reply in unison, both scrambling to their feet and running through the sand, picking up any shell that catches their eye.

You proceed to join your parents in their sun bathing. You sigh, sitting beside your mother. She turns to you, "What troubles you, starlight?"

You smile softly at her, "Nothing, mama. Just think this was a much needed break."

"I agree," she says, patting your arm, "Are you and the padawan still getting along?"

You nod, "Very much so. He's taught me a lot about the Jedi and he let me practice with his saber a few days ago! He-"

"I'm not sure I like him," your father says.

Your brows furrow and you quickly glance over your shoulder to Qimir and Vernestra. They seem to be discussing something, but feeling eyes on him, he turns to you and waves.

You wave back and turn your attention back to your father, "Papa, he's harmless."

"Maybe I should speak with Vernestra about switching Jedis. I don't like how close you're getting to the boy."

"What?! No! Papa-"

"If suitors see how close you're getting to him, no one will offer for your hand."

You look at him confused, "Suitors?"

Your mother gives the King a warning look, but he ignores her, "You're almost twenty-one. We've put off suitors long enough. The council want you to be married by the time you're twenty-five, at the latest."

"But why? I've proven myself to you time and time again that I don't need to be married to be seen as a competent leader. The people already respect me-"

"They'd respect you more if you were married to an equally, if not more, competent king."

You scowl, bringing yourself to your feet and walking away. You need to distance yourself from your father right before you say or do anything you'd regret.

__________________

Seeing your retreating figure, Qimir looks to his Master and she gives him a nod. He immediately goes to follow you.

"Hey! Princess Y/N! Wait!" he calls after you but his cries go unheard as you trudge further and further away from your family.

"Hold on! Don't go too far!" he grabs your wrist to stop you. You turn to reveal your red, tear filled eyes.

"What happened?" he asks softly.

"The usual," you mumble with a sniffle.

He's not sure why, but Qimir pulls you into his arms. He wraps his arms around you in a hug and you're frozen. You weren't expecting a gesture like this from him, but it feels nice.

So you let yourself wrap your arms around the Jedi, allowing yourself to cry into him as he holds you.

You two stay like this until your cries subside and you slowly pull away. You chuckle, wiping away any remaining tears, "Thank you, Qimir. You didn't need to do that."

He gives you a shy smile and a shrug, "I know, it just felt like the right thing to do."

You look over his shoulder and see Master Vernestra watching you two. You wince, "Looks like your master saw all that. Will you get in trouble?"

He shrugs, "Maybe, but I don't care....did you want to head back?"

You look out to the water, "Can we just sit here for a little?"

"Sure," Qimir says as he follows you to sit in the sand. You scoot closer to him and rest your head against his shoulder. He thanks the Maker that you can't hear or feel how hard his heart is pounding right now.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 9: We’re Friends When You’re On Your Knees]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Y'all, you are not ready for this one. Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), murder, Aemond "there are other Targaryens" Targaryen having feelings again (good ones?? not good ones?? both?? who knows bestie, not me!), an unexpected family reunion, must be the season of the witch... 👀

Series title is a lyrics from: "7 Minutes In Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.4k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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You watch her from the shadows of the dungeons, rusted iron, phantom echoes of falling water, chilling drafts that come from nowhere and everywhere. She has not yet noticed you. She is beautiful, regal, arrogant, even as she sits gnawing on crusts of bread and the gristle of chicken bones, scraps that Lord Larys throws to her like she’s a pig nosing its way through a trough, an animal that is clever and yet condemned. And if she is livestock, then what are you? A creature of darkness, of nightfall, lethal and treacherous, a wolf or a bat or a spider. You step forward and into a ray of light that cuts across the stones like the path of a comet.

Baela gasps and drops the tibia she’d been working on, cracking it in two, sucking out the dead-blood marrow. Her wide-set, almond-shaped eyes catch on you. She is not afraid; you have never known Daemon Targaryen’s eldest daughter to be afraid of anything. She is fascinated.

“I’m sorry,” she says, crawling across the floor of her cell. She grips the metal bars and peers out at you, kneeling there like she’s praying. You suspect Baela has never prayed to anyone or anything. “I didn’t mean to almost burn you. I didn’t realize you were standing on the steps with him until after I’d given Moondancer the order. It all happened so quickly.”

You cannot appear to be angry. You have no reason to be angry if you are Aegon’s captive. “I take no offense. I wasn’t harmed.”

“No one had any idea the Usurper was here,” Baela says. Still her eyes are bright, entranced. “We believed Dragonstone to be vacant.”

Good. You give her a dismal smirk. “No. Not so vacant after all.”

“Are you with child yet?”

A bolt shoots down your spine like cold lightning. “What?”

“That’s what he’s trying to do, isn’t it?” Baela says. “He wants an heir from you. His wife is dead, his sons are dead. He couldn’t get his claws on me or Rhaena. But you can give him a Valyrian-blooded prince.”

Aegon has never mentioned having children with you. You don’t know if this means he doesn’t want them, or if he does not wish to place demands upon you, or if he is indifferent, or if he believes it to be impossible. “I have nothing to show for his efforts.”

“Has it been unspeakably awful?” And if Baela seeks to console, this is secondary to her personal interest; she is curious, she is absorbed. Her fingers close more tightly around the iron bars. “He’s a drunk, a degenerate. He’s vile. He’s deformed. Has he tortured you? Has he violated you in a hundred different ways? Does he tie you down, does he strike you, does he cut and bruise you?”

And this is the Blacks’ story, one they could never begin to suspect might be fiction: that you are a martyr, that Aegon is a monster. In place of an answer, you give Baela the treasures you have brought her. You pass them through the gaps between the bars: a bottle of ink, parchment, a quill with a point like a blade.

Baela takes these objects, amazed. “You can help me send a letter back to Harrenhal?”

“I don’t know if I will be able to get to the rookery. But I’ll try.”

“The Usurper allows you this much free rein?”

He trusts me. He loves me. He’s bedbound and in agony. “He’s rather distracted at the moment.”

“He’s dying, hopefully,” Baela says. She has already begun to write. And there’s a reptilian sort of coldness that is snaking deeper into you, constricting around your bones, gliding through the blood-slick chambers of your heart, too much a part of you to ever rip out. But now Baela’s face softens. She looks up dolefully. “Moondancer, she’s…she’s gone, isn’t she?”

You bow your head as if this is something tragic. “She did not survive Sunfyre’s attack.”

“Fucking beasts,” she seethes, resuming her writing. “When my father learns of this, he and Caraxes will come to rescue us. And he will burn the Usurper alive.” She finishes her letter, rolls up the parchment, and hands it back to you.

“How will Daemon know that you authored this and under no duress?”

“My signature,” Baela says, grinning. “I end all of my correspondence to him with Your ever-obedient daughter. It is a joke between us. If it was absent, he would notice. His suspicions would be aroused. That is how I would signal if I was ever forced to write to him against my will.”

There is dark satisfaction like a spell shimmering in your arteries, nerves, the void-black pupils of your eyes. You return her smile. “Perfect.”

“Don’t fear,” Baela tells you, and reaches through the rusted iron bars to clasp your hand. You fight the reflex to tear away from her, this woman who certainly maimed Aegon and might have killed him. You find yourself studying her, measuring her height and weight, calculating how much milk of the poppy it would take to end her life. “Cregan Stark is south of the Neck now. He will move heaven and earth to possess you, everyone knows that. Soon we will have Northmen marching through the Riverlands with Caraxes and Sheepstealer safeguarding them from above. And after the Riverlands they will be in the Reach, and then finally King’s Landing to stabilize the capital. The Usurper and Sunfyre cannot fight. Daeron is scarcely more than a boy. The Betrayers are avaricious, overconfident drunks. The Greens will be vanquished before winter.”

“And what about Vhagar?”

“Together, Caraxes and Sheepstealer can bring her down.” But there is doubt in Baela’s voice, yes, a vacillation that is rarely heard from her.

“I hope so,” you reply, one of countless lies.

You take Baela’s letter to the rookery, open it, examine it carefully for the subtleties of her handwriting: slopes and dots and lines. Then you get a fresh piece of parchment and painstakingly draft a very different message. Not a plea for help, but an assurance that all is well; not a summons to Dragonstone, but a confirmation that the castle was found to be unoccupied and is now held firmly by Baela and Moondancer.

And you end the letter before tying it to a leg of the raven trained to fly to Harrenhal:

Your ever-obedient daughter, Baela Targaryen

~~~~~~~~~~

“Please eat something, Your Grace. I beg you.” Lord Larys Strong’s face is creased with servile, attentive worry. On the plate before you is fresh, warm bread and a dish of salted butter. In your bowl is a crab soup thick with vegetables, the broth tomato-based and red like Autumn’s hair, like blood.

“I can’t.”

“Would you like me to bring you something else? I could have the chefs prepare roast chicken, or duck, or boar…”

“No.” You push the bowl of soup away. You and Larys are alone in the Great Hall, seated at the high table which presides over a silent, vacuous chamber. The room was built to resemble a dragon lying on its belly; the entranceway is its mouth, two massive doors edged with stone teeth. There are dragons everywhere, these talismans of Aegon’s house, these creatures that are monsters to some and saviors to others.

Larys studies you closely. His voice is tender. “Your Grace, please. Can I do anything for you?”

You consider him, an enigma that is useful and subtle and dogged in his loyalty. “What is it that binds you so faithfully to Alicent and her children, Lord Larys? House Strong was so favored by Rhaenyra. Her heirs were your blood, no matter how much she tried to deny it. You could have risen high in the Black Council. Make no mistake, I am very thankful for your service to the Greens. I am glad to count you among the greatest of our fortunes. But what inspired you to turn your coat?”

Larys smiles at you. He has eyes like rain, the wavy abundant brown hair of his spurned family. His hands rest on the handle of his cane. “Your eldest brother is an acclaimed swordsman.”

“Yes,” you agree, caught off-guard.

“And so was mine,” Larys says. “House Strong, is it any wonder what we valued most? My father loved Harwin. He was so fiercely proud of him. He was interested in him, he understood him. They would whisper to each other all through feasts, all through tourneys, conspiring, chortling, enmeshed in this synergy that left no air for anyone else to breathe.”

“And your father never understood you.” Just like Bartimos Celtigar overlooks Everett, a son gifted with books and quills instead of horses and swords. “Never even tried to.”

“It is a terrible thing to be in the midst of your family and yet feel alone.”

“It is,” you say, remembering the Blacks’ festivities in King’s Landing.

“Now Lyonel and Harwin Strong whisper to no one,” Larys says, his smile widening into a dark, victorious grin. “And I am the Master of Whisperers.”

You remember the words that Otto Hightower spoke to you as he waited for his execution in the dungeons of the Red Keep: These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask Larys softly. Becoming a sinner, a killer, a kinslayer.

“Never,” he replies. “Dowager Queen Alicent was the first person to ever truly listen to me. To make me feel worth something. Worth anything. To advance her interests in every way possible…that cannot be an injustice. It is the cleanest kind of loyalty. And I have no doubt my sacrifices will be repaid. If the Greens triumph, that is. When this war is over, Alicent’s son must sit the Iron Throne.”

“You mean Aegon.”

“Yes, of course.” But something mournful passes over Larys’ face like a shadow; he peers down at his hands to hide this from you.

He doubts Aegon will live. He foresees Aemond or Daeron inheriting the throne instead. You stand from the table, your chair squealing shrilly against the stone floor. “We should bring the king his supper,” you tell Larys. “He needs his strength.”

Aegon does not like you to be there when the maesters prod at him, scrub his wounds, rebandage his shattered legs. You were once his healer, yes, but now he believes you to be his wife. He does not want to be your patient. He does not want you to see him as a wounded man writhing in bed, as someone helpless, pathetic, weak, doomed.

The maesters are just finishing when you arrive with a tray of buttered bread and fresh soup, steam rising from the bowl of red like entrails that litter the earth once a battle has ended. The maesters are gathering up bloody strips of linen to be burned. Aegon is sobbing; his silver hair hangs in chaotic waves, both hands cover his face.

Your voice is hushed and heartbroken. “Aegon…”

“No, I’m okay,” he says, sniffling, mopping the tears from his cheeks with his bare palms. Then he reaches out to you. “Come here, come here, come here.”

You go to him, sliding the tray onto his bedside table until it clinks against the glass bottles there: rose oil, red wine, milk of the poppy. You climb onto the bed and Aegon’s arms circle around your waist, pulling you in closer as he buries his face in the warmth of your chest, your throat, covering you in hurried, imprecise kisses. Dimly, you wonder what he tastes when he breathes you in; you wonder what colors bloom in the sunless passages of his lungs.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. You can feel the dampness of his tears on your bare skin, the roughness of his scars.

“I was only gone for a few hours.”

“Too long,” he says. “Far too long. How’s Sunfyre?”

“He’s down on the beach, Your Grace,” Larys answers from the doorway where he has materialized like stars at dusk.

“Is he eating? Ambulatory? Wading in the water?”

“He’s…” Lord Larys hesitates. “He seems to be in a great deal of discomfort.” And yes, you know this to be true: Sunfyre the Golden’s wings hang in shreds, his wounds are inflamed with infection, and there is something wrong with him inside as well, a wheezing when he inhales, blood that seeps from his nostrils and his jaws. There’s nothing anybody can do for him. No one can touch him but Aegon, and Aegon can’t leave his bed.

Aegon says to Larys, low and sinister: “I want Baela dead. I want her burned.”

“She is far more valuable to you alive, Your Grace.”

“I am the king and I wish her to die.”

“Corlys Velaryon is her grandsire,” Larys implores. “If he discovers you executed Baela, he may recommit himself to Rhaenyra’s side. He may launch his own rebellion even after Rhaenyra is defeated. If you wish to win and keep the Iron Throne, I advise you to spare her.”

Aegon sighs and glares out the window that overlooks the Narrow Sea, his arms still linked around your waist. You begin to weave his braid for him. “Aegon,” you say gently. “We’ve brought you supper. Please eat it.”

“I’m afraid I’m too nauseated by my own inadequacy. Perhaps later.”

“You want to be well again. And you will be. But you have to eat.”

“I really don’t think I can.”

“Aegon, please.”

“Well…” He glances over at the bowl of soup and then gives you a mischievous smirk. “I suppose nothing tastes better than a crab, does it? Particularly when it is served in bed.”

“Or on the floor of a library.” You smile and kiss him: his pale face, his trembling lips. You finish his tiny braid like a silver chain and tuck it behind his ear. Then you pour him a cup of milk of the poppy, just one pearl-white splash, just enough to sand the serrated edges off his anguish.

“No.” He stops you, a hand on your wrist. “I don’t want to be useless again. I don’t want to be swimming in dreams. I want to be here with you.”

You shake your head. There are tears stinging in your eyes. “But you’re in pain.”

He grins, brushing your hair back from your face. “I’ve been in pain my whole life, Angel.”

And he manages to force down half the soup and two brimming goblets of wine before he sinks beneath the sea of his consciousness, while outside waves crack open against the rocks and Sunfyre leaks viscous threads the color of crimson, roses, flames.  

~~~~~~~~~~

“You sent that raven a week ago,” Baela tells you when you bring her your offering, your clandestine kindness: apple cake, black tea. “More than enough time has passed for it to be received at Harrenhal and acted upon.”

You fill a porcelain cup with tea from the kettle and give it to her through the iron bars of her cell. “Perhaps the raven went astray.”

Baela ponders this as she alternates between unladylike chomps on a wedge of apple cake and slurps from the cup. “Maybe my father has been away from the castle. Maybe he’s out on the battlefield with the Stark men.”

Or maybe he believes you and Moondancer to be perfectly well and presiding unopposed over Dragonstone, and therefore not in need of his attention. What a welcome delusion to live under. I’m sure he’d rather be fucking Nettles anyway. You take the empty cup when Baela has drained it and refill it with tea. Baela accepts the nearly overflowing cup gratefully. She has had nothing to drink since she was taken captive except muddy rainwater that pools in one corner of each cell, guided by stone gutters that run along the outside of the castle. The tea is cloudy with cream and laced with sugar; still, her nose wrinkles a bit when she swallows it down.

“Bitter,” she notes distractedly.

“It’s made from leaves grown here on Dragonstone. Formidable, but not very sweet.”

Baela cackles; it echoes through the dungeon. This is the same voice that commanded Moondancer to brutalize Sunfyre, to send Aegon plummeting to the sand. Are her eyes already losing their viperish sharpness, is her heartbeat slowing? “Just like me!” She finishes her cup of tea and eagerly holds it out to you through the bars. You pour it full of the earth-colored brew once again.

You ask her as she licks apple cake crumbs from her fingers: “Why is Cregan Stark so determined to wed me?”

“He wants you. He considers you worthy of him.”

“But he doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t really know who I am.”

Baela shrugs indifferently. “None of us love anyone because of who they are. We love them because of who they make us believe we are.” She sips her tea and blinks groggily. “In any case, he will be your honorable savior, and you will be his illustrious damsel, and when the traitor dragons are dead he will spirit you away to Winterfell to bear his wolf pups. It’s not so bad a fate, I think. Not for someone like you. You aren’t ill-suited to matrimony. You are docile enough. A caretaker, a healer. You seem like the sort of woman who would be content with just one man.”

Yes. If he was Aegon. As you watch her kneeling on the stone floor of her cell, Baela sways and almost nods off, seemingly unaware that she is doing it.

“Burning might be too swift a death for the Usurper,” Baela says, smiling dazedly. “Cregan should have some of the Boltons flay him. They can all take turns wearing his hideous scars.”

“Yes. Skins shed, skins regrown, some of us change them over and over again.”

Baela stares at you inanely. She is beyond comprehension. Then she collapses to the stone floor, the porcelain tea cup spilling from her grasp and breaking into jagged white shards.

You take the key to the cell off the hook out in the corridor and unlock the door of iron bars. You step inside, still holding the tea kettle in one hand. You set the kettle down and drag Baela until she is propped upright against a wall. Her pulse is slow, but still present; she moans feebly as you position her. But it is all for a good cause; you must ensure she drinks the rest of the tea, the witches’ brew of leaves and cream and sugar and a fatal dose of milk of the poppy. Outside you hear a deep, prehistoric rumble as Vhagar flies over Dragonstone and scouts for a landing spot large enough to host her. Aemond is back again.

You angle the spout of the tea kettle between Baela’s paling lips and ply her with a small amount, less than a mouthful, then you rub her throat in just the right place to trigger her reflex to swallow. You know this trick well; you have used it on grievously wounded soldiers. You used it on Aegon after he was burned. You repeat the steps until the kettle is empty. Then you lay Baela flat again and watch her chest rise and fall slower, slower, slower until it stops. But still, you leave nothing to chance. You nick Baela’s wrist with a paring knife from the castle kitchens, until now tucked away in a pocket of your gown, emerald green silk to match the side of this war that you are pledged to. Her blood, unpropelled by the rhythm of a heart, dribbles sluggishly rather than spurts. She’s gone; she’s with her mother and Luke and Jace and the young sickly Viserys and Rhaenys, Otto and Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor and Autumn’s silver-haired son that she never had the chance to name. You wonder if the struggle goes on in the afterlife. Perhaps presently Otto and Baela are scratching and yowling at each other in a castle made of clouds.

Upstairs, Aemond is already in Aegon’s bedchamber. They are speaking in whispers when you enter, and you catch only pieces of the exchange: capital, Cregan, marriage, Daemon, crown. Larys stands in the corner of the room, his hands laced atop the handle of his cane. He gives you a reverent bow in greeting. He might not be so pleased to see you once he learns what you’ve done.

Aegon stops talking abruptly when he spots you and gestures for Aemond to go quiet as well, a commanding sweep of his hand. Aemond follows his brother’s gaze to the doorway. His lone blue eye climbs up and down you like a man on the rungs of a ladder. His hair is in one thick braid from his flight; stray white-blond strands that have been ripped free hang in disarray around his stoic, unreadable face. Aemond does not bow to you and never will. He only leers, a silver-haired wolf, a hawk with unhollow bones.

“Hello, Angel,” Aegon says, beaming or at least attempting to. He is frail and pallid and too thin and dripping sweat. There are indigo rings around his eyes like bruises. His legs are swollen, grotesque mountain ranges beneath the blankets. You rush to him and sit on the edge of the bed, feeling his forehead for fever and combing your fingers fondly through his hair.

Aemond sighs irritably. “Anyway, I’d like to torture her.”

“My prince…” Larys urges.

Aegon holds up a palm. “Now now, Lord Larys, let’s hear his proposal. Exactly how much do you intend to torture Baela?”

“Quite a bit,” Aemond says.

“To death?” Aegon asks hopefully.

“I don’t see why not.”

“My prince!” Larys says again. “Please, consider the possible ramifications, she is a prisoner of substantial strategic value, if your mother was here she would caution—”

“I’m afraid that Baela can no longer be interrogated,” you confess, and they all turn to you. There is a long, laden pause.

“And why is that?” Aemond says.

“Because she is dead of poisoning.”

“What?!”

“In her cell. Her body is there now. Feed her to Vhagar or Sunfyre, throw her in the sea, do whatever you wish with her. But she has paid her debt for the harm she inflicted upon us.”

Slowly, a grin splits across Aemond’s face. Larys shakes off his shock and resigns himself to it. But Aegon is neither proud nor reconciled. “You did that?” he says softly.

“You wanted Baela dead.”

“Yes, I did. But you don’t take life,” Aegon says, remembering what you once told him in King’s Landing. His oceanic eyes are stunned and fearful; not because Baela is was murdered, but because you were the one to end her. Because until now he was still able to tell himself that you could somehow escape this war unscarred, unruined. “You preserve it.”

“I preserve yours,” you reply. And when you offer him milk of the poppy—with no fear, for you know precisely how much it takes to kill a man—Aegon refuses it again, taking his suffering pure and sharp like the glass of a mirror.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What will happen to him?” Aemond asks you. You’re sitting on the stone staircase together under overcast midday skies, sipping wine and watching Sunfyre amble lethargically up and down the beach. You aren’t sure what’s made him so restless: his own dire injuries, Aegon in torment within the castle walls, something else entirely, some premonition that only beasts of ancient magic know. At last, Sunfyre seems to have exhausted himself and crumples onto the sand.

“I think Aegon will walk again. Eventually.”

“But he won’t be able to fight.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses caustically, glowering out over the ocean.

You look at Aemond, needing to ask but terrified of the answer. “Can you win without him?”

“Can we win, you mean?” He smiles faintly, then sobers again. “I think so. Just before I left the Riverlands to come here, I received reports that Daemon had sent his lowborn little child bride away with Sheepstealer. He is trying to protect her from Rhaenyra’s assassins. My bitch of a half-sister has thus done us a remarkable favor. If Daemon is alone, I have no doubt that Vhagar can slay Caraxes. They say Daemon has fled Harrenhal. He’s hiding from me. I will find him, and I will burn him. I will end this war.”

“You need to be with Criston when his army faces the Northmen.”

“Of course,” Aemond says; but something in his face worries you.

There is a high-pitched shriek overhead, a glimmering flash of vivid gemstone blue. You startle and Aemond’s hand juts out, grabs you by the forearm, yanks you closer to him; then he relaxes when he recognizes who it is.

Aemond sighs loudly. “Why the fuck can’t he stay where he’s supposed to be?!” Then he stands, helps you to your feet while he’s at it, and heads down to the shoreline to meet Daeron and Tessarion.

The Blue Queen circles the beach several times, Daeron peering down as if struggling to understand something, his long white-blond hair whipping in the wind. At last Tessarion lands, her claws sinking into the wet sand, ocean froth bubbling around legs. Her long, swanlike neck stretches out towards Sunfyre, soft inquisitive squeals emanating from her jaws. Daeron leaps down from the saddle and strides to where Sunfyre is sprawled helplessly on the beach.

Alicent’s youngest child is clad in mint green—including a cape that billows out behind him in the seaside breeze—and glinting gold accents everywhere, buckles on his boots and the clasp of his cape and even a freckling of studs in his ears. He props both hands on his waist as he scrutinizes the crippled dragon. “Well, you’re not Moondancer.”

“He ripped Moondancer’s throat out,” Aemond says. “And then he ate her.”

Daeron whistles and gazes at Sunfyre admiringly. “I heard that Baela and Moondancer had taken possession of Dragonstone. I came to murder them. But now I see my services are unnecessary.”

“Baela is dead.” Then Aemond adds, nodding to you: “Here is the executioner.”

Daeron considers you, then laughs and assails you with a spirited embrace that nearly knocks you off your feet. “Welcome to the family, Lady Celtigar.”

“She’s the queen now.”

“Is she?” Daeron asks, eyebrows raised. “I was not under the impression that our brother was in any particular hurry to marry again.”

“His priorities seem to have shifted,” Aemond says.

“Can I see him?” Daeron looks around the beach and then up at the castle, shielding his eyes from the greyscale daylight. “Is he not outside with you? What is he doing in there? Not reciting prayers and composing poetry, I’d imagine.”

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Daeron cannot conceal his shock, his dismay; he gawks at the king like he is a three-legged dog, a blinded orphan. He stands thunderstruck at the end of the bed, taking in the vague yet horrifying outlines of Aegon’s shattered legs, the gauntness of his face, the fact that he is incapable of playing any meaningful role in the war for the foreseeable future. You sit on the bed beside Aegon, Aemond lurks by a window, Larys observes intently from a respectful distance, his eyes following every word as they flit through the air.

When Daeron recovers somewhat, he says: “I need to know what to do about Hammer and Ulf.”

“Why?” Aegon replies wearily. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Apparently, Mother once offered them the seats of House Costayne and House Merryweather as compensation for their efforts on behalf of the Greens, and they accepted. But now that’s suddenly not good enough. They’re asking me for the Riverlands and the Vale.”

Aegon turns to Aemond. “Is there anything left of the Riverlands these days? Should we find a new name for them? The Smolderlands, perhaps? The Everything-Is-Dead-Here-Now-Lands?”

“This is serious,” Aemond says flatly.

“I’m entirely serious.”

“Should I just tell them they can have whatever they want?” Daeron asks. “And then when the war is over and we’ve won…you know…pretend not to remember that conversation?”

“They can’t be given territory of any importance,” Aemond says. “They aren’t nobility.”

Daeron amends: “More relevantly, they are devoid of accountability and self-discipline. They drink all day and whore all night, and…oh, I mean no offense, Your Grace.”

“Fine,” Aegon says, preoccupied. There are fat beads of sweat on his bloodless face, glistening misery in his eyes. He gazes sorrowfully down at his left hand where he once wore his golden dragon ring before he lost it the same day he destroyed his legs. You pour him a cup of red wine and he drains it in seconds. You fill another.

“My point is that Hammer and Ulf are increasingly unreliable. I am only halfway convinced they could even show up for a battle before it was over. And yet we need them. Especially if Sunfyre cannot fight.”

“Agree to their requests,” Aemond says. “And if they survive the war, we will deal with them then. Rhaenyra’s faction is the greater enemy. We cannot risk the Dragonseeds racing back into her arms.”

“Lord Larys?” Aegon prompts dimly

“I could not agree more, Your Grace.”

“And on the subject of Rhaenyra,” Daeron continues. “Tessarion and I can take King’s Landing. Syrax is the only dragon in the city now, and Rhaenyra has never ridden her into combat.”

“No,” Aegon says. “We cannot risk setting the capital ablaze and turning the people against us. And Mother is there. Everett is there.”

“Everett?” Daeron looks around, baffled. “Who the fuck is Everett?”

“Angel’s brother. Not the firstborn son. The other one.” And as Aegon explains this, his chest is heaving and his eyes are glazed over. He tries to reposition himself in bed and has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, hard enough to draw blood.

“Is there anything else?” you ask Daeron and Aemond, a warning in your face. He needs rest. He needs to sleep, to heal.

“No,” Aemond says. He paces towards the door and snatches Daeron’s cape as he passes by him, hauling him out into the hallway. You follow after them.

As soon as he is out of earshot of Aegon’s room, Daeron tells Aemond: “He doesn’t look good.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Aemond, I think you should prepare to—”

“He’ll be fine!” Aemond snaps.

“You don’t think I’m losing something too?” Daeron demands furiously. “You don’t think I want him to be well again? Of course I want that. But if wishing people to live made it possible, the world would be a very different place.”

“You are needed in the Reach,” Aemond says, and that’s all.

Daeron glares up at him, incredulous, defiant. “This will be over soon. I hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

Then he storms out of the castle, soars down the long stone staircase, meets Tessarion on the windswept beach and takes flight into the southwest where the earth is green but the nights are an inescapable, dreamless black.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aegon is weeping again; you hear him from the hallway. It is after nightfall, and the castle is illuminated only by firelight. Candles flicker; the hearth crackles and pops. In the shadows, Aegon lies with his dragonfire scars and his fractured legs and his useless hereditary magic, tears streaming down his face. You have a vision of what he will look like when he’s dead; you imagine the Stranger reaching up from underneath the bed to seize him with claws like a raven’s talons and drag him out of existence.

“I need it,” Aegon sobs when he sees you, grasping for the glass bottle of milk of the poppy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to need it, but I do.”

“I’m here, Aegon. It’s alright. Let me help.” You pour him a cup of the bitter remedy, a strange gleaming white like pearl, opal, moonstone. Then you tilt the cup against his lips. Aegon gulps down the milk of the poppy and then falls back into his sea of pillows.

He murmurs, eyes closed as you graze the backs of your fingers feather-lightly over his unmarred cheek: “I wanted to start over with you.”

“You’ll still get the chance.”

“No,” he whimpers miserably. “I ruin everyone. Everyone I’m given, everyone I touch. Helaena, Jaehaerys, Maelor. We don’t even know where Jaehaera is, in Storm’s End, lost on the road, taken captive, dead. Otto, Autumn, Aemond, Mother, Sunfyre. And now I’m ruining you too.”

“You’re not,” you plead with him in a whisper. And not for the first time, you think: What do you require from me, Aegon? Wrath, compassion, healing, children? What can I do to give you hope again? Tell me and it’s yours. I’d do anything. I’d become anyone. “Aegon?” you begin, trying to ask him; but he is already unconscious. He’ll likely be out until sunrise.

You drink cup after cup of red wine and sit in the flame-lit shadows with him, in the quiet, in the liminal space between decisions, envisioned sins and prospective virtues. Then you leave the bedchamber like a ghost, a creak here and a tap there and no other trace. You wander down long, twisting corridors framed by dragons of iron and stone. And at the other end of the castle beyond a door you’ve never opened before is the lair of a very different breed of dragon: tall and lean and ambitious, his eyepatch removed and stowed away for the evening, his long silver hair hanging freely to his waist.

He is wearing cotton sleeping trousers but nothing else. He is seated at his writing desk and scrawling something onto parchment in black ink, a list or a diagram or a design for a new crown upon his ascension to the throne, you don’t know and you have no intention of asking. You have far too many things on your mind already. You feel nauseous and unsteady, you feel like you can’t possibly go through with this. You can’t imagine it. You can’t fathom what he would feel like, taste like.

Aemond steals a nonchalant glimpse of you, having no sense of your inner turmoil. “Can I assist you with something?”

“Yes,” you say simply, sipping your wine under the stone arch of the doorway.

He looks up at you again, his quill suddenly still in his hand. His two eyes are on you, one wide and river-blue, the other a soulless glittering sapphire in a tangle of ruined flesh. And now he understands. There are other Targaryens, he had said. “Take off your clothes. Sit down on the bed.”

You step inside his bedchamber and close the door behind you, setting your empty cup on the edge of his writing desk. You walk to his bed—dark green blankets, gold thread—and shed each piece of clothing you have on, a black gown and everything under it, not looking to see if Aemond is watching you, too anxious, trembling wildly. But you know his gaze is on you when you—standing naked and shivering in the firelight—begin to pull back the blankets and hear the sharp reprove in his voice.

“I did not tell you to hide yourself from me,” Aemond says. “Sit at the edge. Yes, there. Good.”

You perch on the bed and wait for him, your ankles linked, legs swinging restlessly, arms crossed over your chest. Aemond is staring at you from the opposite end of the room. You can’t look at him; you look elsewhere, at the tapestries of dragons hanging from the drafty stone walls, at the thick candles that drip white wax. And this won’t be like lying with a stranger, but it won’t be like lying with someone you want either, because you are profoundly uneasy and monstrously ashamed and perhaps even afraid.

Aemond is approaching now, firelight skating over his smooth, unsinged skin. He is undoing the tie at the waist of his trousers. He yanks them off, revealing himself to you. He is already hard, and he is massive, vast in length and width. The panic hits you like a breaking wave.

“Oh,” you gasp in alarm, unable to stop yourself. Then you explain so he won’t be offended: “I’m not going to be able to take you if I’m not ready.” You rest a hand on your bare thigh, slip it between your legs, begin to stroke yourself the way Aegon does, trying to relax, trying to think of him…

“No,” Aemond says, moving your hand aside. “Let me.”

Obediently, you rest your palms just behind you on the mattress, open your thighs for him, inhale sharpy as Aemond’s long, artful fingers touch you somewhere only one other man ever has. And you’re a traitor, the worst kind of traitor, because it’s working: you can feel yourself opening for him, hungering for him, coating his hand in slick warm wetness.

Aemond isn’t looking at your face. His eye is fixed on the place where his fingers are circling, where he is now pushing two inside of you, and while it happens abruptly and roughly enough to startle you it is not quite painful, or maybe it is, just the tiniest bit, but the pleasure eclipses the pain, the pleasure is a current you are powerless to swim against.

“You can tell me to stop,” Aemond says as he strokes you from the inside with his fingers buried to the knuckles, his breathing labored. “I don’t want you to. But if you tell me to stop, I’ll listen. Okay?”

You nod, and instead of an answer you give him a moan, stifled but unmistakable, dark treasonous forbidden ecstasy. And this snaps something in Aemond, it unleashes a part of him he’d been keeping tied up like an untrustworthy animal, one that could maul or maim or kill. He drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your thighs, drags you to him until his lips and tongue are on you with dizzyingly blissful pressure. You fall back onto the bed, one hand twisting into the blankets, the other in his waterfall of unruly silver hair, pushing him even harder against you as he licks ravenously. Aemond doesn’t seem to mind; with each roll of your hips and bitten-back plea his enthusiasm blooms, hums and triumphant chuckles spilling from his mouth as he swallows down the proof of your desire. It’s starting, that swift climb towards a high like nothing else on earth, something Aegon once taught you was possible. You are a betrayer, but with the very best of intentions; you are making a sacrifice, but it feels so much like a gift.

“Aemond, I’m ready,” you pant, your fingers hopelessly knotted in his hair. “You can do it now, you can…” And then you lose your words because instead of rising to his feet, Aemond stays right where he is, his tongue insatiable, his face drenched in your wetness.

He’s going to make me…I’m so close…

“Aemond, what are you waiting for…?”

His lips close around the spot where you are most sensitive and he sucks forcefully, and that feeling like a shuddering, irresistible unravelling strikes you harder and faster than it ever has before, so intense it is almost painful, sharp and commanding, not something he is doing with you but to you, and you know even in the golden haze of the climax that this is not about love but about power, pride, control, worthiness.

He doesn’t stop. He is licking you again, opening your folds with one hand, thrusting two fingers inside of you with the other. You are still feeling the pulsing, involuntary aftershocks of one high when the next begins building, building, building, and when you close your eyes all you can see are waves on the ocean in a storm, swelling to impossible heights and ungoverned by anything except the dubious mercy of nature.

“Aemond please,” you beg in a frayed whisper, bathed in sweat and guilt and frenzied lust. “I’m ready. Just do it, please…”

And then he wrenches you into another vortex and it takes everything in you not to scream, not to jolt awake the skeleton crew that tends to Dragonstone and its surreptitious guests. You are beyond complete thoughts, beyond sentences. You are boneless, your muscles have turned to mist and air, you are entirely under Aemond’s control and that’s where he has wanted you all along.

“Aemond, please, please, please…”

Unable to resist any longer, he stands—wiping the glistening, dripping sheen from his face with the back of one hand—and forces his cock inside you to the hilt. He does not slow down when he meets resistance, and you don’t tell him to. You moan in shock at the disorienting fullness, you cannot help it; it is a feeling on the knife’s edge between ripping agony and euphoric pleasure. It is something you would gratefully die of. He moves within you, deep and quick, his hands clasping your hips. Emotionally, you feel nothing but a razored, perilous, impersonal intensity; in your body, it is paradise.

Again? Again…?!

“Are you going to come for me one more time, Angel?” Aemond taunts you as he thrusts; and that’s Aegon’s name for you that he’s using, and it’s wrong, and Aemond knows that, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to break the spell he’s got you under, you can’t tell him to stop, you don’t have the will to, and if this is about power then you know who’s won out of the three of you, you know who has steel in his bones and lightning cracking in his veins.

It’s different this time, pleasure rising like the tide in your whole body, a peak that is not concentrated so clearly between your legs but everywhere: fingertips, spine, belly, heart.

“Come for me, Angel. I know you can do it.” And then for the first time Aemond leans in close to you, his pristine scarless chest pressed to yours, his lips traveling from your throat to the curve of your jaw, his tongue darting into your mouth before you can turn away, and he tastes like pure, mineral lust, and maybe that’s not just because of what he’s done to you, maybe that’s all he is all the way down, hunger that is never satisfied, a need to consume like fire burns flesh.

You whimper, a desperate vulnerable sound, a pleading for him to finish what he’s started and give you this one last high, just one more, just one, please, please, you’ll do anything.

“I’m better than him, aren’t I?” Aemond demands as he fucks you, and there’s no other word for it. This isn’t making love, this isn’t a meeting of souls, it is using someone else’s body to patch up all your hollows, all the pinprick voids you’ve been walking around with for years, losing yourself one blooddrop at a time until you pass by a mirror one day and think who the hell is that? “I know how to take care of you. I know what you want. I can do things Aegon never could. I’ll make you come again. I’ll give you a prince.”

And he coaxes it out of you like the memory of a dream, more like an ether than something you could name: a shimmering elation all over, a cry you can only muffle by biting down on Aemond’s neck as he pounds into you, and then he at last he surrenders what you came here for, but only after all the rest of it. He fills you with himself, so much of it that you can feel it pouring out onto the blankets, immense flooding wet warmth that gives you no satisfaction whatsoever.

I’m a traitor, you think, and for all the times you’ve changed your skin this is the very worst of them. I shouldn’t have done this. I wish I hadn’t done this.

Aemond lifts himself off of you and rolls onto his back, panting alongside you as you both stare up at the ceiling, drenched in each other’s salt and knowing things that were once so unthinkable. Aemond is gazing over at you. His clear blue eye is tracing your lips, your breasts, your hips, your folds that are soaked with his sweat and seed. You don’t want him watching you. You feel sick knowing he’s watching you. You get up from the bed and begin putting on your gown.

Aemond says: “We should probably try again tomorrow.”

You shake your head. “I can’t,” you reply quietly.

He sits up on the bed, his lone eye narrowed and suspicious. His hair is damp and now flows over his shoulders in disheveled silvery waves. “What?”

“I can’t do this again. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s it,” Aemond flings. “Just this once and never again. Never again in our whole goddamn lives.”

“It feels like betraying him. It is betraying him.”

“And what if he can’t father any more children?!”

“Then I’ll be barren.”

Aemond glares, petulant, affronted. “I thought you wanted to help this family.”

“You didn’t do this for your family. You did it for you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m a fucking monster.” He tears off the bed, tugs on his trousers, ties the knot with swift furious hands.

“Aemond, I didn’t say that, I don’t think—”

“You’ve done enough,” he seethes, pawing through a chest of clothing. He finds a shirt and pulls it on, gathers up his things, rages to the bedchamber door. He whips it open and disappears into the nightscape corridor.

“Aemond!” you call after him in a fierce whisper, as loudly as you dare to. “Aemond, where are you going?!”

“To take Harrenhal,” he pitches over his shoulder. And then he’s gone, and maybe it’s your fault, and maybe it isn’t, but either way you are wholly convinced that it is.

You bathe in one of the massive tubs heated by the lava that runs deep beneath the rocky earth of the island, scouring away every trace of Aemond, lathering yourself with soap scented with pine, rinsing, lathering again. Still, you can feel the way he moved inside you with such battering, rapturous force. Still, you miss him, you miss being able to talk to him and look to him and trust that he will protect Aegon in every way he can, for no matter how much envy Aemond is built of you believe his love for his king is stronger.

You return to Aegon’s bed, always so careful now not to jostle his legs, his shattered bones that are only just beginning to mend. You are petrified that he will know somehow—that he will see it on your face, smell it sweating from your pores—but Aegon has nothing for you but seeking hands and contented, drowsy sighs.

“Where’d you go?” he mumbles, still half-asleep, drawing you in closer. “I missed you. I keep dreaming that everyone’s gone. I watch you walk through the doorway and I’m left here in bed all alone.”

“Aegon?”

“Yes, wife.”

“Do you need children with me to be happy?”

He waits a long time before he answers. When at last he does, he chooses each word carefully. “I have never felt a calling to be a father. I’ve never been any good at it. Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, Maelor…they were mine, but they also weren’t, and I can’t explain it. I felt nothing for them except a vague sort of sympathy that they had the misfortune of being born to me. Now, did a lot of that have to do with my relationship with Helaena? Probably. And do I think things would be different if I had children with you? Yes, I believe they would be, to some extent at least. But I don’t need children to be happy. I just need you.”

You say with tears in your eyes and your voice splintering: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

He is mystified. “For what?”

“For not being a better person for you. For not being able to cure or protect you. For not being able to end the war.”

“Angel, nobody can,” Aegon says, fingers snarled in your hair, lips to your forehead. Then he smiles; you can feel the warm, playful curl of it against your skin. “Well, except Aemond, of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~

She is there to greet him when he arrives. She creeps out of the shadows like a spider, long limbs and volcanic-glass eyes, whispers like wind in brittle fall leaves and flesh that will never refuse him. She wears black, not for one night like you did but always; she has long dark hair that she never cuts or braids or ties back. Sometimes there are raven feathers in it, sometimes herbs or powders from spells, sometimes twigs and petals, sometimes blood. It all washes out in the cold cryptic currents of the Gods Eye. Once Daemon Targaryen was here, but he did not have a wound in the shape that she could fill, could walk into like a doorway and stitch herself into the velvet-gore lining of his lungs, his liver, his heart. But now Daemon is gone. And Harrenhal has a new king to reign over the city of bones and ashes.

She meets him under the starlight that trickles in through the ruins of Harrenhal, less a castle than an architectural graveyard, less a place of beginnings than of calamitous ends. Her fingernails trace his scar and she tells him it is the mark of a hero. She touches her lips to his sapphire eye and tells him it reminds her of a god. And thus the doorway opens, and Alys drifts through it, silent and resistless like smoke, like a plague.

Perpetual Resurrection, Aemond thinks. He knows they are the words of House Celtigar. He has studied the mottos of every noble house in Westeros; but none speak to him more than these.

She touches him and he sees everything he could be. He tastes her lips and drinks down the smooth intoxicating fire that burns the boy he once was away.

[eymie]

YES PT 2 PLSSSS

ofccc i’ve been literally thinking about this TOO much. i need to write it, even tho i have like 10 drafts half written (oops😋)

part one

REAL LOVE BABY !

warnings: fluff, smut, kissing, oral (f. receiving), fingering, handjob, riding (barely), missionary, loss of virginity, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), body worship, praise, dirty talk

Billy did ride down to your family’s farm not too long after that. A few days after he hadn’t seen you in town. He knew he was in the right place when he saw Aspen in the pasture.

You were just up the dusty road, brushing one of your ponies. She was a light beige with a braided white mane. But here he was looking at you, your clothes were a bit dusty and more leisurely than how he saw you in town. Trousers without a skirt on top, different than how you’d go out in public.

His horse trotted up the road to your barn. You turned to see Billy, startling you a bit.

“Billy, you startled me.” You said with a laugh, holding your chest. He laughed a bit back, dismounting his horse. “I was gonna come to town.”

“The old butcher kind of hinted me this way.” He admitted, rubbing the side of his horse. You dropped your brush into a bucket, opening a gate to let your pony into the pasture. “Hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all.” You walk over to Billy, running your hand along his horse, admiring its spotted pattern. “A pinto?”

Billy nodded, patting his horse. He was proud of her, she’d been good to him for the past while.

“She a beauty.” You admitted, pulling one of your sugar cubes out of your pocket. “Can I?”

“Of course, she don’t get much of those.” You then grab a second one as a treat, putting your hand out to his horse. “I think she likes you.”

“What about you?” You pet his horse as she ate the sugar cubes from your hand, rubbing behind her ear.

“Well, are you gonna let me get to know you?” He asked, a sincere look in his eyes. He tilted his head waiting for your answer.

“I’m not telling you to leave, am I?” You step a bit closer to Billy, a little bit of tension in the air. He smiled down at you, prettiest smile you’ve ever seen. His gun still holstered to his pants.

“Reckon I’ll stay then.”

Billy came by a lot more after that. He’d stop you when you were in town, almost making you forget what you needed in the first place. Coming to your egg and milk stand even if he didn’t need any because you gave him plenty free of charge. He helped you with the horses, taught you how to handle a gun. You really did like him.

He hadn’t come seen you in a while and by now you knew he was an outlaw with a bounty to his head. You assumed he was dead or ran from town.

He didn’t tell you what he’d done to get this bounty to his name, the only way you knew was from the posters in town.

You were grabbing hay from the loft when you heard a creek behind you, you turn around stumbling to the ground. Looking up to see a familiar face.

“Hey, didn’t mean to scare you there.” You took a breath of relief as you saw Billy come up the stairs. Your heart rate slowed back down as he pulled you back to your feel. “Thought you saw a ghost or something?”

“Pretty much.” You wrapped your arms around him, confusing him. He slowly wraps his arms around your lower waist embracing you. “Thought you were dead, Billy”

“I’m right here, aren’t I?” He laughs letting go of you. You lean up catching off guard, pressing your lips to him. His hands grab your hips, stumbling backwards a bit.

You pulled back, looking him in the eyes embarrassed but he looked back down at yours laced with passion.

“I’m sorry, jus’ missed you.” His hand traces your jaw, caressing your cheek. Leaning back down to kiss you, a little more gentle this time. Your hands pressed against his firm chest, standing on your tippy toes to reach him.

He pulled away, his lips still brushing yours as you leant against him. “Missed you too.”

“Don’t go leaving me again.” Your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt. He looked down at you, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“M’sorry, didn’t mean to.” His voice was soft, soothing your surge of emotions. You stepped back from him, giving him a few inches of space. “Don’t go running from me now?”

“Billy, you’re all I think about.” You admitted to him, his blue eyes filling with want. His hand found yours, pulling it to his chest. “You don’t get it.”

“No, no I get it.” He rambles, pulling you back closer to him. His nose brushing against yours. You feel his heart pounding against where he holds your hand. “You think I didn’t want to be here every dying second, I couldn’t stand not seeing you for a few weeks.”

“What happened Billy?” You pleaded, begging for a reason. You watch as his he swallows harshly. He shakes his head, looking away from your pleading eyes.

“Doesn’t matter, I’m here now.” He didn’t like being dishonest with you or keeping secrets, but he didn’t want his innocent girl knowing about his crimes. Tainting your kind view of the word and who he was.

“Did you miss me? Or am I reading us wrong?” You ask, fingers entwining with his as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Reading us wrong? Baby, I’m in love.” He pressed his lips back to yours, kissing you with all he had in him. His passion and hunger. His tongue sliding past yours lips, pressing and sliding against yours. Your breaths were heavy when he pulled away, kissing the corner of your morn and then cheek. “Every part of you.”

“Billy,” You whisper his name like an oath, threading your hands in his brown locks. “Every night, day, morning, you’re all that’s on mind. The second I wake up, it’s just you.”

“Good,” He mumbles against your lips, unable to pull away from your touch. He looks at you, wishing he could see all of you. “What about me do you think about?”

“Your face, how pretty you are.” You whisper embarrassed, pulling away from his slightly. His lips part leaning in for another kiss but you pull back. “Your voice, your eyes, your touch, how I want to feel all of you against me. The way you make me feel hot when I feel your skin against mine. When you look at me and I feel all funny.”

He pressed kisses to your neck, making you feel hot between your legs. He noticed when your thighs clench together, nipping at the skin of your neck. His hands pulled your body flush against yours.

“Me too, baby.” He mumbles into your skin, pulling away to see your flushed face. Your eyes begging for him to touch you. You look down as his thumb sinks past the waist band of your trousers. “Do you want me like I want you?”

You nodded, allowing his fingers to unbutton your trousers. Your hands pulled his suspenders off his shoulders. Then travelling to unbutton his shirt one by one.

“Billy, do you want this?” Your eyes pleading with approval, he was quick to nod.

“Yes, so bad. All I’ve ever wanted since I saw you.” Your heartbeat quickens at his confession. You pull his shirt off his torso, kissing his bare chest. Kissing and sucking his pale skin, leaving a small trail of bruises. “H-have you done this?”

You shook your head as you let him pull down your trousers, kicking them off to the ground beside you. His hands kneading the fat of your hips.

“Does that matter to you?” He reassuringly caresses your cheek, brushing your hair away from your face again.

“Jus’ don’t wanna hurt you.” He softly kisses your bottom lip, mumbling incoherent against it. “Don’t wanna break something so perfect, so delicate.”

“You won’t, not made of glass.” He laughs against your lips, fingers sliding down to unbutton your blouse. You help pull the rest of it off, leaving you in your undergarments. The air suddenly felt cold as his breath caught. “What is it?”

“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He tilts your head up to look him in the eyes. He slowly pushing you against a wooden beam in the hayloft. “Bet you taste so sweet.”

“Billy what’re you doin’?” You watch as he falls to his knees, hands caressing your thighs, pulling down your undergarments. “I thoug—“

“Shhh, let me taste you.” You lift your legs to help him take off the last of your clothing. You close your eyes as he places hot kisses up your thigh, his hand pulled your leg over his shoulder.

You opened your eyes, looking down at him between your legs, his blue eyes piercing yours. He presses his hot tongue to your wet folds, your jaw dropping to let out a breathless gasp. Your fingers entwining into his hair, nails digging into his scalp emitting a groan from him. His lips wrapping around your clit making you lean your head back against the post.

“F-fuck, Billy.” You whined, looking down at his hungry eyes. His large hand kneading your skin as you licked at your folds. His tongue pushing past your entrance, thrusting in and out. “Oh my god.”

Your hands tugged at his messy hair causing him to groan into your pussy. His muffled noises vibrating into you. His thumb presses circles to your clit, whimpers emitting from your lips.

Your nails scratch into his scalp as he presses two fingers past your entrance, slowly stretching out your untouched pussy. The burn of the stretch causing to cry out his name.

“Shh, you’re doing so good.” He praised, mumbling words into your thigh. His fingers curled, reaching a spot inside you that made your back arch off the beam. “Yeah, just like that baby.”

“Billy, feels weird.” You whine, hips jerking against his hand. Your stomach felt tight like a wire about to snap. He made sure to grind his palm into your swollen clit while his fingers curled inside you. Your pussy squelched every time he thrusted his fingers back inside, your wetness coating his thick fingers.

“Come for me, be a good girl and come for me.” He pleaded, staring at you as the pitch of your moans picked up. You squeezed your eyes shut, hips bucking against his hand as the wire inside you snapped. “That’s it, feels good?”

You gasp as you recover from your orgasm, Billy pulling his fingers from you, placing them in his mouth. You watch Billy suck your juices off his finger on his knees under you. He lifts your leg off his shoulder, standing up to tower back over you.

“You taste so good, wanna try?” You didn’t get to answer before his mouth was on you. Your taste on his tongue invading your wanting mouth. You wished you could taste him too.

“Billy,” You push him back towards a stack of hay, pushing him to sit down. You straddle his lap, pulling off the garment covering your breasts. His tongue immediately circling your hard nipples, his hands fondling where his tongue wasn’t exploring. Your wet pussy pressed against the rough fabric of his pants. His painful erection pressing into your clit. “I wanna feel you.”

“Feel me then,” He responded into your chest. Pulling your hips onto him. Your shaking hands go to unbutton his pants, slowing pulling down the zipper. He lifts his hips for you pull down his pants and zipper. You nearly whined when you saw his length.

“Billy— How’s it going to…” His hands rub soothing circles on your back. His lips still kissing along your chest.

“Gotta be slow, it’ll fit just fine.” You nodded, wrapping your fingers around his cock. He was long, really long. You didn’t really know how big they were supposed to be but Billy’s was pretty. The way it slightly curved up, precum dribbling from his pink tip. You ran your thumb along the vein protruding from the side. “Oh— god.”

You looked down at his reaction, slowly stroking him up and down. He groaned into your breasts, teeth grazing your nipple.

“You like that Billy?” He nodded, mumbling ‘yes’ into you. You quickened your action, stroking him a bit fast. You ran your thumb across the tip smearing his precum around his tip. “Tell me.”

“God— if you keep that up I won’t last long.” He groaned leaning his head back, his breathing picking up. “I thought this was your first time.”

“It is,” You experimentally twist your wrist, a cracked moan escaping his swollen lips. Bucking his hips into your hand. “Billy, do it for me.”

“No, wanna be inside you.” He grabs your wrist pulling your hand from his cock. You whine, frustrated and wanting to see him fall apart. “Easy girl.”

Billy was kind of controlling the way he took your hips in his hands, guiding you onto his cock. He guided it to your entrance for you, slowly pulling you down on his cock. You jaw went slack at the stretch, your nails digging into his biceps.

“You wanna stop, just tell me.” He holds your hips letting you adjust to him. You leaned over to hide your face in his neck while your cunt adjusted to his girth.

“No, keep going, I can take it.” Was all you mumbled into his neck that was coherent. His hands pulled your hips down until there wasn’t a slither of space between you two.

His hands grabbed at the flesh of your ass, pulling you a few inches before pulling you back down. You were tight and so fucking warm. The way you wrapped around him made his brain go fuzzy. You allowed him to control your movements until you got acquainted to the feel, it wasn’t much different than cantering.

“Fuck—just like that.” You placed your hands on his shoulders, bouncing your hips up and down. The noises leaving his lips were like honey. He kissed along your jaw trying to distract himself from how you felt so good, better than anyone before. “So tight.”

“Billy,” You moan his name, grind your hips down on his cock. His thumb rolled lazy circles around your clit making your legs shake. Your legs got sore fast and it didn’t go unnoticed by Billy.

He pushed you over onto your back, pushing his cock back into your gushing cunt. You begged him over and over, ‘faster’. “Taking me so well, sweet girl.”

Your back arched off the hay that dug into your skin. His thumb rubbed faster against your clit, leggings shaking as they wrapped around his torso.

“You’re close, almost there.” His lips trailed her neck, free hand pressing against her breasts as they bounced with each of his thrusts. He mumbled praises into her skin. “So beautiful.”

“Billy, so big.” You mewl, his tip brushing your cervix with each thrust. Your hips bucking against him as you took each of his harsh thrusts. “M’gonna—“

“That’s it, come on my cock.” He kept his pacing, sucking dark bruises into your neck. Claiming you as his girl. “You gonna come for me?”

You nodded as you felt your body go hot, your cum coating his cock as he fucked you through your orgasm. Your nails left deep red scratches down his back.

“That’s it, there’s my girl.” He pulled out, stroking his cock until his cum spilled onto the hay and your thighs.

You laid breathless letting the hay scratch at your skin. Billy panted against your neck, hands caressing your sides.

“Not leaving again anytime soon.”

masterlist

[xinganhao]

hiii user xinganhao!! not sure if you're a xdinary heroes fan, butttt i'm trying to look for some gunil fluff fics and i cant find any rlly good ones so can you give some recommendations? and maybe some wonwoo fics?? alsooo!! i luv your work^^ you're such a good writer!! can't find any good writers aside from you so can you recco some good writers too?? they don't have to be like your work, at this point i'm just longing for good writers and not those "jeon jungkook x reader, a alpha male wolf and a tiny little kitty" kinda things... sorry to disturb your time!!

hi, anon! thank you so much for appreciating my writing (´◡`) this ask honestly couldn't have come at a more opportune time, because recently i've fallen WAYYY back into my xdh rabbit hole? (i'm a predebut villain + also gunil biased! omg) i'm still looking for more xdh writers to read, but i'll try to get back to you when i find something that catches my eye <3

on the topic of wonwoo fics & good writers, here's some of my current favorites:

my favorite wonwoo fluff is this drabble by fxstpace. i read it when i first joined svtblr around october and i haven't stopped thinking of it at all + aspen's spider-man!sunghoon singlehandedly dragged me back into my engene brainrot

wonustars' in front of me (pt. one + pt. two) is a body of work that characterizes wonwoo so, so well. i'll rave about anna's writing for days. i swear

cxffecoupx currently has THE cutest winter wonderland collection for all your christmassy vibes! ris' first snow with jihoon is my favorite ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡

genuinely convinced that kkaetnipjeon's stuff to talk about is one of the best mingyu pieces i've read,, loved everything about it!! i am still going insane over it!!

i want it on record (pun intended) that diamonddaze01's f1 driver!jeonghan au has me on my knees. on the record & off the record have me clawing at the walls of my enclosure,, tara. when i catch you tara.

sorry if this isn't necessarily the xdh recs you were looking for, anon, but trust that there's a lot of writers worth looking into! if you ever find xdh/gunil work, pleaseee slide into my inbox again lmao. i need that man so bad (´•̥̥̥ ‸ •̥̥̥`✿)