#anyway this is gonna be such a sweet thread i can feel it in my bones

[velarisdusk]

This Tempest, Ours

Rhysand x Reader

summary: On a rare night alone in the House of Wind, the worst storm in decades strikes. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t make you so uneasy. Luckily, the House isn’t as empty as you thought. word count: 11.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, there's only one sleeping bag, y/n is scared of storms, very briefly insinuated tamlin x reader, daemati-use, wet dreams, lovemaking for the most part but we get rough for a sec ] author's note: we’re gonna assume mental shields stay up during sleep…. yeah... ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ midnight essence infused with a veil of dreammist & a dash of blaze enhanced with lover's knot & starlight crystals stirred thank you anon for the request!!!! i'm finding i really enjoy writing friends to lovers this is so sweet :") anyway i hope you like this one!! <33

The cold in the Winter Court didn’t seep into your bones—it gnawed at them. Gnawed like it had teeth and purpose and the unrelenting patience of a predator that knew you’d wear down eventually.

You’d stopped pretending to sleep an hour ago, after the lantern blew out. The wind outside the tent moaned like a creature in mourning, threading through the seams and catching in the corners of the thin canvas until it felt like the whole thing might lift and carry you off with it. You pressed deeper into the bundled cloak beneath you, trying not to shiver too obviously. You failed.

You were wrapped in more layers than you could count—thermal base, thick wool, a coat heavy enough to double as a blanket—but it still wasn’t enough. Even Rhys, normally indifferent to climate or discomfort, had resorted to cloaks and furs, the sharp line of his jaw the only part of him visible from beneath the hood pulled low. 

Behind you, Rhysand exhaled, sharp and irritated. “You’re shaking so hard I can feel it through the ground.”

You didn’t open your eyes. “You always this broody when you’re forced to keep all that power on a leash?”

A beat. Then—“Keep talking and I’ll show you how not broody I can be.”

You snorted, cracking open one eye. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“I’m cold. I’m tired. I haven’t let my magic out at all in twelve days. Give me a break.”

You finally rolled over to face him, the dim moonlight filtering through the tent’s fabric casting his features in pale blue and silver. There was a tension around his mouth, in the fine line between his brows. He hadn’t looked truly relaxed since your boots first crunched through the snow at the border. 

The artifact—known only in whispers as the amulet of Larethine—was said to suppress magic so completely that even a High Lord’s power would snuff out like a candle. Rumored to have vanished after the war centuries ago, it resurfaced in scattered reports. They all pointed to the same abandoned temple buried somewhere in the Winter Court’s northern edge, where the snowfall was so constant it blanketed even sound. Rhysand intended to retrieve it quietly—before word spread and the wrong hands reached it first. So here you were. Nearly two weeks with no magic, no contact, no help. Just the two of you, and a map worn soft at the creases.

Rhysand’s power coiled beneath his skin like a thing alive, begging to be freed. But Kallias’ wards draped over the court like a net of ice, intricate and merciless. The second he even brushed the world with a tendril of it, you’d be caught.

You hadn’t expected it to wear on him like this. 

“Your pack,” he said after a pause. “Still soaked?”

You winced, remembering the misstep near the creek a few days ago, then nodded. He shifted. “Come here.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your pack, and everything in it—including your sleeping bag—is useless. It won’t dry in this weather. Either we share mine or I watch you freeze to death. I vote the former.”

You hesitated, the silence between you swelling into something tight and uncertain. But then another gust of wind screamed past the tent, and pride gave way to practicality. 

“Fine.”

You crawled across the narrow space and slipped into the sleeping bag beside him. It was cramped—painfully so—and the moment you settled, his body pressed to yours, impossibly warm. You turned onto your side instinctively, back to his chest. You could feel every breath he took, feel the slow thump of his heart against your spine, the barest hint of muscle shifting when his hand curved around your middle, settling just beneath the edge of your ribs, his palm held steady against you.

Behind you, something rustled, and then the faint brush of membrane—Rhys shifting, one wing sliding from the sleeping bag in a slow stretch over you. 

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered. “That thing freezes and falls off, we’re really fucked.”

He snorted quietly. “It has excellent circulation, thanks.”

“Put it away.”

Another rustle of fabric as he tucked the wing back inside.

“Warmer now?” he said dryly. 

“Mm.”

The silence this time wasn’t uncomfortable. You listened to the wind, to the soft crinkle of fabric with each small movement, to the quiet hum of his presence behind you. It was startling, how much space he took up without speaking, how much lighter the silence felt now that he was pressed against you. 

His breath stirred at the hair at your nape. You tensed, then forced yourself to relax again, inching away a fraction. He followed. 

“Rhys.”

“What.”

“You’re breathing on my neck.”

A pause. Then, shamelessly: “It’s where your neck is.”

You huffed, and he chuckled—a rare sound lately. Low and warm, it rolled through your back where your bodies touched, and you had to fight not to smile. 

After a long moment, his voice came again, quieter. 

“We’ll find it tomorrow.”

You gave a small nod, felt more than seen.

He shifted behind you, the subtle movement bringing his chest closer to your back, breath skimming your hair. “Then we get out. We go home.”

You let out a quiet breath, just enough to fog the air in front of you.

“You always this optimistic at night?”

He hummed low in his throat. “Maybe you bring it out in me.”

That pulled a small, tired smile from you.

“Must be the frostbite. You’re delirious.”

His fingers flexed slightly where they rested at your waist.

“Mm. That, or the cold makes me honest.”

Something in your chest ached—not sharp, but deep. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle soft around you.

Sleep found you curled into his warmth, his hand resting at your waist, his breath a gentle rhythm against your skin. And in the morning, with the air sharp in your lungs and the scent of pine still clinging to the chill, that warmth lingered over your skin.

The cold in the Winter Court hadn’t gone with the morning light. You’d found Larethine two days after that—tucked beneath the roots of an ancient ice-locked tree, a whisper of power veined through crystal. The mission had ended days later in a quiet exhale, a long journey home trailing behind it. It had been nearly three weeks since then. Long enough for bruises to fade, for muscle to stop aching.

Still, the cold seemed to have burrowed itself into your bones, the bite of it still there, even in the warmth of your bed in the City of Starlight. 

You woke to the sound of wind clawing at the windows. A storm, full and furious, had settled over Velaris—the kind that turned the Sidra restless and made even the stars hide. Thunder cracked a beat later, loud enough to shake the walls.

Your heart was already racing, breath shallow and tight, at odds with the warmth wrapped around you. You lay there a moment, still and listening, the storm rattling through your bones like it had teeth again. They’d always scraped at your nerves, left them humming like struck strings. 

The covers were a tangled mess around your hips, shoved down in sleep. Your T-shirt had ridden up high, bunched beneath your ribs, and when you looked down, you caught a glimpse of bare stomach, underwear, the slope of one thigh kicked over the sheets. You shifted, tugged the hem back down, fingers moving slow and clumsy like they weren’t entirely yours.

You remembered bits and pieces of the dream, not that it’d been much different from the others you’d had since that night. Tonight, he hadn’t been content just to hold you. His hands wandered. His mouth dragged slowly over your skin, coaxing sounds you’d never let slip in daylight. You woke slick between your thighs, the ache lodged deep and stubborn. 

Another crash of thunder rolled across the rooftops. You pushed the blankets off and swung your legs over the side of the bed. The house was magicked to stay warm; your skin was slick with sweat, and still, you felt chilled. 

You didn’t think about it. Didn’t bother with pants or slippers. Just padded into the hall in your T-shirt—soft, worn thin, hem brushing mid-thigh and swaying with every step.

The storm pressed against the glass. The quiet inside felt louder for it.

You moved through it automatically, headed for the kitchen. The house was still, shadows long and familiar, but your mind had already drifted somewhere else—somewhere colder.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. Maybe you’d tried to. Maybe you’d told yourself it hadn’t meant anything. But your body remembered. Before your thoughts could catch up, your body remembered—his warmth at your back, the weight of his hand at your waist, the breath at your neck.

That same tension had curled beneath your skin now. You hadn’t realized you missed it until it came back.

The air had gone heavy the moment he touched you, and you hadn’t breathed properly since. You hated how your body still reacted—like it didn’t care what your mind had decided. Like it knew better.

Maybe it did.

You reached the stairs and took them without thought, one hand trailing the banister. The house didn’t creak beneath you. Even your own footsteps felt hesitant, like they didn’t want to disturb the memory.

You’d spent weeks pretending it hadn’t changed anything. That you were still the same. That he was.

You stepped into the kitchen without turning on the faelights. The storm outside pressed at the windows, a steady beat of rain—or maybe snow—smeared against the glass in streaks. Slush, probably.

You moved on instinct, pulled the kettle from its place, filled it from the tap. The cool weight of it settled in your hands, grounding—but not enough.

You set it on the stove and twisted the knob, a faint click giving way to the low hum of magic-warmed coils. Still, your thoughts refused to quiet.

You’d been telling yourself you hadn’t wanted it. That it had just happened. But you remembered leaning into him. You remembered the way your body had reacted—eager, instinctual, like you’d been waiting for it. 

You reached for a mug without looking, fingers curling around the ceramic absently. It was warm from the cupboard’s enchantment, but your skin still felt cold.

You exhaled slowly and leaned your hip against the counter, staring at nothing.

And while the kettle began to warm, your thoughts slipped—quiet and treacherous—back to the tent. But your mind didn’t pull up the truth of that night. Not the soft hush of breath, the shared warmth, the way you’d both kept to yourselves despite how closely you lay. What you remembered instead—what you felt—was the dream you’d had in his arms. The one you hadn’t dared to admit to anyone. 

You remembered the weight of his hand curling around your hip—broad, sure fingers splaying possessively across your skin like he’d always known exactly where to touch you. His thumb pressing just beneath your navel, slow little circles that made your breath catch. His chest, solid and hot, flush against your spine. Each inhale of his drawing your body tighter to his, like he wanted to fit you perfectly between every breath. Like he couldn’t stand the space between you.

And gods, you’d imagined how he’d move. He’d start slow, savoring it. Savoring you, every thrust controlled. He’d want to melt into you, to lose himself in every slick, shivering inch. And the press of him felt so real in your mind that your thighs pressed together without you meaning to.

The slow, deliberate roll of his hips against you, grinding in the dark with maddening restraint. Like he wanted to drag it out. Like he wanted to feel it, not just fuck. 

But it wasn’t like you didn’t have dreams about that, too.

Like the one you’d just awoken from.

Where he wasn’t slow at all. Where he’d pushed you against the window, dragged your panties down with a growl, and dropped to his knees. He devoured you like a male starved. Like he needed it to breathe.

His tongue was relentless, slick and firm, fucking you with slow, torturous precision until your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the cries threatening to tear from your throat. 

And just when your body began to shake, just when you thought you’d collapse—he was rising, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and sinking into you with one long, ruinous thrust that stole every breath from your lungs.

His voice rasped against your ear, all filth and hunger, whispering what he’d do next, what you’d beg for, how good you look, all wet and wanting and his. Every stroke dragged need from you like a confession, torn from your throat in gasps, in whimpers. Every thrust was a claim, a promise, a demand. You shattered on his cock like you’d been made for it—again, and again, and again—until your body blurred at the edges and all you could feel was him.

And then—your name. A low murmur against your throat, reverent and rough at once, like it scraped its way out of him. Like it meant something. Like saying it against your skin was the only prayer he knew.

Almost a whisper. Almost a plea.

Almost—

Lightning split the sky—and thunder followed like a war drum, slamming through the silence hard enough to rattle the windows. 

You flinched, heart in your throat, the mug slipping and knocking against the counter. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin as the thunder faded, but it wasn’t the cold tiles beneath your feet that made your hands shake.

Wasn’t the storm making your chest rise and fall just so.

It was the echo of your name, murmured into your neck.

The ache in your body for something that had never even happened—

But felt, somehow, like it had.

Your breath came fast and shallow, heat rushing to your cheeks in a flush you couldn’t chase away.

Your heart was still hammering when—

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

You jumped. The kettle screamed—when had it even started? The mug nearly slipped again, and you cursed under your breath, scrambling to keep hold of it. 

A flush of panic surged alongside the remnants of arousal—

Glamour. Now.

Your scent vanished in an instant.

You rushed to take the kettle off the burner.

Shields—already up, and you triple-checked them. Reinforced them out of instinct, out of panic. Just in case.

Rhysand stood in the doorway, framed by the faint flicker of lightning beyond the windows. 

Shirtless, his chest bare and skin golden in the dim light from the hall. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Hair mussed, like he’d just gotten out of bed—like he’d just been dreaming too.

Your stomach flipped.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him—not after what you’d been thinking, not with your skin still warm from it. 

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I didn’t realize it was whistling—gods, I’ll—”

“You didn’t,” he said, voice low and even. “It was the storm. You’re fine.”

But something in his tone—the careful way he said it—made it feel like  he was only trying to spare you.

You glanced down at the mug in your hand like it might save you. “Right. Okay. Still. Sorry.”

He didn’t move at first. Just watched you, eyes unreadable in the dark. 

Then, quietly: “Storm wake you too?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Thought tea might help.”

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth—barely there. “You always brew it with wide eyes and shaking hands?” he asked as he stepped closer, brushing your fingers when he took the mug from your grasp. 

You huffed a soft laugh. “Only when the thunder sounds like it’s about to rip the sky open.”

That earned a quiet breath of amusement from him as he slid an arm around your shoulders. Solid. Familiar. Like it belonged there. 

“You know it’s mostly just noise, right?” he murmured. Rhys topped off the water in your mug, grabbed two teabags from the tin, and dropped them into the mug. His arm remained looped around your shoulders, holding you close as he covered the cup with a saucer to let it steep. “Sounds a lot worse than it is.”

You nodded, but your thoughts felt foggy and slow. Maybe it was the storm, or the hour, or the way he still hadn’t let go. The way his arm fit around you so naturally, as if it belonged there. As if it had never left since that night. 

You shouldn’t read into it. It’s just comfort. Just instinct. 

But you can’t stop noticing the warmth of him, steady and close. Can’t stop thinking about how easily he’s always known how to settle you—how natural it feels to lean into him like this.

Your lips press together, and you try not to think about how that same warmth once curled around you in a tent, or what it felt like to wake up in his arms.

His arm shifted, sliding from your shoulders to the small of your back, hand warm and steady as it pressed there. “C’mon,” he said softly, guiding you away from the counter and toward the little breakfast table near the window. He handed you your mug on the way, his fingers brushing yours again. 

You moved without thinking, still wrapped in that dazed hush the storm had settled over everything. You sank into the chair without a word, and with a quiet flick of his fingers, the table filled. A crystal bowl of sugar cubes appeared near your elbow, followed by a small pitcher of warm milk, and even a tiny plate of shortbread cookies that hadn’t been there before. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, the words quiet and full. Rhysand only nodded, moving back to the kettle to make his own.

After some time, you removed the saucer and took a careful sip—still too hot—before setting the mug down. Instead, you watched the steam curling lazily upward, trying not to let your gaze wander to where he stood by the counter. The stretch of muscle across his back. The ink winding over golden skin. The slow flex of his wings as he moved. 

Then, lightly, “Cassian tried to give Azriel a haircut today.”

Your brows lifted. “He didn’t.”

Rhysand’s mouth curved faintly, though the only indication of his humor from where you sat was the soft shake of his shoulders. “He did. Said he could ��blend the ends’ better than the hairdressers at the Riverfront salon.” He turned slightly toward you, the kettle behind him just starting to bubble.  

You snort. “That’s because Cassian thinks ‘blending’ means cutting in a straight line.”

“Exactly,” Rhys said dryly, just as your fingers reached out—without looking—toward the honey jar at the far end of the counter.

His own hand twitched, summoning it with a flick of magic, smooth as breathing.

“He nearly took a chunk out of one of his wings,” he added, the jar gliding toward you in the same breath.

You caught it mid-air and spooned in a little honey, not missing a beat. “Azriel let him?”

“He didn’t know,” Rhys replied, pouring his own mug. He added the tea bags, covered it with a saucer, and took the seat across from you. “He thought Cassian was just trimming his own hair. Came back from the bath and Cassian had scissors and that look in his eyes.”

You stirred slowly, keeping your eyes on the swirl of tea. “I’m shocked he survived.” Whether you meant Cassian or Azriel didn’t matter; the sentiment applied to both. 

“Mor told him if he even looked at her hair with a pair of scissors in his hands, she’d skin him.”

You smiled faintly. “Wise.”

Rhys’ lip twitched a little. “I thought so.”

The silence that followed was the kind that didn’t need filling. You let it stretch, let it settle into your bones like warmth. Outside, the thunder seemed to soften, like it, too, was growing tired. 

After some time, Rhys lifted his mug, nose wrinkling slightly as he brought it to his lips. 

“Lavender?” he asked, skepticism coloring the word. 

You glanced up at him over the rim of your own cup. “It’s calming.”

He took a sip anyway, then made a quiet sound like he was trying not to grimace.

 “It tastes like wet flowers.”

You gave him a look. “You’re still drinking it.”

“Out of solidarity.” He gave a theatrical sigh, settling the mug down like it had personally offended him. “Suffering beside you. As always.”

That pulled a soft laugh from you—small, but genuine, slipping out before you could catch it. The first moment of true ease you’d felt since you’d woken up. Rhysand didn’t say anything, just watched you with that quiet attention he wore too well, the corners of his mouth tilting upward like it pleased him to see it. 

You let the silence stretch. “I didn’t know you were staying the night,” you said, still not quite looking at him.

“Didn’t mean to, ” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Had a few things to check in on here. Then the storm hit, and…” He shrugged one shoulder, casual, but not careless. “Didn’t want you riding it out alone.”

The stupid little flip your stomach did was entirely unhelpful. You took a slow sip of tea to ignore it. 

The quiet settled again, a little softer now. Gentler. 

Then Rhys’ voice came, quiet and rough at the edges.

“You always pace around in shirts that short when you’ve got the place to yourself?”

You spluttered mid-sip, barely managing to swallow without choking. Then shot him a withering glare over the rim of your mug.

He was smirking now, the picture of smug innocence. “It’s cute,” he added. “Cozy. Terrifying, really.”

“Keep talking and I’ll convince the House to trap you in the bathroom with no toilet paper.”

“You won’t,” he said confidently, that lazy grin still tugging at his mouth. “You’re too tired. And besides—” he leans in just slightly, your eyes flicking up to meet his despite yourself—“you’d miss me if I left.”

You flinched as a particularly loud boom of thunder cracked. The windows trembled in their panes, wind howling against the glass. The faelights dimmed briefly, a flicker like the storm had drawn a breath too deep. 

“You should lie down,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wired.” His eyes flicked to the goosebumps on your arms. “And freezing. Come on.” He rose, tea still in hand. “I’ll stay with you. We’ll wait it out together.”

You hesitated. “... You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” The words were light, but not careless. “At least let me for a bit. You can talk at me until the storm passes.”

And the way he said it—casual, easy, like it cost him nothing to offer his presence—undid you more than it should have. 

You didn’t answer right away. Just took another sip, hoping the warmth would quiet your pulse. 

He let his words sit for a beat before offering, with a spark of levity, “I’ll stay on my side. Promise.”

“You don’t have a side.” 

“I’ll make one.”

You narrowed your eyes as you considered him, gaze trailing from the smug tilt of his mouth to the glint in his eyes. “Fine. But no funny business.”

“Define funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stood slowly, cradling your mug between your hands, and padded after him down the dim hallway. Neither of you said anything for a few moments, and you liked that—liked the hush between your footfalls, the faint creak of old wood beneath your steps, the way Rhys kept his pace just a half step ahead of yours. 

Then, without looking back, he said, “You’ve got more mugs than sense.”

You glanced at him, deadpan. “They’re seasonal.”

He lifted his, inspecting the faded gold lettering. “‘I survived Calanmai in the Spring Court.’ It’s nearly Solstice.”

You took a long sip. “Year-round commemoration felt appropriate.”

He snorted. “You weren’t even in the Spring Court for Calanmai. We were in the Day Court dealing with that trade dispute, remember?”

“Sure, not this year.”

You turned your mug just as he glanced back, hiding the side that read “I Got Picked at Calanmai and All I Got Was This Mug.”

You shrugged. “You don’t know me.”

He stopped outside your door, wings tucking in as he leaned casually against the frame. You opened it without a word and stepped inside, flipping on the lamp. The room glowed in warm golds and shadows, the storm pressing faintly at the windows.

Rhysand followed a beat later, hands wrapped around his mug, gaze roaming the space like he hadn’t already seen it a hundred times before.

You crossed to the dresser and started absently clearing up—folding the sweater draped over the chair, tucking a pair of socks into a drawer, shoving a bra beneath a pillow like it hadn’t been lying out all day.

“Please,” Rhys said behind you, voice drier than your tea. “As if it’s the first time I’ve seen one of those.”

You tossed him a flat look over your shoulder. “They’re not for your viewing pleasure.”

“Everything’s for my viewing pleasure,” he muttered, already halfway to the bed, mug thunking down on the nightstand like a punctuation mark. 

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the dresser, reaching for a lacy little number you hadn’t realized was still out—only for Rhys to beat you to it, no doubt winnowing the last few feet just for theatrics.

He held it up delicately between two fingers, eyebrows lifting in mock reverence. “Really, (y/n)? This barely qualifies as a scrap. Is it for… special occasions? Or just Tuesdays?”

You snatched it from his hand, cheeks warming. “Stop being a pig.”

His grin was wicked. “Oink.”

You glared at him, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

Rhys just shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Your hospitality says otherwise.” He moved to climb onto the bed like he’d done a hundred times before. You gave him a long, unimpressed look, then turned to grab your tea. 

By the time you turned back, he was already against the headboard, wings gone, legs stretched out. He looked perfectly at home—too at home.

You slid in beside him with a muttered, “Don’t spill anything.”

“I never do,” he said, tugging the blankets up from where they’d bunched at the foot of the bed, covering you both.

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just curled your fingers around your tea and let the warmth soak in. The bed creaked quietly as you shifted against the pillows. His thigh brushed yours.

Thunder grumbled far off, less urgent now. You let yourself breathe.

Then, casually, Rhysand said, “Still humming, by the way.”

You blinked at him.

“When you stirred your tea earlier,” he clarified, turning his head toward you. “Didn’t even notice, did you?”

“I don’t do that.”

“Hum while you stir your drink? You do it all the time,” he said, flopping his arm behind his head. “Drives Amren insane.”

You let out a small, startled laugh. “Now I’m just sad I don’t hum louder.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, raising his mug in mock toast. “Rattle whatever functions as her soul.”

You clinked your cup against his without thinking. “She’d gut you if she heard you.”

“Please,” he said. “She’s wanted to gut me for centuries.”

You smiled into your tea, warmth pooling in your chest that had nothing to do with the drink. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. Full of steam and thunder and the fact that Rhys was here, warm beside you, his presence taking up more space than it had any right to.

He sank deeper into the pillows, stretching out like he belonged to the space and it belonged to him. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, distant but not vacant. And you let yourself look. The lines of his face were softened in the low light, made golden and shadowed by turns. He looked older like this. Not aged—just… full of time. The kind of tired that sat behind the eyes, ancient and endless and quiet. 

And yet he was warm beside you. Solid. Here. 

“You always do that,” you said after a moment, surprising even yourself.

His gaze slid toward you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer. “Do what?”

“Go quiet. Like you’ve left the room without getting up.”

A faint hum, low and noncommittal as he turned back to the ceiling. “Sometimes I do.”

It wasn’t a deflection. Just a truth handed to you gently. 

You ran your thumb around the rim of your mug. “Where’d you go just now?”

A pause. Not long enough to mean avoidance, just… thought.

“Nowhere.” A pause. “Here.”

His eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, but something in his jaw eased. 

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. 

Then Rhys moved, and your shoulders were almost touching. He huffed a quiet laugh. “Y’know, I used to imagine this.”

You blinked, the sudden shift catching you off guard. “Imagine what?”

He didn’t seem to notice your disorientation, eyes still fixed ahead. “This—sitting here, quiet like this. You. Me. Tea.”

You stared at him for a second. 

“Tea, huh?” you managed, still trying to catch up.

He grinned faintly. “Always figured it’d be chamomile.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Let me guess. In your daydreams, I served you tea in a silken robe and draped myself over your lap like some lovesick devotee.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, finally turning toward you with a glint in his eye. “You were wearing mismatched socks and humming off-key. The usual.”

That startled a laugh out of you, too loud for how late it was. “So you’ve always had terrible taste.”

His brow pulled just slightly, not in confusion but… disappointment? “I like to call it refined,” he said after a breath.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks again, so you did what you did best: sipped and looked away. Beyond the window, wind and water still tangled in the dark—but the violence of it no longer touched you. 

“You know,” Rhys said after a pause, his voice dipping low again, “if we’re pointing fingers, you’ve been the quiet one.”

That violet gaze stayed fixed on you. You’d been on the receiving end of it before—in briefings, in battle, across a crowded room. But never like this. Never steady enough to knock the air right out of your lungs. 

You didn’t answer. 

He shifted again. “Won’t even look at me. What’s that about?”

You didn’t look up. Kept your eyes on the tea gone cold between your hands. There were a dozen reasons you could’ve given. Because the moment felt too full. Because it was easier not to see his face when you answered. Because his voice in your space, his body next to yours, felt like opening a book you weren’t ready to finish. 

Instead, you said nothing. 

Rhys didn’t push, he let the moment stretch.

You tilted your head back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it might hold a map for what to say next. But what came out wasn’t planned. Just something that had lived on the tip of your tongue for far longer than you were comfortable with. 

“Do you remember that night in the Winter Court?” you asked softly. “When we were in the tent?”

His reply was instant. “We were in the tent a lot of nights, you might have to be a bit more specific.”

You gave him a sideways look. “The night with the storm. When the fire kept going out.”

Realization flickered across his face. “Ah,” he said, voice quieting.

You hadn’t meant to bring it up. Not really. But something about tonight—about the tea and the thunder and the way he looked lounging on your bed like he belonged…

You two had never talked about that night. Never talked about the way his arms wrapped around you like instinct. Never talked about how it felt too natural, too easy, how the silence between you only ever felt like comfort and understanding. But now, with the storm as this strange cocoon around you…

You didn’t know what you’d expected him to say. But now that the words were out there, you couldn’t take them back.

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around your mug. “I couldn't feel my toes. Thought I might lose them honestly.”

“You were shaking,” Rhys said, a quiet chuckle buried beneath the words.

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “You didn’t seem to mind holding me.”

Rhys tilted his head, his smile softer now. “I didn’t.”

Time slowed, dense with everything you weren’t saying. The storm pressed against the windows. His thigh brushed yours.

Then, quietly—like he was still deciding whether or not to say it—

“I thought about kissing you.”

You looked at him, heartbeat racing.

“You were freezing,” he added quickly, almost like a defense. “I kept thinking if I kissed you, it might stop your teeth from chattering.”

You huffed a breath, setting the mug down on your nightstand. “That is not how body heat works.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes warm. “But it was a nice excuse.”

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t teasing anymore. Not really.

“I didn’t sleep much that night,” you said.

Rhysand looked at you. Really looked at you. “Neither did I.”

You swallowed. The storm murmured against the windows like it remembered too.

“…I had a dream,” you admitted, voice barely above the hush of rain.

His brows lifted, but he didn’t speak. Just waited.

You hesitated. “Not the kind I should’ve had with you so close.”

A beat passed. And then he said, softly, “No?”

You shook your head once.

Rhys’s voice dipped, amused but careful. “Was I at least impressive in it?”

That pulled a short laugh from your chest—breathless, a little flustered. “You were… very convincing.”

His smile turned lazy. “Convincing, or irresistible?”

You huffed. “Don’t push it.”

“Never. I ease,” he said with a smirk like sin, sipping from his mug. “That’s how you get what you want.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was a steady thrum beneath your skin. You could feel the heat of him beside you, the weight of everything that hadn’t been said over the years pressing in like gravity.

“I kept waking up,” you murmured. “Because I thought… if I moved too much, you’d pull away.”

He was very still. “I wouldn’t have.”

You looked over at him, heart skipping. He was watching you with that unreadable expression—the one that always made you feel like he knew more than he let on.

Then, almost too casually, he added, “For the record… you did move. Quite a bit, actually.”

Your heart stopped. 

No, surely not—

You would’ve remembered that. You definitely would’ve remembered that. Right?

You blinked. “I did not.”

His grin was maddening. “Mmm. Rolled right into me. Twice.”

Heat rushed to your face, ears, down your spine.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, then opened it just to whisper, “You’re lying.”

He looked far too entertained.

“Twice,” he repeated, like he was doing you a favor.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Kill me.”

“I did consider it,” he said with a faint smile, “but you were clinging to me. It felt cruel.”

“Cauldron boil me,” you muttered.

“I thought you were doing it on purpose,” he went on, tone far too innocent. “Torturing me in my sleep.”

Your face remained planted in the palms of your hands, groaning. “I’m never speaking again.”

“That seems dramatic,” he said, clearly delighted.

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving.”

“This is your room,” Rhys said, not missing a beat.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “And you just let me?”

Rhys gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes twinkling. “Well, what was I going to do? Shove you away?”

You sputtered. “Most people would’ve!”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the air shifted—like even the storm outside had quieted to hear what he might say.

“I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to stop you.”

Your breath caught.

You looked at him, expecting the usual grin, some teasing remark—but there was none. Just quiet.

“You never… You never said anything,” you murmured. You weren’t talking about that night anymore—you both knew it. 

Rhys hummed, low in his throat. “Didn’t want to spook you. Or tempt fate.”

This was about all of it. The looks, the silences, the way he’d never pulled away. The way he always felt just out of reach, like he was waiting for you to be sure. Like he’d been sure all along. But so had you—only you hadn’t known he was. You’d stayed just out of reach, too, waiting for a sign that never came.

You gave a breathless sort of laugh. “You think that would’ve tempted fate?”

He arched a brow. “Wouldn’t it have?”

Your silence said enough.

He let it hang there for a beat, then—without looking at you—reached for his mug again. Took a slow sip like he wasn’t aware of the tightrope he was walking. Like this wasn’t everything.

And when he set it down again, he spoke like it was nothing. “Whatever it was you dreamed… you certainly made it hard to stay asleep.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

He still wasn’t looking at you, but his voice was velvet. “You were restless. Kept shifting. Making these soft little sounds, kept saying—”

You made a strangled noise. “Rhys.”

That made him glance over—his smirk unfairly smug. “Yeah, like that. A bit breathier though.” 

You smacked his arm without thinking—more flustered than actually annoyed.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Just saying. Must’ve been quite the night.”

Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs. You should’ve told him to shut up. Should’ve changed the subject.

Instead, you said, quiet and steady, “You can see it, if you want.”

That wiped the grin off his face. He sat up, and his eyes found yours again, sharp and glittering.

“…Can I?”

You hesitated. Because the air between you felt different now, like the quiet after a confession, when the world waits to see what you’ll do with it.

You pushed the blankets off and sat up, mirroring him. Legs folded beneath you. Hands braced in your lap. You weren’t touching, but it felt like you were, every inch between you a live wire. Close. Closer than before. 

You met his gaze and slowly, steadily, exhaled and let go.

Not all the way. Just enough. A slow unspooling at the edge of your mind—like a thread tugged loose.

It wasn’t dramatic. No crashing walls. No shuddering gasp.

Just a tilt. A lean. A flicker of trust in the quiet.

Like cracking a door open—not wide, just enough for someone to slip through if they wanted it badly enough.

And he felt it. You knew the moment he did. Not by any shift in his expression, but by the way his presence responded—quiet and immediate, the brush of his mind ghosting along the threshold of yours. Not a push or a pry, just a gentle touch, like a fingertip at your temple, tracing the edges of your mind’s adamant, as if to say, I’m here. It’s only me. Don’t be afraid.

When he did come in, it was careful. Gentle. Not a push, not a pry—just a brush of thought, like a thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He moved through you with reverence, with restraint. Not like he was looking for something, but like he was waiting for you to offer it.

The pressure in your chest built. Not from fear—but from how intimate it was.

You felt the weight of him in your mind. The shape of him. Familiar and foreign all at once. Rhys, your friend. Rhys, the shoulder you’d leaned on more times than you could count. Now quiet in your head, holding still, holding back—waiting.

So you let him see.

The memory rose, and it bloomed slowly, like a flower opening to sunlight.

Your skin slick with sweat, flushed and bare. Blankets kicked down around your hips. Rhys between your thighs—his mouth everywhere at once. On your throat, your breasts, the inside of your knee. His voice low and rasping, coaxing, worshipping. You arched into him, hands fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, closer.

Soft sounds slipping from your lips. His name. Over and over, like a prayer.

The pace of his thoughts shifted.

You felt it—felt him—react, felt the pulse of heat that wasn’t yours.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched as the memory played out, as you trembled beneath the ghost of his mouth in your dream. As your back arched for him. As your dream-self gasped his name like it meant everything.

You could feel his focus on every detail, like he was memorizing it all.

The way you sounded. The way you looked. The way you wanted him.

Rhys.

You whispered it in your mind—his name soft and aching.

Rhys.

The dark curled tighter inside you, shadows licking through your veins like smoke—hungry and unrelenting.

Taking. Taking. Taking.

Your hips shifted. Your breath hitched.

Rhys.

His breath stuttered in response—wherever he was.

And then, in the quiet of your room, you heard it.

A groan.

Low. Wrecked.

Rhys.

Your eyes snapped open.

Only—you weren’t in your room anymore.

The air was sharp and cold. You could smell pine, damp earth, that faint mineral tang of snow on the wind. Canvas fluttered quietly overhead. The lantern cast that same golden pool of light. You heard the storm beyond the trees, muffled and distant. And beneath you—sleeping bag. Mat. The slight ache in your shoulders from a long day of hiking.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

You blinked—and felt it all at once: the soft cotton of your shirt clinging to your skin. The same T-shirt you’d fallen asleep in earlier tonight. The same thin underwear beneath it. Your legs were bare. Cold.

And he was there.

Rhys, kneeling over you—close. Real. One of his thighs braced on either side of your hips, careful not to press down. His hands planted on the floor beside your shoulders. Caging you in without meaning to. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Chest bare. Hair mussed. 

No sign of the coats you had that night. No gloves or boots or scarves to fight off the cold. Just skin.

Warm. Alive. Here.

Your fingers dug tight into the sleeping bag beneath you. “What are you doing, Rhys?”

He tilted his head. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”

The words landed low in your belly.

Because it was—your memory, your dream, your body already humming with the way the figment of him had touched it before. 

He was watching your mouth when you spoke again. “This isn’t how it happened.”

And gods, you could see it—where his hands had already touched this version of the night. Where the boundaries had softened, blurred. The cold clung to your skin still, but this was a watered-down echo of what you’d felt that night. Especially with the heat of him radiating so close, like he was the only warmth left in the world. The wind outside faded. All you could hear was the rhythm of your own pulse.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours. “No. But it could’ve.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to quiet the storm.”

He blinked, like the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. “I’ve been doing it all night,” he said simply. “Well, since the kitchen. Bit by bit, so you’d think it was fading on its own.”

Your heart stuttered. “Rhys.”

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “What? You think I couldn’t feel how tense you were?”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, the words quieter now. “I didn’t… I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Oh?” His brows rose slightly, magic shifting like the tide. “Should I stop then?”

And then, with no more than a flicker of thought, he did.

Sound returned all at once. Wind shrieking against your bedroom windows. Rain pounding the glass in sheets. Distant thunder rolling deep and endless across the city.

Your body locked up. Breath caught in your throat.

And just as fast as it came, it was gone again.

Silence fell. Not the true silence of the storm easing, but the quiet Rhys had crafted for you—thick, warm, and distant, like a memory.

You didn’t say anything right away.

Because part of you wanted to laugh. Not at him—but at yourself. At the sheer madness of lying half-dressed in your own memory, with your best friend hovering over you—inside the dream you’d had about him. Seeing it. Breathing it in. Touching the edges of everything you’d refused to say out loud. 

Your voice came quieter this time. “We’re not just looking anymore,” not really a question, but you needed confirmation. 

A pause.

“No,” he said—low and sure, gaze locked to yours like it was a tether. Like he needed the confirmation too.

You stared at each other. That same heat coiling in your gut, the same ache building where his hands hadn’t touched you yet.

You shifted slightly, barely a brush of your knee against his.

That was all it took.

He leaned in—slow, careful. Like giving you a chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His mouth brushed yours once. Barely. A whisper of contact, soft and almost uncertain.

But your breath caught, and your hands moved on their own—reaching, pulling him closer, until that uncertainty dissolved and his mouth claimed yours fully.

It was deeper this time. Hotter.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just inevitable.

Like he’d always meant to kiss you, and some part of you had always meant to let him.

While one hand held him up, the other found your hip, steady and sure, but not insistent. Just… there. A grounding point. A question.

You answered it without words—just a shift of your weight forward, the press of your chest against his, your fingers sliding up to rest lightly at his jaw.

He groaned low in his throat. Almost inaudible, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.

Your kiss deepened, slow and molten. His tongue brushed yours, deliberate, and you let him in. Let him have that part of you.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, just his fingers at first. Testing. Savoring. The warmth of your stomach. The shape of your waist.

His touch wasn’t greedy. It was careful. Almost reverent.

“You’ve thought about this,” you murmured, breath catching as he dragged his knuckles along your ribs.

His lips ghosted down your jaw. “So have you.”

You didn’t deny it. How could you, when the lines between dream and memory were already blurring around you? When your body was already arching into his, betraying every want you’d ever buried?

You didn’t have to say it. Not when he could feel it in every breath you took.

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted. How you responded. The way your breath hitched when he rolled his hips just barely against yours.

Still clothed. Still not quite there. But the heat between you was unmistakable. Heavy. Radiating.

You whispered his name against his lips, barely audible.

His mouth stilled against your skin. “Say it again.”

You did. Quieter. Closer to a prayer than a plea.

Rhys pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.

There was no smirk this time. No mask of arrogance. Just that same dark, endless gaze, lit now with something deeper. Something older.

“You’re sure?”

Not a tease. Not a dare.

Just a question. One last door he wouldn’t walk through unless you opened it.

You met his gaze and gave him the only answer that mattered—leaning in, mouth brushing his in a kiss that was softer than before. Not desperate. Not urgent.

 Just honest.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, curling there, grounding yourself in him. In this moment.

And Rhys melted into it, bearing his weight on his forearm now, the hand beneath your shirt sliding up again—flat palm, slow drag. Like he was rediscovering a familiar map, one he hadn’t realized he’d memorized until now.

Every breath you took pressed your chest against his. Every motion of your hips fed the fire you were both barely keeping contained.

But it wasn’t just heat burning between you.

It was years. Of glances held too long. Of arguments that meant more than they should’ve. Of moments like this, only imagined.

Rhysand pulled back, far enough to drink you in—eyes roaming, slow and deliberate, like he meant to memorize the sight. The flush on your cheeks. The part in your lips. The want you didn’t bother hiding. “What were you thinking about in the kitchen?”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I just—I couldn’t sleep.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “Funny. Because I was sleeping. And then I wasn’t.”

He shifted above you, and his hand drifted. Down your stomach. Past the pushed-up hem of your shirt. “It wasn’t the storm that woke me,” he murmured, and that hand kept going, slow and steady. “It was your scent.”

You gasped as his palm cupped you over your underwear—broad and warm and possessive. The heel of it pressed just right and he knew it. “Rhys—”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t soften. 

“I wanted so badly to know what you were dreaming about,” he said, voice dipped in velvet and ruin, rich with heat. His fingers curled just slightly, a teasing drag along the soaked fabric. “I could smell it. Clear across the house.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear now. “I could smell you,” he said, voice dragging slow, like he wanted the words to settle in your blood. “Warm and ready. Like sugar melting off skin. Like salt and heat.”

His breath skimmed your ear. “I wanted to fall to my knees right then and taste every drop of it.”

He inhaled at the curve of your neck, sharply, greedily, hungrily. Like he could drink in the want from your skin. “It hit me like a fucking punch to the gut.”

Your thighs twitched. He smiled.

“You were so wet, weren’t you?” His thumb moved now, tracing slow, idle circles over the damp cotton. “Dripping onto the sheets, dreaming of something. I couldn’t stop thinking.”

You, on the other hand, simply couldn’t think. You could barely breathe.

“Thoughts of you…” he murmured, dragging the words across your skin. “Spread out across my sheets. Still dreaming. Still wet. I imagined you there on my bed, mouth parted, thighs sticky with it. Maybe you were dreaming of me fucking you slow—dragging it out. Or maybe rough—hands on your hips, face pressed into the pillow.”

His hand stilled. Breath shallow.

“I wanted to touch myself to it,” he said, voice torn. “To that scent—your need hanging in the air like perfume. To the image of you in bed… It drove me fucking mad,” he whispered. “The thought of you, wet and whimpering in your sleep. I almost fisted my cock right there, just to take the edge off.”

A pause, thick with restraint.

“But it felt like… a line I couldn’t cross. Like taking something that wasn’t mine to have yet.”

His head dropped slightly, forehead brushing yours.

“So I just lay there. Thinking. Burning. Telling myself to sleep—Rhysand, ignore it. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t think about her fingers between her thighs, don’t think about her mouth open, whispering your name into the night—

Just sleep.”

A beat. A slow, shaky inhale. 

“But I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop needing you. And right when I couldn’t fucking take it anymore—right when I gave in and was reaching for myself—”

“Rhys,” you breathed. 

“It vanished. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. So I got up, went to get some cold water.” He kissed the curve of your jaw. “Tried to walk it off.”

Another slow press of his thumb. Another spike of pleasure.

“And then,” he went on, gaze sharpening like a blade, “I got close to the kitchen. Heard you moving around.”

His smile turned feral. 

“And there it was again.”

You made a soft, involuntary sound—embarrassed and wrecked all at once. 

Rhys purred against your neck, all smoke and satisfaction. “That scent. Cauldron, it’s maddening. Didn’t even touch yourself, did you?”

You shook your head, barely.

He groaned—deep and low and filthy. “Fuck, don’t even have to touch yourself to flood the whole fucking house with it.”

His fingers dragged along the soaked fabric again, deliberate and slow. “All of it between your thighs, and you just… stood there. Thinking about it. Letting it drip down like you didn’t care who smelled it.”

You thought you were alone.

Cassian was in Illyria, Azriel was in Vallahan. 

Rhysand hadn’t said a word before you’d gone to bed. Hadn’t made himself known, hadn’t so much as sent a thought your way. 

He had to know you thought you were the only one home. 

You never would have left your room like that if—

“You wanted me to find you like that?” he whispered. “Is that it? Standing there in your little shirt, soaking yourself, pretending you couldn’t sleep while your body screamed for me?”

Your hips jerked. His hand didn’t budge.

“Rhys,” you tried, broken and breathless.

But he was far from done.

“Maybe,” he mused, voice going molten, “you wanted me to walk in and bend you over the counter. Pull these—” he snapped the waistband of your underwear—“to the side and taste that sweet, sleepy mess you made between your legs. The one that begged me to wake you up with my mouth.”

You let out a ragged breath—half sob, half moan.

“Tell me what you were thinking about in the kitchen,” he said again, lower now, darker. “And this time, don’t lie.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

His fingers slid beneath the cotton. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.

You gasped, hips twitching, breath gone.

“Try again,” he growled, mouth at your throat. “Or I’ll keep my fingers here all night and won’t let you come. Not until you tell me.”

Your legs trembled. “It was you,” you admitted, voice wrecked. “It was always you.”

He groaned like the words were a reward, his fingers finally moving with purpose, circling, stroking.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now tell me what I was doing.”

You bit your lip.

His fingers stilled instantly. 

“You—” your voice cracked, and you dragged in a shuddering breath. “You had me against the window.”

He hummed in approval, fingers pushing in just a little, just enough to make you gasp. “Which one?”

“The big one. Upstairs. In your room.”

“Of course,” he murmured, darkly pleased. “You like the one with the view.”

You nodded helplessly.

“And what was I doing to you?” he prompted, thumb brushing maddening circles again. “Tell me exactly.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed. “You came up behind me. Wrapped your hand around my throat. Pressed me against the glass.”

Before the words even finished leaving your mouth, Rhys shifted—free hand sliding up, fingers curling gently but firmly around your throat, thumb pressing into the soft spot beneath your jaw.

You gasped.

“Like this?” he asked, voice all sin and silk.

You nodded, throat moving against his grip. “Yes.”

His hand between your thighs moved diligently, slick sounds soft and obscene. “Keep going.”

“You pushed my legs apart. Made me look out at the city. Said you wanted everyone to see how pretty I looked for you.”

He groaned—low and wrecked. “Of course I did.”

And then he moved—sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip, the crease of your thigh. He peeled your underwear off your legs with lazy reverence, and when he looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes glinted like a god about to claim what was his.

“Did I touch you like this in your dream? With my tongue?” he asked softly, like he didn’t already know the answer.

You moaned, thighs twitching. “You didn’t stop.”

He grinned—dark, delighted—and then he didn’t stop, either.

His mouth was on you in a heartbeat—hot, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt, tongue dragging through your folds, firm and slow. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, helpless, right where he wanted you.

And gods, he was good.

He licked into you like he was trying to taste the dream itself, moaning against your cunt like you were the one unraveling him. When his tongue flicked your clit—once, twice, then again—your hips bucked and he groaned, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you still.

“Gods, I knew you’d taste good,” he murmured to himself, voice hoarse. “Did I make you come like this?”

You whimpered. “Twice.”

His mouth sealed around your clit again, tongue flicking faster now, more pressure, more hunger. Your hands scrabbled at the blankets, his hair, anything to hold onto as the pleasure surged, sharp and sudden and far too much—

And then you broke. Legs shaking, breath gone, climax crashing through you with dizzying force. He held you through it, tongue still moving lazily, drawing every last tremor from your body.

You didn’t even have time to recover before he was moving—rising over you again, mouth glistening, eyes wild with want.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheek as he leaned down, kissed you slow and deep. Let you taste yourself on his tongue. Let you feel how much he needed this.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, voice low. “Tell me what I did next.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and already aching again. “You—” your voice faltered. “You didn’t even let me catch my breath. You just… slid inside me.”

A groan rumbled in his chest, and he shoved his pants down with the kind of urgency that made your pulse stutter. reached down, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds with maddening patience.

“Like this?”

He guided the head of his cock through your folds, slick and aching. You nodded, breath catching.

“No teasing,” you whispered. 

His jaw clenched, and then—

He pushed into you with one long, slow thrust, the stretch of him making your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck,” he breathed, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—.”

He started to move, hips rolling deep and steady, slower than the rhythm you’d imagined in sleep. He thrust like he couldn’t get enough.

Gentler. Like he wanted to savor it. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand slid down your side, settling at your waist, grounding you as his body rocked into yours with patient, aching care. Each thrust was deliberate, every motion a silent promise. And when he looked down at you—eyes dark and open, lips parted with quiet reverence—you felt like the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, voice low, rough with restraint.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Better than I could’ve ever dreamed.”

That pulled a soft smile from him. He dipped down to kiss you again, slow and lingering, his hips still moving with that unhurried rhythm that had your toes curling. He wasn’t fucking you—he was making love to you. Deep and warm and full of something that felt dangerously close to adoration.

Then his fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent question. You shifted beneath him, lifting your arms to help, and he peeled it off you with reverent care, tossing it aside without taking his eyes off you.

His lips brushed yours again, breath warm and trembling. “You feel so good,” he murmured, like the words had to be pulled from somewhere deep. His gaze drifted down your body, hungry and awestruck all at once. “And you look…” His breath hitched. “You look so fucking beautiful.”

One hand slid up, fingers splaying over your ribs before cupping your breast—slow, purposeful. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and your back arched instinctively, a soft sound catching in your throat. 

“There you go,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s it. Just let yourself feel it.”

He groaned, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone, then lower. “Been thinking about this,” he rasped, tongue flicking over the peak before he took it into his mouth. “Dreaming of this.”

And his hips never stopped moving.

The pace stayed slow—for a moment longer. Long enough to draw another gasp from your throat, long enough for your fingers to tighten against his back. But you felt it—how his control began to fray. How the roll of his hips deepened, a little harder now, a little faster.

“You still with me?” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to see you nod absently. “That’s my girl… Let me take care of you.”

He drew back and pushed in hard, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. Then again. And again. Still tender—but no longer soft. Not when he buried himself inside you like he couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.

You clung to him as the pace built, sweat slicking your skin, breath mixing in the charged air between your mouths. He kissed you like he needed it, like he needed you, all of you, while he fucked you deeper, rougher, until every thrust had your eyes rolling back.

You turned your head, breath catching as his mouth dragged along your jaw. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.

He groaned in response, hips stuttering just slightly.

“Every time you push in,” you went on, voice low and wrecked, “gods, it’s so deep.”

His hand slipped beneath your thigh, hitching it higher, opening you more. “You’re perfect,” he growled. “Fucking perfect.”

Your fingers curled around his nape, tugging him down until your lips brushed his ear. “You don’t have to hold back,” you breathed. “I can take it.”

His hips slowed. 

You didn’t stop. “I want to take it,” you whispered, and then added, a little bolder, “Want to feel all of it. All of you.”

A low, broken sound escaped him. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.” Your gaze met his—open, hungry. “I want you, Rhys.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Then his grip tightened—hands sliding under your thighs, pressing them up, hooking your legs over his shoulders, folding you open. The new angle had you gasping as he sank in, slow at first, then all at once—deep and overwhelming.

He held you there, panting above you, pupils blown wide.

“This is what you wanted,” he said, and he started to move—hard, fast, relentless, like a dam breaking, like he’d been holding back for years and couldn’t anymore. “So take it. Don’t close your eyes, look at me… There’s my girl. There you go.”

You couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe as he talked you through it. You could only feel as he fucked you into the blankets with single-minded, devastating purpose.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as he drove into you again and again, every thrust punching a sound from your throat—breathy, desperate, wrecked. You couldn’t even meet his gaze anymore, too overwhelmed by the sheer stretch of him, the heat of him, the way your body clenched around him like it never wanted to let him go.

“Look at me,” he growled, hips snapping forward.

You tried. Gods, you tried. Your lashes fluttered as your eyes met his—wild and dark and hungry.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep those eyes on me while I fuck you.”

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs trembling in his hold. “Rhys—”

“I know,” he panted, pace unrelenting. “I know, baby. I feel it too.”

His hand slid up your side, fingers splayed across your ribs before brushing the swell of your breast. He cupped it gently at first—then squeezed, thumb circling your nipple until you cried out.

“You’re doing so well, fuck—taking me so deep. Can you feel how tight you are around me? Gods, you’re perfect like this,” he said, voice cracking. “Under me. Around me. Fuck—mine.”

You were close—so close it ached, a coil drawn tight in your belly, ready to explode.

“I can’t—” you gasped. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he urged, voice nearly breaking. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”

And with one more brutal thrust—deep, punishing, perfect—you shattered around him—body locking up, mouth open in a silent cry as pleasure surged through you like lightning. But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow down.

Rhys kept fucking you through it, relentless, determined, dragging every last wave of that climax out of you with deep, punishing thrusts. His grip on your thighs was bruising, the way he held you open, kept you wide and helpless beneath him, like he needed to watch the way you came undone.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

Your hands clawed at the blankets, your mind white-hot and unraveling. Every thrust hit something electric inside you, your body too sensitive, too raw, and yet—you wanted it. Needed more.

“Too much,” you whispered, the words barely a breath.

“No, baby,” he growled, dragging his cock out slow—then slamming back in so hard your vision blurred. “You can take it. You’re gonna give me another.”

Your mouth dropped open in a moan, back arching as he angled his hips just right—grinding deep, relentless, right against that spot that made you sob.

“I can’t—” you tried again, voice breaking, but your body told a different story. Your hips rolled to meet him, thighs quaking where he held them, cunt pulsing so hard around him it was all he could do not to lose it.

“Yes you can,” he hissed, sweat slicking his chest. “You’re already close. I can feel you—so tight, so wet. Fuck, you’re milking me.”

You couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The pressure built again with terrifying speed, your body strung so tight it felt like you might snap in half.

Then his thumb found your clit—circling, pressing, teasing just enough— just enough—

You screamed. Loud and wrecked and his, as a second orgasm slammed into you, fiercer than the first, crashing over you like a storm. Your whole body locked up, legs shaking violently in his grip, and all you could do was feel—like you were flying apart in a thousand pieces, pleasure white-hot and endless. Your vision went white. A cry tore from your throat as your body clenched down around him, pulsing with wave after wave of raw, blinding pleasure. He cursed, his rhythm faltering, then slamming back in with a groan as he chased his own end.

“Gods,” he choked. “You feel—fuck—fuck—”

And then he was coming, hips pressed flush to yours, buried as deep as he could go, filling you with every last pulse of him.

He didn’t stop touching you, even then—his movements gentler now, grounding, soothing, his hands sliding down your legs, your hips, up to cradle your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, both of you panting, trembling, lost.

You were still trembling when he finally eased out of you, slow and careful, like he hated to leave the warmth of your body. You hissed at the sudden emptiness, your legs twitching with the aftershocks.

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You barely registered him moving—just the rustle of fabric, the shift of air. Then something warm and damp pressed between your thighs, and you jolted.

“Relax,” he said, voice lower now, rasping with the remnants of his own ruin. “Just cleaning you up.”

Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded. “Where the hell did you even get that?”

Rhys gave a soft huff—almost a laugh—as he wrung out the cloth and dabbed between your legs with unhurried care. “I always come prepared.”

You groaned. “That better not be from your pocket.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry. It was clean. Can’t say the same for you.”

You swatted at his shoulder, too weak to land anything meaningful. He caught your wrist easily, brought it to his lips, kissed your knuckles. Then, quieter, more serious: “You okay?”

You met his gaze, and for a second, it felt like the world narrowed to just that—his eyes, searching yours, all that fire banked into something steadier. Warmer.

“I’m good,” you whispered. “Better than good.”

He nodded, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Didn’t mean to wreck you like that.”

“Liar,” you muttered, which earned another soft grin.

“I mean,” he murmured, voice dipping as he smoothed the cloth over your skin one last time, “I did—but I wasn’t planning on it going that far.”

You let out a breathless laugh, instinctively crossing your arms over your chest as the chill started to creep back in around the edges of your bliss.

“Rhys,” you said dryly, “as much as I’m enjoying the ambiance out here, I’d really prefer not to freeze to death with your come dripping out of me.”

He huffed a soft laugh—but a blink later, the cold vanished. The ground beneath you softened, gave way to your plush mattress. Dim, golden light from your lamp spilled over you both. The scent of lavender and sex filled the space. 

Rhysand shifted closer, his arm curling low around your waist. The weight of his touch, the steadiness, was enough to drown out the storm still raging beyond the window. 

You tucked your head beneath his chin, let his warmth settle into your skin.

“Next time,” you mumbled, eyes already heavy, “you conjure us a fire first.”

His chest shook with a quiet laugh. “Next time,” he promised, voice like velvet and shadows, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

[losers-clvb]

rebound ex-boyfriend!sam winchester x female!reader

content: toxic!sam, language, smut, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, clitoral stimulation, manipulative sam, mentions of cheating, phone call during sex, some light dirty talk, non-consensual voyeurism (i think it classifies anyway), weirdly some fluff (maybe?)

word count: 3.4k

note: thank you to my lovely jen (@xoswiftieprincess )for indirectly inspiring me to write this fic. also, this is unedited because i wanted to get it out before i went to work, lol.

m.list

“Fuck Sam Winchester!”

Your best friend, Mason, had been cursing the man’s name for over two hours now. She was finding way too much joy in you finally breaking up with him, but that’s just what her friendship was like. She’s always supported you, even when you made the stupid choice to stay with Sam after the fourth time he’d come home to you with a lipstick stain on his neck.

But, seems fifth time was the charm, because you had forced him out of your life. Though, that could have been more about the fact that this time he’d left his phone open to show a text thread between him and the lady who delivered the mail. The fucking postal carrier. He’d chosen her over you.

That was all in the past now, or, it was supposed to be, but now the entire bar was cheersing to Sam’s downfall.

“Fuck Sam Winchester!” They all echoed out Mason’s words. Even the elderly veteran that lurked in the corner raised his beer to the sentiment.

You rolled your eyes and tried to swallow down the hurt of losing Sam, using your very strong cocktail as a chaser. You were the image of pure badass feminism. Who needed a man if he was gonna treat you like trash?

The truth of it was much more embarrassing. You missed Sam.

He could be sweet, when he wanted to. Bring you home flowers, never your favorites, but they were still flowers. He would wrap his arms around you while you made dinner, lips working on kissing your neck while you hummed. The thing you missed the most?

His ability to make you come over and over.

It was truly astounding the amount of times he’d make you come in a singular night. It was the only time he wasn’t a complete selfish asshole. He’d eat you out until the sun rose, ignoring your babbling about how you couldn’t handle another. You knew the safe word, you just never used it.

Oh my God, and his cock? It was impressively--

“Can you stop thinking about him for once?” Mason huffed out, sipping from her own drink. She could read your mind like no other, and it most times lead you to trouble.

“I’m not thinking about him.” You were lying straight through your teeth. You knew it, and she definitely knew it, if the glare she cut at you meant anything.

“You’re a horrible liar.”

You cringed at her words. Not because of what she meant behind them, but because Sam had told you the same thing, word for word, when you screamed at him how much you hated him.

They were both right. You were lying.

“I can’t just stop loving him.” You whispered. Mason still caught it over the hum of the bar around you.

“You need a rebound! Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, right?” Mason was already scanning the bar for her perfect victim.

“No, Mase, I can’t-,” you started to protest, but she cut you off.

“Him!” Mason jabbed a finger in the direction of a man. He looked around your age and he wasn’t exactly unattractive. The problem lay in the simple fact that he was nothing like Sam.

His jaw was set in a different way. His hair buzzed down to his scalp. He was too… muscular, like a bodybuilder rather than the lean, toned build of your Sam. And he was short. Only an inch or two taller than yourself. You liked it when your men towered over you. Or, maybe you just liked it when Sam towered over you.

It wasn’t as if you were now a born-again virgin. You would work your way up to hookups, you assumed. But right now you didn’t know if there was anyone who could make you feel as good as Sam had, and you didn’t want to be disappointed.

“He’s perfect for you!” Mason insisted, wrapping her fingers around your wrist to drag you over to him.

“He’s nothing like Sam…,” you almost whimpered, your mind always going back to the man who constantly broke your heart.

“Exactly.” Mason smiled wickedly, stomping up to Not-Sam and his group of friends.

After some very convincing arguments with Mason, mixed with the overwhelming fear that you would never get over Sam, you agreed to take Not-Sam home with you.

That’s where you found yourself now, pressed against the wall, Not-Sam’s hand inching under your skirt.

You were trying to enjoy this, you really were, but he was making it difficult.

Not-Sam was a very bad kisser, and his hand? His hand was somehow cold and sweaty at the same time. Oh, and turns out he was part of the male population that couldn’t find the clit, because he was now rubbing just north of it with far too much confidence.

“That feel good?” He asked in what you could only classify as the worst sexy voice you’ve ever heard.

“Umm…,” you didn’t know how to answer. “Yeah, that’s sooo good” in your best attempt at non-sarcasm? Or maybe, “No, it really doesn’t” as a way to finally stand up for yourself?

Thankfully, you didn’t have to make a choice, because there was a knock on your door a second later. You all but pushed Not-Sam off of you, scrambling to answer the door. Maybe it was Mason coming to her senses and saving you from this. Or maybe your neighbor Verna who sometimes participated in late night baking. Or--

You opened the door to reveal none other than Sam. He looked the same as he had three days ago when you pushed him out of this very door. Well, same other than the quickly bruising right eye.

“Oh.” You breathed, not knowing what else to say. You felt a flux of emotion. Hate, regret, love, lust, heartbreak. Most of all, you felt sorry for him.

You felt sorry for your shitty ex because he has a black eye? You could hear Mason’s voice in your head already, scolding you.

It didn’t stop the pull of your heart when he offered you a crooked grin.

“Angelcakes, who is it?” Not-Sam asked, peering over your shoulder. You winced at the pet name. He insisted on calling you that despite your physical aversion to the name.

Sam furrowed his brow, flicking his eyes from you to Not-Sam a few times before they finally landed back onto you. He didn’t look jealous. He didn’t need to be, he knew nobody compared to him.

“Can I come in?” Sam leaned against the doorframe in the way that always had you swooning. His hair fell perfectly into his eyes. He could see the moment he hooked you back in, a smirk pulling on his face at the sight.

“Actually-,” Not-Sam began.

“Yes.” You answered at the same time, stopping Not-Sam in his tracks. You would have seen the scowl on his face if you weren’t so enamoured with your ex-boyfriend in front of you.

“What?” Not-Sam spat, crossing his arms.

Sam dragged his gaze from you to Not-Sam, raising his eyebrows.

“Guess you’d better get going.” Sam spoke with the same inflection you would use with a child, soft and syrupy like medicine. And just like a child to medicine, it made Not-Sam sneer with disgust.

“We were in the middle of something, Gigantor.” Not-Sam tried, and failed, to pull you out of the trance Sam had put you in by nudging your side.

“It’s okay. You can go.” Your words flowed out embarrassingly quick, and you saw a twinkle of something in Sam’s eye.

Not-Sam scoffed, pushing past you and Sam with a mumble about how you were a bitch he didn’t need. You paid no mind to it, not when Sam was gathering your hand in his own.

His skin was warm, a warmth you had missed after the whole of the three days away from him. He brought the back of your hand to his lips, kissing it like he was the prince in those fairytales you loved so much.

“I missed you.” He mumbled against your hand. You didn’t know if it was true or not, but you wanted to believe it was, and that was all that mattered in the moment.

Your head was still a little fuzzy from the drinks Mason had shoved at you. Yeah, that would be your excuse for anything that was to happen. Drunk, not stupidly in love with a sadist.

“Sammy…,” you sighed, jutting your lip out in a frown. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to cry.

“Baby…,” Sam sighed back, stepping into your apartment. It smelled like home, cinnamon and sugar. That must have been why he couldn’t get you off his mind, even after sleeping with Stephanie from the bakery down the street.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You turned away, suddenly feeling nervous in his presence. He was gonna hurt you again, you knew it, but it didn’t stop the wanting to wrap your arms around his neck.

“Maybe.” He agreed, softly pushing the door closed and turning the lock until that click that told him no one would be getting in to interrupt what he wanted to happen. “But you’re my baby, and I needed help.”

You turned to face him again, eyes stopping on his injury. You could see the few spots in his eye where the blood vessels had burst. Whoever hit him, hit him hard.

You reached up to cup his face with your hand, Sam leaned down to meet you halfway. You brushed a thumb carefully over the bruising.

“What happened?” You met his eyes again.

“That’s not important.” You didn’t need to know that Stephanie had a husband, one who had been trained to throw a punch during his time in the military. “Can you kiss it better? Like you always do?”

Like you always do. He knew you too well. You would give in, he wouldn’t even have to beg for it.

“You hurt me.” You whimpered, eyes dropping.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” Sam was actually half-sincere with his apology. He was sorry that he hurt you, but it was just so easy when you always let him come back.

You swallowed and huffed, still looking down. Then he said those magic words.

“I love you, it’ll never happen again.” You’d heard them far too often, and believed them more times than that. They never ceased to melt away any residual anger you felt toward Sam.

You looked up, a small smile gracing your face.

“I love you too.” You answered.

“I know you do.” Sam nodded, tilting his head down just the slightest bit in order to brush his lips against yours.

You leaned into him with a sigh, muscle memory taking over while you kissed him. It was soft and passionate at first, but quickly spiraled into something more.

Sam was hungry, and you were the only thing that could satisfy him. He knew it. No matter how many girls he tried to replace you with, he could never find one like you. None of them loved him so wholly and eternally like you did.

You wrapped your legs around his waist when he picked you up. You clung to him like a koala on a tree, chest flush with his own.

Sam carried you to your room, bending down to place you within the nest of blankets you called a bed. He never once broke the kiss, not until you were settled onto your back.

He worked his way down your face, kissing your jawline, nipping at your neck. The dress Mason had picked out for you worked to his advantage, giving him perfect access to kiss the tops of your breasts.

The moment he had pulled away from your lips you had tangled your fingers into his hair. You knew where this was going.

“I missed these.” Sam muttered, licking his tongue over the skin of your chest. You only hummed in response.

He continued his way down, fingers looping around your panties before his face ever reached then. He pulled them down, slow and tantalizing, watching the way the lace scraped against your thighs.

There it was. Sam’s own personal heaven, nearly dripping from the way he had you all worked up.

“Sammy…,” you encouraged. He knew what you were asking for. He was happy to deliver.

Sam kissed your inner thigh, relishing in the warmth that increased with every inch closer he got to your center. After just a moment’s pause, he kissed down onto your clit.

The breath was knocked from your lungs when his tongue joined in.

You were pitiful. He’d barely touched you, barely put any effort into his movements, yet you were moaning out his name like it was a prayer. You’d regret this later, maybe, but right now? You weren’t thinking of much more than Sam’s mouth working away at you.

“Mmm, baby, I missed this.” Sam hummed. He brought his thumb up to your clit, just the slightest pressure to get you whining.

“Sammy…,” you huffed. You dropped your hand from his hair to the side of his forehead, cradling his head while he watched your reactions to his movements.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” Sam breathed out, sucking onto you. “That’s why I can’t let you go, you’re perfect.”

You let your eyes flutter shut, throwing your head back. You loved it when he talked like this, when he praised you. It made you feel important.

“You’re perfect for me.”

A primal noise left your throat and you rolled your hips into him.

Sam smirked against you. He knew you would never leave him, not really. All he had to do was come back begging, promise to never do it again, give you a kiss as a way to tie it all together. He’d done it hundreds of times before, and he’d do it hundreds of times more.

You always took him back with open arms -- or, in this case, open legs.

A buzzing from your nightstand broke him from those thoughts.

Your eyes shot open and you tilted your head to the side to look at the device.

“Mase <3” was displayed on the screen.

“It’s-,” you reached for your phone, meaning to hit the volume button to stop the vibrations so you could get back to letting Sam pull you apart. You paused when you felt Sam’s fingers flex into your thighs, catching your attention.

“Answer it,” he ordered, voice just as syrupy sweet as it was earlier. His eyes flashed with mischief. He knew Mason hated him, she’d told him as much each time they saw each other. He didn’t care, not when you would be hanging onto his every word and following him around like a lost puppy. But, it was fun to mess with her.

“What? No.” You wanted to wait for her to find out about all of this. She would be disappointed in you, mad, even. You could see her trying to come over to your place with plans to beat Sam’s ass in her mind. You didn’t want to deal with all of that right now.

“She’s just gonna call back again.” Sam told you. When you still looked hesitant, he placed a gentle kiss on your thigh. “C’mon baby, I’ll be good.”

You melted under him, giving in. You always gave in.

You swiped up your phone, tapping the answer button and holding it up to your ear. You immediately heard the low din of the bar. It was late, but Mason was known for closing the place out every Saturday night.

“How’s it going with the gentleman?” Mason asked cheekily. She usually held her alcohol well, but it didn’t stop the slight slur peeking through in her voice.

“Good.” You weren’t technically lying. It was going good, maybe better than good, but it wasn’t with the man she had set you up with. Then again, if Not-Sam had stayed, you were sure it would have been a very unsatisfying night.

You kept your eyes locked onto Sam. His brown eyes were soft, and you swore you saw love in them, but that may have just been you twisting things. No, he did love you. Just not enough to stop finding himself in other women’s beds.

He stuck true to his word, for about the first minute of your phone call. Your eyes widened as he slowly sunk down, pressing his tongue flat against your center.

“He’s pretty hot, right?” Mason continued. You tried to keep your breathing steady.

“Yeah, super hot.” You agreed. Sam never broke the eye contact he held with you, and you didn’t dare to look away. He wanted you watching him. You knew how bratty he became when he didn’t get what he wanted. You didn’t need him doing anything more to give you away to your babbling best friend.

“And he knows what he’s doing?” Mason questioned. You could see her in your mind, giddily awaiting your answer while she sat at the bar.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your lip to stop a moan. You shivered when Sam groaned into you, earning him a narrowing of your eyes to him. Thankfully, Mason didn’t seem to pick up on the noise.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it, but I want all the juicy details in the morning, kay?”

“Of-,” you started to answer with an “of course, bye!”, but that was when Sam pushed two fingers into you, causing the rest of the sentence to be replaced with a moan.

“Oh my gosh, are you doing him right now?” Mason asked, voice a mix of shock and pride. She’d hope this meant you were coming to your senses, finally leaving Sam in the past.

“Kinda.” You managed to bite out, praying she would just end the call already. It hadn’t occurred to you that you could be the one to end the call, not when Sam was steadily pumping his fingers into you.

“You dirty girl!” Mason exclaimed, giggling. At the same time, Sam spoke, making sure his voice was loud enough to be heard through the phone.

“Such a good girl,” he purred, sucking onto your clit.

“Wait-,” Mason’s voice was scarily sobered up and you nearly withered away in preparation for the impending lecture. “Who is that?” She hoped she had heard wrong, hoped you weren’t stupid enough to be in the position she knew you were in.

“Uh-,” you tried to think of a way out of this, a way to get her off your back, but Sam’s fingers -- the ones not currently inside of you -- wrapped around your phone. He pulled it from your hand effortlessly.

“Hey Mase,” he greeted. He was far too cocky than he usually would be, but the situation was just too perfect. Mason hated him, yet she could never get you to fold the way he did. It did immeasurably amazing things to stoke his ego.

“Fuckin’ Sam.” Mason growled. Seems all the alcohol still couldn’t stop the hatred for the man.

“We’re trying to have a good time, you’re kinda ruining the vibe.” Sam continued his work with his fingers, putting light pressure onto your clit with his thumb.

“Just leave her alone, asshole. Haven’t you hurt her enough?” Mason knew there was no hope in reasoning with him, but she would still try.

“I’m not hurtin’ her right now, promise.” Sam hummed, eyes dragging over your heaving chest. With the phone in his possession, you’d fallen right back into your pleasure. Your head was buried into your blankets, breathy moans leaving your lips.

“You’d better be gone by the time I get there.” Mason warned, and Sam could hear the smack of a door slamming shut.

“Mmm, I don’t think so.” Sam smirked when you clenched around his fingers. He knew you were close. He knew everything about you, down to every twitch of your muscle. He heard the line disconnect, a beep signaling that Mason had ended the call.

He was sure she would be here, banging on your front door, within the next half hour, but that didn’t stop him from taking his time with you. He watched you fall apart on his hand.

“You’re my perfect girl.” Sam rewarded you with after you’d relaxed, a sweet kiss finding its way onto your hip bone. You could only nod and pull him into your arms.

This was the best way to get over a breakup, you’d decided, even if it was with the person who’d broken your heart in the first place.

everything taglist : @littlesoulshine @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @mostlymarvelgirl

sam winchester taglist : @hobiespick

[chlorinecake]

「 𓍯𓂃 I KISSED HER FOREHEAD AND NOW SHE'S 𝒢IVING ME CRYSTALS ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ 」

𝐢𝐞. super Y2K crush scenarios with 𝐍𝑒𝕨 𝐉𝚎𝐚𝕟s

── ✰⋆⁺ 𓊆ྀི . . path to bookshelf ◍ 𓊇ྀི 🔮 虹 . . . 𝔸ᶰĎ 𝒴𝐨𝕌 ?. . .

❖︎ pa𝓲ring .ᐟ 뉴진스 x female!reader

❖ g𝓮nre .ᐟ fluff, comfort, wlw, friends to lovers

❖ 𝒘𝗈𝗋𝖽 count .ᐟ 𝟏,𝟎𝟒𝟏 total ✩ ✩ ✩

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐈 ── ❝ You smell pretty today... ❞

“You too!” You blurted out, right before realizing you'd gotten your words mixed up, “Wait- I meant to say you look pretty, but... I guess I mean both? Gosh, does that even make sense?”

A tiny smile spread across Minji's features at your adorable timidness, her boot-clad feet taking a few steps towards you before pulling you close, gracing your frame with a tender hug, “It makes perfect sense, weirdo… thanks...”

Her voice was calm and soothing as usual, despite the way it made butterflies swarm in the spot where your heart should be. You couldn't really explain it, but something about Minji's energy always had a way of making you look and feel like a lovesick geek by time you got a proper sentence out—

“So,” she began again, breaking from the embrace and looking you straight in the eye, her hands resting at your shoulders, “when were you gonna tell me about this little crush you have on me?”

Your eyes widened like you had seen a ghost, a nervous chuckle slipping past your lips as she tilted her head at you, just as you muttered a distracting, “Right after I told you which Victoria's Secret fragrance I'm wearing?”

𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐌 ── ❝ Crystals? As a gesture?... ❞

“Pfft, of course!” Hanni replied matter-of-factly, “just like how you gave me coins for that gum-ball machine we passed earlier… but who's keeping track of all that stuff anyways?”

“You, apparently...,” you said as a gentle laugh escaped your lips at her quirky reply, “but touché, Hanni Pham... what should I do with these?”

“Hmmm,” she hummed, cupping your right palm in her own as the colorful stones glittered beneath the mall’s sunroof, “you can put them under your pillow at night!... o-or maybe even stash them in your purse so you can think about me wherever you go!”

“As if I'd need a crystal’s assistant with that,” you teased, ruffling her hair slightly with your free hand. “These are cool, though,” you went on, heart warming at both the feeling of your hand in hers and at the unique gift, “very sweet of you...”

“Eh, I tryyyy,” she replied smugly, right before blowing a tiny pink bubble with the gum she chewed, only to spit the leftover candy into a napkin and ask, “wanna close your eyes and guess what flavor you taste on me?...”

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐇 ── ❝ I like your sweater… ❞

“Oh, this old thing?” Danielle asked with her warm Australian accent, taking the colorful sweater’s hem in her fingers to examine it's loose threads, “My nana knit this for me like... forever ago...”

“Well it's cool to see she was a step ahead of fashion trends back then,” you smiled, letting your hand brush over the soft yarn of her sleeve... That's when a certain question arose in your head:

“Random, but by chance, are you any good with using chopsticks?” You asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.

“Oh, for sure! I’m basically a pro at it,” she boasted, flipping her curly locks in a cartoonish manner.

“Sweet! I have two coupons for two different places. One for a craft store, and another for a sushi bar… only thing is that they both expire tomorrow,” You went on, hoping that she'd catch your drift without you having to state any specifics...

“Oh? Well it'd be a total bummer to let them go to waste,” she shrugged, hooking her arm in yours before tugging you along with her, “we better get going quick before they run out of sashimi… or yellow yarn…”

𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍 ── ❝ Can I come in please...? ❞

You heard a gentle voice call from behind your bedroom door, face buried into the largest pillow you could find given the sob-fest you had earlier…

“The door’s unlocked,” you sniffled, turning over on your bed to face her as she peaked from behind the door, her bright smile not even fading at the sight of you.

“I brought some heartwarming treats and DVD’s!” She began, voice just as pleasant as it always was. Haerin made her way to sit beside you on the bed, opening one of your favorite candy bars and handing it to you.

“How’d y’know I was upset?” You asked before taking a bite of the candy, chuckling a bit at the way she watched you so intently while doing so.

“I didn’t,” she went on plainly, “… I already wanted to surprise you today and just got lucky that it ended up being at a time where you needed it most…”

“Awww,” you pouted, dropping the candy bar to pull her into a hug, “you’re literally the best friend I could ask for, Haerin… thank you for coming to see me…”

“Of course,” she whispered, mind lingering on the word friend for a moment, even though she was certain you meant something a little more than that…

“So,” she began again, breaking from the contact and reaching for the TV remote, “Wanna rewatch Mean Girls or Clueless first?”

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐈𝐍 ── ❝ Can I touch your hair? ❞

You asked the question for one reason: You were bored out of your mind from waiting at the bus stop, and playing with Hyein’s hair seemed like a fun way to pass the time…

“Oh, sure!” She chirped, immediately straightening her posture on the park bench as you scooted closer to where she sat, taking her wavy locks into your grasp.

Hyein’s round eyes wandered to the sparkly pink Juicy Couture purse you wore over your shoulder, compelling her to ask, “What’s in the bag?”

“Oh- just some barrette’s and hair clips I got from Claire’s yesterday,” you replied, pausing to click open your purse and show her the different kinds, “Thought you might be interested in some extra bling, so…”

“You know me far too well then, ____,” she smiled, scanning each package with her eyes before suggesting that you decide which hair-clip style she would wear, and vice versa.

You let out a simple “Okay” at her offer, reaching for the pack of silver shooting stars for her hair while she held the pack of butterfly clips beside your face, a satisfied look spreading across her features.

“These are gonna look gorgeous on you,” Hyein smiled, right before opening the pack of butterflies clips and popping a few different colored ones in her palm, “This is too fun already, hehe… I can decorate your hair first, right?…”

ʚ 𝐀𝒰𝐓ᕼ𝕆𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝕆T𝐸: I decided to explore the wlw genre for a change, and I have no one other than @jwanniie to thank for inspiring me to experiment on my platform in such a way through her works... I've always wanted to write for my fav GG's just like how I write for my fav BG's, but simply never found the courage to until now ~ Hopefully you guys enjoyed what I came up with! ɞ

❖ 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ( 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 💌 ) @squoxle @nikisvanillaccola @wonbinisbabygurl @ashgonedash @yourmomscuntis2tighy @addictedtohobi @ot7sevenlvr -> if GG content isn’t your thing, pls lmk and I’ll refrain from tagging you in such posts moving forward :3

[bruisedboys]

can I request remus and anxious!reader where he asks her to be his, but she is worried that remus will think that she is too much to take care of?

thank you for your request angel!! this was fun to write <3

remus lupin x fem!anxious!reader, 1.3k words

Remus turns up unannounced at your door with a huge bouquet of flowers. You think you know where this is going.

“Hey,” he says, smiling a brilliant smile that sets your heart aflame. “You look nice. Can I come in?”

You don’t look nice, at least not in your opinion. You’re in your pyjamas, a loose tank and a pair of flannel pants, fresh out of the shower with your damp hair hanging limp over your shoulders. But you can’t not let him in. You like him too much.

“Uh— sure. Yeah, come in. Sorry about the mess.” You kick a stray shoe to the side to prevent him tripping in your doorway, embarrassed.

“Don’t start,” he tells you, fondly exasperated as he toes off his shoes. He closes the door behind him and then turns back to you, holding the bouquet out. “These are for you, by the way.”

You’d guessed. Still, you’re very very happy to get them. He’s given you flowers before, ones he’s picked on the way to your place or a rose, once, on your last birthday, but never a bouquet. You take it from him, fingers brushing his at the stalks.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You can’t imagine how much they cost him. It’s the fullest bouquet you’ve ever seen, petals bursting out of the tissue paper in pretty pinks and whites and creams. You don’t try to fight the smile working it’s way onto your lips. “They’re really pretty.”

Remus grins and raises one shoulder in a shrug. “Pretty flowers for a pretty girl.”

“Remus,” you whine, heat building in your cheeks at an alarming rate.

Remus laughs, surprised. “What?”

You glare, fierce as you can when you’re so infatuated with him. He’s making this hard for you and he knows it. “Nothing. Come on, come through, I’ll find a vase.”

You lead the way through your entryway and into the kitchen. Remus sits at your kitchen island and watches while you find a vase for your flowers and fill it with water from the tap. You feel his gaze like laser beams and try not to think about how much skin your pyjama top is showing right now, how much you don’t actually care because you want him to look at you.

“Stop looking at me,” you say anyway, though you know he won’t listen.

“No, I don’t think I will.” Typical.

“You’re awful.”

“Thanks, gorgeous.”

You sigh and finish setting up your flowers, setting them on the kitchen island. Remus smiles at you like a fool when you meet his eyes.

“Do you want a drink?” You ask, desperate to do something other than be under his gaze.

“No. I want to ask you something.”

Your heart stutters. This could go a million ways and you’re not sure which way you’d prefer. You sit down across from him and try not to fall right off your chair.

“Okay,” you say quietly, playing with your hands, pulling at your fingers. “Ask away, then.”

Remus doesn’t say anything right away. He slides his hands across the counter and pushes them over yours, stopping your mindless fiddling. You let him take your hands in his. They’re warm, rough but soft in the places that count. His fingers thread through yours and your heart does a backflip.

“Look at me?” He asks, voice soft as silk. You’re glad he’s stopped joking around but somehow his sweet patience is worse.

You look up, meeting his eyes. Remus beams.

“Hi,” he says, grinning.

You huff a laugh through your nose. “Hi,” you say back.

Remus strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush,” he says, words measured as if he’s being careful to not worry you. You both despise and adore how patient he is with you. “I want to ask you something, and if you don’t like it, please feel free to kick me out of your house. Okay?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, wondering if the hammering of your heart is for a good reason or a bad. “I’m not gonna kick you out of my house, Remus.”

“You might.”

You shake your head firmly. “I won’t.”

Remus takes a deep breath, and you watch his chest rise and fall.

“I really like you,” he says. “And as much as I enjoy being friends, I think I’d like to be more.”

You blink. You can barely open your mouth, feeling like your lips have been glued shut. “More?” You manage.

Remus nods. “Yeah.”

You don’t know why but you suddenly feel like crying. You’re not oblivious, you’d known Remus liked you at least a little bit more than just a friend. You’ve gone over this moment countless times in your head, content with it happening in your head but never in real life. You’re a fish out of water. You swallow.

“Remus,” you say, trying not to sound like you’re rejecting him. “I … I don’t know.”

Remus blinks.

“Not— I mean, it’s not because of you,” you say in a desperate rush. You untangle your hands from his and wrap your fingers around his wrists instead. “I like you, Remus. You know I do. It’s just— I don’t think you’d … I’m a lot of work,” you finish dejectedly.

Remus gives you a looks like a kicked puppy. “What? Y/N, that doesn’t—“

“No, listen, Remus,” you say, desperate for him to understand. “I’m not— I wouldn’t be a good girlfriend. You already do so much for me, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to do more.” Remus knows about your anxiety. It’s one of the reasons you like him so much, because he knows and doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t treat you any differently for it. Still, “You’d get tired of me.”

Remus genuinely looks like he might cry. He releases your hands and gets up, and for one terrifying second you think he’s leaving you, that he’s already sick of you and your worries, that he doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore. But he only rounds the kitchen island and gets so close to you you can smell his cologne.

“Can I give you a hug?” He asks in a soft murmur. “Please?”

You nod. Remus only hesitates for a half a second before wrapping his arms around you, pulling your head to his stomach, a hand in your damp hair. He’s warm and firm, tall, all-encompassing. He’s hugged you before but never like this. Never like he wants to hold all the pieces of you together in case you fall apart. You might just.

You weasel your arms around his tummy and try not to squeeze too hard. Remus strokes the back of your head, once, twice, three times. He doesn’t seem to mind your wet hair, the dampness slowly soaking into his soft t-shirt.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I want you to know that none of that matters to me. Only you matter. I don’t care if I have to look after you, I wouldn’t care if I had to carry you around like a log everywhere we went. I want to look after you.”

You squeeze him harder.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you say into his t-shirt.

Remus makes a sad noise and pulls back, hands climbing to your neck. He encourages your face from his stomach gently, fingers pushing your hair out of the way so he can cup your jaw.

“You won’t be a burden,” he says. “You’re not. I like you just the way you are. I could never get tired of you, honey. Every time I see you it’s like I’m seeing you for the first time all over again.”

There’s a pause in which you look at each other, a lot of big, beautiful feelings in the way you study each other’s faces. Your heart pounds in your chest. You know your decision has already been made, was probably made the second he appeared at your door, maybe the moment you met him however long ago. He’s lovely, the best person you’ve ever met. You like him enough to put aside your worries and be with him, if that’s what he wants.

And it is what he wants. Suddenly you feel so happy you could burst.

“Okay,” you say hoarsely, emotion thick in your throat. You nod, not caring how desperate you look. “Yes.”

Remus’ answering smile is bruising. “Yeah?” He says, pleased and almost as giddy as you. His eyes light up like stars and you know you could’ve never said no to him. “You’ll be mine? Let me look after you for ever and ever?”

A giggle bubbles out of you before you can stop it. You beam up at him. “Only if you let me look after you, too.”

Remus thumbs the hollow under your eye slowly, his touch like fireworks along your skin, leaning close like he’s gonna kiss you. You’re surprised to realise you really, really want him to.

“I think that can be arranged.”

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if u enjoyed 🤍

[4ranghaes]

myung jaehyun x reader [smut, fem!reader]

warnings - chastity cage, sub!myungjae, pretty hard dom!reader, slight humiliation, use of puppy and pup as nicknames, mummy kink, checking colour

a/n - too much fluff this month. had to get this out my system

15:33 - “jaehyun! we’re going out!” sungho exclaimed, standing at the doorway with riwoo, “jae?!”

jaehyun cleared his throat, trying to stop the whine from bubbling out his throat. he picked up the blanket from his bed, covering himself with it as he opened his bedroom door. not that they could see anything, anyway, but better safe than sorry.

“okay! y/n’s coming round soon,” he responded, voice tight as he tried to grind against the material in his hand.

“oh god, good job we’re leaving, eh?” riwoo teased, waving goodbye to his leader, “bye!”

jaehyun whimpered at his words, waving goodbye and disappearing back into his room. he threw the blanket back on the bed, looking down at his cock, locked in a cage. it was straining against the material, the cage fighting against the boner that was threatening to arise. it didn’t hurt, but jaehyun was so uncomfortable - he’d had it on for almost the whole week, leaving him on monday night with the promise of unlocking him on his next day off (saturday).

“myungjae?” your voice rang through the dorm, sickly sweet as he appeared out his room, tears already lining his eyes at the mere fact you were there.

“y/n,” he whined. he only had a t-shirt on, spending the morning trying fruitlessly to touch himself through the metal. you giggled when you saw him.

“oh my baby,” you cooed, pulling him into a hug, jaehyun’s head burying into the crook of your neck, “what’s wrong?”

he pulled away, glaring at you as you laughed.

“did you miss me that much?!”

“you know i did,” he breathed, voice small, “please, y/n.”

you rolled your eyes, “are you that desperate, myungjae? just a horny puppy, aren’t you? i bet you’ve been trying to touch yourself even through that cage, right?! it hasn’t even been a week, pup. god, what am i gonna do with you?”

“please touch me,” he cried, a tear falling down his cheek, “please… i’m so hard.”

you looked down, pulling up his t-shirt and seeing his red cock, head straining at the bars. you rolled your eyes.

“get on the bed, then,” you sighed, your boyfriend scrambling back to his room to climb on the bed on his knees. you walked in, shutting the door and approaching him. stood at the base of the bed, you dug your hand into your pocket, pulling out a small key, myungjae crying at the sight of it. “you want this?”

he nodded desperately, sniffling, “please. please, i’m so hard and– and i’ve been good! i haven’t touched myself.”

you scoffed, “only because you couldn’t. oh i like this, hmm? you don’t even get the chance to break my rules. how did you like it, puppy? knowing i owned your cock. knowing you can only touch yourself when i say so.”

he nodded, rocking back and forth on his knees as you started undressing slowly until you were only in your underwear. he could feel his cock pulsing now, taking a deep breath and trying to take his mind of the restrictive material, “i– i l–loved it. i loved it, i did.”

you smiled, “me too, pup. i love it so much, you’ve already made me so wet.” myungjae bit his lip, watching as you got on your knees in front of him, your hand threaded in his hair as he looked up at you through teary eyes. “can you eat me out?”

his eyes turned wide with worry. “b-but i– my—”

“i know. i’ll unlock your little cock afterwards,” you hummed, “don’t you want to make mummy feel good?”

he nodded desperately, “yes. yes, can i touch you, mummy, please?”

you smiled, “of course, baby. so good for me, so obedient.” his hands flew to your body, touching you all over as he kissed at your neck and chest, laying you down and licking over the material of your panties.

he could feel the material of the bedding brushing over the tip of his cock through the bars of the cage, tears lining his eyes every time it did, his body practically bursting.

“myungjae?” you called, as he nibbled at your thighs, pulling your panties to the side. his cock leaked at the sight of you laid out in front of him, “jaehyun? look at me.”

he took a deep breath, looking at you with wet eyes and a teary face, breathing uneven.

“what’s your colour, baby?” you smiled, placing a hand on his face.

“g-green,” he sobbed, “i–i just— hurts, now…”

“it hurts, my love?” you cooed, “i’m sorry, baby, i thought i could tease you some more, hmm?”

“no! it’s– it’s okay. w–want to make y–you feel good,” he sniffled, tears continuing to fall as he wiped his face.

“i’m okay, baby,” you smiled, sitting up and placing your hand on his face, “why don’t we get you out of the cage first, hmm? i know you’ll give me at least three rounds, anyway, yeah?”

he nodded desperately, laying down against his pillows as you got the key from the bedside table, undoing the small lock on the cage and taking it off, jaehyun’s red cock almost immediately springing up, tip leaking constantly.

“you’re so hard, baby boy,” you cooed, gathering some of the precum off the tip and spreading it around his cock, beginning to pump slowly. his body twitched as you touched him, not used to the stimulation.

he whined at the first brush of your finger, moaning loudly as you started pumping, “m-mummy, i’m not gonna– not gonna be able to hold it.”

“you cum whenever you need to, baby,” you cooed, working over his hard cock and red tip. his body was flailing around the bed, hand gripping onto your thigh desperately as he bucked his hips.

“i– i— cum,” he babbled, thoughts incoherent as the liquid spurt from his tip, covering your hand, his t-shirt and the exposed skin of his stomach.

he moaned loudly as you worked him through it, panting and looking up at you lovingly as you finally let go. you leaned down, pressing a kiss to his chewed up lips.

“was that okay?” you murmured, jaehyun nodding quickly, “you wanna fuck me, puppy?”

“yes! please,” he whined, grabbing at your body as you smirked, grinding his already hard cock against your clothed heat.

“so good for me,” you smiled, pulling your panties to the side and sinking down. your eyes rolled back in your head as jaehyun moaned loudly.

“i– y/n– i’m gonna—” he stuttered as you moved down, painting your insides with his cum as you bottomed out on his cock. you smiled, biting your lip and leaning down to kiss him, grabbing his face harshly. he was flushed red, both embarrassed and so turned on– you knew how he loved being humiliated.

“you just got your cock inside me and you’re already cumming?” you teased, scoffing, “god, you’re so desperate, pup. and you’re already hard again?! are you in heat?”

jaehyun tried to stutter out a reply, his face red as he arched his back, trying to stop himself fucking up into you.

“come on then,” you taunted, “if you’re that horny, use it. fuck me, myungjae. show me why i shouldn’t lock your cock up again.”

[pandapetals]

Hi hi! What about old man!Logan thinking you’re too sweet for him and he’s too old for you but he can’t stay away from you. And you wouldn’t like it anyway, because he has everything you need and want.

AHHH i just wanna say I love your account and writing so much. Thank you for the request.

old man logan x fem!reader - drabble, flirting, teasing, slight angst, no y/n used, no reader description

“Sweetheart,” Logan drawled, his voice rough yet tinged with warmth as you shifted on his lap, teasing him with that playful gleam in your eye. His hands tightened instinctively on your hips, a steadying anchor against your mischief. “This is the last time. I promise.”

You tilted your head, a soft smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s what you said last time... and the time before that... and—”

“Alright, alright,” he interrupted, exhaling a gruff sigh that couldn’t hide the hint of amusement beneath it. “But I mean it this time. I’m too old for you. You deserve someone who can keep up.”

Before the words could sink in and twist your heart, you reached up, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, moving slowly over the weathered scars that mapped his face. Each one told a story—of fights fought, losses endured, and battles survived. Some were deep, others faint, but all of them were unmistakably his.

“Do you think I could ever stay away from you?” you murmured, your voice soft as your touch lingered, your thumb brushing the roughness of his cheek. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve, Logan. You need me, and we both know it.”

Your words made him pause, his chest rising and falling with a slow, steady breath as he studied you. 

“You’re too good for this life,” he finally said, his tone quieter, almost pained. “Too good for me.”

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the bridge of his nose, your hands sliding up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. “That’s not your call to make,” you said, your voice firm but laced with tenderness. “I’ve made my choice, Logan. It’s you.”

His hands loosened on your hips, his thumbs brushing lightly against your sides as his gaze softened. “You don’t make things easy, do ya?” he muttered, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

You smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “Since when do you like easy?”

A rough chuckle escaped him, and for a moment, the weight he carried seemed to lift just a little. “Guess I don’t.”

He leaned forward then, his forehead resting gently against yours, the closeness grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. “You really aren’t gonna give up on me, are ya?”

“Not a chance,” you whispered, your fingers threading through his hair, gently tilting his head back until his hazel eyes met yours. “Now,” you teased, a playful glint in your eye as you leaned in close, “where were we…”

Before he could answer, your lips met his in a kiss, slow and deliberate laced with mischief. He sighed into the kiss, his hands sliding up your back to pull you closer, his rough touch sending a shiver throughout your body. 

“Oh, I was teasing you,” you murmured against his lips, your smirk evident in your voice as you shifted in his lap, your hips moving just enough to draw a groan from deep in his chest.

“Darlin’,” Logan growled softly, his grip tightening on your waist as his eyes darkened, warning and want mingling in his gaze. “You’re playin’ with fire.”

You tilted your head, your smirk widening as you trailed your fingers down the line of his jaw. “Good thing I’m not afraid of getting burned.”

[peachdues]

Work has been kicking my ass the last couple of weeks, so I haven’t really had time to write. This is all I’ve got for y’all right now 🤍

Lovers of Compass!Sanemi and Reader discussing books, rejoice. They’re still a couple of fucking nerds (no matter how horny)

It’s almost one in the morning when your phone buzzes.

A message; one from the only person you text, who also happens to be your favorite. On your screen is a picture of the front cover of the book you’d given Sanemi before he left the day before; beneath it, the chat bubble signals he’s sending a follow up.

You caught up yet? Sanemi’s text reads.

You toss your own book to the side, straightening up in bed. Though no one is around to see, a smile unfurls across your lips and your thumbs hurry across your phone’s keyboard.

How far are you?

Sanemi’s reply is instant. Halfway. Can’t finish tonight but I’ve got a few things I need to discuss right the fuck now.

You glance at the time. It’s nearing one-thirty, and your alarm is set for six. Dragging yourself out of bed after less than five hours of sleep is a kind of stupidity you know better than to indulge.

You hit the call button anyway.

Sanemi picks up on the second ring. “I’ve got five minutes,” he warns, voice low, like he’s wary of being overheard. “So if I hang up all of a sudden, it’s ‘cuz of work —“

“Hi to you too,” you tease, settling back against your pillows.

A pause. “Hey there, beautiful,” you can hear his smile even through the phone. “You okay?”

“Better, now that I hear your voice,” and you can’t even be bothered to be embarrassed by the cheesiness of the admission. Texting him is one thing; hearing him, actually hearing that wonderfully gravelly voice of his soothes a tension in your limbs you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying.

He’s okay. He’s unharmed — safe, even. For now, that has to be enough.

Sanemi’s laugh comes through the phone as a staticky exhale of breath. “Normally, I’d ask what you’re wearing, but I’m dead fuckin’ serious — if they don’t win this war —“

“Which battle did you get to?” You sit up, wracking your memory for the approximate place Sanemi has reached in his book. “Did the cadre reunite?”

“No, half of ‘em are still across the fucking continent.”

“Ohhhh, yeah. Okay. I know where you are.” You tug at a loose thread on your comforter. “I can’t say anything. You’ll just have to keep reading.”

“God dammit,” and you imagine he’s rolling his eyes, maybe even glaring down at the book in distaste. “Shit’s got me stressed the fuck out. I don’t know how she’s gonna wrap this up —“

You giggle as he launches into a rant over loose plot ends. Squaring the mental image of your boyfriend — the one currently ranting about the various loose plot ends to still be tied up in his current read — with the one you know must be sitting in some alley or warehouse, waiting to do things he’ll never speak of, feels impossible at times. But here, for this small moment, Sanemi isn’t a Hashira. He’s just a boy, spouting off theories and guesses as to his book’s ending with an almost childlike enthusiasm. Here, there are no orders to leave, no bruised knuckles or bloodstained hands he has to scrub clean in your bathroom sink.

It’s just you and him; your Sanemi. Your wonderful, gentle, sweet Sanemi.

“Ah shit,” he cuts his impassioned tirade off with sigh. There’s a rustling on the other end of the line, but it’s too muffled to be distinguishable. “‘M gonna have to go —“

Just like that, the moment ends and the smile you’d been wearing slides from your face.“Oh.” And you hate how small your voice sounds. “That’s okay — I’m glad I got to talk to you for a sec.”

The rustling stops. “Me too,” Sanemi says softly. “Fuck, I miss you.”

This is the part you hate most; the part when he has to stop being yours and go be theirs, no matter how much you know he doesn’t want to.

Your moments with him are pennies to the hours the Corps gets to demand. As long as they keep their claws in him, this will always be how your moments with him end: in abrupt, hushed voices, Sanemi’s shoulders sagging with a guilt he shouldn’t have to feel.

You grimace. This forced distance between you is bad enough, and you don’t want him to feel worse than he likely already does. You knew what you signed up for by telling him you loved him. You can’t be mad for getting exactly what you’d known to expect. And besides, your ire is reserved for the Corps and the Corps alone. Sanemi doesn’t deserve it. You can’t leave him on your sour note.

He’ll be yours again soon enough, even if only temporarily. That has to be enough, for now. Better to give him something to look forward to, rather than reminding him — and yourself — of what you’re both currently without.

“If you still wanted to know — I’m wearing your shirt. Only your shirt.” You smirk. “A thong, too. The lacy green one.”

A favorite of Sanemi’s, as he’d mentioned a handful of times. One that always set his eyes wide, made his tongue flick out to wet his lips.

Your distraction works. A strangled groan crackles through the phone. “You’re killin’ me, woman.”

[emilys-bangs]

Congratulations on 200 followers <33 you slay and i love ur fics sm!!

Could i pls request prompt 30 from orion? Maybe a case goes bad and reader gets shot but is still flirting with em and shes just so worried but so in love with reader?

also pls can i be added to ur taglist?

i love you take care<3

Tysm gorgeous!! I thoroughly enjoyed writing this lol thank you for sending it in! And ofc you can!! Love you <3

Join my celebration here

Word count: 0.7k

Cw: hospitals, mention of wound/stitching

It’s not her who got shot, but her whole body is jittery as if it were.

Emily stands with her brows drawn, anxiously chewing on her bottom lip as her eyes travel over your body, searching for reassurance she won’t find that you’re okay.

Of course you’re not. You got shot.

But you don’t seem to share her concern. Looking up, you find her eyes and give her a smile. She sees the way it’s worn at the edges, trembling even as you try to keep it steady.

“Hey Em,” you rasp, your voice briefly breaking as the doctor pulls the needle through your skin. Her stomach lurches as you stifle a wince, then say, “I hope you know CPR, ’cause you just took my breath away.” 

Emily’s eyebrows raise, a startled laugh tumbling past her lips at the stupid pick up line. You grin, pleased at her reaction, but the smile quickly melts off your face as you curse under your breath.

Her face straightens once more. “That’s from the bullet in your arm, sweetheart.” She doesn’t mean to be snappy but her voice is clipped anyway, escaping through clenched teeth. Your eyes are glassy and a thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead, but you still persist despite the way your fingers clench around hers.

“Really?” Your voice shudders. “It’s not from those pretty eyes of yours?”

The color drains from your face as more of your skin is stitched close. You grip Emily’s hand so tightly her knuckles crack, but the way your breath escapes in short bursts destroys her more than any physical pain could.

“No,” she says, softer this time. Her anger with you is justified—after all, you did disobey Hotch’s order and run after the unsub—but it crumbles in the face of your pain.

Emily inches closer, the distance between your stretched hands shrinking as her thigh comes into contact with your bent knee.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mumble, your head falling forward on her chest. Emily stifles a sigh as she brings a hand up to the back of your sweaty neck. She lightly rests her chin on your head, ignoring the doctor as she continues threading the needle through your skin as easily as stitching clothes.

A choked hiss leaves your lips and you tremble; your grip tightens on Emily’s fingers. Her heart clenches painfully, nausea unsettling her stomach. “Just a little more, baby.” She soothes, pressing her lips to your damp forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

You take in a sharp breath and she hears the way it wobbles. Emily threads her fingers through your hair, sweet nothings leaving her lips in murmured Spanish. The tension is obvious in your quivering muscles and she just wants it to end, wants you to be spared of the pain she can feel like it’s her own.

“Just a little bit,” she whispers, desperate as she drags her short nails over your scalp. 

You grunt in response. 

Emily turns to the doctor, her eyes pleading, and feels herself relax somewhat when she nods reassuringly as she cuts the suture.

“Hey, see, you’re all done.” Another kiss is placed tenderly on your temple. “She’s just gonna bandage you up now.”

Your grip on her hand slowly starts to loosen. Emily continues holding on, though, offering reassuring squeezes to your slick palm as the doctor wraps a bandage around the stitches. Your body grows limp against her, and soon she’s holding up most of your weight.

She doesn’t mind.

“Hey, Emily.” You mumble, your voice low and drowsy.

“Yes, mon ange?”

“Are you a parking ticket? Because you’ve got fine written all over you.”

Another laugh leaves Emily’s lips, but this time it’s genuine. Leaning back just enough to see your face, she lets go of your hand and gently brushes your sweaty hair away from your face. You close your eyes in contentment. “I can’t believe a bullet wound still isn’t enough to get you to lay off those stupid pickup lines.” She chides softly, her knuckles tracing over your cheek. It’s as ridiculous as it is endearing, and your efforts at distraction—annoyingly—work.

“My one and only goal in life is romancin’ you.” You slur; the exhaustion is starting to sink in.

Emily smiles. “You already have,” she whispers. Her heart warms, some of the tension leaking from her stiff shoulders. Unable to stop herself, she places a quick, soft kiss on your lips.

“Mmm, that’s the fucking magic.”

Emily laughs properly this time, with teeth and dimples, and a matching smile spreads across your face at the sound. God, you really are something.

“Okay, Casanova. We’ll see how long this holds up once we’re home.”

Turns out, it holds up for quite a while.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd

[lindsohalloran]

❝ ach, dinnae get down on yerself, lass, quit yer haverin'! ❞ lindsay has a chair pulled up to the dining table right next to where maisie is sat in front of a math textbook, a look of exasperation on her features that's actually rather comical. ( it also distinctly reminds him of his sister in a way that tugs directly at his heartstrings ; christ alive, but she looks and behaves more and more like niamh every day! ) he does his best not to laugh at her frustration lest he upset her further and completely derail what's already been an antagonizing lesson in multiplying fractions and decimals. ❝ yer plenty smart enough, an' even if yer no', ah was rubbish at maths an' still had tae sit through my lessons. an' if yer uncle had tae do it, sae d'ye. ❞

if maisie wants to grumble in protest about how she shouldn't even have to do schoolwork ― lindsay knows, he's heard it all before ― she doesn't get the chance before a sound on the other side of the door catches his attention. ever on high alert, he's on his feet the moment he realizes it's not just someone passing by. with a pat to her head and an insistence that she just ❛ give it another go, mais, ❜ he's crossing the room in a few long strides and peering through the peephole to identify the unannounced guest lingering outside their door.

charlie. he can't say he's surprised by the sight of her. one of the few points of note during his last conversation with jeremiah had been how close the other man is to his siblings, and the truth is, if he's to be shocked by anything, surely it's how long she's taken to end up at his door since he decided to offer up the truth about maisie's parentage. surely she knew shortly after, if not by jeremiah himself, then simply because the walls of the wexley seemed capable of listening at times, and the rate at which gossip raced through the halls was often staggering.

what he can't ascertain from his glimpse through the peephole is exactly how emotional she is. no, it's not until he opens the door that lindsay realizes the full extent of it, and he's stunned into momentary silence by the sight of her. ( he's never been the best at dealing with feelings, has he? no, that's always been santiago's wheelhouse. he could encourage and motivate and he was fluent in constructive criticism, but he's always fallen short in his ability to console. ) but then she's speaking, and he wants to laugh, because of all the things she could've led with, the one he's most aware of is the one he's least expecting. or, if nothing else, he doesn't expect her to be quite so direct about it.

but lindsay doesn't laugh. he knows better ; he's not cruel. and he'd be the first to admit that charlie has been nothing but kind and gracious to maisie and himself since their arrival ― it isn't her he's taken any issue with. instead, he trains his normally stoic expression into something softer, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. ❝ ah ken ye are, ❞ he says, and he's stepping aside to make space in the doorway to allow her in. maisie looks up from her schoolwork, positively beaming when she spots charlie, but lindsay clicks his tongue. ❝ ye can visit after ye finish yer maths, ❞ he tells her, his tone brooking no argument. ❝ let us talk a moment, aye? ❞

lindsay turns to charlie again, waving her in before closing the door behind her. ❝ come inside, i'll put on th' kettle. ❞

Who: @lindsohalloran Where: Lind's Apartment When: April 21st

Between caring for Roman and his injuries, throwing up, cleaning, and doing laundry there hadn't been much time for Charlie to get away, and even less for her to process what she'd been told. After having talked it over with Roman who had assured her that it was okay for her to want to get to know Maisie as her niece, Charlie finally took the plunge.

In the hallway outside of Linds and Maisie's apartment, Charlie paced, chewing the dead skin about her cuticles almost to bleeding as she stared right back at at the door that was almost seeming to heckle her. What was she even supposed to say? How was she supposed to do this?

She already knew Maisie. She's played with her, and made her goodies, had gotten to know her as she'd started to get closer to June as well once she'd found out she was pregnant. That was going to be another stop, talking to Hannah about how they could talk to June about having a sibling now.

How she'd managed to be familially connected to every child in the building she'd never know, but the lost time with her niece hurt to her core.

Her pacing must have caught his attention from inside his apartment, because the door opened before she could even knock and she knew he was faced with a mess, because she could feel the tears welling up almost instant.

"I'm her aunt..." It wasn't a question, it wasn't even really a statement, it was a plea.

[silverhart-makes-art]

I have now finished ‘Wings of Starlight’ and I have many thoughts, and I don’t know where to put them so it’s going here.

First of all, the book was great. Go read it, especially if you like the Disney Fairies movies. I was excited for the book - the Tinkerbell series of films are my guilty pleasure - but I also didn’t know what to expect. Turns out, it was fantastic. It felt like it’s own thing while still feeling like a continuation of the movie series. There’s so much attention to detail, such clear love for the world and an understanding of what makes the Disney Fairies movies work. It was all so sincere and earnest and very, very sweet. Also Pixie Hollow, as a world is just such a cool setup for many different stories and world building - I need more novels set in this world. Or at least some good fanfiction.

Anyway, spoilers below!

Thought, the first: This book is really sad, of course. I won’t lie - I got pretty teary-eyed multiple times. But I don’t think anything choked me up as much as Clarion and Elvina’s reconciliation at the end. The doomed lovers thing is great, it’s what we’re all here for, so I guess I wasn’t expecting the gut-punch that is Clarion and Elvina coming to understand each other, right at the end of Elvina’s life. Its it’s own sort of beautiful tragedy, and what a perfect way to end the story. Just the symmetry of Clarion being misunderstood, her finding Milori, someone who sees her as she is, and then giving that gift of understanding back to Elvina, who returned it - just closing that circular story thread with the most beautiful little bow. Perfect. That’s all love is at the end of the day, isn’t it? To just see someone, and fully understand and accept who they are.

Thought, the second: This really drove me nuts. So the book establishes that there once were dream-talent fairies who gathered up dreams from the auroras and kept the Nightmares at bay, but all the dream-talents are gone now. Got it. Milori is the Warden of the Winter Woods, he never met his predecessor but he knows his job is to just keep the Nightmares locked up. Cool. Clarion even asks Milori what his talent is and he’s like ‘eh, I don’t know,’ and she’s like ‘huh, that’s odd’. When I tell you I was waiting the entire book for the reveal to be that Milori is a dream-talent and it never happens! Unless some pages got stuck together and I missed it, I don’t think it ever says what Milori’s talent is. And this is driving me nuts! It was all set up for him to be a dream-talent. Chekhov is literally handing you the gun and saying ‘pull the trigger’! Clarion even looks at him and says something like him being a dream and I was like ‘that’s so on the nose, but I love it’ and it doesn’t happen!? Just imagine how deliciously gut-wrenching it would’ve been for him to only realize after the Nightmares were defeated. The aurora finally shows up again, and realization dawns, but by this point his wing is broken, and he can never fly through the aurora collecting dream threads like he was meant to. Oh, what sweet irony that would be! To be like a wolf with nothing to hunt; one day you look up to see the wild elk on the horizon, only to realize too late, the leash wrapped around your neck. Anyway, someone should write that fanfiction, because if not, I’m going to have to,.

Thought, the third: There are herald-talent fairies. It’s so oddly specific, it tickles me so much. I would think a herald would just be like a regular fairy that got promoted to the job, but the fact that it specifically says ‘herald-talent’ leads me to so many questions. What do they do when there isn't a party on? What about their magic makes them a herald-talent? How many of them are there? ‘Cause I can’t imagine you’d really need more than one or two, and I don’t know what I like more: thirty herald-talents just rotating out every half-hour or so; or one singular fairy who is just really, really excited to announce things. I’m gonna need a whole other novel just about this herald-talent, I swear.

Thought the fourth: At one point at a ball, wine in mentioned, and then the text goes on to specifically state how Clarion is given lemonade to drink, and I just think that is hilarious. We can have copious amount of blood and peril, and a literal battle, but heaven forbid an adult, ageless fairy woman so much as touch a mildly alcoholic beverage in a Disney YA novel. I loved how the book toed that line, swinging wildly between very frighting, life threatening danger where Clarion thought she or someone was going to die, and then “okay, but we can’t have characters actually die. They’re just sleeping.” Not only is that very funny to me, but I feel like it can’t be a true Disney Fairies story if someone actually dies. There is no death in Pixie Hollow, only lost things, and cycles of sleep and wakefulness.

Thought the fifth: Wishing on a star. That is all.

Thought the final: What a lovely and delightful read this was. I think this is the only Disney spin-off I’ve read where I’m genuinely interested in checking out the author’s other works. Everything was just wrapped up so neat and nicely. It reminded me again why I love the Tinkerbell movies in the first place, and that I really need to rewatch them more often. And I don’t know, maybe read some fanfiction. I’m sure there’s some good ones out there. If you read all this and have a good fanfic to recommend, please do.

[loserboysandlithium]

There’s a First for Everything: Eddie Munson one shot

18+ Minors DNI

Summary: this is a series of one shots written in Eddie’s POV about his sexual experiences. ;) this one is the first time he got head. I hope you enjoy. 🖤 Chapter list found here .

Part one:

******

It started as a normal deal. She came by the house and I gave her the usual.

I couldn’t stop my eyes from roaming across her body. Her fishnets clinging to her thighs, her little skirt riding up as she sat down on my bed, shuffling through her purse.

“Twenty?” she asks, looking up at me with eyes that felt like they could pierce right fucking through me.

“Uh- you know what, this one’s on the house. I’m getting a new batch soon anyways so..” I trail off, glancing down at my black combat boots.

“Oh yeah? That’s really sweet, Eddie.” she purrs, her warm voice like fucking velvet.

“It’s nothing.. really.” I mumble and then I see the toes of her converse meet my boots. I glance up to see her face only inches from mine.

“Maybe I could thank you for it. Some other way.” she whispers, her lashes fluttering just a bit.

“What do you- oh fuck..” I let out a needy whimper as her hand meets my cock over my jeans.

“This okay, baby?” she steps closer, pressing her body against mine as she starts to trace the outline of my dick. I’m already rock hard. There’s no hiding how fucking excited I am.

“Y-Yes.” I stutter.

“Mmm.. you’re so big, Eddie.” she breathes out as her thumb reaches the head of my cock under the denim.

“Please. Can you.. touch me please? Do you do under the clothes stuff or..?” I blurt out, my cheeks blushing even brighter.

“You are adorable, Eddie Munson. I wanna suck your dick, baby.” she coos, and my eyes widen as she drops to her knees in front of me. Fucking hell.

“Fuck yes. P-Please.” I whine and she chuckles as she looks up at me with her doe eyes.

“Gonna make you feel so good.” She hums as she unbuttons my jeans, pulling them down slowly, finally releasing me from the prison of my own fucking pants. I can’t help but let out a soft whimper as my dick springs free, slapping hard against my stomach.

I watch her carefully, the anticipation making my cock twitch. She licks her pretty lips before taking me in her hand, stroking slowly.

"Oh fuck.." I moan, her soft hands moving up and down my dick. Her eye dart up to meet mine, a smirk adorning her beautiful face as she kisses the head of my cock before snaking her tongue around it.

“Goddamn..” I breathe out, my whole body tensing up under her touch. She works her way to the underside of my cock licking the full length, making my head fall back.

“Y/n… holy shit.” I groan, bringing my hands to her hair. I thread my fingers into her soft locks, not adding any pressure, letting her have full control.

She swirls her tongue all around, wetting every fucking inch of me.

Her hand begins to stroke me as her lips wrap around my tip and she begins to bob her pretty lips up and down.

Seriously, don’t fucking cum, Eddie.

She sucks back to the tip, pulling off with a little pop, knocking another pathetic moan from me. "Make me choke, Eddie." she pouts, looking up at me through her eyelashes.

I grip her hair and lightly start to push her head down, the action making her moan immediately.

"This- this is amazing." I pant breathlessly as her cheeks suck in creating even more stimulation on my cock.

I hold her hair even tighter and cautiously start to buck my hips, fucking her throat. Another moan vibrates across my dick as I look down at her, spit seeping from the sides of her mouth, her eyes watering.

She grips my ass tightly, pulling me deeper into her throat as I continue thrusting into her mouth, all the nervousness leaving my mind, the pleasure overwhelming every part of me.

“I’m- I’m gonna cum, y/n. I’m gonna fucking cum..” I grunt as she gags beautifully around my thick cock.

She continues to hollow her cheeks as I fuck deep into her throat, her nails digging into the skin of my ass.

My eyes roll into my head as I feel the familiar sensation. “Oh fuck. F-fuck baby.” I stutter just as my cum shoots into her mouth. My jaw falls slack as I pump her full of my release. She swallows around my dick making me whimper again.

She takes every last drop of my cum, moaning as she swallows it causing my entire body to shudder. She stands up from her place on the floor, wiping her lips free of drool and my excess cum before bringing her thumb to her lip sucking it clean.

“I think you almost killed me.” I chuckle and she rolls her eyes at me with a little smirk.

“You should see what else I can do.”

tag list: @hideoutside @hellfirenacht @battymunson @bl00d-puppy @gri959 @joannamuns9n @girlfuckthatwhore @harrycanyonmoonn @mrsjellymunson @little-wormwood @melifluorei-d @mrsmarch64 @avavolturi @munsonsblunt @yujyujj @eddie-munsonsbitch @oliskitten @jessicakennedy957 @costellation-hunter @ali-r3n @leelei1980 @lil-quinnie @asimpforthe80s @phoenyxrayne

[ofeliaxoxo]

i bought sooo much paulos stock during the ausgp here were my favorite moments:

1) that video where paul sees like a stray thread on carlos' hoodie somewhere near carlos' shoulder/neck and literally goes to tear it away with his hands and basically the whole time he's doing that charles and carlos are making flustered eye contact

2) paul mouthing the correct answers to carlos during the quiz thing, taking carlos' side in being like "carlos said the correct answer before charles did" (even though the slow mo replay showed that charles clearly said it first lmao), and messing with the rules in a few other small ways to give carlos the advantage over charlie

3) carlos not really paying enough attention at the beginning of the quiz and charles getting like 3 in a row which made paul basically tell carlos to lock in. and you know what? after paul told carlos to focus he Literally Did. it was insane to see (i mean i'm sure carlos was also thinking like "ok these media duties are still part of my job paul is right i need to like be more engaged" but still). (this is also one of the moments that reinforced my firm belief that like… if carlos the control freak is comfortable enough with someone…… he would actually enjoy being told what to do………………)

4) the blindfolded challenge where after paul was blindfolded carlos touched his arms and went "this is your left hand and this is your right hand" like? girl he knows? they haven't changed just because he's blindfolded?? lamest excuse to touch a boy everrrrrrr come on carlos you could've come up with something better than that !

anyway good to see my investment is still paying off in 2025. i thought it was so funny how obvious it was (or perhaps how obvious paul decided to make it) that he liked carlos more than charles. i honestly believe that if carlos had realized that he would've legitimately invited paul to a race this season like as his personal guest. unfortunately i'm not convinced that he realized even after paul literally helped him cheat to beat charles at a silly quiz (i feel like generally speaking especially outside of the f1 bubble people are always doing things like that for carlos in part because… well. as paul himself said carlos is A Very Pretty Boy !!)

Well first of all I am of course romantically in love with you. This was the first thing I saw in the morning and frankly an ideal start to my day. Now let’s discuss PAULOS.

That moment is so funny to me because not only does Carlos not really know what to do, CHARLES is like hello??? Can he do that? Like neither of them are sure how to proceed but they don’t like it. Powerless to stop him tho. Two pretty Barbie wide-eyed car men unable to deal with Paul’s boisterous man swag. Why are these literal athletes getting out-masculined by this aspiring hipster/actor. Any threesome between them is just Paul playing with his dolls

(If anyone has this clip please send it to me!)

The challenges video is so funny because you can see how lowkey stupid Paul thinks it is. Like he dgaf he thinks it’s strange he does not care if he and Charles win the remote control car thing. Hes gonna play along but he is not going to buy into it. Hes not from the bubble of f1 and hes like. Ok. He DOES however want Carlos to win😭 he’s like Carlosssss cmon get the answers right I know you can do this. Charles CANNOT know more about the Roman Empire than you!!

Also yeah literally it’s so clear he prefers Carlos. Why girl what did Charles do is he just not your type lmao. All that for a couple minutes long game video. He was down horrendous. This video also endears Charles to me because he’s the only one who actually gaf. Like he’s YELLING the answers he NEEDS to win the Roman Empire quiz. And normally Carlos would be on that level with him but here he’s by himself and it’s kind of sweet lol. Paul is like Carlos I NEED to fuck you carlos is like when will we be done w ts I need a coffee and Charles is like THERE WERE FEMALE GLADIATORS I KNOW IT!!! In my mind palace we can do a situation with this dynamic where Charles is desperately trying to pretend everything is normal while Paul undresses Carlos with his eyes. Hes like I do not give a fuck at all btw. Do NOT write down that I give a fuck because I don’t!!

My ultimate suspicion is that paulos is tragically doomed because I don’t think Carlos cared back😔 I think Paul left him unmoved. Even Charles was like waow Paul slays such a cool guy and Carlos was like yeah #whatever I met him. Which leaves the floor open for a hilarious triangle where Paul likes Carlos, who likes Charles, who overcompensates and insists he and Paul get along sooo well.

Tldr: Paul needs Carlos so bad. But he’d have better luck with Charles in whom he is NOT interested lmao

[mountainficss]

HIHIHIII 🦈 HERE !!! having a wonwoo thoughts again .. (im crazy in love with that man.) but anyways thinking abt him making u wear his glasses while he fucks u cuz it just turns him on ..

or vice versa where he wears his glasses just cuz he likes to see every expression and reaction u have while he fucks u😭😭😭

anyways love u take ur time cuz poopoo bum school is a pain in the ass giving u all these assignments u got important things to do. like writing these fics (super important business!!!) LOVE U 💗

-🦈🦈🦈

!! mentions of: unprotected sex

HIHIHI ANON I MISSED YOU AND I LOVE YOU SM! 🩶🩶🩶 no and honestly i feel you wonwoo is so pretty…i have the fattest crush on him it’s unhealthy. and omg i know school is so lame 🙄 it’s never even hard work it’s just sooo time consuming. i’m telling you my professors want me to be bored out of my mind. but anyway!

ohhh the idea of wonwoo being turned on by you wearing his glasses is so…UGH i love that. you’d probably just snatch them off his face for fun, running away with them and sliding them on to see his reaction. you’d smile at him widely and you’d be met with an astounded look from wonwoo. he would know you took them just to mess around and had an innocent intent, but oh seeing you in his glasses would turn him ON. his brain would flash him an image of you underneath him wearing nothing but his glasses, and he would feel his cock immediately stiffen in his pants. he’d hastily make his way over to you and pick you up, practically throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you to your shared bedroom. in seconds wonwoo would be tearing off your clothes, giving you needy kisses while you let out dreamy sighs. his glasses would still sit cutely on the end of your nose, and your eyes would meet his through the lenses with a dazed look. he felt like he was going insane seeing you looking so cute in his glasses. and your bare body would just make his cock throb harder. “keep them on,” he’d command breathlessly, tugging his shirt over his head and untying his sweats. “’m gonna fuck you while you wear those.” you’d smile devilishly at him as he fishes his cock out of his boxers, twisting his hand around it and throwing his head back in pleasure. “do i look cute in them?” you’d tease, reaching a hand up to adjust them playfully. wonwoo would groan as he peered down at you, fisting his cock faster at your actions. “you look so good,” he’d sigh, feeling you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer. “need to feel you.” he’d line his length up to your hole, pushing in slowly as both of you gasp at the stretch. he’d bottom out in one thrust, your tight heat making him feel dizzy. he’d study your face as he gives you time to adjust, admiring the soft blush on your cheeks and your cute expressions as he starts to rut into you. his cock always made you feel so full, and this time would be no different as he glides easily into you. he’d cup your cheek with one hand and you’d wrap both of your hands around his forearm, turning your head to teasingly kiss his palm. he mutters a small fuck and runs his thumb along the temple of his glasses, feeling you tighten around him. “can i take these back, baby?” he’d ask, his voice strained from trying to hold back his quickly-approaching orgasm. “need to see you. wanna see the faces you make.” you’d chuckle at him asking for permission as if they weren’t his glasses, releasing his arm to take them off. you’d slide them back on his face slowly, watching the moment he seems to really see you. his pupils would dilate at the sight of your lewd expressions, and he’d struggle to not roll his eyes back in ecstasy at the way you look at him. his hips would pound into you with quick thrusts, repeatedly hitting your sweet spot and bringing you closer to climax. “you’re so pretty,” he’d mumble mindlessly, leaning in to press a kiss onto your forehead. “really like when you wear my glasses.” you’d thread your fingers through his hair, gripping the strands as your orgasm washes over you in a powerful wave, threatening to send wonwoo over the edge too. he fucks you through your climax, feeling his cock pulsing inside of your heat and filling you full of his cum with a drawn-out moan. he’d hover over your weak form as you both try to catch your breath. “well,” you’d pant, releasing your grip on his hair and running your fingers through it to soothe the sting. “i like when you wear them too.” <3

taglist: @imprettyweird , @jeonghanpill , @bangantokchy , @caratboy , @bewoyewo , @c-hanniehae , @wonvsmile , @haolovre , @aaniag

[lilybug-02]

The HK comic was very sweet and wholesome and I loved every second of reading it! :3

Also does Dewi give hornet back her thread? Im pretty sure she needs that for silksong when that eventually releases lol

Also to go off on an unrelated tangent/rant, people have been supposedly like up in arms about how "Silksong will never release!" and how "Its taking FORVEVER to come out!" But like.... First of all, its and indie studio. Secondly It was only announced in 2019, which, yeah, was 5 years ago, but with the way people were describing it I thought it was announced like way earlier. And hollow knight was released in 2017, but the way people talk about it makes me think its like a classic from early 2000's or something. Sure, its a good game, but why are people so stuck on the Silksong thing? Like at least you're pretty sure you're probably gonna get a full game when it releases. With other communities/fandoms you'd be lucky to get even an announcement. Like Deltarune for example. Not even Toby Fox was sure he was gonna be able to do it in the first place lol. And if you think 5 years is bad of a wait, imagine waiting for a new LITERALLY ANYTHING WHATSOEVER from Bethesda that isnt the 100th re-re-release gold ultra plus edition of fucking Skyrim again but now on the fucking smart watch or whatever. I'm 90% sure that most of Bethesda's existance as a company has been spent making something for Skyrim instead of working on anything new or original.

Sorry for the random rant btw

Anyways love your art, have a nice day, kay bye imma go die of awkwardness in the corner :)

First off thank you very very much. I am so glad to hear how much you like the Hollow Knight comic. And to answer your question, Hornet allowed Dewi to keep that thread. She gave it to him as a peace offering for helping the bugs get back home and to lead Dewi through the maze like cave. Don't worry, she has PLENTY of thread back in Hallownest.

And regarding the impatience of Silksong. I get it. I am the very lucky few to get into the game NOW. I haven't had to wait as long as the many other people waiting for Silksong to release, and in that regard I am quite spoiled. Yeah, Deltarune won't fully release in at least another 5 years, but I wouldn't want to say I'm morally better for my "patience". Waiting for a game or any kind of media SUCKS. The fandom keeps it alive, but even those can grow stagnant. As long as you aren't harassing the creators or fans of the project, you can be as angry or frustrated or sad as you want. I think it's normal and can help others feel less alone in their feelings as well.

Not to say your points of contention above aren't relevant!!! Patience and kindness are always important to keep in mind with artistic projects. Art is HARD and can be very taxing. I hope I'm not dampening your message. ❤️ Thanks for sharing

[sakuyomihana]

The Way Home.ft Wriothesley

Hello everyone~! This is short story dedicated to our handsome man, Wriothesley! Happy belated birthday! I wanted to finish this work on the day of his birthday, however I couldn't, my brain juice left me. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this little fic and look forward to the next chapter of my series, 'Tangled Threads Of Hearts'! Please do give it a read, thank you~! *Disclaimer: This is an original work done by me. Pls do not steal it or repost anywhere else. Thank you and have a happy reading day~!

Who could have ever thought that upon first meeting, you and your blind date would have hit off so well..? Running a hand through his already mussed up hair, Wriothesley could only sigh at the outcome. Wriothesley, the strongest and mightiest chief of the local prison as well as a renowned brawler who has made a name for himself in the entirety of Tevyat. This man, feared by many, prisoners and citizens alike, was your bestest friend and reliable confidant since your younger days from middle school till you were both full fledged adults. Amongst these merits, he also has a very difficult past. Childhood abuse and neglection, you could probably guess what that resulted in. He had to serve a sentence in the boys’ home, despite his actions that can be considered as self-defense. With such a childhood, Wriothesley had difficulties trusting in people. As a result, he barely made any friends in middle school. That’s when you came along…

You, [First Name] [Last Name], the ever cheerful and shyest person that he has ever met. He often wondered how he managed to befriend someone like you, the sweetest and most caring individual. That's how you got the moniker, ‘Sweetheart’. It definitely was a term of endearment, but that did not back him away from using it as you were just that sweet. You did complain about it and asked him on several different occasions to change it but it was all futile attempts. He loves teasing you and that hasn’t changed now that you were both adults. So whatever transpired? Well, it all began when you decided to approach him one day. Being the shy person that you were, it took a lot of courage for you to even start a conversation. Wriothesley had caught your eyes for the longest time, since the moment you met. You always wondered why he was alone and why no one ever dared to approach him. Your friends at the time shared with you what they knew from the rumors circulating around him, but that didn’t deter you from trying to befriend him. Knowing how incredibly stubborn you were, your friends supported you in your efforts.

What started out as you trying to protect him from his bullies, with you timidly telling them off to him having to protect you from your own actions. Something about you and what you had said to him spurred him to take action.

“S-stooping to some-thing so l-low as bullying, it’s just not right!”, he could tell that you were afraid. He wondered why you would go to such lengths for someone like him.

“Hah? What’s a chick doing here? Girls shouldn’t get in boys’ business, get out of here!”.

“*sigh* He’s right, girls shouldn’t get involved.”.

“A-and w-what! Aren’t you gonna try to stan-stand up for yourself?”.

“*sigh* How does any of these concern you? I can take care of my-”, he tried not to brush you off rudely, however he was cut off by your next words.

“B-but I ca-re about-t you! Even i-if others d-don’t, I will still care about you!”, he felt a chord struck in him. And that was when he leapt in front of you and shielded you from the perpetrator. Till this day, Wriothesley still remembers what he felt in that moment and the rush of adrenaline that came when he moved to defend you. He still remembers it as clear as day, it was the start of him feeling something new, something indescribable. From then on, he could be seen tagging by your side wherever you went. With how frequent people see you guys together, people start to tease the both of you left and right. Plus the nickname, it definitely did not help with the loosening of attention.

The indescribable feeling that he felt grew day by day, the more he spent time with you. He didn’t realize that what he felt was love all along, no, not familiar love but true love. The kind of love that makes him yearn for your attention, yearn for your warmth and yearn for your affection. The kind of love that makes him warm and fuzzy on the inside, where his heart begins to beat faster when you are in his presence. He only truly realized what he truly felt on the day where you were meeting with your blind date that your parents had introduced you too. He desperately wanted to stop you from attending, however he felt like he was in no position to choose the path that you wished to walk on. The constricting feeling in his chest worsened upon laying his eyes on you and your blind date, who knew your date would have turned out so well. You have given him enough, for a sinner like him, he didn’t dare to taint your spirit or body with these accursed sins. He chose to let you go… let you go and pursue your own happiness..

->>>>>>>>>

  In a bar on the outskirts of the city, Wriothesley sat at the bar counter alone. Swirling the glass in his hand, as he watched the liquid twirl and the ice clinked against each other when he came to a stop and downed the glass in a second. The bartender behind the counter dutifully poured him another as soon as the glass was empty, repeating the process until the man himself was satisfied. He wasn’t much of an alcoholic drinker, preferring tea over the latter but today was an exception. After downing his fifth glass for the night, the chair beside him creaked a little. Recognising the familiar presence beside him, he told the bartender without hesitation, “Bartender, another glass for this beautiful lady beside me please.”.

“I honestly wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight, Chief Prison Guard.”, graciously accepting the filled glass into her hand as she greeted the man. Taking a small sip from the glass, she let out a small hum of approval before placing it down in front of her and raised a hand to prop her chin with an elbow against the counter.

“A penny for your thoughts?”.

“I could say the same about you.”.

Letting out a huff, the man downed another glass. The lady, also known as Clorinde, follows suit right after, emptying her glass in one gulp.

“Bartender, another!”.

“*chuckles* I fear that we are both here for the same reason.”.

“And what would that be, pray tell?”.

There was no need for Clorinde to answer, as the man himself clearly knew what she meant. It hasn’t been too long ago since you announced that you were getting engaged to none other than your boyfriend of three years. When Wriothesley first received the news, he was devastated. He knew fully well of the consequences of his own actions, he chose to let you go, so why now..? It took days for Sigewinne, the head nurse of the prison to drag him out of the office to get some fresh air.

“You need not say anything, Wriothesley. Sigewinne was the one who told me that you are here, after she managed to get you out of your office. I understand how she feels about you being cooped up in the office, drowning in paperwork. But most importantly, I get how you feel about all of this…”.

There wasn’t anything that could ever escape this perceptive woman’s eyes, it wasn’t a farfetch that she would become the bodyguard of Fontaine’s President as well as the strongest champion fencer of the country. Behind all of these positions, Clorinde and Navia Caspar, the heiress of Spina di Rosula were both yours and his most loyal friends since the day you guys met in university. Ever supportive of your relationship, the women held onto the hope that you two would eventually get together, however, all hope had been dashed when you announced that you were getting together with this random dude that your parents had matchmake for you. Navia berated Wriothesley for not making the first move when he had the chance but in the end, she understood why he did it. Although she was still disappointed at the outcome, she still supported your decision as long as you're happy with it. Clorinde too. However, the shock and surprise that they felt from your sudden engagement was too much for them to handle.

They were one of the first few to know about some issues that you had with your current boyfriend in your second year of the relationship. The small issues then have already converted to big issues, so why on earth did you agree to his proposal? The only person who was out of the loop was the man beside her, Clorinde sighed. She understood why you didn’t want to let the man know because of how hot-headed he will become, yet she still wished that there was something more she could do for you.

“..So? Will you be attending?”.

“I.. I will be there.”.

“Why the sudden hesitation?”. (Oh you know damn well why, ma’am.).

He chose to ignore the question posted at him, instead turning back his focus to the drink before him. Unsatisfied with his attempt to escape, the female posted another question as a statement.

“Navia and I will be helping [Name] pick a wedding dress at the bridal shop some time this weekend, of course the groom will also be present.”, the sudden mention of your name immediately made him return his attention back to the woman beside him.

Knowing how much he still cares about you, she downed her drink with much vigor and immediately stood up causing the chair to scratch against the floorboard, catching the man off guard.

“I know [Name] will be very happy if you came, so I hope to see you there?”.

With that she left him alone with his own thoughts.

“*sigh* What a pain in the arse..”.

->>>>>>>>>

  The day before the wedding, you and your fiance were set to meet up at the wedding venue to do some final checks and retire for the night in the accommodation provided by the hotel. With some spare time available, you decided to pay the Spina di Rosula a visit with Clorinde in tow. 

Against the better of your own judgement, you had agreed to your fiance’s proposal months ago. You understood how shocked your two friends were when you told them your decision, you understood where they were coming from with everything that had happened. However, you had your reasons. Your parents had undergone a heavy debt after losing their money to a scam investment, you, their only daughter with a career at the government office was actually financially able to help pay off your parent’s incurring debt but the thing is, they didn’t believe that you were able to secure a job as an official employee. You weren't very close to your parents after all, maybe that was why you could relate with Wriothesley just a little. They always hound you to provide for them, more so now after you found a job, saying something along the lines of having to return the favour for how they raised you and what not. So guess what they did? They found an unknown partner for you, rich enough to pay off their debt for them because he ‘likes’ you.

You were honestly skeptical about this arrangement but there was nothing you could do. The first meeting turned out to be pretty okay, so that was why you went along with it. What you didn't realize at the time was how your best friend felt about all of this, not until Clorinde told you (not the full truth). That was why you tried to reach out to him, in any way you could, unaware of the feelings he harboured for you.

After chatting over a warm cup of tea and some macarons made by your dear friend, you left the two to their own devices and made your way towards Hotel Debord to meet up with your fiance. Along the way, there was someone striking who caught your eye. There was no way you would have forgotten those raven and grey tufts of hair that you used to admire from afar, how the ends curled to look like dog ears will always be something you find cute from such an intimidating and refined man. Catching sight of your stare, the man in question lifted himself up from his leaning position against his motorbike and began walking towards you with a helmet in hand. With each stride he took, your heart began to beat faster. Oh how you missed this feeling, this feeling that you yearned for to be reciprocated but could never.

‘Stupid me, there’s no way.. I’m too far gone.’, you chided yourself for having such thoughts.

Putting your feelings aside, you calmed your erratic heartbeat and gave him the brightest smile you could master.

“You came at last. I was waiting for you, Wrio.”.

He missed the way his nickname sounded with your sweet voice, but alas there will be no more of such interactions after tomorrow. Sucking in a breath, Wriothesley lifted the hand that had the helmet and handed it to you. Smiling softly, you took it with gratitude and understanding. The corner of his eyes softened at your gesture, he finally said.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting, my lady. Care for one final ride around the city on this trusty old boy for old times sake?”.

Chuckling at his antics, you took his outstretched hand.

“Sure, why not. For old times sake.”.

With that, the two of you took a quick ride around the city. Hidden in the shadows of two buildings were Navia and Clorinde, who were both keeping watch over both of you, ensuring that no one would come and disturb this peaceful time.

The next day.. You fell asleep the night prior pretty easily, perhaps the ride that Wriothesley took you on was a great way to calm your nerves. You were getting ready in the hotel room, with the help of two other bridesmaids, who were Chiori and Charlotte, you were starting to look like a bride. Amidst the banters and laughter on such a joyous occasion, something sinister seems to be lurking by. All the guests should have arrived by now, so it was about time for you to make an entrance. However, your groom-to- be was nowhere in sight. Last night he was here with you in this very room, this morning too.. So where in the world could he have gone..? A sense of dread had crept up your spine as you continued waiting, your friends were busy with handling the guests, thus leaving you alone with your thoughts. Time was ticking and the groom still isn’t here, so you decided to step out for a bit and look around the area. He couldn’t be far, you told yourself. He could be mingling with the guests and forgot the time, you assured yourself. He- ?!

The next thing you knew, you were already running down the hallway of the hotel. Navia was just about to head back up and check on you before catching sight of you running towards a different direction, surprised and worried she called for her two bodyguards, Melus and Silver to investigate the direction which you came from and figure out what you saw. After her two trusted associates were gone, she quickly called Clorinde to inform her of the situation. The team then split up with Navia catching up to her bodyguards, Clorinde and a few others dealing with the guests and lastly, leaving Wriothesley to chase after you. With a racing heart, the man dashed at the speed of light to every place he believed you would visit, to every nook and cranny he could find, hoping to find you before you did anything unthinkable. Wriothesley always had a bad gut feeling about your fiance, he tried to stop you, tried to warn you but you never listened. He didn’t know why you were so adamantly stubborn about this, he wished you could speak your mind and just share whatever like how you always did with Navia and Clorinde.

“Have you found her?”.

“Not yet.”.

“Shit, this is getting more troublesome than it's worth.”.

“Have you gals' figured out what’s up?”.

“*sigh* Navia did and… I’m not sure if you want to hear this..”.

He could feel his breath hitched in his throat…

“Just say it, Clorinde.”.

“*sigh* That cheater had planned on eloping with his new girlfriend and… [Name] caught them making out in the lobby..”.

He could feel his blood starting to boil in his veins, his fists clenched so tight that his knuckles turned white but then he faltered. The news had infuriated him, he wanted to return right this instance to give him a beat down but something else had caught his attention amidst the chaos in his heart. He finally found you…

“I-I’ve found her..”.

“Oh thank the archons-”, he didn’t let the female on the other end finish before ending the call and slowly trudged towards your sobbing form.

You didn’t know why you were crying this hard, you shouldn’t be and yet.. You should have expected this, you shouldn’t have taken the risk. But now you have gotten too deep into this hell hole that you have carved yourself. You had unexpectedly fallen in love with the man that you were supposed to hate because of your family. Tears continued to flow uncontrollably down your already drenched cheeks, your make-up was ruined, everything was ruined. You were too ashamed to face your friends, Navia and Clorinde who had supported you throughout despite their disapproval and lastly, the man whom you called your best friend but had failed to ever truly rely on when you needed him the most because of your pride.

Your sobs were disrupted by sudden footsteps heading your way, you didn’t dare to turn around to see who it was, ashamed and not wanting them to see your ugly side. You soon broke down again the moment you were enveloped in a familiar warmth and scent, the scent that you had missed oh so much, the scent of the man you knew that you no longer have the right to love, the man who has always been the one hidden deep within your heart…

“Hey Sweetheart, it’s alright to cry. There is no need to apologize for anything, Clorinde had told me everything. I wish that you would just lean on me once, do I seem that unreliable in your eyes?”.

…

“No matter where and when, you are always welcome to have me as a listening ear. I’ll always be by your side, just like back then.”.

…

“Hey, remember what you told me? I’ll repeat those words again and again, I care about you. Even if no one does, I still care about you.”.

…

“Let’s go home, our home.”.

                                        - The Way Home -

[scarred0and-starry]

First kiss - The Marauders

AN: a couple of quick updates, i've been writing like crazy today, saw into the woods again tonight and it was amazing, as per usual. anyhow it hit me with some inspiration for the theatre kid au so i've put a few hours of work into that, don't really know whose interested in it but i'm having fun so i think I'll see it through, first chapter tonight maybe? i think im gonna stack up some of these hc posts and schedule them to post so i can focus on the au. either way im having the time of my life writing. anyway i've rambled enough though, enjoy!

-starly ☆

Remus J. Lupin

The moon was still a week away, but Remus felt its tug all the same. The two of you sat beneath a tree on the edge of the lake, the castle glowing softly behind you, and the air heavy with the scent of rain that had passed earlier in the evening.

“Do you ever feel like everything’s too much?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, almost swallowed by the gentle lapping of the water.

You looked at him, your heart aching at the way his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the world. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “But it’s easier when you’re not alone.”

He turned to you, his golden-brown eyes soft and searching. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “It is.”

The words hung between you, delicate and fragile, until he reached out, his hand brushing yours. You turned your palm to his, threading your fingers together, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I don’t know how to…” he started, his voice trailing off.

“You don’t have to know,” you whispered, leaning in just enough to let him decide.

And he did. Slowly, cautiously, he closed the space between you, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss so gentle it was almost shy. His hand found your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin as though he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

When you finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours, a soft, breathless chuckle escaping him. “That wasn’t too much,” he murmured.

“Not at all,” you replied, smiling.

Peter J. Pettigrew

The Gryffindor common room was nearly empty, the fire crackling softly as rain pattered against the windows. Peter sat beside you on the couch, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you said, nudging him gently.

“Am I?” he asked, his voice higher than usual. He cleared his throat, glancing at you before looking away again. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

“You.” The word slipped out before he could stop it, and his eyes widened as though he wanted to pull it back.

You tilted your head, a smile playing on your lips. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re—you’re really important to me, you know.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you reached out, covering his hand with yours. “You’re important to me too, Peter.”

His gaze flicked to your hand, then to your face, and for a moment, he seemed to gather all his courage. Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss so tentative it felt like a question.

When you didn’t pull away, he pressed closer, his hand trembling slightly as it cupped your cheek. The kiss was sweet and a little clumsy, but it was undeniably Peter—honest and full of warmth.

When he finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, but he was smiling. “I can’t believe I just did that,” he said, his voice tinged with awe.

“I’m glad you did,” you replied, squeezing his hand.

Sirius O. Black

The Astronomy Tower was quiet, the sky above a canvas of stars blurred slightly by the lingering haze of a recent rain. Sirius leaned against the stone railing, the cool breeze ruffling his dark hair as he looked at you with a lopsided grin.

“You spend too much time thinking,” he said, his voice light but tinged with something deeper.

“And you don’t think enough,” you shot back, though your tone held no real bite.

He laughed, low and warm, before stepping closer. “You’re probably right.” He tilted his head, his gray eyes scanning your face. “So, what are you thinking about now?”

“Maybe I’m thinking about you,” you said, your heart pounding at your own boldness.

His grin faltered for a moment, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sirius’s hand brushed against yours, his fingers hesitant at first but growing bolder when you didn’t pull away. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmured, his voice dropping.

“Why?”

“Because you make me want things I’m not sure I deserve.”

Before you could respond, he closed the gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but hesitant. It was warm and urgent, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck as though he needed to keep you close.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, and he let out a breathless chuckle. “Bloody hell,” he said, his grin returning. “You’re even better than I imagined.”

James F. Potter

The Quidditch pitch was deserted, the stands empty and the grass damp from the evening’s rain. James had dragged you out here under the pretense of showing you a “cool trick,” but now he was just holding his broom and looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world.

“So,” you said, crossing your arms, “what’s this trick, Potter?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Okay, maybe that was an excuse.”

“An excuse for what?”

“To get you out here. Alone.”

Your eyebrows rose, but before you could reply, he stepped closer, his usual bravado replaced by something softer. “Look, I’m not great at this kind of thing,” he admitted, his hand ruffling his already messy hair. “But I like you. A lot.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you smiled. “I like you too, James.”

His face lit up, and before either of you could second-guess it, he leaned in. His lips met yours in a kiss that was as confident as it was sweet, one hand gently cupping your cheek while the other still clutched his broom.

When he pulled back, he was grinning from ear to ear. “So, does this mean you’ll go out with me?”

“Wasn’t that already obvious?” you teased, and he laughed, spinning his broom triumphantly.

“Well, now it’s official.”