#he is SO disarmingly handsome

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆.❞

KINKTOBER WEEK ONE — OVERSTIMULATION.

⤿ pairings: jacaerys velaryon x betrothed!reader.

⤿ word count: 6.5K (i got carried away)

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), experienced!reader, dom!reader, sub!jace, dry humping/grinding, jace is a virgin, horny/yearning jace, mutual pining, heavy kissing, overstimulation (fem!rec), fingering (fem!rec), handjob, cunnilingus (fem!rec), talking jace through it, praise kink, hair-pulling kink, lots of body kissing, teasing, dirty talk, lots of begging

⤿ note: lowkey this is the final jace post for a long time, I think I got it all out & tried to combine some kinktober requests all into one :)) hope y’all enjoy!

Dusky curls fall across pallid features, brows creased in concentration with a curtain of stoicism.

The scrawling of a quill scratches hastily against parchment, its destination unknown to you. It is difficult to see him as a man grown, for men do not often pout with pliant lips.

Nightfall brings an unwanted chill, the first inklings of oceanic ice biting away at your bones, swirling about through the ancient stronghold of Dragonstone. Even the fur-lined slip you wear does not offer much comfort.

In the sparse moments that you shared with Jacaerys since the announcement of your union, you’ve strived to learn as much as you can about him. Loveless, tenuous arrangements were commonplace — you did not want to waste your years toiling alongside a man who cared little for you.

To your great fortune, he shared your sentiments, tracing the outline of your soul with his fingertips, gracing you with his time whenever he could. With the youth of the evening underway, you sought him out, having missed him at dinner.

Between the gap in the door and the cobbled archway, you stand within the shadows of the corridor, one palm perched along ancient mahogany. Wordlessly, you keep to your fleeting observations, hues flickering across the handsome plane of his visage.

The Prince of Dragonstone — your intended, whose kindly hand continued to cradle yours through the endless turbulence of a darkening political climate. You considered yourself lucky — it could’ve been much worse, an arranged marriage.

Jacaerys’s chambers fare far better than your own, befitting of royalty, steeped in Targaryen decorum and tapestries of crimson and black. Candlelight dances across his jaw, bathing him in a light so spectacular that it nearly rips the air from your lungs.

Handsome is a mere understatement — the Velaryon prince was every bit as comely as some gallant knight ripped from pages of a novella. Your stomach erupts with constant butterflies whenever you catch a glimpse of him, longing to tangle yourself within him.

For a moment, he pays you little mind, drowning in a sea of parchment, tackling the growing duties ushered in by the brink of war. You admired his desire for usefulness — he had brought plentiful allies into the fold with his determination and ambition.

“You did not come to dinner,” Your announcement is disarmingly gentle, the croon of a songbird through dusk as you slip inside of his quarters. It seems to ensnare him then, having you here, unchaperoned. “Are you not famished?���

You carried a silver plate of lukewarm foodstuffs, roasted quail, broiled vegetables, and a smattering of fruit — his stomach lurches at the sight. “I suppose I lost track of time,” He exhales, placing his quill down atop his desk. “Forgive me — my responsibilities seem rather endless.”

Beauty blossomed from you like a flourishing meadow, the warmth of springtime; tender, made to cloak him in your sweetness. He was captivated by you, still smitten to be alone in a room, and yet he committed countless sins within the recesses of his mind.

Between the occasional grace of your hand and a chaste kiss against his cheek, it left Jacaerys within a realm of wanting. An ocean of you, and he was drowning. It was improper to think of you in such a salacious manner, but the hot blood of youth prevailed.

“Then break from it,” You insisted, footsteps light as you crossed the threshold from doorway to desk, nudging the plate of food in his direction. “Hours without a quill in-hand will not hinder you any less.”

A threadbare smile graced his comely features, and he seemed accepting of your suggestion. In the time that you had been betrothed, he had made every effort to learn more about you — such efforts were not in-vain, as he made ample progress.

There was a kindly warmth to you, a depth that he found invigorating. You were shy, initially — time softened you, and you unfurled like the petals of a moonflower, showing your promise and intelligence, your swift wit.

Reluctantly, Jacaerys submitted to your advice, abandoning his quill and parchment for the somewhat mundane taste of now-cold food. Still, it was enough to relieve the gnawing bite within his stomach, allowing him to relax as much as one could.

“Why does your quill scratch so furiously?” Your inquiry drifted through the air, to be caught by him. It seemed that his only company was that of dust-laden tomes and endless parchment that swallowed him whole.

Begrudgingly, a wistful sigh tore past your betrothed’s rosy lips, fixed into a vexed expression. “I work tirelessly to bring allies into the fold for my mother’s cause,” He uttered, picking at the stem of a grape. “Some of it is to no avail.”

Empathetic, you placed your palm atop his shoulder, sinking into velvet and toughened silk. He nearly buckled beneath such a simple touch alone, fighting away the string of untoward thoughts. Instead, he reached, digits climbing to seize yours.

“Do not let this weight burden you so, Jacaerys. There are more than enough men to even the load,” Shaking his head, you were again privy to your intended’s glaring streak of stubbornness. “You do not have to take it all on your shoulders.”

“It is the only way to find some shred of worth, of usefulness,” He bemoaned his mother’s tight leash — she never let him scout, take to the skies on Vermax, participate in anything that wasn’t docile. “Being coddled in this way is maddening.”

Silken digits flexed around his hand, prompting him to relax, if he were even capable of such a thing. “If I were the Queen, my desire would be to protect you. Coddling can be easily mistaken for an overprotective nature.” You soothed, canting your head to one side.

He took little comfort in your words, as much as he longed to believe them. Perhaps he did not see such a goal now — in time, his thoughts may shift. “I will not trouble you with such thoughts any longer.” Jacaerys exhaled, and you let it rest.

In an unexpectedly sweet gesture, you brought his hand to the plushness of your lips, and as if you were some debonair swordsman, kissed his knuckles. The obvious flush of rose permeated his cheeks, and you then released his hand, much to his dismay.

Silence filled the void of conversation as you wandered about his chambers, quietly admiring the draconic decorum before seeking to sit, plucking at your nightgown. Being alone with him, here — it wasn’t entirely proper, and subconsciously, you were aware of this.

“Did supper yield any conversation of importance?” He inquired, eyes following you as you sat down atop the velveteen cushion of the chaise lounge. Hues of wisteria and mauve comprised your evening gown, colors that you wore splendidly.

“You did not miss much of anything,” Twisting around within your seat, you faced Jacaerys, tucking a fist beneath your chin. “Though, I certainly missed your presence. I feel like a stranger without you near.” You murmured.

Sent to Dragonstone to be at the side of your betrothed, you were away from home — unnerved, pensive, and left to wander about with no true direction. Jacaerys had done his best at ensuring that you were comfortable, but the feeling was not a permanent one.

“For that, I apologize,” Jace sighed, finishing half of his plate before rising from his seat. “I fear that this conflict has put a strain on all within this castle. You are not the source of any indifference.” He assured you, circling the lounge to sit by your side.

Closeness was something he’d yearned for in a way he never had before, and within the proximity of your warmth, he seemed to bristle. Seven Hells, how would he outlast this storm? He could not seem to halt the mounting desire he had for you.

If it weren’t for his sensibility and wanting to be gallant for you, as your intended husband, the impetuousness of lust would’ve guided his hand.

Crackling embers within the hearth began to wane, basking you in shades of orange, growing duller with each passing moment. He sat up straighter in your presence, stealing glances where he could, committing your features to memory.

Reassured, you offered him a gracious smile, hands folded neatly within your lap. “It is comforting to know that my presence here is not unwanted,” You sighed, casting your gaze to the flames. “I must thank you for your kindness, Jacaerys.”

A fluttering heat settled within the pit of your stomach when you momentarily caught his eyes — earthy-brown swirling with something indiscernible, yet something faintly familiar. Carnality was not lost upon you, for you had experienced it before.

Jacaerys, however — you pondered if your betrothed was still virtuous. The sins committed in your youth had been carefully hidden beneath many layers, layers you felt as if you could reveal to him.

Clearing his throat, Jacaerys tempered himself, wanting to pull himself in from acting upon basic impulses. Some part of him felt truly depraved for thinking of you in such untoward ways, but he couldn’t help himself. Many evenings were spent in grisly solitude, dreaming of you, fantasizing.

”It is my duty as your betrothed to ensure your comfort,” His words emerged as somewhat breathless, as if he were labored in his attempts to draw air. You did not see it, but he fisted the cloth along his thigh in an attempt to relieve some tension. “I am to be your husband.”

“Yes, and for that, I am eternally grateful,” Steeling yourself, you decided to give him the truth, unobstructed and plain as a clear day. “I do not wish for there to be any secrets kept between us, which is why I must confess something to you.”

Perplexed, dark brows furrowed together, yet they seemed to show little signs of hostility or malice. There were countless options as to what this could be — anything. A secret laid bare before him in a moment like this had the potential to ruin everything.

Through a clenched fist and tight jaw, Jacaerys swallowed the growing lump within his throat, affording you the courtesy of his undivided attention. “What is troubling you?” Rigid, he waited for you to speak, noticing the brief hesitation that surrounded you.

A sliver of you feared judgment, that such past deeds would permeate your union in a sour light, but you hoped that Jacaerys would not begrudge you for it. With a steady inhale, you cleared your throat.

“I have lost my maidenhead,” Silently, you pleaded to whatever Gods would listen, hoping that Jacaerys would be kind enough to lend you his understanding. “Before this union, before I was betrothed to you. It was long in the past and something that weighs heavily on me.”

It was not anger he felt, but jealousy.

Jealous that another man had the pleasure of having you, to touch you, to live within your fair heart. He nearly shuddered when imagining you in such a lewd manner, so much so that his features became rosy in pallor. Yet, it was long in the past and something set in-stone.

Out of nervousness, you let out a soft cough, smoothing your palms across your legs. “I — Please forgive me, Jacaerys. I only wished to have transparency between us. I hope that this does not tarnish anything.”

“No,” Jacaerys inhaled sharply, hot air filling his lungs, heart thrumming beneath his ribcage. “It does not tarnish anything.” An angry heat crawled across his spine, settling his flesh ablaze with another wave of want, an ache that refused to leave him.

“You are not angry with me?” The sweetness of your inquiry tasted saccharine upon his tongue, honeyed words tangling around his heart. It wasn’t something that you were proud of, but you did not regret such actions, either.

“I am not,” He assured, tensing when you brazenly reached for his hand, squeezing it as a show of affection. Jacaerys felt so incredibly pathetic, feeling his cock twitch incessantly within his trousers from the mere touch of your heavenly hand. “You are still my betrothed. My sentiments will not change.”

Even still, he looked pensive, as if he were teetering on the brink of madness. There was a visible frustration within his features that betrayed his words, prompting you to question him sharply.

“You seem agitated, even still. What troubles you?” It was too shameful to confess to his insurmountable sins — how horribly he desired you, this heart of rot. Jacaerys feared that you would despise him if he said what was on his heart and mind.

Flushed and flustered, he looked away, yet you continued to chase after him, digits caressing across his hand. Gooseflesh iced his spine, throat growing with thickness as he shook his head. “It is improper, and unbecoming of a Prince.”

“More unbecoming than what I just confessed to you?” You wanted him to be put at-ease — intimacy was merely a fact of life, and you understood its sacredness, but the past was simply that. “Jacaerys, we are to be wed, you and I. Consummation will inevitably be apart of that. There isn’t anything that you could say that would turn me away now.”

He would seek absolution on the morrow for this — there was no returning from the onslaught of desire he now faced. It was as if a great storm had rattled his bones, and instead of rainfall, it was his lust laid bare, as dark as swirling thunderclouds.

Biting at his tongue, Jacaerys attempted to stave off his confession, earthen hues flickering away, clinging to anything else. It was wrong to think of you so often — and each thought was wrought with a stinging lust.

“I hunger for you,” It was spoken in a gravelly groan that made your insides twist with a newfound excitement. His cock was throbbing, aching with something awful. “I am envious of this man in your past, longing to be in his place. I have … Thought about you, in ways that are untoward.”

Fluttering breaths hitched within the depths of your throat, growing thicker with each passing moment. Nails dug into the cushion beneath you, his confession leaving behind a wake of fire, turning you to ash.

Admittedly, Jacaerys was not alone in his lascivious imaginations — you fantasized about the very same, more times than you could possibly count.

Jacaerys steeled himself, and as much as he desired to remain collected and maintain propriety, it was all dissolving at the seams. “I — I have not the experience that you have, but I hope that I can learn what pleases you.”

His affections were ravenous, the sting of youth that burned with inexperience, yet he cared little for such a thing. Jacaerys was eager, beyond desperate to know how to best pleasure you, longing for your instruction, if you would offer it freely.

A growing fire stirred within your loins, enough to make your breath hitch within your throat. “Do you wish to consummate tonight?” You questioned, and to that, Jacaerys shook his head.

“No, no — I want to touch you,” His desperation was gorgeous, something that you seldom experienced. “I long to learn your body, but I fear that I may covet you.” Jacaerys uttered, lips parting as a wisp of air tore past his mouth.

“There is no sin in coveting your wife,” Your voice had rolled into some mesmerizing lull, a near-purr that sent shivers down his spine. “Someone who is already yours.” The label was now established, and you were quite satisfied with that. You were blessed to have one of the better husbands in the realm.

Jacaerys huffed, pliant lips graced by firelight, deliciously pink as he met your mouth halfway. It was a frenzied kiss, born of his own yearning and overwhelming desperation, and yours began to climb to new heights of their own.

This hunger was different — it was thrilling and exhilarating, sending a rush of excitement to your stomach, thighs shifting together beneath your nightgown. Your hands reached for his shoulders, digits toying with the clasps of his cloak.

Tousled curls framed his freckled visage, cheeks blossoming with a delicate shade of rose as he kissed you, so passionate that it nearly stole your breath from your lungs. Your digits then crawled towards the nape of his neck, seeking to pull him closer.

A simpering groan stirred within his throat, erupting in a cacophony of breathy sighs as he felt you press closer. Silk clung to your frame, allowing him to glimpse your beauteous curves, to know that something perfect dwelled beneath.

Pupils blown with lust were shielded beneath thick eyelashes and fluttering lids as he scrambled to catch his breath, hands unsure of themselves. “Show me what to do,” Jacaerys sighed, feeling your lips halt to a crawl. “Please.”

To your awe and delight, Jacaerys was subservient, willing to learn and to let you guide his hand. Instinct would drive him soon enough. “Let your hand wander, wherever it pleases you.” Soft digits folded around his wrist, bringing his palm to your collarbone.

If he acted on such whims, there was no telling where his hand might travel, and so he restrained himself. Soft gossamer fabrics swept against his fingertips as he felt the divide where clothing met flesh. He wanted to unravel you, see you with his own eyes.

An excitable shiver iced his spine, jaw tensed as you slipped from your robe, only a curtain of thin silk resting between him and your body. His features seemed permanently steeped in a warm blush, painted with a swath of rose and pink.

The soft peaks of your nipples pebbled beneath fabric at the loss of your robe, gooseflesh raking across your skin at the pace of a wave. His hesitation was visible, etched into his features as he deliberated on what to do, afraid of startling you as if you were a doe in the woodlands.

It was then when you pressed closer, slipping yourself into the expanse of his lap, tossing a leg over his hips until you settled fully. His earthy hues widened, breath hitching within the depths of his throat as he struggled to maintain his composure.

What he wanted to do and what was expected of him were two forking avenues. Jacaerys felt his mouth water involuntarily, palms finally finding their confidence as he placed them atop your hips, caressing toward your thighs. “You are mesmerizing, and even that is a sore understatement.”

His honeyed words elicited a smile from you, fingers gracing the velvet of his doublet, seeking to slip beneath the clasps to remove his tunic. “May I?” You inquired, eyelashes fluttering in rapid succession as your betrothed nodded breathlessly.

As nimble fingers sought to rid him of his tunic, Jacaerys craned forward, mouth desperately seeking your own. A delicate gasp slipped past your lips, dancing with his own, hands preoccupied with feasting upon bare flesh.

He was lean, musculature present yet nothing close to bulky. Broad shoulders were covered in smatterings of freckles that climbed toward his visage, dusted across his face. Jace shivered beneath your palms as they skirted across his chest.

The prominent tent within his trousers brought about an ache like no other, one that he longed to extinguish. Your position made it difficult for him to focus, occasionally bumping your core against him, thighs squeezing incessantly at his hips.

The galloping of his heart slammed against his ribcage, a fluttering sensation spreading like hot tendrils throughout his chest. Darkening hues caught a glimpse of your breasts, yearning to see you without any obstruction at all.

A pang of anxiousness swelled with his gut, the nervousness of performing, of ensuring that you were well-satisfied by his hand. Each kiss evoked a wave of desire that threatened to burn him to ash in your fire, feeling your fingers rake through his curls.

His hands kindly roamed over your body, cupping the swell of your hips through your gown before rising across your stomach. They inevitably sought your breasts, kneading into your clothed flesh, and he felt the soft moan stir within your throat.

Only thin laces provided a degree of separation — between your heavenly flesh and his sinful hand.

“Where do you enjoy being touched?” Jacaerys whispered, features feverishly hot, basked in an orange glow; ethereal, with the makings of a true prince. “I wish to please you.” The needy strain within his tone filled your belly with fire.

“By your hand? Everywhere,” You crooned, dazzled by his gentleness and eagerness to learn. Jacaerys touched you with true selfless intent, driven by the carnal desire to please you, satisfy you as your intended husband. “Between my legs, my thighs, breasts, neck.”

Jacaerys reached for the laces of your nightgown, searching your countenance for any sign of hesitation. “May I undress you?” He questioned, voice pitched with lust, a delicious husk that scratched a certain part deep within you.

“Yes,” A huff, a sigh of relief — you were the very picture of temptuous beauty, armed with the grace of a maiden. You watched with thinly-veiled rapture as Jacaerys gingerly tugged at the laces, silk sagging upon your form. “You are so perfect.”

He was a novice still, merely an apprentice when it came to the intricacies of sensuality, yet hearing your sweetly-spoken praise made him preen. Billowing silk fell away, unraveling your form until it was naked flesh exposed to the warmer air of his chambers.

Gods, you were so beautiful — painfully so, a goddess incarnate, made for him to worship so reverently at your feet. Jacaerys could not mask his want for you, tracing along your bare flesh as if you were a map of constellations, yet even stars would envy you.

With a steadily-growing confidence and assurance, Jacaerys’s fingers caressed along your thigh, tracing upward until he reached the pliant curve of your chest. He cupped your breast, feeling you bristle beneath his touch, thumb brushing across your nipple.

A shiver gripped you, lips parting with a soft gasp as you careened forward, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. “Jacaerys,” A low moan stirred within your throat, eyes pleasantly half-lidded. You felt his lips cautiously press against the slope of your jaw. “Don’t stop.” You sighed.

Swallowing the lump of anxiousness within his throat, Jacaerys did not deliberate, attempting to shed himself of his hesitancy. Each kiss was exploratory, soft lips peppering themselves toward the column of your throat.

He continued to knead and toy with your breast, savoring the sensation of silky flesh within his palm, digits flicking over your nipple. Your hand raked through his curls, absentmindedly tugging until it evoked a groan from his mouth.

Warm, molten heat coalesced between your thighs, slick against your core as you rocked yourself against his growing erection. Jacaerys gasped, lips nearly faltering, but he didn’t want to tear himself away from you so soon.

His kisses became fervent, hot against your flesh as he kissed his way across your throat, seeking your collarbone. Your unattended breast did not lack the attention for long, as he kneaded into your chest with a passionate need.

“Use your mouth.” You instructed, voice teetering along the fine edge of breathlessness, teeth grazing across your lower lip. Jacaerys peered at you, visage flushed with pink, earthy hues flickering toward your breasts.

Jacaerys obeyed, mouth making a trail toward your chest, holding you aloft. Curious lips peppered themselves over your breast, shuddering at the sensation of your nails gently raking over his scalp. “Here?”

You nodded, unable to pry your eyes away from him as he took one of your breasts into his mouth, teeth grazing soft flesh, sucking at your nipple. A wanton moan tore past your lips, such a cry causing his grasp to tighten, your back arching into him.

“Perfect,” Sweetly-spoken praises drifted throughout his chambers, hips incessantly grinding themselves against his clothed tent. Jacaerys nearly moaned in-tandem with you, kissing your chest with gallantry, attempting to stave off his burning arousal. “Do you enjoy that?”

Feigning ignorance as to not give you an edge, Jacaerys looked to you, flushed countenance betraying the words coming out of his mouth. “Enjoy what?” He inquired, hoping to distract you by craning upwards for a kiss.

“This,” Perplexed, you rocked your hips forward again, your cunt brushing against the tent in his breeches. Jace very nearly collapsed beneath your gesture, dark brows furrowing together. “Does it feel pleasurable?”

Jacaerys hesitated, terrified of reaching his peak and ending things prematurely. “Yes,” He panted, throat swimming with a certain thickness. “Gods, I need you — you can’t continue like this.” He pleaded, somewhat sheepish. “I do not wish for it to end so soon.”

Planting a kiss against your betrothed’s brow, you cocked your head to one side. “Nothing has to end once you’ve reached your peak, Jace,” He reveled in your use of his nickname. “There is plenty left to do.”

Filled with a semblance of relief, your intended traced his hands along your sides, feeling along your body. “What would you want me to do?” Eagerness crept into his voice, something you greatly appreciated.

“Kiss me between my legs,” You suggested, watching the scarlet pallor flourish within his cheeks, spreading toward his throat. “Touch me, if it pleases you.” As if to accentuate your statement, you grinded against him again, eliciting a husky moan from the depths of his throat.

Dragging his hand toward the apex of your thighs, he peered at you for tutelage, guidance on where exactly to touch you. Wordlessly, your hand slipped to his wrist, coaxing his digits to your slick cunt, noticing the blush on his features.

Admittedly, you were just as feverishly hot, lips parting slightly as he began to explore, concentrating on your satisfaction. Two fingers parted your petals, seeking to stroke along your slit. It evoked a soft gasp from you, hips careening into the subtle gesture.

“There?” Jacaerys questioned, digits creeping upward until they softly rolled around your clit, stimulating that electric clutch of nerves. You moaned, and it seemed to offer him some answers. “Is that what you want?” He whispered, octave sultry in its resonance.

His words made you smitten, yet you nodded in response, watching as he began to find his confidence. Letting your palms drift toward his abdomen, your back arched as he began to toy with your clit, reveling in the pleasure scrawled across your countenance.

His perfect lips consumed your whimpers, swallowing them whole in the embrace of his mouth. Jacaerys kissed you hard, lips dancing in such a heated entanglement, yet his digits never ceased their movements.

Eager digits preened through his dark tresses, one fist gripping at the nape of his neck. Your other hand sought to find the waist of his trousers, tugging at the strings until they loosened altogether. His visage appeared bewildered, as if he didn’t expect it, yet he didn’t want you to stop.

A whine tore through your throat as he circled your clit with a clumsy inexperience, yet you wouldn’t fault him for it. Jacaerys exerted more effort into learning alone than your previous paramour ever had, and you had nothing but gratitude in your heart.

Jacaerys’s fingers graced places where he knew he could hear you — evoke a myriad of disgraceful noises from your tongue, a maiden of desire. He found his pace inevitably, digits sinking along your weeping cunt before gracing your clit again.

This repetitive pattern made your thighs twitch, perspiration glittering along your brow as you brazenly loosened your betrothed’s underclothes. “I want to touch you,” You whispered near the shell of his ear. “I would not neglect you so.”

With a shiver of anticipation, those dilated, earthy hues of his silently pleaded with you to do whatever you wanted — Seven Hells, he would never belong to another. He was yours, imploding upon himself with your touch and tender gaze alone.

He nodded, pink and compliant, assisting you with maneuvering his breeches aside enough for you to free his cock. Jacaerys was embarrassed at how eager he’d become from this alone, length glistening with a sheen of precum.

Jacaerys did not allow his hand to still completely, lazily tracing his digits across your cunt, shivering whenever your soft palm encircled his length. The contact elicited a breathless groan from his mouth, unable to conceal the wave of excitement that flooded through him.

The tender clash of your lips sent a rush of warmth through you, coalescing between your thighs, heat stirred by the presence of Jacaerys’s fingers. Ensuring a sluggish pace, your hand stroked along your lover’s cock, thumb brushing over the head.

His stomach felt unnaturally tight, a coil of festering heat that slowly unraveled itself. “Gods, you are incredible.” Jacaerys huffed against your lips, voice nearly tapering off into a low whine when you began to kiss his jaw.

Pleasure was mutually exchanged, touching one another in-tandem, bodies beginning to glisten with a sheen of perspiration. It was your lips that lingered against his neck, showering his sweet skin in an untold amount of feather-light kisses.

Flushed with embarrassment, he felt the occasional jolt of his hips as he thrust into your hand, cock throbbing with an overwhelming bliss.

Jacaerys felt trapped within some lust-ridden haze, focus unsteady and sluggish. A soft, simpering moan resonated from you, drifting beside his ear, taking residence within his mind.

A cacophony of crass noises emanated throughout the walls of his chambers — breathy sighs intermingled with wanton moans, the exchange of flesh for fantasy. Soft lips peppered themselves along his freckled shoulder.

Never faltering in your ministrations, your hand continued to stroke along his cock, pace developing into something evocative. Jacaerys groaned, eyes half-lidded, pliant mouth parted as a string of satisfied sighs escaped him.

The simmering flame of desire burned brightly within the pit of your stomach, his digits continuing to stroke along your cunt. A cry of delight tore past your lips, nails lightly digging into his shoulder.

Embarrassment rippled through him whenever he happened to moan, flushed like a ripe peach. His ministrations were passionate, done in a flurry of desperation and excitement. “I … I —” Jacaerys groaned.

“Jace,” You panted, gooseflesh raking across your spine as you rocked your hips forward, seeking any shred of friction. “Gods, I need you.” The words nearly bit his heart into two, oozing crimson desire and want.

“You have me,” Jacaerys insisted through a strained sigh, a solemn promise through pleasured groans. His hips jolted again, cock desperately sliding against your palm, begging for anything you offered to him. “Seven Hells!” He groaned.

Pleasure mounted, swirling within him like a tumultuous wave, one that he seldom experienced. Digits began to still within you, losing their rhythm, abandoning it for something erratic. He chased after his encroaching release, coil beginning to unfurl within his stomach.

Another kiss invited his own demise as you sought sanctuary within his mouth, pliant lips tangling with one another. Your hand continued to drag itself along his cock, thumb idly flicking over the head of his length, bleeding warmth.

Your nerves burned with desire, every fiber of your being consumed by Jacaerys’s presence. You hadn’t felt such a kindly touch before — even your last spark did not bother to learn.

As Jace’s head began to tilt backward, his lips barely graced the curve of your jaw before he came, sudden and white-hot. His spend fell in hot tendrils against your palm, falling to his stomach in a glistening sheen.

He did not expect to come undone so swiftly, but it was the first time you had touched him in such an amorous manner. Half-lidded and dazed, Jacaerys attempted to recuperate, reaching to cup your cheek.

“Forgive me, I did not think to warn you,” He huffed, chest stinging with heat as he fought to breathe deeply again. “That was …” Words turned to ash upon his tongue, features painted with a delicate shade of crimson.

“Invigorated by the moment,” You mused, pressing a kiss against his cheek before crawling off of him, moving toward the basin of water on his vanity. “For one without experience, you do not act clueless.”

Retrieving a rag, you prepared to return to him — but he was at your heels. “Jacaerys?” The very picture of longing, looming beside you as his hand graced the curve of your breast, caressing towards your stomach.

“I want to taste you,” He rasped, his gaze practically begging for you to let him. Gently, he plucked the rag from your fingertips, cleaning himself off with haste. “Please.” Jacaerys groaned.

It was as if the fire within your belly burned thrice as hot, demanding to be extinguished with all its might. Your lips parted, fingers curling into the wood of his vanity as you pressed your thighs together.

Jacaerys’s lips descended upon yours in an ardor-laced frenzy, a groan stirring within his throat, hands immediately seizing your hips. Instinct drove him, desire renewed, as bright as your own flame.

You did not hesitate, reaching for him with a swiftness, digits tangling within his dark curls. He was a godly sight, laces of his trousers undone, visage flushed, earthy hues nearly black with desire. He hadn’t felt so strongly about someone before, anchored to you.

One could not mistake his passion for roughness — Jacaerys was gallant, a man of honor, and you suspected that being rough was not in his interest. Each clash of your lips left you reeling, dizzy with affection, flesh crawling with heat.

“I need you, so terribly,” Jacaerys whispered, filling you with a euphoric sentiment. Desperation crept into his voice, a resonance that was laced with yearning, a craving. “May I?” He was needlessly polite.

Wordlessly, your head bobbed up and down in a series of swift nods, teeth snagging on the inner skin of your cheek. He reciprocated with a kiss against your shoulder, and then to your collarbone, forging a path with his mouth.

Jacaerys only wished to map your flesh, to trace each curve as if you were a winding river — a river worth wading. His softened fingertips incessantly squeezed at your hips, gliding downward to seize handfuls of your haunches.

Each kiss brought forth a glow from you, interwoven with a myriad of throaty whines and whimpers. His confidence only blossomed from there, instilling a sense of pride within him as he kissed between your breasts.

“Jacaerys,” A sharp inhale ripped through your throat as he made his sluggish descent, savoring every inch of your body, skin like velvet beneath his tongue. “Do not torment me.” You hissed, aching for the embrace of his mouth.

It was you that dominated the current tension between you both, reaching for his crown of curls as you eased him downwards. Jacaerys obeyed, sinking onto his knees at your subtle instruction, kissing at your stomach.

He was at your mercy, peering up at you through thick lashes and flushed features, allowing you to take the initiative. You most certainly did, sluggishly guiding him toward your glistening cunt.

There was nothing he wanted more in this world than to oblige you, lips pressing all along your legs, mouth steadily finding the apex of your thighs. Jacaerys took care in spreading you apart, tongue raking hot embers across your cunt, your taste ambrosial.

A stirring fire of lust roused him, cock twitching within his breeches as he delved deeper into your core. His mouth was a thing of beauty, tongue sluggishly tasting you from your clit to your entrance.

Your chest heaved with wanton pants, hand forming a fist within his tresses, involuntarily tugging and pulling as you pleased. Jacaerys did not mind it at all, desperate to please you.

Tangled within his dark mane, you coaxed him closer, digits digging at the base of his skull. Jacaerys released a groan into your core, hands clamping down on your thighs with an ironclad grasp. Your nectar fell heavy upon his tongue, the sweetest of honey.

Jacaerys thoroughly delighted in the feeling of your hands within his hair, your hips occasionally stuttering and bucking forward, desperately seeking his mouth.

He was attentive, even for being a novice at the act itself, lapping at your cunt with a fervor. His plush lips drifted toward your clit, gauging your reaction to the sensation. You moaned, and that only seemed to encourage him.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, Jacaerys made sure to savor you, letting it flick across your clit. The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit.

The continued sensation of your digits carding through his curls made him sigh with elation. “Jacaerys,” You whimpered, dizzying moans spurring him on. “Gods, you’re doing so well, so perfect.”

The lascivious praise he received made him groan into your cunt, desperate for you to shower him in compliments. He flourished with your sweet words, comely visage happily buried between your thighs.

His eagerness was palpable through each flick of his tongue, lost within the oasis between your legs. Your thighs burned, desire making you hazy, mind clouded with nothing but him.

A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand gingerly tugging on Jace’s hair as he showered your cunt in an alternation of steady licks to lingering ones.

The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit. It was overwhelming, the stimulation — you very nearly collapsed.

Instead, your euphoria manifested as your climax, sudden and without pause, a rush of heat that spilled forth. Jacaerys groaned, continuing to lap at your cunt as if he were drunk upon it, prompting you to peel him off of you.

The sight of your betrothed on his knees before you, panting with exhilaration, chin glistening with your slick — it was a sight that you wanted to see again and again.

“That was incredible,” Careening your digits through the top of his scalp, Jace moved into your embrace, angling his face to kiss your palm. “You did wonderful — are you certain that this is new for you?” You mused.

Jacaerys blushed, yet held firm on his honesty. “It isn’t new anymore,” He chimed, wishing that he could have you like this all the time. “I wish to please you again, if you’ll let me. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

With a cheshire smile, you coaxed him up from the ground, pressing a string of kisses all along his collarbone and neck. He seemed quite pleased with it, holding you closer.

“Tomorrow.” You sighed into his skin, wordlessly guiding him to bed. You wanted to lay with him, learn his heart, more than you already had. As you settled beside him, he appeared beyond elated. “But there is still tonight left.”

[beloveds-embrace]

(Something soft and sweet for john to make up for the pain yesterday’s simon drabble caused lol)

You are a single mom taking your child out for her first halloween. It’s been a rough couple of… years, honestly, and leaving your horrible ex behind wasn’t easy and taking care of a child all alone was one of the hardest thing you’ve ever done but you did it and by god, you will make this a wonderful first halloween for her.

Except, the halloween spirit of your neighborhood is practically dead. Most don’t even open their doors, others have no candy put out and no lights on.

This will be the last house, you tell yourself, sad and dejected but doing your best to remain optimistic for your kid. This house is right beside yours, but from what you’ve heard the man who lives in it works in the military and is rarely home but tonight, he even has some… gnomes put out? Ugly ones; why are they in military outfits, one has a mohawk, another a skull mask, and the other with a cap?

None of my business, you decide. You just hope he’ll have something to give to your kid once you knock on the door and wait, swinging your child’s hand to get some happy giggles from her.

When the door opens and you meet the most handsome bear of a man you’ve ever seen, eyes crinkling when he smiles at your kid and calls her a tiny, adorable cub and holds out a bowl of candy for her to take, you take a moment to thank the halloween god for this miracle.

Before reality crashes back in as your child eagerly dives into the bowl, picking her favorite treat. The man glances up at you, his smile softening but not fading.

“Happy Halloween,” he says warmly, his voice deep and calm, sending a pleasant shiver up your spine. There’s something disarmingly kind about him, something steady, and it catches you off guard.

“Thank you,” you manage, feeling oddly bashful under his gaze. “You really saved the night. Not many houses are…participating this year.” You gesture vaguely down the empty street, hoping you don’t sound as defeated as you feel.

His brow furrows slightly as he looks out into the neighborhood, then back to you and your child, who is now carefully showing him her candy haul with a proud grin. “That’s a shame,” he murmurs, crouching down to their level. “Halloween’s meant to be special for little ones, isn’t it? I’m John Price, by the way. Apologies for not introducing myself earlier.”

Your heart tugs as you watch him interact with your child, his big hands surprisingly gentle as he adjusts her slightly crooked bear hat, smoothing the adorable little ears. “You’re quite the brave trick-or-treater, aren’t you?” he teases, and your daughter beams, nodding enthusiastically.

You laugh quietly, the tension of the evening starting to melt away. “It’s her first Halloween,” you explain. “I was hoping it’d be a bit more… lively.”

John stands back up, thoughtful. “First halloween, eh? Can’t have it ending like this.” He steps back into his house briefly, calling over his shoulder. “Wait here a tick.”

When he returns, he’s holding a small pumpkin-shaped lantern, a box of sparklers, and what looks like a half-eaten bag of mini chocolates. “Tell you what,” he says, crouching again to your child’s level though he’s speaking mostly to you. “Why don’t we make this Halloween a bit more fun? Got some sparklers here, if your mum’s alright with it.”

You blink, stunned by the unexpected kindness, but your child is already bouncing on her toes, looking up at you with wide, hopeful eyes.

“I… I think that’d be wonderful,” you say softly, feeling an unfamiliar warmth bloom in your chest. Freely given kindess has become almost unfamiliar to you. “If- if we are not bothering you, of course.”

And so, in the quiet and under a sky full of stars, you watch as John lights sparklers for your child, his gravelly laughter blending with her delighted squeals. The sight makes your heart ache in the best way, though you ignore it; it’s silly to get so… attached this fast. Silly and stupid and dangerous.

When the sparklers are spent and your daughter is yawning, John hands her the little pumpkin lantern. “Something to remember your first Halloween by, cub.” He says, his smile kind and genuine.

You thank him again, your voice quiet but heartfelt, and he nods, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, warm. “If you ever need anything,” he says. “I’m right next door.”

When you decide to bake him a sweet dessert the next day, it certainly has nothing do with the butferflies that flutter in your stomach. It’s moreso because your daughter wants to visit him again and you don’t have the heart to refuse her.

John’s smile when he sees you two at his doorsteps again is still very much welcomed. As is the hand he puts on your lower back, warm and steady.

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

six | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you. 

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

“Why aren’t you hitting me?” James asks. 

The safety mat under your feet does little to assuage your fears. James Potter is perhaps the last person on earth you’d expect to hurt you, and yet you can’t shake the image of him deflecting your punch and sending you reeling. 

With his lovely curls slicked away from his face, his nice mouth, the curve of it where he’s smiling encouragingly, you don’t really want to hit him. 

“I can’t,” you say. 

“Yes, you can. One day you might have to, and I need to know you can do it without breaking your own hand.” The no nonsense tone he’d tended to sport when you first met barely three weeks ago is seemingly gone, replaced by a friendly, almost cavalier tone. Like this is fun. “It won’t hurt you much, I swear. And you should get your revenge. I hit you pretty hard.” 

“You didn’t hit me,” you say. “The door did.” 

“It was my fault.” He smiles, readjusting his stance with feet planted firmly against the mat. 

“James…” 

“Just hit me,” he says. 

You tense your fist around your thumb and hit him square in the chest. It’s not a punch by any means, a weak landing of your knuckles that doesn’t move him. Still, you’re surprised with yourself, checking his face for a sign that you’d done any damage. 

“There are so many people who’d love to punch me,” he laughs, nodding to your hand, “you can do better than that, if only to do what they couldn’t.” 

“I don’t want to hit you, James.” 

“I know, you have to. Come on, it’s easier than you think. You bring your first back to your shoulder and you move into it, okay? Use your weight to do the work. You’ll never hurt anyone if you don’t.” 

“I’d rather not, though.” 

“I know that, too, but you might need to. God forbid you be in a situation where I’m not there to protect you,” —here he does something strange with his eyebrows you’ve yet to encounter, sending a straight shot of butterflies through you, their wings fluttering in the soft part of your throat— “but you don’t have to be defenceless if I’m not. Give me a good swing and I’ll make sure Marlene has that pear ice cream at dinner tonight.” 

“Marlene would make it if I asked,” you say unsurely.

“But if you hit me, I’ll ask for you.” 

“You can be very manipulative.”

“Sometimes. Alright, hit me. Or I’ll tackle you again. You didn’t like that last time.” 

Obviously you hadn’t enjoyed being tackled, because James hadn’t hurt you, he’d simply overpowered you. In one sense, it had been panicky to realise you were at someone’s mercy. James had grabbed you simply behind the back with your chests pressed together and hooked his calf behind your legs, taking them from under you, and following you to the ground. You didn’t like it because he didn’t hurt you, he’d pressed his weight into yours with an arm tight across your chest, just under your throat, and you could smell his hair. Smell almond or jojoba or– or something warm. 

It isn’t that you have feelings for James. You don’t know him well enough. But having someone like James pressing down on you was impossible to ignore, consciously and subliminally.

You really don’t want to do this, drawing your arm back, tightening your first two fingers. James’ eyes widen, his lips falling open as you hit him hard enough to bruise a half inch from his heart. He stumbles and you follow, before flinching back hard, tucking shameful arms to your chest. 

“Sorry!” you burst. “Fuck, sorry! I thought you were ready!” 

“I was ready.” James grins widely. “Awesome. Do that again, yeah? Let’s have one on the cheek this time.” 

“I am not punching you in the face.” 

“You could always aim somewhere softer. The point is to incapacitate me. Hitting me in the chest won’t do that.” He rubs a hand into his shirt, the dark compression material barely moving. “You might have bruised me, though. I’m a good teacher.” 

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you say. 

James deliberates. He tips his head back, showing you the rather nice point of his chin and his neck. A beauty mark sits nestled atop his Adam's apple. 

“Alright. Sorry. No more hitting. Maybe we’ll give the offensive a break for a while and go back to defence again in a few days?” he suggests. 

You relax. 

You’re wearing clothes you’re not used to, a compression shirt like James’, a pair of dark trousers of a similar material with loose ends. Sirius had done some online shopping with you, not worrying as your elbows brushed. He pointed at things and you’d given weak yesses or resolute nos. The total had climbed and climbed, and Sirius had taken your choking for self-preservation. “Not to worry,” he’d said, grinning, “the royal coffers will pay for this lot.” 

It doesn’t feel real. Endless money with no limit nor reason. He’d opened Curry’s swiftly after and asked you what laptop you wanted for uni. He’d attempted to goad you into two. 

It’s alien. All of it, even James across from you where he’s sitting now to put his trainers back on. He doesn’t feel anymore real than the day you met, this handsome, tall boy tasked with keeping you safe. You’ve never been someone’s number one priority. 

“Come and put your shoes on, lovely.” 

You’re not sure how to cope with that, either. He and Sirius both seem quick to coddle when you’re distracted, and you’re distracted often. You shrug away your thoughts, relaxing your tight shoulders as you cross the empty gym to sit next to him. Your trainers are new, too, a sporty pair that cost more money than your last three pairs combined. 

“It’s nice to have new things,” you confess, “but odd.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I… I’ve been wearing the same pair of converse for two years. I had one pair of proper shoes, and one bag. One purse. And I didn’t mind it, just… just, it makes you feel sick sometimes when you want stuff. It’s embarrassing.”

If James is surprised at your sudden admission, he doesn’t show it. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in wanting things,” he says, hands braced on his knees, “but I can guess why you might’ve felt like that. We try not to think about the things we want because that can make not having it worse.” 

What couldn’t you have? you think, searching his expression for a hint. 

“I’m glad it’s nice,” he furthers, tapping his heel against yours. “They look good. Are they comfortable?” 

“They feel like I’m wearing socks half the time.” 

James nods appreciatively. “Well, get them on. We’ll nip into the pharmacist before we go home, do you have your sunglasses?” 

“It’s too grey outside for sunglasses, we look ridiculous.” 

“You look like the front page of every newspaper. Ever. In the entire western world. Here, put your hoodie on.” 

You and James leave the gym with a wave to the women at the front desk and begin down the street. James hates the city obviously, wrinkling his nose at the grey cobbled streets and all of its sooty puddles. He walks from place to place rigid as a tentpole, swerving in front of you the second that someone looks at you too long. You wonder if this is what having a boyfriend is like. James is constantly making sure you’re safe, that you’re on the right side of the pavement, that you’re warm and fed and smiling. But you don’t suppose a boyfriend gets paid to spend time with you, nor do they spend nights on the lumpy sofa in the living room when they’re too tired to drive home at the end of a long shift. 

You think without wanting to of James climbing into bed with you, a split second of his warm arm over your back, and shake it away as he pulls you into the pharmacy. 

“Can you look at something else?” you ask, turning to him as you pull off your silly sunglasses. 

James raises his eyebrows. “Whatever for?” 

“I need stuff.” 

“I know you need stuff. You asked me if we could come here. Which, by the way, you don’t need to do. You’re supposed to boss me around.” 

You look over a shelf of shampoos and deodorants and begin reading their labels. James took you shopping the day after you got back, but you’d been stuck in your old ways and what you didn’t skimp on, you forgot. You eye a large bottle of shampoo that brags deep moisture for your hair type and take it from the shelf, then the matching conditioner, and then its hair mask. Your shoulders curl forward, worried James will think you greedy or sad or something in between, but he just says, “Pass them here, Princess.” 

“It’s fine, I can–”

“I’ll have them. I’ll go get a basket.”

He scoops everything into big hands and walks back to the pharmacy’s entrance. 

It’s a big pharmacy, modern, with white walls and bright fluorescent lights behind shelves. You catch yourself in a mirror next to a stand of cosmetics and wince. You look odd in these sporty clothes. Your nose is shiny. 

You wipe your face with your sleeve and stare at the cosmetics with no clue what to get. Should’ve asked Sirius to come. Or better yet, someone who regularly wears makeup. Only thing is, you don’t really know anybody who does. 

“You don’t have to rush,” James says, joining you at the makeup section, such a long walk from the shampoos. “Did you sprint down here?” 

You’d speed-walked past the sexual health aisle actually, but James doesn’t need to be privy to that information. “You don’t want to be here all day.” 

“I want to be exactly where you are. If that’s looking at lip gloss, then so be it.” 

You smile, a little shy, a little rueful, and turn your attention back to the lip glosses in question. There’s browns and pinks, blush-rose red and moodier cherries. “I don’t…” 

“That one,” James says, poking a barrel with confidence, “would suit you. And this one, too. You’ll look lovely.”

You don’t know what to say. The colours he’s chosen get added to your basket without comment, after you’ve wrestled it out of his unwilling hands. You spend a few minutes spready tester shades of concealer against the back of your hand, where James again recommends the one that matches your skin tone best. He leans behind you, and he does his job, sweeping the aisles and giving the shop a long up and down every once in a while, but for the most part he acts like he’s there to be there. 

You get to the bit of the pharmacy you’d come for initially, the shorter but well-stocked supplement and vitamin aisle. Realistically, you aren’t going to take ten different vitamins a day, and with Marlene’s cooking it isn’t as though you need them, but there are things you’ve always craved. Biotin and collagen, for healthier hair and nails. Multi-nutrient sachets for every day, the good stuff, and so expensive your eyes initially skip over them. 

Your hand hesitates in front of a box and James makes a warm humming noise. 

“They look promising.”

“I’ve never had them before.”

“I have a killer magnesium deficiency,” James says. “I usually take the magnesium and zinc, but that throws my copper out of whack.” 

You can’t tell if he’s messing with you. You smile at him, not quite stickily but getting there, your cheeks appled with it. “Not your copper.” 

“It’s not funny, Princess. It makes me want to sleep all day.” 

“Not funny,” you agree, grabbing the box of sachets and placing them atop the new electric toothbrush you’d fancied. You feel gluttonous and weird with it, because you don’t suppose you really need one, but James had only said That’s a nice colour. 

“James,” you say, meandering with him toward the tills, “you didn’t need anything, did you?” 

He grins at you like you’ve said something different. “I have everything I need, don’t worry.” 

“You sure?” 

His eyes seem lighter, then. Amber flecks in the browned honey of his irises. “Promise.” 

He tries to get you to visit the perfume counter, but the basket is getting heavy and you’ve spent enough as it is. Not even a tenth, a hundredth, a thousandth of what you have now at your disposal, but so much more than you ever would’ve before. 

The lady at the till eyes James behind you. She beams when James opens his wallet and passes you the card you were given by Sirius for expenses, and laughs when you refuse to take it. “I have mine,” you say, “this is all for me, I can pay.” 

“Technically it’s your upkeep,” James argues. 

“James.” You pass the cashier your card as James frowns. 

“I wish my boyfriend offered so quickly,” the cashier says. 

You go hot all over, but before you can tell her James isn’t your boyfriend, he’s laughing and taking the handles of your heavy pink carrier, pulling it toward him as the cashier sorts your receipt. “I shouldn’t have tried, really.” 

“It’s the thought that counts.” She hands you your receipt. “You should to let him pay, chick, especially if he’s offering.” 

“Maybe next time,” you appease. 

You’re still flushed when you and James break outside again, the cold a blessed relief. James lets your pink bag rest in the crook of his arm, while the other hovers behind you, looking around the street unhurried. “Anywhere else you want to go, chick?” he asks. 

You laugh. “She was nice.” 

“Very motherly.” 

“I want to go home, I think. Did you need anything else?” 

“I do all my shopping when I’m not working.” 

“When aren’t you working?” you ask genuinely. “You spend more than half the day at my flat, and when you leave– if you leave, it’s night time.” You give him a sideways glance. “I have nothing else to do today.” 

James contemplates this. “I– I’ve been meaning to get Sirius a gift. It’s his birthday next week, did you know?” 

“No! When?” 

“The third.” 

“What does he like?” 

James beckons toward a neon signed music shop. “He loves music. Music and the macabre, you know, like, horror movies. And he reads, despite what he might have you believe.” 

You fall into step. “Alright. You’ll have to tell me what to buy.” 

Again, he gives you a look like you’ve said something different, like you’ve said something lovely. 

“I can do that,” James says. “I won’t steer you wrong.”

—

Later that evening, after another tentative hour in the car with James’ patient coaching, you return home to shower. It’s luxurious and strenuous simultaneously. The new hair mask is fragrant and silky between your fingers, leaving the bathroom thick with its smell, the warm air clouding the windows. You hurry between the bathroom and your bedroom in a bath sheet and pretend you don’t notice James’ head tipping in your direction. 

“Everything alright?” he calls to your bedroom door. 

You spy on him through the gap. “I’m fine. Sorry I took so long.” 

“Remus has asked if he can come early and have dinner with us.” 

“He doesn’t need to ask!” you call, closing the door soundly. 

It will be nice to have Remus for dinner. He doesn’t have to tell you what fork to use here, you only have one kind, but he explains the heritage or main flavours of each dish and doesn’t make you feel embarrassed when you don’t know the Genovian Marlene uses. Honestly, you hadn’t even realised Genovia had a language, a hodge podge, Remus says, of Italian and French. And Remus has a steady voice that feels evidence of his more humble background —he’s like you, you’ve found out, working class and humbly brought up. He attended their boarding school on a scholarship of academic prowess, and served as a prefect for all seven years. 

“How exhausting,” you’d said. 

“With those two? You wouldn’t believe it.” 

His disdain was feigned, mostly. It’s why you’re excited to have him for dinner. When the boys are together, they end up telling you stories about their hijinks at school, and you get to peek into the window of their lives, see their fondness for one another in praises and shoulder squeezes and their ridiculous nicknames. 

You haven’t managed to ask about them yet. They slip out every once in a while, and in multiple variations. Moony, Moons, Moon and Pads, Pad, Padfoot. Remus’ you’ve deduced from a story they told, how Remus could be oh so moody when he wasn’t very well, like a wolf, a werewolf. Isn’t that clever for a gang of twelve year olds? Lupin, the wolf boy. You have a feeling it didn’t start out as a particularly kind nickname, but it morphed into a loving moniker later on. Sirius’ nickname, however, you’ve no chance at working out. Padfoot? 

And Prongs? You assume James had a nasty run in with a fork. 

You dress in soft, new clothes. Prongs, you think, doesn’t suit him at all. The James you know is only ever prickly when you’re at risk. He doesn’t flinch when you panic, never hardens. He has a soft hand for your back whenever you need a pat. 

Your socks slide on the living room tiles as you make your way in. James is clicking away on his phone, a dark business phone with many, many buttons. It’s dwarfed by his hand. He swears under his breath. 

“Everything okay?” you ask softly. 

James looks up and his gaze snags on you, his head tilted to his phone and his eyes steadfast where they look you over. “Fine. Nice shower?” 

You’re rich now. Every shower is nice, the boiler turned to a high six, hot water neverending. 

“It was good. Where’s Sirius?” 

“I’m actually not sure.” 

“Isn’t that your job?” 

“No. And if it were I wouldn’t know anyways.” He turns back to his phone. “He’s a slippery one, Pads,” he murmurs, “I couldn’t really keep track of him if I tried.” 

You feel as though you’ve caught him at a bad time. Restless, you turn away from him and head for your small kitchen, unsurprised to find Marlene still cooking and the continued remodelling of your kitchen. Old countertops find themselves housing new oiled cutting boards. Your grody cooker seems small beneath a HexClad Dutch oven, where oil bubbles and spits lightly, dough cuts set on a baking sheet beside it. 

“Hi, Marlene. What are you making?” you ask curiously. 

She grins at you from over her shoulder. “Apple cider doughnuts. I’ve made cinnamon sugar, do you mind it?” 

“What’s the thermometer?” you ask. 

She laughs at you lightly. She’s used to you dodging questions. “Just making sure I don’t set your house alight. At home I can do this by eye, but it’s finicky with your oven. She’s temperamental.” 

“Sorry.” 

Marlene waves a hand. “You want to try?” 

“I’ll just be in your way.” 

“No, you won’t. Frying doughnuts is fun, here. I’ve put each of them on a bit of greaseproof paper. They slide right off.” 

Marlene doesn’t usually take no for an answer. She’s not bossy, but decisive. You’re hesitant at first of the boiling oil and the greaseproof paper doesn’t cooperate when you try it, but eventually you’ve freed a crispy bit of paper from the dough, watching patiently as Marlene turns the doughnuts. She tells you about the dark colour you’re searching for, “I’ve put apples in the dough, see, so they’ll come to a brilliant dark colour without burning. We’ll have them with ice cream or whatever you like.” 

”James told you I wanted it?” you ask shyly. 

“James didn’t mention you at all, he just begged a bit for it. He can be quite pathetic when he needs to be.”  

“I resent that!” James calls. 

Sirius and Remus arrive in their usual pair, Remus tall and light to Sirius’ tighter darkness. Remus wears glasses today, black thin frames perched atop a scar on his nose. Sirius is being himself, poking at them and reminding Remus that just because he is an insufferable swat doesn’t mean he has to look like one. 

“You’re worse than insufferable,” Remus says. When he sees you, he brightens. “Ah, Princess. James hasn’t injured you, that’s brilliant.” 

“And you clearly haven’t killed him in a motor vehicular disaster,” Sirius says cheerfully. “Praise be.” 

“We’re both fine,” you say. 

“Were you worried about us?” James asks. 

“I wasn’t worried about you, James,” Remus says with a smirk. 

You eat as you have every day for the week since you’ve been home: around the coffee table, five plates and drinks rearing to get knocked over and ruin it all. Your knees press into Remus’ on the left and Marlene’s on the right. James sits across from you now that Frank’s shown up for his night shift, digging in with vigour, beaming around his fork as Sirius gives him a good nudge. So many people in your crammed flat. It doesn’t seem real. Half the time, they’re just here to keep you company. 

Paid to keep me company, you think, biting your tongue as you do. This isn’t… real. 

Something taps you under the table. James’ hand, you find, long fingers pressing soft into your kneecap. You quickly lift your head again to find him frowning at you mildly. Okay? he mouths. 

“Bit my tongue,” you say. 

“Ouch,” Remus says. 

James pokes his lip with his tongue. “Be careful,” he says eventually. 

You ignore whatever it is he’s not saying and pick at your food instead. For dinner, Marlene has made a traditional Genovian pasta dish heavy with red pesto and steak. It isn’t what you’re expecting, used to the paler whites and greens of the last week's worth of dinner. James couldn’t be enjoying it more, and Sirius has pledged his undying love to Marlene three or four times since you sat down. 

“Jesus, I barely miss Genovia when you cook like this,” he says. “I will happily serve my country.” 

“Unlike before, when you were here unhappily,” Remus teased. 

Sirius looks you dead in the eye. “Princess, I would follow you anywhere. Marlene is an added bonus.” 

“I– I really wish you guys wouldn’t call me that.” 

Sirius looks gently chastened. “Sorry, sorry. It’s muscle memory at this point. If I called Princess Julianna by anything but her title, she would’ve had me drawn and quartered in the royal courtyards, is all.” 

“And the rest,” James snorts. 

“I try not to address her at all,” Remus says to himself. 

Everyone laughs. You join in a second later, wondering about your unknown cousin. “She was rather spoiled, wasn’t she?” you ask. 

“You’d think she’d tone it down some. Her royal status is rather tenuous, you know.” 

James gives Sirius a look. Careful, it says. 

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“Well, she’s a royal by marriage, not blood. We explained that, didn’t we?” 

James had said it was complicated. You’d been too startled about your own royal status to inspect it any further. “She’s not a Renaldi?” you ask. 

As it’s explained, your uncle (uncle! who is indeed royal by blood, and the eldest son) forwent the throne when it became clear he wouldn’t be allowed to marry a divorced lover otherwise (reminiscent of certain British scandals). Said divorced lover already had a daughter, a young Julianna. And so your uncle remained a prince but not a king, and Julianna became a princess, to the ire of half the country. 

Traditions have changed in time, but Julianna still lacks Renaldi blood. 

“It drives her mad,” James says. He’s leaning back against the armchair now, dinner finished, a big glass of apple cider in his hands. 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you say. “Sorry, I sound horrible, just. She wasn’t super friendly.” 

“It would’ve been better for everyone if she was,” Sirius says. 

You wait for him to continue. Marlene prompts him, “You think so?” 

“Well, yes, I suppose. Anything is better than a country ruled by Baron Riddle. Evil, loathsome man. He thinks that nobody knows he’s had a nose job, you know.” 

“Who’s Baron Riddle?” you ask. 

A hush falls around the table. You look down at your plate, eyes on the red shine of pesto and olive oil where it’s grown cold on your plate. A hunk of soft bread is discarded beside it. You poke at it with your nail until crumbs flake away, lips parted, not sure what to say. “Is he–?”

“He’s a bad man, Y/N,” Sirius says. His voice has turned soft but not thin. “He’s prejudiced and cruel. If nobody of Renaldi blood takes the throne when your grandmother steps down, he’ll rule Genovia. And he’ll run it into the ground.” 

James isn’t looking at you when you drag your head up. He downs the last of his cider and stands up, murmuring about clearing the table as he carries his and Sirius’ plate to the kitchen. 

“I didn’t know,” you say. Well, you’d known someone would ascend to the throne if you didn’t. But you didn’t know about Riddle. A guilty heat builds in your throat. “I had no idea.” 

“James asked us not to tell you,” Remus says pointedly. 

“She has a right to know,” Sirius says. They glare at each other, but the heat in Sirius’ voice doesn’t rescind. “What? She does. She’s a grown up.” 

You shake your head. “Thank you, um, for telling me. I’ll just take these out, should I?” You gesture to the plates and stand up quickly. You can’t escape the feeling that Sirius is very angry with you, and you don’t want to face it, so you escape the room instead. 

James’ shoulders are tense in the kitchen. He scrapes his plate clean into the food recycling bin, offering his hand without looking for your own. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. 

“Of course.” 

Silence blossoms like an achy bruise. 

“James–”

“Thank you for having me for dinner, but I really should be going now. I promised my mum an overdue call.” 

He’s angry. 

You cringe away from him. “Okay. Yeah, no problem.” 

“Okay. Stay safe while I’m gone, yes? Remember your panic button.” 

Your hand inches up to the opposite wrist, where your tennis bracelet of sapphires sits tightly. You’d forgotten all about the panic button embedded in disguise under one of the gemstones. 

He smiles at you briefly, and in a minute or two he’s gone. Sirius goes out after him, leaving you and Remus and Marlene to the heap of dishes, a bad taste lingering on your tongue that has nothing to do with dinner. 

[austinbutlerslovers]

Sweet as Pie

Label Mature 18+

🎃 Kinktober One Shot 🎃

Summary It’s Halloween night, and you surprise Gale with your costume of choice—a seductive black cat, complete with ears, and a tail. He’s so riled up upon seeing you wear it that he affectionately starts calling you kitten, and instead of heading to the party as planned, he tries to keep you as a sweet treat all to himself.

🔗 Master List

💝Romantic smut 💝 Heavy petting• oral on fem• fingering •P in V • mating press •orgasms •cream pie

Sweet as Pie

The sun sets below the horizon on Halloween night, casting a warm, amber glow through the kitchen. You’ve just finished clearing the table after a hearty supper of chicken a l'orange, fluffy mashed potatoes in rich gravy, and butter sautéed greens.

As you pull the warm pumpkin pie cooling on the stovetop, the sweet fragrance fills the kitchen, a delightful mix of cinnamon and nutmeg that wafts in the air.

Gale is seated at the head of the dinner table wearing a plain white T-shirt accentuating his broad shoulders and muscular arms, his green officers jacket draped over his chair. 

His face is as stunning as ever—strong and defined, his features softened by the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his full lips. His sandy blonde hair is combed back, neatly in place, with just enough length to show its natural wave, giving him an effortlessly handsome, boyish charm.

As he sits there, relaxed but attentive, he looks every bit the dreamboat, the man you’d cross any room to be near. And the way he looks at you, with a mix of gratitude and desire, makes you feel as if giving him everything he needs is the easiest and most natural thing in the world.

While you carefully lean over the table to set the pie down Gale’s eyes instinctively fall to the tempting curve of cleavage spilling from your blouse then his eyes slowly travel back up, savoring every detail as he takes you in, the heat of his look making your heart race, under his appreciative gaze.

 “You look like a dream, sweetheart,” he complements his voice velvety-soft, and you can’t help contain the grin that spreads across your face as you slice him a piece and bring it over to his plate.

 “Thank you, Gale,” you say appreciatively, your gaze lingering on him as the look in his eyes makes your cheeks flush a deeper shade.

You take your seat across the table, giving him an affectionate glance as you settle in, and the two of you begin eating dessert together. 

Gale savors every last bite of your homemade pie, his eyes locking with yours as he licks the last bit of filling off his thumb. The way he does it is so disarmingly makes your lips part, wishing for that attention elsewhere. A glint of mischief lights up his blue eyes as he catches it, and he leans back in his chair, giving you a knowing grin.

“You know, sweetheart,” he drawls watching as you reach for his empty plate, “I think you might make a sweeter dessert than this pie.” he praises.

You feel a rush of warmth flooding your cheeks, and before you can respond, he pulls you down onto his lap, his hands finding your waist as he draws you close.

He leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your neck, a grin playing at his lips. “Much sweeter,” he confirms, his fingers giving you a playful squeeze that makes your insides flutter.

“Gale, please… behave ,” you request, your voice soft and breathy as his lips trail along your neck while you try to calm yourself. “We won’t make it to the Halloween dance if you keep this up…and then… you won’t get to see what I’ve chosen as my costume.” 

Your words are laced with a hint of longing, and he stops kissing your neck leaning back as you look up at him with your softest doe eyes.

He pouts not getting his way and you reach up, gently brushing his lower lip with a teasing smile. “Let me finish up the dishes so we can go,” you tell him, and with a reluctant sigh, he finally releases you, watching as you slip from his lap. 

While you do the dishes scrubbing away, you can feel his eyes on you—steady and hungry—watching your every move as he sips his brandy.

He knocks the last of it back in one swallow, the clink of the glass setting on the table letting you know he’s finished. You barely place the last dish in the drying rack before Gale is behind you, his hands warm as they slide over your waist, pulling you close. 

“What if you wear your costume just for me tonight?” he whispers, his voice low and rich, his breath warm against your ear as his lips brush just below it, sending a wave of arousal through you.

You lean into him tilting your head back on his chest. “Would you like that Gale?” you ask, your voice softer, half-tempted to stay right there and forget the night’s plans.

His eyes gleam with excitement he can barely contain as his hand slips to your waist. “Go put it on for me.” He whispers, his voice thick with anticipation as his hands trail a path down your hips.

“Cause’ when we’re done at this party I plan on taking every piece of it off you,” he whispers giving your derrière a firm squeeze that makes you softly gasp, his touch lingering with a promise of what’s to come.

Quickly you head to the bedroom and catch your breath, the excitement building as you apply your make up then pull the costume on you’ve been saving for the night.

It’s a sleek, fitted black dress—complete with a pair of pointed, velvet cat ears perched on your head and a long, playful tail that sways with each step. The fabric clings to your every curve, emphasizing your figure in a way that’s both playful and enticing, the plunging neckline dropping low enough to keep Gale’s attention on your every move. 

A pair of thigh-high stockings completes the look, with delicate lace patterns tracing down to your heels, they accentuate the length of your legs adding an edge of allure that Gale can never resist.

When you step out into the living room, you pose against the door frame swinging your tale teasingly.  Gale gets such a good look at you he goes slack-jawed, his eyes taking in every detail. “Well, if that ain’t a sight,” he breathes, his voice low unable to hide his arousal.

“Come here, kitten,” he drawls, the nickname making you pool with desire as you bite your lip and saunter to him. 

You reach your arms around his neck and his hands find their way to your hips, pulling you close enough to whisper in your ear, “I’m not sure I’m ready to share you with anyone looking like this tonight.” He confesses.

You smile pressing a kiss to his neck, your red lipstick marking him.  “I’m all yours Major” you say seductively and he grins clearly enamored by your response. 

As you stare up at him he admires your makeup, his gaze trailing your face with appreciation. You’ve gone all out with a sleek, cat-eye eyeliner that makes your eyes look even more alluring, a touch of sparkle catching the light on your cheeks, and, as you smile, he catches a glimpse of the tiny, painted whiskers adding to your charm.

The doorbell rings interrupting the intimate moment, signaling the first arrival of trick-or-treaters. 

You and Gale open the door to a chorus of “Trick or treat!” as a group of little witches, superheroes, and ghosts hold out their buckets. You offer warm smiles as you drop candy into each one, wishing them a happy Halloween.

Gale’s arm loops around your waist every chance he gets, his gaze lingering on you with that smoldering intensity that makes your skin heat up. 

When he does leave your side as you pass out treats, it’s only to grab a glass of whiskey and lean against the doorframe watching you with a look that says he’s thinking of anything but the Halloween candy.

As soon as the hour is up and you lock the front door he pulls you close, his hand settling possessively at your waist, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip. “You ready to go to the dance, kitten?” he murmurs, his voice low and enticing, his blue eyes holding yours with an irresistible intensity.

“Yes Gale,” you reply, your pulse quickening as he reaches up, pinching your chin gently between his fingers.

“That’s my good little kitten,” he coos, his voice dropping lower as he leans in, brushing his lips against yours. 

His kiss is soft and lingering so sensual it leaves you breathless, every part of you aching to forget the dance and stay right there in his arms.

With a smirk, he reaches behind you, giving the tail of your costume a playful tug. “Just so you know,” he says, winding the tail around his finger  pulling you closer, “I’m not letting you out of my sight for a second tonight.” He confirms, his voice low and rich, as he draws you into another deep lingering kiss.

The Halloween party  is in full swing at the towns dance hall when you and Gale arrive. All of his fellow officer’s from the nearby military base are reveling in the festivities.

The music is loud, trumpets blaring and drums kicking, setting a lively rhythm that pulses through the room. Couples twirl and sway across the dance floor, laughter and cheers filling the air as everyone parties in the exciting atmosphere

The Halloween decorations fill the space with a festive charm. Strings of yellow lights crisscross the ceiling, casting a warm, glow. Fake spider webs cling to the corners and grinning jack-o’-lanterns line the room, flickering with a spooky light.

As you walk in with Gale, all eyes shift to him, the military men cheering his name, and a few giving you looks that make you glance shyly at Gale, feeling a bit bashful under their attention “Cat got your tongue Major?” one of them calls out as the others begin to whistle.

“At ease boys” Gale smirks at them as his hand lowers to the small of your back leading you to the dance floor.

You immediately begin to sway to the music, your body moving in a sensual rhythm, a carefree smile playing on your lips as you let yourself get lost in the moment.

Gales fingers tighten on your waist, his eyes locked on every subtle, seductive move you make until he leans in his lips brushing your ear “You’re driving me crazy Kitten,” he says, his tone laced with barely restrained desire that makes you bite your lip.

Just as you both get caught up in the music, another Major, one of Gales closest friends nicked named Bucky strolls over with two drinks.

“Can’t let you hog all the fun Buck” He’s says grinning ear to ear as he places the cups in Gale hands, then he laughs having tricked him.

“Come on, sweetheart’, let’s show him how it’s done!” he says, pulling you away to dance before Gale can protest.

Gale gives Bucky a playful warning look shaking his head, and as you sway with Bucky, he leans in close his voice a rough whisper. “I think he’s getting jealous,” he teases, and you can’t help but steal a peek over Bucky’s tall shoulder. 

Gale’s gaze is sharp, his mouth pulled into a slight smirk as he watches you both, a hint of envy flashing in his eyes.

After a few moments, Bucky finally relents, “Alright, alright, I’ve had my fun. Can’t keep you away from this man too long, or I’ll never hear the end of it,” he says with a grin, releasing you back to Gale.

You take one of the cups from Gale’s hand, raising it in a toast. “To Bucky, master of mischief,” you say with a laugh as Gale joins you in the cheer.

“To the stone in my shoe,” Gale chides, and Bucky bows dramatically, giving you both a wink before stepping back, leaving you and Gale to savor the moment, his antics only adding to the lively spirit of the night.

As the hours wear on, Gale stays close by your side, his presence both protective and adoring. He occasionally pulls you onto the dance floor, spinning you around until you’re breathless with laughter, or he goes off to fetch you a drink, returning with a smile. 

His arm rests securely around your waist, grounding you in the bustling atmosphere, and every so often, he leans in to press an affectionate kiss to your temple, each gesture making the evening feel all the more special.

Eventually, the music begins to wind down, and you’re left giddy, cheeks flushed from dancing and a few too many drinks. 

Gale says farewell to his fellow officers, before returning his attention back on you. He places his jacket over your shoulders, as he leads you outside, the cool night air a welcome relief. 

He opens the car door and helps you in, making sure you’re settled before getting in himself.

As he drives you home, his hand finds its way to your knee, his thumb rubbing gentle circles there and you can’t help but steal glances at him, admiring his strong side profile in the dim light, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude and affection for him.

When you arrive home, you step into the entryway, leaning over to slip off your heels. Your fingers are just sliding along the back when you hear Gale’s voice behind you.

“Mmm mmm,” he orders, a teasing warmth in his tone as his hand closes over yours, stopping you in your tracks. 

“Not so fast, darlin’.” He steps closer, his fingers brushing against your wrist, and you feel the slow, deliberate warmth of his touch as he straightens you up, guiding your hand away from your heel.

“This is somethin’ I’ve been lookin’ forward to all night,” he drawls, his voice low, each word settling over you with a promise.

His eyes flicker down, roaming over your costume, savoring every detail as his hands find their way to your hips, his fingers pressing in just enough to make you feel the heat radiating from him.

His gaze is intense, filled with a mix of mischief and pure desire as he leans in, his lips just grazing your ear.

 “I want to take my time with this,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin, sending a thrill straight through you. “So you just let me handle it.” He says his hands drifting down, fingers tracing along the edges of your stockings. Each touch a slow, torturous tease that leaves you breathless, anticipation building with every small, deliberate movement.

He's kneeling as he cups your ankle slipping the first heel from your foot with a reverence that makes your pulse quicken. Then he shifts to the other, his gaze never leaving yours, his movements careful, as he slides the heel off.

“Been dreamin’ about this since the second you put it on,” he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper, his hands warm and steady trailing up your legs.

With a smoldering look that leaves you breathless, Gale slides his hands to your thighs, his fingers digging in firmly as he pulls your stockings down your legs 

As the fabric glides down, revealing the soft skin underneath, Gale leans in, his lips brushing against your leg.

The warmth of his mouth makes your breath hitch as he kisses the newly exposed skin, each gentle caress igniting a fire within you. His kisses are soft yet possessive, and with every tender press of his lips, you find yourself becoming more and more enamored by him.

With a deliberate movement, he pulls the stockings off completely, discarding them carelessly to the side.

With a playful glint in his eye, Gale pulls back slightly, a teasing smirk dancing on his lips as he takes in your alluring figure adorned in the black cat costume. 

“You know, sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice thick with desire, “I actually want to take you jusy like this, wearing your little costume for me tonight.” 

A soft sigh escapes your lips from his words as his hands reach under your dress up to your hips.

“There’s just something about you dressed as a kitten that drives me absolutely wild.” He reveals as his fingers brush along the waistband of your panties

He pulls them down with a deliberate care that heightens your excitement, the fabric slipping past your thighs and falling at your feet.

Then, with a sudden, effortless strength, Gale lifts you into his arms. pulling your legs around his waist, and you feel the hardness of his cock pressing into your front, a gasp escaping your lips at the sensation.

He carries you toward the bedroom, his lips finding yours in a heated kiss, the world outside fading away as his hands grip you tightly, making you feel both cherished and desired. 

With a slow, careful ease, he lowers you onto the bed, your body resting on the soft mattress as he unbuttons and removes his shirt, his gaze filled with an intense need.

Your legs are spread wide open as he lowers himself down between them, his hands gliding along your inner thighs, savoring each tremble under his fingertips.

“I can’t wait to taste you,” he murmurs, swirling your wetness around your entrance before pulling his thumb away.

Then his mouth meets your clit with a deep, lingering kiss, and you arch as his tongue slides between your folds, drinking in the slickness of your arousal.

“As sweet as pie,” he whispers against you, just long enough to catch his breath and you moan as he licks around your entrance.

He pushes his tongue inside you with a slow, steady rhythm that has your legs quivering as you gasp.

His tongue trails along your inner lips, listening to every little sound you make until you’re clenching around nothing as you leak your wetness.

He doesn’t want to waste a drop lapping it up as his mouth makes slopping noises, his groans of pleasure muffled against your skin.

You moan into the air fighting not to push hard against his face as your hands tangle into his perfect hair. 

He brings both of his hands to your thighs using his thumbs to spread your inner lips apart and he stares in awe at you fully exposed for him while he practically salivates. 

“Making me feel like the luckiest man in the world right now” he pants easing his fingers inside your entrance as your walls tighten around them.

His long fingers slide deep inside you, making you gasp before a heavy moan spills out, raw and uncontrollable.

He moves his hand slowly at first, each thrust of his fingertips brushing against a ribbed, spongy spot that sends waves of tension through your core. 

Your abs tighten as he picks up the pace, his fingers thrusting faster, the sound of your wetness growing louder with every movement. Your moans become unending, matching his unrelenting rhythm.

“That's it, kitten," he pants feeling you tighten around his fingers as he goes harder and faster, his knuckles  practically smacking against you as you moan in pleasure.

His other hand works to unbutton and slide down his zipper, his eyes fixed on your every movement as you you begin to orgasm, your hips pushing against his hand seeking more than just his fingers as he releases his cock.

He hurriedly shoves his slacks down, and while you’re still dazed, catching your breath, he positions himself on top of you sliding his cock down your clit to your entrance.

His breath shakes as he presses his tip against you and pushes inside without hesitation your walls eagerly taking him in as you moan in pleasure. 

“You feel so good” he groans as his hips set a steady pace and he watches you beneath him as you take his cock making him push deeper and faster until your vision blurs, and your voice sounds foreign to your ears.

His hips pull back and forth as your walls glide against him, and he lightly groans, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you to him, looking at you like the prettiest thing in the world.

“I don’t wanna stop,” he breathes heavily, his eyes locking with yours, feeling the way your walls tighten and pull him in. “You feel so good on me” he pants.

His hands slide under your legs pulling them up to your chest making the most beautiful sound escape your lips as he thrusts harder keeping you in place.

“Y-you feel how deep I am kitten?” he says with exertion. You gasp as he pulls and pushes his hips faster putting more weight behind his thrusts. Your body trembles feeling him so deep and you sweetly moan his name as you orgasm a second time, your walls clenching tightly on his cock.

“Such a good kitten” he breathes in desperation as he looks down hearing the squishing wet sounds of your release.  As his hips smack against you his cock is coated in your come the sight filling him with so much arousal that he leans in and kisses you as you moan against his mouth.

He pulls back to roll his hips deeper against you, his breaths shuddering as his pace becomes erratic “I’m gonna come “ he gasps.

With a final, forceful thrust, your moans echo in pleasure feeling his cock throbbing in you at its deepest, then he rolls his hips back just enough to push in one last time, the sensation making you tighten around him as he releases his come.

The two of you remain intertwined, his chest rising and falling as he pants, staring at you in awe. You meet his gaze through lidded eyes, your own breaths still uneven.

“I love you,” he says, his hand tracing lightly down your arm.

“I love you too,” you reply your voice soft and filled with satisfaction.

He lingers a moment longer before he feels himself begin to soften “I’m gonna pull out now,” he says, his thumb brushing your hip tenderly and you nod.

As he slowly pulls back, a final surge of pleasure passes through you both, leaving a lingering warmth as he rests back, lying on the bed beside you, catching his breath.

Carefully you sit up and slowly walk to the vanity taking off your costume, and the sight in the mirror makes a surprised laugh escape your lips.

Your eyeliner is smeared, the whiskers you drew on are gone, but the rosy glow of recent pleasure is unmistakable.

Gale smiles behind you, watching from the bed. “Looks like my kitten had a little too much fun,” he teases, eyes gleaming with a playful smirk.

“Yes, she did,” you reply, wiping off your makeup and slipping out of your costume. You return to bed and climb into Gale’s waiting arms. He pulls you close, and as you nestle against him he brings your leg over his waist.

A satisfied smile crosses his face as he holds you close, his fingers tracing softly through your hair. “Can’t wait to see what you’ll dress up as next year,” he says with intense curiosity. 

“Why wait?” you ask, your voice a low, seductive purr and as you look up at him the thrill that sparks in his eyes is undeniable.

🎃END 🎃

🔗 Masterlist

🏷️ Always Tag me List @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @austinbutlerfly @lindszeppelin @abswifey @ausssbutlershortstories @magicovento @aust-een @umika @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler @faegoddessog @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @elvismylove04 @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @i5uckersblog @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @12joeywheelerfangirl @feralgodmothers @finley-08 @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @majestyjade @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @megangovier @ifuckindontknow @kaelatargaryen @jjubilee-fluff @darknightmareobject @psycheetamore

[sideysvault]

𓍼ོ Ad Astra Per Aspera 𓍼ོ (PT. 1)

Consummation

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

wc: 2,200k

Tags: [sfw] Arranged marriage, mature themes, angst, coldness, enemies to lovers, eventual fluff and smut.

Full Series masterlist here. read part two.

────────

“Are you disappointed with the results of the arrangement?” Still not very well versed on the frail subtleties needed for a cordial marriage, the woman frowned. It if sounded sincere, she might have answered honestly. Because even her, when she was a child, had dreamt of romantic affections, great tales of familial love, mutual servitude and joy. 

But the Prince’s voice told a tale of practiced self deprecation. She wasn’t yet sure if it was to appear disarmingly inadequate, easier to ignore, or if it was to appease the King’s fragile ego. Either way, acting was not one of the Prince’s best qualities. Underneath all the loathing, layed a poorly covered,  insidious egotism. He felt pride in fulfilling his inglorious role, pride of being an outcast, he clearly thought of himself as above it all: superstitions of the weak minded, sentimentality, the passionate side of politics. She could already feel herself getting sick of it all. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but you must not go beyond the walls of the Red Keep often” Although she knew he did, as the stories of the sad little boy he turned to when attending the brothel could be heard from the mouth of the King himself. “The Gods are rarely in the mood for protection, and so common men are never left whole. The queerest thing about your appearance is not your limb eye, but rather your ghostly hair” with a smirk forming without her being able to avoid it, she quickly added “A haunting omen, perhaps.” 

Aemond hated the petulant smile that appeared on his wife’s lips. He hated seeing her biting teeth, and her self proclaimed waking martyrdom. And the wisdomless lectures? A sickening symptom of barbarian vanity. The Prince felt scandalized. He considered himself a sensible person, able to rationalize the marital arrangement, a paragon of respectability and patience. Her attitude had a way of putting it all on a thin veil. 

She felt troubled by the marriage, yes, but at night, when she could see the maidens avoid the wing of the castle where the King rested, when the Maestres ran around with mysterious teas, she felt the urge to get on her knees and thank the lords for granting her the repressed brother. Boring, tedious, and insolently over confident. But much more honorable. 

They had to consummate the marriage, of course. That was a problem that was increasingly harder to ignore. He had been kind enough to not force it upon her, and the Princess had heard stories of insemination without touch. When the bride was to be young of age, the husband —If he was respectable enough to have a soul—would set his seed on a vase of sorts, which would be introduced into the girl manually, by a maiden of choice. She heard it was rarely successful, but protective parents could demand the practice. 

She was too old for those considerations, but what was one to do? 

Prince Aemond was handsome, painfully so. If you ignored his impatience for the incompetence of his brother, or for his mother's hidden sentimentalism, his horror towards failure, the frowns he gave at any suggestion of true romantic felicity, and the egomaniac tendencies, he could look quite handsome. 

During courtship, he completely ignored his wife to be, but that is to be expected in political betrothal. Back then, he slightly frightened the Princess, but not nearly enough as everyone assumes he should have. 

The residents of Kings Landing often find him rather physically odd. Why is that? If, after all, he looks like a proper Targaryen Prince, even with one functioning eye. His childhood wound could not deny his straight silver hair, or the blue in his calculating eyes. His features were delicate, sharp, and firm, with an obnoxious royal quality. And if she knew no better, she would be excited at the prospect of consummation. 

Now the Princess’s dreams did not consist of domestic life —Although, she naturally still felt the urge, on rare occasions— But of going beyond the realms of her condition. A mind that kept itself occupied with thoughts of what may have become of her with less social opposition and more personal stimulus. Dreaming of being born a man, of being a scholar, a Maestre, to finally visit The Citadel.

Another recurring hope was that even in between the most interrelated webs of inherited resentments and southeastern superstitions one may find peace and harmony. To make the Red Keep a home worth living in. But all of these desires seemed to be equally improbable, and she had begun to come to terms with the fact that the burning desire of childhood may never go away, but it must be ignored in order to survive. 

Learning to her was similar to a  holy grace, far more powerful than any priest or God. A beautiful distraction. That’s how she had fallen into the hands of a false religious conversion. The teachings of the Seven had no real impact or meaning to her, but it was the closest, most respectable way of learning about the world around her. 

The marital chambers were spotless, in an almost obsessive manner. It went far beyond the traditional efficiency of cleaning servants. It had been done by his own hand, and everything had a designated place. And at the beginning, it had been nerve wrecking. The constant worry of leaving everything in its place, of being too messy with her presence, with her own belongings, in her own chambers. 

The only thing that demanded attention in the sad sterile room was the extensive library. It filled the space with character of its own, the books rebelling against their masters' particularities and demanding a disorderly presence of their own right. His private library exploited the fragility of her wife’s curious mind and predisposition for literature. 

After years of spiritual resignation, it was like a breeze of fresh air. She would be the first to admit the only sin she had committed against her husband —Besides being a republican, which was a shameful secret of hers—: To sneak and  borrow books from his private delectable collection. A stupid, brash decision. Especially considering Aemond's serious disposition and angsty, hostile character. But the Princess couldn't help herself when she saw the chambers unattended. Rationalizing the invasion of privacy, because they were now married, for better or for worse, those books were inside their marital chambers. 

Prince Aemond knew of his wife’s intrusion, of course. When she came back to return the innocent theft, she realized with horror that he had left a single stone where the book she had taken was. Feeling partially offended by the gesture, she had returned the volume to its place and accommodated the fatal stone on the left side of his bureau, near the candle. 

It became a routine. The wife would take a book from his collection, and he would place the rock marking the missing spot. Whenever she finished her reading, she was to accommodate the stone at the left of the candle in his bureau. A childish game, perhaps. But it was the most similar thing they had to a sense of cordiality and shared duality. Everything else remained as sterile as before, when either party tried to approach the other, they were quickly reminded of how repelled they felt towards the others flaws, perceived or not. 

It did exhaust her a good deal, the uncertainty of the marriage. Having to be sly and poise about how she managed herself, or to be met with heavy words of disapproval. Targaryen folk, seemingly closer to Gods than to men, were not to be played with, even if you were a wife to one of them.

Another cause of exhaustion and hysteria was one much more primal. She dreaded the day he finally came to claim his bride's virtue. It was not about discomfort with marital relations, but rather a feeling of vulnerability. Having to be at his mercy, his whim, it was the fact that she had to wait until the night his patient character faltered. 

There was also the matter of Larys Strong, of course. The King was like a brute, too focused on his next rush to have any sense of planning or concerned for the politics of consummation. The Dowager Queen was the one who pushed his limits when needed, and she seemingly had Larys Strong at his mercy, or the other way around, of that, the Princess was not entirely sure yet. 

Sir Strong loved not the Gods or the Crown but himself and the thrill of keeping people hostage by the bondage of secrets. He enjoyed parading around the corners, lurking, observing. He liked the authority that the Crown granted him, the preposterous work of secrecy. He translated the King’s rule into language that sounded vaguely religious, vaguely patriotic. Only to whisper it to the ears of maidens and servants. 

It may have been paranoia, but the Princess could have sworn that  the maidens took special care into looking for any red spots on the marital sheets. The Dowager Queen had been paying more attention to her, with that stern frown of hers. Real or imagined, it was dangerous to wait this long. 

Tired of the whole ordeal, she decided that the occurrence was unavoidable, and at a reasonable cost of her sexual condition if anything, she could end the anxiety and the whispered chastity by taking some kind of agency and doing the first step.

The Princess soaked in rose water the scented brazil wood chips her mother had prepared her with. Using them to brightly paint her cheeks,  nipples, and lips with an irresistible shade of contrast, and leaving her hair messy, determined to look desirable enough for it to be done tonight. 

If the Prince was surprised to see her laying in bed, naked, when he walked into the chambers, he did not show proof of it on his face. The husband quickly took off his clothes, as well. He looked tired, even under the dim, warm yellow lights of the room. She smiled upon the view, a signal of relief, upon anything else. For the first time in weeks, her husband did not seem troubled and upset, only tired. The consummation might end quickly and without any fuss. 

As soon as he laid on the sheets, she got up from the side of the bed that corresponded to her, and straddled the Prince. She wasn’t sure of what he may like, but she figured this was the safest and less degrading way to go about the night. She felt her nipples harden against the cold nightly wind, and she could also feel her husband's length hardened underneath her. Without any regard for her feelings, her core began to leak in anticipation. In that moment, she thanked the Gods for a handsome husband, and she thanked them for making him a contemporary in age. This wasn’t going to be as difficult as she initially thought. 

For a moment, his eye seemed to shine with something similar to the spark of lust. Just for a moment. 

It was gone almost as soon as she had noticed it. And with a soft but recognizably firm move, he got her off him. 

“There is no use for it. We don’t carry the duty to fulfill the royal lineage” The Prince sounded cold, and spoke in a manner similar to how one explains a simple concept to a child. It scandalized her. Had he had no consideration at all for her safety? Was he blind to the watchful eyes of the maids? Was he not a man, or is it that you were insufficient in his eyes? 

And if the offense wasn’t enough to hurt the Princess, he unknowingly added another striking statement, just for good measure “They are also an emotional lability. One that mustn’t be created recklessly taken in times of war”

Her heart seemed to sink in the depths of her stomach. The humiliation, sparked by anger washed over her head and burned her cheeks with an unbearable warmt. Without saying a word —and trying to contain the tears that this robbery of agency had caused— she left the marital chambers. 

Another brash, emotionally driven decision. A misjudgment, letting go of the calculating measure of taking care of what the court might think. The Princess needed a break from the claustrophobic room, from its cleaning, from her Husband’s cold offenses. How can he speak of children so callously? She had thought of her husband as a devout family member. Even the monster they had for the King loved his children. The Princess wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of forming a family in an arranged marriage, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her husband was rejecting her lineage and the single act of agency that she was truly permitted:The possibility of making happiness of her own, of raising her own. Feeling rudely rejected, and more lonely than ever before, she compulsively walked into the messy physis of the garden. Tears fell on her cheeks, and went down into her neck, she had no family, no friend, no kin to confide into. For the first time since her arrival, she felt the honesty of her situation falling from her tears.

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Notes: Omg the first part of the first long form series that i have ever conceived 😭😭 if anyone is interested in proofreading or if you see any mistakes please let me know! English is not my first language and I always make so many mistakes. Take care of one another!

— Sidey xxo

[soulofapatrick]

Domesticated - Jace Herondale x Female (Daylighter) Reader

Summary: this is a 5 + 1 of all the times you and Jace act like a couple even before you admit feelings for each other

Words: 6k

Warnings: injury, bleeding, blood drinking

Y/N’s POV - 

Part One

I’m not really sure when Jace appearing at random hours of the day in my apartment became a normal things. He’s dirty and covered in ichor from a demon hunt the Clave sent him and Alec on and he’s grumbling to himself as he shrugs off his leather jacket. There’s dried blood on him from wounds his iratze rune probably healed and he’s toeing off his shoes before grumbling more about the demons. 

“I’m going to shower.” He tells me, voice gruff but there’s a softness to it as he addresses me. 

“Alright Jace.” I respond, turning back to the show I was watching, waiting up for him to get back as it’s nearly 2am. Being a vampire is weird, especially a daylighter like Simon as at first I was nocturnal and now, suddenly, I’m back to daylight hours. It was weird getting used to humanity again but ever since Jace has been coming round it’s been easier somehow. 

As I listen to the sound of the water running in the bathroom, I can’t help but think about how effortlessly Jace fits into my life. We’ve been…friends? Yeah, friends for so long, and lately, it feels like we’ve crossed some invisible line into something more. But whenever I’m around him, my heart would be pounding if it could still beat and there’s a stirring in my undead soul, a flutter of excitement I though I had long forgotten. 

If it weren’t for Jace, I might have left the Shadowhunter world behind altogether, taken Magnus up on whisking me somewhere far away, maybe Canada, Clary and Simon, my own best friends, seem to have forgotten about me again, lost in their own adventures and relationship. And Luke, the only parental figure in my life, is more invested in his pack than checking up on me. But somehow, Jace always manages to find his way back to my doorstep, like a guiding light in the darkness. 

I remember the first time he appeared on my doorstep, how he looked at me with those piercing golden eyes and saw something in me that no one else seemed to. He didn’t treat me like a monster or a freak because of what I had become, but instead, he saw me for who I truly am—a creature worthy of love and friendship.

And now, sitting here on the couch, waiting for him to remerge from the bathroom, I can’t help but wonder how the hell we ended up here in this weird dance and routine, so domesticated. One moment we’re battling demons and next, we’re lounging on the couch like a couple of teenagers on a lazy Sunday afternoon. 

Finally, after what feel like an eternity, Jace remerges from the bathroom, looking surprisingly innocent and boyish in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a graphic tee-shirt that I’m pretty sure is either mine or my brothers. His hair is still damp from the shower, tousled in a way that makes him look disarmingly handsome. Despite the exhaustion tech into his features, there’s a spark in his golden eyes that never fails to draw me in. 

Jace collapses onto the couch beside me, his head finding its place on my shoulder, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. His weight against me is comforting, like an anchor tethering me to reality amidst the chaos of our lives. I close my eyes, revelling in the warmth of his presence and the steady rhythm of his breath against my skin.

As exhaustion finally catches up to him, his breathing evens out, lulling me into a sense of peace. I listen to the sound of his steady inhales and exhales, a gentle melody that soothes my restless mind. And as I drift off into sleep, I'm enveloped in the cocoon of his scent—sunshine and something uniquely Jace, mixed with the subtle fragrance of my shower products. It's a comforting aroma, one that fills me with a sense of belonging and contentment.

In the depths of slumber, I feel his warmth beside me, a constant presence that eases my fears and worries. But when I wake in the morning, he's gone, leaving behind only a hastily scrawled note on my coffee table. My heart sinks as I read his words, explaining that Alec called him in early for paperwork and debriefing on the previous day's hunt.

Despite the pang of disappointment at his absence, I can't help but smile at the thought of him, out there in the world, fighting alongside his fellow Shadowhunters. And as I rise to start the day, I carry with me the memory of his presence, the echo of his warmth lingering in the air like a promise of his return.

Part Two

I awake to a crashing and the grumbled cry of Jace, my panic immediately vanishing at the sound of his voice. My phone reads 7.03pm and I’m realising my nap was longer than I had planned or anticipated, having tried to stay awake for Jace who had messaged me to say he’d be home in time for dinner. 

As I groggily process the situation, something within me stirs at the realisation Jace used the word “home” to describe my place. It’s a simple word, but coming from him, it carries a weight that sends a flutter through my un-beating heart. I push aside the covers and pull myself sleepy from bed, feeling the fabric of a shirt that definitely isn’t mine brush against my skin as it reaches mid-thigh. 

Shuffling towards the kitchen, I’m met with the sight and smell of chaos. Jace is in the midst of a culinary disaster, his brow furrowed in frustration as he grumbles to himself. The scent of burning food fills the air, assaulting my sensitive vampire senses, But despite the mess and the mishap, there’s something oddly endearing about the scene—the way Jace is so determined to make dinner for us, even if it means nothing is going according to plan. 

As I approach him, I can’t help but smile at the sight of him, his hir tousled and his expression a mix of annoyance and determination. Despite the chaos, there a sense of warmth and familiarity in the air, a feeling of him that I’ve come to associate with him. 

I head straight for the fridge to grab fresh ingredients as soon as I get the gist of what he was trying to make by the minced meat and the spaghetti, catching the way he looks at me. There’s a softness in his gaze, a silent appreciation for my presence and the way I effortlessly step in to salvage the situation. But when I reach for the pasta sauce, Jace stops me, holding up a jar of red liquid. 

My heart tries to burst out of my chest when I realise what it is. Jace wasn’t just trying to make dinner for us; he was trying to recreate a meal I loved as a human, altered for my now vampire self. It’s a small gesture, but it speaks volumes about his thoughtfulness and the depth of his care for me. 

“Raphael said it was the best of the best and told me how to prepare it so it doesn’t…” Jace waves his hands around trying to think of the word Raphael used, “Separate?” 

I can’t help but laugh softly at the face Jace makes as he says the word ‘separate’. It’s moments like these that remind me of just how endearing he can be, even when he’s trying his best to navigate unfamiliar territory like helping a vampire like me. 

Stepping closer to him, I wrap my arms around him in a hug, feeling the tension in his muscles as he hesitates before finally relaxing enough to return the embrace. His strong arms wrap around me, pulling me close as he buries his face in my hair. In the moment, with the scent of blood and spices lingering in the air and the warmth of Jace’s embrace surrounding me, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love for the man standing in front of me. 

Reluctantly, Jace finally lets me go, suggesting we try cooking again. As I try to assist him, he’s suddenly spinning me back to face and him and gripping my waist in his strong hands, lifting me and sitting me on a clean area of the counter top, “You’re to just sit there and look pretty while I work this out.” He says with a smirk, a hint of redness colouring his cheeks. 

I can’t help but let out the most embarrassing giggle at his sudden shyness, feeling a warmth spread through me at his playfulness. As I watch him move around the pitch with practiced ease, a sense of contentment washes over me. Despite the chaos and mishaps, being here with Jace feels like home. 

And as I sit on the counter, watching him cook, I cant’t help but feel grateful for moments like these—simple, ordinary, mundane moments that remind me of what I could have had when human. Surrounded by the warmth and aroma of our makeshift meal and Jace’s soft humming as he cooks, I know that no matter what challenges may come our way, as long as we have each other, we'll always find a way to make it through.

Part Three

The library is quiet as I slip inside, the familiar scent of old books and parchment greeting me like an old friend. Alec had given me permission to use the Institute as a safe haven whenever I like, and I often find myself wandering towards the library. It’s become my sanctuary, a place where I can escape the weird world I’m now a part of and lose myself in the pages of novels and histories. 

As I roam the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of countless books, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. The library is a treasure trove of knowledge, and I’ve made it my mission to learn as much as I can about the Shadowhunter world. I immerse myself in the histories of the Clave, learning about the battles fought and the heroes who rose to prominence, the history of the main families in this world. 

Eventually, I pick a book off the shelves, one that Alec had actually recommended to me during one of our conversations. It’s a thick volume filled with tales of Shadowhunter lore, and I can’t wait to delve into its pages. With a contented sigh, I sink into one of the soft loveseats scattered throughout the massive library, feeling eh weight of the book in my hands as I lose myself in the pages. 

For the rest of the afternoon, I’m lost in a world of magic and mystery, my surroundings fading away as I become immersed in the story unfolding before me. The hours pass in a blur, but in the moment, surrounded by the knowledge and history of the Shadowhunters, I feel a sense of belonging and purpose that I’ve been searching for since the day I was turned. 

My attention is momentarily drawn away from the pages of the book in my hand by the faint murmur of voices approaching. It takes a moment but I’m recognising the voices, the cadence of their speech familiar to me even from a distance with my new hearing abilities. But it’s the sound of the library door opening that truly captures my attention, and when I look up, my heart skips a beat at the sight of a familiar blonde figure standing in the doorway. 

Jace. 

His golden eyes scan the room, searching, until they land on me. A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that never fails to make my heart flutter like it’s still beating, “There you are, Mouse,” He greets, using the stupid pet name he’s decided for me, “You weren’t at home.” 

As he strides over, my attention is captivated by the way his muscles ripple beneath the fabric of his tight black shirt, each movement a testament to his strength and grace. My pulse would be skyrocketing if it could, and I can feel a flush from the recent blood I drank creeping its way up my neck as he stops in front of me, his presence commanding and magnetic. 

“Hey Jace,” I manage to say, voice betraying the flutters of excitement I feel within me. 

He smirks, golden eyes dancing with amusement as if he knows what he’s doing to me, “What were you doing here all alone?” He asks, tone teasing yet filled with genuine curiosity. 

I just shrug, attempting to maintain an air of casualness despite the turmoil of emotions swirling within me, “Just needed the quiet.” I reply, my voice soft. 

He nods in understanding, his expression softening as he reaches out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The simple gesture sending a shiver down my spine, igniting a rush of sensations that I struggle to contain. His proximity, his touch—it's all too much, and yet not enough.

“Hey, listen,” He says, his voice warm and inviting, “We’re all heading to the Hunter’s Moon to hear Simon sing, You wanna join us?” 

The thought of being surrounded by so many voices, sounds and smells—the overwhelming sensory overload—has me shuddering involuntarily. I feel a knot form in my stomach, a wave of anxiety washing over me at the mere thought of venturing out into the bustling world beyond the quiet of the Institute currently. 

With a shaky breath, I shake my head almost aggressively, “No, I think I’ll pass.” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper, “I’m… I’m not really in the mood for crowds tonight.” 

Jace nods in understanding, his expression sympathetic, “Hey, that’s okay,” He reassures me, his voice gentle, and he’s surprising me by leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to my cheek, “You do what feels right for you. But if you ever change your mind, we’ll be there.” 

I offer him a weak smile, grateful for his understanding, “Thanks Sunshine.” I murmur, the weight of my anxiety slowly easing with his words of reassurance and his sweet actions. 

As Jace turns to leave, I watch him go, feeling a sense of longing wash over me like a gentle tide. His departure leaves an ache in my chest, a yearning for something more, something I can't quite name. But then, I feel the lingering warmth of his kiss on my cheek, a fleeting touch that sends a jolt of electricity through me.

Despite my reluctance to join them, a part of me wishes I could be there, sharing in the camaraderie and laughter with Jace and the others. The thought of being by his side, laughing and joking like we always do, fills me with a bittersweet longing. 

In the moment, as I sit alone in the quiet solitude of the library, the whole interaction feels strangely domesticated, as if it’s something we’ve done a thousand times before. Jace’s kiss was casual yet intimate, like it was a natural extension of our friendship, and yet it leaves me yearning for more. 

I can’t help but replay the moment in my mind, the sensation of his lips against my cold skin, the warmth of his touch. It’s a memory I want to hold onto, to savour and cherish, and yet it only serves to deepen my desire for him. 

As I sink back into the soft cushions of the loveseat, the ache in my chest lingers, a constant reminder of the feelings I can’t shake. I want him to kiss me again, to make me feel alive in a way I never thought possible. And as I close my eyes and let out a heavy sigh, I know that despite the risks and uncertainties, I can't deny the pull he has on my undead heart.

Part Four

I honestly have no idea how I ended up in the training room with Jace but I definitely know how I ended up on my ass glaring up at his laughing figure. Jace decided that he was going to teach me how to defend myself as Alec wants downworlders to help Shadowhunters on patrols to bridge the gap that had formed since Valentine. 

So here I am, climbing to my feet and glaring at Jace who readies himself for another round and my body is already aching. Jace is already readying himself for another round, and I steel myself for the onslaught, determined to at least make him break a sweat. As he lunges at me, I use my vampire speed to dodge and jab him in the back with my elbow with precision. But before I can revel in the small victory, he’s already spinning around and swiping my feet out from underneath me again. 

I hit the ground with a frustrated grunt, the air would have been knocked out of me if I were still breathing. I let out a sound of pure annoyance as I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, feeling so goddamn angry that I haven’t managed to get Jace down once. 

“Come on, Mouse,” Jace says, offering me a hand up, “You’re getting better, I promise.” 

I take his hand and pull myself to my feet yet again, but the weight of defeat still hangs heavy on my shoulders. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to measure up to Jace's level of skill and agility. It's frustrating, disheartening even, to constantly fall short despite my best efforts.

With a heavy sigh, I get back into position, expecting Jace to do the same but instead a small gasp is drawn from me when I feel his body practically pressed to my back as he adjusts my positioning. I feel a rush of warmth as he nudges my feet into a better position and adjusts my arms, guiding them a little higher. 

His touch is firm yet gentle, his hands moving with practiced precision as he adjusts my stance. And then, his hands fall to my hips, twisting them slightly to improve my balance before he steps back, satisfied with his work. 

I’m left standing there, the lingering sensations of his touch sending a shiver down my spine. Despite the lack of a heartbeat or any physical sensations, I can’t deny the way he makes me feel. Safe. Protected. As if, just for a moment, the weight of the world is lifted from my shoulders and I can simply be. 

With a renewed determination, I square my shoulder and focus on the task at hand. As we being sparring again, I find myself moving with a newfound confidence, each strike more precise than the last. And then, miraculously, it happens—I actually manage to get Jace down for once. 

I just watch in disbelief as he hits the ground, a surprised laugh escaping him as he looks up at me with sparkling eyes. In the moment, his laughter is like music to y ears, lighthearted. As Jace lies there, sprawled on the ground with a grin that could light up the room, I can't help but feel a rush of exhilaration. His boyish charm and playful energy are infectious, making me forget for a moment that we're supposed to be training. But as he starts to rise, that cocky smirk forming on his lips, I know the challenge isn't over yet.

With a twinkle in his eyes, he beckons me forward, goading me to try again. His confidence is palpable, almost tangible in the air between us. And I, of course, take the bait, eager to prove myself once more. 

But, as I unleash my vampire strength and speed, throwing my self into the spar with all I’ve got, I quickly realise that Jace has activated both runes, his agility now matching mine. His speed rune makes him a formidable opponent, dodging and waving with ease, always one step ahead. 

In the blink of an eye, he’s behind me, sweeping my feet out from under me with a swift motion. I feel the ground rushing up to meet me, but my reflexes kick in instinctively. As I tumble backwards, I grab onto Jace’s shirt, pulling him down with me. 

We land in a tangled heap, laughter bubbling up between us as we lie there, catching our breath. For a moment, time seems to stand still, the world around us fading away until it's just the two of us, tangled together on the ground. I can smell how sweet and like sunshine Jace’s blood smells in his veins and feel the way his heart is pounding as he buries his face in my neck. 

And in the moment, I realise just how much I enjoy being with him, the easy camaraderie and undeniable chemistry between us, making me, again, realise just how domesticated we are with each other. 

Part Five

The rain is coming down so hard it’s bordering on hail and as overwhelming as my senses are, the sound of it hitting the windows of my apartment is actually very comforting. Jace is in the shower again, coming back from another demon nest hunt and he’s told me he ordered pizzas on his way home as he invited the others around to jin us for the movie night before he jumped in the shower. 

As grateful as I am for his presence, a flicker of anxiety creeps into my mind at the thought of the others joining us. Alec and Magnus have always been welcoming, their easygoing nature together putting me at ease from the start. But Simon and Clary, lost in their own bubble of love, often seem oblivious to anyone around them nowadays, especially me their childhood friend. And Izzy.. well, Izzy can get anyone she wants with a bat of her eyelashes has me a little jealous. 

As I wait for Jace to emerge from the shower, the sound of the rain drumming against the window grows louder, echoing the turmoil of my thoughts. I find myself questioning whether I’ll be able to navigate the dynamics of the evening, whether I’ll be able to hold my own amidst the company of the Shadowhunters and Downworlders that make up Jace’s inner circle. 

But then, as if sensing my apprehension, Jace appears, a towel draped casually around his waist and a smile lighting up his face. It’s as if time itself pauses for a moment, allowing me to drink in the sight before me. His presence is like a beacon of light in the dimly lit apartment, his golden eyes sparkling with warmth and mischief. With his damp hair tousled and his skin glistening with droplets of water, he looks every bit like an adonis, a vision of strength and beauty. 

The towel draped casually around his waist hangs dangerously low, teasingly revealing the beginnings of his happy trail. My gaze is drawn to the tantalising glimpse of skin, the curve of his hips, the sculptured muscles of his abdomen. It's a sight that leaves me breathless, a reminder of just how effortlessly attractive he is.

But it's not just his physical appearance that captivates me; it's the way he carries himself, with a confidence that borders on arrogance yet somehow remains endearing. His smile is like a beacon of warmth, infectious and irresistible, drawing me closer with its magnetic pull.

As he moves closer, the scent of his shower gel fills the air, a heady mixture of musk and citrus that sends a shiver down my spine. I find myself mesmerised by the play of light and shadow on his skin, the way the droplets of water cling to his body like liquid diamonds. He brushes a gentle kiss against my cheek, his touch reassuring in its familiarity, a warmth spreading through me, soothing the lingering traces of anxiety that had gripped me moments before. His touch is a familiar reassurance, grounding me to the present moment and easing the flutter of my nonexistent heartbeat. 

But before I can fully lose myself in the intimacy of the moment, a sharp knock at the door interrupts us, shattering the fragile bubble of privacy we’ve created. With a playful smack to Jace’s arm I stop him from heading to the door, “Go get some damn clothes on, I’ll answer it.” Before I’m striding over to answer the door, cheeks flushed with a heat that most likely betrays the intensity of my emotions. 

As I swing the door open, Jace is ducking into our room and I’m met with the amused gazes of Alec and Magnus, their eyebrows raised in teasing curiosity. Magnus’ playful smirk hints at the mischief dancing in his eyes, while Alec's expression is a mix of amusement and affection. 

Despite my embarrassment at being caught in such a vulnerable moment, I can't help but smile at the sight of them. Their presence is like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds, casting a warm glow over the room and dispelling the tension that had threatened to linger.

Suppressing the urge to bury my burning cheeks in my hands, I offer them a sheepish grin, knowing they heard what I said through the door, hoping to deflect their teasing with a lighthearted remark. But as Magnus's eyebrow quirks suggestively, I know that my attempt at nonchalance has fallen short. So, with a sigh of resignation, I step aside to let them in, knowing that there's no use in trying to hide the flush that still colours my cheeks

As I step aside to let them in, Alec hands me a DVD with a knowing smile. I can’t help bit roll my eyes fondly at his choice—Dracula. It’s become somewhat of an inside joke between me and Jace so I just know Jace told him to bring it. But before I have a chance to protest, Magnus is interjecting, his tone unreadable as he tells me “I’m afraid the others won’t be joining us tonight,” 

But Magnus’ words cut through the light-hearted banter, his tone carrying an unexpected weight as he informs me of the absence of our other friends. A pang of disappointment courses through me, a subtle ache in my chest as I realise that Clary and Simon won't be joining us tonight. They were more than just friends—they were my childhood companions, the ones who had been there through thick and thin. Their absence feels like a tangible loss, a reminder of how much our lives have changed since those carefree days of youth.

As I put the DVD in and get it ready, sinking into the couch with a heavy heart, I can't help but feel a sense of longing for the comfort of their presence. But I push aside those feelings, focusing instead on the company of Alec and Magnus, who have become like family to me in their own right. 

I sink into the cushions, allowing Alec and Magnus to take the other couch as we wait for Jace to return with the pizzas. Despite the disappointment lingering in the air, there's a quiet camaraderie between us, a shared understanding that in times of need, we can always rely on each other.

As the anticipation of Jace's return hangs in the air, the sound of the door opening signals his arrival. He appears just in time to answer the door, a grin spreading across his face as he enters with pizzas in hand. The sight of him brings a flicker of warmth to my heart, dispelling the lingering disappointment of our missing friends. 

Jace sets the pizzas down on the table with a flourish, his presence injecting a sense of energy into the room. With a casual ease, he joins us on the couch, seamlessly sliding in beside me. Without a second thought, he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me snugly into his side. The gesture both  comforting and familiar, a silent reassurance of his affection for me. I lean into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against mine as he adjusts the blanket to cover us both. It's a simple act, but it speaks volumes about the bond we share—a bond that transcends words and barriers, connecting us on a deeper level.

With the remote in hand, Jace settles back against the cushions, his gaze fixed on the screen as he starts the movie. As the opening credits roll, I feel a sense of contentment wash over me, grateful for the warmth of Jace's embrace and the company of friends who feel like family.

Despite the disappointments and challenges we may face, in this moment, surrounded by laughter and love, I know that we'll always have each other. And as we lose ourselves in the world of Dracula, I find solace in the simple pleasures of friendship and companionship, knowing that no matter what the future may hold, we'll face it together, as a team.

Plus One

I’m not really sure how it happened but one moment I’m walking home from a day at the coffee shop and the next I’m being thrown into a wall. A wave of disorientating pain washes over me, leaving me gasping for breath and struggling to make sense eo what just happened. My sense reel, the world spinning in a dizzying blur as I try to focus on what just hit me. 

For a terrifying moment, I’m convinced that this is it—that I’m facing my end, torn to shreds by whatever unseen force assaulted me. Panic claws at the edges of my consciousness, threatening to consume me as I brace for the final blow. 

But then, as suddenly as it began, the assault ceases, leaving me trembling and shaken in its wake, unable to heal as I’ve lost too much blood. Slowly, I stagger to my feet, the world still spinning around me as I struggle to regain my bearings.The realisation that I’ve lost too much blood to heal hits me like a physical blow, leaving me lightheaded and unsteady. Every step is a battle against the dizziness and weakness that threatens to overwhelm me, but I push forward with grim determination. 

With each faltering step, the distance to the institute feels impossibly far, unable to use vampire speed without passing out. Panic sets in as I realise that Jace, my lifeline, is at the Institute today, and he hasn’t called to tell me he’s on his way home. Fear grips me like a vice, squeezing the breath from my lungs as I struggle to keep moving forwards. 

The world around me blurs as I stumble out of the alleyway and into the desired streets. My vision swims, the darkness closing in around me as I fight to stay conscious. Each breath is a struggle, my lungs burning with exertion as I push my body beyond its limits. 

Time loses all meaning as I continue to trudge forwards my footsteps echoing in the empty silence of the night. The Institute looms in the distance like a beacon of hope, its towering walls offering the promise of safety and sanctuary. But with each passing moment, it feels as though I'm slipping further and further away, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness.

Desperation claws at the edge of my consciousness as I force myself to keep moving, driven by the fear of what awaits me if I don’t reach the Institute in time. Every step is a battle against the darkness that threatens to engulf me, but I refuse to give up. 

With every ounce of strength I can muster, I push myself forward, determination fuelling my movements as I draw upon the last reserves of energy within me. As I approach the looming doors of the Institute, desperation spurs me to action, and I unleash the full force of my vampire speed. 

The doors fly open before me with a forceful momentum, swinging wide as if welcoming me home. But even as I breach the threshold, I trigger the wards surrounding the entrance, setting off alarms that echo through the empty halls. Before I can fully comprehend the situation, Jace appears before me, his weapon raised in a defensive stance. The sight of him, strong and unwavering, fills me with both relief and a sense of impending doom. I choke out his name, my voice barely a whisper as I struggle to remain upright. 

My knees give way beneath me, threatening to send me crashing to the unforgiving tiles below. But in the blink of an eye, Jace is there, his arms wrapping around me with lightning speed, catching me before I can hit the ground. The seraph blade clatters to the floor, forgotten in the urgency of the moment as Jace sinks us to the floor, cradling me in his arms, his eyes filled with concern and a hint of fear. I reach out to him, my fingers trembling as they brush against his cheek, a silent plea for reassurance. 

Despite my initial resistance, Jace's urgency is palpable, his wrist pressed insistently against my mouth as he pleads with me to drink. Fear courses through me as I shake my head, the thought of losing control terrifying me to the core. But as the scent of his blood fills my senses, a primal hunger takes hold, overpowering my rational thoughts. With a grip on my hair that borders on painful, Jace guides my mouth to the wound on his wrist, his other hand pressing against the back of my head. The taste of his blood is like nothing I've ever experienced before—warm and intoxicating, with a sweetness that rivals the warmth of the sun. 

As I drink, the fog that had clouded my mind begins to lift, clarity returning with each swallow. Guilt washes over me in waves, but I can't bring myself to stop. Jace's blood is a lifeline, grounding me in the present moment and soothing the ache of my wounds. I feed until I can feel the worst of the wounds stopping bleeding, my tongue lapping at the skin on Jace’s wrist to seal it shut. The taste of his blood lingering on my lips, a bittersweet taste. 

With a sigh of relief, I collapse against Jace's safe chest, my body trembling with exhaustion and relief. His touch is gentle yet firm, his hand cupping my jaw with a tenderness that tugs at my heartstrings. I feel his thumb under my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his, and as I look into those golden eyes, I see the raw emotion reflected in their depths.

Tears glisten in his eyes, a silent testament to the fear and concern he's been harboring for me. His voice is soft as he checks if I'm okay, the sound of it like a soothing balm to my battered soul. In that moment, I realise just how much he cares, how deeply he feels, and the thought fills me with a warmth that transcends the physical. 

As he leans down, his lips ghosting over mine with a hesitance that speaks volumes, I can feel the tension building between us, a palpable electricity that crackles in the air. My heart would be hammering in my chest, a rhythm that matches the erratic beat of his own. A small whine escapes my throat, a sound born of longing and need, and in that instant, his resolve crumbles. His lips crash against mine with a fervour that steals my breath away, a kiss so full of passion and intensity that it leaves me reeling. 

In that moment, I feel alive in a way I never have before, as if every nerve in my body is on fire with the intensity of his touch. It's as if he's breathing life back into me with each caress of his lips, each touch igniting a fire that burns brighter than the sun. 

“Maybe don’t almost die to act upon mutual feelings.” Jace is mumbling against my lips, earning a weak smack from me. 

“Shut up.” 

“Make me.” He retorts, kissing me softly once again. 

“Later I will.” 

The Shadowhunters Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

[percheduphere]

What I love about Mobius: he's so disarmingly normal.

Stress eater ✅️

Soft spot for broken things ✅️

Casual history buff ✅️

Not an athlete or skilled fighter by any means ✅️

1 2 big special interests ✅️

Attractive/handsome but not smoking hot ✅️

Dresses for professionalism and comfort, not style ✅️

Good at what he does but honestly just barely holding it together ✅️

Suppresses emotions like a champ until surprising rage explosion ✅️

Corny dad jokes ✅️

Gray hair because age and stress but mostly stress ✅️

Has a soft tummy ✅️

Empathy for centuries ✅️

He's not perfect. He's pretty comfortable with the status quo, and he had no idea he was working for the bad guys. Despite that, he managed to help a self-described villain (note: not how he sees it) find a safe place, make friends, and turn things around. What a guy.

[fettuccin-e]

Forever Feels Good

A/N: So yeah. its more santi smut. I rewatched triple frontier recently and yknow how oscar and pedro look absolutely scrumpdiddlyumptious so i had to write some happy, domesticated santi because HE DESERVES SOMETHING GOOD

Description: Sometimes, Santi can't believe that he's actually yours, that you're his. And, as a good husband, he just wants to make his beautiful wife feel good. (w/c: 3.1K)

Tags: Santiago "Pope" Garcia x reader, afab!fem!reader, Santi really likes that she's his wife, pretty domestic, alcohol consumption, oral (r!recieving), unprotected piv (pls wrap it up irl fuck them kids), breeding kink like quite a bit of breeding kink i may have a problem

Santi sometimes forgets that he’s actually married to you. That it’s his ring on your finger, that he lives in a home that the both of you share. 

There’s a part of him, a big part, that looks at you and knows that you’re too beautiful to really be his. With your bright smile and glittering eyes, smoothing out his rough edges and giving something to live for again. It doesn’t feel real, even after years of being married, introducing you as his wife to all of his coworkers and friends, fixing up a house you bought together, living a perfect little white picket fence life that Santi had only thought was a fantasy while in Delta.

He watches you with rapt attention across the bar, grabbing your fruity drink from the bartender while you chat with Frankie at the pool table.

You’re laughing hard to a story that Frankie is telling, Santi’s beer clutched in one of your hands while you brace the other on Frankie’s shoulder. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes are crinkling at the corners with your grin, and Santi can’t imagine anyone more perfect. 

As your laughter eventually dies down you gaze at Santi across the room, probably unaware that he was already staring, and the breath is nearly knocked out of his lungs as your eyes meet. Your wide smile melts into something softer, intimate even in a room full of people, and his already weak knees want to give out.

He forces himself to walk on shaky legs across the room, setting your drink on your table, fingers itching to touch your soft skin. He spins you around when he reaches you, pinning your back to his front and wrapping his strong arms around your waist while he tucks his face into the crook of your neck.

Your perfume is strongest there, the smell of you invading his senses and swimming through his desperate mind. He vaguely senses Frankie walking away to talk to Will, but he couldn't care less at the moment. Not when he has his wife in his arms, your hair tickling his nose and you giggle echoing in his ears.

Santi presses a kiss to your neck, unable to help himself. “Look so pretty tonight, princesa. Y’wanna let me take you home?” he murmurs quietly into your ear, hearing you suck in a soft breath.

“I don’t know how my husband would feel about that, handsome,” you giggle, and he tugs you just a little bit closer.

“C’mon, baby, I’m sure he won’t mind one bit,” he chuckles lowly. “Can’t let a pretty thing like you go without being taken care of like you deserve.”

“Hm,” you sigh, leaning back against his strong body, “you drive a hard bargain, don’t you?” You reach a hand back to wind your hand into his hair, tugging him up to meet your lips in a sticky kiss. “Promise to take care of me, baby? I’ve been told that I can be greedy. Gonna need you to make me cum as many times as I want.”

Santi feels lightheaded, his vision blurring at the edges. “Fuck, hermosa, anything. Anything you want, you’ll get it, promise I’ll-”

“Hey, lovebirds!” you hear Benny call from the pool table, stick clutched in his hand. He’s disarmingly loud even in a room full of people, your head snaps ahead from Santi’s lips, and you can feel the groan rumble in your husband’s chest at the loss. You smirk to yourself involuntarily, pride blooming in your chest at the fact that you’re the one that can bring Santiago Garcia, ex-military grump with a will of fucking steel, to his knees with a something as simple as a little kiss. 

“You guys gonna get a room or what? Think of the kids!” Benny continues, laughing. Frankie chuckles with him, Will smacks him on the back of the head.

“Turning a little green there, Miller!” you fire back, smiling all the while. “Been a while since you got any? Celibacy is not a good look on you, man.” Frankie laughs harder at that, and even Will chuckles, and it’s Benny’s turn to smack his brother on the back of his head.

You turn your head again to whisper up into Santi’s ear, “As much as I hate to admit it, he might be right.” You shift your hips back, just a little, pressing your ass tight against the bulge of his dick in those tight pants he always wears. Santi curses. 

“You wanna get out of here handsome?”

“Please,” Santi groans, and you laugh softly at his eagerness before you’re grabbing his hand and walking him to the door of the bar, nodding a goodbye at Frankie as you do.

He’s on you the moment you walk through the door of your shared home, pressing you hard against the door with a thick thigh between your legs, pressed tight against your hot cunt through the material of your panties under your skirt. He licks into your mouth like he’s starving for it, like he’ll never get to again, like it’s not the cold metal of his ring on your finger, pressed against his cheek as you cup his jaw.

“So, so fucking pretty for me hermosa, my god. Got everyone in that bar looking at you, but you’re mine, yeah? My wife, fuck-” Santi says into your mouth, choking on the last word, bucking up into you. 

“Bed, Santi, please,” you whine, head spinning with the taste, the smell, the feel of him under your fingertips. Six years of marriage, and you’re both still obsessed with each other the same way you were when you both first met. Clutching into each other like the other will disappear at any moment, like every second together has only been a wonderful dream. He grins into your mouth before taking your hand again, breaking into a jog through your little house and into your bedroom, the both of you giggling like teenagers.

You make him feel young, Santi thinks, laughing into your mouth as he lays you gently onto the mattress. Even with his creaky knees and graying hair, you manage to make him feel young. He presses himself against you, and you mewl, your hips moving in desperate little grinds against the bulge in his jeans. 

“Santi, please,” you choke, gasping softly as his zipper catches on your clit through your panties. You’re clenching around nothing, suddenly so unbearably empty that you could cry from it.

Santi shushes you gently, running his hands under your shirt, rucking it up over your chest. You raise your arms to help him along, and Santi wastes no time in divesting you of your shirt. He tosses it behind him carelessly before leaning down again to lick into your mouth, utterly addicted to the taste of you. 

There’s something about Santi that brings out this part of you, this desperate, needy part that you’d never felt before knowing him. He makes you feel ravenous, animalistic as he towers over you, kissing you like a man possessed.

You reach down to grab his shirt in a fist, shoving it up his stomach until he finally smiles against your mouth, breaking away from your kiss to yank his shirt off, tossing it in the same direction he threw yours. He moves down, trailing hot, sticky kisses and bites to your neck, your collarbone, right between the valley of your tits. 

His thick hands curl around your back, his calluses scratching along your soft skin, raising goosebumps in their wake as he unclasps your bra, dragging it down your arms and leaving you bared to him. It should feel vulnerable, exposed, but you hear Santi groan softly under his breath at the sight of you, and you feel anything but vulnerable. Fuck, you feel powerful, stunning under Santi’s burning gaze.

He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it feverishly while his other hand, warm and rough, tweaks the other harshly. You can’t help how your back shoots up, how a choked moan escapes your throat. Your hands tangle in his hair, a terribly sexy mess of grey and black, holding him to your chest.

“Fuck, oh God, Santi, Santi, need you so bad baby, please. Please,” you mumble, your mind already hazy as Santi switches nipples, his eyes closed and lost in you. He brings his free hand down, down, under your skirt, and presses a thumb harshly over your clit through your panties. The friction of the cotton is harsh against your throbbing clit, but Santi rubs quick little circles into you, reveling in the whines that escape unbidden from the back of your throat.

“So fucking pretty, princesa. Mi amor, god, mi vida. You’re my fucking life, you know that? So gorgeous, angel, and all mine. Fuck, can’t believe you’re mine, baby.” Santi mumbles against your skin, finally releasing your nipple from his mouth. He continues peppering tiny kisses down your stomach, staring up at you as he does. His mouth doesn’t leave your skin even as he brings his hand up from your clothed cunt, tugging your skirt and panties down your legs. You can feel how soaked you’ve gotten, the way your thighs are slick with your arousal.

“Fuck, hermosa, what’s got you this wet, huh?” He grunts, his voice gravelly and rough.

“You, Santi, it’s all- it’s all you. Since the bar, baby, since before the bar. Fuck, always want you, Santiago, ‘m ready for you all the time.” You tilt your hips up with your words, your entrance throbbing and so desperate for his touch.

“God, bebita,” Santi groans. “Such a fucking slut, huh? You would’ve let me fuck you right in that bar, yeah? Just let me tug you into the bathroom and fuck you as hard as I want. Would've done it too, sweet girl, you get me so fucking hot. In these,” he presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, and you twitch as you feel him breathe a warm gust of air right over your desperate pussy. “In these fucking little skirts you like to wear, god. Got the sexiest girl in the fucking world, yeah? Everyone wants you, but I’m the one who gets to have you. I get to have you for the rest of our lives, mi amor.” He’s so close, so fucking close to wear you need him most. “I get to fuck this sweet pussy for the rest of our lives, baby,” Santi breathes.

You nearly scream as he licks a long stripe up your cunt, lapping up some of the mess you’ve already made of yourself. He sucks your clit into his mouth, sucking at it hard and unrelenting. The sensation of it is almost too much, and your thighs clench around his head quickly, before Santi brings a hand up to grab at your inner thigh. He pulls you apart, keeping you spread for him as he licks and sucks and plays with you until you’re already shaking. He keeps you spread with only one of those strong hands, pressing his tongue harshly against your sensitive little clit, and you suddenly feel the thick presence of his other hand, a calloused digit sinking slowly, so slowly into your cunt.

“Santi, Santi, oh fuck, Jesus fucking Christ baby, it’s so- shit, it’s so,” you can hardly get the words out, especially as he crooks his finger up and presses it against your g-spot without any trouble. Santi groans against your clit, sinking yet another finger inside you along the first.

You should be used to it by now, after so long together, but every single time Santi fucks you, it’s like he’ll never get to do it again. He throws himself, his mind, body, his fucking soul, into only making you feel good. It’s nearly sacrilegious, how he worships you, praying with his tongue at the altar of your body.

But it’s not enough, not when you know how it feels when he’s inside, not when you’ve been thinking about his thick cock stretching you out until you feel like you’re about to break. You tangle a hand back into his hair, tugging him harshly away from your pussy. He keeps his fingers inside, spreading you apart as he looms over you, meeting your lips in a sticky kiss. His lips are sticky with your arousal, but you can’t bring yourself to care, gasping, “Please, baby, Santi fuck me, ‘m so empty, need to be filled up, need you to stuff me full.” 

Santi grins, smug against you as he presses a third finger into your tight cunt, relishing in how your body jerks hard in response. “Just a little longer, baby,” he mutters, “Gotta make you cum first, right? Wanna feel this pretty pussy clench around my fingers, fuck baby, you’re so sexy. Want you to cum, princesa. Cum like you fucking deserve.”

You choke on a gasp as he hammers hard into you, overwhelmed tears filling your eyes as he abuses your g-spot with a practiced hand. You can feel your orgasm building inside, threatening to drown you in it’s severity, as Santi leans down again, whispering harshly, like it’s a threat, “Be a good little wife for me, baby, and cum. Now.”

And you can’t do anything but that, whining high as your pussy clenches and gushes all over Santi’s hand, your hips jerking wildly. Santi is murmuring little praises into your ear, but you can hardly hear him over the ringing in your head, the effort it takes to breathe properly again. 

“You okay, mi amor? Need to stop?” Santi whispers, petting his hands across your thighs, calming, but your eyes snap open all the same. 

“Santiago Garcia, if you leave me here without getting fucked, I’m filing for divorce.”

Your statement shocks a quick laugh out of your husband, but he leans down to kiss you all the same. “So greedy, mi amor,” he murmurs into your mouth, and you giggle as he stands quickly, shucking his pants and boxers off before kneeling between your spread legs again.

You gasp softly as he notches the head of his cock against the entrance of your abused cunt, winding your arms around his neck to tug him close. He presses in slowly, agonizingly slow, and you gasp against his mouth. 

You’ve had Santi for years, but taking his cock always feels like the first time, all over again. He groans so lowly it almost sounds like a growl, holding your hips up to meet him as he finally bottoms out inside you. So deep he feels like he’s in your fucking stomach.

“Shit, baby, you’re so fucking wet,” he groans over you, his eyes clenched shut. He draws his hips out and shoves back in quickly, and you can’t do anything but gasp wetly, nails digging into his shoulders as he breaks you open around his cock. “So tight for me, always so fucking perfect.”

“So big, Santi,” you slur dazedly. “Stretching me out so good, it’s so fucking deep, baby.”

“You like me deep, bebita? So deep I’m in your fucking guts? Gonna fill you up, princesa, shit. Get through that fucking birth control, yeah? Get you,” he fucks into you again, hard, “get you fucking pregnant, sweetheart.”

“Oh God,” you whine, mind swimming with the overwhelming mixture of Santi over you, surrounding you, inside you. Fucking you full of him, enough to render your IUD useless, get you pregnant no matter what. “Fuck, Santi, please.” He works himself in and out of you, his thick hands holding onto your hips hard enough to bruise.

“You want it, baby? Want me to fuck a baby into this little pussy? Shit, you’re sucking me in baby, so fucking desperate for it.” He shifts closer, just a little, lifting your hips further into the air to throw you hard onto his cock, and he can’t miss your sweet spot like this. His perfect cockhead just jams into your g-spot at an angle like this, and Santi knows it. “My needy little wife, you wanna cum on this cock? C’mon, do it. Wanna see it baby.”

Tears are finally escaping, leaking slowly from your eyes as Santi fucks into you like only he can, practiced, harsh, unrelenting. You can faintly hear yourself babbling, a mixture of praises, and pleases, and Santi’s name. 

Santi brings a hand from your thigh to press a thick thumb to your over-sensitive clit, and you want to fucking scream. “C’mon baby, show me how good I’m giving you this cock. Show me how good I fuck this pretty pussy.”

“Yes, yes, yes, it’s so good, it’s so fucking good, gonna cum, oh god, gonna give you a baby, Santi, oh god, oh my fucking god-” you gasp, unable to get a full breath into your lungs before you’re cumming again, nails digging hard enough into Santi’s back that there will be marks, marks that Santi will tease you about later when he looks in the mirror, but you can’t care. Not when it feels like your body is on a live wire, muscles and nerves strung taught and pulled apart.

“Just like that, sweet girl,” Santi groans above you, his hips stuttering into you. “Fuck, just like that, so fucking tight for me. Fuck, you’re mine,” he mutters, barely even speaking to you at this point. “Can’t believe you’re fucking mine, mine forever.” 

He’s lost in it, muttering to himself, and you tug him down, trying to ground him back to Earth against your lips as you whisper, “yours.”

Santi kisses you hard as he cums, emptying himself inside you. He wraps you in his strong arms, the both of you shaking softly against each other as you breathe through the aftershock of both your orgasms. He slips out of you at one point, and Santi takes the opportunity to roll you onto your sides. It’s quiet between the both of you for a few minutes as you brush a hand through Santi’s sweaty curls, and he brushes a thumb over your cheek, wiping any tears away.

“Love you so much, Santi,” you whisper after a while, and Santi smiles wide, wider than he ever had before he met you.

“I love you too, baby, more than I can describe.”

“Do you- do you think we could start trying? For a baby?” you whisper, tentative. There will be a bigger discussion tomorrow, about the future, especially if you throw children into the mix. But you need to know, for now.

“Mi amor, mi cielito,” Santi whispers, pecking you softly on the lips. “I would love nothing more.”

[sunlightmurdock]

i'm always thinking of being bradley's inexperienced controversially young girlfriend who also happens to be mav's daughter

got a lil carried away with this one bc it’s almost 2k words oops… warnings for obviously unspecified age gap, and dumbification a lil bit. Tried to keep this race inclusive despite dad Mav

I am pushing the deadbeat dad Mav agenda hard rn ,,, sorry Mav. So we all know Bradley had his issues with Mav, I’m gonna say that Bradley cut him off at around eighteen and didn’t really come back into contact with him until the events of TG:M, when he’s around 33/4. And we all know that Mav was a bit of a heartbreaker.

So, I’m going to say that it’s a while after Bradley cuts off Maverick that one of Mav’s exes comes to him and let’s him know that he has a daughter. He tries, but your relationship with him is consistently strained. You’re a lot like him and that scares him, he tries to control you and you hate that. He missed out on a lot in those years before he knew you, too.

You see him occasionally, less than frequently, through your adolescence and into early adulthood. You know all about Goose, and Goose’s son — your mother filled you in. You hadn’t ever really taken much time to think about the cute little blonde toddler dangling off of your father’s arm in of those photos from the eighties, and who he would be now. Truthfully, your intentions are as innocent as can be when you’re lounging on that beach and picking up a football that was kicked in your direction. There was no way you could’ve known who the tall, handsome brunette towering over you and asking if he knew you from somewhere was.

Sure, once you’d noticed that he was an aviator, maybe that should have put you off a little bit — but growing up this close to Miramar, if you struck off every guy in the Navy, you’d be single forever. And Rooster, the name he had given you, was a dream.

From that first day, inviting you and your friends to join his at their little bonfire on the beach, you had been hooked. Pretty brown eyes and a smile that made you want to melt, he drew you in and left the rest up to you. Inviting you to that bonfire, sitting at your side, acting like he was the perfect gentleman. Letting you do the work, prove that you wanted him.

And you had. Giggling at something that would soon spin into a full-blown inside joke between the two of you, you touched him for the first time. Just you palm, skimming briefly across his knee as you leaned into him, laughing.

Then, your arm looping around his as you shifted closer to keep warm. He chides you about not dressing appropriately for the late April weather, you remind him of his age. He smiles, hearing old man roll off your tongue, knowing that it’s anything but an insult coming from your mouth.

He doesn’t kiss you in front of his friends. You ask him to walk you home, already knowing that he will, since he’s such a gentleman. You weren’t planning on staying out that night, the t-shirt you had brought to wear over your swimsuit does nothing to protect you from that evening chill. But his arm does, when he’s got it draped around your shoulders, cuddling you into his side as you walk.

He’s bigger, far warmer, than you are. He tells you about his adventures as he walks you home. At your door, you both know that this isn’t going to be a kiss on the cheek goodbye. Still, he plays your game like it will be. His giant hand eclipsing the nape of your neck, pulling you into him so that he can kiss you. Up close, your head tips almost all the way back as he lips touch slowly against yours. Brief, disarmingly tender.

And then he pulls back, and he’s staring at you with those big, brown eyes and the freckles on his nose and those forming smile lines. You really can’t take any of the blame for the decisions you make when he’s staring at you like that.

You press forwards and kiss him again, harder than he had kissed you. If it had been anyone else, he might have been knocked back by your enthusiastic kiss, but he isn’t. He’s steady, grabbing your hips and walking back until you’re hitting your front door. Your heart’s beating a million times a minute and you’re willing yourself not to get in your head about this.

He lets you lead him through into your bedroom, your fingers knitted between his as you guide him along. Your buzz wearing off, he feels your confidence starting to falter as his hands are pushing up and under that thin t-shirt.

His voice feels like silk, making you close your eyes and hum eagerly in agreement as he asks if you’ll let him see you. Your experience doesn’t match his, that’s clear, but you don’t feel left behind. Even though it’s far from slow, he keeps you with him, setting the pace and making sure that you can keep up. He pulls you out of the bikini you had worn to the beach, working his warm mouth over each inch of newly uncovered skin.

You’ve had guys go down on you before, this isn’t the first time. You expect it to go as it always does: a few seconds of eager lapping at a spot vaguely close to your clit, and then him to pull back and start pushing down his shorts. As it turns out, you’re not as experienced as you had thought. Not when it comes to the things that Bradley can show you.

He presses two, thick fingers over your core and guides your excitement upwards, working them in slow, methodical circles around your core. God, pilots and their fucking steady hands. You’ve got Bradley moaning into your soaked cunt, his cock straining so hard against his shorts that he thinks for a second he might cum in them like some teenager.

Your thighs bracketing his ears, his fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh of your stomach as he holds you down to the mattress. You’re so sensitive, more fidgety than he’s used to — you can tell that he likes this.

He’s been thinking about this since he saw you laying in the sand, talking to your friends with that pretty little smile on your face. He groans as you jolt against his firm, wet tongue, pressing his fingers into you up to the knuckle. Your slick walls take the two digits perfectly, your back arching away from your sheets, rolling your hips down onto his tongue.

You’ll be embarrassed about that later, when he’s trailing his fingers along your bare stomach and he’s grinning, reminding you how you had chanted his name. It’s something that, with Rooster, you quickly learn not to be embarrassed about. He adores it when you do that.

Bradley sits back on his knees and pops open the button to his shorts, dragging the zipper down slowly, his muscled chest heaving. Kneeling over you like that, just watching you come down from clearly the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, he’s pleased with himself. And you, so eager and willing, are propping yourself up like you’re ready for more.

He cards a hand gently over the top of your hair, precise in his ability not to catch his fingers or tug at your texture, just caressing the back of your head as you sit up and kiss feverishly across his toned stomach.

You nose at the almost blonde trail of hair below his navel, following him as he pushes the band of his shorts down just enough to let his cock spring free. It sits in front of your chin as you look up at him and swallow.

“Another time.” He decides, giving the nape of your neck a quick squeeze with an amused smile on his lips.

Then, he’s pulling you under him, your hands are in his hair and your legs are hooked around his waist. He’s grinding the tip of his cock back and forth over your overstimulated core, gripping your jaw and sucking at your neck.

You whimper softly when he finally decides to give you what you’ve been begging him for, the tip of his cock pressing into you, his mouth trailing your jaw. The stretch is there, but it’s not a feeling of discomfort— just a brief need for pause — you barely notice it when he’s squeezing at your tits and telling you that you’re taking him so well.

Grabbing onto his thick shoulders, pressing your heel into the small of his back, lifting your head to try to kiss his plush lips.

He fucks you hard from the moment that you’ve eased into it, pounding into you until you’re too dumb to even beg him to keep going. But, he’s so tender about it. Groaning like he’s got some sympathy for how dumb he’s making you, kissing you softly while his hand’s knotted into your hair and tugging at your roots.

And he doesn’t leave right after, either, he kisses your cheeks, your chest until your head finally stops spinning long enough for you to laugh and swat him away.

“So, when am I seeing you again?” He asks, squeezing those big palms of his around your hips, still nestled between your legs even now that he’s back in his boxers. You should be shy, with the wolfish way that his gaze will drop occasionally to rake over your naked body. But you aren’t. You want him to keep looking.

“Mm, I have to meet my dad for something tomorrow,” You give a small shrug and glance behind you to see what you’re lying uncomfortably back against. Bradley’s lips quirk as you tug the stuffed rabbit from behind you and hug it to your chest. “I’m free after seven.”

He leans down, squashing the rabbit between your chest and his to kiss your lips. “How about you come over to my place and I’ll fuck you in a bed without so many guests in it?”

Your cheeks burn at his acknowledgment of the couple of stuffed animals you’ve got dotted around, but you grin and nod anyway.

“You want me to pick you up?” Bradley offers, kneading at the flesh of your thighs with his warm hands, kissing you slowly again.

“Mm, no,” You give a quick shake of your head and press your foot into his thigh, “My dad would probably just interrogate you. I’ll drive.”

Bradley chuckes, handsome in the warm glow of your bedside lamp as he slides his hands down and squeezes at your ankles. “Well, sure. He’s gotta make sure you’re safe.”

“Mhm,” You nod your head slowly, sitting up and hooking your legs over his hips, crawling into his lap. Your arms drape around his thick shoulders. “I don’t think he’d like the thought of me and you together very much.”

Both of you unknowing, Bradley just chuckles and turns his face in towards the crook of your neck to leave you with a kiss.

anyway how long do we think the two of you make it before Maverick finds out?

[ailoda]

updated: 05.01.25

˚☽˚.⋆ series

The New Hire (❤): modern restaurant au, and you’re the newest member of the team! (@mischievousmoony)

roommate!james x shy!reader saga. (❤) (@moonstruckme)

new! It's Always Been You (❤❅✧): you've known golden-boy James Potter for as long as you can remember. Though you don't just know him—he's your very best friend. But there's just one problem: you've fallen deeply, madly in love with him. Or two problems, if you count his thing for your friend Lily Evans. As time goes by, all you want is to get over him. Although, James seems set on making that the most impossible challenge of them all. (@everythingisromant1c)

new! Sanctuary At The Potters' (❅✧): after your parents cross the line, you and your older brother Sirius find sanctuary at the Potters. (@mischievousmoony) (warning: abusive parents, mention of injuries)

new! A Star Between Hands (❤): finding out you're a princess isn't half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can't seem to stop flirting with you. - princess diaries!au (@luveline)

new! Bless the Telephone (❤): James Potter is positively useless with muggle technology, doesn't matter how much Remus tries to teach him, James cannot seem to grasp it— even the telephone. It’s not so bad though— At least he met you. (@777heavengirl)

[octuscle]

Welcome to The Boots

Oliver has always had a penchant for leather. Even before he came out, he had secretly bought a leather jockstrap and sometimes wore it under his normal clothes. His coming out was now long behind him, he still wore the jockstrap and occasionally he went to university in leather pants or a leather jacket. But he still had the greatest respect for going to a leather club. And in his circle of friends, the lads were into tracksuits or neoprene at best. His fetish was shared by no one he knew.

During the semester break, he had made up his mind to finally live out his fetish. He went to Antwerp for the weekend, there was supposed to be a big leather scene there. And it was far enough away from his hometown. Nobody should know him there. Oliver had bought a new leather jacket, styled his hair artfully and walked with a pounding heart towards The Boots. It was 10:30 p.m., and the club had just opened. But Oliver suspected that it was easier to get past the bouncer when it was still early. In fact, the bouncer looked a little pitying. After all, Oliver had tended to come in street clothes after club showings. But Oliver was young, handsome, he should have fun.

He stood as cool as possible at the bar. Although he was not cool at all. Oliver had a toothpick in his mouth. He thought it gave him a certain badass look. But apparently only he saw it that way. After a few moments, the bartender joined him. A young lad, certainly like Oliver in his early 20's. But richly inked. And with leather pants and naked torso. In contrast, Oliver looked like a kid. "Your first time here?" the bartender asked, setting a beer down for him. Oliver nodded. Grinning, the bartender replied that this was obvious. "Take out that ridiculous toothpick, this isn't a musical performance of Grease," the lad said, smiling disarmingly at Oliver. "You're extremely pretty, I'm sure you'll have a good chance with a lot of the fellas here. If you want." Oliver's throat was dry. He nodded and took a sip of beer. He talked about how long he had wanted to go to a club like this. How afraid he had been to tell his friends about his fetish. And how horny he would find it here. The bartender smiled and asked what he found so cool, nothing was going on yet. Oliver smiled for the first time. For the moment, the conversation at the bar would be enough for him. He had never had so much leather around him. The bartender introduced himself as Lieven and thanked him for the compliment. Oliver introduced himself in equal measure, both toasting with their beers. So slowly the club filled up, but Lieven still didn't have much to do. "Do you really want to belong here, Olivier?" asked Lieven. Oliver didn't correct him for mispronouncing his first name and nodded. "If you want to be credible here, you either have to have a dick in your face. Or something like this." Lieven held out a fat cigar to him. Oliver had wondered why people smoked here. But cigars were not his thing at all. Lieven grinned almost impudently and said he was firmly convinced that Oliver would soon get used to it. "On the house," he said, and gave Oliver a light.

Oliver had to cough. But only once. He already took the second drag with great routine. The smoke filled his lungs and he blew out expertly. As if he had done this a dozen times before. He felt a little strange. And then the effect of the cigar kicked in. The smoke fast-forwarded his life. A month every minute. But the cigar had its own idea of how Oliver's life was fast-forwarded. Oliver had dropped out of his studies as an architect and started an apprenticeship as a reinforcer in Antwerp. And every evening, after work, he first went to lift weights for two hours. And afterwards, he usually went to The Boots for a beer or two. On Friday nights, he usually took over the bar in the club, preferably together with his friend Lieven. On Saturdays, Lieven and he would either hang out at Mr. B's and do some shopping. And occasionally they would go to Glorybound and get inked. Admittedly, Lieven more often than Oliver.

The effect of the cigar was more than evident, even if no one noticed it. After just a minute, Oliver's chin was no longer clean-shaven. He had a full beard that grew thicker and thicker. And while the hairs on his face grew, those on his head disappeared. At least three times a week Lieven laid hands on Oliver and shaved his skull. Mostly in public here in the club. Oliver's clothes also changed rapidly. After five minutes he had carried the first month's salary to Mr. B. His first real leather pants were tucked into heavy boots. His black T-shirt was also soon replaced by a leather shirt. After fifteen minutes, he had smoked a good sixth of the massive Toro Gigante. His shift didn't start until 24:00, by which time he would have finished the cigar. The hard work and training were beginning to pay off. His muscles were clearly putting on weight. Which is why he needed new leather gear on a regular basis. Whereby his used things at leather flea markets found lurid sales. Especially with used jockstraps he did good business.

Not only his body changed rapidly, also Olivier's appearance had gained massively in self-confidence and dominance. After half an hour, an imposing appearance stood at the bar. Leather shirt, belt, breeches and boots perfectly matched the muscular body. His hands were in gauntlets. With one hand he held his cigar, with the other he pressed the head of another leather guy to his mouth and blew the smoke into his face. Sure, he was putting on a show here, too. That was his job. But of course he enjoyed dominating other fella's. Especially when they were older. Olivier was only 24 years old, but he had an impressive amount of experience in the scene.

Another half hour before his shift began. Behind the bar, the exchange of bodily fluids with colleagues and guests alike was forbidden. But Ox, as most people here called him, had to cum again. He put his hand on his leather cap in greeting to Lieven and disappeared into one of the darkrooms. The regulars knew that he had usually already chosen a victim for the sling. Hoping that today they would have the honor of being fucked by the club's up-and-coming stud, they moved past Ox. Today he had been eyeing a well-built skinhead all evening. It wasn't long before this skinhead was in the sling being fucked by him. One of the spectators always had the honor of pulling the rubber over his cock. That was part of his job too, bare was frowned upon in The Boots. And he was a role model.

Ox wasn't the only one jerking off. A wanking crowd had formed around the sling. And more than one shot hit Ox, too. That was okay, he found that jizz was the best polish for his outfit. Ox took another drag from his cigar and kicked it out on the floor in a puddle of cum. Wordlessly, he buttoned his pants and turned around. He walked behind the bar into the back room and exchanged a deep kiss with Lieven as he passed. Actually, that was against the rules, but if it didn't get out of hand, it was good for business. After all, their bosses knew that. Ox polished the cum off the leather shirt and breeches, stripped down and hung his clothes in his locker. He had bought a new pair of leather pants especially for today's shift, which accentuated the bulge of his cock. And on top he wore his favorite harness.

He opened the door and went on duty to the applause of the guests.

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

five | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you. 

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

James can tell you're nervous, though you hide it exceptionally well. Years of training and years before that of being the best friend to two natural born fibbers has given him a professional understanding of the ways people will pretend.

There's no need to pretend. It's your father's funeral. 

James sits behind you on the pews. There are guards posted at all four entrances and exits to the church, but the level of security doesn't relax you, because it isn't why you're tensed. 

He has to bite his tongue to stop from speaking. Has to cling to his own hands rather than lean forward and inquire if you're alright. He's lucky he'd been allowed to sit as close to the front of the room as he had been, and that was only after a convincing speech to the Queen herself on the dangers your first public outing may entail. He hadn't been exaggerating. 

James hadn't been as succinct as he could've been, either, but no one else needs to know. 

He looks around the front of the church rather than the back of your head and your tight shoulders. The room has all the furnishings one would expect of a royal funeral, garish white tapings and mammoth crystal chandeliers with their metal fixtures waxed to a burning shine. Light floods in multicolour from gargantuan stained glass windows, reds and greens and buttery orange-yellow kissing the floor, the walls, and the brown lacquered casket at the front of the room. 

The proceedings had been in Genovian. James understood the majority, and he's sure Remus caught the rest. Your shoulder had started shaking somewhere between psalms, which means your arm had been shaking, and that's likely from a jigging anxious knee. You're unsettled. 

James is unsurprised. There are huge cameras in several places across the room, and at times they'd been pointed at you, your cousin, your aunts and uncles, and, of course, the Queen. 

Your identity has been officially broadcasted to the entire world —though thanks to now redundant members of the Royal staff, that had already been true to some extent. You are a princess in the gaze of billions, even if you do choose to give up the role as you're intending. This won’t be easy to leave behind.

Crown Princess or not, you're of royal blood, entitled to royal protection, and so. James can follow you anywhere you want to go for the foreseeable future as long as you allow him. You are just scared enough to say yes. (He hadn't exaggerated the state of things to you. No part of him wants to scare you. But he told you the truth, and he'd scared you anyhow.) 

Sitting next to the Queen is the Queen mother (your great-grandmother), and beside her is your uncle, your aunt, the Princess Julianna, and then you. Julianna is clearly unhappy with your untrained decorum but won't risk talking lest she end up on the front page of the newspapers scolding her newly instated cousin. 

"Might we all bow our heads for the final prayer." 

You bow your head too quickly and too low. James winces and does the same. Hopefully they'll think you miseducated rather than stupid, though to many that's the same crime. 

The prayer ends, and pallbearers step forward to carry the casket back out of the church to the hearse, a mixture of royals and paid actors strong enough to take the weight. The first row stands, James sticking out like a nettle among flowers, though his all black uniform isn't out of place for once. 

He slots himself behind you in the procession as it begins to walk down the aisle. He can speak and get away with it due to both occupation and occasion, a melancholy orchestra plays as the King is carried home. 

"Hello," he says, his face tilted near imperceptibly toward yours. "Everything okay?" 

He wants to ask the same question, but better. How are you feeling? I'm sorry I can't give you an out yet. 

"Okay," you say. 

"You're doing so well," he says.

You relax slightly. You pass Sirius at the very back of the church, where he taps his chin, prompting you to lift your own. The photography outside of the church is respectful, but Sirius and James alike have already quizzed you on what expression to keep. You can't smile. You can't frown. You have to look heartbroken but not hysterical —being branded as an attention seeker so early would fry your reputation. The last thing you need is a smear campaign before the funeral is over. You have to look grateful to be here. 

It is not an easy balance to strike. 

James thinks you're doing wonderfully either way, and the point of the funeral is to respect your father now he's passed, but he'd also say it was a successful launch. You look sweet, and remarkably made up. 

"Can we go home now?" you ask. 

"We can. You don't have anything else on the docket." 

"I don't have to go to, like, a wake?" you ask. 

James shakes his head. "No. I think most of the family want to grieve in private after a spectacle like this." 

"An event," Sirius corrects. 

"Are you hungry?" James asks. 

"Why, does Genovia have McDonald's?"

It's a credit to both James and Sirius that they manage to hide how funny they find you. "We do, but we can't take you to McDonald's. There'll be paparazzi following your car as soon as we leave the lot." 

"I don't want McDonald's," you say. 

"We know. I'm just asking so I can call ahead," James says. 

"It's my job, really," Sirius says. 

It's neither. You should've had a lady in waiting by now, a professional one to handle every aspect of your day by day, but the sudden nature of your arrival and now incoming date of your departure has left you without one. Sirius and James (and Remus, at times) have been happy to pick up the slack. 

"Is it bad that I am hungry?" you ask. 

James guides you away from the procession as the hearse pulls away, eager to get you in your own car sandwiched between a crowd of bodyguards. His men fall in without prompting, surrounding you on all sides. You visibly wither at the precaution. 

"It's not bad. Grieving is hungry work," Sirius says. 

James can't keep up with your conversation. There's suspicious movement at the barricade, the gathered supporters strangely rowdy for the occasion. He gestures with two fingers for the guards at his side to pull in tighter. Unsatisfied, he clears his throat and says, "Fall in, guys." 

He doesn't need to say what he's worried about. The guards under his employ and under any branch of Palace security should have enough sense to feel the difference in the atmosphere. 

"There's the Princess!" someone shouts. Hundreds of eyes find you. 

"I don't wave, do I?" you ask, turning to look at James. You realise the guards have tightened ranks, a frown twisting your pretty smile down. "What's happening?" 

He hates the sudden fear in your voice. 

"Nothing," he says, hand hovering behind the small of your back, eyes at the crowd. There's a man standing too still to be natural. "Don't worry. What are you having for dinner?" 

"That was an awful lie, you didn't even try," you complain, following his line of sight as best as you can to the crowd. 

"Seriously, Princess, what are we having for dinner?" Sirius asks.

"Am I in danger?" you ask.

"No," James says firmly.

"They're protecting me," Sirius says, which would be more believable if he didn't have to shout it over someone's shoulder. 

"You're not in any danger," James says, firmer still, a bite to his voice that makes Sirius wince. You stare. "You're still on camera, Princess." James is on camera. Your safety comes first, but his job is his job. Mary already berated him upon her return about his mishandling of the first airport disaster, and if James can't handle these situations, they'll find someone else to do it.

They manage to get you to your car without any incidents. James covers the roof and ushers you in, closing the door behind you. He takes the passenger seat, and your driver for the day, Munroe, starts the short journey back to Bellaverden House. 

James stays sitting prim, the light of the police escorts fronting your procession gaussian blue on his hands. 

"Are you okay?"

James is surprised that you're asking him, turning to meet your eyes from over his shoulder. "I'm perfectly fine. How are you, are you alright?"

You look a little seasick, hands either side of you in the empty seats. "I'm sorry if I made you mad." 

It's an expression he's seen on Sirius a hundred times, uncertainty, the anxiety of not knowing if you're in trouble with someone. He does as he would with him. "I'm not mad, Princess. I have to… I have to be someone else when I'm working to make sure I perform the way I need to. I’m sorry if that feels personal, but I can assure you it's just work. Okay?" He starts professional, ends soft. "Now, are you alright?" 

He keeps waiting for the reality of your situation to press upon you. Grief for a man you never knew, even anger at his inactive role in your life, but you stay quiet and cagey as a nervous cat. 

"I'm fine, James."

"Are you?" James watches for it, finds the tremor in your hands that betrays you even if you don't think there's anything wrong. 

"Fine," you say. 

—

Two days later, you take a flight home. Private again, less than ten passengers, six of which are following you. You’d wanted to escape the royal duties and they’re practically tucked in your back pocket. 

“Don’t look so scolded,” Sirius says, ineffectual as he gets comfortable beside you, a tray of biscuits in his lap. 

“What?” 

“James isn’t angry.” 

You hide a small fluster with a swallow. “I know.” 

“Well.” Sirius eats another biscuit. You honestly like him as much as you like James, though you’re starting to think he might end up being a pain in your side. He’s… opinionated. “You don’t look like you know. Can you eat something so everyone can stop worrying?” 

“Sorry.” 

You eat a chocolate biscuit, frown, eat a shortbread. Your stomach rumbles with a sickly lurch, but after a bit the sugar kicks in and you feel better. You peer around Sirius to spot James and Mickey pointing at different things on an iPad across the aisle. Just behind them, Remus sleeps, sitting next to Marlene. And, for reasons unbeknownst to you, Lily and Emmeline chatter in the seats just ahead. 

You tried very hard to get out of being a princess, and yet you’ve been trailed back home anyways. 

“You’re like Remus,” Sirius says, with surprising affection for both of you, “a bit of chocolate and the sulking stops.”

“They’re nice biscuits.” 

“They’re Genovian, obviously they’re nice biscuits. You’re used to that English shite–”

“Come on,” you reprimand lightly, “have you ever had a Welsh shortbread? Get a grip.” 

“I’ve had many Welsh shortbread. My Remus is very Welsh.” Sirius sinks down in his seat a little, seemingly sated by even a mention of Remus. The more you know them, the more you realise ‘my Remus’ is accurate. Sirius doesn’t even really say it with fondness or anything so saccharine, but just the addition of the word packs a punch. He’s said ‘my James’ before too, and that had been the same. 

A little nibble of jealousy blossoms in your chest. 

“Have you and Remus always been friends?” you ask. 

Sirius tilts his head back. His nice chin points at you, his eyes lazily opened but friendly all the same. “Yes. Despite his wishes, some of the time. I was friends with James first, the day we met, but Remus shared a room so he couldn’t escape us. He was friendlier with… we had another roommate. So for a while we were natural pairs, but eventually we became a right group of messers.” 

“I find it a bit difficult to make friends.” 

“Me too.” He closes his eyes for a second. “If I hadn’t been forced to see them every day, I wonder if I would’ve managed it.” 

You’re late for boarding school, but seeing people each day might be manageable. After all, you’ve a trapped posse of advisors with you at this very moment, destined to trail after you for what could be months. 

You hope that, when they inevitably return home, they might still want to be friends. 

The plane begins descending half an hour from the airport. Sirius squeezes the arm but doesn’t fuss. Then, suddenly, the landing gear is out, the seatbelt lights are on, and Sirius is encouraging you to ram the last of the biscuits in with him so he can bin the plastic tray they came in. “Go on,” he whispers, forcing the last, huge slag of caramel and chocolate in your direction, “before Marlene can see we’ve ruined dinner.” 

“She’s not actually going to cook for me, is she?” you ask, frowning. 

“Of course she is.” 

Of course she is. You cringe through the landing, but can’t stop yourself from smiling when James makes his way to your chairs to get your bag from the overhead. You know it’s lame, but it’s just like having a boyfriend. 

“Remus, will you get mine too?” you hear Sirius ask as he slinks around James’ body. 

“Get your own.” 

“Nice flight?” you ask James. 

He smiles. “Awesome. You look better off than the last time.” 

Last time you’d been exhausted, with red-rimmed eyes and a shiner. This is decidedly better, but you’re thrice as tired emotionally. 

“I can’t wait to go home.” 

James puts a hand behind your shoulder like he’s known you for years. “I bet you can’t,” he says. 

“Will you be, uh, sleeping on my sofa again?” 

He laughs and encourages you down the plane’s aisle. “Not this time, Princess. The proper arrangements have been made. I’ll miss your floral pillowcases, rest assured.” 

“I’ll miss getting decked by my door.” 

James’ gaze snaps to yours in shock. He pauses with his mouth just slightly open, and then a laugh jumps from him, a sunny, warm, crackly chuckle that heats your cheeks. “Yes!” he praises, giving you a poke. “I knew we’d make a comedian of you. And a dark one.” 

The sheer look of joy on his face buoys you as you journey home. It was out of character, sure, but worth it to have made him laugh. You find you like the feeling of it, the pleasure, even the satisfaction of making him laugh. You’ll have to do it again. 

You seem to have avoided any leaks of gossip or press, ushered by a small, tight group of security through the airport and to a jet black freelander. 

James opens the back door for you. “No SUV?” you ask, climbing in. 

“They’re not exactly common here, are they? This is less eye-catching.” 

“Less impressive,” Sirius says, nudging you across to climb in after you. 

You find yourself shuttered to the opposite side of the car as Remus gets in behind him. “Idiots,” James mutters. 

“I thought we should’ve had a G-wagon,” Sirius says. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Remus says. 

“Or something stylish, then. A Benz.” 

“This is nicer than the bus,” you say. 

Sirius wrinkles his nose. “Too right.” 

“So, where are we going?” you ask. You can’t work out why they’ve gotten into the same car. 

“I thought we’d stay with you for a bit,” Sirius says easily. 

“Why?” 

You flush as you realise what you’ve said, and how bluntly it came out. 

Sirius doesn’t flinch. “I was thinking you might want company. No?” 

“You don’t have to–”

“No, we don’t,” Remus says, resting his weight on Sirius’ arm, “but we want to if you’re alright with it.” 

You settle in your seat for the drive home, a small smile playing on your lips. It would be nice to have friends right now. 

—

It turns out that time spent with the boys can get out of hand. Even James, oh so serious, begins to play into their shenanigans. Being together relaxes them, evident in their huge dopey smiles and the tactile way they go about the evening. 

James was supposed to leave sometime after eight when Mickey arrived to relieve him, but he’d hunkered down with Remus on the sofa, stealing sips of his tea and attempting to push his socked feet under Remus’ thighs. “No,” he says now, giving Remus a prod, “you knocked the Genovian pear juggler clear off of his feet! And you blamed Sirius!” 

“And I took the blame like a proper man,” Sirius says, tipping his head back to lay on Remus’ knees. “You’re welcome.” 

“You owed me.” 

A vague tenseness lines James’ shoulders, but Sirius only says, “Yes, I did.” 

“He had to wash dishes for a month,” Remus says. 

“I accepted my punishment. Besides, it gave me plenty of opportunity to pilfer the kitchens. We ate enough chocolate to make ourselves sick of it in a week.”

You curl up tighter in the armchair. The TV is playing quietly, an old movie flickering in muted colours, dabs of it caught on James’ arm. 

He pushes his glasses further up his nose. You like them, the glasses, though he says they aren’t practical. They look good on him, bringing an extra darkness to his eyes, already a nice honey brown. All these brown eyed boys in one place isn’t good for you. 

Marlene had, to your horror, come around to make you and your guests a late supper. You’d asked her how the royal kitchens would run without her and she’d asked you not to insult her workers. She’s bullied you into three plates worth and promised to be back tomorrow morning. 

You’d said oh, no, please don’t, and James had reminded you that you’re going to be a princess for the rest of your life. Get used to extravagance. 

And company! Sirius called. 

He hasn’t moved since he got here, not even for dinner, though it’s not like you all would’ve fit around your teeny kitchen table anyhow. He picks at a plate of buttered bread and Genovian grapes, which Marlene had apparently gotten for him on special request. He has a planner in front of him, a heavy looking silver pen between lithe fingers scribbling across the pages, scratching things out, drawing big arrows as he moves dates around. 

“You’re busy,” you say sympathetically. 

Sirius snorts. “This is your planner, babe.” 

“My what?” 

“I’m trying to fit driving lessons around your classes. They’re quite random, aren’t they?” He lifts his gaze to meet your confusion. “James wants you to learn.” 

“Well, I haven’t asked her yet, mate,” James says. 

Sirius shrugs. “If I’m going to work it out, I need to do it now before bed.” 

“What about my shifts?” you ask. 

Sirius tilts his head ever so slightly to one side. “You still want to work?” 

You remember the shock of the inheritance all over again. Weird to think a lump sum will have cleared in your bank account before you got home, the accruement of years spent unaware of your heritage. It will be strange to quit The Morgan —you know so many of the regulars, and you’ve spent the last two years living off of that paycheck— but the idea is a sudden warm blanket. 

“I can quit?” you ask. 

“Sure,” Sirius says. “If you want. You don’t have to worry about it anymore. That’s not to say you can’t work, but I can’t imagine you’ll spend what you have soon…” 

You smile to yourself, guilty and so, so relieved. “You wouldn’t believe how horrible my manager is. I don’t want to be spoiled–”

All three boys roll their eyes. It’s unnerving. “It’s not spoiled,” Remus says. 

“It makes my life easier,” James says. “Besides, the Royal Family might demand it.” 

“Mm, it’ll look bad if the heir keeps her pub job,” Sirius says. He scratches out a last corner of the page. “Alright, darling, listen up. You can fit in two hours of driving a day, three times a week, is that gonna be something you can do? In about two months you should have your forty five hours of practice. We can study theory twice a week. If it’s too intense we can slow down, there’s no rush, really, just James–”

“Doesn’t like the bus,” you say. 

“Hates public transport,” Sirius agrees. 

“It’s good for the environment,” James speaks up, leaning further and further toward the arm, sinking into your battered throw cushions, “bad for princesses.” 

That awful p-word. 

“Alright. That sounds perfect, Sirius. Thank you for working it all out.” 

“You’re very welcome. You might not like me so much when you see how many hours I’ve given Remus.” 

You put your hands between your legs. “Oh, do I still have to do all that? Even if I’m not going to...”

“Become the crown princess of Genovia and rule the country?” Remus asks. “Yes, you still have to do all that. If only the basics.” 

“But why?” 

“‘Cos I said so,” Remus quips, leaning forward as Sirius leans back, a scarred hand falling naturally against his sharp shoulder. 

“Ooh, you’re in trouble now, Princess,” James says. “An angry Remus is formidable.” 

“I’m not angry.” Remus reaches over Sirius for a grape, his nose brushing black hair. 

Sirius softens from the brush of touch alone. It is an intense thing to see, not private but intimate nonetheless. They must be seeing, you decide, curling tighter again in the armchair and craving another box of biscuits. For the first time since the funeral, you aren’t feeling off centre. You just feel like you, home again, an itch to sketch in your hands battered down by fatigue. It’s been such a long day, yet you stay your leave. 

“Scratch my hair?” Sirius asks. 

Remus hums. “No, thank you.” 

“Oh, please, Remus. Just scratch it, don’t be selfish.” 

“He’s a sponge for it,” James tells you. “Couldn’t be touched when we met him, mind, but now he won’t leave you alone once you’ve said yes. If he asks you to draw shapes on his arm, save yourself and say no.” 

You wouldn’t mind, you don’t think. Sirius sees it on your face and grins. 

James decides to appease Sirius while Remus refuses and ushers him his way. He runs a big hand through Sirius' hair, fingers combing to the ends, and then he goes up the back of his neck, where he begins to scratch long circles. “That’s better,” Sirius says, falling back against James’ leg. “I always thought I should be a prince, you know. I like the royal treatment.” 

“Didn’t get much royal treatment as a lord, did you?” Remus asks. 

“You’re a lord?” you ask. 

“I could’ve been. I was the heir,” Sirius says, tone taking on a dripping disdainfulness that seems tired of real emotion. 

“Lord of the most Noble House of Black,” James says. “Only he ditched them. Quite dramatically.” 

“Thank goodness,” Remus says. 

Sirius looks at you again. Both exhausted and unaffected, like the deepest pain has passed. You can see the weariness of someone who’s spent days at a long dinner table, though now he sits slouched and cared for against your ratty sofa, and it suits him more. “My family is traditional, and I’m less so. I could never have lived the life I was supposed to. It probably would have killed me. So I left, and I was lucky enough to be taken care of by another oh so noble family.” 

“The Potter’s aren’t noble,” James says quickly. “I’m not a lord or heir or anything.” 

“Well, you are heir of the Potter name and riches and all,” Remus says, taking Sirius’ plate of snacks into his lap. He folds a thick piece of the bread and butter and offers it to Sirius before eating the last one. 

“Yes…” James gives Remus a pointed look, which Remus ignores. “But it’s not like the Black family. You might actually meet them, one day.” 

“Pray not,” Sirius says to himself. 

“Hmm. The Potter’s are an older family too, but not like the Black’s. The Black’s have deep Genovian roots, my family are–” James’ cheeks take colour. “Rich, yes. Very rich.” 

“But you work,” you say. 

“I think I’d go mad if I couldn’t.” He must spot the look of guilt you fail to thwart. “But it’s different. To grow up completely looked after, I’ve never had to do anything I didn’t want to do.” 

“That’s not what I’ve been led to believe,” Remus cuts in, laughing, meeting James’ eyes, “all that homework you needed my help with, you did that willingly?” 

You laugh at James’ faked annoyance and their matching chuckles. Time that night seems to slip away, and it’s well past midnight when you fall asleep, still curled in your chair. 

In the morning, you wake up in bed. 

You pull a pillow over your face, cold underside to your boiling skin. How did I get here? you ask yourself, terrified of the answer. 

—

Honestly, your flat isn’t the nicest. It’s clean as you can manage, but there’s damp in the bathroom and it’s rather squashed. James finds himself squinting in disgust at the door at the front of the building which still doesn’t open properly (and so can be jimmied) despite his annoyed email to the landlord where he’d cited a few chosen laws and threatened to withhold the rent, though he supposes it had no weight because James isn’t the one paying it. Still, he can’t deal with this. He has to convince you to move. A gated community might be a shout; he’d worry less if you lived among the rich and their security cameras. 

But he doesn’t suppose the best course of action here is to displace you again. You like your flat, he thinks, hadn’t you told him before that you liked the quiet? Or was it the noise? It’s not like London has a reputation for peace. He’s still not sure how you ended up living in central London: he commits to ask. 

James isn’t going to give up on you. He wants you to be princess, The Princess, he wants you to take your place as Queen of Genovia one day. Not because you’re the only one who can stop fucking Baron Riddle from ruling Genovia as a tyrant bastard, but because it’s your birthright. You run from something that could be so special to stay here, alone and lonely. He knows it’s harsh to think of it that way, and yet he does. And, selfishly, he wants to stay with his friends. He wants to be your friend. If the Riddle family control Genovia he can say goodbye to his job, and he can say goodbye to the life he’s made. He could make another one, of course, but he has a feeling about you. 

He takes the stairs past the huge discarded mattress and a floor covered in mail to your flat. The door is propped open which he hates, but Mikkelson is inside, sitting at the kitchen table with you, drinking a polite cup of tea. Sirius leans up against a counter with his own.  

“Good morning,” James says. 

You’re wearing jogging bottoms, socks, and a t-shirt with a charcoal smudge on the neck. It has short, short sleeves, showcasing the lengths of your arms. James is only a boy, following the curve of one down to your hand. 

You glance at your arm, then him. “Good morning?” 

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks to save himself. 

“It’s warm out?” you say, peering around Mickey to check the sunshine coming from the window. “It’s warm in here, at least.” 

“Mickey, are you ready?” James asks. 

Mickey thanks you for the tea and leaves, tired in the eyes. James slaps him on the shoulder as he goes. 

Sirius stretches backwards. When he rises up, he fixes James with a cool look. “Jamie, I’ve just heard from our royal sweetness that you’ve been calling me her stylist.” 

You flinch. “Uh–”

“Well,” James says, grinning as he settles against the doorframe, “it is how Lily introduced you.“

“Ah, yes, Lily Evans. Longtime frenemy. I expected it from her. I didn’t realise you were driving the narrative home in my absence.”

“Sirius, you do style her, you realise.” 

“I’m a media coach!” Sirius sniffs. “And a gentleman in waiting, for the time being.” 

“You’re more than a coach,” James says. 

“Yes, well. I’m not a stylist. At least, that’s not my first priority. I’m miffed with you now, so steer clear of me.” Sirius says, ferrying back to the living room. 

James hears the clunk of his modest briefcase being opened. You start to apologise, but he shakes his head with a grin. “Please ignore him, he’s kidding.” He traces the side of your face in the light. “Your bruise is almost gone.” 

Your fingers flit to your cheek and the well of your eye. “Yeah. Yeah, it's only sore now.”

“Little yellow in the crease.” Hard to see if you’re not really looking.  

“It feels like it was a really long time ago,” you say, standing from your chair with a wobble. 

“You alright?” he asks. 

You make for the kettle, flicking it on. “Fine. Tea, coffee?” 

“Sure, I’ll have some tea. What’s Sirius doing up so early?” 

“He didn’t say yet.” 

You take a mug from the cupboard printed in autumn leaves. James hears a rough sound and turns to the living room on instinct, hard pressed to hold in a laugh as he watches Sirius right your knocked coffee table. James had taken Remus back to the accommodation last night while Sirius insisted he’d stay. It’s not nice to be alone, he’d said simply. When James turns back to the kitchen, you’ve placed a tea bag and a teaspoon in the mug, jug of milk waiting, jar of brown sugar cracked. “It’s gone solid,” you warn, “there’s nothing wrong with it though, I promise.” 

“I only have a little. Here, I can do it. Have you eaten?” 

“Yeah, we had toast. Did you?” 

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. 

James has said goodbye to professionalism. Not safety, not doing his job, but if what you need to be the crown princess is a friend, James will be your friend. He can do that easily. It feels a little odd after fighting it for the time you spent in Genovia, but he’s done with pretending you’re not cutesy. 

“What are you going to do today?” he asks, coming up behind you, close enough to see the dark pupil of your eye and the white of the kitchen light against it.

“Um, well, Sirius is going to help me tender my resignation at the bar, and then I guess I have a driving lesson? I should probably try to catch up on my assignments, or. I don’t know, maybe I’ll drop out.” Your eyes widen slightly. “Not because I want to do nothing. I just– I can– can try again. A fresh start at a proper university.” 

James holds the top of your arm. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to decide anything today. I’m sure you can take a sabbatical for your current term, Sirius can help you sort that out, just until you decide. Or you could drop out tonight and think about it all later. You have time. I didn’t think for a second it was because you want to do nothing, and even if I did, that’s not bad either.” His thumb crests a small circle, pushing up the line of your sleeve. 

Your lips part for a moment before you answer, as though practising. “Thank you, James.” 

“I haven’t done anything.” 

“I bet you don’t think so.” 

James pats your shoulder gently, then reaches for the kettle as it flicks off, boiled. “Can I suggest an addendum to your calendar?” 

“Sure.”

“I was thinking you could try another counselling session.” 

You blink, stopped with a tea bag in hand. “Why?” 

“The first one went well, didn’t it?” 

“But I’m home now.” 

“That doesn’t erase the last week.” Nearly two now, since you found out.

You push your mug toward his and he fills it with hot water. He follows suit and adds his own milk, stirring it together quickly. His spoon on the sides is a biting clink, clink, clink. 

“Things have felt a bit staccato, haven’t they?” he asks. 

You nod, toying with the handle of your mug. 

“It would be nice for you to have something constant. Some stability. And we can arrange for you to have private care here, you know.”

“I have stability,” you argue unsurely. “You and Remus and Sirius, and Frank, too. Is he coming back?” 

“Frank’s having some time off with his partner, but he’ll be here soon.” He laughs, pushing the body of his teabag against the side of his mug, the brown of the tea seeping into the milk in a wave. “I don’t think you can get rid of me, however hard you wanna try.” 

“I wasn’t trying to get rid of you.”

James looks up. He catches your eye. Again, the dark of your pupil shines and shakes, not sure where to look, but your lip stays in a firm line like you’ve been chastened. He remembers flicking you under the chin the last time you’d looked at him like that. He could do it again, but he fears Sirius’ judgement. “I know,” he says, voice soft with his low volume. “I’m teasing.” 

“Would you not?” you ask. 

“So spritely today! Alright, is your tea done? Let’s go sit in the living room and make a list.” 

“A list?” 

“Of things you want to do,” he says, scooping the tea bag from his mug. 

“I don’t know what I want to do.” You take his spoon to remove your tea bag. 

You chuck it in the sink, pulling your mug to your chest. You don’t sound happy about making the list, but you follow him obligingly to the living room where Sirius is brushing his hair from his face, a list of his own coming to life on his knee. 

“Not more duties for me?” you ask tentatively. 

Sirius makes grabbing hands for James’ mug. James, with a sigh, lets him have it. Sirius takes a glutinous sip and doesn’t offer it back. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t clear up your job status when talking to the Princess, Pads. Can we ever be friends again?” James says in defeat. 

“I’ll think about it,” Sirius says, not bothering to meet James’ eyes. “And to answer your question, your sweetness, it’s not for you, don’t worry. I’m trying to make sure Remus’ medical information is being properly swapped over. It’s…” Sirius takes another sip of tea and then thankfully passes it back. “A headache. Doctors.” 

“Does Remus know you’re doing that?” James asks, sitting on the empty sofa. You take the seat beside him. 

“Not yet. It’s not– not like it’s not part of my job. He works for the princess, I work for the princess, I might as well make sure he’s tip top shape to do that.” Sirius gets that look James recognises for not wanting to talk about the thing he’s talking about anymore, his eyes lighting up predictably. “What’s on your agenda today?” 

“I suppose we’ll be taking the Princess to the shops at some point. You needed some bits?” he asks. 

You noticeably fluster but don’t answer. 

“And then after that I’ll be taking her for her first driving lesson.” 

Your jaw drops. “Wait, you're teaching me?” 

“Well, just to begin with,” James says. He squints at you. “I’m a good driver, I’ll have you know.” 

Sirius rolls his eyes. 

“I am! And besides, who do I trust more than me? And you trust me, don’t you?” he asks you.

You cross your arm over your chest. “Yeah, ‘course.” 

James’ grin is evident in his tone. “Good. Because after that we’ll be endeavouring into the land of self-defence.” 

“What?” 

“With a safety mat, don’t worry.” 

You nibble your bottom lip. “Well, I wasn’t until you said that.” 

[carletes]

Need a HC of a comforting pep talk from Carlos to Lando. Lando has been working his ass off and is always just out of reach😮‍💨

"Mi vida–"

Lando groaned in response, but the effect was ruined slightly with his face flush against the bed sheets. "No."

The mattress sank a little as Carlos joined Lando on the bed. When he spoke, Lando could hear his stupid smile in his stupid voice. "Oh? No?"

"No."

"No what, mi vi-"

"No comfort," Lando whined- snapped. "I don't need it. I'm good. I'm so good."

"You're so good."

"Yeah."

"You're so good."

"That's what I fucking said."

A pause. Then, Lando felt Carlos' weight shift, felt hot breath against his ear, and heard Carlos say, "You're so good for me."

Lando shrieked and tried to edge away, but he was too late. Carlos had his arms around Lando before Lando could react—what was the point of reflex training—and before he knew it, Carlos had yanked him closer. He shoved his face into Lando's neck and Lando shrieked again as Carlos furiously kissed his sensitive neck, making Lando kick and laugh. He tried desperately to get away, but Carlos had a tight grip on him.

"Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck-"

"Oh, first you want me to tell you you're good, now you want to fuck?"

"Carlos!" Lando wheezed, between helpless giggles. Carlos had him pinned, using his dumb weight to his dumb advantage. "That's not- what I- meant!"

"What did you mean then?" Carlos asked, and he eased off slightly. That was a mistake. Lando wriggled out from beneath Carlos, scrambling off the bed. He ran to crouch behind one of the chairs, glaring as best as he could at his husband. Carlos, for his part, was just grinning at him. Lando hated when Carlos looked like that. Disarmingly handsome. It made Lando melt, want to do anything for Carlos.

Fucking yuck.

"Stay back."

"What did you mean, then?" Carlos repeated, getting up from the bed and walking towards the chair that was Lando's only hope.

"I meant," Lando hissed, slowly backing up against the wall, "that I don't need comfort."

"Yes."

"Because I'm goo- I'm fine."

"Yes?"

"Because I got on the podium."

"Right."

"On my 100th race."

"Yeah?"

"My fourth consecutive podium."

"Mm."

"Which is fucking awesome."

And then Carlos' grin widened. And he closed in on Lando, got on his knees on the chair, and leaned all the way in.

"Exactly."

"Exactly?"

Fuck, it was getting hard to think. Lando could smell Carlos, could smell the residual race on him. They hadn't gotten a chance to shower, and Lando couldn't think.

"You are fucking awesome. Because you got on the podium on your 100th race. Your fourth consecutive podium. I was on your ass, Lando," Carlos continued, and his lips were so close to Lando's, and he smelt so good. "I saw everything. You were fucking beautiful."

Lando couldn't help himself. He smiled, laughed softly, and breathed, "Yeah?"

"Fucking beautiful," Carlos reiterated, his voice a heavy whisper, and when Carlos kissed Lando, Lando believed every word Carlos had said.

Until, of course, Carlos hauled Lando onto a shoulder and tossed him back onto the mattress. And then it was all Lando could do, screaming and swearing, to keep Carlos from assailing his neck.

[decaydanceredacted]

not gonna lie i do love being an alpha patrick truther so much. doesn't matter what era, hell, every single one of his eras i get to look at that doe-eyed cutie’s face and woobify him so hard and also say in the same breath "that’s my most specialest gorgeous little handsome alpha dom top seme husband ♥️"

and i know full well there are many who would at best disagree with and at worst seethe at this opinion and that's honestly completely 100% fine, i know we all have our preferences. but i think it's just so wrinkly-brained when alphas are cute and tiny and introverted and mild-mannered and also a little napoleonic as a treat. to me patrick is sooo painfully cute and lovely and the sweetest babygirl pretty bunnyboy and also he’s disarmingly strong and a massive control freak and annoyingly domineering and stubborn and he has a huge fat cock and would be so polite about rearranging your guts with it and then letting you hang off his knot the size of chicago. ♥️

.

[wanderingcas]

where there is darkness: chapter 13

pairing: dean/cas tags: historical au, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, h/c

Castiel joins Dean for dinner that night with his breath held. 

He waits for Dean to talk about it, about any of it: the magazine, Benny’s combativeness, the tension that’s rolling off Dean’s back in waves—but he doesn’t. Instead, he places battered fish and asparagus in front of Castiel and tips back into his own chair, eating with a carefully blank face. 

So Castiel picks up his fork and does the same. 

He promised Sam that he’d look out for Dean. But now, sitting here with something complicated between them, he doesn’t even know what that means anymore. He doesn’t even know what the ‘something complicated’ is . The air between them just feels heavy and muddy, and he can’t figure out how to broach the topic. If there even is one.

He glances across the table. Even as he glares at his asparagus like it’s personally wronged him, there’s no denying that Dean’s handsome. Disarmingly so. Castiel has known that since their first meeting. It wasn’t ever supposed to be a problem , or a thing that sparked attraction on Castiel’s end, or turn into some sort of contest for Dean’s affection when Benny showed up. 

This job wasn’t meant to be complicated. This place was meant to be simple: somewhere to stay, isolated and alone, waiting for fate to toll the bell. Nothing more. 

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[luckyroll3]

Unexpected Chapter 3: Nothing But a Number

Unexpected Masterlist Previous Chapter

Mia

Mia lifted her eyes to meet Chan’s and found herself looking into a pair of deep brown eyes framed by tousled hair that begged to be touched. Mia's brows raised in genuine surprise as she took in the athletic build and the trendy styling of the man before her. He was one, maybe two, inches taller than her, but he carried himself with the confidence and swagger of a man 6’2”. Despite herself, Mia found him incredibly sexy. 

She wasn't expecting personal introductions at a concert, especially not from one of the performers. She was curious about this interaction. She released his hand.

He smiled, and those infamous dimples flashed, disarmingly boyish on his otherwise sculpted face. "So, what brings you here tonight?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "You don't seem like our typical fan."

The comment might have nettled someone else, but Mia just chuckled softly. She was well aware she stood out among the glitter and pastel hues of the younger crowd. She didn’t have a single piece of merch on, wasn’t carrying any photos, albums or plushie SKZOOs, and wasn’t swinging a light stick. There were no signs of fangirl anticipation in her demeanor.

Mia’s eyes quirked up, a playful challenge in her expression. "Observant one, aren't you?" Mia quipped, her sarcastic humor threading through her words. Chan grinned. "I'm here for my niece's birthday. She's somewhere around here, probably still getting signatures. She’s the superfan. The… what do you call them? Stay? I’m just tagging along."

Chan leaned in. "Your niece has good taste," he said, his tone playful as he searched Mia's face for a reaction.

"Does she now?" Mia countered, her smile betraying a flicker of amusement. It was a dance, this banter, and she found herself more engaged than she'd anticipated. There was something about Chan that caught her off-guard—a maturity that belied his youthful face. “Sometimes I honestly have to question her decision-making skills.”

For a moment, she let herself wonder what it would be like to entertain the idea of someone like him. Hot, young, probably energetic as hell. And that accent… But then, reality, like a tide, washed over her, reminding her of the boundaries she had set for herself: no more men. Plus, he was basically a child.

"Ha," Chan chuckled, clearly enjoying her deflective humor. "I think we all make questionable decisions at some point in our lives.”

“I still make them,” Mia quipped with a smirk, causing Chan to laugh out loud.

“It's not every day we get someone like you at our concerts."

"Someone like me?" Mia echoed, arching an eyebrow playfully. Was he flirting? she wondered to herself. She couldn't tell, and perhaps that was part of his charm. But Mia Sharpe didn't get flustered easily—certainly not by handsome young men with accents. 

"An enigma," he clarified, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that suggested he wanted more than just a conversation. "A mystery wrapped in sophistication."

"Sounds like a fancy way of calling me old," Mia teased back, her heart beating a fraction faster, not from offense but from the unexpectedly thrilling game they seemed to be playing.

"Never," Chan replied, his voice smooth as silk. "Age ain’t nothing but a number, throwing down ain’t nothing than a thing…. And anyways, 30s isn’t that old. I’m practically 30 myself."

His words hung between them, bold and flirtatious, and for a fleeting second, Mia allowed herself to bask in the glow of his attention. She cocked her head to the side. “Did you just quote Aaliyah to me?” she asked with a grin, which he returned with a smirk. “And also, I am way past my 30s.” 

“You certainly don’t look it,” he said softly as his eyes traveled down her body and back up. 

Okay, Mia thought, so he’s going full throttle into flirt mode. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Chan," she said, her tone light and her smile easy. 

Chan smirked as he took a step closer to her. There was a spark in his eye that told Mia this was far from over. 

Mia took a step back and leaned against the cool wall, her gaze flickering to the group of fans crowding around the tables where the rest of Chan's members were busy signing autographs and taking selfies. Somewhere in that mass of youthful excitement was Lianna, probably beaming from ear to ear as she collected signatures for her birthday.

The dim lighting of the venue glinted off Chan’s small silver hoop earrings and chains around his neck as he stepped closer again, closing the gap Mia had put between them. "So, no love for the music yourself?" His voice was low and sultry. 

The corner of Mia's mouth curled upward involuntarily. There was something undeniably charming about how he picked up on her detachment, but also his fearlessness. "Let's just say you won’t find any Stray Kids songs on any of my usual playlists."

"Is that so?" His tone danced with amusement as he grinned. Mia wondered how often he encountered women who could resist his charisma. She was finding it difficult to do so herself. "Then what are you into?" he asked, leaning one arm against the wall beside her, creating an intimate space amidst the chaos. "Your usual playlist, I mean." He smirked.

"Classic R&B, 80s and 90s Hip Hop, mostly. Some pop," she replied, meeting his intense gaze with a steady one of her own. Guys his age usually never looked her directly in the eyes. "Music you can feel in your bones, in your soul, you know?"

Chan nodded. “I can respect that, although I think my music can make you… feel things,” he said softly, with a hint of mischief in his voice. 

"Maybe it could," Mia shot back with a smile. “I’d have to assess first though.”

Inside, her mind was a whirlwind of conflict. She had just sworn off men and she was here for Lianna. Engaging in flirty banter with a man nearly half her age, no matter how intriguing or attractive he might be, was not on her to-do list for the night. But there was something about Chan that made her want to linger in their conversation just a moment longer.

“You can do that tonight.”

"Challenge accepted," she said. 

Chan leaned in closer, his voice low and teasing. "Next time you're at one of our concerts, you’ll have to tell me what you felt… and where you felt it." He licked his bottom lip slowly.

Mia arched an eyebrow at his comment, her eyes dipping down to catch the movement at his mouth. It made her smirk. "Assuming there'll be a next time," she retorted smoothly. She was aware of how close he was now, her eyes flickering between his eyes and his puffy, pink lips; his presence was an unexpected force that seemed to draw her in against her better judgment.

"Ah, so there's hope that we can convert you to a fan, yeah?" Chan's grin was infectious, and despite herself, Mia felt a laugh bubble up from within. He was laying on the charm thick, and she had to admit, he was damn good at it.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," she managed to say, though the laughter in her voice softened the rebuff. "I'm still more likely to attend a Janet concert than another one of yours."

"Ouch," he feigned hurt, placing a hand over his heart. "That's cold, Mia."

The way her name rolled off his tongue in that Australian accent made Mia cross her legs. 

Chan tilted his head, observing Mia as she leaned casually against the wall, one hand combing through her hair and her legs crossed in a relaxed stance that somehow still managed to exude confidence. The surrounding crowd's energy buzzed with excitement, yet she seemed to exist in a bubble of calm indifference.

"Most people here would kill for a backstage pass, for a chance to talk to me, or any of us, for more than a minute," Chan remarked, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity. "You don't seem the least bit phased."

Mia shrugged, a playful twinkle in her eyes. "Maybe I'm just good at hiding my inner fangirl," she teased. The corner of her mouth quirked up in a half-smile, revealing she was enjoying this as much as he was.

"Or maybe you're just incredibly good at playing it cool," he countered, inching even closer. 

"Playing it cool implies effort," Mia replied with a smirk. She dropped the volume of her voice before continuing, "Trust me, if I were trying, you'd know."

Chan let out a low chuckle, the sound mingling with the distant chatter across the room. "Is that so?" he mused aloud, the smile never leaving his lips. He leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "Then I guess I'll have to work harder to get a reaction out of you."

"Good luck with that," Mia shot back, her tone laced with a hint of challenge. Mia noted that his flirting game was top notch, each of his words carefully chosen to entice and provoke. Yet, instead of feeling pressured or uncomfortable, she felt invigorated by their verbal back-and-forth. She was surprised that someone so young could keep up with her sharp wit.

"Challenge accepted," Chan said mimicking her earlier declaration, his gaze locked with hers, searching for any sign of vulnerability.

“Seems we both have challenges tonight.” She grinned.

"You enjoy sparring," Chan observed, leaning in ever so slightly, as if sharing a secret.

"Who doesn't?" Mia retorted, her heartbeat quickening despite herself. "Especially when it's with someone who can keep up."

"Keeping up is one thing," Chan replied, his voice dropping to a murmur that only she could hear. "But overtaking… and winning? That's the real game." His hand subtly brushed against hers, a fleeting touch that sent a ripple of electricity through her. She watched as he grinned while his tongue pushed outward on his left cheek.

She casually pulled away her hand. Although, Mia caught herself wondering what it would be like to not pull away, to explore this unexpected connection further. 

But nope. Not what she was here for.

"There you are!" The exuberant voice of Lianna cut through the hum of conversations. Mia turned to see her bouncing toward them. “Oh, Chan!” she exclaimed, when she noticed him standing there. Her cheeks were flushed from seeing him again.

"Hey there," Chan pushed away from the wall to greet her, his attention shifting momentarily to acknowledge Lianna before returning to Mia with a playful glint in his eye.

"Aunt Mimi, Nick texted me. They just got here." Lianna said quickly. Mia was unsure if Lianna was oblivious to the charged atmosphere she had just interrupted or if she was just ignoring it. Given how Lianna’s eyes darted back and forth between Chan and Mia, Mia figured it was the latter.

Before Mia could respond, she noticed Chan’s lips curling into an amused smile.

"Auntie Mimi, is it now?" he echoed, the nickname rolling off his tongue with an easy familiarity, emphasizing 'Auntie' with a drawn-out intonation that resonated in his very sexy Australian accent, teasing yet respectful. 

A warm chuckle bubbled up from Mia's chest, despite her best efforts to maintain a composed facade. “Don’t call me that. Only she gets to call me that.”

“I think Auntie Mimi suits you,” Chan winked. “It’s very cute.”

"Don’t be a dick Chan," she managed to say, trying not to show how much she enjoyed the sound of her nickname in his voice. But deep down, under layers of self-imposed restraint, Mia couldn't deny the flutter in her stomach.

"Me? A dick? Never," Chan laughed, and even Lianna caught onto the playful exchange, raising her eyebrows at Mia. Mia pretended not to notice.

Chan turned to Lianna, “So who’s your bias?” he asked.

Without hesitation, Lianna answered, “Changbin!” and then after a few seconds she added, “Oh, and you too, of course.” Mia laughed loudly at the unintentional dig.

Chan grabbed his chest. “Ouch! The two of you like to hurl daggers!” he exclaimed with a laugh. "Changbin, you say?" Chan pulled out his phone, the screen casting a pale glow against his features. "Let's see if we can make your birthday unforgettable."

Mia watched with a mix of admiration and bemusement as Chan tapped away at his device, his thumbs flying over the digital keyboard with practiced ease. Within seconds, he was nodding to himself, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye.

"Done," he announced, pocketing the phone. "There might be some extra Changbin goodies heading your way, Lianna."

"Seriously!?!" Lianna's voice reached an octave that Mia wasn't sure was entirely human. "You really are my second favorite though," she said, clearly feeling bad about not saying his name first. 

"Only the best for our fans, even if I’m in second place." Chan’s smile was genuine, his dimples deepening as he basked in Lianna's delight. One of the Stray Kids’ staff members made his way through the crowd to bring over several merch items: a t-shirt and Dwaekki SKZOO for Lianna. 

"That’s very sweet Chan. Thank you," Mia said. 

A minute later, Changbin joined them to sign the merch and chat with Lianna, who looked as if she was about to lose her shit.

"Speaking of thanks..." Chan turned towards Mia. “This one’s for you Auntie Mimi.” He produced a wolf plush toy with a mischievous twinkle in its stitched eyes. 

"For me?" Mia blinked, accepting the plushie. It was soft, unexpectedly comforting to hold. "You didn't have to—"

"Ah, but I wanted to." His gaze locked onto hers, playful yet intense. "Every fan gets a memory to cherish, right?"

"Even the non-fans?" Mia teased, holding up the plushie between them. It seemed to wink at her, embodying Chan's own cheeky charm. “He looks like you. Same cute grin.”

"He’s Wolf Chan. So, you think I’m cute, huh?" He grinned proudly. Mia rolled her eyes, but laughed at him. Chan nodded toward one of the nearby staff. "Let's capture the moment, shall we?"

“I’ll grab one for Li on my phone.”

Changbin and Chan positioned Lianna in between them and posed for the cameras. The staff member and Mia captured a few shots each. 

“Get in Aunt Mimi,” Lianna beckoned her excitedly. 

“Yeah, Auntie Mimi,” Chan mimicked. “Give Ji the phone; he can take it.” 

Mia handed off the phone and walked over next to Chan, who settled his arm comfortably around her waist. She gave him a side eye, which he pretended to ignore as he kept his gaze forward and smiled for the camera.

The staff person juggled the two phones to capture the shots. “Thanks Ji,” Chan said as he took the phones and handed Mia’s back to her. She noticed that his other arm was still around her waist. 

"Thanks," Mia murmured, preparing to step away. Yet, as Chan retracted his arm, his fingers brushed ever so slightly against the curve of her lower back. It was a whisper of touch that sent a shiver cascading down her spine, a touch she told herself was merely accidental.

But then, his hand paused at her hip, his thumb and fingers giving the flesh just above her hip bone a gentle squeeze in a way that could only be intentional. For a moment, time seemed to slow, and Mia caught her breath. As Chan joked around with Changbin and Lianna, moving closer to them, he let go. A few seconds later, he turned back to look at her. 

"Thanks again, Chan," Mia said, steadying her voice.

"Anytime, Auntie Mimi," he shot back with a grin, and Mia had to admit, there was something thrilling about being on the receiving end of that smile. He leaned in a bit closer to her so that only she could hear him. "Would you... like to meet up after the show? Maybe for a drink…. or four?" The ask was tentative, but Chan's intentions were clear.

"Chan," she began, the name rolling off her tongue with unfamiliar ease, "you've been very kind to the old lady at your show, but I’ll have to pass. My date and I have very strict instructions to return straight home after the concert.” 

Chan's smile didn't waver, but something in his eyes shifted—a hint of disappointment, perhaps? He ran a hand through his tousled hair. The simple gesture was disarmingly casual. "Got it. It was a pleasure to meet you, Auntie Mimi," he said, his tone sincere. 

“Mia,” she corrected him with a smile. 

“Right. Mia.” He grinned back. ���Enjoy the show.”

“Bye,” Lianna waved enthusiastically to the two idols. 

As they parted ways, Mia couldn't help but glance back over her shoulder. Chan was already being swallowed by a sea of eager fans, but their eyes connected for a brief moment, before they each moved in their opposite directions.

"Come on, Aunt Mimi, we're gonna miss the opening act!" Lianna's voice cut through Mia's tangled thoughts, prompting her to cast one last glance at Chan.

"Right behind you, kid," Mia replied, though her feet felt oddly reluctant to move. Mia allowed Lianna to tug her away, their path weaving through the crowd. As they walked through the arena, the thumping bass of the concert's opening number began to envelop them, yet it couldn't drown out the silent symphony of Mia's racing thoughts.

"Oh my god, Changbin is so damn gorgeous! And he gave me a hug with those huge arms. Aaah! Did you see how Chan gave you that SKZOO? He totally fucking likes you!" Lianna's rambling broke through Mia’s thoughts.

"He was just being nice," Mia countered, but even as she said it, she knew her words lacked conviction. 

"Nice? No way; he was definitely flirting. There are rumors out there that he’s secretly a total player. And a lot of his songs are about sex. When I walked up, he was all up in your personal space. It looked like he had you pressed against the wall. You should have seen your faces. You were basically eye fucking each other." Lianna giggled, nudging Mia playfully. “He’s hot right?”

“He’s okay…”

“Oh, whatever Aunt Mia. Chan is fucking hot and you know it.”

Mia couldn’t help but agree with Lianna. Chan was fucking hot. She bit her lip as she thought about the way he stared into her eyes, leaned into her space, licked his lips, whispered in her ear….

Mia shook her head, trying to push away the fluttering in her stomach. She was a grown woman, far too sensible to get caught up in a fantasy. Especially not with a K-pop idol young enough to be...

"Stop it," Mia muttered under her breath, berating herself for even entertaining such ridiculous thoughts.

As they walked towards their seats, Mia couldn't shake the sensation of Chan's arm around her waist, his fingers on her skin, the way his hand had purposefully squeezed her hip. It was an invitation, a question, a dare—all wrapped up in a simple gesture.

The encounter left her simultaneously intrigued and wary, her mind warring with the desire to explore the tantalizing 'what ifs' and the need to maintain the stable, uncomplicated life she was trying to build for herself.

A/N: Song: Age Ain't Nothing But a Number Artist: Aaliyah