#it might be quiet for a little longer...but soon

[bobbedazzled]

— ‘ Your ring is their biggest motivation ‘

𝜗𝜚 ˚⋆ pairing: zayne, caleb, rafayel x reader

𝜗𝜚 ˚⋆ content: post honeymoon, fluff, suggestive 

𝜗𝜚 ˚⋆ a/n: short drabble/ramble. minor edits.

^ྀི Zayne

He walks the hospital halls radiant, wearing a soft, dreamy smile that unsettles those around him. His tone has thawed, sharp edges dulled by affection as he hums the unfinished chorus of a song that played endlessly during your month-long escape. At home, he honors the little boundaries you set, abiding by your curfew with comical discipline, and demanding reward for coming home early. And when he's late, he lets you scold him, secretly delighted by your want for him.

On nights that fall too soon, when the house goes to bed without him, he slips beneath the covers while you sleep, pressing close until his arms cradle you. In the dark, his fingers find the diamond on your hand, brushing over it gently. He buries his face in your scent, that soft floral note gifted by guests, and squeezes you closer, almost hoping to wake you.

The scent of your skin pulls him back to moonlit nights spent tangled together, an ending you reached at the close of every day. The scenes replay in his mind as he holds you, your voice echoing in the stillness of the bedroom. His hand slips under your shirt, tracing slow patterns that mimic the lace you wore the night after the reception. His lips find your neck as he gently guides your arm around his shoulders.

And when you stir in his arms, fingers lazily playing with his hair, he whispers apologies between kisses.

“My love, did I wake you?”

^ྀི Caleb

He’d never admit to being susceptible to Farspace Fever, the homesickness that plagued novice officers. He pretended to be immune to the emotional turbulence that softened younger men, scoffing at those who grew sentimental over the idea of "home." But now, drifting in the endless void, the afterglow of his honeymoon barely fading, Caleb finds himself infected by the very thing he once mocked.

He hears you on the nights he needs you most, body flushes with the need for your presence in the silence of his chamber. The memory of you haunts him: the way your waist fit perfectly in his hands, the sweetness of your lips after a night of champagne, your pleas as he melted into you. All of it worsens the throbbing his hands worked to pacify.

He stands tall with the cosmos before him, but his fingers drift to the silver band, tracing it as if it might summon your voice from across the stars. He left too soon, still wrapped in the warmth of shared vows and lazy, bedridden mornings. Deepspace is driving him mad with longing, love, and the unbearable knowledge of what waits for him, light years away.

^ྀི Rafayel

When galleries request his presence, or collectors salivate over the newfound vibrancy in his work, he declines with the same stubbornness as before. Thomas has lost what little authority he once held. Barging into the studio to demand updates on deadlines and commissions, the wall he’s used to speaking to has only hardened.

"I'm on my honeymoon," Rafayel replies, not looking up, his brush still dancing across the canvas.

He guards his new creations fiercely because they carry fragments of you. His seascapes are no longer about longing or distance, but about return. His brush follows the vision of you etched in his mind. Your silhouette glowing against cerulean waves, mimicking the ruined white linen dyed in starlight-- a canvas for the delicate curves only his hand remembers. Color crowds his palette. The quiet gasp when his lips first met yours. The way your fingertips traced his back. The warmth of your body sinking into his. He paints the moment the world slipped away, and all that remained was how you make midnights feel like forever.

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 24

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence, smut

notes;

previous ✧

Later that day, the armies of Prythian managed to regroup and return to the newly relocated camp. The journey took significantly longer due to the abrupt shift south, deeper into the wild terrain near the Winter Court. The chill was brutal. Snow and biting winds swept through the hills, and the air itself seemed to gnaw at the bones of every soldier. Warriors were slower to recover, their bodies taxed not only by battle but now by exposure to relentless cold.

The main strategy tent, now reinforced against the elements, was a haze of breath and frustration. Maps covered the central table, ink bottles shaken by the trembling of warriors still riding the edge of exhaustion.

Helion slammed his palm against the table, rattling cups and causing one of the candles to flicker violently. "When is this going to fucking end? No fucking progress! We're only losing land and warriors. Day after day, and we’re no closer to forcing Koshiev to retreat."

Kallias, seated across from him and draped in his court’s fur-lined cloak, lifted a hand. "Calm down, would you? You screaming about it won’t make the snow melt or win the war faster."

"Easy for you to say," Helion shot back. "You’re used to this gods-forsaken cold. My soldiers are freezing their asses off every night, and now we’re fighting on ice while trying to hold ground we didn’t choose!"

Cassian leaned against a support beam near the map, arms crossed tightly. "This location is not ideal, I won’t deny it. But it’s safe. The wards are holding, the new defenses are working. It’s the best option we had after the attack."

"And yet we’re still losing," Helion growled. "No matter how safe this place is, we can’t keep pulling back. Every step south is a step closer to losing this war."

Rhysand’s face was carved from stone, his violet eyes unreadable. "We can’t afford to fracture now. We’ve lost ground, yes—but we haven’t lost the war. The new plan is already in motion."

Thesan, seated with his mate quietly beside him, added with a calm yet sharp tone, "The moment we start panicking is the moment he wins. Koshiev wants chaos. He wants this anger. Stay sharp, or stay silent."

There was a tense silence.

Beron, from his dark corner of the room, finally spoke. "He’s bleeding us out, little by little. And if we don’t find a way to cut off his advance soon, it won’t matter what camp we hide in."

"Then maybe," Helion muttered, running a hand through his golden curls, "it’s time to stop hiding."

The murmurs that followed weren’t loud, but they were enough to signal that the table had reached a dangerous tipping point.

Rhysand’s voice was quiet, but cold as the wind outside. "We hold. We adapt. And we plan the strike that will cost him. We don’t charge into death for the sake of pride."

Another silence. One heavier than the last.

War pressed down from every direction. And even here, in what should have been their most secure circle, the strain was beginning to show.

Then Cassian stepped forward, dropping a thick, scorched helmet onto the center of the table with a dull thud.

"We might have found something."

Several heads turned sharply.

"What is that?" Helion asked, frowning.

Rhysand answered, his tone edged with calculation. "One of the helmets carried by what we believe are Koshiev’s generals—or what passes for generals in his army."

Cassian nodded, expression grim. "The moment I killed him, every creature around him dropped. Just collapsed. Like something inside them had been snuffed out."

He looked around the table. "We think these creatures are vessels. Koshiev’s vessels. He’s divided his power among them, enough to control the battlefield remotely. Kill a vessel—kill the hive it commands."

The room went quiet, all eyes now locked on the battered helmet.

And for the first time in days, the silence wasn’t just heavy.

It was hopeful.

Beron scoffed. "Well, at least now we know what to aim for. Let’s go do a hide and seek with them—amazing. Let’s just wait for them to find this new camp and try to destroy it while we play scavenger hunt."

Tamlin turned sharply toward him. "Would you stop saying nonsense, please? If all our soldiers are alive today, it’s because the camp got moved. If it being 25 kilometers off course disturbs you, you are more than welcome to retire, old man."

There were a few stifled chuckles around the table. Thesan arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Kallias didn’t bother to hide his smirk. Even Rhysand’s lips quirked slightly. Viviane gave Tamlin a rare look of appreciation, and even Tarquin shook his head at Beron with thinly veiled annoyance.

Beron’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.

Helion cut through the rising tension. "Either way, thank you for this discovery. I’m sure that if we all take it into account, it will bring us to the source of the problem—and we’ll be able to manage it."

The quiet that followed was one of agreement, however reluctant.

For the first time in days, they had a thread to pull. A target.

And the beginnings of a plan. 

The tent flap shifted before anyone could answer. Cold wind swept in—and with it, Lucien.

Heads turned sharply as he stepped inside. He looked terrible. Mud-spattered, cloaked in exhaustion, his russet eye dull with fatigue while the golden one flickered, agitated and grim.

Rhys stood straighter. “You’re back.”

Lucien nodded once. “From the mortal lands. And we’ve learned something.”

He didn't bother to sit. Just stepped toward the table and dropped a sealed scroll onto the maps. “Vassa’s connection to Koshiev… it helped. She felt it—like a thread, fraying. And we traced it back.”

“What did you find?” Feyre asked, already reaching for the scroll.

Lucien’s jaw tensed. “You were right about the generals. But it’s worse than you thought.”

He glanced at Cassian, at the scorched helmet on the table.

“Koshiev isn’t just sending them orders. He’s dividing his soul among them. He’s literally fragmenting pieces of himself—planting them inside these ‘vessels.’ That’s why killing them weakens his entire force.”

A heavy silence fell.

“He’s tethered to them,” Lucien continued, voice low. “Every one we kill is a piece of him cut away. A slow bleed.”

“Which means,” Rhys said slowly, eyes narrowing, “we can kill him. If we sever enough pieces—”

“He’ll be vulnerable,” Lucien confirmed. “Maybe even mortal.”

Rhysand leaned forward again, gaze sweeping the room. "What about the healers? How are we doing on this battlefield?"

It wasn’t Y/N who answered.

Veras, seated beside Thesan and wrapped in Winter Court furs, lifted his chin. "Well, other than the fact that we’re missing our head, things are pretty smooth. Well—not really—but we’re dealing with everything. Supplies are good. We just had a harder start that night since everyone arrived much later due to the camp displacement."

Thesan’s brow furrowed. "Where is Y/N?"

Veras replied without missing a beat, "She’s fine. Just resting. She used a lot of her powers."

Beron let out a short, amused laugh under his breath.

No one looked at him.

Except Cassian, who slowly turned toward him, gaze darkening, jaw tight. He didn’t speak—he didn’t have to. The warning in his stare was clear: say one more thing and see what happens.

Helion cleared his throat sharply and muttered, “Idiots never know when to shut up.”

Kallias gave Beron a bored glance, unimpressed. “If laughing at the wounded is what you bring to these meetings, no wonder your court can’t hold a border.”

Tarquin leaned back in his chair with a visible roll of his eyes. “Let’s not waste more breath on someone who hasn’t contributed a single useful thing to this war.”

Beron didn’t answer. His narrowed eyes flicked from face to face—but he knew better than to push it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was unified.

And Beron, for once, didn’t speak again.

Rhysand rested both palms on the table, voice firm. “The front line is going to move. That’s no longer a question—it’s a certainty.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

“It’ll be closer to here,” Cassian added, nodding toward the newest map spread across the table. “We’re too deep in now, and pulling back further would mean sacrificing not just land—but momentum.”

Thesan’s mate leaned forward, tapping one of the southern points on the border sketch. “Then we’ll need to reinforce the new perimeter immediately. Especially if Koshiev’s forces shift direction faster than we can react.”

Tarquin frowned, arms crossed tightly. “How close are we talking?”

“Days, maybe less,” Cassian answered. “We’ve seen the scouts on the ridge. They’re already testing our new positions.”

“And if the front gets any closer,” Helion muttered, eyes narrowing, “we’re looking at a camp that won’t just house healers and war councils—it’ll become a battlefield.”

Kallias exhaled, the cold in his breath curling like frost. “Then we better make damn sure we’re ready for that.”

“There are civilians,” Viviane reminded gently, “injured who can’t be moved again. If this becomes a fight zone—”

“We defend it,” Rhys cut in. “We dig trenches, raise shields, rotate shifts. Whatever it takes.”

“And the healers?” Thesan asked. “They’re exhausted.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Helion muttered.

“But we won’t abandon this ground,” Rhysand said. “We hold this line—if only to prove to Koshiev that Prythian does not kneel.”

A silence followed.

Not of doubt—but of acceptance.

War was coming closer.

And they would have to meet it head-on.

And on the other side of the camp, far from the voices and the maps and the growing weight of the war council, Azriel was still holding you in his arms.

You hadn’t stirred.

He had barely moved either.

One hand traced slow, silent circles on your back, over the marks and tattoos that now lived there—stars and shadows and sunbound magic still faintly pulsing in your skin. His other arm remained wrapped tightly around you, as if letting go might unravel something he wasn’t sure he could piece back together.

He had been like that for hours.

His thoughts weren’t loud—they were still. Heavy. Looping over themselves like smoke trapped in a sealed room.

Maybe this had been it.

The moment Elain had seen.

You had looked like her vision. Pale. Blood trailing from your ears and mouth. Your body limp, crumpled under the weight of your own magic. You had been too quiet. Too cold. And he had held you then just like this. Terrified he would never feel your heart beat again.

Maybe the vision was fulfilled.

Maybe the worst was over.

Maybe the Fates were done playing with his soul.

But still…

Azriel pressed his lips to your temple, gently, like it might soothe his own storm.

He knew better.

The only moment he would stop worrying was when this war was over. When the last arrow had been fired, the last creature cut down. When Koshiev was gone. When the blood was washed off every stone and every hand that had fought.

When you were both back home. In Velaris. In your bed. With the windows open and the scent of night-blooming jasmine curling through the room. Your laughter replacing the echo of battlefield screams.

Only then would he stop holding his breath.

Only then would he believe you were truly safe.

He felt it—just the faintest shift.

Your fingers twitched. Your breathing hitched, shallow and uncertain.

Then, your voice, hoarse and confused: “Az?”

His heart clenched. Relief crashed through him like a wave, and he leaned in immediately. “Yes, my love?” His voice was barely more than a breath.

You blinked, the weight of sleep and pain still thick in your limbs, and then—suddenly—you sat up, eyes wide and wild.

“Oh gods—the camp. Where are we? Why—did I do it? Is everyone safe?!”

“Hey—hey, calm down.” Azriel moved quickly, guiding you back down with steady, gentle hands. “Calm down, you need to rest. You nearly burned yourself out, Y/N.”

He eased you onto your side so you could still see him. One of his wings stretched over you like a protective shroud, wrapping you in warmth and safety, shutting out the world.

His shadows curled around the edges of the cot like quiet sentinels.

“You did it,” he said, voice softer now, reverent. “You teleported the whole gods-damned camp. Everyone is safe.”

His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing the line of dried blood beneath your eye. “And on the name of the Mother, next time you do something like that—I wouldn’t mind a word of warning.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours. “When I arrived at the old location… I thought you were dead. Or taken.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just closed your eyes, leaned into his touch, and let his presence hold you together.

Because right now, that was the only thing in the world that didn’t feel like it was still unraveling.

You stayed like that for a moment—his forehead resting against yours, his wing draped over you like a second skin, his hands never leaving your body, as if you might vanish again if he so much as blinked.

Eventually, you let out a small, raspy sigh. “I think… I might owe Ather an apology.”

Azriel pulled back slightly, raising a brow. “Oh?”

You winced, your voice still scratchy with exhaustion. “I may have… dragged him with me to the edge of the camp. While the enemy was coming. Didn’t tell him the plan. Told him to catch me right before I collapsed. And then teleported the entire camp with zero warning.”

Az blinked, processing.

“And I mean zero warning,” you added, eyes wide. “Just full celestial implosion. Blood. Light. Probably a traumatic spiritual experience.”

Azriel blinked again, and then huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “So that’s what that was.”

You snorted softly, curling closer to him. “Yeah… he’s probably never going to speak to me again.”

Azriel shook his head, trying—and failing—not to smile. “I saw him, actually.”

Your eyes flicked to his. “You did? Oh no. Is he okay?”

Azriel’s lips twitched. “He was fine. Just, you know… a little dramatic.”

You burst out laughing, which made your ribs hurt, and you had to clutch your side with a groan. “Ow—don’t make me laugh. I’m too broken for that.”

Azriel chuckled and leaned in to kiss your cheek, letting his nose trail against your skin. “He might have collapsed dramatically in a chair and yelled about seeing his ancestors. Elira told him to shut up.”

“Oh my gods,” you wheezed. “I did break him.”

Az smiled against your temple. “He called you terrifying, you know.”

“Aw.” You patted your chest. “I’m so proud.”

You both laughed, softly this time. Carefully. But it felt good. Right.

Azriel’s arms tightened around you, pulling you more fully into his chest.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I wasn’t gone that long,” you murmured, even as your fingers reached up to trace the edge of his jaw.

“You were,” he said. “Too long. Even a minute’s too long when I think you’re gone.”

You kissed his collarbone, right above his heart. “I’m here, Az. I’ll always come back to you.”

He exhaled, shaky and slow, and let his hand rest over yours.

“I’ll hold you to that, love,” he whispered.

And for a few precious minutes, with the storm held just beyond the tent walls, you both let yourselves breathe.

Your lips brushed his collarbone again, and he tilted his head down—his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that could have burned away the snow outside. His thumb ghosted over your jaw, rough fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek.

You leaned up.

And kissed him.

Slow. Deep. Lingering. Like you were searching for something in his mouth, and like he already knew the answer.

Azriel melted into it for a moment, his hand slipping behind your neck, his thumb stroking your pulse like a grounding point. Your fingers curled into his chest, over his heart, and you kissed him again—this time with a little more need. A little more urgency. A silent please.

You pressed closer, shifting your body so your thigh brushed his. Azriel inhaled sharply, breaking the kiss, his forehead falling against yours.

“Y/N,” he said softly—gently, but firm. “No. We can’t.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Why not?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face. “Because you nearly died. Your body is still recovering. You’re weak, and your magic is barely holding together. I—” He exhaled, jaw clenching. “I can’t risk hurting you.”

You searched his face, your hand lifting to cradle his cheek. “You won’t.”

“Y/N—”

You shook your head, stopping him. “I need you, Az.”

Your voice was quiet, not seductive—but raw. Full of something desperate and aching.

“I need to feel you. Not because I want sex, not like that. I just—I need to feel alive. I need to know I’m still here. That you’re still here. That we’re not losing each other in this war too.”

Azriel stared at you, his throat bobbing with emotion. You leaned in, pressing another soft kiss to his lips, barely more than a breath.

“Just let me hold you,” you whispered. “Let me have you. Just for a little while.”

And gods—he couldn’t say no to that. Not when your voice cracked like that. Not when you looked at him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

Azriel didn’t move at first.

Even after you whispered those words—I need you, I need to feel you—he held you tighter, like part of him still feared this was a dream he’d wake from.

But when you kissed him again, slowly, with a trembling sort of hunger behind it, his restraint broke. Not in a rush. Not with urgency. But in the way a dam slowly begins to crack under the weight of everything it’s been holding back.

He shifted just enough to hover above you, never leaving the warmth of the covers or the nest of his wings that still cocooned you both in shadow. His hand moved to your cheek, thumb brushing softly over your skin. “Are you sure?” he murmured, voice rough with emotion.

You nodded. “I need you, Az. Like this.”

The look he gave you then—pure, reverent, devastated—would have stolen your breath if you hadn’t already given it to him long ago.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing softly against yours. You whimpered softly into his mouth, arching your back just slightly, enough to press your chest to his. The friction alone made you sigh.

Azriel’s hands trailed down, slow and careful, worshipful. He treated your body like something sacred—his fingertips drawing lines of fire across your ribs, your hips, the curve of your thighs. When he dipped lower, he watched your face the whole time, as if your breath were more important than his own.

Your legs parted with instinct, and he settled between them, keeping nearly all his weight off you, his arms bracketing your sides. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, voice ragged.

You nodded again, breath hitching when his fingers slid between your legs, brushing lightly, learning what your body needed all over again.

He took his time—circling, teasing, coaxing soft gasps from your lips as you clung to his shoulders. His shadows curled behind you, as if they, too, needed to hold you together.

When you were ready—so ready—he paused, his forehead resting against yours. His voice shook when he said, “I don’t think I can ever let you go again.”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Stay.”

And then he was inside you—slowly, so slowly, as if he thought the world might shatter if he moved too fast.

The stretch was deep, the joining perfect. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your mouth brushing the shell of his ear as you moaned his name, quiet and reverent.

Azriel moved with a rhythm that was more love than lust—deep and rolling, his lips murmuring against your throat, your shoulder, your chest. You felt him everywhere. You were him in that moment. No war. No pain. Just this.

His name broke from your lips again when his pace deepened, and he groaned against your skin. “You feel like home,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You are my home.”

Your release built like a wave—slow but powerful—drawing tighter and tighter around him. And when you shattered, you did it with his name in your mouth and his breath on your skin.

He followed a moment later, with a broken gasp, burying himself in you as your hands clung to his back like lifelines.

Afterward, he didn’t move far. He just shifted enough to lie beside you again, still inside you, still holding you like the world outside the tent no longer existed.

Your heartbeats slowed together.

His wing covered you both once more.

“I love you,” he said, barely audible.

You smiled into his chest, kissed the space over his heart, and whispered, “I know.”

And this time, there was no fear when you closed your eyes. Just warmth. Just him. And the bond pulsing steady and sure between you.

Both of you had woken sometime after midnight, the quiet outside your tent laced with the low murmurs of guards rotating shifts and the whistle of wind slipping through snow-dusted canvas.

Azriel had tensed before you’d even stirred.

We’re coming, Rhys’s voice echoed down the bond.

Azriel groaned quietly, dragging a hand down his face.

Don’t start, came the immediate follow-up. Shut the fuck up. We’re worried about her too.

And that was that.

Now, Azriel sat above the covers, dressed in a fresh tunic, hair still damp from washing, his hand laced with yours. You remained under the blankets, warm and bundled, exhaustion still a weight behind your eyes, but you’d dressed the best you could. You were not facing the inner circle in nothing but sweat and shadows, not even half-dead.

The moment was quiet.

Until four heads popped through the flap of the tent in perfect sync.

You blinked.

Azriel sighed heavily. “Gods.”

Feyre’s face was tight with concern, her hair windblown, cheeks flushed. Mor peeked in beside her, grinning like she couldn’t help it. Cassian looked too big for the tent, ducking awkwardly and nearly elbowing Rhys in the face as he pushed in behind them.

“Are we interrupting?” Mor asked sweetly, eyeing the way Azriel was cradling your hand. “Because it definitely smells like afterglow in here.”

Cassian snorted. “MOR.”

Rhys gave her a deadpan look. “Can you not?”

“Come in,” you croaked, a laugh threatening your sore ribs. “We’re not glowing, we’re just... alive.”

Feyre rushed to your side, slipping her hand over your shoulder. “Barely,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “You scared us.”

“Good,” you smiled. “I like to keep things interesting.”

Cassian crouched by the foot of the bed, looking you over with sharp eyes despite his casual posture. “You’re pale as death. But impressive as hell.”

“I’m starting to think your standards for compliments are a little skewed,” you murmured.

Rhys finally stepped forward, arms crossed, his expression more tightly guarded—but Azriel knew him too well. There was fear in his eyes. Deep and quiet.

“I thought we lost you,” Rhys said softly.

Azriel tensed beside you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I thought so too,” you admitted, voice quieter than before.

Mor crossed the tent and plopped herself gracefully on the edge of Azriel’s cot, leaning toward you with her signature half-smile. “Next time you want to move a mountain or a camp, please remember to include a note. Or a sparkly warning. Or maybe, like, a firework.”

“I’ll consider it,” you said, blinking heavily.

The silence after that wasn’t empty.

It was full. With worry. With love. With relief.

They had come for you.

And gods, it felt good to be found.

Once the initial flood of emotion passed, they all found places around the tent—no one in a hurry to leave. Mor spun a chair backward and draped herself over it like a queen at ease. Cassian sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against a chest with his arms resting on his knees. Feyre stayed close to you, perched gently at your side on the edge of the cot. Rhysand settled across from her, lounging on a folded blanket, his elbows braced on his thighs, violet eyes watchful.

The air was warm despite the frost outside. Comfortable, in a way only battle-worn bonds could provide.

You shifted beneath the covers and looked to Rhys. “So… what’s the plan now? For the rest of the war?”

Cassian and Rhysand exchanged a look.

“It’s going to be full force,” Cassian said. “Every court. Every general. Every soldier. Coordinated deployment. We can’t keep pulling punches.”

Rhys nodded. “We’re launching everything. A simultaneous strike. No more stalling. No more waiting for him to bring the fight to us.”

Your brows furrowed. “That’s dangerous.”

“It’s necessary,” Rhys said gently. “We don’t have the luxury of time anymore. If we don’t act now, Koshiev will keep spreading—feeding. The front line is already crawling forward again.”

You sighed, the weight of the words settling into your chest. You squeezed Azriel’s hand above the blankets, and he gave you a quiet, steady pressure in return.

“So that’s it then,” you murmured. “A final push.”

Cassian’s voice was quiet. “The beginning of the end.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. “Where’s Nesta?”

Cassian leaned his head back against the chest behind him. “She’s still with the Night Court priestesses. Gwyn got hurt pretty bad—took a hit during the last surge. Nesta and Emerie are staying by her side.”

The guilt was instant. Your stomach twisted. The thought of Nesta keeping watch while you laid here useless—

“I’ll go tomorrow,” you said, trying to sound firmer than you felt. “I should be fine by then.”

No one corrected you. No one told you to rest.

But the way Azriel’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand told you everything.

A soft shuffle of boots outside the tent made everyone turn.

The flap lifted.

And in stepped Nesta.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said dryly, glancing around at the stunned expressions. “Is this some kind of Night Court meeting I’m not allowed to join?”

Laughter broke out immediately.

Cassian smirked and patted the space beside him. “Perfect timing, we were just talking about you—and Gwyn.”

Nesta sat beside him, her body language still cool, but her eyes warmed slightly as she looked your way. “She’s doing better. Veras is with her now. Emery stayed behind to help. They’ll both be here tomorrow if Gwyn’s fever breaks.”

You nodded, relieved. “Good.”

A quiet settled over the tent again, heavy but no longer tense.

Then Rhysand looked around the circle, his gaze slow and contemplative. “I realized… we haven’t done it yet.”

You raised a brow. “Done what?”

Everyone stilled—knowing exactly what he meant.

Rhys slowly reached his hand out to Feyre.

You pushed yourself upright with effort, teeth clenched at the ache in your ribs, but Azriel moved without question—adjusting to help you lean against him.

You placed your hand gently in his.

Then you reached out and grabbed Mor’s hand. Azriel holded yours and Cassian’s. Cassian turned to Nesta and laced their fingers together. Nesta reached for Rhys. Rhys gripped Feyre’s. And Feyre leaned forward to clasp Mor’s free hand.

The circle was full.

And though there was no magic in the air, no battle music or thunder of distant armies—something settled in that moment.

An oath.

Unspoken, but real.

No matter what happened tomorrow—this was their line in the sand. This was their family. And nothing would break it.

Rhys looked around the circle, his fingers tightening slightly around Feyre’s.

He took a breath.

“I didn’t think we’d be here again,” he said quietly. “Not like this. Not after everything we went through the first time. And yet…”

His eyes moved from one face to the next—lingering on each of you like he was trying to commit every detail to memory.

“And yet we’re still here. Still fighting. Not just for peace—but for each other.”

He glanced down for a moment, exhaling as if the weight of centuries sat on his shoulders.

“I’ve lost people in war. Friends. Family. Parts of myself. I carry those losses every day. But the part I didn’t expect—the part that no battlefield ever prepares you for—is how much harder it is to live after it’s over.”

No one moved.

“No one tells you that survival doesn’t always feel like winning,” he continued, voice soft. “That there are days where the silence is worse than the screams. Where guilt feels heavier than any sword. That rebuilding something beautiful sometimes hurts more than watching it fall.”

Feyre’s eyes glistened. She didn’t look away.

“But despite it all—because of it all—I look at this circle, and I know this is the only fight worth having. Not for power. Not for pride. But for love. For choice. For the people who make all the pain bearable.”

His voice caught, just slightly. “You are my family. My strength. My hope. Every single one of you.”

He looked to Cassian, then Mor. To Azriel. To you. Then Nesta. Then back to Feyre.

“I would rather walk into a thousand wars with you than spend a single day without you in a world ruled by fear.”

The silence that followed was heavy and golden, like the pause at the end of a prayer.

And then—

Cassian sniffed loudly. “Oh shut up, Rhys. You’re making me all emotional.”

A ripple of laughter broke through the solemn quiet—relief and affection threaded through it. Feyre rolled her eyes but smiled. Mor chuckled and wiped at one corner of her eye. Even Nesta looked down, her expression softening.

Azriel didn’t laugh—but he smiled. Just a little. Just for you.

And you, still curled into him, felt the warmth of every soul around you. Hands still linked, hearts still beating.

Whatever came tomorrow—

You would face it together.

Because you where the night court. 

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[thatonebjp]

I feel so fucking helpless sometimes. It gets harder and harder to hold onto any kind of hope. Any feeling that things could realistically get better. That I could get better. I hoped and hoped so hard, and I don't think there's any hope left in me at this point.

The temptation to just give up is always there, constantly on my mind. And the fact I know I won't actually go through with it is starting to just become one more reason I hate myself.

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

sometimes..so.etimes they change something even after the premiere. sp you appear and watch an entirely new and prolonged monologue. and it's like. FUCK YEAH.

[suksatoru]

"if you can hear me, chosen one, give me your strongest kick."

you lift your gaze from the book page pinched between your fingers and offer satoru an unimpressed glare. as scolding as you try to appear, there's a hint of a smile tugging your lips upward at his ridiculously adorable antics.

"i think our princess might be napping," he hums, pressing a flurry of kisses over the swell of your stomach as you squirm under his touch, wiggling your toes.

"you're going to be late, satoru! weren't you supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago?"

"hahh?"

he drops his face back onto your stomach gently, sighing happily as his hand glides over the soft bump. you decide to let him lie with you for a little while longer—the soft smile etched onto his face was far too precious to disturb.

"i'll text nanami and let him know you'll be a bit late to the mission, okay?" you say softly, carding a hand through his platinum locks as he hums softly, lashes fluttering close.

satoru talked to the baby in your belly quite often—even going as far as having full-on conversations with her. there had been countless nights where you stirred awake only to hear his silky sweet voice muffled against your stomach, all while he gazed starry eyed at the gentle curve of your stomach in front of him.

satoru's dearest dream had always been to have a family. it was a quiet truth he wouldn't ever dare to speak into existence because it didn't seem possible in any universe—but somehow, he stumbled upon a way. and now he gets to spend his evenings like this with you.

satoru's boundless affection during your pregnancy will forever be something you would be grateful for. the fondest thing you would look back on would have to be the endless amount of baby clothes he got—satoru had even purchased a matching set of onesies for all three of you to wear. typical satoru. he was adamant about making sure the three of you would have a bunch of pictures together as a family so he'd be able to send everyone he knew those corny holiday cards he always saw on tv—the only reason you remember that moment from so long ago right now is because of the phone call you received.

"hello?" you speak in a hushed tone, rocking the ivory haired baby in the crib next to you gently as you hold your phone between your cheek and shoulder.

"hello! is this mrs. gojo? i'm calling to confirm your family photoshoot scheduled for next week. it's the two hour session. it looks like you scheduled it a little over a year ago?" her voice comes to life through the phone, and your rocking slows to a stop.

"oh," is all you can manage at first.

you hear the sound of her typing come to a slow stop as she waits for your response. you resume rocking your daughter's crib before answering.

"i'm sorry, but it seems like my husband forgot to cancel the appointment."

she goes on a bit of a tangent, gently scolding you because the company was extremely busy with numerous photoshoots and you had canceled so last minute—but she promised to get it fixed and have the money refunded as soon as possible.

the line beeps quietly when you drop the call, and your hand feels perpetually numb as you drop your phone into your lap.

you rub at the sting that blinds your eyes a second later before rising on wobbly legs, not checking if your baby is asleep as you stumble towards your bedroom's balcony door and slide it open. you tuck your knees under you on the ground and rest your head against the railing, allowing the cool metal to be pressed against your cheek as you take a steadying breath.

you were nearing the one year anniversary of satoru's death and, quite stupidly at that, thought you'd be in a better condition by now. but his presence was irreplaceable—and it was moments like this where you were reminded how painful it was to lose your soulmate in the blink of an eye.

the night air kisses your cheek, whipping your hair around gently as it falls over your eyes—and the sensation is uncannily familiar to the way satoru's slender fingers would play with your hair and tickle your cheek whenever he was in a particularly playful mood.

the night traffic flowing beneath you fades to nothing as the wind whirls around you—but, it felt like if you closed your eyes hard enough, strained your ears as much as possible—then maybe you could make yourself believe that the whistling wind whizzing past your ear was satoru's voice lulling the ache in your chest away instead.

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

the one with the runaway bride

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 12.1k (damn)

Summary: Sometimes running away from a wedding leads you exactly where you're meant to be — preferably into the arms of a much better guy.

A/N: These fics just keep getting longer and longer. again lowkey kinda hate this and i feel like i made theo heavily ooc but it is what it is ig

Theo hated churches.

He wasn’t particularly religious—never cared much for the belief in some higher power watching over them all. After all, if someone like that did exist, his mother—a devout, gentle woman—wouldn’t have been ripped from the earth so soon. It should’ve been his father, not her. At least, that’s what he’d thought as a boy.

Still, despite his aversion to anything even remotely sacred, he found himself sitting alone in the pews of a quiet chapel. The sun streamed through stained glass, washing the room in warm, fractured color. He didn’t believe in prayer, but he came here anyway. This had been his mother’s favorite place before she died, and somehow, being here made him feel closer to her—like she might hear him, if only faintly.

“Mamma,” He murmured, voice low, “sometimes I truly wonder what my future was meant to look like.”

The war was over, but the silence it left behind was deafening. He spent a lot of time now, wondering about his place in the world. He and the rest of his mates—Berkshire, Riddle, Malfoy, and Zabini—had played a crucial role, working as double agents under Dumbledore’s orders. But because their involvement had remained classified, carefully buried under the Ministry’s politics, they were still seen as Slytherins first. As former sympathizers. As a threat. Pariahs.

It stung. He had done the right thing, when it mattered most. And yet, he wondered if this cold reception was all he’d ever receive.

A few years ago, he hadn't even expected to live this long. His younger self had been certain he’d never survive the war—that he’d be killed for his betrayal of Voldemort and reunited with his mother much sooner than expected. But he had survived. And now, once again, he was adrift.

That’s why he came back here—hoping for clarity, for a sign. But as always, the silence answered him back.

He sighed softly, rising to his feet and tucking his hands into his coat pockets, ready to leave. His shoes echoed against the marble floor as he turned toward the exit.

But before he could cross the threshold, the chapel doors burst open with a loud bang.

Theo blinked.

A vision in white stumbled inside.

Satin, lace, curls escaping from a veil. Breathless. Flushed. A wild gleam in her eye.

His heart paused mid-beat as he recognized the chaos incarnate now standing in the aisle, clutching the skirt of her wedding dress like she’d just escaped a dragon, veil askew, bouquet long gone, and cheeks flushed pink like she’d run from hell itself.

His mouth opened before he could stop it.

“(L/N)?” The name left his mouth before he could stop it, soft and shocked and just a little bit disbelieving.

You looked up, startled — like you hadn’t expected to see another soul inside — and your eyes widened in delight.

“Theodore Nott!” You beamed, chest still rising and falling in heavy breaths, curls frizzing at the edges, voice giddy and strange, “Fancy seeing you here! Gosh, I haven't seen you since Hogwarts! How are you? And the others—Riddle, Berkshire, and the lot? All good, I hope.”

Theo stared at you in complete bewilderment as you keeled over to catch your breath, tugging off your veil and fanning yourself with it like some kind of deranged society lady.

“Merlin’s sweaty balls,” You gasped, dramatic as ever, “It’s impossible to breathe in this damn corset.”

“They’re good,” Theo said slowly, brow furrowed, “I’m sorry, are you in a wedding dress?”

You nodded, breathless, laughing like the question itself was hilarious, “Unfortunately, yes. Bit of a pity I didn’t realize I didn’t want to marry the sorry bloke thirty minutes ago. Would’ve made my escape a lot easier if I wasn’t drowning in fifty pounds of satin.”

He blinked at you, still speechless, hands deep in his coat pockets.

“I mean—” You barreled on, eyes wide and shining, “there I was, standing at the altar, looking at my so-called fiancé, and it just hit me: I cannot wake up to his sorry mug for the rest of my life. To hell with my parents. And society. I don’t want to be a Bulstrode. That name sounds like the arse-end of a toad, don’t you think?”

You paused, eyes narrowing playfully, “(Y/N) (L/N) sounds so much nicer, doesn’t it?”

Theo arched an unimpressed brow, “You know you can get married without changing your last name, right?”

At that, you absolutely lost it—doubling over in wheezing laughter, slapping your knee like he’d just told the funniest joke in history.

“You always were such a crack-up, Theodore!” You gasped between giggles, “Where are my manners? What brings you here today? Certainly not for the wedding, I hope—because, well—” You gestured at yourself, still panting in the middle of the cathedral, “you can probably tell that’s not happening.”

Before Theodore could get a word in, the sound of heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. Your eyes went comically wide as you pressed yourself flat against the stone wall, wedged just behind the chapel door as it swung open with a bang.

In marched your father—red-faced, sweaty, and breathing like a charging Hippogriff. His eyes locked onto Theodore like he was a bloodhound catching a scent.

“Have you seen a girl in a wedding dress?” He barked.

Theo quirked a brow, gaze sliding—slowly, deliberately—to the right, where you were doing your best impression of a human statue. From where he stood, he could see you mouthing frantic no’s, shaking your head so violently he was almost certain you’d give yourself whiplash. Your hands were flying in wild, desperate gestures, pleading silently.

He turned back to your father, the picture of calm.

“No, sir.”

Your father squinted, suspicious—but apparently not enough to question it. “Well, if you do,” He huffed, already half-turning, “you tell her to march her sorry behind back into that hall and marry the boy, or she’ll be sorry.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

You clutched your chest like you’d just survived a curse, eyes squeezed shut as you slid bonelessly to the floor in your crumpled wedding dress.

“That,” You breathed, “was nerve-wracking.”

You peeked up at him with a grateful look, “You’re a good liar, Nott. Thank you.”

Theo looked down at the breathless, sweaty heap you’d become, still sprawled on the stone floor like a very distressed meringue. With an amused smirk, he cleared his throat, “Well… good luck with everything, (L/N). Let me know if you actually go through with becoming a Bulstrode. I’ll send a wedding gift.”

You gaped up at him in horror as he began to sidestep the tangled mass of satin and lace that was your gown, clearly preparing to leave the chapel and abandon you to your doom. Without thinking, you grabbed his calf—your perfectly manicured nails digging into his trousers, the massive engagement ring catching the light like a cursed artifact.

“What?! You can’t go now! You have to get me out of here!”

Theo arched a skeptical brow, “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

You pointed at him in outrage, still clutching his leg like a deranged bride octopus, “You just lied to my father! That makes you an accomplice. A—A conspirator! You're already implicated!”

Theo looked thoroughly unimpressed, “I could just tell him you were hiding behind the door like a terrified possum.”

You gasped, “You wouldn’t.”

He tilted his head, “Try me.”

Panic glittered in your eyes before you straightened your spine and went full Slytherin, “Fine. You want to play that game? I’ll tell everyone you’re my secret paramour. That you seduced me, took my virtue in the belfry, and that’s why I fled the altar.”

Theo’s mouth dropped open, scandalized, “I beg your pardon?”

You clasped your hands together, expression softening into exaggerated, pleading sweetness, “Please, Theodore. I’m not asking for your soul. Just… apparate me out of here. One quick jump and I’ll be out of your life forever.”

He stared at you. Then sighed.

“Merlin help me,” He muttered, “You’re even more unhinged than I remember.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He offered you a hand, “Only if you swear not to mention the word ‘virtue’ ever again.”

You grinned, already taking his hand, “Deal, my paramour.”

He groaned. Loudly.

Theo stepped closer, one hand sliding around your waist, tugging you flush against him. You blinked up at him, stunned into silence by the proximity. Up close, you finally understood why half the girls in your year had harbored crushes on him. He had that kind of face—the infuriatingly beautiful kind that made your stomach swoop before your brain could catch up.

Then—with a sharp crack—the world twisted out from under your feet.

You landed hard against him, fingers fisting the lapels of his jacket like your life depended on it. Which, to be fair, it had.

Warm sunlight spilled over your face, the bustling sounds of the street around you cutting through the fading disorientation. You blinked. Then smiled.

You were free.

Theo watched you quietly as your eyes danced over every detail—the streetlamp, the baker’s cart, a child chasing a butterfly. Everything ordinary now seemed extraordinary through your gaze. You looked like someone seeing the world for the first time.

“Are you good, (L/N)?” He asked, low and cautious.

You didn’t take your eyes off the street. “A new world’s waiting for me,” You said softly, “It’s… terrifying.”

He didn’t say anything, but his grip around your waist didn’t loosen.

You stood there, trembling fingers still tangled in the fabric of his coat, heart pounding like it was trying to sprint back to the cathedral.

Theodore’s sharp gaze softened as he took in your messy lipstick, sweat-dampened curls, and the way you clung to him like the world had just tipped sideways. You looked like a woman on the edge of disaster—or greatness. Maybe both.

"Where were you planning to go?" He asked quietly.

You blinked up at him, dumbly, your glassy eyes beginning to sting as the reality of what you’d just done crashed over you like cold water.

Oh Merlin.

What had you done?

You didn’t have a house. You didn’t have a job. You didn’t have money of your own. Your entire life had been orchestrated by your father—who’d been all too eager to sell you off to your so-called fiancé—and you’d just thrown a wrench in his perfect little plan.

"I... I hadn’t thought that far." You admitted, voice barely a whisper as your bottom lip began to tremble.

Theo sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, “Bloody hell.”

You started to stammer, trying to save face, “Look—I’ll figure it out. I just needed to get away. You don’t have to—”

“Don’t be dense,” He muttered, “Come on.”

You furrowed your brows, confused, “Come on where?”

“My home,” He said bluntly, “You’re clearly overwhelmed, and you need to breathe somewhere that isn’t a chapel or the middle of a bloody street. You can crash in the guest room. I’ll pour a cup of tea. Or Firewhisky, if you’re feeling rebellious.”

You stared at him, stunned silent, “You’d really do that for me?”

In all honesty, Theodore had no idea why he was doing this for you.

Maybe it was the way your eyes looked—raw and frightened—that struck something in him. He remembered that look. Back when his mother died. Back when he was stuck between two worlds, pretending to be loyal to the Death Eaters while secretly fighting for the other side. When the war ended, and he had no bloody idea who he was without it.

He knew helplessness like an old friend. And though he’d never admit it aloud, he also knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight if he walked away now—knowing you were out there, wandering the streets in a bloody wedding dress or dragged back to marry someone you didn’t love.

“Yeah,” He said finally, “I would.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking back tears, “Okay.”

“Okay.” He echoed.

He held your arm carefully—like you were a glass about to crack—and apparated you both away.

By the time your feet touched down again, you were standing in a warmly lit corridor outside a tall, modern-looking door. Theodore slid a key out of his coat pocket and unlocked it with a click.

“My flat.” He said simply, stepping aside to let you in.

You blinked, glancing around as you followed him, “Wait. Don’t you have a whole family manor somewhere?”

He raised a brow as he tossed his coat onto a sleek brass hook, “Not fancy enough for you, darling? Would you rather go to the five-star resort your family booked for your honeymoon instead?”

You gaped, then closed your mouth, then opened it again—only to come up short, “Touché.”

He chuckled, pushing open the door, “I live in a flat because the manor’s too bloody big for just me. I might move back in when I’m older, but right now? No one needs twenty-three bedrooms unless they’re running a boarding school.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside after him, “Just say you’re rich and move on,” you muttered.

You were mid-sigh when your eyes took in the space—and almost instantly, the tension in your shoulders loosened. His flat wasn’t enormous, but it was stunning. Dark hardwood floors, rich emerald and charcoal accents, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the London skyline like a painting. The air smelled faintly of pine, leather, and something warm—like spice and magic.

Books lined custom-built shelves along one wall, and a record player quietly spun something soft and jazzy in the corner. A massive velvet sofa sat in the center of the open-plan living area, flanked by brass sconces and a few well-kept plants.

Theo disappeared into a side room, leaving you standing awkwardly in your crumpled wedding dress in the middle of his living room. When he returned, he had a folded stack of clothes in his hands.

“I grabbed whatever looked closest to your size,” He said, handing them over with a half-shrug, “Might still be a bit big—but it’s cozy, at least.”

You unfolded the hoodie and held it up. It fell nearly to your knees.

“You’re joking.”

“Or you could stay in your wedding dress. Very sexy.”

You let out a laugh, “You got me again.”

You eyed the clothes, then glanced back up at him, “You sure none of your… lady friends left something behind? Something a bit more...appropriate?”

Theo smirked, unfazed, “I don’t keep a lost and found bin, sweetheart. But nice try.”

You grinned despite yourself, clutching the clothes to your chest.

“Go on,” He added, gesturing toward the hallway, “First door on the right—bathroom’s there. Take your time. Come out when you’re ready. I’ll sort dinner.”

“You cook?”

He looked at you, mock-offended, “I’m Italian.”

“That’s not a yes.”

Theo placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury, “Wow. So little faith.”

You laughed—a real one this time—as you padded off toward the bathroom, the ridiculous rustle of your wedding dress trailing behind you. Hoodie and sweats in hand, feet aching, heart still thudding from everything you’d run from.

But somehow, in the warmth of this space, with the sound of jazz humming in the background and Theo cooking up dinner—you started to feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe.

Maybe, just maybe… you were going to be okay.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, the last remnants of your old life had gone swirling down the drain—hairspray, waterproof mascara, and everything else that once held you together. You felt… lighter. Your skin was clean, your hair damp, and the oversized hoodie you wore—Theo’s—smelled faintly of cedar and citrus. It hung down to your thighs like a dress, and the joggers were barely hanging onto your waist.

The scent hit you first—garlic, tomatoes, fresh herbs—and your stomach let out a traitorous growl.

Theo looked up from the stove, giving you a once-over before turning back to stir the pot. “Look at you,” He said with a lopsided smirk, “Didn’t think my clothes would suit you that well.”

You gave him a smirk and did a twirl to show off the outfit—just in time for the joggers to fall right to your ankles. You both burst into laughter.

“The elastic’s useless and the drawstring’s just for decoration.” You said, tossing the offending trousers over the back of a chair.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I charmed the pants off a woman.” Theo replied smoothly.

You snorted, shaking your head.

He slid a bowl across the island toward you—tagliatelle with a thick, rich Bolognese sauce, steam curling up like it had its own mind.

You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my god,” You groaned, “This is… this is unreal.”

He gave a small shrug, “I told you.”

You were already shoveling in another forkful, “I haven’t eaten something that didn’t taste like sadness in months.”

Theo leaned against the counter, watching with amusement, “Easy, love. You keep going at that pace, you’ll make those giant joggers fit.”

You swallowed and let out a dramatic sigh, “Wedding diet. I’ve been living off steamed vegetables and heartbreak.”

He laughed, deep and full, “Well, lucky you. There’s more where that came from. And gelato in the freezer.”

Your head snapped up, “You’re kidding.”

“‘Chi mangia bene, vive bene,’” He said with a smirk, “‘Those who eat well, live well.’ My mamma drilled that into me.”

You blinked, then smiled, “Incredibly smart woman.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, your smile didn’t feel like something you had to fake or force. You sat there, in someone else’s hoodie, with sauce on your cheek and your hair still damp, in a flat that smelled like warmth and comfort and garlic.

Theo reached across the table, brushing his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth, “You’ve got a bit of sauce—right there.”

You blinked, startled by the tenderness of the gesture. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he pulled back.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” He asked, quieter now.

You gave him a half-smile, soft but guarded, “Sick of me already?”

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, “I just mean… are you sure you won’t regret this? People get cold feet. Panic at the altar. Happens all the time, or so I hear. And the longer you stay here—the more real this gets—the harder it’ll be to undo without fallout.”

You sat still for a moment, then set your fork down, appetite forgotten.

“It wasn’t cold feet,” You said, voice low, “I never wanted to get married.”

Theo didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

“My father did. Desperately. He’s been obsessed with bloodlines and alliances since before I could walk. Marrying into the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Like that still means anything in this world.” You let out a bitter laugh, “Somehow that old bastard managed to squirm his way out of Azkaban after the war. And now he’s back to doing what he does best—peddling blood purity and ruining my life.”

Theo’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

“I spent months shoving my feelings down, just trying to be the daughter he wanted. The obedient one. Because what choice did I have?” Your fingers curled around the fabric of his hoodie, “But when I was standing there—at the altar, staring down a future I didn’t choose—I realized something. Maybe I didn’t have choices before. But I could make one now.”

Silence stretched between you for a beat.

Then, softly, Theo said, “That was brave.”

You let out a watery laugh, swiping your sleeve beneath your eyes, “Please. Not like you, playing double agent for Dumbledore. Now that was brave.”

He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “That was reckless.”

“It was noble. Valiant,” You said, voice steadier now, “Really, the kind of madness only a true Slytherin could be ambitious enough to pull off.”

Theo arched a brow, “Flattery? From you?”

You gave him a crooked grin, “Don’t get used to it. Mine was just… selfish. Desperate.”

He looked at you, the warmth in his gaze soft but unwavering, “It’s good to be selfish sometimes.”

You held his gaze, breath catching slightly when his eyes didn’t waver. There was something weighty in the silence—something soft and unspoken stretching between you, tugging gently at the space that separated your bodies.

Theo’s fingers drummed once against the tabletop, then stilled. Neither of you moved.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face, and for a second, just one second, you let yourself wonder what it would feel like to close the distance.

Then you blinked, cleared your throat, and reached for his plate. “Well. Since you think it’s good to be selfish,” You said, trying to sound casual, “I’m gonna eat the rest of your pasta.”

Theo let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or a sigh. Maybe both, “Oi—at least leave room for dessert.”

***

Loud, boisterous laughter was the first thing that dragged Theo out of a half-dream. He groaned, arm flinging over his eyes as the unmistakable sound of his front door swinging open—without ceremony—hit him like a freight train.

“What the—who the hell is making all that noise?” He muttered, voice hoarse as he blinked toward the ceiling.

The culprits were, predictably, already raiding his kitchen like starved hyenas: Draco, Lorenzo, Mattheo, and Blaise, helping themselves to his fresh bread and the groceries he’d actually gone out and picked himself—because unlike those degenerates, he cared about food quality.

He should’ve never given them spare keys.

“For emergencies,” He’d said. “Only if it’s important,” He’d said.

Idiotic. Clearly, their definition of ‘emergency’ included hungover brunches and unsolicited early morning gossip.

“Morning, sunshine,” Draco drawled with an infuriating smirk, already sprawled across Theo’s sofa, eating the hand-picked strawberries Theo had searched three markets to find, “You’re just in time for the morning news”

Theo groaned louder and face-planted into the cushions, “Could you shut up? Some of us are trying to sleep in our own damn flat.”

“Oh, come on,” Blaise said, smirking as he rifled through Theo’s cabinets, “You must’ve heard by now. (L/N). You remember her—Pansy's roommate. She left Bulstrode at the altar. Just ran right out.”

Lorenzo let out a low whistle, “Left Bulstrode standing there like an absolute mug. At the altar, mate. In front of everyone. Just turned and walked straight out mid-vows. I mean—iconic.”

Mattheo, chewing thoughtfully on a stolen slice of sourdough, shrugged, “Serves him right. No way Bulstrode was ever gonna bag a babe like (L/N). He’s got the charm of a wet napkin.”

“And get this,” Blaise said, lowering his voice into a tone of mock-conspiracy, eyes glinting, “Rumor is—she had a lover on the side. Secret romance, hidden rendezvous, the whole nine yards. Some bloke she’s apparently been in love with for ages. No one knows who, though.”

Theo, face still hidden by the couch cushions, flinched.

Blaise squinted at him, “You look... twitchy. Something you wanna share with the group?”

Before Theo could invent an excuse, a sound cut through the room—soft footsteps padding across the floorboards.

The guest bedroom door creaked open.

You stepped out, bleary-eyed, rubbing your face with the sleeve of Theo’s oversized hoodie—his hoodie that hung off your frame like it had been stitched for you. Your hair was tousled from sleep, legs bare, the joggers you’d worn the night before still draped over a chair in the corner, clearly forgotten.

Theo’s eyes flicked up to you for a moment—heart skipping a beat at the sight of your flushed cheeks and mussed hair—but he quickly masked the softness with a cool, unreadable glance.

Every sound in the room died on cue.

You blinked at the kitchen full of frozen Slytherins and offered a sheepish smile, “Um… morning?”

The silence that followed was nothing short of reverent.

Mattheo dropped his toast. Lorenzo’s jaw unhinged. Draco choked on a strawberry. Blaise turned—slowly, dramatically—to Theo with the grin of a man who had just unearthed a scandal.

And then—chaos.

“No bloody way,” Blaise said, pointing an accusatory finger, “You?! You’re the lover?!”

“No, no,” Theo said immediately, sitting up straighter, “She’s not—I mean, it’s not— It’s not like that.”

You nodded, “It’s really not what it looks like.”

“She’s not—” Theo added, standing abruptly.

“We’re not—” You said at the same time.

“Dating.” You both finished in unison.

The pause that followed was only broken by Blaise’s slow, disbelieving laugh, “You two seriously rehearsed that or something?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked from you, to the hoodie, to Theo’s bedhead and thoroughly disheveled state, “You sly, secretive little bastard.”

“You’re blushing,” Lorenzo cackled, pointing at Theo.

“I’m not blushing.”

“You’re so red your freckles are blending in.”

“You lot need to leave,” Theo growled, yanking the mug out of Draco’s hand.

“Oh, we’ll leave,” Mattheo said, standing with an exaggerated sigh, “Just as soon as we finish processing the greatest plot twist since Dumbledore kicked it.”

“I don’t know,” Lorenzo mused, “This might top it. Runaway bride finds solace in former classmate’s bed—”

“Spare room!” You and Theo barked at once.

“Oh right,” Blaise said, lazily gesturing to you, “Because that totally explains the no-pants situation.”

You threw up your hands, “He doesn’t have any trousers that fit me!”

Mattheo let out a low whistle, “Stars above, I wish I had popcorn.”

Theo’s jaw clenched, “She needed a place to stay. I offered. That’s it.”

“And I accepted. Platonically.” You stressed.

“And Theodore isn’t some adulterous whore,” You added with a sigh, “He’s just an unfortunate bloke with terrible timing who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The way your voice softened at the end made something twist in Theo’s chest.

“Well, you did good,” Lorenzo said, grabbing another slice of bread, “Bulstrode’s an ugly git anyway.”

You shared a glance with Theo who gave you a soft, barely there smile that was meant to reassure you in a way that conveyed, 'See? What you did wasn't so bad.'

“So what’s the plan now?” Blaise asked, eyeing the two of you over his coffee, “You two just gonna keep playing house?”

“Oi, ease up,” Theo said, casting him a warning look, “Don’t overwhelm her.”

He glanced at you briefly, then added, “We talked last night.”

“Ooo, pillow talk.” Mattheo smirked—earning himself a slap to the back of the head.

Theo rolled his eyes, “We were talking, and I offered to let her stay here. As long as she needs.”

You caught Theo’s eye and saw a softness there that only came out when he looked at you. In that moment, the chaos of friends and gossip faded away, leaving just the quiet promise of safety and belonging between you two.

***

You sat cross-legged on the floor, the open suitcase in front of you spilling out clothes, books, and a few small trinkets you’d brought from your old life. The boxes stacked neatly nearby were still untouched—silent reminders that this was real, that you were here now.

Getting your things back from your home had been easier than expected. You’d slipped in while your father was at work, your heart racing as you moved quietly through the familiar halls. The moment your hand wrapped around your wand—left behind for safekeeping during the wedding—it felt like you could finally breathe again. You packed up your life swiftly, shrinking and sending each box to Theo’s flat before you could second-guess yourself.

“It feels weird seeing all my stuff here.” You murmured, running your fingers over your old Slytherin scarf. A soft smile tugged at your lips as memories from Hogsmeade weekends and late-night gossip sessions filled your head. Back in school, your dormmates used to call dibs on the boys in your year—Pansy obviously claimed Draco, Daphne was hell-bent on Mattheo (she had a thing for bad boys, she used to say). The others squabbled over Blaise and Lorenzo, leaving you with Theo by default. You’d taken it in stride, because Merlin forbid you end up with Crabbe or Goyle. If only sixth-year you knew you’d one day be living with Theo Nott after bolting from your own wedding.

“Like this is really happening.” You said softly.

Theo leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. You let your eyes rake over him—how he somehow made jeans and a simple black long-sleeved tee look sinfully good without even trying.

“Don’t you want to unpack?” He asked after a moment, voice casual, “Make it feel a bit more like yours?”

You shook your head, teeth tugging at your lower lip, “I don’t want to get too comfortable. I need to move out soon, find my own place. Can’t just settle in someone else’s flat.”

Your eyes drifted to the empty dresser and the bare walls, imagining them filled with your perfume bottles, your shoes lined up in the closet, your keepsakes resting in quiet corners of the room. It felt… indulgent. And dangerous.

Theo pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room with that quiet confidence that always made your stomach flip. He crouched beside you, fingers brushing yours as he gently pulled the scarf from your hands.

“Don’t be so pressured,” He said softly, “Take your time.”

Your breath caught at the tenderness in his voice, so at odds with the sarcasm he usually deflected with. His gaze held yours—warm, steady, unflinching.

“What kind of fake adulterous whore would I be,” he added, smirking just a little, “if I didn’t give you a comfortable place to stay while you figure things out?”

You let out a shaky laugh, swatting his arm as your cheeks flushed. The warmth in his eyes made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. It felt... safe. For the first time in a long time.

He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long. Your breath hitched. Your heart thudded. And before you could stop yourself, your gaze flicked to his mouth.

The moment hung there—suspended and fragile—until it broke like glass.

Theo cleared his throat and pulled back. You dropped your gaze and fanned your burning cheeks, pretending not to notice the way your entire body buzzed with unspoken tension.

He stood, casting a quick glance around the room before his eyes landed on a box labeled “Bathroom.” With a quiet smile, he bent to pick it up.

“I’ll go put this over there.” He said, voice gentler now even though you both were well aware he could've used his magic to charm the objects in its place.

You watched him go, heart fluttering wildly in your chest, feeling strangely steady for the first time in days.

Strangely at home.

***

Watching Theo get ready for work every morning had become your newest, most humbling routine. In the quiet hours before he left—hair perfectly styled, cufflinks glinting faintly in the sunlight—you were struck with the growing realization that your life was a blank page. And not in the hopeful, inspiring way. No, it felt like staring at an overdue assignment you had no idea how to finish.

When he was home, everything felt a little easier—light conversation over breakfast, quiet companionship in the evenings, his effortless presence filling the flat with a calm you hadn’t realized you craved. But once he was out the door, you were left with hours that stretched out like an endless, silent ache. And with that ache came the inevitable realization: you weren’t here to play house with Theodore Nott. You needed to get your life in order.

Which was why, this morning, you were dressed. Not just dressed—put together. A soft, Chanel-inspired ensemble hugged your form, elegant and mature, polished right down to the glossy sheen of your lips.

Across the table, Theo sat in his usual tailored suit and tie, sipping his coffee while reading the newspaper.

He was a dream roommate—unbothered, polite, attentive without being invasive. He cooked most mornings and evenings, and you handled lunch and dishes out of principle more than anything else. And yet, no matter how well you split the duties, you still felt like a freeloader in silk pajamas. He never asked you to contribute, never brought up rent or groceries or anything at all.

Which, ironically, only made the guilt settle heavier in your chest.

It was unbearable. So this newfound spark of motivation—this desire to prove you could stand on your own two feet again—burned fast and hot.

He was fixing his watch by the mirror beside the door, running gelled fingers through his hair, smoothing it back with that practiced grace. You stepped over, holding his coat in one hand and yours in the other, and offered it to him with a quiet, “Here.”

He murmured a small thanks as he slipped into it, but you didn’t step back.

Instead, you reached up to adjust his tie, fingers deft as you corrected the slight tilt in the knot. “I know you’re just going to mess it up the second you get to the office,” you said, smiling softly, “but it’s driving me crazy.”

You smoothed the tie down gently, fingertips brushing the lapels of his coat. When your eyes lifted, you caught him staring—not at your eyes, but your lips, still slick with gloss from your post-breakfast touch-up, and suddenly it felt like a mistake to stand this close, in this kind of silence, with him looking at you like that.

You met his gaze. Your heart stuttered.

Was he leaning in?

Or were you imagining it—some cruel trick your body played when it got too used to his scent, his proximity, the low hum of affection that vibrated just beneath the surface?

Before you could answer, he inhaled sharply and stepped back, the moment snapping like a taut string.

“Busy day today?” He asked, voice neutral, composed.

You cleared your throat, recovering quickly.

“Yeah,” You said, grabbing your purse and your coat, avoiding his eyes, “I’m visiting Slughorn at Hogwarts. I was always good at potions, and he used to favor me—mostly because I always showed up to those ridiculous Slug Club meetings.” You gave a faint chuckle.

“I heard he’s still teaching and struggling to keep up with his personal research. I was kind of his unofficial assistant in seventh year, so… I’m hoping he’ll consider taking me on. As an apprentice or something.”

You kept your tone light, casual, even though your pulse thudded in your throat. You avoided his eyes as you adjusted the strap of your purse.

Theo held the door open for you, and your heart flipped in your chest like it always did when he did things like that without thinking—like it was natural. Like you belonged here.

“Good luck, (Y/N).” He said simply, his voice low but earnest.

You turned your head slightly, offering him a small smile. The way he was looking at you made your steps falter for just a second.

“Thank you.” You said, voice barely above a whisper.

And then you walked on, heels clicking softly on the marble floor, heart fluttering like mad against your ribs.

***

You practically skipped down the stone steps of Hogwarts, the weight of your nervous anticipation completely lifted from your shoulders. The crisp air smelled of old parchment and damp moss, and for once, you didn’t mind. Your cheeks were flushed, your hands clutching the letter Slughorn had scrawled in excitement after your meeting: an official offer to join him as his private research assistant, with the intent of training you to become a certified Potions Master.

Your heart was hammering by the time you reached Theo’s flat, and you didn’t even knock—just flung the door open and stepped inside, calling his name like a storm announcing itself.

“Theo!”

He appeared from the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder, clearly mid-way through drying his hair, shirt sleeves rolled up, “What? Are you okay?”

You beamed so brightly you could’ve lit the whole room with just the force of it, “I got it—I got the position! I’m going to train with Slughorn! He’s taking me on!”

For a second, Theo just blinked at you, frozen in place. Then your words seemed to register fully and he opened his mouth to say something—but before he could, you launched yourself at him.

Your arms flung around his neck, and he caught you with a startled grunt, stumbling back half a step before wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, instinctively keeping you upright. You laughed, giddy and breathless against his shoulder, your legs kicking slightly off the ground.

“I knew you would.” He said against your temple, voice low and warm and slightly amused, though the hug he gave you was grounding, solid, and real.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright, “I’m going to be a Potions Master.”

Theo’s hands stayed on your waist, his lips twitching into a rare, open smile, “You’re going to be brilliant.”

You didn’t know what possessed you then—maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the way he was still holding you like you were something precious—but you leaned in without thinking and pressed a kiss to his cheek, quick and full of warmth.

Theo blinked, stunned.

You blinked, too, realizing what you just did.

He slowly set you down on your feet, clearing his throat, but the faintest shade of pink had crept up his neck.

"Thank you, Theo." You whispered, looking up at him like he hung the moon in the sky, "For everything."

***

You were halfway through folding the laundry while Theo showered when the door flew open with no warning, the sharp click of heels on hardwood echoing like the cue for a dramatic entrance.

“Surprise, darling!” Pansy announced grandly, stepping into the apartment with a flourish, a pastry box in one hand and designer sunglasses in the other, “I brought macarons from that place you liked in Paris—Theo, you better be decent!”

She strutted into the living room expecting to find her best friend brooding over black coffee, muttering about case files or the Ministry’s latest idiocy.

Instead, she found you.

Her heel halted mid-click. Her eyes went wide, lips parting in stunned recognition.

“(Y/N)?”

You blinked, holding a half-folded jumper, “Hi—?”

The pastry box slipped from her fingers, forgotten as she gasped.

“(Y/N)!”

Before you could react, she barreled across the room, arms wide, heels thudding across the floor. She crashed into you with a hug that nearly knocked you into the couch, her perfume wrapping around you like a familiar blanket as she squeezed you breathless.

You laughed, arms wrapping around her just as tightly, “Oh God, I’m so sorry I didn’t make it to the wedding! I couldn’t get a Portkey in time—I felt awful. I’ve missed you so much!”

Pansy pulled back to get a proper look at you, holding you at arm’s length like she needed to confirm you were real, “Oh, how’s newlywed life treating you? How’s your husband—” she started brightly, then trailed off.

Her eyes scanned your outfit—comfy shorts and an old Quidditch tee—and then flicked to the half-folded laundry scattered across the coffee table.

And that was precisely the moment Theo stepped out of the bathroom.

Shirtless. Damp. Joggers slung low on his hips. A towel around his neck, his hair still dripping.

Pansy blinked. You blinked. Theo froze like a deer in headlights.

Her eyes snapped between you and Theo. Once. Twice.

Her jaw dropped.

“No. Bloody. Way.”

You swallowed hard, “I, uh... I ran from the altar. I’ve been living here for a month. Surprise?”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You absolute plonkers!” Pansy shouted, whirling around like a furious peacock as the front door opened again and the rest of the boys filtered in—Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, Enzo—all pausing mid-step at the scene.

Theo grimaced.

Pansy turned on Draco with fury, “You ranted to me for an hour last night about Potter’s work ethic, but you didn’t think to mention that one of my closest friends from school ran out of her own wedding and moved in with Theo?”

Draco’s eyes widened, “I thought you knew!”

“You lot are unbelievable.” She huffed, throwing her hands up.

Draco looked caught somewhere between amusement and panic. Blaise choked on a laugh. Mattheo raised his hands in mock innocence.

Pansy, eyes glittering with mischief, turned back to you with an exasperated scoff, “We’re getting drinks tonight. You and I are going to unpack every bloody bit of this madness. And if there’s any scandal you’re hiding from me, I swear to Merlin—”

You gave her a sheepish smile, heart fluttering with the kind of warmth that only old friendships could bring.

“I wish. But I can’t tonight. I’m working with Slughorn now—officially—and I’ve got my first full day tomorrow. Still need to study up a bit. I really don’t want to get fired before I even make it to lunch.”

Pansy’s features softened instantly. She stepped forward, cupping your cheeks with warm hands and smoothing your hair in a way that made your eyes sting.

“Slughorn?” She breathed, proud and a little misty, “You’re working with Slughorn? That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”

Your throat tightened, “Thanks, Pansy. God, I missed you. Let’s do a proper catch-up this weekend, yeah? I don’t want to keep you from your homecoming party—you should go have fun.”

She nodded and pulled you into one last tight hug. “This weekend,” she warned playfully, “or I swear I’ll come kidnap you from this flat myself.”

You laughed, hugging her back, “Deal.”

Just then, Theo reappeared in the living room, now fully dressed and slipping his watch onto his wrist. He reached for his coat, but you were already there, stepping behind him to help him shrug it on.

“Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow?” You asked gently, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

From behind you, Blaise gave a low whistle.

“Ooooh, listen to that,” Mattheo drawled with a teasing grin, “Wifey’s making sure the hubby gets to bed on time.”

Theo rolled his eyes, already used to these jokes and glanced down at you, a quiet smile pulling at his lips, “It’s just one drink.”

You sighed, half amused, half resigned, “Okay. Just… don’t come home completely smashed.”

“No promises.” He said with a wink, and the door shut behind them seconds later.

***

The bar buzzed with the low hum of chatter, clinking glasses, and a jazz cover of a Weird Sisters song playing over the speakers. The group had claimed a corner booth, drinks in hand, laughter spilling over every few minutes.

Theo nursed a firewhisky, sitting back with his usual composed expression which caught the attention of Mattheo, “Oh, don’t drink that too fast, Teddy boy. You don’t want to go back absolutely hammered to the missus.”

“You lot are ridiculous,” Theo muttered, though a hint of fondness softened his tone.

“Oh, come off it,” Blaise grinned, swirling his drink, “You like it. You’re practically glowing these days. It’s very unnerving.”

“Very domestic of you, Theo,” Enzo added, smirking, “Sharing a flat, cooking her breakfast, letting her steal your clothes—”

“She doesn’t steal my clothes.”

Mattheo grinned, “Mate, I saw her wearing your Chudley Cannons jumper yesterday.”

Theo looked away, clearly caught.

Pansy took a slow sip of her cocktail, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m shocked you let her stay with you. You’re usually so…” She waved a perfectly manicured hand, “emotionally unavailable. Allergic to company, really.”

Blaise leaned in, eyes gleaming, “I mean hardly a surprise considering how badly gone he was for her back in school.”

Pansy froze mid-sip.

“Wait—what? Who was gone for who?!” she gasped, nearly slamming her glass on the table, voice sharp with disbelief.

The boys blinked in surprise.

“You didn’t know?” Draco asked, brows raised.

“You’re kidding,” Blaise said, laughing, “You always shoved them into group projects and made them sit together during dinners — we thought you were matchmaking!”

“I was!” Pansy snapped, whipping around to glare at Draco, “Because I wanted to go with you, and the other cows in our dorm had already called dibs on Enzo, Mattheo, and Blaise. Theo was just—left!”

She turned back to the table, eyes wide with the horror of missed opportunity, “Don’t you think if I’d known he fancied her, I would’ve shoved them into a broom cupboard and locked the door?”

Mattheo cackled, “That’s so on-brand for you.”

Pansy groaned, dramatically dropping her head onto Draco’s shoulder, “You absolute wankers. If one of you had opened your mouth years ago, that wedding she had a month ago? Could’ve been yours, Theo.”

Theo sipped his firewhisky quietly, hidden behind the rim of his glass. Flashes of you in a wedding dress and veil flickered behind his eyes, a soft blush spreading across his neck. None of them missed it.

Blaise nudged Mattheo, “He’s thinking about it now.”

“Oh, he’s been thinking about it.”

Theo threw his head back, downing the rest of his firewhiskey in one go, “I need another drink.”

***

The door flew open with a crash, nearly coming off its hinges.

“We have arrived!” Lorenzo declared, clearly drunk, arms wide, as if expecting applause.

Theo stumbled in between Blaise and Mattheo, arms slung over their shoulders like a war hero being carried off the battlefield. His shirt was half-untucked, hair a mess, and his eyes—when he managed to open them—were glassy and unfocused.

You poked your head out from the kitchen, arms crossed, “What happened to ‘just one drink’?”

“He drank.” Blaise said simply.

“Like a fish.” Mattheo added.

“Like a moron.” Draco corrected as he strolled in behind them, tossing Theo’s coat over a chair, “He’s your problem now.”

Theo blinked at the sound of your voice and perked up immediately. “Tesoro!” He slurred, trying to walk toward you but very nearly face-planting into the floor. You caught him under the arm just in time.

“Hi, Theo,” You said softly, “Oh gosh you smell like bad decisions.”

“You need to eat,” You added, “Something starchy. Or you’re going to feel like roadkill tomorrow.”

“He never eats when he’s like this,” Blaise said from where he was sprawled over a kitchen chair, “We’ve tried. It’s hopeless.”

“Chi mangia bene, vive bene, remember?” You said softly, probably butchering his mother's saying as you guided Theo toward the table.

That stopped him. His gaze sharpened just enough to find your eyes.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours with a quiet breath, “E chi ha te… ha tutto.”

Your heart skipped even though you hadn't a clue what he just said.

Mattheo made an exaggerated gagging noise, “Okay, Casanova, wrap it up.”

Draco, grinning, gave you a mock bow, “He’s all yours. Good luck with drunk Shakespeare.”

As the door shut behind them, Theo was still leaning on you, breathing you in like he needed your scent to stay upright.

“You smell like a distillery.” You said, amused.

“You smell like home.” He mumbled.

Your cheeks warmed, and you pushed the plate gently into his lap, “Eat your toast, Romeo.”

***

The bar was warm and golden, tucked away on a cobbled side street with velvet booths and enchanted candles flickering lazily overhead. You and Pansy had claimed a prime table by the window, cocktails already half-finished and a bowl of enchanted peanuts floating between you, occasionally popping like popcorn.

“I swear,” Pansy said, leaning in conspiratorially, “if Draco mentions his new wand polish one more time, I will hex him bald.”

You snorted into your drink, eyes gleaming, “You wouldn’t. You like running your hands through his hair too much.”

She grinned, “Touché. But I’d still threaten it. Keeps him humble.”

It was the first proper girls’ night out you’d had in what felt like forever, and Pansy — ever the scene-stealing, chaos-bringing goddess she was — made it feel like the war, the heartbreak, and everything in between had never happened.

“So,” She drawled, resting her chin on her palm with a wicked glint in her eye, “Tell me everything. Are you dating? Shagging? Secretly married? Come on, give me the details.”

You laughed, swirling the pink liquid in your glass — some fruity, glittering cocktail you hadn’t tasted since your Hogwarts days. It cooled your fingers while your cheeks burned hotter by the second.

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back your smile, “It’s not like that, Pans. We’re just good friends. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have made it this far without him.”

“Oh darling,” She said with mock pity, “it’s always ‘not like that’ until you’re wearing his jumpers and catching feelings.”

You opened your mouth to object—but the words caught in your throat. You had worn his jumper. You were catching feelings.

Pansy’s eyes widened. She gasped, clutching her chest with dramatic flair, “No. No way. You like him.”

“I didn’t say that." You muttered.

“You didn’t have to!” She squealed, grabbing your hands across the table, “Oh, you poor lovesick thing. I knew it. I knew it!”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, “You are insufferable.”

“I’m right, though,” She sang smugly, taking another sip of her drink, “And I actually happen to know that our dear Teddy has been—”

“(Y/N).”

The voice cut through the air like a curse.

You froze.

Pansy’s glass paused halfway to her lips. Her smile vanished.

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t have to look to know who it was — that voice had once lived in your dreams. Now it only haunted your nightmares.

Slowly, you turned in your seat.

And saw your ex-fiancé standing at the edge of your table.

You stared up at him, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. He looked mostly the same — slicked-back hair that tried too hard to look effortless, a coat more expensive than it was tasteful, and that same smirk he always wore like armor. His jaw was tighter now, clenched like he hadn’t unclenched it in months. His eyes were cold, sunken a little, and mean in a way they didn’t even bother to hide.

“I didn’t expect to find you here.” He said, voice low, razor-edged.

Pansy was on her feet before you could speak, stepping in front of you like a drawn wand. “And yet here you are,” She said, all sugar and venom, “Funny how you manage to show up where no one wants you.”

He didn’t even glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on you, “We need to talk.”

“No, we really don’t,” Pansy snapped, “Back off before I hex your bits so far inward you’ll need a St. Mungo’s specialist to find them.”

“Pansy,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against her sleeve. Your hand was shaking.

He took a step closer, “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You rose slowly, pushing your chair back, jaw tight, “Fine. Five minutes. Nothing more.”

“Absolutely not—” Pansy began, but you shook your head.

“I’m okay.”

You weren’t. Not even remotely. But you needed this to end. To really end.

The night air was sharp against your skin, the hum of the city muffled as you stepped into the alley behind the bar. You folded your arms, more out of defense than cold.

“So this is what it takes to find you now?” He said, voice curling with disdain, “Are you selling yourself like a whore on street corners now?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your voice steady, “What do you want?”

He took a step forward, “I heard the rumors. People talk, you know. Especially when a bride vanishes in silk and ends up playing house with that filthy blood traitor Theodore Nott.”

Your lips parted in disbelief.

“I should’ve known,” he sneered, “You always acted so self-righteous. But look at you now — just another slag hopping into the next man’s bed. Must be nice not needing vows to spread your legs, yeah?”

The words hit like a slap, your stomach twisting with fury and disbelief.

“I’m done listening to this.”

You turned—and before you could even brace yourself, he yanked you sharply by the collar and slammed you hard against the brick wall. The air whooshed out of your lungs as your back hit the cold surface, the impact jarring your entire body.

His hands tightened suddenly around your throat, fingers digging into your skin in a cruel grip. You gasped for air, panic surging as darkness edged your vision.

“Don’t you dare think you can just walk away from me.” He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wild and merciless.

You clawed at his hands, desperate to break free, but his strength was overwhelming, pressing down harder, choking the breath from you.

"Reducto!"

The spell hit him square in the chest, blasting him off you with bone-jarring force. He flew backward, crashing into the far wall of the alley with a sickening thud before collapsing in a heap, gasping and stunned.

Pansy didn’t hesitate.

She stormed toward him like a vengeful shadow, wand leveled between his eyes as he groaned and tried to sit up. Her voice was shaking—but only with rage.

“You filthy little coward,” she spat, every word laced with venom, “Touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

He growled, trying to rise—Pansy kicked him flat in the chest, knocking him back to the ground with her heel, “Stay. Down.”

Your knees buckled, the sudden rush of oxygen burning your throat as you slid down the wall, coughing and trembling.

“Whoa—hey.” Pansy caught you, strong and certain, one arm steadying you as the other clutched her wand, “I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re going home.”

And this time, you let her carry the weight.

***

The world spun sharply as Pansy apparated, the crack of displaced air still echoing in your ears. The warmth of her body vanished the moment your feet hit solid ground—wood floors, familiar scents. You were in Theo’s flat.

Laughter and chatter from the living room fell to a jarring halt.

Five pairs of eyes turned in unison: Theo, Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo—all frozen mid-conversation, drinks in hand. The moment they saw you, everything dropped.

“(Y/N)?”

Your name left Theo like a punch to the gut.

You were trembling, arms wrapped tight around your middle as if they could hold your ribs together. Pansy still held onto you, as if she wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t collapse, and even she looked rattled under the scrutiny of the room.

“That fucker,” She said through gritted teeth, “Grabbed her outside the bar. Slammed her into a wall. Tried to—” her voice faltered, thick with fury, “She couldn’t breathe.”

Theo moved.

Fast.

He crossed the room in three strides, gently brushing Pansy aside like she was made of smoke. Then he was in front of you, hands hovering for a split second before he cupped your face, cradling you like you were something fragile and sacred.

His eyes roamed over your features—your split lip, your glassy eyes, the bruising fingerprints beginning to bloom like violets around your throat—and something in him shattered.

His jaw clenched, fury crashing through him like a tidal wave. He looked like he could tear the world apart.

“I’m fine.” You rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.

You tried to smile—a brittle, curling thing, “I know that probably doesn’t help my case, but… trust me, I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Theo said softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, his voice hoarse and tight, “Don’t lie to me right now.”

Your breath hitched.

Draco hovered beside Pansy now, brushing her hair behind her ear as he muttered something only she could hear. She nodded once, giving her boyfriend a soft smile before turning her gaze back to you, eyes gleaming with steel.

Theo gently tugged you forward into his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs had surrendered somewhere between the alley and the flat, and he was warm, steady—home. Before you could stop it, a sob cracked loose from your chest, raw and shaking. Your hands fisted into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

He held you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice trembling beneath the quiet, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The flat was eerily quiet now. One by one, the boys filtered out, their faces grim with the weight of what had just happened.

Mattheo lingered just long enough to press a firm, reassuring hand to your shoulder. His voice was low, steady, almost a promise, “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of everything from here.”

Blaise didn’t say a word. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod to Theo, then to you, his expression taut with barely restrained anger and resolve.

Enzo’s jaw clenched as he glanced at you one last time. “He’s a dead man,” he muttered under his breath before turning away and joining the others.

You barely noticed them leaving. Your world had shrunk to the steady rhythm of Theo’s heartbeat humming against your ear, the comforting warmth of his hand pressing into your back, and the ache lodged deep in your chest — a raw, stubborn pain that refused to fade.

“I want him arrested. Tonight.” Pansy’s voice cut through the silence like ice, cold and deadly calm but laced with a fury that made the room vibrate, “Draco, I’m serious. He attacked her in public. Slammed her against a wall. Choked her until she could barely breathe.”

Draco’s tone was clipped, measured, but the sharp edge of anger was unmistakable, “You have a name?”

“Graham Bulstrode.” Pansy replied without hesitation, her voice razor-sharp and unyielding.

Draco’s jaw tightened, “Consider it done, my love.”

Every word settled into your foggy mind — distant but painfully clear. The tremble in your hands hadn’t stopped, but Theo’s arms wrapped around you only tightened, as if willing to keep the danger at bay. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, a quiet vow whispered without words.

When the door finally clicked shut behind the last of the others, the tension finally broke. The tears you had been holding back surged forward, hot and fierce, tumbling freely down your cheeks. You clung to him, the safety of his presence grounding you as the storm inside began to settle.

You buried your face in Theo’s chest, shoulders trembling as the sobs broke free, wracking your entire body with every breath. He held you through it, solid and steady, one hand gently combing through your hair like he could smooth away the terror still clinging to your skin.

“I’m so stupid,” You gasped, the words catching in your throat, “I’ve—I’ve thought about that moment for the past month. What I’d say. How I’d stand up for myself. I imagined throwing that stupid ring back in his smug face, saying something cutting, something final—but when it actually happened…”

Your voice cracked, guilt burning behind your ribs.

“I couldn’t even speak. I just froze. I have a wand but I couldn't cast a single spell. I let him say all that shit about me—about you—and I... I didn’t even defend you, Theo. I’m so sorry. I'm so useless.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just held you tighter, like your apology hurt more than anything else that had happened. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—gentle, but resolute.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His words rumbled in his chest, warm against your cheek.

“I don’t give a damn about what you said or didn’t say to him. You don’t owe me a defense—not ever.”

You looked up at him, blinking through the tears. His eyes found yours, fierce and heartbreakingly soft, like you were something sacred—something he’d never let break.

“And you’re not stupid, (Y/N), or useless,” He said, voice thick with emotion, “You’re incredible. Brave. Stronger than you even realize. And I’m so fucking proud of you.”

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding, safe.

“He’s not going to get away with this,” Theo whispered, “I promise you.”

You sighed, sinking deeper into him, like you could finally let go of everything you’d been holding in. His arms wrapped around you again, warm and sure.

“Come on,” he murmured, “Let’s treat that bruise. Get you something to eat.”

But you shook your head, face pressed tight against his chest.

“Don’t let me go.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was tender, healing. You curled into him like you could disappear there, into the rhythm of his breathing and the thrum of his heart.

“I’m never going to let you go.”

And you believed him.

His heartbeat echoed beneath your ear, strong and unwavering. With every beat, the weight in your chest began to lift—slowly, steadily.

Safe. Loved. Finally, home.

***

A couple weeks later it was raining softly outside, the kind of slow, constant drizzle that blurred the windows and made the world feel far away. You and Theo were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, a blanket lazily thrown across your laps. A half-empty mug sat abandoned on the coffee table beside a crumpled takeout bag. The telly hummed faintly in the background, long forgotten.

“So then she goes, ‘I forgot to run the control,’” You said, exasperated, “and I swear to Merlin, I have never seen Slughorn that mad in his life.”

Theo snorted, one arm draped across your shoulders, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “Serves her right for always nicking your freshly ground moonstone.”

“Right? And of course, the one day I’m not there to supervise her, she completely tanks it. It’s not like I was goofing off—I was at the Ministry signing off the paperwork for Bulstrode's trial.” You sighed, “Slughorn knew, so I didn’t get in trouble, but I still have to repeat all her damn trials for the next few weeks. As if I don’t already have enough on my plate.”

“What’s keeping you so busy, Bella?” Theo asked, smiling as he gently unraveled the curl and let it spring back into place, “Maybe I can help.”

“Well, I’ve been needing to check out some apartments. Can’t really leave that to you, now can I?” You yawned, “But if you want, we could go together?”

Theo stilled.

He pulled back just slightly, brows furrowed as he studied your face, “Apartment hunting?”

You blinked, “Yeah… I’ve been looking at places closer to work. Just something small. I mean, I don’t make much yet.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Wait—(Y/N), are you planning to move out?”

You nodded slowly, suddenly self-conscious, “I mean—I’ve been here for a while now and I love it, obviously, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I figured—”

“You think you’re overstaying?” His voice cut gently but sharply through your words.

You faltered, “Well, I just—”

“You’re not,” Theo said, a little breathless now, like the words had been sitting on the edge of his tongue for too long, “You’re not overstaying. I want you here.”

Your breath hitched.

“I want to come home to you. Every day. Not to an empty flat. Not to a world where you’re somewhere else.”

His hand found yours, threading your fingers together like a lifeline. His voice dropped lower, steadier.

“Stay. Please.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and sure, “I want to come home knowing the woman I love is safe. Here. With me.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, the world narrowing to his hand in yours, the soft thunder of rain against the windows, the warmth of his words blooming in your chest like magic.

“What do you mean, the woman you love?”

Theo let out a quiet laugh, a little stunned you hadn’t realized it already. His smile turned lopsided, eyes shining.

“Are you daft, (Y/N)?” He said, voice thick, “I’m in love with you. I’ve been taken with you since we were kids, and I’m still—” He broke off for a breath, like the truth was catching up to him all at once. “Still completely gone for you.”

Your heart did something unsteady in your chest.

“Say it again.” You whispered.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stuttered. The words lingered in the air between you, delicate and heavy all at once—like the hush after a spell’s been cast.

You didn’t look away.

You couldn’t.

“I’ve loved you for a long time too, Theo,” You whispered, the confession trembling on your tongue, “I don’t even know when it started—when I began falling for you—but I did. And I fell hard. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

You smiled through the softness in your voice, “You’re the kindest, most patient man I’ve ever met… and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I met you on the day of my wedding.”

That pulled a laugh from him—warm, full, and brimming with disbelief. He tilted his head back slightly, grinning like you’d just handed him the entire sky.

You leaned in just a fraction, voice softer now, “I want to stay. Not just in the flat. In your life. With you.”

That did it.

Theo closed the distance, his hands cradling your face as his lips found yours in a kiss that felt like coming home. It was fierce and tender all at once—like a dam breaking, like every moment of yearning pouring out of him in one breathless, burning exhale.

You melted into him, arms winding around his neck, your body pressed close as the kiss deepened—hungry now, desperate. His fingers tangled in your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, both of you trying to memorize the moment, to feel every inch of it like it could make up for all the waiting.

Weeks—months—of unspoken words, of lingering touches and stolen glances, of intimate moments that always ended with breathless silences and aching restraint—crashed into a single breath.

Theo kissed you like you were his lifeline—like he’d been holding back a storm and had finally been given permission to let it break.

You gasped as his lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, your throat—reverent, hungry, like he was rediscovering you with every breath. “Tell me to stop,” He murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, “Say the word, and I will.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you tugged him closer, heart pounding under his palm as your fingers slid into his hair, voice trembling with a dangerous sort of affection, “If you stop, Theodore Nott, I’m sleeping at Pansy’s tonight.”

He let out a low, incredulous laugh—half-choked and fully wrecked—then kissed you again, deeper this time. Certain. Claiming. The rain tapped gently against the windows, forgotten behind the haze of fogged glass and the thrum of two hearts finally letting go.

And when he lifted you off the couch, carrying you down the hall with all the tenderness in the world and not an ounce of hesitation, the only thing either of you could think was:

About bloody time.

***

It was barely 9 a.m. when the front door to Theo’s flat creaked open—again, without so much as a knock.

Mattheo’s voice cut through the quiet, “I swear, if this idiot didn’t do the groceries and we hiked all the way here for his strawberries for nothing, I’m setting the place on fire.”

“I brought croissants.” Lorenzo offered brightly.

“You brought them from my kitchen,” Draco said flatly, “You literally stole them from my counter.”

Theo stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “Do none of you understand the concept of boundaries?”

He was mid-scowl when Blaise’s voice drifted in from the hallway, “Don't you imbeciles think it's too early to—”

And then they all fell silent.

You had just stepped out of the bedroom—the master bedroom this time, not the guest room—bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing nothing but Theo’s hoodie. Again. Hair a little messy, legs bare, looking entirely at home.

Draco blinked, “Déjà vu.”

Mattheo let out a dramatic sigh, “Alright, but like… why is it always the hoodie and no pants? Not that I’m complaining—it’s just, you know what, never mind.”

Blaise leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, “So what’s the excuse this time? Sleepwalking? Laundry explosion? Sudden amnesia about how trousers work?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“We’re dating,” You said flatly, tugging the sleeve of Theo’s hoodie over your hand as you rubbed your eye, “And I’m not wearing pants because I had sex with your friend. Good morning.”

Silence.

Four pairs of stunned eyes stared at you.

Lorenzo made a choked noise, “I—okay.”

Mattheo sputtered, hands flailing, “You can’t just say that without warning!”

“You asked.” You replied dryly.

Draco took a long sip of coffee, muttering behind the rim of his mug, “I owe Pansy ten Galleons.”

***

Bonus:

Your heart pounded as you stared at the closed doors, the soft strains of the wedding march beginning to drift through the wood. Your palms were sweaty around the bouquet you carried, nerves and excitement swirling in your chest.

Then, the doors swung open, revealing you in a stunning white dress, your smile bright and genuine as you began your walk down the aisle. The hush of the ceremony wrapped around you like a warm embrace, the aisle stretching ahead lined with friends and family.

A memory flickered through your mind—just a couple of years ago, you had run away from a different wedding down the hall, only to find refuge in this very chapel. It was here that you met your to-be husband, the love of your life.

Your eyes locked onto the man standing across the room, looking impossibly handsome in his tailored suit. His gaze locked onto you immediately, and for a moment, all the noise and bustle melted away. It was just you and him.

Only a few feet separated you now, but something in your heart couldn’t wait. Before you realized what you were doing, you broke into a gentle run—this time towards the groom.

Theo’s face broke into a gentle smile—the kind reserved only for you—as he reached for you. Before you could even think twice, his arms closed around you, catching you effortlessly. Your feet lifted from the floor as he spun you gently, twirling you in a slow, perfect circle.

The world blurred—lights, faces, music—all faded into a whirl of warmth and happiness.

He pressed his forehead to yours, a slow smile curling on his lips as he whispered, "You just can't wait to marry me, can you?"

You laughed softly, breath warm against his skin, "I couldn’t run away—tried it before. Too much work."

His eyes sparkled with amusement and love as he pulled you closer, the world around you fading into nothing but this perfect, shared moment.

***

EXTRA BONUS BECAUSE I CAN HEHEHE:

Hogwarts, Year 6:

You glanced across the potions table, scanning the clutter of ingredients before turning slightly toward the Slytherin bench.

“Theodore?” You said cautiously, holding your crushed lacewing flies with gloved fingers, “Could I borrow the asphodel? Just for a sec.”

He looked up from his cauldron like you’d just asked for his wand. There was a pause. Not rude, not angry—just... blank. Then, wordlessly, he slid the jar toward you across the table. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment when you took it. Cold skin. A little spark. His hand recoiled like he’d been burned.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” You murmured, blinking.

He just gave a short nod, already turning away, jaw tight as he went back to slicing his valerian root like it had offended him personally.

You blinked again, confused, then padded back over to your side of the room where Pansy was lounging against the workbench like it was a chaise lounge in the Slytherin common room.

She quirked an eyebrow, “What was that?”

You shrugged, a slight pout forming on your lips, “I don’t know. I guess he just really doesn’t like me.”

Pansy snorted, “Please. If Theo really didn’t like you, you’d know.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Theo was absolutely not concentrating on his potion anymore. He was staring blankly into the cauldron, stirring too fast, ears tinged pink.

Your hands just touched.

***

Forever Taglist:

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[bywons]

PULLING YOU ON THEIR LAP 𖥔 ENHYPEN

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬──── 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋

❪ 𝑃𝑅𝐸𝐶𝑖𝑆 ❫ ｡ 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 992wc 𖥔 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 ── 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 愛 ／ 𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒

する ܃ dedicated to @.jenni cause she gave the idea for jw’s hc and then BOOM ot7 hc :0

reb𝑙ogs& ˊᗜˋ 𝑓eedbacks

LEE HEESEUNG

“do i really look good in this dress?” you pout, mindlessly monitoring yourself in front of the mirror.

“i feel like—” before you can even finish your sentence, your loving boyfriend, lee heeseung, pulls you on his lap. you land on his lap with a soft gasp, your hands automatically flying to his chest. as soon as you take in heeseung’s expression towards you, you feel heat rush to your cheeks and tips of your ear.

his infamous doe eyes lock onto yours, brimming with adoration as he quickly takes in all of you through his lovesick eyes. heeseung leans closer, his lips curling into a playful smirk as he rests his chin on your shoulder. his hands find their way to your waist, holding you firmly yet gently as if you might slip away at any moment.

“you feel like what, babe?” he whispers, teasing, “like you're the prettiest girl in the world? if so, then i agree.”

PARK JONGSEONG

your restlessness doesn't go unnoticed by your boyfriend, as you pace around the room, venting about your day.

meanwhile jay feels concerned by the minute, he wants to share your pain, your thoughts. so without a word, he reaches out and catches your wrist, gently tugging you toward him. before you can react, he pulls you onto his lap, his arms encircling your waist with a quiet possessiveness.

“jay—” “shh,” he shushes you down, before creeping his hands up against your back, tracing little circles and shapes to calm you down, while the other hand holds you in place, resting along your waist. jay leans in, pressing a soft kiss on the side of your neck which makes your breath hitch.

“you don’t always have to fight everything on your own,” he whispers, his tone laced with affection. he pushes your head against his warm chest. “lean on me, baby. i’ll always be here for you.”

SIM JAEYUN

jake whines, sighs heavily as he watches you scroll down your phone for the past hour now, and the longer he waits the more he wants to snatch you away from it. and so he does.

without a word he grabs your hand and pulls you on his lap. “jake what—” before you can even say anything, he wraps himself around you like a koala, face buried deep in your neck and hands snaking around your waist.

“jake! what are you doing?” you protest, your cheeks heating up.

“just wanted you closer,” he says simply, mumbling against your neck. his hands settle around you, his thumbs drawing lazy circles.

“you look cute you're flustered,” he giggles as you say that, he can't deny that it's completely true.

PARK SUNGHOON

a lazy afternoon, you fold your laundry while humming to yourself. when you suddenly feel gentle hands wrapping around your abdomen, and before you can react you land squarely on sunghoons lap.

“‘hoon!” you gasp sweetly, before turning towards him, taking a glance of his beautiful face, “are you feeling extra romantic, maybe?”

“how’d you know?” he mumbles, kissing your shoulders before resting his chin there, swaying the both of you side to side. he holds your tighter as if you’d slip away. sunghoons embrace brings you comfort and warmth, as he giggles into your ear with sweet nothings. just the two of you this mellow afternoon.

you lean back against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you.

“you’re beautiful like this,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “stay with me a little longer.”

KIM SUNOO

you're play arguing with your boyfriend sunoo— a serious topic on who likes mint chocolate more, your teasing words earning exaggerated sighs and pouts from him.

just as you laugh at his reaction, with surprising great strength, sunoo grabs your wrist and hauls you towards him. with a gasp, your head rests over his shoulders, with you on his lap.

“okay, that’s enough,” he says with a dramatic huff, his arms locking around your waist to keep you in place. “i win.

your blink up at him, momentarily surprised at the sudden closeness and warmth from him. his touch is warm and loving, except his eyes which look down on you with a hint of playfulness and possession. he smirks, finally lighting your heart on fire.

“sunoo—!” “nope, nope. you're staying right here,” he chuckles, before leaning down to whisper, “besides, you look the best on my lap, close to me.”

YANG JUNGWON

your jaw hangs low as you stare at your boyfriend like a hawk. so this was jungwon’s sweet surprise? going blonde?

“so? say something?” he sighs. he ruffles his newly dyed hair, his lips pulling into an awkward smile, as he sits on the couch. you don’t know whether to laugh, cry or swoon, so you stammer, “you..you look different.”

“different good or different bad?” he giggles, gently pulling you closer until you land on his lap, your silken hair falling upon his cheeks. “different good,” you whisper.

“very nice then,” he whispers back, pressing a soft kiss against your lips as he pulls you closer by your waist, “i plan on being blonde the rest of my life then.”

NISHIMURA RIKI

you've been teasing and your boyfriend riki relentlessly, giggling at his exaggerated groans of frustration. he rolls his eyes, pretending to be unbothered, but you know you’ve struck a nerve. just as you’re about to say something else, he abruptly grabs your wrist and tugs you onto his lap.

“quiet,” he says, leaning closer, his voice tinged with mock annoyance. his hands rest on your thighs, steadying you as his dark eyes meet yours, full of mischief and something deeper. “you’ve been teasing me all day. now it’s my turn.”

your breath hitches as his face inches closer, the proximity making your heart pound.

he wants to laugh at your expression, but instead he gives you a sweet kiss. “you're lucky that I like you,” he giggles.

© BYWONS, 2024 / do not copy or repost without permission . div ctto

taglist────open tags in the reblogs ! network tag. @/k-labels @k-films @k-nets CLICK ME

[emisluvr]

‎ 𝗢𝗙𝗙𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗡 ◜ ᯅ ◝ 𝗟.𝗛𝗦

이희승 as your bf that you suck off while on live ! ⭑ ── wc. 589 ୨ৎ mature drabble ✧ w. smut ( 18+ mdni! ) , oral sex , live setting ✴︎ requested !

‎ ꒰◞ ˕ ◟୨୧꒱ REBLOGS + FB !

it’s almost midnight, 11:43 p.m., and heeseung had already been on weverse live for an hour. sure, you loved how he was interacting with his fans and all, but he promised that he’d spend time with you tonight—however that would go...

and it didn’t help that he looked so good. wearing a big t-shirt, messy hair, a tired face eager to go to bed, and the way he manspread had your mind wandering. the more you watched, the more frustrated you got. he was giving all his attention to the fans, and you needed it on you.

then, you got an idea. he was sitting at his desk, with enough space for you to crawl under. when you moved off the bed and onto your knees, slowly making your way toward him, he noticed you right away. eyes flicking down for a second before going back to the screen. he didn’t say anything—just kept talking, pretending like nothing was happening.

you tugged gently on his sweatpants, slowly but quietly pulling them down until his cock sprang free, already hardening in your hand. he looked down at you again, this time his gaze lingering a little longer. he knew where this was going. and very much aware that he’d have to end the live soon.. just not yet.

you took his cock in your hands, lazily stroking the base as your tongue gave his tip a few kitten licks, teasing him. his thigh twitched, a quiet groan escaping that he quickly covered with a cough, trying to act natural for the camera.

then your mouth took him in completely. you started bobbing your head slowly, setting a gentle rhythm to avoid any slurping sounds that might give it away. his hand slid under the desk, resting lightly on the back of your head, as if that would help.

"s-sorry, it was my chair…" he said suddenly, grunting under his breath and shifting slightly in his seat. his breath hitched again, and his eyes kept flicking offscreen—to look at you sucking his cock so perfectly under the desk, lips wrapped tight around him.

the chat was catching on.

heedeungieee1: heeseung are you okay? 😭 luvlyjake02: why’s he looking offscreen so much 💀 sunootokki: HE’S BREATHING SO HARD WTF engene_luvr07: is it just me or is he… sweating?? niki_wifeyyy: oh he's fighting demons rn

"i’m okay guys, seriously..." he tries to laugh it off, but it’s breathy and shaky. you take that as a cue to tease him further, sliding your hand up and down his saliva-covered, throbbing length while your mouth sucks at his tip, now dripping with pre-cum.

his jaw clenched, throat bobbing as he held back the urge to moan. his hand landed back in your hair, tugging just a little—just enough to guide your pace, silently asking you to go deeper. his face was flushed, ears red, and it was becoming nearly impossible to stay composed.

"engene, i’m gonna go sleep now... g-goodnight," he says, voice cracking as he rushes to end the live, clicking off the stream faster than he ever has before.

the second the screen goes black, he turns his head toward you, finally letting out all the moans and grunts he’d been holding in.

"fuck, angel… couldn’t wait ‘til i was done?" he groans, voice raspy, eyes heavy as he looks down at you—your mouth full, chin wet, head bobbing between his thighs like you were starving. you moan around him in response, and the sound alone nearly makes him lose it.

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[gojoest]

heartstrings — gojo satoru

established relationship (married life), f!reader, you pull the cheating prank on him but he gets really upset, hurt/comfort, not proofread, dividers by @/cafekitsune

satoru is always the mastermind behind pranks, especially on april fools’. however, this year you’re determined to turn the tables and teach him a lesson. you craft the perfect prank, but the joke takes an unexpected turn…

your sweet and loving husband, gojo satoru, was quite the little troublemaker.

he thrived on having fun and pulling pranks, and as his wife, you were often the target of his mischievous antics.

naturally, april fools’ day was his time to shine even more, and he went all out with his tricks. even though you knew it was coming, you always found yourself falling for his pranks, no matter how prepared you thought you were.

but you told yourself, this year was going to be different. this year, you were determined. for the first time, you were going to outwit him, teach him a lesson.

you weren’t going to let satoru be the sole prankster this time. no. this year, you were going to make him the victim of the greatest prank you could come up with. something so perfect, so detailed, that for once, he wouldn’t be able to see it coming. you’d been plotting for weeks, carefully crafting the perfect plan to get back at him.

the problem? you knew he would take it to extremes, and you had to be careful.

it was going to be difficult, because satoru is incredibly smart and perceptive, able to read you like an open book. he could easily tell when you were up to something.

how could you pull off a prank that could rattle someone like him? you had no idea. it had to be something that would hit him right in his heart. something that would make him question everything.

…and so it came to you one night,

you were going to make him think you were cheating on him.

. . .

you spent all morning setting up. every detail had to be perfect.

you called up a fake number from one of your old friends to act as the “other man”. you crafted a story — nothing too elaborate, just enough to plant a seed of doubt in your husband’s mind. he was leaving for a mission soon, so the timing was perfect. you had a solid few hours to prepare, and with the house quiet and empty, you were ready.

you didn’t even want to let him see you preparing. you knew that if satoru even suspected something was up, he’d ruin it for you in a heartbeat. as much as you loved him, the man was impossibly observant. you had to be sneaky. you had to watch your attitude, keep your face straight and act as your usual self.

he was going to be back any moment now, and you had to set everything up before he arrived.

you waited. and waited. your heart racing with every tick of the clock, excited for what was to come.

when you finally heard the door creak open and his shoes hit the hallway floor, you knew you were running out of time. he was home.

you pulled out your phone, took a deep breath, and dialed the number you’d prepared. then you casually moved to the hallway, out of his line of sight, while keeping one ear open for his movements.

“hey, baby”, you spoke softly into the phone, sounding as affectionate as possible. “i just got home. can’t wait to see you tonight”

you could already hear satoru’s footsteps moving closer, and a little panic started to rise in your chest. but you pushed it down, determined to go through with the plan. “yeah, i missed you too. i don’t know how much longer i can keep this up, though… he might start getting suspicious…”

you heard his footsteps slow down as he approached. you had to act fast.

“i have to hang up. my husband is home”, you said, as convincingly as you could manage. “i’ll text you later. i love you”

with a small sigh of relief, you ended the call and stuffed your phone into your pocket, straightening up to face satoru, who was now leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, with a piercing look in his eyes.

you froze. your heart stuttered in your chest. it didn’t matter how well you thought you had planned this out — the shock in satoru’s eyes made it clear that you had made a miscalculation. he wasn’t just confused; he looked… hurt.

his lips quivered as if words were stuck in his mouth, but he didn’t say anything immediately. the silence stretched out, almost too long. and in that moment, your stomach twisted with an uncomfortable feeling you hadn’t anticipated.

it was supposed to be a joke. but now, as you met his gaze, the fear in his eyes hit you like a wave.

“who was that?”, satoru asked, his voice calm but with a dangerous edge that you hadn’t expected. it wasn’t like his usual playful tone. this wasn’t the teasing gojo satoru that liked to make you laugh. no, this was a more serious, demanding gojo satoru. the kind you rarely saw.

you swallowed hard. “what? n-no one. just a friend”

“a friend?”, satoru repeated, stepping closer to you. he didn’t raise his voice, but you could feel the tension building in the air. “you talk to your friends like that? — i’ll text you later. i love you? you cut your calls short — because your husband is home?”, he shook his head slightly, looking incredulous. “who was that?”

your stomach dropped. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. you hadn’t expected him to react like this. you had hoped for a laugh, a playful response, maybe even some mock outrage — but not this.

“hey, baby, it’s not like that”, you tried to laugh, but the sound felt hollow. “it was just a prank. a joke. don’t you prank me all the time on april fools’, so i thought i’d get you back this time around”

but satoru’s expression didn’t change. he wasn’t laughing. he didn’t even crack a smile. his face was unreadable, but his eyes — his eyes told a different story. they were wide, searching, desperate for some sort of confirmation.

he moved closer, and you could feel the heat radiating off of him. his gaze was laser-focused, and the weight of his presence made it hard to breathe. your heart felt like cracking.

“no”, he said quietly, his voice trembling just slightly. “that… wasn’t a prank. that wasn’t funny. not… to me. who was… that… man?”, his breath hitched.

you shook your head, trying to laugh it off, again. “satoru”, you said his name softly. “it really was a prank. i didn’t think you’d take it so seriously. baby, come on—“

“it didn’t sound like one”, he cut you off, stepping forward again, his gaze hardening. “you were talking to him like— like you loved him…“

your chest tightened, and you took a shaky step back. you didn’t mean for it to go this far. you didn’t mean to hurt him. “satoru…”, you whispered, reaching for him this time, but he pulled away slightly. his body tense, every muscle coiled like a spring.

“is there… someone else? really?”, his voice was barely above a whisper, but the pain in it made you freeze.

that was when you realized the depth of what you had done. you had planted the idea in his head, and now it was too real. he fell for it, believed you. for a moment, satoru, the man who never showed vulnerability, who always exuded confidence and power, looked completely broken. you never knew it would take so little to break him.

“no”, you said softly, shaking your head. “satoru, no. baby, it’s not like that. you know i would never—“

but he cut you off. “but then, why? why did you say you loved him the way you say it to me…. or used to say it to me….”

your throat tightened as the weight of his words hit you. you had never seen him like this — truly broken, terrified to his core. he was always the one in control, the one who made everyone laugh, the one who had no fear. but now, here he was, standing before you, completely exposed, vulnerable, and afraid.

“i’m so sorry, baby”, you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached for him again, this time pulling him into your arms. “i was just acting... i never thought it would turn out like this. if it sounded genuine, it’s because you were on my mind. please, ‘toru… i didn’t mean to upset you like this”

for a long moment, he didn’t move. his body was rigid in your embrace, and you could feel the tension coursing through him. the silence between you stretched out, and all you could hear was the sound of your heartbeat, and his.

“i love you”, you whispered against his chest. “i was just trying to prank you, but i messed up... i swear, you are my one and only”

finally, satoru’s arms slowly wrapped around you. you felt his hands tremble as he held you tighter, his face buried in your hair. “i’m sorry too”, he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. “i overreacted. it’s just—“, he paused for a moment, “god, i love you so much. i was terrified. for a second, i thought i was losing you”

you pulled back, holding his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. “you’re not losing me. never. you’re my person, baby. okay?”

he stared at you, his eyes searching yours as though looking for the truth in every word. finally, he exhaled a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “okay. i know”, he whispered. “i just… i just can’t stand the thought of you leav—”

you pecked his lips, and smiled softly against the kiss. relief flooding through you. “i’m not going anywhere. ever. and next april fools’ i will—“

“no— you are banned from pranking me for the rest of your life”, he furrowed his brows, “you’re terrible at this. do you want to make me laugh or have me dead, i can’t tell with those jokes of yours”, but his usual smirk was slowly returning.

“alright, alright. no more pranks! i’ve learned my lesson”, you chuckled, before pulling him into another kiss.

…one that felt like home; melting away all the tension, all the fears.

[scaredybunny]

Theres something about never hearing your dad swear until he's in your tight pussy 🤤

He's gently groomed gotten you used to physical touch with him. He's convinced himself that if you're enjoying it, there's nothing wrong with violating his little boy. So he makes sure you enjoy it, making you cum by rubbing you through your undies. It takes a lot of fortitude to not whip his cock out the first time he sees your blissed out post orgasm face. But that would be too scary for a little boy like you. He loves you, so he will take his time.

He even manages to control himself the first time you ask to make him feel good, the same way he makes you feel good.

"Daddy, what's that in your pants?"

"Well, sweetheart, you know how your parts get wet when you get excited? I have different boy parts that get hard when I get excited."

"Oh! Do you want me to touch you, daddy?"

He could have thrown you down and split you open right there. Instead, he let you touch him through his boxers. Guiding your hand and holding you close. When he came, he saw it in your eyes, desire.

He couldn't wait any longer. He had wanted to get you used to direct contact and fingering first but he had held himself back long enough.

"You wanna know the reason why your boy parts get wet and mine get hard, sport?"

"Mhmm!"

"They fit together, like a puzzle piece. My stiffness makes it easier to push in, and your wetness makes it slide in and out easy peasy! You wanna try it?"

You looked a bit intimidated.

"Are you sure that can go inside me daddy? it doesn't look like it'll fit."

He calmed your trepidation easily enough, and before long, he had you soaking wet, on all fours, ready for him. He told himself doggy style would make it less painful, but really he wanted to grope your perfect little ass while he fucked you. To see you bent over like a bitch in heat was almost too much for him. He lined himself up and pushed in. So tight and soft and wet. He couldn't help it.

"Fuuuuck" he tried to say it under his breath, but you still heard it.

"Daddy!" Usually, you might giggle at that, but you were too distracted by the pain. "ow ow ow! I don't think it's fitting, Daddy!"

"Sh sh sh shhhh." he had been so patient, he couldn't hold back anymore. He pushed your chest down, then forced your head into the soft pillows to quiet your whining. "quiet- fuck - quiet sweetheart, it'll stop stinging soon, daddy promises. god, fuck! It just hurts a bit the first time."

His change in demeanor was obvious even to you; your daddy was using you, and it hurt. But you couldn't fight him off, you're just a little boy. Eventually, he was lying on top of you, using his weight to hold you down as rutted his adult cock into you.

He was right in the end; it did stop hurting eventually. But your playtime got a lot rougher after that, your dad learned it was much easier to just hold you down :)

[whisperedmeg]

NAILED IT ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x girlfriend!reader

summary: spencer’s been away too long, your nails are too long, and you’re getting a little desperate. good thing he’s always happy to lend a helping hand.

genre: fluff, smut | w/c: 2.1k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, spencer calls reader sweetheart & sweet girl & angel, hand/finger/nail kink, masturbation (f; only attempted/discussed), fingering, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, spencer cums in his pants lol, no use of y/n

a/n: based on anon’s request! loved this idea so much. couldn’t help making spencer the ultimate super whipped boyfriend lmao. enjoy! 💅🏼😉 p.s. if you zoom in on the far left photo you’ll see my sad photoshop attempt at the manicure I described lmao

You send Spencer the photo just before sunset.

It’s nothing fancy — just your hand resting on your thigh, fresh from the nail salon, skin still warm from the hot towel they wrap your hands in at the end of your appointment. The polish is indigo, with little gold stars forming teeny tiny constellations on each nail. They catch in the light when you move. You know he’ll appreciate that. You type out a quick caption and hit send.

You: new favorite set?

His response is almost instant, a flurry of three successive messages:

Spence: How do your hands keep getting more beautiful?

Spence: Also. Yes. Definitely a new favorite.

Spence: Wish I was there.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, debating what to send next. You want to say something clever — something flirty or offhand or designed to make him blush a little in public — but instead you just type:

You: come home soon, please

—

The TV hums low in the background, something forgettable you haven’t really been paying close attention to. You sit in the quiet for a while, curled into the couch like it might hold you tighter if you’re still enough. Outside, the sky is bruised and soft and growing darker by the minute. You keep staring at your hands.

Spencer always pays for your manicures. It wasn’t your idea — the first time you mentioned how expensive a full set was, he’d looked almost offended on your behalf and insisted you let him cover it from now on.

“Let me. You’re not just getting them done for you,” he’d said. “You’re also getting them done for me.”

And it’s kind of true. Spencer loves to watch your hands when you talk, like there’s a whole language he’s learning just from your fingers. He traces your knuckles during movies, plays with your rings when you’re standing in line, thumbs over the backs of your hands while you read, threads your fingers through his and presses them down into the mattress when he’s on top of you. He holds them like they’re precious artifacts. Like they’re rare.

You’d gotten this set done a few days after he left for a case out in Denver, and much to both of your chagrin, it ended up being a bad one that would keep him in Colorado for much longer than expected. You hadn’t realized how much of a problem your new nails would be until later that night, when you were wound tight and lonely and craving something warm and familiar. You’d lit a candle. Touched yourself under the blanket. Tried to make it quick.

But it hadn’t worked. You’d scratched yourself twice and gotten the angle wrong three times, and by the time you gave up, your whole body felt edged and annoyed.

You’ve tried again since. Twice, each attempt more frustrating than the last. You can’t say it out loud — I can’t get myself off because my nails are too long — without feeling ridiculous, so you don’t tell Spencer when he calls you each night from the hotel.

You press your hands between your thighs and exhale slowly, willing the ache to dull.

It doesn’t. You know it won’t.

Not until Spencer’s back, not until his hands are on you again, not until you can tell him in person how frustrated you’ve been — half-ashamed, half-hoping he’ll find it as ridiculous and kind of hot as you suspect he might.

But for now, you just sit with it.

The polish catches the light. The stars on your fingers shimmer. And you wait.

—

After a long ten days without him, Spencer finally calls you from the jet to let you know he was landing and would be at your apartment soon. You barely say anything on the call — just a soft “okay, baby,” because anything more might unravel you with want. The line goes quiet for a moment until he says he misses you, and you say it back, and then the silence stretches again like it always does when neither of you wants to hang up first. Eventually, he does. Reluctantly.

You don’t move until you hear footsteps approaching the door.

He lets himself in with the key you gave him months ago and drops his go-bag to the floor. You rise slowly from the couch and walk to the entryway, taking in how his messy curls framing his forehead, suit jacket slouched and travel-wrinkled, dark circles beneath his eyes like parentheses around something unsaid. You can see how the case wore on him, the heaviness of whatever weight he’s left carrying even after it’s over. But the second he sees you, his posture softens.

You don’t say anything at first. You just meet him where he stands and wind your arms around his waist.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since he left.

“Hi,” you murmur.

He hums it back into your shoulder. “Hi.”

You stay like that for a while, his arms tightening around your back and his lips pressed to the side of your neck, like he needs to confirm you’re really here — still warm and real and his.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to look down at your hands.

“Let me see.”

You raise them instinctively, fingers spread. You watch his expression shift — first curious, then sweet, then something that edges towards arousal before he tamps it down with a swallow.

His thumb grazes over your ring finger. “These are… unreal.”

“You picked the design,” you remind him with a soft smile. “Sort of.”

“I told you I like stars. I didn’t realize you’d get a whole galaxy just for me.”

You shrug. “You pay, I impress.”

He smiles and lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing each fingertip like a habit. You feel those kisses everywhere.

“How was the flight?”

“Fine,” he says as he shrugs his jacket off. “Mostly. There was some turbulence. I didn’t sleep.”

You nod, even though he doesn’t need a response. The closeness is enough.

But when he leans in to press his forehead to yours, when he closes his eyes and exhales like the hard part’s over, you don’t relax the way you normally would. You’re warm, and full, and grateful he’s home, but there’s still something tight in your chest. In your belly. Lower.

He senses it instantly.

His hands still at your waist. His brow furrows just enough. “What is it?”

You hesitate. You could lie, say you’re just tired or overworked or don’t feel well. But the truth is sharp behind your teeth and strangely tender at the same time.

“I’ve just been a little… frustrated,” you say.

He stills. “Frustrated how?”

You glance down at your nails, then back up at him.

“I, um, got them done right after you left. They’re a lot longer and pointier than usual. I didn’t think it would be a big deal, but I haven’t…” You gesture vaguely. “Been able to… you know.”

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. “You haven’t been able to… to touch yourself, this whole time?”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s harder with longer nails. Awkward. I gave up. Maybe I should just give in and buy a vibrator.”

His mouth opens, then closes as he processes the words. “You waited?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly. “This isn’t, like, a guilt trip or something. I don’t want you to feel guilty.”

He blinks. “No, no, I’m not feeling guilty, I’m feeling… lucky.” Then quieter: “And, okay, maybe a little like a negligent boyfriend.”

You smile, a little sheepish. “Not at all. You were out solving murders. That takes precedence.”

“I would’ve solved them faster had I known.”

You laugh, and he wraps you tighter into his chest.

After a pause, his voice comes low, reverent. “Let me fix it,” he murmurs. His fingers tighten at your waist, and his eyes don’t move from yours. “Come on.”

He walks you backward to the bedroom, his palm warm over the back of your neck like he’s trying to keep you grounded. He kisses you once before you sit back against the pillows, and again after — soft, open-mouthed — as he settles between your legs.

“You sure?” you whisper, even though you already know the answer. “You’re probably so tired. It can wait, really. I’m fine.”

He huffs a breath against your collarbone like it’s laughable. “You, my sweet girl, are not fine. You’ve been walking around like this for over a week. Of course I’m sure. Let me do this for you, please.”

You lean back on your elbows as he lifts your shirt and kisses the newly bared skin, slow and thorough. The reverence in his hands makes your stomach tighten. Like he’s not just touching you for the sake of it — he’s reacquainting himself. Like he missed you with his whole being.

As he peels your underwear down, his gaze catches on the shimmer of your nail polish again.

He parts your thighs slowly. Kisses the crease of your hip before shifting again to kiss your jaw. And then, with a careful breath, he drags two fingers between your folds and lets out the softest, most ruined sound you’ve ever heard him make.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re soaked.”

You want to say yeah, no shit, Sherlock, I told you I’ve been frustrated, but then his fingers dip in and curl just right and your mouth goes completely slack.

He watches your face like he’s cataloging it. Each shift of your expression, every twitch of your hips. He keeps his fingers slow, consistent — long strokes that press deep and purposeful, curved just slightly until your thighs start to tremble.

“You’re so tight,” he breathes. “So wet, sweetheart. You needed this.”

You nod, helpless. “Spencer—”

“I know.” His thumb moves to your clit, light and rhythmic. “Let me take care of it. I’ve got you.”

The build is fast — shamefully fast. You’d almost be embarrassed over how fast it is if it wasn’t for how sure you are that Spencer loves it. His fingers never stutter, never pause, and when he leans forward and kisses you again, you whimper his name.

“Come for me,” he says, soft and certain. “That’s it, angel. Want to feel you come around my fingers.”

And you do.

Your hips jerk forward, mouth releasing a sound you barely recognize as your own, and you feel yourself clench. He slows the pressure and rides the rhythm through it, eyes locked on yours until you collapse back against the mattress, gasping.

But Spencer? Spencer doesn’t stop. He simply adjusts, changes his position, presses a few kisses to your stomach. Then lower. Lower.

You jolt when you feel his mouth over your center.

“Spencer—oh, fuck.”

He looks up at you from between your thighs, curls already messy, mouth flushed.

“Put your hands in my hair,” he says, voice low. “I know it’s what you’ve been waiting for.”

You groan. “You’re such a cocky—”

He licks a slow stripe through you before you can finish the statement, and your back arches clean off the bed.

His fingers stay inside you — deep, curling just right — and his mouth covers your clit with obscene dedication. Tongue and lips and hands and pressure so steady it borders on unbearable. Your second orgasm builds sharper, thinner, a frayed wire stretched between nerve endings. Your thighs start to shake again and he presses in deeper, sucks a little harder, moans loudly against you when your nails graze his scalp.

You feel it in your whole body — his hunger. His focus. The way he wants this for you more than anything. You’re not even sure if you’re breathing.

“I’m—” you start, but you can’t get the warning out in time. Besides, he already knows.

You come again with a cry that tears out of your throat, and this time it overwhelms you — your body writhing, hands pulling at Spencer’s hair hard enough to make him groan. You’re too lost in the moment to notice how lost he is alongside you.

And then, as your limbs shake and your head falls back to the pillow, you hear a low, choked sound that didn’t come from you.

You glance down, dazed.

Spencer’s still between your legs, breathing heavy. He looks completely boneless, cheeks red, eyes half-lidded and glazed, limbs trembling a little, a combination of his sweat and your slick glistening on his skin. Then it hits you — you’ve seen that face before.

“Did you just…” You blink at him. “Spence, did you just come in your pants?”

He rests his forehead against your thigh and nods, clearly trying to catch his breath, clearly a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to.”

You start to giggle. It bubbles up through your chest, soft and stunned and fond beyond belief. “Oh my god, you totally humped the bed. Does getting me off really turn you on that much?”

He groans again, this time in embarrassment, but he’s smiling. “You were… god, you were just so perfect. And the way you pulled my hair and scratched my head… What was I supposed to do, not lose my mind?”

You smile and comb your fingers through his hair again, gentler now, your nails grazing his scalp. He hums.

“So,” you murmur, “would it be cruel to say I might keep my nails like this a little longer?”

Spencer kisses your inner thigh, still breathless. “Cruel? No. Cruel would be not letting me do this every time you need it.”

—

At some point you end up tangled sideways across the mattress, half under the covers, one of his legs still dangling off the edge.

Spencer’s cheek is pressed to your hip, his eyes fluttering closed every few seconds, hair mussed beyond recognition. You’ve managed to wriggle your underwear back on — barely — but he hasn’t made any attempt to move.

“You good?” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the crown of his head.

“Mmhmm.”

“You sure about that? You came in your pants and then passed out,” you tease.

“I did not pass out,” he mumbles. “I’m resting. You’re comfortable.”

You smile and let your nails trace gently over his scalp again. He hums.

“You really missed this, huh?”

He opens one eye, gaze lazy and warm. “I missed you.”

His sincerity hits you. Your cheeks heat up, and you manage a soft hum in response — your chest is a little too full to find the words to speak properly.

He finally shifts, crawling up beside you and nuzzling into your neck. You wrap your arms around him and let your nails scratch lightly at the base of his skull, just enough to make him shiver.

“Seriously, though,” he says, barely a whisper now. “Keep your nails long like this. Please? I’ll take care of you.”

You kiss his hair.

“Anything you want, Spence.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[ivyues]

Reunited Moments: Stray Kids’ reactions to seeing their S/O after a long time

Bang Chan

The moment Chris sees you, his eyes widen in disbelief before softening with overwhelming emotion. A breath catches in his throat as he takes a step forward, then another – until he’s practically running.

"Y/N..." he whispers.

Before you can even respond, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close, as if making sure you're really there. His warmth engulfs you, and you feel the way his fingers clutch the fabric of your shirt, refusing to let go. His chest rises and falls unevenly, and when you tilt your head up, you notice the slight shimmer in his eyes.

"I missed you so much," he murmurs against your hair, his voice thick with emotion.

A tear escapes, but he doesn’t care. He kisses you gently, his lips soft against yours as though he’s afraid you might slip away again. His kiss deepens, letting himself believe that finally, finally, you're back in his arms.

Lee Know

As soon as Minho sees you, he freezes, his lips pressing into a firm line. His arms cross over his chest as he shifts his weight, trying to play it cool.

"Took you long enough," he mutters, looking away, but the way his fingers twitch at his sides gives him away.

You smile, stepping closer, and that’s when his façade cracks. Before you can even tease him, he sighs in defeat and pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“…Idiot. I missed you," he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. His grip on you tightens for a second before he quickly pulls back. "Don’t disappear like that again," he adds.

Even as he tries to regain his composure, his hands linger on your waist, unwilling to let you go just yet.

The rest of the day, Minho doesn’t let you stray too far. No matter where you go, he’s right there, a little too close, always glancing at you like he’s making sure you’re still within arm’s reach.

Changbin

The moment Changbin lays his eyes on you, his face lights up with pure joy. "Y/N!" he shouts, already moving towards you at full speed. Before you can even react, he scoops you up, spinning you around in the air as laughter bubbles out of you.

“I missed you so much!” he exclaims. The world blurs around you, but all you can focus on is his bright smile and the way his arms feel so secure around you.

When he finally sets you down, he immediately pulls you into another bone-crushing hug, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe.

"Binnie—I can't breathee!" you gasp, laughing while patting his shoulder.

"Shh, just a little longer," he mumbles against your shoulder, refusing to let go. You feel his arms tighten slightly as if he's afraid you'll disappear again. "I don't wanna let go yet."

And honestly, neither do you.

Hyunjin

Hyunjin stops in his tracks the moment he sees you. His eyes go wide, his breath hitching as he stares like he's seeing a ghost.

"No way…" he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. He even blinks a few times before looking at you again. "Is this real? Am I dreaming?"

You laugh softly, taking a step closer. "I—I can't believe it," he says, voice trembling slightly.

You roll your eyes at his dramatics but smile nonetheless. "Yes, Hyunjin, I'm here. You can touch me if you want proof."

At that, he finally snaps out of it, rushing forward and pulling you into a desperate hug. His arms wrap tightly around you, his body molding against yours.

"I missed you so much," he murmurs, his voice quieter now as he simply holds you. 

You smile into his shoulder, squeezing him just as tightly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Han

The moment Han lays eyes on you, his expression shifts instantly – his playful smile falters, his lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come out.

The second he reaches you, he crashes into you, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it nearly knocks the breath out of you. His head buries into your shoulder, and that’s when you feel it – his quiet sniffles, the way his body trembles slightly against yours.

"You—" His voice cracks, and he grips you even tighter. "I was gone for so long…"

Your hands run soothingly through his hair as you hold him just as tightly, your own heart aching. Minutes pass, but Han doesn’t let go, as if making up for all the time spent apart.

“Just a little longer,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. "As long as you need."

And so you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, neither of you willing to let go.

Felix

The moment Felix sees you, he completely freezes. His eyes widen, lips parting slightly as if he can’t believe you’re really there. Then, before he can stop it, his eyes glisten with tears.

You barely have time to react before the first tear rolls down his cheek. That’s all it takes for you to rush forward, closing the distance between you. The second your arms wrap around him, he melts into you, gripping onto you like you might disappear if he lets go.

A shaky sob escapes him as he buries his face into your shoulder, his whole body trembling against yours. “I missed you so much,” he whispers, his deep voice breaking with emotion. His hands clutch the back of your shirt tightly.

You rub his back soothingly, holding him just as tightly. “I’m here now, Lix,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his hair asyou feel a wetness on your own cheek.

You pull back, gently wiping away a tear from your face. “Hey, no fair. Now you’re making me cry too,” you tease, your voice light but full of warmth, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Seungmin

The moment Seungmin sees you, a playful smirk plays on his lips. But is gaze softens the moment he notices the glisten of tears in your eyes, replaced by an expression of concern.

You try to brush it off, sniffling and wiping your eyes. "Aren’t you gonna tease me for crying?" you ask, trying to laugh.

But instead of teasing you, Seungmin steps forward, his arms immediately enveloping you in a warm, reassuring hug. His grip is firm yet gentle, as if he’s trying to convey just how much he’s missed you without saying a word.

"Hey I'm not that mean," he murmurs softly, his voice quieter than usual. "I missed you, too, you know."

You rest your head on his chest, the warmth and comfort of his embrace enough to make everything feel okay again.

I.N

The moment Jeongin sees you, his entire face lights up with pure joy. His bright smile spreads across his lips, his eyes crinkling with excitement as he practically bounces towards you.

"Y/N!" he exclaims as he rushes to you without a second thought.

Before you can even react, he pulls you into a warm hug, his arms wrapping securely around you. There's no hesitation, no shyness – just the sheer joy of having you back in his arms. He rocks you slightly from side to side, his laughter bubbling up like he can’t contain it.

"I missed you so much," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you again!"

Seeing him this cheerful makes your heart swell, and you can’t help but smile just as brightly. “I think I do,” you say, squeezing him again.

masterlist

[differenteagletragedy]

The thing where you're Price's neighbor -- you move in while he's on leave, and he meets you while you're moving the few belongings you have into your new place. He's good at reading people and can sense that you're sad and broken, despite the tentative smile you give him when you shake his hand.

And it's not like there's some immediate spark. You're pretty, sure, and sometimes he might sneak a little look while he's walking behind you up the stairs when the elevator goes out again, but he's not falling in love.

Not yet, anyway.

It's not until one night, just before he's set to leave again, that he starts to think maybe this could be something. When he begins to toy with the idea that he might let himself feel something real for you.

He hears you crying through his bedroom wall. He's been in your apartment a few times, helping you bring in your groceries, little neighborly things like that, so he knows your home mirrors his own. He can almost imagine you there, laying in your bed, crying over whatever had happened to make you look so small and sorrowful all the time.

It's hard to hear, but he's made a living out of doing things that are too hard for most people. But then he hears one particularly pitiful sob, a little hitch in your breath as you cry, and it's enough for him to pull a pair of jeans on and knock on your door.

You're embarrassed when you answer it, and you try to make it look like you weren't crying, but something in the warm, knowing look in his eyes, the small, tight smile he gives you sets you off again, and before you know it, he's ushering you out of your apartment and into his, guiding you to sit on his couch and moving into the kitchen.

"I'll make you some tea, love," he tells you in his quiet, gruff voice. "You just sit tight."

"John, you don't have to, it's late and --"

He cuts you off with a chuckle, glancing to you from behind the counter as he asks, "You really think you could make me do something I didn't want to do?"

You give in -- of course you couldn't -- and soon he's sitting on the other end of the couch, arms crossed over his broad chest, and he waits. He gives you a choice to talk about it if you want, or to quietly enjoy his company if you don't.

But you're tired, both physically and of feeling this way, and so you unload everything. How you moved here after a rough breakup, your ex was a jerk who didn't want to let go. He'd called you again earlier, which was what had gotten you upset.

And Price listens to all of it. Even as he feels a surge of anger at the thought of someone making you -- sweet, soft little you -- feel that way. He lets you get it all out, and when you're done, he can't help but reach out a hand to give you a light tap on your shoulder.

"Well, pet, I'll tell you what," he says softly. "Next time he calls, you come give the phone to me, yeah?"

It feels protective, the way he says it, like he wants to keep you safe. It's sweet, and it makes you smile. A real smile this time, one that finally meets your eyes.

And there it is -- the moment that John knows he's all in.

You talk for a while longer, more lighthearted conversation that flows easily. It lasts long enough that by the time you leave to go back to your apartment and back to bed, he realizes that it makes more sense to stay awake until it's time to leave.

He's gone for weeks on a mission, and so much of the time, his mind wanders back to you. How that smile lit up your face, and how he wanted nothing more than to bring that smile out as often as he could. He dreams up ways he'll tell you how he feels, plans out different scenarios for how you might react.

It's almost tactical, how much thought he puts into it. But, for better or for worse, he's a man with a plan. And by the time he gets back home, he has what he feels like is a foolproof one.

The plan goes out the window when he knocks on your door and is greeted by a man. A tall, thin man he could break over his knee if he wanted to (and in that moment, he very much wants to).

Price asks for you, nervous for a moment that you'd somehow moved out in the time he was gone and that this man is his new neighbor, but then the man turns and calls out your name, and you walk out from the bedroom.

You won't meet his eyes, and he understands immediately what's going on -- this man is your ex, who seems to have weaseled his way back into your life.

Price clears his throat, looking down at you.

"Just came to check on you, love," he says quietly. "Wanted to let you know I'm back."

You do look at him then, and smile softly at him, but it's not the beautiful, radiant one he'd thought about so often while he was away. No, it's the fake one. It's meaningless, a perfunctory twitch of muscle.

You're broken again.

That simply won't do, will it?

PART TWO -- PART THREE -- PART FOUR

[clown-bimbo]

Despite being transmigrated to a world of magic almost completely different to your own, with a rich history and culture you know nothing about, you are still expected to go to school.

And you can't even get any of your medications for it.

You're like halfway through the school year, and you are stressed. Maybe that's putting it nicely. You are stressed, pressed, and depressed, and studying for a history test of a world you were never a part of. And on top of all the typical school bullshit, there's also your social life, Grim, whatever bullshit Crowley throws your way. There's also the crushing dread you'll never get home again, and the depression that comes with your situation and oh yeah the depression that runs rampant in your brain without the proper chemicals to tell it to shut up.

You're fuckin S T R E S S E D.

And your buddies are starting to notice it.

Hi, and welcome to the first horny addition to Stuck In TWST Without Meds. Today we'll be taking a look at how Cater, Trey, Leona, Rook, Vil, Idia, and Malleus might fuck your brains out to distract you from the fucking everything in your life.

18+ content below the cut. minors, this one isn't for you

all characters (including you) are 18+. established relationships.

In hindsight I don't think this is at all "smutty" enough so I'm sorry!!! But I'm really proud of how each one ends. Might go back and make them smuttier or make a smuttier part two idk but I like how it is rn

🍀

Trey already typically stays up fairly late, what with vice housewarden duties and all, but he's surprised to find you have him beat. When he left you in his room, it was with your promise that you'd be done in a minute. Buy he was gone for a good half hour longer than 'a minute', and there you were, still at his desk, furiously scribbling away with bags under your eyes.

Cute.

You don't even notice when he comes up from behind you to place a small kiss on your cheek.

"I think it's about time for bed, prefect."

"Just a minute."

"That's what you said an hour ago."

That gets you to actually look at the time. You whimper at the hour gone (and little progress made), but brush him off.

"It'll only take a minute."

Trey sighs and shakes his head.

He considers for a second leaving you be, but this is the man who got Riddle away from studying for treats. He's got tricks up his sleeve. Though he is about to use some very different tricks for you.

It starts with his hands on your shoulders. Innocent little rubs to your shoulders. Another kiss to your cheek. A kiss to your jaw. A kiss to your neck... that sweet spot between your neck and shoulder. A nibble.

His hands are moving, too. From your shoulders, to your biceps. Soon he's taking your hand in his, holding it up to his lips.

"Trey--"

"Yes?"

"W-what," You suck in a breath as he leaves another love bite on your neck. "What are you doing?"

He simply hums.

His other hand gets to your thigh.

Your pen is abandoned.

💎

Cater whines your name from his spot on his bed.

"Just a second, Cater."

"But that's what you said an hour ago!"

He has that adorable look in his eyes, and if you'd only look at him!!! he KNOWS he'd have you in his hands.

But you won't, and he doesn't.

He flops back onto the bed with a sigh.

Until he gets an idea.

For a second, one foolish second, you think you have peace. Until you start hearing a quiet but telltale shlick shlick shlick.

His breathing starts to quicken. Then he's oanting. Soon you can hear quiet moans escape his lips.

And you can hear your name as well.

God damn it.

Cater grins as you finally get up from his desk.

🦁

Your stress is stressing Leona out.

He's lounging on his bed while you work on studying for Trein's test. Leona commented that you're taking freshman history, which is "baby stuff" to which you reminded him "I AM LITERALLY NOT FROM THIS WORLD, LEONA." And, to his credit, he did try to tutor you, but Leona is the kind of tutor that only works for certain individuals and you, bless your heart, are not that type.

So he gave up (lazy lion) while you continued to work. But he can basically hear your cogs turning from his spot and it's just not productive for either of you.

So, with a growl, Leona grabs you by the collar, only to start aggressively unbuttoning it.

"Leona-"

"Shut up."

"Leona, I-"

To which you are met with a 'shut up' kiss.

But you're pretty quick to forgive him once he has you on your knees under him.

"You're working too hard, Herbivore." He grunts from over you. "Give that little brain of yours a break and let me do all the work, alright?"

🏹

It's already difficult for you to continue studying when you have Rook whispering all sorts of French terms of endearment into your ear.

He's all over you, trying to coax you away from work and into bed with massages and the aforementioned French nothings.

Nothing.

He sighs, leaning back.

Until a wicked little idea brings a grin to his face.

"Mon amour," He whispers, to which you hum in reply. "I'm going to get a snack." Another hum.

A second later you feel a hand at your pants zipper. You look down to see none other than Rook, of course, hitting you with a closed eyed smile.

👑

Vil had been helping you with your homework. Bit even after he had stopped to get changed for bed, you had kept to it. And now you had vil worried about you. While he respected your gumption, you weren't going to get anything out of staying up all night and worrying yourself. You had used up your productive hours (quite productively, he would like to add) and now it is time for sleep.

He calls your name once.

...

Oh, this will not do.

He stalks over to you. He reaches out with one perfectly manicured hand and traces your jawline.

"Darling," He purrs. "It's time for bed."

"I cant." You reply. "I-"

"Uh, uh, uh, uh." He brings a slender finger to your lips. He takes your chin between his fingers and turns you to look at him.

"It's time for bed." He repeats. "Are you going to behave for me, or am I going to have to show a naughty little spud its place?"

💀

Let's be real, Idia's probably not going to sleep at a reasonable time, but he's also not staying up stewing over homework. If he's gonna have you staying up all night in his room with him it's gonna be—

W-w-w-wait, not like that!!! He was gonna say if you're gonna be staying up all night with him it would be cuz you're playing videos games! That's all!!

Oh, but now he's thinking about it... but you're working... ugh, but it's such beginner knowledge! But you're so focused... you... you wouldn't notice if he–

But you do notice. You do notice the 6 foot tall flaming haired nerd (affectionate) humping against you. It would be harder not to notice.

🐉

Malleus is concerned about his precious child of man. He can see how stressed you are. How hard you work. He wants nothing more than alleviate the troubles plaguing your mind.

And Lilia had a... curious suggestion.

Youre working away within your own dorm room when there's a knock at your door.

Malleus grins down at you.

"May I come in?"

And you say yes.

You worry about your work left upstairs, but you play the role of gracious host and prepare him a cup of tea. He takes a seat.

"You've been troubled recently." He notes.

You sigh. "I've just been stressed with all this work."

"I see." He's silent for a moment. "I dont like seeing you in so much distress." He confesses. "Might I offer my assistance?"

You blink. "Oh, sure. Yes, I'd love that. Thank you." You expect he's going to help you study.

You do not expect, however, for him to press you up against a wall and his lips against yours.

[theonottsbxtch]

MISS YOU BABY | MV1

an: i need a hug from max verstappen stat, based off this request! thank you for sending it :)

summary: max thought his girlfriend was missing his final race during his triple header, little did he know she'd planned to come and visit all along.

wc 3.6k

The hotel room she was in was quiet.

She sat cross-legged on the bed in a dark hotel room that mirrored his, only three floors below, making sure he couldn’t see her surroundings. Her phone was propped up against a pillow, and Max’s face filled the screen, his hair still damp from the shower, tousled and messy. He looked worn-out but managed a small, tired smile just for her.

"I’m sorry, Max. I really tried to get time off, but there was just… no way," she said, the fib slipping from her lips with surprising ease. "I wanted to be there with you. Especially now."

Max exhaled, leaning back against his headboard. “I know. It’s alright.” His voice softened. “I just miss you, is all. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek, wishing she could reach through the screen and wrap her arms around him. "You’ll get through it, though. You always do."

"Doesn’t feel that way." He laughed, but it was brittle around the edges. “I feel like I’m letting everyone down. The team, the fans… you.” His eyes searched the screen, as if he might find a solution hidden somewhere in her gaze.

"Never me." She leaned closer, her face so near to the camera that she could see her reflection in his eyes. "I’m so proud of you, Max. Always. No matter what."

For a moment, he just looked at her, his expression softening, and the tension she’d seen in his face for days seemed to melt, just a little. "I wish you were here," he murmured. "I swear, you’re the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes."

She swallowed, feeling her heart pull toward him with a force that was hard to resist. "Soon, I’ll be back with you. Just… hold on a bit longer, okay?”

She gazed at his face on the screen, her heart swelling as she watched the way his eyes softened every time he looked at her. She knew he was tired and worn down, but in this moment, he looked at peace.

"I love you, Max," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

He closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him, and when he opened them again, there was a warmth there that seemed to cut through the miles between them. "I love you, too," he replied, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "More than you know."

She tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling her cheeks flush, and nodded. "Get some sleep, alright? Big day tomorrow."

He grinned. "Yeah, yeah. You, too. Dream about me, okay?"

She laughed, rolling her eyes, but her heart skipped all the same. "Always. Goodnight, Max."

"Goodnight, love."

With a final smile, she ended the call, letting the screen go dark as she leaned back into the pillows, her heart fluttering with anticipation. She’d hardly been able to sleep on the plane ride here, and she could already tell tonight would be the same.

Still, the thought of finally seeing him in person tomorrow kept her too giddy to care. She’d surprise him at the track, slipping through the garage just as he arrived, or maybe even at breakfast if she could manage it without spoiling the surprise. Her mind spun with ideas, each more elaborate than the last, but all she really wanted was to see his face light up when he realised she was there.

Pulling the covers up to her chin, she let her eyes drift closed, replaying the moment over and over in her mind, savouring the thought of his reaction. She loved him fiercely, and she knew that being here—no matter how much of a secret she’d had to make it—was exactly where she was supposed to be.

As she finally began to drift off, her last thought was simple but bright, shining like a promise: Tomorrow, he’ll know.

And while she was glad she held onto the secret.

The following morning she wished she’d told him earlier.

She woke to the faint glow of her phone on the nightstand, her morning alarm. Blinking herself awake, she squinted at the screen and saw Max’s name, followed by the time—5:02 a.m.

Heading to the track early today. Miss you already, wish you were here.

She smiled, feeling that familiar warmth spreading through her chest. But then her heart sank a little. She’d been hoping to catch him in the hotel this morning, maybe surprise him over breakfast. Now, with him already gone, she'd have to adjust her plans.

Throwing back the covers, she got up and went to the window. Rain streaked down the glass in thick, heavy drops, and the sky was a murky grey. The weather was only supposed to get worse throughout the day; she knew that’d make things complicated, especially for an outdoor track. She had no clue if her surprise would even be worth the stress of navigating the drenched, crowded paddock.

After a moment’s hesitation, she tapped her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she reached the name she wanted. She dialled, and after a few rings, Max’s assistant, Sophie, picked up.

“Hey!” Sophie greeted, sounding pleasantly surprised. “What’s up? Did you make it in?”

“Yes, I’m here!” she whispered, unable to contain her excitement. “I wanted to surprise him before he heads out on track, but with this rain… do you think I should even bother?”

Sophie sighed sympathetically. “Honestly, it’s a mess out here. They’re saying the rain’s going to be even heavier by the time qualifying starts. He’ll be in back-to-back meetings until then, and I’d hate for you to sit in the rain, just to get a few minutes with him.”

She nodded, glancing out the window at the sheets of rain. “So you think I should wait?”

“I’d say hold off until right before the race,” Sophie replied. “He’ll have a short break, and I think he’d love the surprise then. Plus, everyone’s less frantic between qualifying and race prep.”

“Good point,” she agreed, a little disappointed but knowing Sophie was right. The track on a rainy race day was chaos, and if she could avoid it until the right moment, she’d have a better chance of actually spending time with him. “Thanks, Sophie. Let me know if anything changes?”

“Will do! He’ll be so happy to see you,” Sophie said warmly. “Hang tight, okay?”

As she hung up, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement, knowing the surprise would be even more perfect with the wait. So she ordered herself a coffee, sat by the window, and watched the rain pour down, imagining the look on Max’s face when he’d finally see her just before the most important race of the weekend.

The rain hadn’t let up by the time she arrived at the track, the skies dark and moody, the air thick with humidity. She’d navigated her way through security and weaving lines of drenched fans, her heart racing as she got closer to Max’s garage. But by the time she finally made it, he was already in the car, helmet on, visor down, his focus entirely on the track ahead.

Her heart sank a little as she scanned the bustling garage, hoping for some last chance to catch his eye. But he was already strapped in, a crew member leaning in to give him a final check before he rolled out. She spotted Sophie in the corner, scribbling something down on a clipboard, and made her way over to her.

“Hey,” she whispered, feeling the dampness of the rain still clinging to her hair and clothes. “I… I just missed him, didn’t I?”

Sophie looked up and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, he was swamped the moment he got here. They barely had time to get him settled with all the delays.” She gestured to the grid display above them, where Max’s name glowed beside the stark “P17” position. “Rough start, but he’ll be glad to know you’re here.”

She nodded, feeling a pang as she glanced at his car just as it rumbled to life. His fingers flexed on the steering wheel, even from a distance she could see the tension there. She let out a breath, feeling a swell of pride and worry all at once. “Well, I’ll be here watching, then.”

Sophie handed her a headset, which she slipped on just in time to hear his engineer’s voice crackle through with the first instructions as they prepared for the start. The rain was relentless, turning the track into a slick, treacherous maze, and she felt her stomach twist as the cars peeled out onto the track for the formation lap. Max’s car trailed near the back, but she knew he’d fight, as he always did, with a ferocity she both admired and feared in moments like this.

The race began, a chaotic blur of spray and metal, the cars kicking up rooster tails of water, visibility nearly zero as they fought for position. She gripped the edge of her seat as the laps ticked by, heart pounding with every close call. It quickly became clear that the conditions were only worsening, drivers struggling to keep their cars on track, a few even skidding off into barriers with loud, bone-jarring crashes. Her hands tightened around the headset as Max navigate his way forward, battling his way to P10, then P6.

And then, just when the tension seemed to reach its peak, there was a deafening crash, followed by a sudden hush as the red flag went up, halting the race.

Her breath caught in her throat. The screen above replayed the incident—a skidding into the barrier that had caused an emergency stop. The seconds felt like hours as she waited, desperately searching for a glimpse of his car on the feed. Finally, there it was, intact, safe. Relief flooded her, and she felt her shoulders sag.

The race restarted after the delay, and she watched in awe as Max took advantage of the reshuffled positions and tire changes, surging forward with a newfound intensity. Lap by lap, he clawed his way through the field, passing car after car with a precision that made her heart race. It was as if he’d transformed, harnessing every ounce of his frustration from the last few races, channelling it into something extraordinary.

The garage erupted in cheers as he moved into P3, then P1. She stared at the screen, hardly daring to blink, her heart racing as he crossed the finish line in first place, drenched in rain and glory.

She could hardly believe it. From P17 to P1. He’d done it.

Forgetting herself, she laughed, a sound of pure joy, her heart swelling as she watched him slow down, the victory finally sinking in. She couldn't wait to see his face when he finally realised she was here, to be the first person he’d see when he stepped out of that car, soaked and grinning, finally at the top.

Ripping her headset off, she followed the crew as they ran out to parc fermé, her heart racing as fast as the roar of the crowd. The team, buzzing with excitement, parted slightly as she joined them, nudging her to the front so she’d be the first face he saw. She could barely breathe as she caught sight of Max’s car, now still, the rain glistening on its blue-and-red bodywork.

With all the force he had he climbed out, pulling off his helmet to reveal damp, messy hair and a face lit up with exhilaration and disbelief. For a moment, he simply stood there, taking in the shouts of the crowd and the blinding flashes of cameras. And then, his gaze landed on her.

His eyes widened, his exhaustion and surprise giving way to pure joy. Without hesitation, he broke into a run, crossing the slick tarmac with the kind of speed and determination that made her heart leap. She barely had a second to react before he wrapped her in his arms, his lips crashing against hers as he pulled her close, his hands pressed firmly against her back, as if he still couldn’t believe she was real.

“You came,” he murmured breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at her, his face filled with awe and happiness.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she replied, her voice trembling with emotion, brushing a wet strand of hair from his face.

He smiled, a bright, unguarded smile that melted her heart. “God, I needed this. I needed you.”

And then he kissed her again, a kiss filled with all the missed moments and the words they hadn’t been able to say, the thrill of his victory mingling with the fierce love they shared. She felt the rain soak through her clothes, the crowd and the noise around them fading as they held each other, his arms wrapping around her as if he could protect her from the rest of the world.

“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered against her lips, his forehead resting against hers, his hand gently brushing her cheek. “P1. And you’re here.”

She laughed softly, her eyes shining. “You deserve it, Max. I knew you could do it.”

He held her close, a triumphant laugh bubbling from his chest as he buried his face in her neck, and they stood there in the pouring rain, lost in each other, savouring the victory and this long-awaited moment they both knew they’d never forget.

As the noise of the cheering crew and fans started to swell around them, Max pulled back slightly, brushing his thumb across her cheek, his gaze lingering on her face as if he was trying to commit every detail to memory.

“I have to go,” he said softly, his voice tinged with regret. “The interviews, cool-down room, podium… but wait for me? I’ll meet you in my driver’s room as soon as I can.”

She nodded, understanding but already missing the warmth of his arms. “I’ll be waiting. Go,” she whispered, giving him a small smile. “Enjoy every second—you deserve it.”

He pressed one last, lingering kiss to her forehead, then turned and jogged off to join the waiting crew, helmet in hand, while she stayed rooted to her spot, watching him disappear into the crowd. Her heart swelled with pride as she trailed after the team to watch his interviews, his beaming, breathless face glowing with pride and energy as he spoke about the gruelling conditions and the unbelievable climb from P17 to P1.

Then came the cool-down room, where she watched from the sidelines as he bantered with the other drivers, sharing exhausted smiles and congratulatory claps on the back, the weight of his achievement settling in as he finally let himself relax a little. She couldn’t help but smile, feeling as though she could burst with joy just watching him, his eyes sparking with energy even as he looked ready to collapse from exhaustion.

And finally, the podium. She felt the crowd’s excitement echo through her as she looked up to see him standing tall, drenched from head to toe, a bottle of champagne in hand. When he raised it in victory, the crowd erupted, and she joined them, cheering at the top of her lungs as he sprayed champagne with abandon, laughing as he celebrated with the other drivers. His eyes swept over the crowd, and when they found hers, he gave a subtle nod, a silent promise that he’d be back with her soon.

After the podium, she made her way to his driver’s room, her heart fluttering as she paced the small space, the thrill of the day lingering in every fibre of her being. And then, finally, the door swung open, and there he was.

He looked completely worn out, his hair still damp and messy, his fireproof undersuit clinging to his skin. But his smile was bright, and his eyes lit up the moment he saw her.

Without a word, he crossed the room, pulling her into his arms, his lips finding hers in a soft, exhausted kiss. She melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as he held her close, the adrenaline and joy from his victory radiating between them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” he whispered against her ear, his voice low and hoarse. “Winning today… and having you here with me. It’s everything.”

She brushed a strand of damp hair from his face, smiling as she traced her fingers along his cheek. “You did it, Max. I’m so proud of you.”

He took her hand, pressing it to his heart, his eyes never leaving hers. “None of it would mean anything without you,” he said quietly, his voice steady.

She felt her eyes sting with tears, overwhelmed by the depth of his words. “I’m here,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ll always be here.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world slipping away. He stroked her hair, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, as if savouring each moment.

“Let’s get out of here,” he finally murmured, his voice warm and soft, “celebrate somewhere a little less chaotic.”

She laughed, nodding. “Anywhere, as long as it’s with you.”

They headed back to his hotel, hand in hand, a peaceful quiet settling over them as they left the track behind. Once in the privacy of his suite, he gave her a lingering kiss, then smiled, nodding toward the bathroom. “Give me a few minutes to wash off all the champagne and… probably half the track dust,” he said with a laugh.

She grinned, watching as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the suite a moment later. While he showered, she took the opportunity to pack up her things from her own room, gathering her scattered belongings quickly. The thrill of being close, of finally sharing a space for the night, filled her with a warmth that had nothing to do with the tropical heat outside.

By the time she returned, he was out of the shower, towelling off his damp hair, his expression softening as he took in the sight of her standing there with her things. Without a word, he crossed the room and took her bags from her hands, setting them by the closet as he gave her a smile that made her heart skip.

Once they’d both changed into fresh clothes—she’d opted for a simple dress, and he in casual jeans and a loose shirt—they slipped out of the hotel through a side exit, making their way to a tiny, tucked-away Brazilian restaurant that had been recommended. The place was hidden, small enough to be missed by the crowds, with soft, low lighting that created an intimate, cosy atmosphere. A few locals lingered around tables, but they paid little attention to the couple as they took a corner table in the back.

They ordered caipirinhas and he reached across the table to hold her hand, his fingers tracing gentle circles on her skin as they laughed over silly little things, shared stories from the past few weeks, and spoke of things beyond racing, beyond work, just slipping back into the easy flow they always shared. The food was rich and delicious—small plates of feijoada, grilled meats, and pão de queijo—everything flavorful and homey.

He leaned across the table, his eyes warm and filled with that familiar spark, as he watched her speak, clearly savouring every moment. “You know,” he said softly, “I think this is the best victory celebration I’ve ever had.”

She squeezed his hand, smiling back at him. “Same here. I missed just… being with you like this.”

They stayed until the restaurant closed, lingering over the last bites of dessert, letting the night stretch out as long as possible. Eventually, they headed back to the hotel, the city streets now quiet and still beneath the soft hum of streetlights.

Once back in his room, Max changed into a pair of soft pyjama bottoms, leaving his chest bare, his skin still warm from the shower. She slipped into one of his t-shirts, the fabric soft and oversized, the scent of him comforting and familiar. When she stepped out the bathroom, he was already waiting for her by the bed, his gaze softening as he took her in, a gentle smile curving on his lips.

Without a word, he reached for her, lacing his fingers through hers as he pulled her close, guiding her to the bed. She sank into the mattress beside him, and he wrapped an arm around her, drawing her against his chest, his fingertips trailing absently over her shoulder. She nestled into him, feeling his warmth seep through her, a cosy silence wrapping around them.

They lay there, tangled together, her head tucked beneath his chin as he gently traced circles on her back, his breath even and steady. He tilted her chin up, his eyes searching hers for a quiet moment before he leaned down, capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss, filled with a tenderness that said everything words couldn’t. She kissed him back just as gently, savouring the intimacy of being close like this, the world beyond these walls feeling miles away.

When the kiss ended, he pressed his forehead to hers, a soft sigh escaping as he held her close, one hand settling over hers, fingers intertwined. They stayed that way, her head resting against his heartbeat, lulled by the steady rhythm.

Finally, they drifted off, still tangled in each other’s arms, wrapped up in the warmth and comfort of just being together. As the night settled around them, Max couldn’t help but smile, holding her a little closer as he slipped into sleep, his heart full and light.

Max couldn’t have wished for a better weekend.

the end.

[maskedbyghost]

Out of 141 who would try to convince reader to marry them for benefits? (The benefit of being able to call reader their spouse but reader doesn’t need to know that 😌)

love this question! honestly, i think all of them would do something like this, but here is something with my hubby simon in mind!

you squint at simon, confused. "so... you’re suggesting we get married. for... benefits?”

“yeah.” simon’s reply is casual, his face blank as always. “practical reasons. you get some perks, i get some perks. no big deal.”

you can’t help but laugh. “just like that?”

“just like that,” he repeats, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “saves us both the hassle.”

“right… for the benefits.” you’re not sure if you’re buying it, but he seems serious, and hey, who are you to question one of simon’s half-baked ideas?

the next few weeks are surprisingly easy. simon handles most of the paperwork, and soon enough, you’re both technically married—on paper, anyway. just for the benefits, you remind yourself.

but then... strange things start happening.

simon begins doing things he never used to. he starts showing up with coffee, your favorite kind, without you even asking. he picks up groceries for you, just because he thought you might be running low.

“you’re... kind of acting like a husband,” you joke one night, feeling a strange warmth creep into your chest.

he grunts, brushing off your comment. “just looking out for you. comes with the... agreement.”

and every time you bring it up, he has some new excuse, some “benefit” you never knew you’d signed up for.

you start catching him watching you a little longer than usual, his gaze soft, almost... affectionate. but whenever you ask, he waves it off, like it’s nothing.

finally, one night, you can’t hold back. “simon, this marriage...what’s in it for you, really? don’t tell me it’s just benefits. no one does all this just for some perks.”

he’s quiet for a moment, his face unreadable. then, his shoulders tense, and he sighs, almost... defeated. “maybe i just wanted a reason to stay close. to call you mine. even if it was... only on paper.”

your heart skips a beat. all the little gestures, the quiet moments, everything starts making sense. “so... this wasn’t just for the benefits?”

“not really, no.” he looks at you, finally letting his guard drop, his eyes soft in a way they never are. “i wanted you to be mine. officially.”

it’s not a grand confession, not really. but it’s simon’s way, and in that moment, you realize it’s everything.

-----------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving @blackhawkfanatic