#it’s cold enough that window glass fogs up from the inside— and when you breathe hot air onto it. and I immediately thought of him

[minyoongiss]

ONLY MINE | taehyung kim

you shouldn't have tried to make him jealous. or maybe you did the right thing.

pairing: idol!taehyung x you

wc: 1.3k

warnings: 18+, pure filth.

authors note: first post ever and it’s smut. didn’t proofread it

“will you ever try to make me jealous again?” taehyung whispered in your ears as he thrusted in you from behind. hard and fast. your hands were pressed against the cold window of the hotel. the coldness cooling down your hot body. your check was pressed against the cold surface of the window, you cold see a fogy layer creating on it because of your hectic breathing.

you couldn’t answer, all your thoughts all possible sentences you could form were gone the moment he entered your needing wet hole. and god did you love it.

the room smelled of sex, the fog clouding it as your sounds echoed off the walls, you didn't even try to hide your voices anymore at this point. not caring if anyone could here you. not caring if they heard how good taehyung was fucking you.

he pressed your front firmly and insistently against the cold glass, but not too hard. it was just enough pressure, as if he knew you liked it. even after all these months. he always knew what you liked. how you liked it. his arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, grounding you and pulling you against him until you had barely enough room to think—let alone move. each time, he pushed in and out of you. every time, your body tilted forward completely because you could no longer hold yourself, he pulled you back against him. not caring about all the cries and whimpers coming out of your mouth. “i’m sorry,” you subbed. but were you really sorry?

the way he pressed his hand on your lower abdomen whenever he rammed his cock into your cervix with full force made you feel it more intensely. "can you feel it? how deep i’m inside you?" as if trying to prove something, he went deeper than you thought was ever possible. his thrust brutal and deep, his cock dragging against your walls like he was trying to stamp himself in your body. as if he wanted to make sure that you would even feel him days after this. no, so that you could never forget him.

"do you really think that jimin could ever fuck you the way i do? do you think he could even make you come?" his hand, which had been pressed against your abdomen, found its way to your clit. two fingers rubbing it in a sloppy way.

you moaned as you buried your head into the pit of his shoulder. “tae-taehyung don't stop,” you screamed, holding on to the window with your arms, to his biceps, which had grown twice as much since he returned from the military, to whatever you could hold yourself onto. you could still remember exactly when he'd sent you a topless picture without any context. a shirtless picture of him after training in the military. and the only thing you could see was how big he got. big and bulky. he looked so sexy, so manly that the first thing you did when you went home was, make yourself come with your fingers to the sight of this picture. making a fucking mess.

"i asked you a question baby. answer me," he gasped breathlessly against your ear, his voice low and raspy. he kissed down your neck slowly, leaving light bites, desperate to mark you. to mark you as his. “tae not.” were the only words you could get out, way to fucked up. you agreed when you started this ‘relationship’ that you would leave no marks. no hickeys, no nail marks on his back. nothing. because how was a world-famous idol going to explain to his make-up artist where all the marks on his neck came from?

"should i send him a video of me fucking your tight pussy. what do you say?” you knew exactly who he meant. “maybe then he will stop flirting with you.”

he chuckled.

“or better i'll call him over and show him what a cockslut you are for me,” he swivelled against your ear, licking where he'd marked you. you convulsed around him. a needy moan escaped your lips. at this point he was just desperate. desperate to get a response from you. you knew why he was doing this, you knew what he wanted, why he pushed you, and yet, you flirted with jimin. looking deep in his eyes, smiling devilishly. and that was all it took for him to explode. and maybe he knew why you did it too.

“you like that? the thought of jimin seeing how i’m fucking you? fucking your needy pussy for months,” he moaned as he abused your cunt. taehyung slows his pace, but only so he can penetrate you harder. each slap that connects with your skin elicited a pornographic moan from your throat. you felt his balls slapping harsh fully against your ass, and how his bodies presses you against the cool surface. his fingers still rubbing and pinching your clitoris, making you cry out. fuck, you would never get tired of this.

“tae please.” you didn't know what you were begging for. were you begging for him? or for the thought of him filming you? how he was fucking you hard and mercilessly. how he fucked you, a mere employee of HYBE. maybe that was the reason why the whole thing had started between you in the first place. why you were on your knees with taehyung's cock in your mouth in the first week. blowing him like it was about winning the gold madeille. or maybe the fact that the whole thing was secretly giving you the kink. the thought that something could come out at any moment. someone seeing you. that this was your dirty little secret.

“no matter how hard you try to make me jealous,” each of his thrusts deepened with the roll of his hips. “you're mine. say you're all mine.” you moaned loudly. your breaths became shorter, your chest rose and fell quickly. his fingers let go of your clit and found your neck.

with each thrust he hit the sweet spot inside you, the pressure intensifying until you think you might break. your eyes watered, not from pain, but from the intensity of the lust that built up and threatens to swallow you whole. you could feel his muscles tensing, his body on the verge of its own release.

you nod, “yes-yes i'm yours,” your voice turned into a high-pitched whimper and then you come. you come undo on his throbbing cock. still as he kisses your gspot with his tip ans for a moment you think you see the stars, mound dropped no sound coming out. only hearing the pounding of your racing heart in your ears. no, you really were seeing the stars. taehyung really outdid himself. “fuck. fuck. fuck.” taehyung fucked you through it, his thrusts turning erratic as he chases his own release. his fingers clasped your neck harder, the pain of your high coursing through you, riding out your high.

he pulled your head to his neck and greedily presses his lips to yours in a messy, teeth clashing kiss. the angle was uncomfortable, especially since your head was stretched in painful way. but you didn’t care. it felt good. way too good. you gases pain-filled into his mouth, taehyung seizing the opportunity to push his tongue slopply into your mouth.

“gonna fill you up. gonna mark this pussy,” he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with need. “gonna pump you so fucking full of me, that it‘ll be dripping out of your cunt for days.” his voice sending another shiver through you, making your oversensitive clench around his cock. and then he's burying himself deep with an animalistic moan, his cock twitching as he spilled inside you, colouring your inner walls white. not stopping until you felt the mixture of his and your come dripping down your thighs.

soft moans and the sharp hiss of breath were the only sounds in the room. no other sound could be heard for a couple of seconds. you tried to get your breathing under control.

taehyung pulled himself slowly out of you. you whimpered at the loss of the feeling of fullness. then he bend his head down to your ear. “you’re mine. only mine,” he said as pushed the mess leaking out of your cunt back in it.

maybe you should make him jealous more often.

[museofthepyre]

Occupation: freak (what is wrong with him) (/aff)

[mikowirtesstories]

Frosted Glass & Firelight

Megumi x Reader - Part 2 of "No More Interruptions"

a/n: Girrrrll- I'm down bad. Welp- Here we go Part 2 of "No More Interruptions"

Contains: soft morning after, reader getting pounded, cold glass on nipples, him calling reader perfect, possessive Megumi - god I’m melting

You woke to the soft creak of the cabin shifting under early morning light and the gentle pressure of fingers dragging slowly across your hip.

You were still naked under the blanket, limbs tangled with Megumi’s, the air around you tinged with the scent of last night—sex, sweat, firewood, and pine.

His mouth found your shoulder before his voice did.

“Good morning.” His hand slightly squeezing at your hips, pushing his hips against your ass.

You smiled sleepily, eyes still closed. “You’re already starting something?”

“I never stopped,” he murmured, his voice low and rough from sleep. “You looked too good to leave alone.”

His hand slid down your bare stomach, dipping between your thighs, fingers brushing gently over your still-sensitive center. You gasped softly, your body already responding to him.

“Still so wet and warm for me,” he whispered into your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “Didn’t even take much.”

“Megumi…” you breathed, your hand sliding over his hip, feeling how hard he already was behind you.

He kissed the back of your neck, then your shoulder blade.

Before you could protest, he pulled the blanket off and took your hand, guiding you across the cabin floor, barefoot and naked, until your body met the cool glass of the wide front window.

The early light was soft and silver, fog still clinging to the edges of the pine trees. The air was cool, but Megumi was warm behind you—his chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist as his free hand pushed gently between your thighs again.

“No one’s out there,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “It’s just us. You, me, and this view.”

You gasped as he dipped two fingers inside you, curling them slow and deep while his other hand came up to cup your breast. His hips ground against you, hard and insistent, his cock brushing your lower back.

“I want you right here,” he whispered, kissing behind your ear. “I want the sunrise on your skin when I show you just how much I love you.”

Your knees almost gave out, but he caught you—gripping your hips as he guided you to bend slightly, hands braced on the window. The glass was cold against your nipples, your breath fogging up the pane as you moaned softly, already aching for him.

He didn’t tease this time. He slid into you in one slow thrust, groaning your name into your neck as your body took all of him. You cried out, forehead pressing to the window, the glass rattling with every slow, deep stroke.

He fucked you like he had all the time in the world. Long, dragging thrusts that had your nails scraping at the glass and your thighs trembling.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, fingers digging into your hips. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

You whimpered his name, begging him not to stop, your voice hoarse and desperate as he sped up—his hips snapping against yours, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet morning cabin.

His hand snaked around again, rubbing your clit in firm circles as he whispered, “Come for me. Want to feel you while I’m still deep inside you.”

And you did—crying out loud enough to startle the birds outside, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm rolled through you.

He followed with a broken moan, hips jerking as he came hard inside you, gripping your body like he never wanted to let go.

⸻

You stayed there for a moment—both breathless and sweaty, pressed against the window with the sun on your skin and his chest warm against your back.

Eventually, he pulled out slowly, catching you before your legs gave out completely.

“You’re dangerous,” you said, still panting, turning to face him with flushed cheeks and a shaky grin.

He kissed your lips softly. “And you’re mine.”

⸻

Later, wrapped in a blanket with tea and aching thighs, you asked:

“So… how long are we staying here?”

Megumi smirked. “As long as it takes to make up for every time they interrupted us.”

a/n; Well, well, well~ Look what the cat dragged in. Oh and its saucy- Hope you had fun reading, till later you saucy fellows

[lovecoatedwords]

“Promised Vows, Pt. 3”

featuring: poly marauders x reader (arranged marriage au) angsty but also fluff (later on)

Series master list

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The morning is cold, silver-gray light leaking through the estate windows as you’re summoned to the foyer.

James doesn’t look up from the papers in his hand as he explains the change in plans. “Remus is tied up with the delegates from the northern house, and I’ll be handling the venue security this afternoon.”

You nod, unsure what that means for you.

Then Sirius walks in, tugging on his gloves, coat already half-buttoned. His eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second—cold, unreadable—before flicking away.

“You’ll be going into the city,” James says. “You need something appropriate for the political summit. Sirius will take you.”

The silence that follows is loud. Sirius exhales through his nose like he’s already regretting this.

“Try not to take all day,” he mutters, brushing past you without pausing. “I’m not your maid.”

You say nothing. Just follow.

He doesn’t slow his pace as you trail behind him down the drive. Doesn’t open the car door. Doesn’t speak during the ride into the city.

You sit quietly in the passenger seat, watching the trees blur into gray as the estate vanishes behind you. It’s the first time you’ve left since the wedding.

He doesn’t ask you what you like. Doesn’t offer opinions when you pass storefronts. He parks the car and walks ahead, and you have to catch up—his long strides forcing you to hurry, just to keep him in sight.

And still, you feel invisible.

Inside the boutique, the world is rich with color and fabric and warmth. None of it touches you. You drift through it, unsure of where to start, unsure if you’re allowed to want anything.

Sirius leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes on his phone. When the shopkeeper greets you, you barely get the words out.

“A dress,” you say quietly. “For a political gathering.”

The woman nods, warm and professional. She leads you through options. You glance back at Sirius once—he doesn’t look up. You stop trying after that.

Eventually, you find something. Simple. Elegant. Not too bold. You step out of the dressing room quietly, fingers twisting in the fabric.

Still, he doesn’t look.

“Will this work?” you ask, almost whispering.

He lifts his head, barely. Gives you one glance. Shrugs.

“It’s fine.”

Outside the shop, the city has grown busier.

Sirius says nothing as he steps onto the sidewalk, turning down the boulevard without checking to see if you’re following. His coat billows slightly in the wind, the only part of him that waits.

You hurry to catch up, dress box tucked carefully under one arm.

The street is a living thing—horses clatter past, voices rise and fall in sharp laughter, and somewhere a street performer plays something haunting on a bowed instrument. Everything moves too fast. Too bright. Too loud.

You try not to fall behind again.

But then—something catches your eye.

A bookshop window. Small. Tucked between two taller buildings like a secret. The glass is fogged slightly with the chill, but the display is careful: first editions, weathered spines, a journal with gold foiling that glints just enough to feel like memory.

There’s a copy of a poetry collection you recognize. Your mother had it. Wrote in the margins with delicate ink. You’d forgotten that.

You stop. Just for a second.

Your fingers twitch toward the window. A quiet ache unfurls in your chest—not longing exactly, but recognition. A life that once felt soft.

You don’t mean to linger.

It’s just that no one’s ever told you what’s allowed to matter.

When you finally turn back toward the street—

He’s gone.

No black coat. No lean figure in the crowd. No hint of where he turned.

Your breath catches.

You take two steps forward, heart starting to thud.

Still nothing.

You scan the sidewalk. Try to follow the direction he’d been walking. But there’s too many people. Too many streets. Too many ways to disappear.

You don’t call his name.

You just start walking.

One turn becomes another.

The stone underfoot changes texture. The noise sharpens. The city smells different here—less perfume, more smoke.

And that’s when it hits you.

You’re lost.

Really lost.

And Sirius Black has no idea where you are

Your feet move faster now. Left. Then right. Another street. Another wrong turn.

The sky’s begun to dim—not dark, not yet, but the light has thinned, stretched into a color that doesn’t feel safe.

You pass a bakery. A florist shuttering for the day. The scent of warm sugar and crushed petals lingers in the air, but none of it feels familiar. None of it feels like anything you can hold on to.

You press forward anyway.

Try to remember the storefront. The cobbled corner. The bookshop.

But it’s all blurred now, smudged at the edges like something seen through tears you haven’t cried yet.

Panic starts quietly.Just a shallow breath. . The way your fingers tighten on the box in your arms like it could anchor you.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You’ll find the shop again. You’ll find him.

But the street curves the wrong way, and now there’s music drifting from somewhere behind you, and the people around you are laughing too loud, too close. A man brushes your shoulder. Doesn’t look back.

Your steps falter.Your throat tightens

You veer down a narrow side path without thinking—something quieter, something smaller—stone walls pressing in on either side as the sounds of the street dull behind you.

It’s not an alley, not really. More of a courtyard—walled in on three sides, a rusted gate hanging open at the fourth. There’s an old fountain in the center, long dry. Ivy crawls across brick in fading green.

You stop beside the fountain.

Set the box down.

Breathe.

The silence here is different. Not peaceful. Just empty.

You sit on the edge of the stone, hands braced at your sides, chest heaving. The cold finds your fingertips first, then seeps in deeper. You don’t cry. You don’t call for help. But your legs have started to shake, and you feel like the whole world has narrowed to this one courtyard where no one knows your name.

You don’t say it out loud, but you know what it is.

It’s abandonment.

In a different shape. A different street. A different silence.

Still the same ache.

And just as the first real fear starts to settle behind your ribs—

You hear footsteps.

Boots.Deliberate.Close

You freeze.

The footsteps don’t rush. They stroll. Measured. Casual.

That’s what makes them worse.

You rise slowly, the stone of the fountain cold against your palms as you steady yourself. The box lies forgotten at your feet.

A figure appears at the far end of the courtyard. Then another. Then a third.

They don’t speak.

Not at first.

The one in front steps forward, boots crunching softly over old gravel. His coat is dark, but not official. Not uniform. This isn’t someone from the city guard. Not even a delegate. His face is familiar, though. Not because you know him—but because you’ve seen that shape before. The sharp angles of your father’s enemies.

One of the old families.

Their sons.

Their knives.

“Didn’t think we’d see one of you walking alone,” the lead man says, voice smooth as oil and just as slick. “They must be getting careless.”

Your heart pounds, but you don’t move.

The second one circles wide, to the right. The third lingers near the rusted gate. They’re triangulating—positioning like they’ve done this before.

“Wasn’t she the one from the East House?” the one on the right murmurs, as if you’re not standing right there. “The quiet one. The one they married off.”

A laugh. Bitter. Dry.

“I’d heard she was pretty,” the leader says, cocking his head as if to inspect you. “Can’t say I don’t see the appeal.”

You still haven’t spoken.

Your silence is a thin armor. You’re afraid your voice will shake if you try to use it.

The third man moves now—toward the gate, toward the exit. He’s locking it.

Not with keys. Just his body. Just his presence.

“She’s shivering,” one of them says softly, voice almost kind. “Isn’t that something?”

The air turns colder—not from the wind, but from the realization sinking into your bones.

This isn’t chance.

They saw you.

They followed.

And they waited.

“We could send a message,” the leader murmurs, turning toward you fully now. “Something small. A cut. A mark. Just enough to remind them what happens when blood like yours marries into houses like theirs.”

He takes another step.

You take one back—and hit the lip of the fountain.

There’s nowhere to go.

The courtyard presses in on all sides.

Your hand curls around the edge of the stone, gripping hard.

The second one is closer now. His eyes flick to your dress, the box, the exposed wrist where the old bandage peeks from your sleeve.

“Still healing?” he asks softly, mockingly. “That’s sweet.”

You hate how they say nothing loudly. How their presence swallows sound. How the city feels miles away.

You tell yourself to run.

But your body doesn’t listen.

Because somewhere inside, you know: even if you screamed, no one would come.

They take one more step.

And then—one of them reaches out.

Fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve. That’s when the quiet breaks.

You barely have time to process the movement before a loud, sharp voice cuts through the courtyard.

"Touch her, and you’ll lose your hands."

The words slice through the thick air like a blade. Your breath catches. The men freeze. Their heads snap toward the source.

Sirius is standing at the far side of the courtyard, framed by the flickering lamplight. His presence fills the space with a sharp, cold edge, like the air just dropped twenty degrees. The way he stands—legs slightly apart, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the trio with a dangerous calm—sends a chill through your spine.

His voice doesn’t waver.

“I said, don’t touch her,” he repeats, each word deliberate, menacing.

The leader laughs, but it’s hollow. Forced. A little too loud. “And what, you’ll stop us? You’re outnumbered.”

Sirius doesn’t blink. His eyes lock on the man who had moved toward you, who had just brushed your sleeve. “Last warning. Take another step, and I will make sure you regret it.”

The courtyard feels smaller, the distance between Sirius and the men closing with every heartbeat. The tension is unbearable, thick enough to suffocate you. The men shift, calculating, but Sirius is already in motion. His movements are fluid, controlled—no hesitation.

He steps forward, and suddenly, the man nearest to you stumbles back, eyes wide with surprise. A flick of Sirius’s wrist, a soft sound of leather meeting flesh, and the man falls against the fountain, a hiss of pain escaping his lips.

The second man, now fully alert, lunges toward Sirius. But Sirius is faster—too fast. He catches the man’s wrist in a firm grip, twists it behind his back with a practiced motion. The man grunts, knees buckling.

The leader watches, calculating, before he pulls a knife from his coat. The blade gleams in the dim light as he flicks it toward Sirius, his face twisted in amusement.

“You think you’re some sort of knight?” the leader taunts, his voice dripping with scorn. “You’ll get us all riled up, and then what? We’ll see how your family reacts to blood spilled on their streets.”

Sirius steps aside as the knife sails past him, narrowly missing his side. His expression remains unreadable, a predator toying with its prey. “You should’ve stayed hidden in your rat hole,” he says, voice cold as ice. “I gave you a chance to walk away.”

But the leader lunges again, faster this time, his knife aimed straight for Sirius’s abdomen.

This time, Sirius is ready. He catches the wrist mid-air, twisting violently, and the man drops the knife with a sharp cry. Before he can regain his balance, Sirius shoves him hard—forcing him to stumble backward, crashing into the side of the fountain with a sickening thud.

The last man, the one who had been near the gate, hesitates for a moment longer, glancing at his fallen companions. The air is thick with tension. He looks between Sirius and you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

For a split second, you think he might back down. But instead, he sneers and turns to run, darting for the exit.

But Sirius is already in motion. His hand shoots out, catching the man by the collar and yanking him back, pulling him into the hard stone wall of the courtyard with a brutal thud.

“Not so fast,” Sirius growls, his voice low and lethal.

The man’s breath hitches as he scrambles to get free, but Sirius holds him firm, his grip like iron.

“You don’t get to run,” Sirius says, his voice a harsh whisper. “You don’t get to hurt her, and you don’t get to leave without a reminder of who you messed with.”

The man’s eyes widen in fear. He’s trembling now, realizing too late how far he’s gone.

Sirius draws in a breath, and with a sharp twist of his hand, the man drops to his knees, defeated. His body slumps against the wall, gasping for air.

Sirius steps back, his gaze never leaving the group, as if daring them to try again. “Leave. Now.”

The leader, dazed and furious, stumbles to his feet, one last defiant glare thrown in your direction before they finally retreat—limping, bruised, humiliated. They move quickly, slipping back into the shadows, away from Sirius’s unforgiving gaze.

You remain frozen, your chest heaving, the reality of what just happened sinking in. The silence that follows is deafening, as though the world has held its breath.

Sirius doesn’t move toward you immediately. Instead, he watches the men vanish into the distance, ensuring they’re gone for good.

And then, finally, he turns toward you.

“You alright?” His voice is softer now, but there’s a lingering coldness to it, a sharp edge that only comes from moments like this.

You nod, but it feels inadequate, small. You don’t trust your voice to answer him. You’re still too shaken.

He steps forward, his eyes scanning you with quiet intensity. Then, without another word, he holds out his hand, as if offering some kind of anchor in the chaos.

It’s a silent gesture, but the meaning is clear. There’s no judgment, no scolding.

You take his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. The tremors in your body don’t stop immediately, but they’re less frantic, less desperate now. His fingers curl around yours, firm but gentle, as if offering a quiet reassurance.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Sirius’s eyes scan over you, sharp and careful, but there’s something softer in them now. He’s not the same man who’d stood cold and distant just moments before, the one who had barely acknowledged your presence back at the boutique. No, this man is different—protective, aware, raw with something unspoken that you can’t quite put a name to.

He leans in just slightly, close enough for his breath to brush against your cheek. “You’re safe now.”

The words settle over you, a blanket of safety that feels almost unreal. You nod, too afraid to speak, but the relief that washes over you is almost too much to bear.

He doesn't rush you. He doesn’t pull you into some forced comfort. Instead, he stands there, his hand still holding yours, waiting for you to find your balance again. You can feel his presence like a wall between you and the remnants of fear that still threaten to close in on you.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he says finally, his voice rough but not unkind. His gaze flicks toward the gate, then back to you, as though waiting for any sign that you’re ready to move.

You don’t respond right away. For the first time, you let yourself lean into him—just a little. You lean into his steadiness, his unspoken promise that, for now, you don’t have to face this alone.

Your steps are slow at first, hesitant, but with each one you feel the pressure on your chest lift just a bit more. The weight of the evening still clings to you like a second skin, but with Sirius beside you, it feels easier to breathe.

He guides you through the courtyard, his hand still holding yours, and as you pass through the rusted gate, you glance back one last time. The shadows are deep, the courtyard empty once more, but the fear that had held you captive there is already starting to fade. Not completely—but enough that you can see the world again, see the streetlights flickering in the distance, hear the muffled sounds of the city.

Sirius doesn’t let go of your hand, not as you walk down the narrow street, not as you finally reach the car. There’s no hurry in his movements, no sense of urgency. He simply walks beside you, his pace steady, like the night hadn’t just been filled with danger. Like nothing had just nearly shattered the fragile quiet you’d been clinging to.

When you get into the car, he’s silent for a long moment, staring out the window, lost in his thoughts. You want to speak, to thank him, but the words are caught somewhere deep inside you, tangled with the mess of everything that just happened.

Instead, you sit there, letting the stillness between you speak for itself.

You feel the weight of everything—your silence, his distance, the way your chest still tightens every time you think about the courtyard. The gate. The voices. The way they looked at you like you were prey.

And SSirius who hadn’t spoken a word since leading you from the alley. Sirius who had grabbed your hand like he wasn’t even thinking about it. Like he just had to know you were there.

You steal a glance at him now.

He’s tense. One hand on the wheel, the other braced near the gearshift. His jaw tight. His eyes forward. But there’s a tremor in the way he exhales. Barely noticeable. Controlled. Except not.

You shift in your seat. Not enough to break the silence. Just enough to breathe.

The gates of the estate come into view.

And still, he says nothing.

The car rolls to a stop beneath the wide arch of the main drive. The cold stone of the manor looms tall against the dying sky, windows glowing with faint, expensive warmth. A place that never quite feels like yours.

Sirius cuts the engine.

The silence stretches.

You don’t move to get out. Neither does he.

Then, finally—

“I didn’t mean to leave you.”

It’s quiet. Rough. Like it scrapes something raw on its way out.

You turn to him slowly.

He still isn’t looking at you. His eyes are fixed on the dash. His hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. “I turned around, and you weren’t there. I thought you were right behind me.”

Your breath catches.

You’re not sure what you expected. Anger, maybe. A cold dismissal. Another shrug.

But not this.

“I’m not used to—” he stops. Clenches his jaw again. “I don’t usually… have to worry if someone’s keeping up.”

The words aren’t exactly kind.

But they’re closer than anything he’s given you before.

You hesitate. Then: “I wasn’t trying to disappear.”

“I know.”

The admission is softer. Realer.

Then a beat. And something darker: “Those men. They weren’t random. They knew what they were doing.”

You nod. You’re not ready to talk about it. But you need him to know you understand.

Sirius finally looks at you.

His eyes are dark in the dim light. Too sharp. Too haunted. “You can’t wander like that. Not here. Not in this city. Not with who you are.”

You swallow.

It’s not a scolding. Not exactly.

It’s fear, pressed flat into words.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you murmur. “I stopped for a second. The bookshop reminded me of something. And then…”

You trail off. He doesn’t need the rest.

His gaze holds yours. Longer than it ever has before.

And for once, it feels like he sees you. Not just the alliance. Not just the marriage.

You.

“You should’ve called for me,” he says, voice tight.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Silence.

And then: “I always come.”

Your breath stutters.

The door opens. Sirius steps out first. Crosses around to your side. Opens the passenger door—too quickly, like the habit isn’t natural yet.

You blink up at him.

“I can carry it,” you whisper, nodding to the box.

“I know.” He doesn’t move to take it. “I’ll walk you in.”

You rise slowly. The cold bites at your skin again, the shock of air after the insulated warmth of the car. You fall into step beside him.

The drive is silent, but different now. Not heavy. Just quiet.

He doesn’t rush ahead this time. Doesn’t leave you to catch up.

When you reach the steps of the manor, he pauses.

You turn to face him.

There’s something like hesitation in his eyes. Like he’s trying to say something and doesn’t know how.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he says finally. “That’s on me.”

You want to say thank you.

You want to say it wasn’t.

But all that comes out is: “I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.”

Sirius flinches—just a little.

Then, softer than you expect: “I noticed.”

The light from the doorway spills over his face, cutting sharp shadows across his cheekbones. He looks like a statue carved from something too proud to break. And yet—

His voice is barely a breath when he says it:

“I notice more than you think.”

And then he’s turning away, back down the steps, coat billowing behind him in the cold.

You don’t follow.

You just stand there, dress box in your arms, watching him vanish into the night.But this time, you’re not invisible.This time, he looked.

a/n: I hope this was worth the wait!! Tho next time I will post more quickly (had lots of writer block) ! <3

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[dollyfetti]

　𐔌　heaven ₊˚ ♡

summary: katsuki doesn’t speak much these days, or listen for that matter. he just tries his best to hold on, like he can keep you here if he never lets go. but the rainy thunder rolls, your breath slows, and goodbye lingers on his coffee mug where your final stain of lipstick clings.

notes: katsuki bakugou x sick!reader, based on heaven by mitski, angst, death

word count: 881

˚○ ୨୧ masterlist navi

all of our love filling all of our room your low warm voice curses as you find the string to strike within me that rings out a note heard in heaven

your hand is warm in his. damp with sweat, your fingers curl weakly around his. katsuki presses his other hand over yours, as if his touch alone could anchor you here. his eyes stay fixed on your chest, watching the slow, unsteady rise and fall, it being his only sense of hope.

you're sick, and all you can talk about is what heaven will be like. he can't bear to listen, so he's tuned you out.

your voice is quiet, raspy at the edges, murmuring names of people you’ve missed and places you hope exist on the other side. he nods when he needs to, hums in the right places, just enough to convince you he’s with you in the conversation.

you’ve made peace with dying. you speak of it with a strange calm, like you’re planning a trip. he hates it. hates the way you’ve described your own funeral in detail. hates that you made him promise things he doesn’t remember because he was ignoring your stupid rambles. you have no hope. any shred you once had left as soon as you became bedridden.

every morning, you ask your fiancé to do your makeup. you hate watching him sit and stare at you, all of the words he has stored inside of him unable to spill out. and anyhow, it gives you something to hold onto— a little routine, a little vanity, even as your body withers. he painted your lips with a shade you used to wear out on dates, even though it only ends up smudged on his mug as you sip from it with shaky hands. it's cold now, he only took one sip before forgetting about it entirely on the nightstand.

katsuki grunts softly, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. when your voice finally quiets, he exhales like he's surfaced from underwater. "you look pretty." he murmurs.

really, you're far from it. your hair is tangled, skin pale and stretched thin, your lips cracked beneath the lipstick. but it warms your slow beating heart.

you hand the mug to him, letting him put it back on the nightstand. your lipstick's a little smudged, worsening how it looks on your dried out lips.

"when i die," you begin to croak out after a passing moment, and he’s slipping back into the fog, blocking out your words like static. small curses tumble out, his voice low and gruff. your head turns to a window in the shared bedroom, watching as rain begins to pour from the sky, hard and heavy.

katsuki knows you like the rain. you liked snuggling up with him in bed as he read to you, his voice gentle and warm. you liked going outside and kissing him, all soaked like in the movies. you liked the adrenaline of running to the car when you were both on an unprepared walk back from a restaurant.

his grip on your hand tightens. he lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your engagement ring, his mouth lingering there like a prayer.

your eyes are glued to the glass, smiling faintly as you spot lightning. "zeus is saying hi!" as you used to say whenever you spotted it. you don't now, because truthfully, you know this is one of your last if not the last moment of your life.

katsuki's finding it harder to tune you out. he's overwhelmed by the loud pattering of rain against the window, deep thunder growling every few seconds, your nonstop rambling, still going on about heaven this and heaven that.

"i love you, katsuki bakugou." you mutter, finally turning away from the window to look at your lover one final time. his eyebrows pinch, the wrinkles on his forehead deep as he scowls.

"don't do that." he says, soft but firm. it slips from him like he's been rehearsing to tell you. he squeezes your hand, his gaze intense as a tear slips down your cheek. he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he drops his head, drowning out your words. he doesn't want to hear it. it's not your time yet. the world can't really be this cruel, not to you.

he doesn't hear you as you mutter, "i'll see you in heaven, husband" with a weak smile and tears falling down your tired face.

thunder rumbles again. katsuki releases your hand just for a second, rising from the bed to shut the curtains— the ones you insisted on picking out. the light vanishes. the room sinks into gray and quiet.

it's dim and gloomy, but as he steps to sit next to you in bed again, he can just barely make out your closed eyes.

he stares, frozen right in front of the bed. his hands clench at his sides, blinking profusely. he swallows, reluctantly sitting down, the mattress shifting beneath his weight "you goin to sleep?" he whispers, clinging to the illusion, of the one strand of hope you offered to him.

when you don't respond like he thought you wouldn't, he hesitantly presses two fingers to the pulse point on your wrist. and the shred of optimism handed to him by you falls away into the abyss. there’s nothing waiting for him except for silence. the kind that swallows everything whole.

now i bend like a willow thinkin of you like a murmurin brook curving about you as i sip on the rest of the coffee you left a kiss left of you

[buckyseternaldoll]

Fade Into Me, Not Away

Summary: You’re overwhelmed, spiraling into silence. But Bucky knows the signs—because he’s lived them. He holds space for your pain and helps you see yourself again. One heartbeat at a time.

Disclaimer: Mental health themes, anxiety, overthinking, depressive thoughts pattern, emotional shutdown, self-worth issues, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft Bucky

Word Count: 3,367

There’s a particular kind of silence that settles when your thoughts are louder than the world outside.

You’ve been sitting in that quiet for days now. Not peaceful silence—not the kind filled with birdsong or the hush of distant traffic or the comfort of someone breathing beside you. No. This is the kind of silence that hums just beneath your skin, cold and anxious and endless. The kind that fills your lungs with invisible weight every time you try to breathe too deeply.

You’re not even sure when it started.

Maybe it was a small comment someone made during a mission briefing—one you’ve replayed a hundred times in your head, trying to decode it. Maybe it was the look someone gave you in the café. Maybe it was nothing at all. That’s the worst part. Sometimes it just happens, like your brain flips a switch and suddenly you can’t trust anyone—not even yourself.

So you did what felt safest.

You shut the door. Turned off your phone. Dimmed the lights. Told Bucky you just needed time. That you were fine.

And he… believed you. At first.

But it’s been six days now.

Your room has gone stale, the air thick with your own indecision. Your hoodie smells like old sleep and salt. The windows are fogged from nights spent breathing too heavily under blankets that no longer feel warm. You’ve stopped eating. Showering. Talking.

You thought you were preserving your peace.

But it’s been too quiet for too long.

And the voice in your head? It’s not quiet at all.

“You don’t belong here.”

“You’re a burden.”

“You’re unlovable.”

Even he’s going to give up on you eventually.

You want to reach for your phone. To text him something—anything. But you can’t. Your fingers won’t move. You feel like a ghost in your own body.

Then, like clockwork, comes the sound.

Knuckles, gentle against wood.

A pause.

“Doll?”

Your throat tightens. You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste metal.

“I brought you some of that chamomile tea,” his voice continues, slow and steady, like he’s trying not to spook a wounded animal. “The one you like when it’s hard to sleep.”

You bury your face in your knees.

Silence stretches again.

Then you hear it—the soft rustle of fabric as he sits against the door. You imagine him there, cross-legged, his back to the wood. Like a sentinel. Like a promise.

“I’m not mad,” he says quietly. “Just missing you, is all.”

Your chest caves a little. You press your hand to your heart and feel the wild, erratic rhythm beneath your palm.

Then you hear something you weren’t expecting.

(Bucky’s POV)

He’d learned long ago that some doors weren’t meant to be kicked down.

Some doors—like the one she was hiding behind now—were more like walls made of glass. Fragile. Transparent in a way that was almost cruel. He could see the outline of her pain through the cracks, but if he pressed too hard, he knew it would shatter.

And God, he’d been there.

He’d lived there.

Decades spent believing silence was safer than sorrow. That solitude was a kindness—one he owed to the world after everything he’d done. He remembered those days in grayscale. The dull, aching quiet. The nameless hours. Speaking only when commanded, never for himself. Numbness became a skill. Survival, a habit.

So when she started fading—pulling back, pulling in—he didn’t panic.

He recognized it.

He waited.

Because the only thing worse than drowning was someone shouting at you to swim.

He leaned his head back against the door behind him, exhaling slowly.

“I used to think being alone made me stronger,” he said, voice aimed at the ceiling. Calm. Gentle. “Back when I still hated myself.”

He could picture her on the other side—knees pulled up to her chest, wrapped in that oversized hoodie, eyes glassy and distant. He knew that look. He’d worn it.

“Silence felt easier,” he continued. “No one to disappoint. No one to see how bad it really was. Just… quiet.”

His jaw flexed.

“There were years I thought I’d die that way.”

The words didn’t shake—but they left a bruise inside him, a dull throb in his ribs. Shattered mirrors. Cold bathroom tiles. Nights that stretched for miles. Waking up in a sweat with screams caught in his throat and no one there to hear them.

“But then someone said something to me once,” he murmured. “They said, ‘Don’t mistake numbness for peace.’”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth—brief, bittersweet.

“Made me realize I wasn’t resting. I was just fading.”

He let the silence settle after that. Not as pressure. Not as shame.

Just as space. An invitation.

Then, softly—so softly it barely rose above the sound of his breath—he added, “You’re not fading to me, sweetheart. I still see you. Even now.”

And then… the doorknob turned.

(End of POV)

You’re not sure how your body made the decision before your brain did.

One moment, you’re curled up in the bed. The next, you’re on your feet, legs shaky, palms sweating, fingers twitching on the handle.

And when you open the door—just an inch—the scent of him hits you like a balm. Warm skin. Coffee. The faint woodsmoke of his cologne. You peek through the crack, and there he is.

Sitting on the floor like he belongs there. Like he was made to wait for you.

His eyes lift slowly. When they meet yours, they don’t shine with pity.

Just love.

Steady.

Unflinching.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You open the door a little wider.

And he’s standing in front of you in an instant, but he doesn’t move until you do. You’re the one who leans first—and then he’s there, arms wrapping around your body like armor, chest rising and falling in time with yours.

Your breath hitches. Your knees nearly give out.

He catches you.

“Got you,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re okay.”

You sob once—a broken, relieved sound—and he just holds tighter.

You feel the stubble on his jaw against your temple. The weight of his hand cradling the back of your head. The cool brush of vibranium at your lower back, grounding you.

And when he shifts just enough to cup your face, thumb swiping the tears off your cheek, he leans in and whispers something you’ll carry for the rest of your life:

“You don’t have to prove anything to be loved. You already are.”

And in that moment—tangled in his arms, in your grief, in his fierce tenderness—you finally believe him.

Not fully. Not forever.

But enough for now.

The bedroom is quiet, except for the low whirr of the fan and the steady rhythm of Bucky’s thumb brushing your knuckles. You’re curled against his chest, both of you sitting up in bed, the blanket tucked around your legs. His arm is around your shoulders, warm and solid, and you’ve been watching his chest rise and fall for the last ten minutes like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.

You’re exhausted—but your mind hasn’t caught on yet.

You tilt your head slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “How did you make peace with it?”

He glances down at you, one brow raised slightly.

“Your… thoughts,” you murmur, ashamed to even name it. “When they turn on you. When it feels like your own mind’s out to break you. You always seem like… like you’ve made it to the other side.”

He’s quiet. Not because he doesn’t want to answer—but because he’s choosing his words. Like he always does when it matters.

“I haven’t,” he says finally. “Not fully. I still have bad days. Still hear those old voices sometimes. The ones that say I’m just a weapon. A mess. A burden.”

You glance up at him. His expression is unreadable, but there’s no shame in it—just truth.

“I used to think healing meant getting rid of them,” he continues, thumb still tracing slow circles over your hand. “But they don’t disappear. They just… lose their power when you stop letting them tell your story.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, hesitantly: “How do you do that? How do you stop listening?”

He exhales slowly, looking at a point beyond the wall.

“There’s this trick I learned from therapy,” he says, voice low. “When your thoughts start spiraling—when they’re cruel, when they don’t sound like love—you ask yourself: Would I ever say this to someone I care about?”

You blink, letting that settle.

He looks down at you again. “If the answer’s no… then it’s not you talking. It’s the pain. The fear. That voice in your head isn’t you—it’s what hurt you.”

You nod slowly, tears already burning behind your eyes again.

He leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours.

“Sometimes your own mind becomes your worst enemy. It lies to you. It gaslights you. Makes you believe you’re poison. Makes you forget who you are.” His voice breaks a little, and his next words are barely a whisper. “That happened to me for a long time. But then I realized… I wasn’t the monster. I was just hurt.”

A tear slides down your cheek. He catches it with the edge of his thumb.

“So the first step?” he murmurs. “Don’t try to argue with those thoughts. Don’t give them oxygen. You starve them. You don’t think about them. You think about you. The real you. The one who fought to survive. The one who lets me hold her like this. The one I love.”

That breaks you a little.

You turn toward him and press your face to his chest, arms tightening around his waist. His metal hand settles between your shoulder blades, firm and cool and steady.

You speak into the fabric of his shirt. “I wish I saw myself the way you see me.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just holds you.

Then, softly: “One day, you will. Until then… I’ll remind you as many times as it takes.”

His heartbeat is slow beneath your cheek.

“And when your mind starts lying to you again,” he adds, “you come find me. I’ll help you sort out what’s real.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Promise?”

“On everything I’ve got, doll.”

The silence that follows isn’t hollow anymore. It’s warm. Full of breath and life and comfort.

And this time, when you close your eyes, it’s not to escape.

It’s to rest.

But just before your thoughts drift, his voice comes again—quiet, but steady.

“There’s something else I never told you,” Bucky murmurs into the stillness, his fingers absently threading through your hair. “About the Winter Soldier.”

You hum, too tired to speak, but still listening.

“I know everyone saw him as a weapon. A killer. Hell, I used to believe that too,” he continues, voice low and level, like confessing to a ghost that still haunts the corners of his mind. “But before he hurt anyone else… he hurt me.”

That makes your breath catch.

He swallows, thumb brushing the back of your neck like he’s grounding himself there.

“I was his first victim. My mind was his battlefield. The brainwashing, the conditioning—it wasn’t just pain, it was poison. Years of it. Injected into every memory, every instinct. I’d wake up in someone else’s skin and not know who the hell I was, or if what I remembered actually happened.”

He’s quiet for a beat. You can feel the tension in his jaw, his arm coiled a little tighter around you like his body remembers even if his voice stays calm.

“I couldn’t trust my own thoughts. My own mind. That’s what scared me the most—not the killing, not the missions. It was that I didn’t know what was real anymore. That my own head became a place I wanted to escape.”

She looked up at him then—and for the first time, she didn’t just see understanding. She saw recognition. Deep and unflinching. He had lived through this chaos too. Had survived it.

“So when your thoughts start lying to you,” he said softly, “when it feels like you’re disappearing… I get it. I really do. Because I’ve been at war with my own mind too.”

Your chest aches—not from pain, but from how fiercely he’s trying to meet you in yours.

He glances down at you, steel blue eyes full of something unshakeable. “And that’s why I’m not afraid of the way you shut down. The silence. The spiraling. The way you fade.”

His hand brushes your cheek.

“Because I know that somewhere in there, you’re still you. And I’ll sit with you in the dark until you remember it again.”

You don’t speak—can’t, not with your throat this tight and your heart this full—but your hand finds his again beneath the blanket, lacing your fingers with his. His thumb brushes along your knuckles in a slow rhythm, grounding you like he always does.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind doesn’t pull you into a storm the moment your eyes close.

Instead, it’s the sound of his heartbeat, the warmth of his chest, and the steady rise and fall of his breath that guides you down—deeper, slower—until the noise fades entirely.

Until all that’s left is safety.

And him.

You fall asleep wrapped in both.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But you know this: next time the silence comes, it won’t find you defenseless. It’ll find him there too.

(Bucky’s POV)

She’s asleep now.

Finally.

Curled against his chest, breath warm against his collarbone, fingers still tangled in his shirt like she’s afraid he might vanish if she lets go.

He doesn’t move.

He wouldn’t dare.

Not when it took everything she had just to open the door. To let him in. To let herself be held. He can feel the echoes of that battle still clinging to her body—even in rest, there’s tension in her shoulders, a hint of fight coiled deep in her bones. Like her mind is still pacing the edge of some invisible cliff.

He knows that feeling too well.

His flesh hand strokes slowly along her spine, just enough pressure to remind her he’s here, that she’s not alone. His vibranium arm lies motionless around her waist—solid, anchoring, never squeezing. He’s always hyper-aware of the weight of it when she’s like this. When she’s quiet. Fragile. When she’s slipping into a place he’s had to claw his way out of more times than he can count.

And still.

She let him hold her.

That undoing of silence—it means more than anything she could’ve said.

He watches her chest rise and fall in the faint light coming through the window, the fan humming softly in the corner. Her lashes flutter once. A furrow forms between her brows, then fades. He whispers her name—not to wake her, just to tether her to this moment, to him. To now.

“You’re safe,” he breathes. “You’re safe, sweetheart.”

He repeats it again, quieter, more to himself.

Because he needs to believe it too.

Not just that she’s safe from the world—but from her own thoughts. From the war inside her head that makes her doubt the softness she deserves. That tells her she has to earn being loved. That makes her forget she already is.

He brushes a stray curl from her cheek.

And he stays.

Not because he’s trying to fix her. Not because she owes him anything for staying.

But because when he was at his lowest—curled on a too-small mattress in some shitty safehouse, flinching from dreams he didn’t ask for—he used to wish for something like this. For someone who wouldn’t run from the mess. Who wouldn’t flinch at the darkness. Who’d stay when the silence stretched too long.

And now he gets to be that for her.

So he stays.

And when her body shifts slightly in her sleep—just a soft sigh and the curl of her fingers at his ribs—he leans down, presses his lips to her temple, and murmurs against her skin:

“I’ve got you, doll. I’m not going anywhere.”

He means it.

Even if the nights get long again.

Even if the silence returns.

Even if she forgets how to reach for him.

He’ll remember.

And he’ll stay.

(End of POV)

Warmth.

That’s the first thing you feel when you stir—not the tight, suffocating kind that chokes you from the inside out, but something steady. Real. Gentle sunlight filtering through the curtains. The scent of fresh cotton and skin. The weight of the blanket tucked securely around you. The soft, rhythmic sound of someone breathing close.

You blink your eyes open—slowly, groggy, but not in the way you usually are. The heaviness in your chest feels… quieter. Like someone turned down the volume on everything that ever tried to drown you.

Your cheek is pressed to a firm, familiar chest—and there he is.

Bucky.

Propped against the headboard, still cradling you like he hadn’t moved all night. His vibranium arm lies protectively along your back, solid and grounding. But it’s his other hand that holds your focus—fingers gently brushing through your hair in slow, patient patterns. Over and over. Comforting. Reassuring. Like he’s reminding himself you’re here. Or maybe reminding you.

You tilt your chin just enough to see his face.

He’s already looking at you.

Those steel blue eyes—the ones that once held oceans of pain—soften the moment they meet yours. No pity. No fear. Just love.

True, quiet, unshakable love.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep, but wrapped in warmth.

You melt into him, arms tightening around his waist as you bury your face in the curve of his neck. His scent surrounds you—soft cedar, warm skin, and the faint sweetness of the sheets clinging to both of you. Safe. Familiar. Home.

“Morning,” you whisper into his skin. He tightens his hold without a word, like your voice alone steadies something in him.

A moment passes—soft and quiet—before your voice returns. Shaky, but certain.

“Thank you… for last night.”

His thumb traces the side of your head again, gentle as breath.

“You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart,” he says quietly.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “I do. You didn’t have to stay. Not when I was like that. When I could barely talk. When I didn’t even feel real.”

His brow furrows—not at you, but at the way you speak about your pain like it’s something shameful. Like you’re the one who did something wrong.

“I’m always staying,” he says softly, but with quiet steel. “Especially when you’re like that.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t know what it was,” you murmur. “It’s like my mind builds these walls, and I can’t hear anything outside of them. I start thinking I don’t belong anywhere. Not even with you. Like I’m too much to love.”

His hand stills in your hair.

“But you’re not too much,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “You were just hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, eyes stinging again.

“I felt seen,” you whisper. “Last night. Maybe for the first time in a long while. You didn’t try to fix me. You just… stayed. Let me feel it. And I—” Your voice breaks. “Thank you for that.”

Bucky brings your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles—slow, tender.

“You never have to fight alone, baby. Not with me. Not ever again.”

Your heart aches—not with pain, but with fullness. Fragile, but real.

And for the first time in days—maybe longer—you inhale without resistance. No invisible weight pressing down on your ribs. No static in your lungs.

Just air.

Clean and warm.

Alive.

You let yourself breathe it in.

Breathe him in.

And when he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead—slow and lingering—you close your eyes, not to escape…

but because for the first time in so long, you don’t have to run anymore.

You know that when you open them again, he’ll still be there.

And that changes everything.

[callme-holly]

I NEED I NEED a sweet soft domestic dallas. i need it. i crave it. idc if its out of character. i live, breathe, eat, sleep, a cute soft dallas winston. so if u will, please and thank you write dallas with fem reader where she needs picked up from her house bc her parents are kicking her our OR bc they are fighting and she doesn’t wanna be there (you choose!) and dallas is teeth rotting sweet and soft with her.

ilysm!!!❤️🙏🏼

𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 [𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐚/𝐧 : IM LOVING THIS PLEASE GIVE ME MORE SWEET REQUESTS LOVE Y'ALL

The familiar rumble of an engine pulls you from your thoughts, cutting through the muffled yelling coming from the house behind you as it rolls to a stop in front of your gate. It’s sleek red paintwork in scratch and dented in places, and one of the headlights is out, but you’re relieved to see it all the same. 

Before you can process what’s happening, you’re already on your feet, moving instinctively. You jog across the front yard, ignoring the way your heart pounds and the blood rushes in your ears, not stopping until you collide with Dallas, tucking yourself into his chest the second he steps out of the car. 

He grunts a little in surprise but wraps his arms around you anyway, holding you steady as you catch your breath.

“You called?” He mumbles, his voice husky and rough with sleep, and you’d almost feel bad for waking him if you didn’t need him as much as you do now. Almost. You pull away enough so that you can look up at him, searching his features for any sign of annoyance or irritation, but strangely, you find nothing but fondness and what looks like it could be concern. 

“Yeah… They’re fighting again. Didn’t want to be in the house.” 

Dallas nods in understanding, squeezing you a fraction tighter before letting go completely, exposing you to the biting chill of winter once more. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t question why your parents are fighting or how long you've been sitting out of the porch, just waiting. Instead, he bundles you into the car, closing the door for you and going around to climb into the driver's side. You watch as he adjusts his seatbelt, something he only ever seems to do when you're riding with him, then he turns the key and the car roars to life, pulling away from the curb and speeding down the street. 

The heater is broken again if the cold air inside the vehicle is anything to go by, and you’d almost go as far as saying it was warmer outside than in here. The windows are fogged over, making it near impossible to see anything outside, everything passing in a muted blur, and while you know the roads like the back of your hand, you feel strangely lost in that moment.

“They’ll be back to normal again tomorrow,” Dallas says suddenly, startling you and bringing you back to the chilling interior of the car. His eyes are focused steadily on the road, but the way he clenches the wheel tells you everything he needs to know: he’s angry for you, angry that all your parents seem to do is yell and scream and tear you down with words that aren't even meant for you but still hurt you in a way you wouldn’t think possible. 

“I know,” you tell him quietly, letting your head rest against the cool glass of the window, letting out a long breath. “I just… I don’t know.” 

There is silence for some time after that, and you watch the flicker of colour and lights streak by outside the misty window; the quiet hum of the engine and shifting gears are the only sounds besides the thud of your heart in your chest. Dallas’ hand comes to rest on your thigh, his thumb tracing back and forth in a gentle manner that nobody would think him capable of managing. It's soothing and calming, a reminder that he’s there, and you’re safe, that everything will sort itself out for better or for worse. 

“It’s gonna be alright.” His voice has softened considerably, and he almost doesn’t sound like himself—too tender and kind. It doesn’t suit him, not at all, but you find it nice all the same.

“How do you know?” You glance over at him, barely turning your head, your movements growing lazy as the exhaustion takes over, your limbs growing heavy, and your mind as hazy as the fog steaming the windshield. 

Dallas shrugs, swallowing heavily. “Because you got me. And I won't let anything’ happen to you. Not without a fight.” 

Your heart does a little flip in your chest, and butterflies stir in your stomach, fluttering wildly. He smiles at you, warm and genuine, and you can’t help but return it, watching the way his eyes crinkle slightly in the corners, his face lighting up in a way it very rarely does. 

A warmth settles around you, one that dashes away the freezing cold settling in your bones, and you don’t bother fighting it, content to let it engulf you, too mesmerized by the lingering calm expression on his face to care. 

He’s got you, and you’re safe as long as you’re with him.

[ririright]

“In the Cab”

Husband! Hayden x Wife Reader

Intimacy, slightly spicy

It started out innocent.

You’d brought him coffee. That was all. Just a quick walk across the field to where he was clearing snow with the Bobcat, planning to kiss his cheek, hand him the travel mug, and head back inside before your toes froze off.

But then he’d smirked—warm, scruffy, cheeks pink from the cold and hair flattened by his beanie—and said, “Climb in. I’ll warm your feet.”

You did. Because how could you not?

Now you were in his lap.

The cab was small, tight—just enough room for one man to work, and definitely not enough for what was happening now. The windows were fogged up. The heater buzzed softly. And Hayden’s hands were under your jacket, thumbs grazing just beneath your sweater, dragging slow, delicious lines across your back.

“Y’know,” he murmured against your neck, voice low and rough, “this isn’t what the Bobcat was designed for.”

“Mmhmm,” you breathed, hips rocking slightly as you straddled him. “Then why does it fit us perfectly?”

His laugh was a soft rumble in his chest, but it died off when you shifted your weight and he felt the full press of you in his lap. His hands flexed at your hips, firm and possessive.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said, and then kissed you.

Hot. Hungry. The kind of kiss that tasted like cinnamon coffee and months of pent-up teasing. His tongue swept slow against yours, confident, coaxing, and when you gasped, he took full advantage—tilting your head back to deepen it, one hand tangling in your hair.

You felt him—all of him—beneath you, hard and insistent, and he hissed softly through his teeth when your hips rolled again.

“God,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “You’re warm everywhere. And you’re not even trying to be fair about it.”

“Isn’t it your fault?” you whispered, trailing kisses along his jaw, nipping at the stubble just under his chin. “You said you’d warm me up.”

“I meant your feet, not—” he exhaled shakily when your fingers slid under his flannel. “Okay. Yeah. This is better.”

The cab creaked slightly as your bodies rocked together, slow and teasing. His head fell back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut. You kissed along his throat, then up to his ear, smiling at the little catch in his breath when your teeth grazed the lobe.

“You’re gonna fog the windows worse than the heater,” he mumbled, hips instinctively bucking up into you. “Gonna have to put this thing in park, or we’re gonna plow the barn by accident.”

You giggled against his neck, breath hot.

“You already plowed me,” you whispered.

“Jesus,” he choked out, eyes flying open. “You can’t say that in a Bobcat.”

You rocked into him again, deliberately, and he let out the kind of groan that was barely a whisper—low, aching, almost reverent. His hands dragged up your thighs, under your sweater now, palms splayed and needy.

“I’ll warm you up,” he whispered against your mouth. “But you’re not leaving this cab until I’m satisfied you’re fully thawed out.”

You grinned.

“Challenge accepted.”

And outside, the wind howled against the glass. But inside, everything was burning.

[sugardollcurse]

would you feel up doing more mcbeardy smut? the one about him getting back from the get back sessions is driving me crazy !! you’re incredible doll!

𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑙𝑒 | paul mccartney x reader

𐙚 contains; nsfw!! minors dni! female anatomy, semi-public sex, overstimulation

𐙚 summary ; paul needs to unwind after the sessions. you offer your thighs.

𐙚 note ; you know what you're doing to me with these… teeth sunk in my knuckle writing this one! keep making me suffer, alright? xoxo

The sky was dark with London rot. Damp. Bone-cold through coat seams, wet up the backs of thighs, that winter kind of chill that makes breath fog and leather squeak. Paul had just slammed the passenger door of his car, red and rattling and smelling like an ashtray some days, cologne and lemon rinds on others. Today, it smelled like sweat and music. You were already in the driver’s seat, for some reason, hands curled around a chipped thermos of tea you’d brought for him, legs stretched out, boots braced against the gearstick.

He was in his white shirt under a wool coat, loose, two buttons open even in the cold. He wiped at his jaw with a wrist, then leaned over, breath catching.

“God, y’don’t know what today was like.”

You knew.

“You said yesterday was hell.”

“Yesterday,” he muttered, fingers sliding up the inside of your knee, “was nothin’. Today John nearly threw a bloody amp. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Mm,” you said, pretending not to react to the way his knuckles were climbing now. Slower, firmer. “So this is your therapy?”

Paul smiled. His voice dragged like a cigarette burn: “You are.”

You didn’t say anything yet. You knew better. You just passed the thermos over without a word. He took it gratefully, curling one hand around it like it was a lifeline, the other settling on his thigh, thumb twitching rhythmically.

He took a sip, hissed when it burned, then did it again anyway. His eyes closed. “Mmm. That’s real tea. That’s salvation.”

You smiled, leaning your head back against the seat.

“George left early,” Paul muttered. “Didn’t even stay through the playback. Mal had to chase Ringo round the car park for a cigarette break that never happened. I think John said all of four words the whole afternoon, two of which were ‘fuckin' hell’ and ‘shit.’”

You made a low sound. “That’s three.”

He cracked a grin despite himself, eyes still shut. “Smart.”

Then silence again. His hand drifted from the thermos and back to your knee, his palm splaying flat against the fabric of your trousers. Just rested there, warm. Heavy. You didn’t move. You weren’t cold anymore.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll walk in and it’ll just be music,” he said eventually. “Y’know? Not a fuckin’ war. Dunno where it went sideways.”

You hummed, low and sympathetic. “Sounds like you need a new coping mechanism.”

He turned his head to look at you. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but that glint there. That fire that didn’t go out, even under pressure. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What’ve y’got in mind then?” His voice dropped a little, just the edge of mischief cutting through.

You glanced out at the frost-edged windows, the muffled hush of London beyond the glass. The night was quiet. Your breath still made clouds in the air. And his hand was moving now, inching just a little higher.

He leaned in close, nose brushing your cheekbone, voice curling like smoke.

“Tell me.”

You smirked a little, hips tilting forward, just enough that his palm pressed a little firmer between your thighs.

“Figured we’d find a better use for that backseat.”

He twitched, subtle at first… a breath hitching in his chest, fingers reflexively clenching like a tremor ran down his spine. His eyes dropped, fixated where your thighs parted slightly under his hand, and his voice didn’t come immediately. Instead, he just looked at you. Looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment before it spiraled out of control

His hand moved slow, careful. A palm dragging up the inside of your thigh, calloused heat through the thin fabric. He moved with deliberation, tracing the seam, knuckles grazing where you were already warm. The pressure wasn’t much, just enough to tease, to keep you barely there and wanting more. He was watching your face now, mouth parted, eyes locked on how your lips parted at the friction.

“You feelin’ that?” he murmured. The accent thicker, low and curling like smoke from a match just struck.

You leaned back against the seat, legs parting more in invitation than answer. He didn’t need to be told twice. His hand disappeared beneath the waistband of your pants, sliding up and over until his fingers met the soaked fabric of your underwear. He paused.

“Oh wow,” he breathed, the words a reverent curse, thumb dragging a lazy stroke over your center. “You’re already-yeah, that’s somethin’, love.”

He pressed the heel of his hand into your mound, grinding down as his middle finger trailed the slick outline, teasing through the fabric with maddening care. He worked you slowly, rhythm shallow, languid, like he had all night to play and no intention of rushing the crescendo. You gasped, hips canting, and he smirked.

And then his hand slipped beneath the waistband. Warm fingers met hotter skin. He groaned, loud, primal, like it gutted him to feel how wet you already were. A groan that caught in his chest, all gravel and hunger. He tugged the fabric to the side with a single-minded urgency that almost made you laugh.

Almost.

Then his fingers were inside you.

Thick, knuckle-deep, one after the other, working in slow circles that made you squirm against the faux leather seat. He watched your mouth as you moaned, biting it in reflex. His pupils were blown wide, almost black.

“Keep makin’ that noise,” he muttered, pushing deeper, curling inside you until your knees knocked. “I’ll never write a ballad again. Jus’ that noise.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your ears, your clit, your lungs. He kept working you like he was tuning a bass, thumb brushing just barely where you needed it and then pulling away again, sadistic.

“Paul,” you gasped, grabbing his wrist, but he didn’t stop. Only twisted his hand deeper.

He pulled back suddenly, fingers soaked in your slick. You whimpered at the loss, thighs twitching. He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them, two at once, slow and grateful like the taste saved him. The sight of it made your whole body clench, needy.

“Driver’s seat,” he said suddenly, hoarse. “Get in the back.”

You clambered out into the bitter night on shaky legs, icy air biting bare skin. The cars metal squealed as the door slammed. He was already in the backseat, manspread like a fucking prince, white shirt sticking to his chest in patches. His trousers were already undone, the soft weight of his cock resting heavy in his palm. He looked like sin. He looked like the second coming. He crooked a finger.

You climbed in.

Your knees pressed into the seat, trousers shoved down past your thighs, your hands braced. His mouth found the inside of your leg like a starving man. Kissed the skin high and hot until you bucked toward him. When he finally dragged your underwear off, he buried his face between your legs with no ceremony.

You were panting already, your hands buried in his curls, knees quaking. He ate you like his life depended on it, but not fast. Not frantic. No, Paul was methodical, wicked, loving in the most obscene way, like he was crafting a melody with the tip of his tongue, note by wet, slow note. Every lick was deliberate, drawn-out, his mouth open just wide enough to sink into the warmth of you and stay there, breathing you in like he couldn’t get enough, tongue dragging through your folds, then retreating, then circling again. You could feel the shape of his lips when he kissed you down there. Tender. Greedy.

His nose pressed to you, soft scratch of his beard catching where you were most sensitive, and he groaned as he moved, like the taste was anchoring him, saving him from everything he'd left behind in that studio. You swore you felt him smile against you, just the corner of his mouth lifting, when your hips jerked up to chase his tongue. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His hands kept you spread open and still, one arm looped under your thigh, the other bracing your pelvis flat against the seat so he could keep you exactly where he wanted. Where he needed you.

“Mmphh... look at you,” he murmured once, voice thick and muffled against your cunt, barely lifting his mouth before diving back in again. He licked in long, slow strokes, tongue flat, then pointed, then fluttering at just the right spot that made your thighs tremble. He could tell. Of course he could tell. He adjusted instantly, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking with a rhythm that built and built and built.

Your breath hitched with each pass. His tongue made slow, rhythmic laps over your clit, then slid lower, dipping between you, then back again, working you open, coaxing every twitch, every whimper from your body until you were squirming.

“Shh,” he whispered, lifting his head only enough to speak, his chin slick, mouth swollen, voice husky with lust. “Let me. Stay still, love.”

And you did.

You melted under him, spine arched against the cold seatback, one hand tangled in his curls, the other gripping the window rim. The glass was fogged now, your breath painting it opaque in sharp exhales. He moaned into you, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through your whole body, and you let out something between a sob and a curse. His mouth moved with more purpose now, tongue flicking fast and then slowing, like he was teasing you with the brink. Your orgasm built slowly, painfully, a hot, humming pressure that kept cresting and dipping.

When it hit, it stole your breath.

Your thighs clamped tight around his head, and he growled into you, never stopping, never letting up as you came against his mouth, moaning high and breathless and raw. He eased you through it, slow drags of his tongue now, soft kisses, lips wet and reverent as your body trembled. But he didn’t pull back. Didn’t pause. He just kept tasting you, kept licking like he hadn’t gotten his fill.

You gasped, fingers twitching against his scalp. “Paul, fuck, I-I need a second-“

He pulled his mouth back at last, lips parted, chin slick, eyes half-lidded like he’d been drugged, drunk on you. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then again, higher, then looked up, those eyes, warm and spent and stupidly proud.

“Christ, look at you,” he whispered. “Can’t believe I get to do that to you.”

You could barely breathe.

He grinned, crooked and sweet, and thumbed your inner thigh where it was still twitching. The movement was light, casual, like he was playing with you, admiring the way your muscles quivered even after everything. You were still flushed, breath coming in short gasps, your whole body sensitive and open, soaked in the sticky proof of just how thoroughly he’d ruined you.

“Come here,” he murmured, tapping his thigh with his palm.

You crawled into his lap, knees on either side of his hips, fingers clumsy as they pushed your trousers down lower, enough to free you completely. You were trembling, not from the cold anymore. You wrapped your fingers around his cock without even thinking, he hissed through his teeth, head tipping back to thud against the glass behind him.

“Yeah. Just like that.”

You guided the tip through your slick folds, lined him up, and eased down. Slow. Careful. You both groaned at once, the stretch sharp, hot, perfect. His hands gripped your hips, jaw clenched, and he buried his face in your neck as you took him inch by inch.

“So warm. Jesus. You’re takin’ it so slow, are you tryin’ to kill me?” he rasped, voice shredded.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You bottomed out with a gasp, the position forcing him so deep you swore you could feel him in your ribs. He moaned low in your throat, open-mouthed and breathless, as your walls clenched around him, fluttering from the overstimulation.

You rocked gently, body still soft from the high he’d already given you, your thighs spread wide to accommodate the angle, your hands braced on his chest. He let you set the pace at first, just watching you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as you rode him. Each roll of your hips dragged his cock through your slick walls, the sound of it obscene in the cramped car, loud and sticky and real.

His hands snapped up to your waist, fingers digging in, and he fucked up into you, hard.

You cried out, spine arching, as he set a rhythm that was brutal and needy. The car rocked with each thrust, springs squealing, windows fogged completely now. Sweat beaded on your skin again despite the cold, your breath hitching every time his cock slammed deep and angled right into the spot that made your vision blur.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned, jaw tight as he held you down and pounded up into you. “Ridin’ me like that. Fuckin’ perfect. Can’t get enough of you, fuck, never could.”

You whined, hands scrabbling for purchase on his coat, forehead pressed to his.

“C’mon, love,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Gimme one more. Just one more. Can feel you twitchin’. Let go for me. I want it.”

Your body was already begging to come again, pleasure curling tight and electric in your belly. His cock filled you so perfectly, each stroke dragging against your walls with friction that made your legs quake. His thumb slid down to your clit, rubbing fast circles, and that was it.

You shattered, again, body spasming in his lap, a broken moan tumbling from your lips as your orgasm ripped through you. He cursed when you clenched around him, hips jerking, and suddenly his thrusts went messy, frantic.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna-”

You were still coming when he came too, hot and thick and endless, spilling deep inside you with a low, guttural growl that vibrated in your chest. He thrust through it, riding it out with his arms around you, panting hard into your neck. You felt every twitch of him inside you, every pulse.

The car was still rocking slightly.

The windows were fully steamed, the air thick and reeking of sex. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. His arms stayed around your back, his lips brushing lazily at your throat.

Then-

Knock knock knock.

You froze.

So did Paul. The air in the car went taut, humid with breath and sex and tension. Your body was still trembling in his lap, raw and twitching from the orgasm that hadn’t quite let you go yet. His cock was still inside you, softening but sticky, and your limbs weren’t moving. Couldn’t. Your head slumped forward into the crook of his neck, too boneless, too spent to register anything except the sharp spike of panic lighting up your skin.

Another knock. Harder this time. A muffled voice came through the fogged glass.

“Paul? Y’in there?”

...

“Jesus Christ,” Paul hissed under his breath, eyes going wide with horror. “It’s Ringo.”

You didn’t even react. Couldn’t lift your head. Your cheek was stuck to the sweaty warmth of his collarbone, legs still bracketing his hips, slick dripping slowly from where you were joined, obscene and heavy in the air between you. Paul swore again, harsher, under his breath, then suddenly moved fast, his hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you gently, shifting your spent body to the bench beside him. You whimpered at the slide, the fullness leaving you, his come spilling from you onto the seat with a wet little shhlp that made him wince.

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, more to himself than you, really, his voice barely audible over the frantic scuffling in the back. He reached behind the seat with one arm, shoving aside a pile of jackets, vinyl sleeves, a crumpled scarf, and came up with an old wool blanket, navy blue and pilled from years of being kicked around under his gear.

He threw it over both of you, yanking it high to cover your lower half, and himself. Tucked it under your legs, pulled it up to your hips, then leaned across and yanked the hem of your coat down too, so nothing was visible. No bare skin, no flushed inner thighs, no mess between them. His hands were shaking.

Another knock.

“Paul,” Ringo called again, a little louder now. “Y’dead in there, or just sulking?”

Paul rolled the window down two inches. Just enough to speak. A blast of cold air hit the inside of the car like a slap. Your breath fogged instantly. You flinched under the blanket, still barely able to keep your eyes open.

“Ringo,” Paul said, too casual. Too late. His voice cracked on the second syllable. “What’re you doin’?”

“Could ask you the same,” Ringo’s voice came back, amused. “Didn’t think you were still here. Was about to nick your fags.”

Paul cleared his throat. “Yeah, no, I was, uh, just restin’.”

“Restin’.” The shape of his smirk was audible. “Alone?”

And then, nothing. Or maybe not nothing, but certainly nothing that mattered. The rest of their conversation, which seemed important, faded into background, like rain on a roof you weren’t under. The car felt warmer, smaller, more private than ever. Your ears buzzed with blood and the aftermath of too much feeling, your thighs sticky under the blanket, heartbeat a slow throb between them.

Paul’s hand slid slightly higher again, tracing the warm curve where your legs met. He was still talking to Ringo, but it might as well have been underwater. Distant. Unimportant.

The blanket had slipped a little. His palm stayed, heat soaking into your thigh, fingers idly stroking like he didn’t want to stop touching you, like he didn’t know how. You stayed slumped against him, breath low, every part of you soft, pliant.

His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek. His voice faded entirely.

You weren’t listening anymore.

After a bit,

“Y’still with me, love?”

You made a noise. Barely audible.

He grinned. Crooked. Rueful. “Better hold me tighter, then. ‘Cause I’ve got about ten minutes before someone else comes knockin’.”

You blinked, tongue too heavy to speak. He sighed, pulled the blanket up higher around your shoulders, then kissed your hair.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @alanangels

[rhiannonsknife]

── ❆ DAY 14: merry christmas, please don’t call.

— summary: oh golden girl, don’t act like you were kind. you were mine but you were awful every time.

— warning: angst. hurt/no comfort. internalized homophobia. implied cheating. mean!jackie.

the tires crunch against the snow as you pull up a few houses down the road from the taylors’ home. it’s one of the many habits that you’ve picked up on, without even noticing: you only park that far to avoid being seen. to avoid questions that have never even been asked. you still do it, even right now, when there’s no one around who could be watching at all. you’re just so used to hiding yourself that you’ve become invisible all on your own.

your hands linger on the steering wheel for another long moment, gripping it tightly as your breath fogs up the windshield. it’s not too late to leave, to forget this whole thing and go back home. you haven’t even left the car yet and you already know that this is a mistake.

you’ve run this moment over and over in your mind; how it might go, what she might say…but none of the imaginary possible outcomes feel good. still, the gift sits on the passenger seat, neatly wrapped and waiting.

you do think about leaving, then. you think about putting the car in reverse and flee the whole scene, like you’d never been there at all. it would certainly spare you the otherwise inevitable headache. but something keeps you there, frozen in place. maybe it’s that stupid hope that jackie will open the door. that she will see the present, and magically realize that what you have together is worth more than this secrecy and distance.

or maybe it’s just the stubborn need to see her, even if it’s only for a few minutes.

and then you see them. not her. them.

jackie’s car pulls into the driveway, the headlights slicing through the falling snow, and your chest tightens as you catch sight of her. instinctively, even though you’re at a safe distance, you duck your head just the slightest bit. yet another habit. you internally curse yourself for becoming a ghost in her presence all over again, and watch the scene unfold.

jackie steps out, laughing as her parents usher her inside, their arms wrapped warmly around her. the sound of their voices is muffled through the windows and the snow, but the joy is unmistakable, looking effortless from the outside. and there’s jeff: stepping out after her and holding jackie’s hand like he belongs there, his other arm draped protectively around her shoulders.

your stomach drops.

jackie looks happy from an outside perspective. or at least, she’s pretending to be. her smile is bright enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know her the way you do. there’s a distance in her eyes, a subtle stiffness in the way she lets jeff hold her. he must miss it altogether, whereas her parents appreciate the perfect picture jackie is portraying. the taylors care more for their reputation than they do for their daughter.

you watch as they disappear into the house, the warm glow of christmas lights spilling out onto the porch as the door shuts behind them. for a moment, the world feels silent, save for the snowflakes pattering softly against your windshield.

your fingers loosen on the wheel once they’re out of view, instead wiping the fogged-up glass with your sleeve. you feel like an intruder, watching her life from the outside. a life where she laughs and holds jeff’s instead of yours, like it’s nothing. a life where you don’t even exist to begin with.

it’s pathetic to be here at all. and you still don’t have it in you to drive off.

you can see their silhouettes moving behind the curtains from where you’re sitting. the gift on your passenger seat suddenly feels stupid. childish, even. what had you been thinking?

still, your feet move before your brain can comprehend what is going on: you step out into the cold, the snow crunching underfoot, and approach the large house. the glow of the christmas lights feels harsh now, as you step closer, and every breath you take clouds the air in front of you until you’ve reached the doorsteps.

you take a moment to catch your breath, staring at the wreath hanging on the door. it’s perfect, of course. red ribbon tied just so, gold accents gleaming in the glow of the porch lights. everything about jackie’s life seems to must appear fucking perfect.

you try to swallow the lump in your throat as you reach out. your hand hesitates on the doorbell, trembling slightly as you finally press it.

for a moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat pounding in your ears. for a moment, you hope no one heard at all. then the door opens.

jackie stands behind it, dressed in a cozy, crème colored sweater and a matching skirt and with her hair falling over one shoulder neatly. she blinks in surprise when she sees you, her perfectly set smile dropping. her gaze darts to the gift in your hands, then back to your face.

“what are you doing here?” she finally hisses, her voice quiet but sharp enough to sting.

you swallow hard. what are you doing here? “i just…i wanted to give you this” you hold out the present weakly. “i thought you might like it”

jackie doesn’t make any attempts to reach for it. instead, she glances over her shoulder, as if checking to see if anyone’s watching. apparently, only being seen with you is shameful already. the obvious hesitation in her movement feels like a dagger to your chest.

“you shouldn’t be here”

you’re still holding out your arm with the present, frozen in place as she speaks.

“it’s just-“

“look,” jackie interrupts, stepping outside and pulling the door closed behind her. “you can’t just…show up here. do you have any idea what this looks like? what if my parents saw you? what if jeff-”

“jeff,” you scoff, bitterness seeping into your tone. “right. i forgot i’m not supposed to exist when he’s around”

jackie’s jaw tightens. “that’s not fair” she says.

“isn’t it?” the words spill out before you can stop them. “jackie, i’ve done everything you’ve asked. i’ve kept this…us, a secret because i thought it’s what you needed. and all i ever get back is-“

“don’t,” she cuts you off, her voice firm but audibly wavering at the edges. her eyes dart away from yours, focusing on a patch of snow by your feet. “don’t say that”

“why not?” you demand. “this whole thing it’s just- it’s bullshit! i can’t keep pretending that-“

“it’s not real!” jackie snaps suddenly. her eyes meet yours now, shining with a mix of frustration and that one thing she’s too afraid to name. “whatever this is” she lifts her arms from where she’s been hugging them to her chest “it’s not real. it can’t be. you need to stop thinking it is!”

her words hit you like a slap to the face. for a moment, all you can do is stare right at her. “jackie-“

“jeff is my boyfriend” she goes on, careless about how you feel. “he’s got every right to be here. you- you’re the one who shouldn’t just show up!”

“i wasn’t trying to cause any trouble” you finally manage. your voice comes out so much weaker than you’d like. “i just thought-“

“you thought what?” jackie cuts in harshly. that’s the thing with her: she’ll be sweet and tame as long as she’s got you exactly where she wants you, where she has the upper hand of the situation. the moment things are out of her control, this is how she gets. “that you could just show up here, hand me a gift and things would be- what? normal?”

the lump in your throat grows heavier with every word she spits at you.

“you don’t understand. i am not…i can’t-“ she can’t even make herself say it. usually, at least she can tell you that much: a haste assurance that she’s not gay, as she’s getting dressed again. a thing she always says, more to herself than to you. “i won’t ruin everything just because you think this is something more than what it actually is”

somehow, that hurts more than a simple ‘i’m not gay’. the words hit you like a punch to the gut and for a moment, you can just stand and stare at her.

jackie only shakes her head and slowly starts stepping back. “i don’t know what you want from me” she says, finally, the christmas lights casting a light on her from behind. “but you shouldn’t have come here. you shouldn’t have made this harder. please. just…go”

the gift box feels like dead weight in your hands as you take a shaky step back, the cold seeping into your bones. jackie doesn’t wait for you to turn around before slipping back towards the door. she does glance back at you once, over her shoulder, mumbling: “merry christmas, y/n. don’t call”

and with that, the door closes, leaving you standing on the snow-dusted porch, the weight of the gift still in your hands.

you stand there for a moment, staring at the door that she shuts on your face, hoping against all odds that she might open it again, that jackie might say something, anything, to take it all back.

she doesn’t.

as the snow falls heavier around you, you force yourself to turn away. you bite your tongue and, instead of just smashing the present against the sidewalk like you desperately want to, you put it down on the porch steps before hastily rushing back to your car.

you slide into the driver’s seat, glancing back once, in spite of yourself. through the frosted window, you can see jackie laughing stiffly with her family, jeff’s arm draped possessively over her shoulders.

she looks happy, pretending again.

a bitter laugh escapes you, followed instantly by the tears you’ve been holding since the moment she opened the door. ‘don’t call’ she’d said. jackie doesn’t want this. she doesn’t want you. not here, not now, and maybe not ever.

for the first time, you genuinely let yourself hate her for it.

inside she waits with her back against the door for a long moment, listening to the faint sound of your car driving off. only when she can no longer hear the noise of the engine, does jackie dare to breathe. her nails dig into the sleeves of her sweater as she makes her way back to the living room.

her parents’ laughter filters through from the space, mingling with the faint sound of christmas music playing from the stereo. jeff is sprawled on the couch, looking like he belongs here more than she does.

“everything okay?” he asks, glancing up at her. his brow furrows briefly, but his tone is light, casual.

jackie nods quickly, smoothing her hands down her sweater. “yeah, just someone at the wrong house,” she lies, her voice tight. jeff doesn’t push, just grins as he stretches out an arm. “come here. we’re watching a christmas movie next”

jackie forces a smile and lets him pull her down beside him, settling into the crook of his arm as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. she keeps her gaze on the flickering lights of the christmas tree, nodding and murmuring polite responses when her mom asks if she’s having a nice time.

her mind keeps wandering anyway. back to you. to the way your expression had crumpled when she’d told you to leave. jackie shouldn’t care. it was only ever supposed to be a causal hookup. nothing serious, nothing that she should care about at all.

she shifts uncomfortably, and her gaze flickers toward the window. it’s still snowing outside, the porch almost entirely covered in it and…that’s when she sees it. the faint glint of something tucked against the corner, just barely visible through the thick layer of snow.

“be right back,” jackie mutters, slipping out of jeff’s grasp before he can say anything.

she opens the door quietly, the cold biting at her face, and there it is: the small, carefully wrapped box sitting on the doorstep. she glances around instinctively, as if you might still be there. but the driveway is empty, the faint tire tracks from your car already half-covered by fresh snow.

jackie picks up the gift, her hands trembling slightly as she shuts the door behind her. she shouldn’t open it, she shouldn’t even keep it.

but she does.

back in her room later that night, while jeff sleeps soundly, jackie sits cross-legged on her bed, the present resting in her lap. she unties the ribbon with car , the paper crinkling softly in the stillness. inside is a small, velvet box. her breath catches as she opens it, revealing a delicate gold charm necklace resting against the fabric. her heart skips. it’s simple, but undeniably beautiful. It’s so you.

jackie picks it up, careful so that the torn paper won’t make too much noise, and lets the little heart charm dangle from her fingers. the gold catches in the dim light of her room and it feels warm against her skin. a small card is nestled in the box too, which she quickly picks up.

‘to jackie. you deserve something that’s really yours this year. merry christmas’, then signed off with your initials. jackie fastens the necklace around her neck, the little heart resting between her collarbones. she takes a moment to look at herself in the mirror, at the glint of gold, and it feels so different from the gifts she received earlier: the ones picked out by her parents, or jeff’s thoughtless one. this feels real. personal.

she touches the charm lightly. when she turns back toward the bed, she sees jeff sprawled there, his arm half-extended toward her even in sleep. the ache in her chest deepens, and she slips under the covers, her back to him, one hand still curled protectively around the golden heart.

jackie presses her lips together, blinking rapidly as she sets the box aside and buries her face in her hands. she doesn’t cry, not exactly, but her shoulders shake with the effort of holding it all in.

[msriri030]

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Depressed! Reader

cw: suicidal thought

Masterlist

You stared out your bedroom window, your gaze following a house sparrow as it flitted across the blue sky. Its wings cut through the crisp morning air with ease, yet all you felt was an aching emptiness. A quiet sigh escaped your lips as you peeled yourself away from the cocoon of your bed, the warmth fading the moment your feet met the cold, unyielding floor.

“Maybe a shower will help,” you murmured to no one in particular.

The bathroom felt smaller than usual, the walls closing in as your depression gnawed at the edges of your protective shell. The air seemed heavier, thick like water pooling in your lungs. You turned the shower knob, listening to the rhythmic patter of water as you stripped off your pajamas, waiting for the steam to creep up the glass and warm the room.

When you stepped under the stream, the water kissed your cold skin with a burn that was almost too sharp but just gentle enough to be bearable. The heat wrapped around you, a temporary refuge from the storm raging inside.

You hoped—desperately—that the water would wash it all away. The weight, the melancholy, the intrusive whispers that never seemed to quiet. Even as your mind raced, you tried to anchor yourself. You repeated softly, almost like a mantra, “It’s okay. I… I love myself.”

The words felt hollow.

Or maybe they were a lie.

But it was a beautiful lie, and maybe that was enough. Maybe believing it, even for a moment, was worth it.

You scrubbed at your skin as if trying to care for yourself in the way you knew you deserved, but the tears betrayed you, slipping silently down your cheeks. They blended seamlessly with the water streaming over your face, hidden but not unnoticed by you. You paused, letting out a shaky breath as you leaned against the shower wall, eyes closed.

When you finally turned off the water, the bathroom was heavy with steam, the air damp against your skin. As you reached for a towel, your gaze landed on the neatly folded clothes on the counter—clothes you hadn’t left there.

Your breath hitched, a flicker of warmth breaking through the fog.

Your husband.

He’d left them for you, anticipating the small comforts you might need. As you picked them up, you noticed they were warm, the heat still lingering as if he’d just taken them out of the dryer. A soft smile tugged at your lips despite the tightness in your chest.

He always noticed, didn’t he? You could never truly hide your feelings from him.

You held the clothes to your face, inhaling their warmth and faint scent. The gesture felt almost instinctive, a small attempt to ground yourself. But the tenderness of his act overwhelmed you, and tears welled up again, threatening to spill over.

You sniffed, swallowing hard to push them back. You didn’t want to cry. Not now.

You scolded yourself silently. I shouldn’t cry. There’s no reason to cry. I need to suck it up. The words echoed from years of conditioning, the lessons drilled into you by your parents. But the tears didn’t care. They hovered there, a testament to the feelings you tried so hard to suppress.

Taking a deep, centering breath, you blinked them away, the threat of breaking down receding slightly. Once you felt steady, you dressed slowly, letting the warmth of the clothes wrap around you like an embrace.

Once you were dressed, you shuffled your way to the kitchen, the faint smell of breakfast guiding you. There it was, laid out neatly on the counter—a plate of fluffy pancakes, golden eggs, and homemade hash browns. The meal was carefully wrapped in plastic, a thoughtful touch to keep the food fresh and free from any pests.

You approached it slowly, almost hesitant. You weren’t hungry, not really, but you knew better than to skip a meal. It wasn’t about hunger—it was about taking care of yourself, even if you didn’t feel like you deserved it.

Sliding into the chair, you unwrapped the plate and began eating in quiet bites. The food was good, warm and comforting in a way you didn’t quite expect. Still, the act of eating felt mechanical, your movements slow and deliberate.

The familiar lump in your throat threatened to rise again, and you sniffed, willing yourself not to break down. You closed your eyes for a moment, grounding yourself. One step at a time, you thought, echoing the mantra that had carried you this far.

When you opened your eyes again, you noticed the small card tucked to the side of the plate. It hadn’t been there before—or maybe you’d been too caught up in your thoughts to notice. Picking it up, you read the simple, scrawled phrase:

You got this, Doll!

A soft smile tugged at your lips, fragile but genuine. Simon. Even when he wasn’t there, he had a way of finding the cracks in your armor and mending them, piece by piece.

You sighed, setting the card aside and finishing your meal. Once you were done, you stood and set about tidying up the house. It wasn’t much, but it felt like progress. Small victories against the weight pressing down on you.

You turned on some music, letting the sound fill the spaces in your mind that the dark thoughts so often claimed. The steady rhythm of the songs became a lifeline as you moved from room to room.

By the time you started washing the dishes, your chest felt a little lighter. But then, without warning, that heaviness crept back in. Like a sudden wave, the weight in your chest pushed down, stealing the air from your lungs. Your breaths grew shallow, rapid, the world closing in around you.

Not now. Please, not now.

You gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady yourself, but the panic clawed at your mind, refusing to relent. The thoughts came flooding in—your failures, the unresolved problems that loomed over you, the insecurities that whispered lies in your ears.

You tried to focus on the running water, the feel of it splashing over your hands, anything to anchor yourself. But it wasn’t working. The pressure was too much, and the voices in your head grew louder, urging you to succumb.

And then your eyes landed on the knife you were washing.

It was so simple, so easy, the voices whispered. It could all stop. The pressure, the pain, the endless fight—it could all fade away.

Your hand trembled as you held the blade. Tears blurred your vision as you fought against the pull of those dark thoughts. The voices were deafening, the weight suffocating.

“Doll?”

The voice cut through the noise like a beacon, grounding you. Your head snapped toward the doorway, where Simon stood. His broad frame filled the space, his face shadowed with concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice calm but firm, his sharp eyes taking in the scene—the trembling in your hands, the knife clattering as you dropped it into the sink, and the way you stumbled back like you needed to put distance between yourself and the thoughts that had almost consumed you.

You couldn’t find the words to answer him, your throat constricted with the weight of everything. Tears threatened to spill.

Simon didn’t press you. He crossed the kitchen in a few long strides, his movements deliberate but gentle. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand explanations. Instead, he reached out, his warm hands steadying you as he guided you to sit at the kitchen table.

“Breathe, Doll,” he murmured, his voice low and steady as he crouched beside you. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”

You nodded shakily, focusing on his voice, his presence. Slowly, the storm inside began to settle, the waves receding enough for you to catch your breath.

Simon stayed by your side, his hand never leaving yours, as though anchoring you to reality. His thumb traced small circles against your skin, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t alone in this fight.

Finally, when your breathing evened out, he tilted his head to meet your gaze. His eyes were soft, filled with a quiet understanding that made fresh tears spring to your eyes. But this time, they weren’t tears of despair.

“I’m here,” he said simply, his voice a promise.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the tears began to fall again. “I tried to hold it together, but I couldn’t. I feel… angry, and hurt. And I don’t even know why.”

The words tumbled out between sobs, raw and unfiltered, like a dam breaking under the weight of everything you’d tried so hard to suppress. You wiped at your face with trembling hands, trying to stem the flow of tears, but it was futile.

Simon sighed softly, his expression unreadable for a moment before he leaned in, wrapping his strong arms around you. His embrace was warm and steady, grounding you as you crumbled in his hold.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Let it out, Doll. You don’t have to hold it all in.”

His words were a balm, allowing you to fully release the emotions that had been suffocating you. You buried your face against his chest, your sobs muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he held you tighter, one hand gently running up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

Simon didn’t rush you, didn’t say anything more. He just listened, his steady presence a reminder that you weren’t alone in this, even if it felt like it.

You cried until there was nothing left, the tension in your body slowly melting away as the storm inside you quieted. Your breaths were uneven, but the tightness in your chest had eased.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice hoarse as you pulled back slightly, though Simon’s arms stayed firmly around you.

He shook his head, his thumb brushing away a tear that lingered on your cheek. “Stop that,” he said gently. “You don’t need to apologize for feeling. It’s not weakness to let it out.”

“But I—”

“No ‘buts,’” he interrupted, his tone firm but kind. “You’ve been trying to carry too much on your own. You don’t have to do that anymore. You’ve got me, Doll.”

His words struck something deep within you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe them.

“Thank you,” you said softly, leaning into his chest again.

Simon rested his chin atop your head, his arms still holding you securely. “Always.”

And in that moment, as his steady heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear, you felt a fragile sense of peace beginning to take root—a small but vital reminder that you didn’t have to face this alone.

Simon guided you to the couch, his hand resting gently on your back as he steered you. When he sat down, he pulled you onto his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a fortress. You protested at first, mumbling something about being fine, but he wasn’t having it.

“Lay down, Doll,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You sniffled, giving him a pout that you knew usually worked in your favor, but not this time. His lips twitched into a rare smile, and a soft chuckle rumbled through his chest.

“It’s not funny,” you grumbled, crossing your arms in mock defiance.

“Sure thing, Doll,” he teased, clearly unfazed by your attempt to sound serious.

Before you could fire back, Simon grabbed the remote and put on your comfort show—the one he always claimed was "mind-numbing" and “rotten for your brain.”

Your eyes widened, and you looked up at him, surprised. “You’re really putting this on?”

He shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You like it. That’s all that matters.”

Warmth spread through your chest at his unexpected gesture. He wasn’t the kind of man who did things halfway—if it made you feel better, he’d endure just about anything, even a show he despised.

Before you could thank him, Simon laid down with you, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. It was unhurried yet intense, a silent promise wrapped in affection. When he finally pulled back, your cheeks were burning, and you quickly buried your face in his shirt to hide the blush.

His arms tightened around you, his hand coming up to gently stroke your hair. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he murmured, the teasing lilt in his voice making you nuzzle into him further.

For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt the weight on your chest ease. As the show played in the background and Simon’s steady breathing mixed with the sound of his heartbeat, you found yourself slowly relaxing.

“Thank you,” you whispered softly against his chest.

He pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Anything for you, Doll.”

And as his warmth surrounded you, you realized that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay—because with Simon by your side, you knew you wouldn’t have to face your struggles alone.

[throneofsmut]

Kinktober Day 13: In Public

Ruhn Danaan x Reader || WC: 611

The bite of the cold glass window on your peaked nipples sends shivers down your spine. “Ruhn,” you mutter anxiously, “what if someone sees us?”

One of his tattooed hands snakes up the back of your neck, up into your hair as he threads his fingers in the strands. “I want them too, my love.” The other splays against your tummy, applying pressure as he thrusts into you. 

“Ru!” Your hands slam against the glass window giving you enough leverage to push back into him. Meeting him stroke for stroke. “That’s why we’re fucking in the living room, at night with the lights on? So everyone can see me?”

He slides in and holds you to him, grinding himself against you. He places kisses on your back, shoulder, and up your neck. “So everyone can see us.” He whispers into your ear. His lips tickling the soft skin. 

Something in your tummy flutters at his words and you rock your hips gently, making him groan. “Don’t you want them to see how beautiful you look taking my cock?”

Your heartbeat quickens. Your breathy moan makes the glass fog for a couple seconds. 

He tilts your hips, pulling out and pushing backing. “Or how you look like a goddess when  I make you cum?” 

“Yeah-h,” you breathe. 

He picks up the pace. Plunging in and out. “The way your perfect tits bounce when you pant.” You take in a deep breath, your chest straining against the glass window. 

He licks your pulse point on your neck. “The way your pretty little pussy quivers around my cock.” His hand that was gripping your hip moves to stroke your clit. 

You drop a hand from the window and place it atop his, urging his fingers to swirl over your clit faster. A content sigh leaves you and you close your eyes. Basking in his touch. 

You fuck back onto him, skin prickling from the budding pleasure, the muscles in your tummy and thighs tensing. “Love,” he rasps.

“Ruhn.”

“Open your eyes,” he instructs. You do, exhaling sharply at the sight in front of you. Shuddering as goosebumps bloom all over your body. 

Fae, angels, shifters, and other crescent city inhabitants all watch you and Ruhn. Some are on the street below, others in the building across from you. Their chests rising and falling with shallow breaths, their pupils blown wide, making their eyes look almost entirely black. 

Some of them touch themselves discreetly over their clothes. Others, touch themselves under their clothes. The bolder males have their cocks out, stroking themselves. While the bolder females tweak their nipples, rubbing tight little circles on their clits. 

You can’t help the smirk settling over your lips. “All their eyes are on you,” Ruhn groans. “They’re captivated by you.” You nod, before turning your head to look at him. He’s smirking too, the perfect picture of pure male satisfaction. 

“Keep your eyes on them as you cum.” 

“Okay,” you hum. Struggling to keep your eyes open as his fingers glide over your clit while he slams into you. “Cum with me?”

“Whatever you want, love.” 

You see some of the males spill their loads while some of the females gush on their hands. 

“Ruhn,” you whimper.

“Let go, I’m right behind you.”

Your hands fall to his thighs pulling him deep into you as your legs tremble. Everyone’s eyes on you setting your body alight with pleasure as you cum on Ruhn’s cock with a shattered cry. His cock twitching inside of you as his cum floods your quivering cunt. 

Both of you satisfied and spent just like the males and females who came from watching you.

****

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[riddlesrizzler]

hello there, sweet soul! i have a little request, if you’re open to it (of course, there’s no pressure at all).

inspired by the charm of !deer reader, i dreamed up a story about theodore nott. he’s been having a recurring dream—a forest cloaked in mist, quiet as a held breath. in the heart of it stands a deer, watching him with wide, gentle eyes, as if calling to something deep inside him.

then, one day, a new girl arrives. and something about her tugs at him. he doesn’t understand why, only that he needs to look again.

one night, on one of his usual escapes to the astronomy tower, he finds her there. and when he sees her clearly, truly sees her—he recognizes those same soft, doe eyes from his dreams.

i’ve fallen in love with your writing and would be over the moon to read your take on this story. thank you so much for reading this—truly. 🤍🦌

omg thank you so much for this request and I am so sorry it has taken me some time to get to!

but I am so glad that you love deer! reader and this was so fun to write! I hope you enjoy!

Theodore Nott dreamed often, but never of things he knew.

He didn’t dream of school or of people or the cold marble halls of his manor. His dreams didn’t take the shape of faces or voices. They came instead in texture-mist thick enough to touch, quiet that pressed against his ears like velvet, air so still it made his heart pound louder than it should.

Always the same forest.

Its trees reached high into the grey sky, gnarled branches clawing at the clouds. Moss curled around the roots, and the fog never lifted. The world in those dreams was colorless, but not lifeless. There was something watching.

And in the center of it all stood a doe.

She was still. Not with fear, but with purpose. Poised like something sacred. Her eyes were dark, wide, endless. When Theodore looked at her, he felt the strangest sense of knowing-not like meeting someone new, but like recognizing a lullaby from childhood, or a scent from a house you’d long forgotten.

She never moved. Never fled.

Only watched.

And he woke each time with a name just out of reach, his chest hollow and aching, his palms curled like they’d been reaching for something that wasn't there.

-

It had been weeks since the dreams began when she arrived.

He didn’t even notice her at first-she wasn’t the sort of girl people paid much attention to. She sat in the back of classrooms, never raised her hand, and rarely smiled unless it was to herself. Her robes were always a little too big, like they belonged to someone else before her. Her hair was soft and unassuming. She carried books that looked older than she was, pages frayed from love.

Theodore didn’t notice her, not properly, until he caught her staring at the lake.

It was a Tuesday. Grey skies, wind curling off the water. He was walking back from Care of Magical Creatures alone, his mind in that familiar foggy half-state the dreams left him in. She stood by the edge, shoes just shy of the damp grass, chin tilted like she was waiting for something to rise from the depths.

And the way she stood-the tilt of her head, the soft stillness of her expression-it knocked the breath clean from his lungs.

He stopped walking. Just stood there for a moment, heart thudding for no reason he could explain.

It’s not her, he told himself. That’s ridiculous.

But something whispered otherwise.

-

Days passed, and he found himself looking for her without meaning to. In the Great Hall, in the corridors, in the reflection of the window glass. She didn’t act like the other girls. She didn’t act like anyone at all. And for some reason, that bothered him more than he expected.

Theodore Nott didn’t chase things.

He didn’t chase people.

So instead he watched.

He started walking the long way to class. Started lingering in the library. Started paying attention.

And still, he couldn’t shake the way her presence pulled at something wordless in him.

-

It was past curfew when he saw her again.

The Astronomy Tower was his escape. It had always been his-tucked above the castle, so high the world fell away below. The night pressed cold against the stone, and the stars stretched wide above, uncaring and beautiful.

He climbed the final steps, mind thick with fog again, hoping maybe the sky could quiet it.

But when he pushed the door open, someone was already there.

She stood at the far end, arms folded on the ledge, chin resting on her hands. The moon spilled across her face, catching in her lashes, lighting the edge of her hair like frost.

She didn’t turn when the door creaked. Didn’t move.

Theodore froze.

He thought about leaving-pretending he hadn’t meant to come here-but something in him refused. So he stepped forward instead, each movement careful, like she might vanish if he startled her.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye.

“I thought I was the only one who came up here,” she said quietly, voice barely above the wind.

His throat felt dry. “You’re not.”

Her mouth curved into the smallest of smiles. “It’s peaceful.”

He nodded, unsure what to say. Her presence felt like a dream he hadn’t fully woken from. Familiar. Too familiar.

“I’ve seen you before,” she said, turning to face him now. “You’re Theodore.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You look like someone who doesn’t sleep well,” she added, voice gentle. Not mocking. Not curious, even. Just… aware.

“I don’t,” he admitted before he could stop himself.

A pause. Her eyes searched his face like she already knew what she was looking for.

“You dream, though.”

The air between them grew still. Something in his chest twisted.

“How do you-?”

“I dream too,” she said, and her voice softened, like she was saying something sacred. “A forest. Always fog. And a boy. He never speaks, but… he looks lost.”

Theodore’s heart slammed against his ribs.

His lips parted, but no sound came.

She stepped closer, and in the moonlight, he saw.

Those eyes.

The ones from the forest. Gentle. Deep. Knowing.

A memory disguised as a person.

“I think you’ve been looking for something,” she whispered.

He swallowed hard, the wind rattling through his bones. “And you?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “I think I’ve been waiting to be found.”

[zackprincebooks]

🥘Feast Day 🥘

As a kitchen serf in the fortress-monastery, you love feeding your lord angels. If your meager work is one of the few pleasures they can enjoy in their endless war, then you are happy to serve. But your decadent meals are not the only pleasure they seek, and you will come to serve in a different way. (Gadriel x Reader, explicit. 2nd person PoV, Reader is not addressed with a name or gendered pronouns.)

Want to read this on Ao3? Click here!

-------------------------

Fragrant steam rises from the kitchen, fogging up the glasses of the head chef as you open the oven to remove your roasting pan. Some juices dribble off the saber bear roast and splash into the oven, making a sizzling sound and producing even more steam.

“Careful! We still need to braise the grand chestnuts in the sauce, so don’t lose too much jus.” The Master of the Refectorium cleans his glasses on his apron and puts them on, groaning as they immediately fog up again. You take a knee to remove the roasting pan, huffing as your sweaty, mitted hands struggle to lift it onto the counter. 

“I need an extra pair of hands here!” Immediately three people rush to your side as the roasting pan threatens to tip over, pushing it back with their hands wrapped in dish towels. Together, you hoist the roasting pan onto some trivets waiting on the counter. Your fellows clap you on the back and one of them offers you a towel. 

“Many thanks.” You wipe your glistening brow with the proffered towel before throwing it over your shoulder. “If I dropped this and wasted eight hours of roasting, I couldn’t show my face around the monastery.” The thought of explaining to the Lord Angels that they would go without dinner was enough to make your knees weak. 

You didn’t fear them; you loved them with every inch of your weak, mortal heart. Feeding the Emperor’s Angels was a holy duty in and of itself, and you could not meet their disappointed gaze if you had to tell them you ruined one of their few pleasures in life. 

The saucier takes the pan of drippings over to the stove with a bottle of wine and a sack of chestnuts, and you are forced to wash the pan’s rack as you let the roast rest on the counter. It’s watching you, teasingly, begging you to cut into it to check if the inside is done. For such a powerful animal, saber bear meat was notoriously finicky. One minute over its extensive roasting time, and those delicate proteins would start breaking down into gray, unpalatable mush.

“Are you trying to kill it again?” Your saucier teases, giving the chestnuts a little flip. Drops of wine sauce glitter in the air like precious garnets, but your focus is directed towards your precious roast. Every time someone walks by, your breath hitches for fear that they would accidentally knock it to the floor—despite the roast being too big and heavy for anyone but a Space Marine to nudge it off the counter.

Finally—fucking finally—you can cut into it. It’s a thing of beauty; adorned with spices and herbs and the carving knife cuts through it like butter. Each plump slice is a beautiful ruby red, adorned with glittering pearls of fat. More juice spills from each cut, flowing over your knife like reams of crimson silk. You swallow the desire to fawn over the individual slices; it will be almost dinner time, and serving the lords cold, flaccid meat would be a bigger disappointment than serving nothing at all! 

You’re halfway through slicing the roast when you hear the distant sound of a bell ringing, heralding the approach of the Lord Angels. Despite that, you hold off on cutting faster; the roast needs to rest for a second time before you can serve it, and you will have plenty of time during the first course. Nothing but the best for your angels.

The metal window opens up to the dining hall, and you briefly look up from your work to admire the gathered angels.  Many of them have come from the baths with hair still damp and cheeks flushed red from steam. Sometimes you envy the bath serfs, who tend to the lords at their most vulnerable, but you would never relinquish the joy you feel from filling their bellies.

Their first course is an array of broiled root vegetables, many of them slathered in cheese, erdripper bacon, or both. While you bemoan the sheer amount of grease and fat, reaching the ten-thousand calories required to keep a Space Marine fed and running was no easy feat. At least they were getting their vegetables, and not fully subsisting on nutrigruel and amino-porridge. You shudder to think of what your angels eat on the battlefield without your spoon and pan!

Lord Gadriel glimpses you cutting your roast, and his blue eyes light up. “I hope that’s for me later,” he says with a smile, nodding towards you. His blond hair is damp from the baths and the light glances off it, giving him a true halo. You blush and look down, continuing to cut.

From behind him, Lord Chairon lets out a deep throated chuckle that rattles your ribcage. “Don’t be greedy, brother! Leave some for us! That’s a prize of a roast.” He thwaps Gadriel on his bare bicep with a powerful fist and you watch it bounce.

When Gadriel takes his first course, he levels his gaze at you and the warmth in your lower belly tells you he’s not thinking about the roast. -------------------------------

If your fellow cooks knew you wanted to stay late to get a slice of the saber bear roast to yourself, they didn’t show it. The master bids you goodnight, tossing his soiled apron into the hamper as he leaves.

To your credit, you do wash, chop, and wrap the chimera fruit and cobblemoss in preparation for breakfast tomorrow, and you’re in the middle of cleaning your workstation when you hear footsteps down the hall leading to the kitchen doors. The bulky shadow on the opposite wall makes your heart throb in your chest and you abandon the washrag on the counter to approach the double doors.

“Lord Gadriel, may I assist you? Was tonight’s dinner not enough to satisfy you?” While mealtime was over, the kitchen was open to anyone who needed food.

He smiles at you, his head tilting to one side. “I am quite satisfied by tonight’s meal; it was delicious. Thank you for your hard work. I have never gone hungry, so long as you are in the kitchen. But I feel as though you have gone unsatisfied…”

Your breath stutters as your gaze drifts down to the bulge in Gadriel’s sweatpants. It felt too obscene to see that part of an angel; to know that they lusted and wanted just as a fragile mortal. It feels even worse to stare at it, but when you drag your gaze up to Gadriel’s face, you find his expression is as hungry as his body. Your legs clench as though you can feel his tongue against the apex of your thighs as he licks his lips.

“I would never demand you to feed me, my lord,” you protest weakly.

“Nor would answer your demand,” Gadriel counters. You try to hold your ground as he advances, but Gadriel's oppressive weight eventually pushes you against the steel wall behind you. It cools your sizzling skin but doesn't temper the flame of your arousal.

One of Gadriel's hands reaches out to touch the meat of your bottom lip, skimming the bite marks in the soft flesh. You can smell the nourishing oils from his bath earlier, making his skin soft and tender. You resist the urge to lick it, even though your mouth is watering.

“I want you to beg for it.” His growling voice makes your belly clench. Suddenly you feel horrifically empty; starving to feel Gadriel inside of you even if he would shred you alive.

“Please feed me, my lord. Fill me with your need and allow me to sate you.” Your lips brush against Gadriel’s thumb with each word, and you punctuate your pleas with a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb.

“Open wide,” is his only warning before Gadriel pushes you to the floor. He's gentle about it, but for an angel, it means you're lucky that your knees don't break when they impact with the floor. He winces when you do, and whispers “sorry,” as he runs his fingers through your hair as penance. With his opposite hand, Gadriel slowly pulls down his sweatpants until his cock manages to pop out. He's not as long as you expected him to be, but he is deliciously thick and veiny, with a large, red head. The dusting of golden hair on his crotch is well-groomed…had he been expecting you? 

Waiting for you?

Wanting you?

This is a delicacy to be savored. Opening your mouth, you press a sucking kiss to the head of his cock before sticking out your tongue to wet his slit. He's still too long for you to take him wholly into your mouth, so you use one hand to stroke what you cannot reach as your mouth slowly engulfs him.

Gadriel's primal groan is sweet on your ears, as is his hand pushing your face further into his groin. The head of his cock bumps the back of your throat and your futile attempts to relax your throat to take more only make you gag sloppily. A dribble of saliva is forced out from the corner of your mouth with his next thrust.

If looking at Gadriel's bulging cock was obscene, this is a blessing. Your only lament is that you cannot take the whole of his cock into your mouth so that he could properly fuck your throat. But you take some sadistic pleasure in watching the tremble of his hips as he valiantly holds himself back.

The hallway behind the kitchen is soon filled with the wet noises of your sucking and Gadriel's deep moans. Your muffled whimpering joins in as your free hand dives under your apron and into your pants to touch yourself. It feels wrong to take your pleasure when Gadriel hasn't finished, but the burning between your legs is only heightened by his noises.

Your sounds do not go unnoticed by his sensitive hearing, and his chuckle sends shivers down your spine. “Does this make you feel good? I can make you feel even better than your mere fingers. Would you like that?”

With your eyes watery, your lips puffy, and your face red with exertion, you're sure you look like a mess. But Gadriel's blue gaze is soft as he watches your mouth contract around his cock.

“Would you like that?” He repeats, gentler this time, and you nod, unintentionally bobbing around his cock so his breath stutters. “G-good.”

Your whine of pleasure turns to one of disappointment as Gadriel pulls his cock from your mouth, glistening with your saliva. You don't even have time to wipe your lips before Gadriel tugs you to your feet with one hand on your shoulder.

Lifting you against the wall until you're at eye-level with him, Gadriel pulls you in for a kiss. It muffles your initial “mmph!” on impact, but Gadriel's lips coax softer sounds out of you. You can taste the slight sweetness of cream on his mouth from tonight's dessert. Pressed between the bulk of his chest and the unforgiving wall, you just barely fit your arms around Gadriel's shoulders to run up and down his back. Under your hands, his broad shoulders flex and bulge.

Your kiss breaks with a quiet smacking sound and Gadriel steps back for a moment. He takes the time to step out of his pants, though he doesn't remove his shirt. There's a thin sheen of sweat gathering at his collar that you want to lick, but it dawns on you that you’re in the middle of a hallway behind the kitchen.

“My l-lord, should w-we really b-be doing this?” Gadriel’s hand pauses as he reaches for the strings of your apron.

“Do you want to? If you are afraid of the consequences, then I will cover for you. It is no trouble,” he says quickly as you open your mouth. “I want this.”

“I want this, too. I just feel a little…” You gesture to the hallway. “Exposed. And we are not fucking in the kitchen.”

Gadriel chuckles, pressing his powerful arms against the wall. His head tilts downwards until you are fully boxed in, sheltered by his body. Occasionally, you can feel his breath feathering the top of your hair. “Still feeling exposed?”

“Not anymore, my lord.” You smile at him, which he returns.

You meet again for another kiss; gentler this time. Gadriel's jaw rubs yours and you can feel the stubble under his chin where he missed shaving in the bath. His hands slide down your body, spanning the entire length of your ribcage before dipping down to cup your ass and lift once more against the wall. He breaks the kiss and tilts down to kiss your neck before nibbling. It's almost ticklish, and you giggle for a second until he bites.

“Oh, oh,” one of your legs attempts to kick out but Gadriel holds you firmly against the wall. Almost as if he's showing off, he holds you with one hand while his other unties the strings of your apron.

“Are you a virgin?” He whispers into your skin. You manage a trembling no, and he nips underneath your right ear. Gadriel lets go of your legs again and backs up by a half step.

“Turn around for me and put your hands against the wall for me...yes, just like that.” Gadriel presses a fleeting kiss you the back of your neck before his weight leaves you. You feel his bulk settling somewhere behind you, under you, and his hands reach around to your front in order to unbuckle your belt and pull down your pants. The cool air hits your bare skin, but even as Gadriel pulls down your underwear, you still don't feel chilled. Not when his warm hands are caressing your ass and spreading your cheeks to reveal your tight hole.

“Now this is a treat,” he murmurs under his breath before leaning in and licking a stripe up your crack. The warmth and wetness of his tongue on your most intimate and vulnerable place makes you melt and moan. Your breath fogs up the steel wall as you pant from his questing tongue.

Not only is he skilled, but he is also relentless. Gadriel assaults your tight pucker with licks and sucks; if anyone dared to walk down this hallway, they wouldn't need to round the corner to hear the lewd noises that bounce off the walls. You hide your burning red face in your folded arms against the wall, but it does nothing to quiet your moaning and whimpering.

Once your hole is properly wetted, Gadriel sits back on his heels to admire his handiwork. You dare to look over your shoulder down at him. His expression is so fucking smug that it would be almost insulting, if it weren't for the fact that you were both naked from the waist down.

“You're being very good,” he murmurs, giving your ass a squeeze, “just a little longer, all right? I don't want to hurt you.”

“All right.” You turn your face back into your arms, but not before you watch Gadriel insert three fingers into his mouth. There's a soft sucking noise, akin to the sound he made while he ate your ass. He wets them thoroughly and pulls them out of his mouth with a pop.

Though your previous experiences with anal were few and far between, you know enough that you don't flinch when the first of Gadriel's thick fingers breaches your asshole. He's loosened you enough so there's nothing more than a brief pinching sensation before he's able to start pushing in and out.

“You're very tight in here,” Gadriel muses, “has it been a long time?” When you hesitate, he kisses the swell of your ass cheek. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

“It's been a while,” you hedge, “with, ah, work and everything.”

“You work so hard,” and Gadriel thrusts more forcefully on the word hard, making you gasp, “let me help you relax.” He adds a second finger, and you moan at the stretch.

You attempt to raise a counterpoint, “I-I serve...the angels...”

“Then let me serve you, for a chance.” Gadriel spreads his fingers apart to scissor you open. “I wasn't lying when I said I'm always satisfied with your meals. You feed me so well.”

When he adds the third finger, your vision goes white. Your moaning has turned into sobbing, tears of pleasure running down your cheeks. You could cum like this if not for the larger prize awaiting you.

Gadriel seems to notice, and he slowly withdraws his fingers from your hole, making a lewd, squelching sound. You don't know whether you're more turned on by the sound or by what it means when Gadriel stands up. You attempt to brace yourself against the wall for the punishing pounding you're about to receive, but Gadriel grasps you by the waist and turns you around one final time.

“I want to see you when I take you.” You lean on him to untie your shoes and take your pants off all the way, and when he lifts you in his arms one final time, his blue eyes fill you with warmth.

“Thank you.”

This is a familiar position for you by now, with your thighs bracketing Gadriel's sides and his chest pressed against yours—only this time, the head of Gadriel's cock rubs against your stretched, wet hole. You rock your hips until it catches the rim of your ass. You're not sure who gasps when the head sinks into you.

You scrabble for purchase on Gadriel's back and he holds you closer, sinking in little by little. “Angel,” you choke into his ear, and he responds with a cracked moan of your name.

He's so big. That's the only thing running through your mind. Though you held Gadriel's cock in your mouth not ten minutes ago, it somehow feels longer and thicker as he sinks you down onto it. When you feel his balls on the swell of your ass, you can't help looking down to make sure there's not a bulge in your stomach.

“It's in?” Gadriel pants, and you nod.

“It's in. A-all of it. Oh, Throne, I took all of it...” He chuckles weakly, kissing your temple. 

“Do you think you're ready for me to move?”

“Yes!” The word is barely out of your mouth before Gadriel thrusts, pushing you upwards against the wall. You scrabble for purchase on his back, rucking up his shirt and exposing some of his ports.

“So tight, am I hurting you? You feel...so good.” Gadriel pants directly into your ear, his warm breath cascading down the collar of your shirt.

“No, doesn't hurt, but—” Gadriel fucking stops and you muffle your scream by biting his shoulder. “It feels like you're splitting me in half!”

“That's the plan,” he huffs, and resumes thrusting. The positioning is a little awkward; you almost wish Gadriel took you from behind. But on a particularly harsh thrust that makes your toes curl, you watch Gadriel's lips part softly and his eyes roll back into his head.

That alone makes everything worth it.

Despite your best efforts, you cum first. Gadriel holds you through it, continuing to grind his cock into your asshole so you can ride it out. When you pull back, you stammer your apologies at the wet spot your orgasm left on his shirt.

“No, don’t apologize. It was beautiful.” Gadriel kisses you, gently wiping your tears with his thumb. “Do you want me to cum in you?” When he grinds into you again, you swear his balls feel fuller than before.

“Please, Gadriel,” you whimper, and his next kiss devours your mouth. You can barely breathe even through your nose as your oversensitive ass is pounded by Gadriel’s cock, molding your hole to its shape. When Gadriel pulls away, the long string of saliva connecting your mouth snaps as his head throws back with a deep moan. You seize the moment to pounce and bite down on his exposed neck, relishing in the whine Gadriel makes as he pumps your ass full of hot, sticky cum.

After all the sounds you’ve made, the hallway is silent as you both come down. You nibble on Gadriel’s neck and rub his back, careful to avoid his ports lest you overstimulate him. His hands squeeze your thighs in appreciation before lowering you onto the ground. Both of you wince as his cock slips out of you.

“Oops,” Gadriel laughs sheepishly, reaching beyond you. Looking over your shoulder, you watch Gadriel touch a dent in the wall made by his forceful thrusts.

“It’s all right; nothing important is on the side of that wall,” you reassure him with a kiss. Gadriel helps you put your pants and shoes on, sneaking kisses and copping feels as he ties your apron.

“Did you at least enjoy it?” The shy expression on his face is so cute, you want to kiss him—so you do.

“It was amazing. But I think I would enjoy it more in a bed.” You lean back and stretch, wincing as your back cracks.

“That can be arranged, if you’d like?” Gadriel pauses in the middle of pulling his sweatpants back on. “I understand there is a stereotype of Space Marines sleeping on slabs of rock, but my bed is quite comfortable.”

“I’m very tempted,” and Gadriel’s nigh rakish grin is enough to make you reconsider, “but I have other plans for the rest of my night. Though you’re welcome to join me?”

It takes a few minutes to reheat the sauce, as it has coagulated since dinnertime. But soon, the kitchen fills with the sounds and smells of simmering red wine sauce and grand chestnuts. You let the sauce go while you prepare the roast. Gadriel’s patience is adorable; keeping his hands to himself as you occasionally pass him with hot pans and sharp knives.

The kitchen is quiet as you both eat, hunched over the counter. You savor every bite, letting the tender flesh fill your mouth. With the tender sweetness of the grand chestnuts breaking up the robust flavor of the roast and the acidic quality of the sauce, it’s the perfect dish.

Well…

Your eyes cut over to Gadriel. He catches you staring and gently nudges you with his elbow, eyes twinkling.

Almost perfect.

[alohajix]

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 [3]

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight's Masterlist

Summary: in the fog-drenched town of Willowridge, [Y/N] has always felt the pull of the supernatural. She doesn't know why-only that it thrums beneath her skin, whispers in her blood, and haunts her dreams. She's spent her life searching for answers, for meaning in the symbols and shadows that call to her... and then she meets him.

Harry Styles is the last living heir of a bloodline the world believes to be extinct. A hybrid born of vampire and wolf, he's lived in silence, hidden behind the iron gates of Styles Estate, a crumbling estate thick with history, power, and curse. He doesn't take mates. He doesn't fall in love. Not anymore.

But fate doesn't care for rules.

When she stumbles into his world, a bond awakens between them-raw, ancient, irreversible. What begins as curiosity spirals into obsession. And as secrets unravel and darkness rises, one truth becomes terrifyingly clear: she was his long before they ever met, and now... she may never leave.

[Chapter Three] Warnings: this chapter contains psychological unease, supernatural suspense, moments of anxiety and fear, subtle blood imagery in a symbolic context, and themes of emotional isolation and sensory paranoia as the safety of home begins to unravel.

[Chapter Three] Words: 5,073.

***

Chapter Three — Silent Shift

I woke up before the sun did, which wasn't like me. The room hadn't changed—curtains drawn halfway shut, desk lamp still on from the night before, my coat slung carelessly over the back of the chair—but something inside me knew better. The air felt different. Not cold or damp or electric. Just wrong. And not in the kind of way that sends you running. In the kind of way that sits quietly at the edge of your bed and waits for you to notice it.

I sat up too quickly, the blanket twisted around my legs, and blinked into the dim gray light bleeding through the curtains. Everything was in its place: the bookshelf to my right. The stack of notebooks I'd been meaning to sort. The chipped mug still on the windowsill—empty now, but with a faint ring of old coffee marking the bottom like sediment. There was even the photo frame on the side table, still turned face-down like it always was. I never touched it. I'd seen the picture too many times: my mother, my father—captured in grainy warmth, mid-laugh, the kind of smile that suggested they didn't know what was coming for them. For me. I wasn't old enough to remember them, but the weight of that image had followed me my whole life, pressed flat beneath glass and guilt. I didn't look at it now.

I got up slowly, the wood under my feet colder than it should have been—the kind of chill that felt placed rather than incidental. My hoodie hung from the back of the chair—I slipped into it like armor, pulling the sleeves down over my hands even though it didn't help much. The silence in the room wasn't silence at all. It was presence. Like the air had thickened around me while I slept and was just now beginning to settle again. I didn't breathe too deeply. I wasn't sure I was supposed to.

The morning sat heavier than usual. The early light through the windows looked washed out, almost weak, like even the sun was reluctant to touch the edges of the house. I didn't turn on the overhead light. I moved through the rooms with practiced steps, like I might spook something if I didn't. The radio on the counter didn't hum. The fridge didn't buzz. Even the wood didn't creak. I made my way to the table, half-hoping I was imagining everything, half-certain I wasn't.

And then I saw my notebook. Sitting open where I hadn't left it. I had packed it last night. I remembered that clearly. Shoved it deep into my bag, fingers trembling slightly as I did, the symbol still etched into my skin like heat long after we'd parted ways in the clearing. I hadn't touched it since. But now it sat wide open. Waiting.

I moved toward it slowly, careful not to make a sound I didn't have to. The page was new. My handwriting curled across the top in a half-finished sentence about folklore, but my eyes skipped over it entirely; the sigil sat below it like it had been burned into the page. The same symbol I'd seen on the gate. The same shape I had drawn and redrawn in the margins for years without ever meaning to. But it wasn't the same as last time. Not exactly.

It had grown. The lines were bolder now, as if someone had gone over them with firmer hands. Around it, smaller symbols branched out like veins, curling delicately toward the margins like they were reaching for something just out of frame. Not words. Not language. Just suggestion. It didn't look like a doodle. It looked like a map. Or a boundary. Or a warning written in a language I was never meant to read.

Something flickered in the corner of my mind. Not a memory, not exactly. A flash of trees. The pressure of the wind on my chest. His voice. I tried to hold onto it, but it slipped again, like water through fingers. Still, I could feel it—that echo. The wrongness hadn't started here. It had started in the woods, with the gate.

I hovered my hand over the page but didn't touch it. The warmth was back. Not hot. Not dangerous. Just undeniably there, as though the paper had been resting against skin. Mine or someone else's, I couldn't tell. The silence shifted again.

My pulse moved differently now, like it had adjusted itself to some rhythm I hadn't chosen, and the realization made my stomach dip hard. I didn't want to be afraid. But fear was the only word I had for whatever sat behind my ribs now, staring at the sigil like it might open its eyes and look back.

And then the page turned. On its own.

I froze, heart knocking once, hard, against my ribs. Nothing else moved. Just the page, now settled crooked to the left like someone had flipped it casually, like they'd been standing right where I was and wanted to keep reading.

I stepped back. One. Two. Three paces. My heels hit the baseboard near the wall. The weight didn't lift. I stared at the notebook, throat dry, hands numb and unsure whether they wanted to reach forward or run.

I didn't move for a long time—because something was in the house. Not visibly. Not obviously. But the shift was real now. Palpable. My chest ached with the weight of it. Not pain, exactly. More like pressure—like the kind you feel before thunder breaks, when your lungs forget what calm air tastes like. My body knew before my brain could catch up: I wasn't alone. Maybe I never had been.

I moved toward the front door like something was pulling me there and opened it with fingers I couldn't quite feel. Outside, the wind hit harder. The chill sliced against my legs, and I barely noticed. The sky was still pale, barely beginning to warm at the edges, and the world looked untouched. But I knew better. Something had passed through here. Or maybe through me. And left the door cracked open behind it.

I didn't know where I was going. Only that I needed to go. The street looked the same as always—but today, I didn't trust it. The sidewalk still cracked near the lamppost, weeds pushing through the split like they had every year since I was twelve. The porch across the street still leaned just slightly left, wind chimes clinking from a crooked beam. And yet, it all felt strangely distorted now, like the world had shifted half a degree sideways while I wasn't looking. Like everything that should have grounded me had been rebuilt with its foundation just barely off-center.

I tightened the strap of my bag across my shoulder, fingers lingering on the worn seam. I hadn't packed anything meaningful—just grabbed the notebook, some pens, my phone. But the weight of it suddenly felt heavier, as though the air itself was thickening around me.

My feet moved before I consciously decided to go anywhere. I didn't want to go back into the woods. I couldn't—not yet. My chest still ached from the way the trees had closed in, from the feel of the gate under my fingers and Harry's voice—still etched along my spine like a shadow I couldn't shake. So I turned in the opposite direction, letting my body choose a path. My shoes found the sidewalk by muscle memory alone, crunching softly against last night's fallen leaves. The breeze caught the edges of my jacket and slid through the opening at my collar, not cold enough to make me shiver, but sharp enough to remind me I was awake, present, and very much alone.

I passed the corner where the old library used to be, the one boarded up for years now, its windows long since gone opaque with dust. There was graffiti on the bricks—symbols and names—but one stood out. Not because it was new, but because it wasn't. A shape half-buried under flaking paint, familiar in a way that twisted something low in my stomach. It almost looked like the sigil.

I didn't stop walking. Didn't let myself linger on it. But my fingers brushed against the edge of my pocket, where the corner of my notebook was still pressing into my thigh like a pulse. It wasn't warm, not exactly, but there was something in the way it sat there—anchored—that made me feel like if I reached for it again, I'd find the page waiting, already open.

The sigil had stayed with me all morning. Even now, it flickered behind my eyes—just a trace, just enough to make the light seem duller when I blinked. It didn't feel like pain. It felt like being watched by something ancient, like some unseen presence had chosen to linger just close enough to brush the edges of my thoughts.

When I reached the café, it was quieter than usual. No line. One of the windows was fogged with condensation, someone's outline faintly visible through the glass. I stared for a second too long before pushing the door open. The bell above it chimed, and for a moment, the sound felt too loud. Warmth rushed up to meet me—cinnamon and espresso and the low hum of music from an old speaker near the counter. A familiar barista gave me a tired nod, already reaching for a mug.

"Your usual?" he asked, and I nodded, too grateful for something normal to bother with words.

I took my usual seat by the far window, the one tucked slightly behind a bookshelf where no one could sit behind me. My breath slowed as I settled in, eyes darting to the reflection in the glass. Nothing out of place. But the feeling hadn't left. My spine remained tense, like I hadn't actually escaped anything, just pressed pause.

I pulled out the notebook. The sigil stared back, darker now. Not visibly, not enough that anyone else would notice—but I could feel it. The ink had thickened, or maybe the page itself had grown thinner beneath it. I couldn't explain why, but I didn't look away. My thumb hovered over the edge, not touching it, not yet.

And then it happened.

A figure passed outside—tall, fast, too fast to be natural. I turned toward the glass just as it slipped out of view. My breath hitched. Every muscle in my body went taut as my pulse skidded sideways. A cold sweat prickled at the nape of my neck as I leaned closer, eyes scanning the window's warped reflection for something—anything. But the sidewalk was empty again.

My hand trembled slightly as I set the notebook down. I wasn't imagining this. The café around me blurred, sound dimming beneath the low thrum of blood rushing past my ears. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was recognition. Something in that movement had struck a chord in me so old, I couldn't name it—but it was real.

I blinked hard, reached again for the notebook, and this time the sigil felt warmer. Not hot. Not alive. But aware. And as my gaze held on it, something else surfaced: a voice.

Low. Velvet-smooth. Not Harry's. Not one I recognized. It wasn't even fully formed—just syllables against the back of my skull. Like remembering a conversation I hadn't been part of. A whisper I couldn't quite understand. I could almost hear it now.

"You've been marked too long to pretend you're not."

I startled, breath catching in my throat. The notebook snapped shut under my palm. The air around me felt thinner, brittle. Like the world had shifted again and no one else noticed.

I stayed for a few more minutes, nursing the lukewarm coffee, forcing each breath into steadiness. Then I stood, tucked the notebook back into my bag, and made for the door.

As I turned the corner of the café, a man stepped out from the alley beside it—hood low, head down—but he slowed as I passed. Just for a second. Just long enough for my nerves to spike. He didn't look up. Didn't say anything. But I felt him watching even after I kept walking.

By the time I reached the edge of town again, the sun had dipped so low behind the trees it no longer felt like afternoon. Just that strange, weightless stretch before evening when the shadows lengthen faster than they should, when light begins to change shape and color without permission. I didn't remember half the walk back, didn't register the turns I took or how my feet found their way through the back trail behind the chapel ruins, but I must have taken the long way because my jacket smelled faintly of pine and something else I couldn't name—something I hadn't noticed before today.

The house looked the same as I'd left it, but I knew better than to trust that. Something about it felt off the moment I stepped up to the porch. Not in the way it had that morning—when the air inside had gone still and quiet, like it was holding its breath—but different now. Looser. Thinner. Like something had already slipped through while I was gone and was waiting for me to notice. Still, I stepped inside, the familiar creak of the door giving way to silence again. My aunt wasn't home, which wasn't unusual for this time of day—her shift at the bookstore sometimes ran late—but her absence now settled heavier than it usually did. I closed the door slowly behind me, locked it out of habit, then stood with my hand still on the knob for a beat too long, just listening.

I slipped my bag off my shoulder and set it on the table, the weight of it thudding softly against the wood. My notebook fell out a second later—unprompted, half-open, the pages flaring like breath.

I frowned. I hadn't touched it since the café. I was sure of that. But now the page with the sigil stared back at me, darker than before, like the lines had deepened while I wasn't looking. And there—beneath it—was something new. A second mark, thinner and more deliberate, traced in ink I didn't remember seeing before. Almost an echo of the first. Almost layered.

I hadn't drawn it. But it was there. A shimmer ran through the ink like it had caught the last light of dusk, though the overheads hadn't been turned on. The lines pulsed softly—as if breathing. I blinked, hard, but it didn't go away. My breath caught. I pressed my fingers to the edge of the page and felt a thrum move through the paper: a recognition. Like it knew I was there. Like it had been waiting.

I should've closed it again. I should've gotten up, walked away, called someone, done something. But instead, I let my fingers inch toward the edge of the mark, not quite touching it. The moment I did, warmth spiked through my palm and up my arm—just like it had at the gate. I gasped, breath hitching too sharp and sudden, and yanked my hand back. The room remained quiet. The page didn't shift. But the pull didn't fade. I stood abruptly, knocking the chair back a few inches with the force of it, and crossed to the window—needing air, distance, anything to disrupt whatever this was becoming. The street outside was quiet. Nothing moved. But I couldn't shake the feeling I was being watched. Not from across the street. Not from the trees. From somewhere closer. The kind of watching that doesn't need eyes. The kind that feels inside.

Then the heat flared again—this time not on the page. On me. A bloom just under the skin. My pulse fluttered. My vision blurred around the edges for a breath-long second, like something unseen had brushed too close to the surface of my mind and knocked everything sideways.

I gripped the windowsill, letting the coolness of the wood ground me, and for the first time I didn't try to dismiss the thought. I let it rise. I didn't say it aloud—but my body reacted anyway. Like the syllables themselves had a frequency, one my bones already recognized. Like they'd always known. I let go, slow and reluctant, like whatever was holding me there hadn't fully released its grip. My hand still tingled, the warmth pulsing down through my fingertips as though something had brushed against me from the inside out. I stepped back from the window, away from the outside world I could no longer see the same, and sat again—this time with my palms flat against my thighs, steadying the shake I hadn't meant to let show.

The notebook waited, open. I already knew what it would say. Or rather, what it wouldn't. It would sit there like it always had—quiet, inanimate, passive—but it wouldn't answer me. Not the way I wanted. Not the way he had: You shouldn't be here.

The words echoed in my mind, not as warning anymore, but as a thread—delicate, insistent, leading somewhere I wasn't ready to name. I let my eyes slide closed for a moment, just long enough to feel the shape of that memory settle into the back of my ribs. The cold air, the sharp bend of his voice around mine, the ache that bloomed somewhere in my chest when I looked at him and knew. I didn't know what I knew, only that it lived deep, buried, like a truth waiting for permission.

I opened my eyes and glanced down at my palm. Nothing marked it—not really—but I could still feel it. The outline of the sigil, like a phantom trace beneath the skin, humming faintly like a bruise you only notice when pressure finds the right spot. I shouldn't have gone there. And yet, part of me wanted to go back. Not because I wasn't scared—I was—but because the fear was layered now. Complicated. Threaded with something electric and heavy and half-formed. Something calling.

I rose again, paced once. Then again. The room didn't feel like mine anymore. Not fully. It still smelled like coffee and warm fabric and the faint, clean scent of my aunt's laundry detergent clinging to the armchair across from me. But the walls felt too still, the air too thick. Like whatever had followed me home hadn't left.

I crossed to the side table where the framed photo still lay face-down. I hadn't righted it this morning. I hadn't even thought about it until now. My hand hovered over the edge, uncertain, then slowly turned it over. My mother. My father. A picture taken before I was born, before any of this.

They looked so young. My mother's smile wide and crooked like mine, my father's arm slung protectively around her shoulders. Behind them, trees stretched into the blur of the photo's edge. I'd never asked where it had been taken. Maybe I didn't want to know. I stared at their faces, wondering—just for a breath—if they'd ever felt something like this. If they'd ever stood at the edge of something ancient and unknowable and felt it look back.

Something surged behind my ribs then, uninvited. A heat. Familiar. Magnetic. I turned, fast. I didn't see anyone. I didn't hear a sound. But the air... it shifted. The way it had in the forest. The way it had in the garden. I walked to the table and sat down again, breath shallow, pulse syncing with the space between seconds. I reached out, slowly, and touched the edge of the sigil once more. The warmth was there immediately—deeper this time. Like the line between my skin and the page didn't exist anymore. Like something had crossed through it. My breath caught. My vision blurred. I wasn't in my kitchen anymore. Not really. The air around me thickened. The light flickered. And behind my eyes, something opened—something I'd kept closed for too long.

I saw trees. I saw stone. And I saw him. Standing in the clearing, half-shadowed. But different now. Closer. More real. His eyes met mine—and I felt it this time. Not imagined. Not symbolic. A tether. A pull so deep I didn't know if it came from me or from him. And this time, I heard his voice again. Only this time, he didn't say I shouldn't have come. He said, "You found me."

And then—darkness.

I woke without meaning to. Not to a sound or a shift in the air, not to the rustle of a door or a creak from the floorboards—but to a feeling. Like my body had sensed something before my mind could catch up, and it had pulled me out of sleep without asking permission. The room was dim, the edges cast in soft blue from the streetlamp outside, and for a second, I didn't move. Something felt... wrong. Not terrifying. Not loud. Just subtly off, like when you're halfway through a dream and suddenly know the outcome without being told. I pushed the blanket down slowly, my breath shallow, skin already prickling beneath the cotton of my shirt.

The clock on my nightstand read 3:11. Too early for birds. Too late for passing cars. And yet, I wasn't alone. I couldn't hear anyone—not exactly—but I felt it. The way I had in the woods, in the manor's shadow, when the trees fell still and the world waited for something to move first. I lay there, the silence pressing tight around me, and I listened. Nothing. But it was the wrong kind of nothing. A silence that held space for a sound that hadn't come yet. I sat up slowly, letting the sheets fall away from my legs, every motion deliberate. My hand found the edge of the bedframe, grounding me. There was no breeze coming through the window, no distant dog barking down the block. Even the house's usual nighttime noises—the hum of the fridge, the occasional shift of wood against temperature—had gone still.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, toes finding cool hardwood, and stood. Careful. Quiet. The hallway stretched ahead like it always did—narrow, lined with old photographs and half-faded light switches—but I didn't trust it. Not tonight. I crossed to the door, placed my fingers on the knob, and paused. There was a whisper of movement behind it. Not footsteps. Not breathing. But the distinct, low rustle of something brushing past wood. Like fabric. Or air. Or both. I turned the knob without letting it click and eased the door open. Nothing waited on the other side. Just darkness. But it wasn't empty. I stepped into the hall, barefoot, the floor beneath me too cold, too clean of sound. My breath stayed shallow. My heart did not.

Downstairs, the edge of something—energy, maybe, or presence—tugged like a thread wrapped around my ribs. I followed it. Not by logic, not by instinct, but because the pull was familiar now. I'd stopped denying it. The stairs didn't creak, not once, and I hated that more than if they had. In the kitchen, the notebook lay closed. Exactly where I'd left it.

But the back door? Unlocked. Cracked open. Letting in air that didn't belong to this world.

The door shouldn't have been open. I hadn't touched it. Not before bed, not all day. I reached for the handle without thinking, fingers curling slowly around the metal—cool but not cold. There was no breeze, no pressure against the door like wind or weather had shifted it. It had been opened deliberately. Gently. Almost respectfully. I pulled it open just enough to see the yard beyond, my heartbeat so loud in my ears it nearly drowned out the rest of the world.

The night was thick, darker than it should've been. The sky above was starless—just clouds, low and unmoving, like the town had been draped in smoke. The porch light flickered once. Then held steady. Then flickered again. I stepped out, one bare foot on the old wood slats, the grain cold beneath my toes. Nothing stirred. The grass in the yard lay flat, wet with dew. The fence stood undisturbed. But I still felt it. That sensation, crawling up the back of my neck. Like something was watching me. My eyes drifted to the edge of the tree line—only now, in the quiet, the trees didn't look like trees. They looked like silhouettes with breath. I didn't speak. I didn't call out. But whatever was there moved anyway.

At first it was just a shimmer, a twitch of darkness breaking from the rest. Then it stepped forward—or maybe just shifted enough to make itself known. No figure. No face. Just presence, like the air had thickened into a shape. And still... it didn't cross the line into the yard. It stayed just beyond. Like it couldn't come closer. Or wouldn't.

Something warm brushed the inside of my palm. I looked down sharply. Nothing touched me—but the sensation pulsed there, low and steady. The sigil. My fingers moved before I could stop them, tracing the invisible imprint burned into my skin like it had returned just to remind me that it existed—that he existed.

I took one step back. And that was when the thing in the woods flinched. A rush of air swept past my shoulder, too fast, too sharp. And suddenly, the dark shape at the edge of the trees recoiled. Not with fear. With recognition. It slipped back—into the shadows, into the stillness—as if it had never been there at all. And when I turned around, heart pounding so hard I could taste it—I wasn't alone. A voice, low and sharp, cut through the quiet:

"You left the door open."

He stood just inside the doorway, framed by the dim light of the porch behind him, the outline of his coat dark against the quiet hum of the night. I didn't see him arrive. He didn't call my name or knock or make a sound. One moment, I was standing there with the taste of fear still drying out my mouth—and the next, he was simply there.

"I locked that door," I said. My voice wasn't steady. It wasn't broken, either. It hovered somewhere between the two.

Harry didn't answer right away. He glanced at the doorknob, then back to me, like the lock had never mattered. His eyes were different tonight—no less intense, but dimmed somehow. Like whatever had sent him here had cost him more than just time.

"You left the window cracked," he said finally, low and rough. "That's how it got in."

My spine stiffened. "What got in?"

But again, he didn't give me an answer. He stayed in the threshold—one step beyond it, no closer. As if something about the house itself kept him at bay, or maybe it was him keeping himself there. His gaze swept the room once, then landed on me like he already knew the answer to every question I hadn't asked yet.

"You felt it," he said.

I didn't deny it. "It was watching me."

"It was waiting for you."

A chill crawled up my arms despite the warmth still clinging to my skin from whatever had pulsed through the sigil hours ago. "Why?" Harry's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. "No more riddles," I said. "No more half-answers. What is this? What do they want with me?"

He looked down for a moment, eyes shadowed by the weight he didn't know how to give me. "It's not the first time they've come looking," he said, voice quieter now. "They never used to get this close."

My throat felt tight. "Then why now?"

His eyes flicked back up, and something in them cracked open. Just a little.

"Because you're starting to remember."

I didn't know what that meant. Not really. But I felt the weight of it all the same. It landed between us like a second presence—unseen, but heavy enough to shift the air.

"I don't remember anything."

"You do. Just not in ways you recognize yet." A pause. "Dreams. Patterns. Things that don't make sense until they do."

I swallowed hard, my hands curling into the fabric of my sleeves. "Is this about the mark? The sigil?"

"It's part of it."

I wanted to demand more. I wanted to scream, to shake the truth out of him with my fists and not my words, because he knew. He knew exactly what this was, and he was choosing—deliberately—not to explain it. But when I took a step forward, intending to close the space between us, he stepped back. Not quickly. Not with fear. With care. Like he was afraid if he came too close, something would break.

"You shouldn't be near me," he said softly.

"Then why are you here?"

He hesitated. "Because I felt you call." That silenced me.

My mouth opened. Closed again. "I didn't—"

"Not with words." His voice was quiet. "But I felt it. I always do."

The air thinned. Every noise in the night faded into that space between us, stretched too tight to hold anything else. And then, just when I thought he might turn away again, might disappear like smoke into the dark—

"If anything comes back before I do," he said, eyes locked to mine, "don't open the door."

My breath caught. "Why would I—"

He cut me off, just with the look. His voice dropped lower. Darker. "Even if it looks like me."

I didn't ask what he meant. I didn't need to. Because the weight in his voice wasn't metaphor. It wasn't warning. It was memory. And by the time I blinked, he was gone. The night held its breath around me again. But it was different this time. It didn't feel like I was being watched. It felt like I was being waited on.

And the sigil on my hand? Still warm.

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk1990 @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

[winxanity-ii]

Had a dream where Nanami has cold hands and Reader has warm hands. So Nanami likes to hold Reader’s hands a lot.

“Your hands are warm...” he said softly, he had a really soft look on his face, maybe longing?

“You’re hands are so cold!” I say in shock as I try to warm up one of his hands.

hehehe, hope you enjoy it.. ❤️

ICE TO THE TOUCH

ship: nanami x fem!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 2.6k A/N: just a cute lil one-shot that was requested...

★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The sky outside your apartment was a canvas of dark greys, heavy clouds rolling lazily across the city skyline.

The rain had been relentless since the early hours of the morning, painting the world in a muted palette of blues and silvers. You sat perched on the windowsill, fingers wrapped around a warm mug of tea, your breath fogging up the glass as you watched the storm rage on.

The city seemed quieter like this, blanketed under the weight of the downpour. The sound of rain pattering against the window was comforting—a rhythmic lullaby that made the world beyond the glass feel distant, almost unreal.

You shifted slightly, the oversized sweater draped over your frame shifting with you; it was so large that it nearly swallowed you whole.

The sleeves slipped past your hands, the hem brushing against your knees as you absentmindedly pushed the fabric up for the umpteenth time, your fingertips peeking out just enough to cradle the warm mug.

It was late, the kind of late where the day still clung stubbornly to the edges of dusk, refusing to let go. The city lights were muted under the grey veil of clouds, and for a moment, everything felt still.

Peaceful.

You took another sip of your tea, the warmth spreading through you as your gaze drifted to the dark clouds above.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn't hear the keys jingling until the front door creaked open. A familiar hulking figure shuffled inside, letting out a tired groan that made your lips curve into a smile.

You turned slightly, glancing over your shoulder.

"Rough day at work?" you teased softly, the corners of your mouth lifting as you watched your fiancé struggle to kick off his shoes without collapsing from exhaustion.

Nanami Kento, still in his slightly rumpled suit, grumbled something incoherent under his breath, his voice low and gravelly from hours of strain. He tossed his jacket over the back of the couch and set his briefcase down with a heavy sigh. "Dumbass Gojo," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I swear... He's going to be the death of me."

You chuckled softly, turning back to look out at the rain as Kento shuffled over to the couch, slumping down with another groan. His usual sharp demeanor was completely undone, replaced by a rare vulnerability as he rubbed a hand over his face.

The sight made your heart ache a little.

You knew how much he cared and how seriously he took his work. But sometimes, it took a toll on him.

Setting your mug down on the windowsill, you slipped off your perch and padded over to him, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor.

The sweater hung loosely around your frame, the sleeves slipping past your hands again as you reached out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

"Want me to make you some tea?" you offered, your voice soft, the smile on your lips gentle as you looked down at him.

Kento cracked one eye open, his gaze softening when he saw you standing there, the light from the window casting a soft halo around you. "That would be nice," he murmured, his hand reaching out to take yours, his fingers cold against your warm skin. He squeezed your hand gently, the touch lingering.

You nodded, giving his hand a gentle squeeze in return before slipping away to the kitchen. You could feel his eyes on you, the warmth of his gaze lingering long after you'd turned away.

As you busied yourself with the kettle, you could hear him shifting on the couch, the soft rustle of fabric, and the quiet sigh that followed as he stretched out. You glanced over your shoulder, watching as he finally relaxed, the tension melting away from his broad shoulders as he let his head fall back against the cushions.

It wasn't long before you returned, a steaming cup of tea in your hands. Kento's eyes were closed, his breathing slow and steady, but he stirred as you approached, his fingers reaching out instinctively for yours.

You set the tea down on the coffee table, leaning down to give him a small kiss before padding back over to your little spot.

It wasn't long before Kento joined you by the windowsill, his large frame blocking out the wanning light as he leaned down. Without warning, he slid his arms under your knees and back, scooping you up effortlessly as he maneuvered himself into your spot.

You let out a surprised shriek, dissolving into giggles as he shifted you around like you were nothing more than a cozy blanket.

His movements were deliberate, making sure you were positioned just right on his lap, your legs draped over his thighs and your back nestled against his broad chest.

"Kenni!" you squealed, your laughter filling the room as he settled in with a satisfied sigh. His large hands splayed across your thighs, pulling you closer against him, and you could feel the warmth of his body seeping into yours.

"Much better," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple before resting his chin on top of your head, his arms wrapping around you securely.

You snuggled into him, your head tucked under his chin as your fingers traced idle patterns on his chest. His hands rubbed soothingly along your spine, the pads of his fingers tapping rhythmically against your lower back.

It was a simple gesture, but it made your heart flutter all the same.

A peaceful silence settled over you both, the only sound being the soft patter of rain against the window and the distant hum of city life settling down outside.

You closed your eyes, content to simply bask in his presence, your earlier thoughts and worries slipping away like the rainwater trailing down the glass.

Kento was the first to break the silence, his voice a gentle murmur in your ear. "How was your day, love?"

You sighed softly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you shifted slightly in his lap, your cheek resting against his chest. "Well, the weather canceled half of my classes, so I had a lot more free time than I expected."

Kento hummed in acknowledgment, his hands stilling for a moment before resuming their gentle caress along your spine. "Did you use it to catch up on anything?"

You nodded, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt as you continued. "Yeah, actually. I finally had the chance to catch up on all that internet drama and conspiracy theories I’ve been neglecting." You chuckled, your voice light with amusement as you recalled the absurdity of it all. "You wouldn't believe some of the things people were talking about back in 2017-2019. It’s like a treasure trove of weird, forgotten nonsense."

Kento's chest rumbled with a soft laugh, his fingers tapping idly against your thigh. "Oh really? Like what?"

"Well," you began, shifting slightly to look up at him, "there was this whole thing about a supposed secret Hollywood cult that's been manipulating the media for decades." You rolled your eyes at the absurdity of it, your smile widening as Kento raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

"Hollywood cult?" he repeated, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "People actually believe that?"

"Oh, it gets better," you said, your voice brimming with enthusiasm as you launched into the details, recounting the bizarre theories that people had pieced together from cryptic tweets and red carpet photos.

You told him about the strange coincidences, the rumored secret meetings, and the internet sleuths who had dedicated countless hours to unraveling the supposed conspiracy.

Kento listened with a soft smile, occasionally humming in response or asking for clarification when you mentioned some obscure celebrity or internet figure he wasn't familiar with. You couldn't help but giggle at his confusion whenever you brought up a particularly ridiculous theory.

Halfway through your mini-ramble, your words died in your throat, replaced by a sudden shriek as Kento's hands slid up under the hem of your sweater. His fingers, ice-cold against your warm skin, brushed teasingly across your upper thighs and stomach.

You squirmed in his lap, your breath hitching as you tried to twist out of his hold. "K-Kenni!" you whined, your voice a breathless plea as you wriggled against him, only managing to press yourself closer. "Your hands are cold!"

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rumbling in his chest as he tightened his hold on you, his hands stubbornly remaining beneath your sweater.

You finally managed to twist around enough to face him, your eyes locking with his as you pouted up at him, a mix of exasperation and affection dancing in your gaze.

Up close, you could see the weariness etched across his features.

The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced, a testament to the sleepless nights and long hours he'd been putting in at work. His usually neat blond hair was in disarray, a few strands falling messily across his forehead, giving him a boyish charm that tugged at your heart.

Kento's lips twitched into a soft smile as he looked down at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that familiar way that made your heart flutter. "Can't help it when you're so warm," he muttered, his voice low and slightly hoarse as he squeezed your waist, his thumbs brushing against your skin.

You let out another burst of giggles, your head falling back against his shoulder as you tried to squirm away from his ticklish touch. "Stop!" you protested weakly, your laughter filling the small apartment as you managed to free your hands, reaching up to cradle his face.

He immediately leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he hummed softly, the tension in his shoulders melting away. Your fingers traced the lines of his face gently, brushing over the small stubble on his jaw and the tired lines beneath his eyes. "You really should rest, you know," you murmured, your voice soft with concern as your thumb swept across his cheekbone.

Kento sighed, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, the warmth in his gaze making your heart skip a beat. "I know... I've been working non-stop all day in the cold rain," he replied, his voice still tinged with exhaustion. "But coming home to you has to be my favorite part of it all..." He took your hands in his, raising them to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're always so warm."

Heat spread across your cheeks at his words, your heart swelling with affection as you smiled up at him. "That's because I stay inside like a normal person," you teased lightly, earning a soft chuckle from him as his hands squeezed yours gently.

"Maybe I should start staying inside more often," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your lips.

"Fine, I guess I'll be your personal heater then," you teased, your voice barely above a whisper as you brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, watching as his eyes darkened slightly, the warmth in his gaze making your stomach flutter.

Kento's lips curved into a small smile as he leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a soft hum of contentment. "I'd like that," he murmured, his voice low and intimate as he nuzzled his nose against your palm, his breath ghosting over your skin.

You felt your heart melt at the sight of him so relaxed, his usually stern features softened by the tender affection in his eyes. "You're too sweet, you know that?" you whispered as you cupped his face, your fingers threading through his hair.

He let out a soft laugh, his hands slipping back under your sweater to rest against your hips, his thumbs tracing gentle circles against your skin. "Only for you..." he muttered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that made your heart skip a beat.

You sighed softly against his mouth, your hands slipping down to his shoulders as you melted into the kiss, the warmth of his body seeping into yours.

Just as Kento's hands began to trail up your back, his touch sending sparks of warmth through your veins, a sudden blaring sound shattered the peaceful silence.

You both froze, your lips still inches apart as his phone continued to ring obnoxiously from the pocket of his discarded jacket.

Kento groaned, his head falling back against the couch with a heavy sigh. "I swear, if it's Gojo..." he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching slightly as he reached over to grab his phone.

You bit back a smile, your fingers brushing against his as he pulled the device out of his pocket, his expression a mix of annoyance and resignation. He glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly before he answered the call with a curt, "Hello, Nanami speaking."

You barely had time to cover your mouth to stifle your laughter as a loud, exaggerated whine echoed from the other end of the line.

"Nami~ I can't believe you really stood me up to go home to your fiancée!" Gojo's voice was a dramatic drawl, and you could practically see the pout on his face through the phone. "I thought we were besties!"

Kento's brow twitched in irritation, his jaw tightening as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gojo, it's seven in the evening," he said slowly, his voice laced with barely concealed frustration. "And I just got home from a thirteen-hour shift."

"But Nami! You promised we'd get ramen together after work! You even said you'd pay!"

You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped, your eyes sparkling with amusement as Kento shot you a look, his lips twitching as he tried to suppress a smile.

"I never promised a damn thing," he replied flatly, his fingers rubbing small circles against your waist as he spoke. "And I'm not going to pay for your ridiculous eating habits."

"But Nami—"

"Goodbye, Gojo." Kento hung up mid-sentence, his thumb tapping the screen with a finality that made you burst into laughter, your head falling against his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

Kento sighed, his eyes closing as he leaned his head back against the couch. "I don't know how you put up with me," he muttered, his lips twitching into a small, tired smile as he looked down at you, his eyes soft with affection.

You grinned, reaching up to cup his cheek as you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw. "It's not that hard when you're this cute," you teased, your voice light and playful as you nuzzled against his neck.

Kento chuckled softly, his hands slipping up to cradle your face as he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that made your heart flutter.

"Thank you," he murmured against your lips, his voice barely a whisper as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. "For being here. For putting up with me."

Your heart swelled at his words, your fingers tracing the lines of his face as you smiled up at him, your eyes shining with love. "Always, Kento," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned up to capture his lips in another kiss. "Always."

A/N: y'all ignore anything that doesn't make sense, tbh i'm just like kento with icy hands so it was hard asf to imagine what it feels like to be the heater 😔what started out as a small 1k fic turned to 2.5k 😩 sorry just was lost in the delusions of having a man...also, whoever sent this ask, thank you 😭 this was so theraputic/beautiful to write i just had take some time to fully write out this daydream your ask sparked. ❤️