#it's exaggerated but it gets the point across

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

five | chapter list

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

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

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay," you say. 

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

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

It is not an easy balance to strike. 

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

"Can we go home now?" you ask. 

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

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

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

"An event," Sirius corrects. 

"Are you hungry?" James asks. 

"Why, does Genovia have McDonald's?"

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

"I don't want McDonald's," you say. 

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

"It's my job, really," Sirius says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hates the sudden fear in your voice. 

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

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

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

"Am I in danger?" you ask.

"No," James says firmly.

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

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

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

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

"Are you okay?"

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

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

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

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

"I'm fine, James."

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

"Fine," you say. 

—

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

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

“What?” 

“James isn’t angry.” 

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

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

“Sorry.” 

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

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

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

“They’re nice biscuits.” 

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

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

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

A little nibble of jealousy blossoms in your chest. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course she is.” 

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

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

“Get your own.” 

“Nice flight?” you ask James. 

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

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

“I can’t wait to go home.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s ridiculous,” Remus says. 

“Or something stylish, then. A Benz.” 

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

Sirius wrinkles his nose. “Too right.” 

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

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

“Why?” 

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

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

“You don’t have to–”

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

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

—

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

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

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

“You owed me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And company! Sirius called. 

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

“You’re busy,” you say sympathetically. 

Sirius snorts. “This is your planner, babe.” 

“My what?” 

“I’m trying to fit driving lessons around your classes. They’re quite random, aren’t they?” He lifts his gaze to meet your confusion. “James wants you to learn.” 

“Well, I haven’t asked her yet, mate,” James says. 

Sirius shrugs. “If I’m going to work it out, I need to do it now before bed.” 

“What about my shifts?” you ask. 

Sirius tilts his head ever so slightly to one side. “You still want to work?” 

You remember the shock of the inheritance all over again. Weird to think a lump sum will have cleared in your bank account before you got home, the accruement of years spent unaware of your heritage. It will be strange to quit The Morgan —you know so many of the regulars, and you’ve spent the last two years living off of that paycheck— but the idea is a sudden warm blanket. 

“I can quit?” you ask. 

“Sure,” Sirius says. “If you want. You don’t have to worry about it anymore. That’s not to say you can’t work, but I can’t imagine you’ll spend what you have soon…” 

You smile to yourself, guilty and so, so relieved. “You wouldn’t believe how horrible my manager is. I don’t want to be spoiled–”

All three boys roll their eyes. It’s unnerving. “It’s not spoiled,” Remus says. 

“It makes my life easier,” James says. “Besides, the Royal Family might demand it.” 

“Mm, it’ll look bad if the heir keeps her pub job,” Sirius says. He scratches out a last corner of the page. “Alright, darling, listen up. You can fit in two hours of driving a day, three times a week, is that gonna be something you can do? In about two months you should have your forty five hours of practice. We can study theory twice a week. If it’s too intense we can slow down, there’s no rush, really, just James–”

“Doesn’t like the bus,” you say. 

“Hates public transport,” Sirius agrees. 

“It’s good for the environment,” James speaks up, leaning further and further toward the arm, sinking into your battered throw cushions, “bad for princesses.” 

That awful p-word. 

“Alright. That sounds perfect, Sirius. Thank you for working it all out.” 

“You’re very welcome. You might not like me so much when you see how many hours I’ve given Remus.” 

You put your hands between your legs. “Oh, do I still have to do all that? Even if I’m not going to...”

“Become the crown princess of Genovia and rule the country?” Remus asks. “Yes, you still have to do all that. If only the basics.” 

“But why?” 

“‘Cos I said so,” Remus quips, leaning forward as Sirius leans back, a scarred hand falling naturally against his sharp shoulder. 

“Ooh, you’re in trouble now, Princess,” James says. “An angry Remus is formidable.” 

“I’m not angry.” Remus reaches over Sirius for a grape, his nose brushing black hair. 

Sirius softens from the brush of touch alone. It is an intense thing to see, not private but intimate nonetheless. They must be seeing, you decide, curling tighter again in the armchair and craving another box of biscuits. For the first time since the funeral, you aren’t feeling off centre. You just feel like you, home again, an itch to sketch in your hands battered down by fatigue. It’s been such a long day, yet you stay your leave. 

“Scratch my hair?” Sirius asks. 

Remus hums. “No, thank you.” 

“Oh, please, Remus. Just scratch it, don’t be selfish.” 

“He’s a sponge for it,” James tells you. “Couldn’t be touched when we met him, mind, but now he won’t leave you alone once you’ve said yes. If he asks you to draw shapes on his arm, save yourself and say no.” 

You wouldn’t mind, you don’t think. Sirius sees it on your face and grins. 

James decides to appease Sirius while Remus refuses and ushers him his way. He runs a big hand through Sirius' hair, fingers combing to the ends, and then he goes up the back of his neck, where he begins to scratch long circles. “That’s better,” Sirius says, falling back against James’ leg. “I always thought I should be a prince, you know. I like the royal treatment.” 

“Didn’t get much royal treatment as a lord, did you?” Remus asks. 

“You’re a lord?” you ask. 

“I could’ve been. I was the heir,” Sirius says, tone taking on a dripping disdainfulness that seems tired of real emotion. 

“Lord of the most Noble House of Black,” James says. “Only he ditched them. Quite dramatically.” 

“Thank goodness,” Remus says. 

Sirius looks at you again. Both exhausted and unaffected, like the deepest pain has passed. You can see the weariness of someone who’s spent days at a long dinner table, though now he sits slouched and cared for against your ratty sofa, and it suits him more. “My family is traditional, and I’m less so. I could never have lived the life I was supposed to. It probably would have killed me. So I left, and I was lucky enough to be taken care of by another oh so noble family.” 

“The Potter’s aren’t noble,” James says quickly. “I’m not a lord or heir or anything.” 

“Well, you are heir of the Potter name and riches and all,” Remus says, taking Sirius’ plate of snacks into his lap. He folds a thick piece of the bread and butter and offers it to Sirius before eating the last one. 

“Yes…” James gives Remus a pointed look, which Remus ignores. “But it’s not like the Black family. You might actually meet them, one day.” 

“Pray not,” Sirius says to himself. 

“Hmm. The Potter’s are an older family too, but not like the Black’s. The Black’s have deep Genovian roots, my family are–” James’ cheeks take colour. “Rich, yes. Very rich.” 

“But you work,” you say. 

“I think I’d go mad if I couldn’t.” He must spot the look of guilt you fail to thwart. “But it’s different. To grow up completely looked after, I’ve never had to do anything I didn’t want to do.” 

“That’s not what I’ve been led to believe,” Remus cuts in, laughing, meeting James’ eyes, “all that homework you needed my help with, you did that willingly?” 

You laugh at James’ faked annoyance and their matching chuckles. Time that night seems to slip away, and it’s well past midnight when you fall asleep, still curled in your chair. 

In the morning, you wake up in bed. 

You pull a pillow over your face, cold underside to your boiling skin. How did I get here? you ask yourself, terrified of the answer. 

—

Honestly, your flat isn’t the nicest. It’s clean as you can manage, but there’s damp in the bathroom and it’s rather squashed. James finds himself squinting in disgust at the door at the front of the building which still doesn’t open properly (and so can be jimmied) despite his annoyed email to the landlord where he���d cited a few chosen laws and threatened to withhold the rent, though he supposes it had no weight because James isn’t the one paying it. Still, he can’t deal with this. He has to convince you to move. A gated community might be a shout; he’d worry less if you lived among the rich and their security cameras. 

But he doesn’t suppose the best course of action here is to displace you again. You like your flat, he thinks, hadn’t you told him before that you liked the quiet? Or was it the noise? It’s not like London has a reputation for peace. He’s still not sure how you ended up living in central London: he commits to ask. 

James isn’t going to give up on you. He wants you to be princess, The Princess, he wants you to take your place as Queen of Genovia one day. Not because you’re the only one who can stop fucking Baron Riddle from ruling Genovia as a tyrant bastard, but because it’s your birthright. You run from something that could be so special to stay here, alone and lonely. He knows it’s harsh to think of it that way, and yet he does. And, selfishly, he wants to stay with his friends. He wants to be your friend. If the Riddle family control Genovia he can say goodbye to his job, and he can say goodbye to the life he’s made. He could make another one, of course, but he has a feeling about you. 

He takes the stairs past the huge discarded mattress and a floor covered in mail to your flat. The door is propped open which he hates, but Mikkelson is inside, sitting at the kitchen table with you, drinking a polite cup of tea. Sirius leans up against a counter with his own.  

“Good morning,” James says. 

You’re wearing jogging bottoms, socks, and a t-shirt with a charcoal smudge on the neck. It has short, short sleeves, showcasing the lengths of your arms. James is only a boy, following the curve of one down to your hand. 

You glance at your arm, then him. “Good morning?” 

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks to save himself. 

“It’s warm out?” you say, peering around Mickey to check the sunshine coming from the window. “It’s warm in here, at least.” 

“Mickey, are you ready?” James asks. 

Mickey thanks you for the tea and leaves, tired in the eyes. James slaps him on the shoulder as he goes. 

Sirius stretches backwards. When he rises up, he fixes James with a cool look. “Jamie, I’ve just heard from our royal sweetness that you’ve been calling me her stylist.” 

You flinch. “Uh–”

“Well,” James says, grinning as he settles against the doorframe, “it is how Lily introduced you.“

“Ah, yes, Lily Evans. Longtime frenemy. I expected it from her. I didn’t realise you were driving the narrative home in my absence.”

“Sirius, you do style her, you realise.” 

“I’m a media coach!” Sirius sniffs. “And a gentleman in waiting, for the time being.” 

“You’re more than a coach,” James says. 

“Yes, well. I’m not a stylist. At least, that’s not my first priority. I’m miffed with you now, so steer clear of me.” Sirius says, ferrying back to the living room. 

James hears the clunk of his modest briefcase being opened. You start to apologise, but he shakes his head with a grin. “Please ignore him, he’s kidding.” He traces the side of your face in the light. “Your bruise is almost gone.” 

Your fingers flit to your cheek and the well of your eye. “Yeah. Yeah, it's only sore now.”

“Little yellow in the crease.” Hard to see if you’re not really looking.  

“It feels like it was a really long time ago,” you say, standing from your chair with a wobble. 

“You alright?” he asks. 

You make for the kettle, flicking it on. “Fine. Tea, coffee?” 

“Sure, I’ll have some tea. What’s Sirius doing up so early?” 

“He didn’t say yet.” 

You take a mug from the cupboard printed in autumn leaves. James hears a rough sound and turns to the living room on instinct, hard pressed to hold in a laugh as he watches Sirius right your knocked coffee table. James had taken Remus back to the accommodation last night while Sirius insisted he’d stay. It’s not nice to be alone, he’d said simply. When James turns back to the kitchen, you’ve placed a tea bag and a teaspoon in the mug, jug of milk waiting, jar of brown sugar cracked. “It’s gone solid,” you warn, “there’s nothing wrong with it though, I promise.” 

“I only have a little. Here, I can do it. Have you eaten?” 

“Yeah, we had toast. Did you?” 

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. 

James has said goodbye to professionalism. Not safety, not doing his job, but if what you need to be the crown princess is a friend, James will be your friend. He can do that easily. It feels a little odd after fighting it for the time you spent in Genovia, but he’s done with pretending you’re not cutesy. 

“What are you going to do today?” he asks, coming up behind you, close enough to see the dark pupil of your eye and the white of the kitchen light against it.

“Um, well, Sirius is going to help me tender my resignation at the bar, and then I guess I have a driving lesson? I should probably try to catch up on my assignments, or. I don’t know, maybe I’ll drop out.” Your eyes widen slightly. “Not because I want to do nothing. I just– I can– can try again. A fresh start at a proper university.” 

James holds the top of your arm. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to decide anything today. I’m sure you can take a sabbatical for your current term, Sirius can help you sort that out, just until you decide. Or you could drop out tonight and think about it all later. You have time. I didn’t think for a second it was because you want to do nothing, and even if I did, that’s not bad either.” His thumb crests a small circle, pushing up the line of your sleeve. 

Your lips part for a moment before you answer, as though practising. “Thank you, James.” 

“I haven’t done anything.” 

“I bet you don’t think so.” 

James pats your shoulder gently, then reaches for the kettle as it flicks off, boiled. “Can I suggest an addendum to your calendar?” 

“Sure.”

“I was thinking you could try another counselling session.” 

You blink, stopped with a tea bag in hand. “Why?” 

“The first one went well, didn’t it?” 

“But I’m home now.” 

“That doesn’t erase the last week.” Nearly two now, since you found out.

You push your mug toward his and he fills it with hot water. He follows suit and adds his own milk, stirring it together quickly. His spoon on the sides is a biting clink, clink, clink. 

“Things have felt a bit staccato, haven’t they?” he asks. 

You nod, toying with the handle of your mug. 

“It would be nice for you to have something constant. Some stability. And we can arrange for you to have private care here, you know.”

“I have stability,” you argue unsurely. “You and Remus and Sirius, and Frank, too. Is he coming back?” 

“Frank’s having some time off with his partner, but he’ll be here soon.” He laughs, pushing the body of his teabag against the side of his mug, the brown of the tea seeping into the milk in a wave. “I don’t think you can get rid of me, however hard you wanna try.” 

“I wasn’t trying to get rid of you.”

James looks up. He catches your eye. Again, the dark of your pupil shines and shakes, not sure where to look, but your lip stays in a firm line like you’ve been chastened. He remembers flicking you under the chin the last time you’d looked at him like that. He could do it again, but he fears Sirius’ judgement. “I know,” he says, voice soft with his low volume. “I’m teasing.” 

“Would you not?” you ask. 

“So spritely today! Alright, is your tea done? Let’s go sit in the living room and make a list.” 

“A list?” 

“Of things you want to do,” he says, scooping the tea bag from his mug. 

“I don’t know what I want to do.” You take his spoon to remove your tea bag. 

You chuck it in the sink, pulling your mug to your chest. You don’t sound happy about making the list, but you follow him obligingly to the living room where Sirius is brushing his hair from his face, a list of his own coming to life on his knee. 

“Not more duties for me?” you ask tentatively. 

Sirius makes grabbing hands for James’ mug. James, with a sigh, lets him have it. Sirius takes a glutinous sip and doesn’t offer it back. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t clear up your job status when talking to the Princess, Pads. Can we ever be friends again?” James says in defeat. 

“I’ll think about it,” Sirius says, not bothering to meet James’ eyes. “And to answer your question, your sweetness, it’s not for you, don’t worry. I’m trying to make sure Remus’ medical information is being properly swapped over. It’s…” Sirius takes another sip of tea and then thankfully passes it back. “A headache. Doctors.” 

“Does Remus know you’re doing that?” James asks, sitting on the empty sofa. You take the seat beside him. 

“Not yet. It’s not– not like it’s not part of my job. He works for the princess, I work for the princess, I might as well make sure he’s tip top shape to do that.” Sirius gets that look James recognises for not wanting to talk about the thing he’s talking about anymore, his eyes lighting up predictably. “What’s on your agenda today?” 

“I suppose we’ll be taking the Princess to the shops at some point. You needed some bits?” he asks. 

You noticeably fluster but don’t answer. 

“And then after that I’ll be taking her for her first driving lesson.” 

Your jaw drops. “Wait, you're teaching me?” 

“Well, just to begin with,” James says. He squints at you. “I’m a good driver, I’ll have you know.” 

Sirius rolls his eyes. 

“I am! And besides, who do I trust more than me? And you trust me, don’t you?” he asks you.

You cross your arm over your chest. “Yeah, ‘course.” 

James’ grin is evident in his tone. “Good. Because after that we’ll be endeavouring into the land of self-defence.” 

“What?” 

“With a safety mat, don’t worry.” 

You nibble your bottom lip. “Well, I wasn’t until you said that.” 

[capquinn]

Dad quinn with jack and luke having a tea party with his daughter and her dolls and she makes them dress up

The living room was chaos, but the good kind. The kind that came from his three-year-old daughter holding court in the middle of her very serious tea party, complete with a floral blanket as a tablecloth and a tiny ceramic tea set she insisted on arranging herself.

Quinn sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing a glittery plastic tiara that he’d forgotten about five minutes in. It was second nature by now — dressing up, playing along, doing whatever made her smile.

Across from Quinn, Luke was in his element, completely at ease in the whirlwind of pretend tea and glittering accessories. His niece was perched on his lap, her tiny hands carefully tipping the toy teapot toward a ceramic cup he held with exaggerated precision. The pink feather boa draped around his neck kept slipping off one shoulder, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he leaned into the ridiculousness of it, readjusting it dramatically like it was part of some royal decree. Every flourish, every goofy movement was aimed at one thing: making her laugh.

And it worked.

She leaned against his chest, giggling so hard she nearly tipped the teapot too far. Her tiny fingers clutched the handle as she steadied herself, her cheeks flushed from laughter. 

“Uncle Lukey!” she squealed, her voice full of joy. “You’re spilling it!”

Luke gasped as if he’d committed the gravest of sins. 

“Oh no!” he said, sitting up straighter and clutching the cup like it held liquid gold. “Quick, pour me more so no one notices!”

She threw her head back in a fresh wave of giggles, her whole body shaking against him. Still grinning, Luke reached out to steady her little wrist as she tilted the teapot with a seriousness that belied the fact it was empty.

“Perfect,” he said as she finished, his tone so genuine it could have been mistaken for awe. “You’re a natural. The Queen of Tea Parties.”

Her laughter bubbled up again, spilling into the room as she beamed at him. Luke’s grin only widened, the softness in his gaze unmistakable as he looked at her. He had a knack for this — for making her feel like she was the most important person in the room, for meeting her imagination with an endless well of his own. She adored him, and the feeling was mutual, clear in every playful quip and dramatic gesture.

She turned the teapot upright with a decisive nod, then leaned back against his chest, sighing contentedly. 

“You’re silly,” she declared, her voice full of the kind of affection only a three-year-old could manage.

Luke chuckled, tapping her nose lightly. “Only for you, kiddo.”

Quinn felt a warmth settle in his chest as he watched them. Moments like this didn’t come often enough, not with the way their lives constantly pulled them in different directions. But seeing Luke lean so completely into her little world, his every exaggerated move drawing out her laughter, made Quinn pause. It was simple, but it meant everything.

Meanwhile, Jack lounged nearby, his legs stretched out in front of him, a toy teacup balanced precariously on his knee. The sequinned cowboy hat his niece had insisted he wear sat slightly askew on his head, and every few minutes, he’d reach up to adjust it with an exaggerated flourish, earning a giggle from her each time.

“Do I get any of this famous tea,” he drawled, leaning back on his elbows, “or is Lukey keeping it all for himself?”

Now standing beside the table with her tiny teapot, she paused to give him a pointed look, one hand on her hip. “Uncle Jack,” she said seriously, though the sparkle in her eyes gave her away, “you have to ask nicely.”

Jack gasped, sitting up straight.

“Oh, excuse me, Your Royal Highness,” he said, bowing his head deeply and holding out his teacup with dramatic flair. “May I please have a cup of the finest tea in the land?”

She beamed, clearly delighted, and wiggled off Luke’s lap to pour him a fresh cup. 

“You’re lucky I made extra,” she teased, the way he always did, her little voice full of pride.

Jack accepted it with a grin, bowing his head slightly in mock grandeur. 

“Why, thank you, m’lady,” he said, taking an exaggerated sip before smacking his lips. “Best tea I’ve ever had. Five stars. Nope! Ten stars.”

She giggled, covering her mouth with her tiny hand as she bounced on her toes. “Ten stars?”

“Easily,” Jack replied, settling back into his seat. “Lukey’s tea doesn’t even come close. You’re the pro.”

Her eyes lit up, and she leaned in, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “Uncle Lukey doesn’t put magic in it.”

Jack let out a warm laugh, low and genuine, reaching out to pull her in for a quick hug. 

“Well, that explains it,” he said, his tone conspiratorial. “No wonder your tea’s the best.”

Her giggles bubbled up even more, and she pressed her forehead against his shoulder for a moment, basking in the playfulness of it all. Jack’s teasing smirk softened as he glanced down at her, the fondness in his expression unmistakable. 

“You’re the best, you know that?” He ruffled her hair gently, his tone quiet but full of affection. 

Her face lit up even brighter at his words, her teapot clutched tightly in her small hands. 

Quinn’s lips tugged into a smile, his heart swelling at the sight of his brothers playing along so easily, so naturally. This wasn’t a rare thing — his brothers adored her — but it wasn’t often they were all together like this. The laughter, the goofy costumes, the tiny teacups… It was exactly what he hoped she’d remember when she grew up. Not the big things, but this: the love that filled a room when she brought everyone together.

“Daddy, you didn’t drink your tea,” her little voice piped up, breaking through his thoughts. 

She stood in front of him, her tiny frame impossibly determined as she held out a fresh cup, the seriousness in her expression almost making him laugh.Quinn smiled, reaching out to take the cup. 

“Oh no, Bug, I can’t believe I forgot,” he said, his voice soft and playful as he brought the tiny cup to his lips, pretending to sip. He made a quiet, exaggerated sound of satisfaction. “Mmm, perfect. You’re the best tea-maker in the whole wide world.”

Her serious expression melted away into a bright smile, and before he could say another word, she leaned in, wrapping one arm around his shoulder in that shy, affectionate way little kids do when they’re basking in a compliment. Her cheek pressed to his temple as her fingers brushed the back of his neck.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she murmured, her voice small and sweet, and Quinn felt his chest tighten in the best way.

He turned his head just enough to press a kiss to the top of her head, his hand gently steadying the tiny arm she had draped around his neck. 

“Love you, Buggy,” he murmured, the words soft but carrying a weight of tenderness that he knew she couldn’t fully understand yet, though someday she would.

She giggled, that sweet, unfiltered sound that always tugged at his heart, and pulled back slightly to meet his gaze. Her wide eyes shone with delight before she spun around, skipping off to Luke’s lap with all the confidence in the world, her little crown wobbling precariously with each bounce.

He leaned back slightly, letting the moment wash over him. Luke was helping her fix a doll’s hat now, while Jack balanced the tiny teacup on the tip of his finger. His daughter’s giggles bubbled up again, spilling through the room like sunshine, and Quinn thought to himself — not for the first time — how lucky he was.

[faorism]

im feeling real the call is coming from within the house vibes rn, so im going to be kinda nasty for a hot minute because you actually were the reason i came across this post in the first place. my friend and i were so aghast at your racializations of hardison in a fic, that they had to see who the fuck you are. and your own ignorance highlights why this response is kinda bullshit.

incorporating race is absolutely something that fandom needs to be better about doing. absolutely. but up your attempts at doing so show how stomach churning poor follow through can be, where i would have preferred you not give an attempt at all. because in the fic in question, you use the wildly outdated term "ebonics" to refer to hardisons exaggerated speech that he codeswitches into occasionally. my friend and i spent fifteen minutes trying to decipher your implications in the line: "He’s young, or maybe (hopefully) just black, is the first thing."

i did not read your evil!hardison fic, because i didnt trust your ability to write an entire fic focused on him. that said, i felt like a got enough out of this hc post:

so! i think there's some good points here (perhaps!) about what hardison would look like with a possessive god complex, as opposed to him being a thoughtful provider building homes for the people he loves. and yes, "ownership" is a very contentous topic in the Black community, given how white supremacy has subjugated Black capital. but whatever analysis i would give you credit for—and any brownie points you could get from naming the racialized aspect—is immediately wiped when you fucking compare hardison to a goddamn overseer. you know, like an enslaver overseeing enslaved people? you imply here hardison, a Black man, would be a kind master to his employees. which is just so vile to be casual about.

attempts were made, i can say about your posting and writing. but i don't at all respect it, because you still have so much to really pull together to not be offensive about things.

which gets back to this post. you say your saw weirdness. why the fuck didn't you name it? no, really. did you actually see it or are you trying to save face now? you're not welcome for the labor i (nonblack latinx) and my friend (Black) had to go through to process this post. don't rely on others to do the work of naming racism and antiblackness; do the work yourself, or just don't reblog if you can't give commentary.

and, because i have been nasty and might as well be petty: honestly, there's just so much more work you need to do if you want me to trust you with handling race in fandom when you out here posting shit like this:

you're the fucking issue here too.

Well, a realization just hit me. Don't know if this is true of not, I don't remember the timing.

Eliot said he didn't hit cops in the OG show. Well now that makes sense. His dad is Black. What do Black parents teach their kids when it comes to dealing with the cops? Part of The Talk. Just do as they say, not that that always work.

He would have at least heard that talk with other foster kids, or teammates, if not given it himself.

And why would he stick to that? Because his dad was upset with him and he was still trying to be a Good Boy in one way.

[xpeachy-keenx]

"lending a hand" — g. impact

PAIRING k. alberich × fem!reader

TAGS office sex. oral sex. creampie.

The stack of paperwork teetered at the edge of Jean's desk, and as you stared down at it, you could feel your soul trying to escape your body. Page after page, each report and memo seemed to blur together, a combination of monotonous details related to the Knights of Favonius' day-to-day operations. It was late in the evening, and the thought of spending hours on this task was enough to make your head throb.

Jean, seated behind her desk, studied you with her usual calm, though her eyes held a hint of sympathy.

"I know this isn't the most exciting task," she said, her voice gentle as if to soften the blow, "but keeping everything organized is essential. If you need help, I can—"

"No, no, I've got this!" you cut in, swallowing a groan as you mustered a smile.

You didn't want to add to her burdens—she already had her hands full running the entire ordo. With a determined nod, you swept the pile of papers into your arms, cradling it as you made your way out of her office. You moved carefully, every step a delicate balance to prevent a paper avalanche from scattering through the empty hall.

As you walked up the stairs and rounded the corner, a sudden presence broke your concentration. You stumbled, the stack tilting until steady hands pressed against the sides, saving you from certain disaster.

"Whoa, careful there," Kaeya's soothing voice drawled, his fingers lingering on the edges of the papers as he held them upright.

The Cavalry Captain towered over you, a playful glint in his eye as he smirked. You found yourself mesmerized at his eye, the shade of dusky lavender akin to the sky during twilight, and the mess of navy-blue bangs swept across his forehead as he chuckled and—oh no, you've been staring for too long.

"Thanks, Kaeya. I almost made a mess of everything."

His body language exuded mischief as he looked over the stack, his usual charm at the ready. "What's this? You're actually going to tackle all of that by yourself?"

"It's part of the job. Someone has to do it."

His brow arched, a teasing smile curving his lips as he fell into step beside you. "Oh, come now. I'd hate to see you burn out over a few boring forms."

He then paused, eyeing you with mock concern. "Tell you what—I'll keep you company. It's the least I can do for a friend."

"Oh, um, you really don't have to stay! I figured you were heading out for the night."

As you neared your office's door, a frown tugged at your lips. With your hands full, opening the door seemed a hopeless task. Just as you began calculating how to reach your keys, Kaeya's warm body sidled up beside you. His hand slid into the front pocket of your coat, his fingers brushing against you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. Before you could object, he'd retrieved your keys, unlocking the door with a knowing look as he gestured for you to enter.

"After you."

You swallowed, slipping past him and into the room, making a point of avoiding brushing against him as you placed the stack on your desk. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him leaning against the door frame, twirling your keys around his finger like a prize.

"And as for your earlier assumption, I was about to leave, but somehow Angel's Share just doesn't feel the same without you around."

"Oh?" you asked, keeping your gaze fixed on the papers as you took the first sheet off the top, skimming over it with feigned interest. "Is that so?"

A missing pet report.

Of course.

You stifle a sigh, but the corners of your mouth twitch at the absurdity of it all.

"See?" Kaeya's voice cuts through your thoughts. "I can already tell you're getting stressed."

You heaved an exaggerated sigh, mimicking his posture as you crossed your arms, lifting your eyes to meet his. You held his gaze, letting a hint of playful challenge cross your features.

"Oh, really? And what exactly do you suggest I do about it?"

Kaeya's lips curled into a wicked smirk that made you break out into goosebumps. Without breaking eye contact, he stepped into your office, his presence filling the space. With deliberate slowness, he reached back to shut the door, and you heard a faint click as he turned the lock.

"I thought you'd never ask."

***

"Several reports c-concerning … the disappearance o-of the merchant … were filed," you managed, though your voice dissolved into a breathy moan as Kaeya's mouth descended once more, hot and insistent against your lower lips.

Each stroke of his tongue against your pussy sent your mind scattering. The wet warmth of his mouth was unrelenting, tracing patterns around your clit that made your thighs shake. His hands gripped the back of your knees, spreading and folding you over the edge of your desk. The cold wood beneath you was a stark contrast to the molten heat pooling low in your stomach, a feeling only he could bring out of you.

The desk groaned under the strain, the stack of paperwork teetering beside you—a reminder of the task you had at hand. But Kaeya's firm hold on your legs denied even the smallest movement, keeping you pinned and at his mercy. The ache in your clit intensified with each calculated flick of his tongue, leaving you yearning for the release he withheld.

"Finish the report, and I'll give you what you want," he'd said earlier.

Now, every tremble in your voice or falter in your focus earned you his low, teasing laugh as he forced you to start over.

"Slacking off, are we?"

His breath ghosted against your heated skin, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through your body.

"K-Kaeya … please."

His response was a deep hum, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh, close to where you ached for him. The sensation left your mind hazy, your hands gripping the edge of the desk to anchor yourself. You swallowed, forcing yourself to hold on to the remaining thread of your sanity as you started over.

It was an incident report. There were missing items of shipments en route to Mondstadt from Liyue.

"Missing shipments, nervous merchants … almost sounds like the start of a bad novel, doesn't it?" His tone was light, conversational, unaffected by the fire consuming you. "But who knows—maybe there's more to it."

You swallowed a moan, the sharp edge of his teasing mingling with the intoxicating pleasure he lavished on you.

"I-I don't know … maybe?"

You struggled to string a coherent response as his tongue resumed its slow, torturous circles around your clit. He pressed a lingering kiss to the crease of your inner thigh. His thumb followed, ghosting over your sweat slick skin with leisure. You bit your lip hard, the pressure of his thumb skimming in lazy patterns pushing you closer to the edge. The paper in your hand almost slipped free as a gasp escaped you, impossible to stifle.

"Dirty girl, are you trying to get caught?"

His smirk widened when he pulled back to lick his lips, his eyes locking with yours in a challenge that left your heart pounding. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned down, his tongue sweeping a slow, deliberate path across your clit. Your moan broke free before you could muffle it, your body arching toward him.

"Ah, not very good at following directions, are you?"

His tone was taunting as it sent a fresh rush of heat through you.

"W-What are you—"

He cut you off as he cupped your cheek and pressed his thumb against your lips, the weight of it silencing your protest.

"Shh. Don't worry," he said, his expression equal parts mischief and sin. "I know how to fix that."

Before you could process his words, Kaeya's hands were on you once more, helping you sit up. Your legs shook, the ache mingling with the pulsing need he left between your thighs. When he guided you to the floor, the cold marble beneath your knees sent a sharp jolt through you. He slouched in his chair, his legs spread before you with his usual swagger evident.

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

You didn't hesitate, your hands moving to undo his belt. The cool metal of the buckle contrasted with the heat radiating from his bulge. You felt the faint twitch of his arousal as you popped the button open and slid the zipper down. The throbbing between your legs remained; a reminder of your own unfulfilled need. But for now, all you could focus on was him—his half-lidded gaze, the sharp curve of his lips, and the low growl that rumbled in his chest as your hand grazed him.

"But what about the reports?" you asked, though your voice betrayed your lack of conviction, your words breathless as your hand wrapped around his length.

Kaeya's low chuckle echoed through the quiet of the room.

"Mm, let's deal with them later. Right now, I need you to show me what you've learned since the last we met."

Heat rushed to your cheeks as his gaze locked onto yours. The intensity made you falter, so you dropped your eyes, focusing instead on the task at hand. Your fingers glided along his cock, the velvety heat under your palm making you chew the inside of your cheek. Slowly, you began to move, your hand tracing a steady rhythm as you rotated your wrist. The slickness of his pre-cum spread easily beneath your thumb, and you swirled it over the sensitive tip, earning a sharp hiss from above.

A surge of satisfaction bloomed in your chest as you leaned in, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to the head of his cock. His eye fluttered shut, his head tipping back to expose the elegant line of his throat. For a moment, you were transfixed by the way his mouth opened on a soft exhale, the sight stirring an ache low in your stomach.

When you parted your lips, taking him into your mouth, a familiar salty taste coated your tongue. Slowly, you worked him deeper, the smooth stretch of him sliding along your palate until he reached the back of your throat. You paused there, swallowing around him as you adjusted, your breathing steady through your nose.

"Ah, I knew you were a good girl," Kaeya said as his hand came to rest against the back of your head.

His words sent a jolt of pleasure straight between your legs, and you rubbed your thighs together to alleviate the ache. Determined to please him, you hollowed your cheeks and began to move, sucking in time with the slow strokes of your hand. Spit gathered at the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin as you bobbed your head faster. Your free hand found its way to his hip, pressing down to keep him from thrusting too deep, even as his cock twitched against your tongue.

The faint creak of the chair beneath him and the soft wet sounds of your mouth broke the silence of your office. Kaeya's low groans filled the air like the sweetest song, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath whenever your tongue ran along the underside of the head of his cock. He moaned your name, his hips jerking as your hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently,

You felt his control slipping as he pressed against your head, his length sliding deeper into your throat. You gasped around him, your eyes watering as he began to move, his hips rolling in deep thrusts. His cock brushed against the back of your throat with each motion, forcing you to concentrate on breathing through your nose, your gag reflex a distant struggle compared to the sticky heat on your inner thighs.

"Fuck! Yeah, take it."

When the pressure became too much, you pulled off with a wet gasp, coughing as you fought to catch your breath. Kaeya's hand was under your arm, pulling you up and bending you over the desk. The rough press of wood against your bare stomach contrasted with the warmth of his body behind you, his movements hurried and desperate as his hands roamed over your body.

The paperwork off to the side sat forgotten as he nudged your thighs apart, his hand steadying your hips as he lined himself up. The head of his cock rubbed against your wetness, sending a shudder through your body. When he sunk into you, the stretch was mind-numbing, the slow, steady pressure making you moan against the back of your hand as you bit down to muffle the sound. The tight grip of his hand on your hip steadied you, anchoring you as he sank deeper, bottoming out completely.

"You're so good at this," he whispered against the shell of your ear.

His lips brushed your skin, the faintest hint of his teeth catching the sensitive spot just below your earlobe. Your walls squeezed around him, drawing a low groan from him. He pulled out slowly, the emptiness making you whimper, before thrusting back in with enough force to make your desk move.

The wet, rhythmic smack of skin against skin filled the room, loud in the stillness of your office, but the intoxicating haze of pleasure left you uncaring. Each thrust sent sparks of ecstasy through your body, the friction perfect as his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you.

Kaeya’s hand slid up your back, his fingertips leaving a trail of heat in their wake as he pressed you down, changing the angle of his hips to drive deeper. The way his body draped over yours felt possessive, his movements unrelenting. The world beyond the room faded into nothingness—there was only the feeling of him, the overwhelming pleasure, and the thrill of being caught. That was until the sound of footsteps approached, stopping just outside the door. A sharp knock echoed through the room, freezing you both mid-motion.

"Hey … you can head home for the night, if you'd like," Jean's voice called from the hallway. "Sir Kaeya mentioned you wouldn't mind covering his share of the work, but still …"

Your blood ran cold.

Wide-eyed, you looked over your shoulder, catching his infuriating smirk. His pace never faltered, his thrusts slow as if he relished in your frustration.

"O-Okay, Jean! Good night, then."

The silence that followed was unbearable, broken only by the sound of Jean's retreating footsteps. You turned back to Kaeya, your fiery gaze locking onto his.

"You little—"

Before you could unleash your fury, his hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers finding your swollen clit with a precision that stole the words from your tongue. The tight circles he traced sent a jolt through you, your breath hitching as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch. His laugh was maddening, a low rumble that only spurred your frustration.

"Careful now."

His thrusts quickened, the steady rhythm of his hips driving you toward the edge with relentless intensity. Each movement sent waves of pleasure radiating through you. Your nails scraped against the wood of the desk as you braced yourself.

"Still mad at me?"

Your only answer was a choked moan as your hips jerked, meeting his with desperation. The dual sensation of his cock filling you and his fingers working your clit unraveled you completely. Your muscles tensed as warmth spread in a tidal wave from your pussy.

"Fuck—Kaeya!" you gasped, collapsing onto the desk as your release left you feeling weightless, your vision hazy as you stared blankly at the wall.

Kaeya’s pace didn’t slow, his breath ragged as he chased his own release. With a final, deep thrust, he stilled, his body pressed flush against yours as a sharp breath escaped him. The room was quiet except for the sounds of your heavy breathing. Then, his voice broke through the haze, the amusement in his voice palpable.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," he began, his fingers brushing idly along your waist. "But I never expected Jean to leave you with all the paperwork. That's why I’m here … lending a hand."

XPEACHY-KEENX. 2024. PLEASE DO NOT COPY.

[galacticgoldfishart]

haha social media presence, what's that?

[welcometogrouchland]

I miss them so bad (Dick and Damian)

[weltraum-vaquero]

I get what you're saying, but you're also reaching a weird fine line situation by implying that disabled people can't be portrayed with big penises.

I fully agree it’s a fine line, and I’m not saying it’s wrong to portray him as such. I’ve portrayed him w a big dick in some of my fics, too, and it’s absolutely okay (and fun) to do so. It’s less about the concept, and more about the execution, I think. It becomes a little strange when his size is a very big focus of the fic and it’s pretty much done in the tone of “who would have thought poor little Viktor had such a shlong!”.

[satanfemme]

kink has really widened my view of what I consider "sex" and nothing makes that more obvious than when I see takes like "someone using a vibrator on you isn't sex". like 1. what is it then? and 2. getting called a good boy can be sex if you want it to be.

[canichangemyblogname]

Other 9-1-1 Fans: I hope Buck & Tommy get married in season 8. 😍

Me, familiar with Tim Minear’s writing: We’re in for three seasons and at least two breakups before those men go on their second date. 🚬

[pionas]

i hate this trend of having songs under two minutes because i feel like, in a production standpoint, these songs don't end having a proper resolve or development and it seems there's no proper dynamic and that's why when it ends you have this sensation it shouldn't be over because there should have been something more

[childhoodgrave]

covered in blood and viscera and shit and staring into your eyes with a hollow gaze

[basuralindo]

there are some things about entomology you learn through research and some that you learn from practical experience such as the ability to differentiate spider species or at least ballpark genus by their webs mostly from walking into them every fucking day and night of your life.

[quillinhand]

y'all i watched across the spiderverse yesterday and am in need of someone to scream about it. it was sooo gooooddddd

[gece-misin-nesin]

Just saw someone on reddit say that batman's problem in recent years is that he's been nerfed as a superhero and i can't help but laugh. Batman?? NERFED???? *dreamy sigh* I wish

[witchmd13]

people take gilmore girls way too seriously sometimes oh my god

[voidfragments]

bro i'm gonna end up with a c1 furina before charlotte comes home