#nose-biting teacups

[lulublack90]

Prompt 1 - Day

@wolfstarmicrofic January 1, word count 809

Opposite - Night

It was the day before the full moon, and Remus was antsy. His skin itched, and his hair stood on end all over his body. He felt feverish, and his joints ached. 

He could deal with being a werewolf if he only felt the effects when the moon was full, but the run-up to it just made it all that much worse. 

He needed to take his mind off it. As though Sirius had read his mind. He came sauntering in with that wild look in his eyes that could only mean one thing. Sirius had a prank ready to be played out. 

Instantly, Remus forgot how bad his body felt. Sirius gracefully flopped onto the sofa next to him. He leant back, folding his hands behind his head. Looking completely at ease. Remus waited for Sirius to ask. He knew he was going to ask. Oh, how he needed Sirius to ask. 

“Moony?” Sirius finally spoke, somehow managing to keep his face serious. 

“Yes, Padfoot,” Remus replied, slightly breathlessly.

“I have a plan, but I need some help to pull it off.” He turned his head towards Remus. “Would you be interested?” 

“Yes!” Remus said, unable to contain his excitement. This close to the moon, the wolf made it hard for him to control his emotions.  

Sirius’s grin illuminated his face. 

“Knew I could count on you, Moony.” He moved closer conspiratorially. “Third years are starting tea leaf reading in Divination this afternoon, and I have a rather large supply of nose-biting teacups…” He trailed off, not needing to say any more for Remus to understand. 

“Yes! Sirius yes! Can we watch? I wanna watch!” He was vibrating with energy. That wicked glint flashed in Sirius’s eyes again, stronger than before. He pulled the corner of James’s invisibility cloak from under his robes. 

“Way ahead of you, Moony, my old friend.”

The plan went off without a hitch. They vanished the ordinary teacups and replaced them all with the nose-biting ones. They picked a good spot at the back of the attic classroom where no one would accidentally walk into them. 

The trapdoor was pushed open as the Divination Professor climbed into the room, followed by the small group of third-years. 

“Settle down, settle down.” The crone-like witch called to the already quietly sitting class. “Everyone go and grab a teacup, and I shall bring around the tea.” The students each took one of the teacups from the shelf. Remus had to stuff his fist into his mouth to stop himself from laughing. He felt Sirius nudge him warningly. He tried to calm himself down before he gave them away. 

“Make sure you drink all the tea before you start trying to read the tea leaves. Do not make the same mistake as my class last year. Poor boy scalded his legs trying to read without drinking any of the tea.” She shook her head solemnly.

“Poor, Pete,” Sirius whispered into Remus’s ear, then had to add his own hand to help cover Remus’s mouth as he shook with laughter. 

The room was mostly quiet as the students all waited for the tea to cool enough to drink. 

“Alright, class.” The Professor announced, “Your tea would be sufficiently cool enough now to drink from.” She picked up her own cup as the 15-third years all lifted theirs. 

There was a moment of slurping and then Bedlam. People screaming, chairs flying and tea cups smashing. The class fled, trying to get away from the snapping china. The Professor was having a terrible time removing her cup from the end of her nose. It seems to be a particularly vicious one. 

The chaos was more than either Remus or Sirius could have hoped for. Within minutes, the classroom was empty. The screams and shouts grew quieter as the third years ran from the tower. 

Sirius pulled the cloak off them. They looked at each other silently and straight-faced for a second before they both fell to the floor, rolling around in peals of laughter.

“Godric, that went better than I could have ever imagined.” Sirius gasped between laughs, brushing the tears leaking from his eyes from his face. 

“Sirius, that was perfect. I love your brain.” Remus choked out, an arm wrapped around himself as if he needed to hold himself together. 

“Right, come on,” Sirius said, trying very hard to pull himself together, “Before someone comes to see what’s going on.”

They managed to climb back down the ladder without hurting themselves. Once at the bottom, Sirius threw the invisibility cloak back over them. 

“Don’t want anyone seeing us coming out of the tower, or they’ll know it was us,” Sirius murmured to Remus as they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, bursting into howling laughter when they pulled the invisibility cloak off, safe in their dorm room.                

[hatethysinner]

mgmgmgmdhgdjsdjdvdh begging for remmick taking care of you while youre ovulating n just being so sweet and soft and lovey please god thank you

ʙᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴇᴍ

ᴡᴄ: 6.3k

ᴀ/ɴ: come right on me, I MEAN CAMARADERIE! short n sweet was on repeat as i wrote this, and god damn did i love it. anon you are a genius for requesting this and i'm gonna need more feral asks from you by TOMORROW! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!!!!), filthy disgusting shameless smut, minimal plot all porn, established relationship, very very very exaggerated ovulation but is it really ladies, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v, begging, baby fever, drool, spit kink, pussy drunk, vampirism, biting, blood, inappropiate use of heightened senses, praise kink, breeding kink, scent kink, body worship, hands-free orgasm, dry humping, rutting, belly bulge, cervix fucking, multiple orgasms, cockwarming, sick!reader, needy!reader, freaky!reader, a little bit of dom!reader, sub!remmick, pathetic!remmick, service!top!remmick, a little bit of pet!remmick too, excessive use of pet names, don't read without a rose toy

The fever had started sometime in the late afternoon, slow and creeping, like it was building itself bone-deep before you even noticed it was there. By evening, your skin felt too tight, your legs too weak, every nerve sparking and hot under the thin sheen of your nightgown.

It didn’t help that the gown itself—sheer as could be, clinging in all the wrong places—had been his idea. Or that he’d chosen it with those soft, guilty eyes, promising it would help you cool down.

It didn’t help at all.

You shifted in the bed, trying not to whimper as another wave of heat curled between your thighs, low and molten, like something was blooming there. Something that wouldn’t stop. No matter how you squeezed your legs together or turned your head into the pillow to muffle the sound.

Remmick was moving around the room in that careful, deliberate way of his, like he was trying not to spook you. Like he was afraid if he moved too quickly, you’d break apart entirely.

He set the teacup down on the little table beside you, fingers brushing your wrist as he pulled his hand away. Even that fleeting touch felt like too much. Like it cracked something open in your chest.

“Feelin’ any better, sugar?” His voice was low, uncertain, threaded through with worry.

Another wave of heat rolled through you, leaving you dizzy, breath catching in your throat. And you saw it—just for a second—the way Remmick drew back a fraction, turning his head and covering his mouth and nose with his hand, like he was trying not to breathe you in.

It made your pulse stutter, your thighs squeezing tighter beneath the sheets.

Your throat worked. You tried to answer, but it came out as a shaky sigh. One of your hands drifted down to your belly without you meaning to, resting there, pressing lightly against the dull, constant ache.

He followed the motion, eyes darting to your hand. He swallowed hard, jaw flexing like he was trying to keep himself in check.

“I can—” He stopped, cleared his throat, started again, softer. “I can get ya another blanket. Or—take some off, if y’too warm.”

You shook your head, breathing unsteady. You were already too warm. Every inch of your skin felt flushed, hypersensitive, the thin fabric brushing your nipples like a deliberate tease. You didn’t trust yourself to move too much. Didn’t trust yourself not to reach for him.

Remmick hovered, hands opening and closing at his sides. He’d been pacing between the bed and the doorway for the last hour, fetching little comforts—tea, cool cloths, the stack of pillows he’d so carefully arranged behind your shoulders. All of it done with the tender focus he reserved only for you.

But none of it helped.

Not really.

Because no matter how much tea he coaxed you into sipping, no matter how many times he pressed a damp cloth to your hairline, you were still left with the same low, pulsing need that had your thighs pressing together under the sheets. The same feverish ache that made your thoughts turn vulgar. Shameless.

You tried to look away, but his eyes caught yours—soft, uncertain, searching. You wondered if he could read all of it on your face. If he knew what you were imagining. His mouth between your thighs, his hands on your hips, his voice—that voice—telling you to be good for him, to open up, to let him see.

A little shiver wracked you, and you felt your cheeks go hot.

Remmick made a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a groan, and sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. He reached for your hand—just your hand—and cradled it in his calloused palm, thumb tracing over your knuckles.

“Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen ya like this.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Breaks my heart a little.”

He didn’t sound teasing. He sounded afraid. Like he wasn’t sure if this was something he was allowed to touch. Like he was worried he’d ruin you if he tried.

You swallowed again, mouth too dry to answer. Your gaze dropped to his throat, where you could see the way he swallowed, too, the muscle jumping as he tried—and failed—to stay composed.

“Just…tell me what y’need,” he murmured, a little hoarse. “I’ll do it, sweetheart. Anything ya ask.”

You knew he meant it. Knew he’d give you everything if you so much as whispered the word. But the thought of saying it out loud—admitting how badly you needed him—made your breath catch, made your body throb with another hot, rolling wave of want that made you clench around nothing.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

You thought you felt him lean closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, his breath stirring the wisps of hair at your temple.

But you didn’t open your eyes.

Because if you did—if you saw how he was looking at you—you knew you’d beg.

And you weren’t sure you’d ever stop.

Except you felt it—his hand easing onto your thigh. Not rough, not possessive, just the weight of his palm resting there, fingers spread, like he was testing the waters of his own resolve.

Your eyes flew open.

And your inhibitions shattered like glass.

Because the second you saw his face—those soft blue eyes gone dark and stormy, lips parted, fangs just barely peeking through—you let out a sound that was almost a sob and lunged for him.

Your mouth crashed against his, no patience, no hesitation. Your tongue swept past his lips before he could even gasp, tasting him, drinking him down, your fingers clutching at his shirt like you’d drown without something to hold.

You scrambled into his lap, knees pressing to either side of his hips, sheer nightgown falling open around you as you twisted your hands into his hair and kissed him deeper, wetter, like you couldn’t get close enough.

He let out a strangled noise, arms coming up automatically to steady you, fingers flexing against your ribs. For a second, he kissed you back just as fiercely—tongue tangling with yours, teeth grazing your lower lip, a shiver rolling through his whole body that you felt through your thighs.

But only for a second.

Because then he pulled back with a sharp breath, eyes squeezed shut, trembling like he was holding himself together by a thread.

“Darlin’, wait—”

You were already shaking your head, tears springing to your eyes as the ache inside you clawed deeper, harder, until it felt like it might swallow you alive.

“Remmick,” you gasped, voice splintering around his name. “Please. Please, I need—”

He held your face between his palms, thumbs brushing under your eyes as though trying to wipe away tears that hadn’t even fallen yet. His voice was so soft, so wrecked.

“I—sugar, listen to me. I’ll get ya anythin’ else. More tea. Somethin’ cold. A bath. Somethin’ to take the edge off—”

“No.” You shook your head harder, hips grinding down against his lap despite yourself. “No, no, Remmick, I don’t want tea, I don’t want a bath—I want you. I need you.”

His fingers twitched where they framed your face. His eyes darted everywhere—your lips, your heaving chest, the thin stretch of silk over your thighs—and then he squeezed them shut like he couldn’t bear to look.

“I don’t wanna take advantage of ya,” he murmured, voice rough. “You ain’t thinkin’ straight, sweetheart. I know y’ain’t.”

But you pressed closer, nose brushing his, your breath quick and shaky. “Then make me think straight.”

A tremor rolled through his arms.

“Darlin’…” His voice broke, low and desperate. “I c-can smell how wet ya are. Jesus, it’s makin’ me—”

“Then feel me,” you whispered. “Taste me. Fuck me. Remmick, please—I can’t—”

A sob hitched in your chest. The heat between your legs felt molten, throbbing like it was tied to your heartbeat, slick gathering so fast you swore you could feel it sliding down your thighs.

He opened his eyes at the sound of your sob. And the look in them gutted you—like he was seeing his whole world crumbling and still couldn’t make himself look away.

“You can be gentle,” you said quickly, crowding closer until your foreheads touched. “You’re always so gentle. Just—please, Remmick, I need you.”

He looked like he might argue one more time. But then you tipped your face closer, brushing your mouth over his and whispering, “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you.”

And that—God, that—was what did it.

You felt the way his hands fisted in the thin fabric at your waist. The way his breath stuttered out in a groan.

And then he was moving, gathering you up like you weighed nothing, gently shifting you back onto the bed until your spine pressed into the pile of pillows he’d so carefully arranged earlier.

You gasped as the cool sheets hit the backs of your thighs, and the nightgown fell open wider, baring the flush of your skin, your nipples tight and dark through the gauzy fabric.

Remmick settled between your knees, eyes flicking hungrily over your body as he propped himself up on one elbow. He brushed your hair back from your damp forehead with trembling fingers.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Promise me, darlin’. You’ll tell me.”

“Promise,” you whispered, already trembling.

He swallowed. And then his hand slid lower, fingers trailing feather-light down your ribs, over your belly, until he reached the soft heat between your thighs.

The second he touched you, you whimpered—a sound so raw and needy it made his fangs flash in the low lamplight.

“Oh, …” he breathed. “Look how wet ya are.”

You squirmed, thighs falling further apart, hips canting upward into his palm.

Slowly—so slowly you wanted to scream—he pushed two fingers inside.

You cried out, head falling back against the pillows as your walls clenched around him, sucking him in like you’d been starving for it. A sharp, trembling exhale left him, his eyes fluttering half-shut as he watched his fingers disappear into you, slick already coating his hand to the wrist.

“Shit…” he whispered, voice shaking. “I—I don’t… darlin’, ya feel…”

His breath hitched, and he had to shut his eyes for a moment, like he couldn’t even bear to look at you without falling apart.

“Are ya—are ya okay?” he stammered, brow furrowed as he tried to keep his fingers moving, gentle and slow. “Is that… is that too much?”

“Remmick, please…” you gasped, hips rolling as he stroked in and out, torturously slow. “Faster—please—I need—”

But he only shook his head faintly, jaw working as though he was biting back words, or maybe sounds he didn’t want you to hear.

“I… I don’t wanna hurt ya,” he murmured, voice breaking as he tried to swallow down a soft moan. “God, sweetheart, ya… ya squeezin’ me so tight. I… I dunno if…”

He leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss to your jaw, lips lingering there like he couldn’t help himself. When he pulled back, his breath was coming in shaky little bursts, his eyes wide and dazed as he blinked down at where his fingers disappeared into your body.

“Christ,” he whispered, cheeks flushed, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “It’s so warm in there…”

A broken noise slipped out of him, half-whimper, half-moan, and he squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to rein himself in.

“Tell me… tell me if y’need me to stop,” he gasped, voice wobbling, his free hand clutching at the bedsheets beside your hip. “Or… or if y’want more. I’ll—I’ll give ya more, darlin’, I promise, just… please… tell me what t’do.”

He sounded like he was about to cry from how overwhelmed he was, shoulders shaking as he forced his fingers to keep thrusting slowly, gently, even while his own hips gave a helpless jerk against the mattress, as if he couldn’t help how your heat pulled at him.

But it wasn’t enough. Not when your whole body felt like it was splitting open with need. Not when the ache was gnawing at your bones, each drag of his fingers too slow, too shallow, nowhere near the frantic, pounding rhythm your body screamed for.

“Remmick—” You choked out his name on a trembling gasp, fingers clawing into the muscles of his shoulders. “Please—please go faster. It… it hurts when you’re so slow—”

His eyes flew open, stricken, lips parting in a wounded little sound. “Hurts—? Oh God, sugar, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s worse when you’re gentle,” you whispered, voice breaking like glass. “I need more. I need it faster. Harder. Please, Remmick—please.”

A tortured whimper slipped out of him, and you could feel his breath coming quicker against your cheek, his chest heaving under your palms.

“I… I dunno if I should—”

“More fingers,” you said, cutting him off, your voice trembling but urgent as your hips rocked up into his hand. “Put more fingers in me. Please, Remmick, I can take it—”

His eyes went impossibly wide, pupils swallowing up the pale blue, and he sputtered, shaking his head. “N-no, darlin’, I—I don’t wanna hurt ya, I can’t—”

But before he could finish, you seized his jaw, pulling him into a kiss so fierce it made his shoulders tense and his whole body jerk.

You kissed him hard, pressing your open mouth over his, swallowing the thick, sweet drool he’d been struggling to keep inside his mouth, drinking him down like you needed it to breathe. A broken moan shuddered out of him as you licked into him, tasting the coppery tang of blood that always lurked under his tongue, making his hips twitch desperately against the mattress.

“Please,” you whispered again, voice shaking as you pressed your forehead to his. “More, Remmick. I need it.”

He was trembling so hard you thought he might collapse, eyes glassy, lips parted and wet as he tried to gather enough air to speak.

“I… oh God…” He squeezed his eyes shut, a tear sliding free despite himself. “I can’t say no t’ya, sweetheart. I c-can’t…”

His hand shifted lower, and you felt the stretch as he eased another finger in, his breath catching on a ragged moan as your heat swallowed him deeper.

You cried out, hips arching off the bed, and his fingers flexed inside you instinctively, like he couldn’t help chasing the squeeze of your walls.

“Oh, fuck… fuck—” he gasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he tried to keep moving, his voice dissolving into shuddery little whimpers. “You’re so… ya squeezin’ me so damn tight… can’t… can’t hardly…”

“Faster,” you begged, voice raw, your fingers digging into his hair. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He let out a strangled sob and finally gave in.

He fucked his fingers into you not with roughness, but with a desperate, stumbling urgency, his whole arm trembling as slick poured over his palm, soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Jesus, darlin’… y’feel… y’feel so good,” he babbled, words spilling from him in breathless, high-pitched fragments as he tried to keep up with your rolling hips. “Oh God, oh God, I can’t—I can’t stop—”

Your cries spilled into the room, each thrust dragging across that tender, swollen spot inside you that sent sparks dancing up your spine. You could barely speak, babbling half-formed words as your vision blurred with tears, your thighs shaking violently around his waist.

“Remmick—!”

That was all it took.

A single, broken cry ripped out of him as his hips bucked into the bed, his free hand grabbing onto the sheets so hard the fabric nearly tore. He pressed his forehead hard into your shoulder, shaking all over, as his breath hitched into sobs.

“Oh fuck—I’m—I’m—shit—”

And he came in his pants. Hard. His entire body shuddering with it, a wet heat blooming against his zipper as a sob punched out of his chest, his shoulders curling forward like he was trying to fold himself around you.

He kept moving his fingers inside you even as he was spilling into his clothes, his voice catching on choked grunts, breath warm and fast against your neck.

“God—oh God, yer... yer so good, darlin’—s-so good for me—”

You clenched around him, crying out as your own climax crashed through you like a wave breaking over rocks, your body seizing up tight around his trembling fingers.

He worked you through it, breathless and half-crying himself, pressing frantic, damp kisses to your throat as your walls pulsed and fluttered around him.

Before you could even catch your breath—before you could ask for more—he was already lowering himself between your thighs, licking his lips, eyes blown wide as he inhaled deeply, his voice breaking apart as he murmured, half to himself.

“Need it… need t’taste ya… God, ya smell so fuckin’ good…”

He barely got the words out before his mouth was on you.

He dove in like a starving man, lips wrapping around your soaked, swollen clit as he moaned so loud it vibrated through your entire body. The wet heat of his tongue slithered over you, lapping broad, messy strokes through your folds, and then he was sucking you in tight between his lips like he was trying to drink you down.

Your head slammed back against the pillows, a ragged scream ripping from your throat as your hands flew into his hair, yanking him closer.

“Remmick—oh God— yes—there—right there—”

He whined at the praise, hips jerking into the mattress, his entire body trembling as he shoved his tongue deeper, licking so hard and fast your thighs started shaking around his ears. Slick noises filled the room, obscene and wet, each lap of his tongue punctuated by soft, high moans that shivered out of him like he couldn’t keep quiet to save his life.

And you didn’t want him quiet.

You pulled his face harder against you, rolling your hips up to grind against his mouth, chasing every flick of his tongue, every sloppy, desperate suck.

“More,” you gasped, voice breaking as heat coiled tighter and tighter inside you. “Remmick—more—don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

He let out another whimper, pressing his face in even deeper, tongue plunging into you before circling up to flick rapid, trembling strokes over your clit until your vision blurred. His fangs scraped ever so lightly against the tender skin there, not quite biting, just teasing the edge of pain as pleasure roared through your veins.

And all the while he kept babbling, words slurred and wet against your flesh.

“Fuck… s’fuckin’ perfect… can’t… can’t stop… y’so sweet… taste like heaven…”

Drool poured from the corners of his mouth, mixing with your slick as it spilled over your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you both until you could feel the heat and wet seeping into the mattress.

Your whole body was trembling, every muscle taut and straining as he sucked and slurped at you, licking you like he’d die if he didn’t taste every last give.

“Remmick—I’m—I’m gonna—”

But he didn’t slow down. If anything, he got wilder, moaning like he was the one about to come as his tongue flicked over your clit in fast, punishing circles.

Your orgasm hit you so hard you thought you might black out, your vision going white as your body convulsed around him. You screamed his name, sobbing through it as your thighs clamped around his head, trying to pull him even closer.

He growled into your cunt, shaking like a leaf as he kept his mouth sealed tight against you, sucking every gush of slick straight into his throat, refusing to let a single drop escape. His arms wrapped around your hips, anchoring you down, forcing you to ride his face through the aftershocks as your entire body spasmed helplessly.

“Fuck—Remmick—oh my God—can’t—can’t—”

But he didn’t even hear you.

He didn’t pull away, didn’t pause, didn’t so much as falter. He just kept lapping at you, like a man possessed. His moans vibrated through your entire body, soft, high-pitched, almost desperate, like he was drowning and your taste was the only thing keeping him alive.

You tried to squirm back, hips stuttering from pure overwhelm, but his arms locked tighter around your thighs, pinning you to the soaked sheets as he pushed his face in closer, nose pressing hard into the swollen, aching bundle of nerves at the top of your slit.

He was starving for you.

Each drag of his tongue sent sharp little bursts of pleasure slicing up your spine, your muscles clenching wildly around nothing as he slurped and sucked and swallowed everything you poured out for him.

“Rem—Remmick—please—too much—”

But he just groaned into your cunt, the sound muffled and wet, and sucked harder, tongue plunging inside you again and again until you were sobbing, your vision swimming with black spots.

You weren’t sure if it was seconds or minutes or lifetimes before you came again, a shattering, brutal wave that wrung a scream from your raw throat, your body clamping around his tongue so hard you felt him mewl deep in his chest.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Your fingers grasped at his hair, clutching so tight you thought you might tear strands free, but he only moaned louder, hips grinding desperately into the mattress as if he was trying to get relief.

And finally—finally—he pulled away, panting so hard his shoulders shook, his face dripping with you, lips swollen and shiny, pupils blown so wide the red had nearly swallowed the blue.

He blinked up at you like he was coming out of a trance, chest heaving, throat working as he tried to swallow back the thick saliva still pooling in his mouth.

“Darlin’—” His voice cracked, high and thin. “Darlin’, please—I need—”

He pushed up onto his knees, slick dripping down his chin onto his shirt, eyes darting frantically between your face and the wet heat still clenching and fluttering below.

“I gotta—I gotta be inside ya,” he choked out, hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish. “Please—please, sugar—I’ll make it feel so good, I swear t’God, I’ll take care of ya—”

He bent closer, pressing messy, trembling kisses over your stomach, your ribs, his breath stuttering as he tried to get the words out through shaky sobs of need.

“Y’smell so good… fuck, I can’t—I can’t stand not bein’ in ya—lemme—lemme—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, voice breaking entirely as he pleaded.

“Lemme fuck ya, darlin’. I wanna feel ya squeezin’ me, wanna fill ya up so deep—make y’feel good, make y’feel so good you’ll forget anythin’ else ever existed.”

Your chest heaved, breath catching on a soft laugh you couldn’t hold back—because God, you’d never seen him like this. So wrecked, so needy, so close to coming undone just from the thought of being inside you.

And you loved it.

You tilted your head, studying the way his eyes shone—wet and raw and hungry—and let your voice drop to a warm, lilting hush.

“Yes.”

He let out a noise—a ragged, half-choked cry that didn’t sound anything like the man who usually spoke with slow, easy drawls. It tore straight from his chest, raw and high, as though the single word had physically cracked him open.

“Yes…?” he echoed, blinking at you, dazed. “Y-ya mean it? Ya… ya want—”

“I want you,” you murmured, fingers sliding up into his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp. “Now. Remmick, please.”

He didn’t waste another breath.

In a blur of motion, he yanked at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling so badly with trembling fingers that you nearly laughed again, though the sound stuck somewhere in your chest because of how beautiful he looked like this. His chest heaved as he finally shoved the shirt off his shoulders, baring pale, lean muscle slick with sweat.

Then his belt came undone with a sharp metallic jingle, and he kicked off his now-sticky pants and underwear in one desperate shove, cock slapping up heavy and flushed against his stomach, already leaking strings of wetness that glistened in the lamplight.

But even in his frenzy, he reached for you like you were something precious.

His hands moved to your nightgown, sliding it carefully up and over your head, pressing reverent kisses to your shoulders, your collarbones, the curve of your breasts as he freed each inch of skin. His lips found every sensitive spot he’d memorized, leaving you shivering and gasping as he fawned over you with soft whispers.

“God, darlin’… look at you… s’beautiful… perfect… perfect… made for me…”

His voice shook as he shifted higher to press soft, lingering lips at your neck and jaw.

Then his mouth descended again, finding one nipple and suckling gently, tongue swirling around the pebbled peak until you gasped, your back arching toward him.

“Can’t believe… can’t believe I get to touch you… y’real, right? Mine?”

You were panting by the time he finally pulled back enough to meet your eyes, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, cock twitching where it rested heavy against your thigh.

He swallowed hard, shivering as he lined himself up at your entrance, pressing the leaking head just barely against your slick folds.

Then he forced his eyes up to yours, breath catching as he managed, in a voice barely above a whisper:

“D… d’ya want me t’go slow, darlin’? Or… or fast?”

Your grin was wicked, but your voice stayed soft as silk. “Start slow,” you murmured. “Then fast.”

He blinked.

“Y… y’sure?” he stammered, hips twitching forward half an inch before he forced himself still. “I… I dunno if I can—”

“Be a good boy for me, Remmick.” You dragged your nails down his chest, just lightly enough to make him shiver. “Slow first. Then fast. Can you do that for me?”

His breath hitched so violently you thought he might faint.

“Yes—yes, ma’am—” he gasped, voice breaking into a sob as he pressed forward, sinking into you with agonizing, careful slowness.

He choked on a moan as your heat wrapped around him, eyelids fluttering as he let out one shattered, keening sound.

“Christ— oh—oh God—”

You clenched around him as he bottomed out, just to see the way his mouth fell open, the way a strangled moan clawed up his throat.

“Good boy,” you crooned. “Such a good boy, goin’ slow for me. Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

“Uh—uh-huh—” he gasped, voice high and trembling, hips rolling forward in tiny, controlled thrusts that nevertheless made both of you shudder. “S-so good… God, y’feel so good, I can’t—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, hips stuttering.

“Please… please, can I—”

“Faster,” you said, smiling sweet and dark as you dragged your nails lightly over his shoulders. “Now.”

And Remmick broke.

He surged forward with a ragged cry, hips snapping into you as though his body had been waiting for nothing else. Each thrust punched a soft cry from your chest, his moans spilling freely as he babbled half-words, lost entirely in the feel of your walls clutching around him.

And through every thrust, every helpless sob of pleasure, he kept whimpering it over and over.

“Good boy… m’bein’ a good boy… wanna make you feel so good…”

But even as he said it, there was nothing good about the way Remmick fucked you.

He was snarling just above, hips slamming forward so hard the headboard cracked the wall with every thrust, the mattress creaking beneath the wild pace he set the instant you gave him permission. His cock dragged inside you, thick and hot, each stroke punching needy little gasps out of your lungs as your whole body rocked with the force of it.

And he wouldn’t shut up.

“Fuck… oh fuck—y’so tight, … squeezin’ me so good—can’t—fuck, I can’t believe—”

Drool spilled from his open mouth, dripping warm and wet across your collarbone as he shoved his face into the crook of your neck. He was panting like a beast, eyes wild and red, fangs nicking lightly at your skin as he gasped your name over and over.

“Am I—am I doin’ good, sugar?” he cried out, voice rising high as his hips pounded into you faster, relentless and desperate. “Tell me I’m doin’ good—please, I gotta know—”

But you couldn’t speak.

Every time you tried, all that came out was a strangled moan, your nails clawing at his back as your thighs trembled around his waist. You were soaked, juices slicking his cock, pooling under you as he drove into you over and over with a fevered rhythm that made stars burst behind your eyes.

Your head fell back, a broken sob shuddering from your chest.

“Rem… Remmick—”

But that was all you managed before he slammed into you again, bottoming out so deep it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Shit— oh God, sugar, d’ya like that? D’ya like when I’m deep?” His voice was shredded, half-sobbing as he pulled back only to ram into you, sharp and brutal.

He was drooling everywhere now, thick strings of saliva falling onto your chest, slicking your skin as he babbled incoherently into your throat. His tongue darted out to lap at the mess he’d made, smearing it across your skin, leaving your chest shiny and wet as his hips kept driving forward.

He kept trying to slow down—little stuttering attempts to ease his pace—but each time your walls clenched around him, he let out a high, choked sob and lost control all over again.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m sorry—I’m tryin’ t’go slow—I swear I am—y’just feel—fuckin’ perfect—oh God—”

You managed a half-word, some slurred plea, and he groaned so loud it vibrated through your whole body.

“Oh God, ya sound so pretty… c’mon, darlin’, talk t’me… tell me m’good, please, please…”

His cock was driving into you so hard now you thought you might break apart, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls as slick gushed out around him, dripping down your thighs onto the sheets.

“Remmick—” you gasped, voice trembling, eyes rolling back as he thrust even deeper. “S-so good—you’re so good—”

He let out a sound that was almost a growl, but cracked high at the end, breaking into something like a whimper as he drew back and slammed forward again.

“F-fuck—fuck—darlin’, look—look at me—”

He caught your jaw in one trembling hand, forcing your eyes down to where his cock disappeared inside you with each savage thrust.

“Look how m’stretchin’ you out… fuck… y’see how deep I’m gettin’…?”

He slammed in hard, and your vision sparked white as you felt the thick crown of him shove right up against your cervix, pressure so intense it made you sob.

“Oh God—”

“Can… can y’feel me there?” he babbled, voice cracking with every syllable as sweat poured down his temples. “Feel me right there, bumpin’ your little womb—fuck, sugar, y’so tight—I can see myself—”

He panted raggedly, eyes rolling as he stared down, watching the bulge his cock made in your belly every time he drove in deep. His fingertips drifted trembling over the swell, pressing lightly so he could feel himself sliding in and out under your skin.

“Holy… shit, darlin’, look… look how y’take me—s-so fuckin’ perfect—m’dick’s all the way in your fuckin’ guts—”

He slammed forward again, eyes wild, and you choked on a sob as the rounded shape in your belly shifted under his palm.

“Fuck—fuck, I wanna—wanna breed you so bad—” His voice rose into a panicked, high-pitched whine. “Darlin’, I can’t—I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it—fillin’ you up, makin’ you so fuckin’ full—gonna put a baby in you, swear t’God—gonna make you mine forever—”

“Remmick—” your voice wavered, another moan catching as he bottomed out again. “Please… keep going… don’t stop—”

He let out a sob, hips bucking so hard the bed rattled. “Y… y’mean it? Y’want me t’fuck a baby in ya, sugar? Oh fuck—fuck, I’d take care of ya—swear I would—”

He was rambling now, words tumbling out in frantic, broken gasps as he hammered into you with quick, shallow thrusts that battered your cunt with each snap of his hips.

“Keep ya safe—keep ya fed—ya’d never have t’lift a finger—just wanna see you round, so round with my kid—so fuckin’ pretty—wanna see y’belly swellin’ up again and again—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, voice breaking into high, helpless cries as he fucked you deeper, the shape of him shifting inside your belly with each ruthless stroke.

“Shit—shit—y’take me so good—fuck, I’ll make ya my wife a thousand times over—make sure nobody ever takes ya away—gonna breed you, darlin’, fuckin’ breed you—”

“Remmick,” you gasped, your hands flying to his cheeks as he pounded into you. “Yes—yes, I want it—want you to fill me up—want your baby, Remmick—”

“Oh God—oh fuck—thank ya, darlin’—thank ya—fuck, I’m—I’m gonna—”

He barely got the words out before his hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his entire body went rigid above you.

You felt it—a hot, gushing flood as he spilled inside you, cock jerking and pulsing so hard it sent shuddering ripples through your walls. The heat of it bloomed deep in your belly, thick and heavy, and the pressure made you sob out a choked cry as your own orgasm crashed into you like a tidal wave.

“Remmick—!”

But he was gone.

With a strangled groan, he lunged for your throat, fangs glinting in the lamplight, and sank them deep into the soft flesh where your neck met your shoulder.

Pain flashed white-hot for half a second—sharp, searing—but it melted almost instantly into a dizzy, swirling heat that spiraled straight down to your core.

You clenched around him so hard you felt him twitch inside you again, and his growl vibrated against your skin as he drank deep, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of your blood in greedy gulps.

He stayed completely bottomed out the whole time, hips grinding forward in tiny, helpless thrusts as his cock kept spurting warm ropes of come deep inside you, each pulse making your walls flutter and squeeze even tighter around him.

His moans were muffled against your throat, wet and broken, slick noises rising as blood and drool spilled from around his lips, sliding hot down your collarbones.

“Mine… mine… mine—” he babbled, voice muffled around the seal of your skin. “Fuck… fuck, sweetheart, I love ya—love ya so fuckin’ much—oh God, y’so good to me—so good—”

You could feel the drag of his tongue lapping at the wound between swallows, the sucking pull of his mouth matching every ripple of pleasure still tearing through your body.

And still he kept moving inside you, grinding deep, his cock so thick and swollen you could feel it pressing up against you with each tiny push, still leaking warmth into you.

“Was I good?” he whimpered suddenly, pulling his fangs free just long enough to speak, lips slick and red with your blood. His voice cracked, high and terrified: “T-tell me I was good, darlin’… please… did I… did I make y’feel good…?”

Your vision was swimming, but you forced your trembling hands up to cradle his face, dragging him down for a bloody, open-mouthed kiss that tasted like iron and slick and saliva and something else uniquely him.

And Remmick whimpered into your mouth, still moving in tiny, desperate thrusts, his hips pressing close as though he couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

He stayed pinned there, trembling, burying his face against your neck as he breathed raggedly, each exhale hot and damp on your skin. His cock pulsed inside you one last time—and then, finally, he went soft, the relentless tension easing from his muscles as his weight slumped heavier onto yours.

“Fuck… fuck, darlin’, m’sorry,” he gasped, pressing frantic kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, your swollen lips. “I got carried away—shouldn't've been so rough—Christ, I couldn’t stop, ya were just—just so fuckin’ sweet—”

He tried to pull out carefully, but the moment he slipped free, a hot gush of his come spilled from you, and you let out a sharp, choked whimper.

“Oh, no—no—I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—” His hands flew to your cheeks, eyes wide and panicked, blood still drying on his lips. “I didn’t mean t’hurt ya—God, I should’ve gone slower—I—I—”

You shushed him with a weak little smile, pressing your fingers to his lips before he could spiral further.

“Remmick,” you croaked, your voice hoarse from screaming his name, “just… go get the bath ready.”

He stared at you as though he couldn’t quite believe you weren’t upset with him.

“Y… y’sure?”

“Bath, Remmick.”

A flush climbed his throat, and he swallowed hard, pressing one last shaky kiss to your temple before scrambling off the bed on unsteady legs.

“Y-yes, ma’am—right away…”

You lay there for a moment, utterly wrecked, the sheets beneath you soaked through with sweat and slick and the lingering spill of his release. The ceiling spun a little as you exhaled, your pulse still thrumming gently in your ears, a tender fluttering between your thighs where he’d been buried so deep you could still feel the ghost of him inside you.

From the bathroom, you could hear water running, the sharp hiss of the faucet and Remmick’s quiet voice as he murmured to himself—probably panicking about water temperature and lavender oil and whether he’d scrubbed the tub well enough.

And for the first time all day, you let your mind drift, feeling the sweat cooling on your skin, your body limp and spent.

A laugh—small, incredulous—bubbled up in your chest, surprising even you.

Because the ache that had driven you half out of your mind, that clawing, endless heat that made you beg for his touch, was gone.

Utterly, blissfully gone.

And you couldn’t help but laugh again as you whispered into the empty room.

“Guess that did the trick.”

[seasidefallenangel]

being fixated to you — that is the problem

they're so in love with you, but you just don't seem to get it ft. riddle rosehearts, jamil viper

notes: fluff, reader can't read between the lines, was playing amnesia and shin's whole "wanting to be seen as more than a little brother" thing... mhhhm

༄ riddle rosehearts:

napkins perfectly folded, pink flamingos elegantly roaming the lawn, hours spent practicing a tart recipe that you were sure to praise riddle for -

… instead replaced with you cooing at him like he’s some child.

“you’re so cute, rids!” you grin while pinching his cheek. if you were less close with him, you’d assume the cherry red of his face was from anger and not pure embarrassment. 

quite frankly, he’s at a loss. it couldn’t be more obvious that he loves you to the point of it hurting his chest. every attempt and compliment he gives you, earnest confessions of attraction, are simply met with laughs and something along the lines of him being, “like a cute, younger brother.”

it was mortifying.

setting his teacup on its plate, he grips the handle just a bit too tightly as his head hangs down. you’re about to ask if he’s okay when he mutters, “... is that really all you see me as?”

his hands slam on the arms of your chair and he leans in, eyes intense and expression deadly serious. it’s not as if riddle is a generally goofy person, but the sudden shift from your casual meet-up is a bit jarring.

“why do you refuse to take me seriously? am i not enough of a man for you?” he asks with desperation in his voice.

you’re taken aback at how earnestly he says it. there’s no hesitation nor even a hint of dishonesty in his words. such a blunt confession style isn’t really within his personality, but sevens is he tired of giving hints and pseudo-admissions of his unwavering devotion to you. 

“would you consider, even just once, that i truly have an interest in you?” he says, leaning in so close you would think he’s about to kiss you. he’d never do such a thing without explicit consent from you, but the thought of it is exhilarating. 

testing the waters, you offer him a teasing grin in response, boldly stating, “will you kiss me if i do?”

he freezes at your words, the severity of the situation sinking in - realizing just how much he’s invading your personal space. his typical red face is now a much softer shade of pink ; cuter, even. 

as the full weight of his actions invades every section of his brain, he opts to just mumble, “... maybe later,” before sitting back down and stewing in his own humiliation.

༄ jamil viper:

“you’re making a mess,” jamil chides you lightly, tenderly swiping a napkin across your cheek to clean the remnants of the dolma he made you for dinner. it was rare for scarabia’s dining hall to be deserted so early in the night, but you were grateful for a more peaceful setting than usual. (he told the entire dorm he’ll stick laxatives in every meal for the next month if a single one of them bothered you both tonight. none of them wanted to find out if he meant it.)

jamil’s eyes are trained on you while you lift the fork for another bite and a sigh follows him as more of the glaze drips down your mouth. he presses the napkin to you once more and quietly admonishes, “where would you be without me?”

you swallow and playfully poke his nose while responding, “lost, probably. you’re like a reliable baby brother, y’know?”

the smile on his face drops in an instant and he clenches his teeth, shutting his eyes for a few moments. the reaction is so unexpected that you’re unsure of how to even follow up until he speaks. “you’re an absolute fool.”

he slowly stands, placing his hands on the table with you in between them. his legs slot against your own and you can feel the wood from the table’s edge pressing into your back, but the pain doesn’t register as he gets closer to you.

“between you and kalim,” he says while holding your jaw between his thumb and pointer finger, “i must have a penchant for attracting idiots to my side. do you honestly think all of this was done simply in good faith and nothing else?”

to his credit, he has a point. jamil isn’t exactly a selfless person (not by choice, anyway) but he’s not easy to read either. if there was some kind of hidden intent, you sure as hell weren’t gonna find it.

“humor me for a moment,” comes his low voice while his forehead rests against yours. “if that’s all i’ll ever be to you, if you’ll never give me the grace of being viewed as a true suitor for your hand, then tell me now so i can stop wasting my time on inevitable failure.”

a proper answer evades you completely. jamil has never struck you as someone with romantic interest in anything, nevermind you specifically  — but that doesn’t mean you’re against being in a relationship with him.

“what if i do see you in that way, then?” you ask with a growing grin, curious to see how far this adrenaline rush will take him. 

when his lips eagerly descend onto yours, his thumb moving to press against the junction of your throat, you find out how tough it is to swallow your own words.

[goldenstring6123]

HIIIYAAAYAYA I LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH AND I LOOK FORWARD TO EVERY SINGLE PIECE YOU RELEASE!!! YOU HAVE ME CHECKING YOUR PAGE 24/7 IM OBSESSEDDD 🫦🫦 ANYWHO ignore my fawning but how do you think the lads boys would react to a suuuuper clingy gf??? idk but if i were mc i would NOT be leaving their side and would literally be glued onto their body like mc is a strong soldier for resisting (especially rafayel my HUSBAND 😩) literally wanna just curl up in their lap and carve myself into their ribcage so they can never escape from me tehe. ALSOOO U DON’T GOTTA RESPOND IF UR BUSY OR UNCOMFY!!!! JUST KNOW I LOVE YOU AND YOUR DELICIOUS WRITING 🫶🫶

Lnds: Sticky little lover

Warning: vaguely suggestive, mentions of hickeys, fem!reader, clingy!reader, reader may or may not be the mc, there might be spelling mistakes, I haven't proofread yet.

Author's note: Awieee thank u sm pookie! I understand the feeling of wanting to latch onto the LIs~

Zayne:

Zayne wakes up with you on his chest, your leg over his crotch, and your arm across his stomach. To him, you were like a weighted stuffed toy and a weighted blanket, all at the same time. He wasn't complaining; maybe it was an excuse to stay in bed for another half an hour.

The bathroom is big enough for the two of you, with two wash basins, a separate shower, and a bathtub. There are three bathrooms in the house, but you always choose the one he uses. He's complained once, but you said you didn't like the interior design of the others. Side by side, you brush your teeth and comb your hair while he shaves and flosses. If you wake up earlier than usual, maybe he'll let you moisturize and exfoliate his face. It's no surprise Zayne leaves the bathroom door open for you. It's just normal for both of you to cross paths in the large bathroom.

When he leaves for work, you never miss a day to kiss his nose and give him a quick peck. You embrace him with two arms, but he hugs you back with one, the other hand holding his bag. You don't mind.

Your message gallery is filled with pictures of your mundane life: a snapshot of a book you're reading, the new coffee you tried, the little teacup Maltese that reminded you of him. Even though he's busy, he always finds time to react, and if he doesn't, he brings up the picture when you pick him up at the end of the day. He never forgets.

Calm days are spent in each other's presence. You always cling to him in one way or another. While he's reading a book, your feet are on his lap, and his fingers unknowingly knead your ankles. While watching a movie, your shoulders touch, and your hands are intertwined. When you react to the film, his hand, still holding yours, follows your movements.

Dates are always fun. It doesn't matter where you go or what you do as long as Zayne's in your company. Cafe dates are cute, but Zayne always calls you out for staring at him with a weird look in your eyes—you were admiring him. Whenever you walk, you cling to him, wrapping yourself around his forearm while playfully weighing him down. He stumbles for a second but smiles.

You love leaving hickeys on him, even bite marks if he allows, but the rule is never above the collar of his shirt. You oblige 97% of the time. The other 3%, you sneak in a light hickey that passes off as a mosquito bite, just peeking through the collar of his dress shirt. Sometimes, there's one behind his ear, barely visible. He never knows, but the doctors and patients at the hospital do.

When you're apart, you always call him and go about your day. At night, you video call and try to stay awake, only to snooze off. Zayne chuckles at your attempts to wash the tiredness away, but sometimes, he falls asleep with you. In the morning, both of your phones end up overheating and out of battery.

Zayne loves your company, to others it may seem trouble some but with you, it was adorable. It's through your clingyness that he experiences feelings he never once did before, and those little things always brighten his day. You actions with him makes him feel more loved and he knows he has a hard time expressing them but with you around, it had become more and more easier.

Rafayel:

They say opposites attract, but you and Rafayel are the universal exception.

Rafayel doesn't like it when you're late. Even for a home-date, he fusses about being left alone too long and feeling abandoned. You laugh at his whining over text and enter his door. When he sees you, he jumps off the couch and pouts, "Finally, it took you long enough."

You're like magnets to each other. Wherever one goes, the other follows. If you're cooking ramen in the kitchen, Rafayel sneaks behind you, hugging your back and sniffing your hair. If he's watering flowers in the greenhouse, you sit nearby and watch a ladybug on a leaf. If he's painting, you're reading on a nearby couch. Rafayel's residence is too big for one person but just enough for two.

Rafayel whines when you do something without him, especially if it's something he wants to do. You once took a flower arrangement class without him, and he sulked, "Wow, you didn't even think to tell me? I wanted to do that with you." Even watching movies is hard because you need to pause and wait for him whenever he leaves the room. One time, you finished a mystery series without him, and he ate the tiramisu you were saving for dessert in revenge.

Matching clothes is a thing. He avoids tacky prints but opts for complementary outfits. Because of this, Rafayel buys clothes with you in mind, often choosing items with a feminine counterpart. His shoe closet and yours are practically the same, and you don't complain because Rafayel has good fashion taste.

You love cute matching items. You once bought a two-piece mug set with a heart design, and he took the other one without you knowing. He also took a keychain from your collection, matching the one you have in your wallet.

"Are you tired of me now?" he asks when you keep your distance, avoiding a hug. It's the middle of summer, and the AC is broken. You reek of sweat, and the last thing you want is to be touched. You sigh and pat his back, "After I take a bath, I'll give you all the hugs you want."

He asks about your plans every morning, almost as a ritual. You've gotten used to replying while getting ready. If both schedules permit, he joins you for grocery runs, laundry, or whatever mundane tasks you have. You make good use of him, letting him carry the bags even if you could do it yourself.

When Rafayel is at an exhibit, you bombard him with texts: jokes, articles, or random thoughts. He replies quickly, hiding from the audience, bored out of his mind. In return, he sends you pictures of his artwork, which you threaten to sell online as digital files. He blocks you for a good five minutes.

You're each other's wallpaper. Surprisingly, Rafayel asked to do it. You spent hours finding the perfect pose and recreating trending ones. Rafayel insisted on multiple retakes.

You were rafayel's missing piece. To him, you were the only thing that he has ever wanted in his life. He loved you dearly and a part of him was terrified that you don't reciprocate the same level of love as he does to you; but lo and behold, fate has given him a blessing after all those years of loneliness. His heart swoons at the very sight of your actions. You were clingy, that was factually true but the same goes for him. Nothing makes him more fulfilled than seeing you both think and love in the same wavelength.

Sylus:

His base has become your home. On days off, you often find yourself in one of three rooms: his bedroom, where you lie on his bed, tapping away on your phone or laptop; his kitchen, where the chef cooks whatever you want in exchange for listening to his stories from his little village; or the lobby, where Luke and Kieran update you on the most boring things in the building. Sylus doesn't mind at all; it's less work for Mephisto, and he can keep an eye on you.

Sylus's sleep schedule is the same as that of those in Linkon City. His days begin in the evenings, often leaving you lying in the big bed alone. Sylus is nearby or at his desk if he's not out on the streets. You like hugging his pillow because it smells like his 3-in-1 shampoo. If he's out on late-night trips, you selfishly steal his shirt from the closet, wear it on the pillow, and hug that to sleep, forcing yourself to be satisfied with what you got.

His lap is your chair. It doesn't matter where he's sitting; you always find yourself on him. Sylus sometimes complains about his thighs going numb, but when you leave, he yanks you back, positioning you between his legs, with your butt on the chair instead of his thigh. He goes back to his work as if nothing happened, occasionally sparing you a kiss on the forehead or rubbing his face against yours. If not, you shower his chest and neck with light pecks before snuggling into the crook of his neck.

His biceps are nice to the touch. On dates to the city, while waiting in line, you squeeze his muscles for entertainment, even through his thick leather jacket. He flexes for a minute before relaxing, amused at how easily you entertain yourself.

The boyfriend shirt phenomenon is common. You don't leave the base wearing his clothes, but you certainly walk around the area in them. Whether a turtleneck, a black blouse, or just a plain shirt, you're always wearing his clothes, even in his company.

You're an eccentric one, thats for sure. Sylus never truly got ahold of how you managed to change from being so distant to practically being glued to him. It was like he partnered up with a whole new different person. He wasn't complaining at all if anything, he found it admirable and a part of him was quietly relieved that time did all the adjusting between you and him. Despite being a bit too fussy at times, he'd be more than willing to compromise if that's what makes you happy.

Xavier:

You always steal his hoodies. They're big, soft, and smell like him, so you have two or three at home. Xavier scratches his head when he notices bare hangers in his closet. When you visit, he finally sees what's missing. No matter how many hoodies and jackets he buys for you, you always get your hands on his, almost becoming a problem. Now, he rotates his jackets, giving them to you on schedule.

Xavier's hair is too soft to be human. When he's on your lap, you massage his scalp and fidget with the ends of his silver hair. If you have hair elastics and a cute clip nearby, he ends up with his hair tied up or braided. He needs your help to take it off because it's too painful for him to do alone. Oops?

You prefer sitting beside him rather than across from him at a table. He didn't understand at first because he wanted to face you when eating. But when he's beside you, he slowly gets it. You like touching him one way or another. You enjoy your elbows touching or your thighs grazing each other. It's also convenient to lean slightly and rest your head on his shoulder.

Xavier loves bathing with you. The bathtub in his apartment is big enough for both. He likes the smell of your bath bombs and is sometimes fascinated by the toys or mini jewelry inside. Your back always presses against him, and he willingly holds you. On more stressful days, you light candles and open some cheap wine to enjoy in rose-covered water.

He's riddled with bite marks, even when not having sex. He's dozing off when you suddenly find his arm or leg appetizing. He jolts awake and tries to shake your grip, but it's too tight. When you've had enough, he stares at your work of art and wipes his saliva-coated limb. You grin, watching him wipe your fluids. Because of the frequency, he rarely lets his consciousness drift away when his bare arms and legs are around you.

When bathing alone, you use his shampoo instead of yours. It's surprising he doesn't use all-in-one shampoo and body wash; he uses baby shampoo. When confronted, he shrugs, saying it does the job, and recalls you like playing with his hair. His perfume and powder are also for babies.

In the eyes of Xavier, you were adorable even if your actions were questionable. You were cute, and he never once thought that your actions were a burden or suffocating. The things you do, the way you speak they were all precious in his eyes and Xavier understands that this was you way of showing your love for him. Because of that, he tolerates you every time you bite him.

Your gallery is full of his pictures. Candid photos you secretly take daily. Your favorite is when his cheeks are full of food, resembling a hamster. You take pictures when he's asleep, using you as a pillow. Sometimes, you're both looking at the camera, making random faces.

Author footnotes: I'm sorry if these were pretty general. I'm not the clingy type so I don't know how these type of people act but I wrote it with the things I observed from films and tiktok lol

Layout by me, using Canva premium | Do not repost |

[zorosangell]

Imagine Katakuri sitting still while his daughters cover him in glitter, nail polish, and hair clips 🎀 Just imagine him having a sweet little bonding moment with his girls

⛥ﾟ・。 fairytale

SECRET BONUS/prequel to pocus -- katakuri is busy playing tea party with his daughters when his two sons attempt to party crash—with a twist. luckily, sir dad is here to save the day.

cw: fluff, comfort, dad katakuri, katakuri is katakuri, the girls are adorable, he is thirty-five, you are thirty-four, soda is eleven, cocoa is eight, the twins are four, chai is two,

"So, tell me, Sir Dad, how goes your work in the Lollipop Court?" Cocoa asked in a British accent, tipping her nose in the air. "I heard you're working on a tough case."

Your large, floppy sun hat—which was entirely too big—sat slightly crooked on her head, shading her face as she took a sip out of her empty, plastic tea cup.

Unsure of what to say, Katakuri hesitated a moment, quickly wracking his brain for something.

He had no idea he worked in the Lollipop Court, much less was currently on a case.

Hell, he didn't even know how Cocoa knew what a court case was.

"It goes... well..." he answered, unsure, as he raised a brow, his two, large fingers completely dwarfing the tiny teacup in their grasp.

"Daddy!" Latte loudly whispered, stealing his attention as she leaned over from her seat next to him, shielding her mouth from her older sister. "You gotta stick your pinky out! S'the tea party rules!"

Glancing down at his hand, he quickly corrected himself, before turning back to her.

"My mistake."

Promptly, Cocoa nodded, before turning to her younger sister.

"Lady Latte, how goes your fashion business?" she asked, fake eating a toy scone. "I must say, I loved your fashion show."

"It goes soooo good!" Latte grinned, her accent coming off more Valley Girl than British. "I just got finished making a new skirt! Look!"

She motioned toward her father, who was sitting in a chair entirely too small for him, his leather-clad knees pressed firmly against his bare chest.

Around his large waist sat an equally large, sparkly, pink tutu, which the young girl had actually managed to sew herself—with your assistance, of course.

"His hair! I did Sir Dad's hair!" Frappe chimed in, excitedly, pointing toward his spiky, pink hair, which was now haphazardly filled with all sorts of flowery clips and blows.

Proudly, Cocoa nodded, taking another "sip" of her tea.

"And, of course, I did a splendid job on his makeup."

Together, the girls' gazes shifted toward his face, where his cheeks were adorned with large, circular blotches of blush and matching pink eye shadow.

His usual neutral expression made him look like he'd rather be anywhere but there, but the girls knew their father and knew that wasn't what he meant by it at all.

"Fantastic jobs, everybody! Let's toast!" Cocoa cheered.

"Yeah!" Frappe and Latte agreed, raising their cups in the air.

But, for a moment, the girls paused, quickly realizing that none of them knew how to actually toast.

"Uhhh... nice work?" Cocoa suggested, unsure.

"Yeah, nice work!" the twins played along.

The four of them happily clinked their glasses together—Katakuri included—promptly taking a large sip.

Expectantly, Latte watched as her father downed his tea, waiting for his commentary.

"Whaddya think, Daddy? Do ya like it?" she whispered, excited. "I made it myself!"

Nodding, he leaned over, giving her soft head pats.

"It's delicious, munchkin," he complimented, heart warming when her eyes turned starry. "You did a very good job."

Cocoa and Frappe hummed in agreement, each pretending to take a bite out of a toy cucumber sandwich.

"I—"

Instantly, Katakuri's haki kicked in, showing him a rather tumultuous future.

'Oh, no.'

"RAH!" Soda exclaimed, bursting into the girls' room with a flourish, beginning the assault on his sisters with his two water guns. "TIME TO CRASH!"

"EEEEEEK!" the girls squealed, putting up their hands in defense as their older brother began to soak them.

Glancing around the room, the boy's eyes went wide when they set sights on his father, all princess-ified.

"Jeez! What the hell did you guys do to Dad?!" he grimaced, genuinely concerned.

"Hey! Sir Dad looks great!" Latte defended with a pout.

"Soda! Cut it out! You're ruining our tea party!" Cocoa whined, brows furrowed as she glared at him.

"And my hair!" Frappe chimed.

"And my dresses!" Latte added.

"Pssh! You call this a party?" he scoffed, a devilish grin curling on his lips. "What kinda crummy party has you sit down the whole time?"

"A tea party!" they all shouted together. "And we're not gonna let you ruin ours!"

With a knowing smirk, Cocoa turned to her younger sisters.

"Girls! Code Tea Cake!" she called out.

Confused, Katakuri raised a brow, crossing his arms over his chest.

'Code... Tea Cake?'

"Yeah!" the twins exclaimed, promptly flipping over the table as a shield and snatching up their own personalized BB guns from the underside.

"Let's go! Return fire!"

Without hesitation, each of the them began shooting back at their brother, raining a hail of BB pellets in an attempt to ward him off.

"ACK! HEY, NO FAIR!" he exclaimed, ducking behind a huge stuffed bear. "I'M USING WATER! YOU GUYS ARE USING BULLETS!"

"This is what you get for wetting my dress, ya big jerk!" Frappe called, not letting up.

"Get from behind, Mr. Fuzzykins, you coward!" Cocoa barked. "Don't take him down with you!"

Katakuri watched with a certain pang of pride—and a bit of amusement—as his girls defended themselves quite well, having each other's backs without question, and not running off crying like most girls their age would.

They were prepared for an assault—with both formation and weapons—and fearless in their resolve.

It made him hopeful for the strong, independent women they would grow up to be, all thanks to yours and his tutelage.

"ABORT! ABORT! PHASE ONE IS A FAILURE! TIME FOR PHASE TWO!" Soda shouted into his toy walkie-talkie. "CHAI, YOU'RE UP! BRING IN THE SECRET WEAPON!"

Confused, the girls turned to each other, raising a brow.

"Secret weapon?"

Together, they all watched with anticipation as small footsteps began to pad toward the door, before their youngest brother popped out from behind it.

"Weapon!" Chai giggled, toddling into the room as he held the handle of a jump rope, the other end of it seeming to be attached to something.

Katakuri's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

'What the—?'

"Someone help me!" you cried—for pretend, of course—as your youngest son "dragged" you into the room. "I've been captured!"

You were tied up by the rest of the rope, clad in a regal play-gown and toy crown.

"Oh, no! They got Queen Mommy!" the girls exclaimed, their smiles and giggles quite the contrast from their tone.

Play time was getting good.

At the sight, Katakuri let out a small chuckle, brow raising with intrigue.

Sure, he was nothing but a lowly worker in the Lollipop Court, but he had to say... the queen was quite the looker.

"Hold your fire!" Cocoa ordered, pushing down her sister's guns. "We gotta break her free!"

"But Soda's gonna spray us again!" Frappe glared, blowing raspberry at her brother as he peeked from behind the bear, dragging down his eyelid and sticking out his tongue.

"Sir Daddy! You have to save Queen Mommy!" Latte ran up to her father, frantically tugging at his tutu as she giggled. "Hurry!"

Raising a brow, he fought off a smirk, carefully placing his teacup on the ground.

"I thought I was a lawyer in the Lollipop Court?" he asked, feigning confusion.

"Yeah, well, you're a knight, too! Sir Daddy, remember?" she clarified.

"Ohhh, I see," he nodded, slowly standing from his seat. "Then let me get to work."

Quickly, he pulled off his tutu, wiping off the makeup on the back of his arm before shaking out the clips in his hair, returning to his usual, imposing self.

"Hey, no fair! You guys have Dad on your side!" Soda complained, brows furrowed.

"Sucks to suck, ya big jerk!" Cocoa taunted, amused.

"Quick! Chai! Knock her out and retreat!" Soda ordered, getting ready to run away.

Slowly, the toddler turned to his mother, balling up his tiny fist before softly tapping it against her leg.

"Out!" he babbled with a grin.

At his touch, you pretended to flinch, slowly falling backwards.

"Oh, no! I'm hit!"

"Save her, Daddy!" the girls squealed, happily, as they hugged each other.

"RUN, CHAI!"

In an instant, Katakuri was already there, capturing Soda and Chai before swooping in to catch you, bridal-style.

"Yay! He did it!" the girls cheered, jumping up and down.

"Dang it! That's is cheating!" Soda exclaimed, struggling against the jump rope he and Chai were tied up in.

"Yay! Dada!" the smaller boy cheered along.

"No, Chai... no yay."

"Wait! It looks like she's asleep!" Cocoa called out, realizing you had yet to "wake up".

"Oh, no! She's in a deep sleep!" Frappe snickered, turning to her twin. "You know what that means..."

"True love's kiss!" Latte squealed, clasping her hands together. "Sir Daddy! You have to break the spell!"

Disgusted, Soda's eyes bulged out his sockets, as if the idea was utterly absurd.

"No way! Gross!" he scoffed. "Don't do that here!"

Carefully, Katakuri cradled your neck, slightly lifting your head as he examined your face.

You were his queen, his personal princess just waiting to be saved.

Did he dare live out the cliche?

Thinking back on the fairy tales he read as a boy, he'd be a liar if he said he didn't think about being the handsome prince at least once.

But now, he truly was; and you were his fair maiden.

So, yes, he did dare.

Leaning down, he carefully pressed his lips against yours, wary of his sharp teeth at the odd angle as his grip on you shifted to one that held you like a dip.

You were warm and soft, and a sensation he'd missed in the past few hours of playtime.

"Awww!" the girls sighed, dreamily. "How romantic!"

"Barf!" Soda gagged, severely grossed out. "Cut it out! I don't need to see that!"

"Barf!" Chai mimicked, honestly unaware of what was going on.

"Hey, don't be a jerk, you two!" Cocoa scolded, brows furrowed as she rested her hands on her hips.

Slowly, your eyes fluttered open, greeted by the sight of your handsome husband.

You had been saved, and—as per usual—it was by the man you cherished so dearly.

"My, my, Sir Dad... what handsome teeth you have," you teased, arms wrapping around his neck

He let out a faint chuckle, amused, before deciding to play along.

Discreetly, his hand trailed upward to hold your thigh, his other sliding over to grasp the small of your back as he leaned down to whisper in your ear, making sure he was out of earshot of the kids.

"All the better to eat you with, my dear."

[rubiedmoon]

Politeness Optional

Everyone at Hogwarts knew who YN YLN was. You couldn’t not know her.

Smartest witch in her year—no contest. Maybe even the smartest in the whole castle, if Professor Flitwick’s proud twinkle had anything to say about it. A Ravenclaw through and through, with a quick wit, sharper mind, and the kind of effortless charm that made her as well-liked in the common room as she was respected in the classroom.

Even the Slytherins nodded in respect when she passed—some of them even smiled, which was rare enough to be considered an event in itself.

But if you asked Fred Weasley—prankster, troublemaker, eternal thorn in Filch’s side—he’d tell you something else entirely.

YN YLN? That was his best friend.

That was the part that made Fred grin the widest: not the detentions, not the fame, not even the perfect test scores she racked up without breaking a sweat. It was the way that, when all the noise faded, she always saved a seat for him in the library, or let him drag her into the kitchens at midnight for secret butterbeer raids, or sat beside him in the stands at Quidditch matches—nose in a book but always there.

Today was one of those days. The Quidditch pitch was empty, save for Fred soaring lazily in the air, bat in hand, while YN sat on a blanket spread across the grass, parchment in her lap, quill scratching steadily while her Potions book lay off to the side just within her eyesight.

“Oi!” Fred shouted, circling around and swooping low. “You ever look up from that thing, YLN?”

Without looking up, she replied evenly, “Fred, I am not the one who needs to practice my aim. One more swing like that and you will have hit Harry in the back of the head with the Bludger instead of towards the other team.”

Fred grinned. “Harsh. And here I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be polite.”

YN’s quill paused. She tilted her head just enough to meet his gaze—eyes bright, mouth twitching at the corner.

“We’re supposed to be of a knowing mind, Fred. Politeness is purely optional.”

Fred laughed, the sound echoing across the pitch. He loved this. Loved her—not like George always teased him about, but in that rare, golden way when you know someone’s got your back, no matter what. In a castle full of rivalries and house points and drama, YN was Fred’s constant.

After a few more loops around the sky, Fred touched down and flopped onto the blanket beside her, broom tossed carelessly aside.

“You do know,” he said, cheek propped on one hand, “with all the knowledge you have seemingly stored within the endless halls of your brain, you could really rule the world if you wanted.”

YN glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “World domination is far too time-consuming. I have exams.”

Fred snorted. “See? That’s why we’re friends. You’ve got the brains. I’ve got the charm.”

This time, her smile bloomed for real—warm, soft, the kind that not many got to see.

“And that is to mean… what exactly?” she questioned playfully.

“Well, we’re unstoppable, of course.”

YN huffed out a laugh and shook her head, quill poised over her parchment again. “Unstoppable,” she echoed. “Fred Weasley, you can barely make it through one week without a detention.”

He gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest like she’d struck him. “How dare you! I’ll have you know that I’ve gone two full weeks without one.”

“That’s because you were in the Hospital Wing with a cursed nose-biting teacup,” she pointed out without missing a beat.

Fred grinned, entirely unbothered. “Details, details.”

YN returned to her notes, but the familiar warmth of his presence at her side tugged at her focus. It always did. No matter how lofty her academic ambitions were, somehow Fred Weasley always had a way of pulling her back down to earth—and reminding her to actually enjoy it once in a while.

“Oi,” he said after a pause, softer this time, voice lacking its usual teasing lilt. “You’ve been at that for hours, YNN. Even your notes are starting to look tired.”

She blinked, glancing down at the parchment. He wasn’t wrong. Her usual elegant script had started to slope, and she’d copied the same potion ingredient twice without noticing.

With a sigh, she set her quill aside. “Suppose I lost track of time.”

Fred nudged her shoulder lightly with his own. “Come on, then. One break won’t kill you. Besides, you promised me a game of Exploding Snap, remember?”

YN gave him a sideways glance. “I believe you promised me you wouldn’t cheat this time.”

His grin turned devilish. “I would never.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Alright, maybe sometimes,” Fred admitted, laughing. “But not today. Today, it’s a fair match. Honest Weasley honor.”

She snorted. “Is that a thing?”

“Absolutely,” Fred said with a wink, already rummaging in his bag for the battered deck of cards. “But if it’ll make you feel better, you can shuffle.”

YN shook her head again and leaned back on the blanket, eyes tilting up toward the endless stretch of sky. The sun was warm on her face, the air filled with the faint scent of grass and broom polish.

These were the moments no one saw—the quiet ones. No pranks, no tests, no pressure. Just her and Fred, two friends beneath the blue sky.

[sixeyesonathiel]

pt. 3 of kid satoru and shikigami reader | fluff & humor | pt. 1 , 2 |

you are curled up on the windowsill of the eastern corridor, chewing the corner of your plush rabbit with such concentrated fury that a small thread is starting to unravel. a late afternoon breeze rustles the paper shoji screens, carrying with it the scent of pine and faint incense from the main hall. the world outside is golden, warm with the sun beginning to dip—but none of it matters. someone has wronged you.

“what’s up with her?” satoru’s voice floats down the hall, half-laughing, half-suspicious. he’s peeking in through the doorway, one eyebrow raised, arms tucked behind his head in a lazy stretch. his yukata sleeve slides down slightly, revealing a pale wrist and a faint ink stain. he looks freshly scolded, hair still tousled from a midday nap.

one of the younger maids scurries by, her tray rattling slightly. she glances at you, then leans in with a hushed voice. “i think she overheard the other servants talking about how master satoru might be arranged to marry a noble girl... someday.”

he blinks, lowering his arms. “huh?”

“they said she’d be from a good family,” the maid whispers. “proper. elegant. someone with… tea hands.”

satoru squints. “tea hands?”

“you know,” she whispers, gesturing vaguely, “delicate fingers. the kind that hold teacups like they’re sacred.”

he slowly turns back to you. you're biting the rabbit’s ear now. savagely. like it's the noble girl herself, like she personally insulted your lineage.

he slides the paper door open with a faint hiss. “hey. you good?”

you don’t look at him. you shift your weight, deliberately angling your shoulder away.

“you’re chewing that thing like it owes you money.”

silence. not even a twitch.

he pads closer and crouches, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “what happened? did someone scold you again? was it the scary old lady with the mole? or—oh no—did she try to make you eat pickled daikon again?”

you turn your head slowly, face eerily blank. unsettlingly blank.

“you’re going to marry a noble girl.”

satoru blinks. “what?”

“they said it. she’s going to have manners. and posture. and tea hands.” you spit the last word like a curse. “they said you’ll forget about me.”

he stares at you for a beat, then snorts.

“wait. that’s what this is about?”

you bristle. your grip on the rabbit tightens. its one remaining button eye stares mournfully at the wall.

“you didn’t say no,” you say flatly.

“i didn’t even know! how could i say anything?”

“but you didn’t say no.”

he holds up both hands like he's surrendering. his sleeves droop comically. “okay, okay. breathe. deep breath. let go of the rabbit.”

you clutch it tighter. your brow twitches.

he exhales and settles beside you, the floor creaking slightly under his weight. after a pause, he leans his head on your shoulder, his white hair brushing your cheek.

“i don’t wanna marry some noble girl. sounds boring.”

“you haven’t seen her. what if she’s pretty.”

he turns his head slightly. from this close, you can see the pale shimmer of his eyes, sharp and clear. he blinks, then says, “you’re pretty. so?”

you freeze.

then, with an audible poof, your body vanishes in a puff of smoke—fox form overtaking you in a rush of white fur and indignation. satoru coughs as the smoke hits his nose.

“hey! don’t just disappear! i’m trying to be nice here!”

the tiny fox—you—stiffly hops into his lap, fur bristled, head turned away. your nose is scrunched like you’ve inhaled something sour.

he starts stroking your head gently, fingers moving between your ears. “you’re mad jealous. i didn’t even know you knew what marriage was.”

you let out a tiny, scandalized yip.

“ohh, that’s it. you think someone’s gonna steal me away, huh?”

before he can tease further, your form shimmers and shifts. you reappear in human form, sprawled in his lap, knees on either side of his hips. your hands plant firmly on his shoulders, face inches from his.

“i will kill her.”

he chokes on air. “whoa, what happened to manners and grace?!”

“gone,” you hiss. “ruined. she dies.”

satoru bursts into laughter. full-bodied, helpless, warm. his arms wrap loosely around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you’re so clingy,” he grins. “i’m not going anywhere. besides, if anyone wants to marry me, they’ll have to get past you first, right?”

you nod solemnly.

“and your rabbit.”

you raise the mangled plush like a sacred weapon, its bitten ear flopping sideways.

“yeah, i’m terrified,” he chuckles. “quaking. utterly defenseless.”

outside, one of the older maids passes by, pauses. she blinks at the sight of you nose-to-nose with the gojo heir, limbs tangled, rabbit held like a cursed relic. she spins on her heel and disappears down the corridor.

somewhere in the estate, the elders are beginning to scream.

but for now, the room is filled only with the sound of satoru’s quiet laughter and the faint rustle of wind through the pine trees. you stay exactly where you are. victorious.

until—

“i bet tea hands girl doesn’t chew on her rabbit.”

you pause. slowly turn to him.

he’s smirking. cocky. but there’s a glint in his eyes. challenge.

you lean closer, almost nose to nose. “i bet tea hands girl doesn’t get to sit in your lap.”

his smirk twitches. “i bet she doesn’t threaten murder either.”

“i’m multitalented.”

“you’re unhinged.”

“you love it.”

“i hate you,” he grumbles, cheeks red.

“you love me,” you sing, triumphant all over again.

his ears turn pink.

he doesn’t argue.

taglist: @desi-laila

plz comment if you ever want to be tagged for the other parts, i can’t commit to turn this concept into a series due to the amount of my current wips but i will be posting slice of lifeish drabbles from time to time <3

[lowdownlolo]

⋆˚｡⋆୨✧୧˚ stunned silence | george weasley ˚୨✧୧⋆｡˚⋆

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚��𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞?..

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩 𝐢𝐬 𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐇𝐇, 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐅𝐅𝐅 😩

𝐥𝐨 𝐥𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐡𝐢 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬!! 𝐢’𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤!! 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞?! 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥! 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝟓𝟎 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐭𝐟?!❤️💋

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜!!

If someone had told you that George Weasley of all people would one day leave you speechless, you would’ve laughed in their face. You weren’t the type to lose. At anything. Conversations were your arena, and your sharp wit was your greatest weapon. There wasn’t a word, a comeback, or a comment you couldn’t twist in your favor. You prided yourself on it, wielding it like a duelist brandishing a sword.

And George? Well, George Weasley was your most entertaining opponent.

For months, the two of you had danced this ridiculous, endless waltz of banter—one where neither of you led for long before the other stole the spotlight. In truth, it was the highlight of your days. You loved how his eyes lit up when he found a particularly good retort, the challenge in his grin, and the way he matched you beat for beat. It made you feel alive, like someone had finally found a way to keep up with you.

You, of course, would never admit that out loud.

So when you strolled into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes that afternoon, you were armed and ready for the next round.

George spotted you instantly from behind the counter, where he was pretending to reorganize the stack of Nose-Biting Teacups. His head popped up like he’d been waiting for you.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite pest,” he said, flashing you that infuriating, lopsided grin.

“Careful, Georgie,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes in mock warning. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me. Besides, favorite? Aren’t you supposed to play fair and insult all your customers equally?”

“Only the ones who deserve it,” he quipped, leaning casually against the counter as his eyes swept over you. “You, on the other hand, deserve special treatment.”

“Oh? How generous of you,” you replied, rolling your eyes. You walked further into the shop, brushing a hand against one of the displays as though it was far more interesting than him. “I’ll make sure to send you an award for all your hard work, Weasley. Most mediocre banter in the shop.”

George clutched his chest dramatically, pretending to stagger back like you’d actually wounded him. “Mediocre? You wound me, sweetheart.”

“I’m only telling the truth,” you teased, stepping up to the counter until you were standing just across from him.

“And yet you keep coming back,” he shot back smoothly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “What’s that say about you, hmm?”

“That I’m clearly doing charity work for your ego.”

George barked out a laugh, his face lighting up like it always did when you had him cornered. He loved this just as much as you did—you could tell. For all his jokes, there was something else in the way he watched you, in the way his eyes lingered on you when you weren’t speaking, like he enjoyed you, not just the words you threw at him.

“Charity work,” George repeated, grinning as he pushed himself off the counter and rounded it slowly, closing the distance between you. “Now that’s a new one.”

You straightened up slightly, instinctively holding your ground. “It’s the truth. Someone’s got to keep you humble.”

“Is that what this is?” he asked, voice dropping slightly. His tone was light and teasing, but there was something else underneath it. Something you couldn’t quite place yet.

You arched a brow. “Are you about to tell me you enjoy losing to me every day? Because if so, you might need to rethink your life choices.”

George stopped in front of you, just a step closer than was strictly necessary. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of parchment, firewhiskey, and whatever vaguely citrus soap he used.

“Maybe I’ve just been waiting for the right way to win,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t the words that got you—those, you could’ve countered in your sleep—it was the way he said them. Like he’d already decided something. Like he was testing you.

“Win?” you echoed, narrowing your eyes. “You must be delusional if you think you can outmatch me.”

“Oh, I don’t think,” George replied softly, his voice now a teasing whisper, and before you could retort—before you could blink—he leaned in and kissed you.

For the first time in your life, the words died on your tongue.

It wasn’t just the fact that he kissed you—it was how he kissed you. George moved like he’d done this a hundred times in his head, like he knew exactly how to unravel you. His hands found your waist, fingers curling just enough to pull you against him, while his lips pressed gently, almost tentatively, against yours.

Your brain scrambled to catch up. It should’ve been easy to push him away, to laugh it off, to hit him with some clever jab. But you couldn’t. Not when the warmth of his touch sent sparks shooting up your spine. Not when the kiss deepened slightly, his mouth molding to yours like he’d been waiting forever to do this.

By the time he pulled back, you were a mess. You could feel the heat rushing to your face, the rapid hammering of your heart, and the infuriating flutter somewhere in your chest that you refused to name.

George grinned down at you, thoroughly pleased with himself, and it took everything in you not to hex him right there.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “Looks like I’ve finally done it. My sweetheart… speechless.”

You blinked, staring up at him as your mouth opened—and closed—several times. You had nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a single comeback, insult, or witty remark.

George laughed softly, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek. “Merlin, you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

That snapped you out of it.

“I— I am not flustered,” you sputtered, your voice losing the sharp edge you usually wore like armor.

“Oh, you definitely are,” he teased, his grin widening as he leaned in just enough to make your breath catch again. “Blushing and everything. If I’d known kissing you was all it took, I would’ve done it ages ago.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, shoving weakly at his chest.

“And yet, you kissed me back,” George shot back smugly. “Not so sharp now, are you, love?”

“I—”

You wanted to fight back, to put him in his place, but the truth was, you had kissed him back, and you couldn’t deny the way your heart still raced at the memory. He knew it, too. You could see it in the way he looked at you—like he’d won the best prize imaginable.

“Better get used to it, love,” George said, brushing his lips briefly against your forehead before pulling away with that damnable grin. “I’m not done kissing you speechless yet.”

As he walked back to the counter—cool, collected, and smug—you stood there, reeling, staring after him like a complete idiot.

For once in your life, George Weasley had won, and you had no idea how you’d ever recover.

taglist: @georgeplease @kisses4fred @wingyattium @ivyinthesun

[absdoll]

Hi bee:3 requesting for Abby eating out or playing with readers 🐱 with her fingers while reader is playing a game

It's all I've been thinking about lwjeuvesivdsi

hi qt ૮ ˶´ ᵕˋ ˶ა i luv this idea ! ty for requesting 🎀

cw : pervy!abby <3 my beloved ♡ // reader is playing animal crossing new horizons !

“abs! guess who just came to my island?!” you squeal as abby lifts her head from her book to meet your sparkling eyes. “hmm let me guess, the weird looking red dog?” she asks, quite genuinely.

“wh-… oh! cherry? she’s so cute! you’re mean.” you furrow your eyebrows at her, offended she called one of your favorite villagers weird looking.

your girlfriend smirks, a sigh leaving her mouth. abby gets a rise out of making her sweet doll-face frown and pout. abby knows it’s wrong to think such dirty thoughts about how innocent you are. the way your cute little butt peeks out of the bottom of your cotton shorts when you try to reach the top cabinet. when you’re all doe-eyed and curious asking her what she wants for dinner. how you sit crisscross applesauce in the big comfy living room chair, looking so small and fragile. and right now, the way you’re so giddy about a silly animal video game. she takes a deep breath as she moves over to where you’re lounging.

“i’m sorry baby, can i see?” abby rests her head on your shoulder, her right hand settling on your bare thigh. you giggle when she gives your soft flesh a little squeeze.

“it’s chai! i’ve wanted her to move to my island since i started playing!” you ramble on about your beloved blue elephant. “she’s just like cinnamoroll, look!” you tilt your nintendo switch screen in abby’s direction, biting your bottom lip in excitement, so happy you get to share this moment with your favorite girl.

abby glances at the game for a moment, then looks up at you, your eyes glistening. she looks back down at the screen, noticing your small fingers toggling with the knobs of the device. she takes another deep breath.

“mm so cute angel, i love the little teacup on her head.” abby kisses your shoulder. “i’m gonna get something to drink from the fridge, you want anything?” she inquires. you shake your head no, too focused on trying to make a good impression on your new guest.

the tall blonde stands to walk to the kitchen, stopping to stretch her arms above her head, letting out a long sigh. she turns around to give you a sweet look before she leaves the room, but her eyes fall somewhere else.

as you sit with your legs in the butterfly position, your pretty pussy on half display. abby clenches her fists, she’s resisting the urge to pry your game out of your soft dainty hands, pin them above your head, and fuck you dumb. she can’t hold back much longer.

“baby,” abby breathes, she walks back over to you, kneeling before you, elbows on your knees. “just keep playing, okay? don’t mind me.” you’re too busy cleaning up your island and making small talk with your digital neighbors to give abby any more than a “mhmm! okay bibi!” and she knows it.

abby begins planting gentle kisses to your cold thigh, humming against your skin as she sees goosebumps rise up your legs. you shiver a little when her face gets closer to your half covered heat. you move your game slightly to the left, looking down at her. “what’d i say pretty girl? hmm? eyes on the screen, don’t look at me again.” abby softly speaks through her pebbled kisses. you frown, confused, but decide to listen and be the good girl abby wants you to be.

abby’s mouth is nearing your pool of slick, you can feel the warm breeze of her breaths tickling your entrance. she uses her nose to reveal your wet pussy from your shorts.

“abs!” you attempt to close your legs around her head, but she knows you, she knows your movements. she knows that you like to play this little game where you say “nooo abs! don’t wanna! too sensitive!” and then a few seconds later, you’re spread wide open, desperately waiting for her skilled tongue to plunge into your aching hole.

“cmon princess, i don’t have to tell you again, do i?” abby coos. “spread.” her voice a little huskier.

you nod and relax your legs. you resume playing, eyes glued to the screen again, quickly getting distracted by the singsong isabelle is putting on outside town hall.

abby’s tongue now inches away from your puffy pulsating clit. all she can think about is devouring every last ounce of you while you sit there, so innocently focused on something far less disgusting than what she’s doing.

your perverted girlfriend watches as your cute hole tightens around nothing, a smile forms on her freckled face. she extends her wet pink muscle and licks a gentle zigzag from fold to fold. “mm-aahh!” you let out in a high pitched moan. abby shoots you a glare, a warning, that if you acknowledge what she’s doing again, she isn’t gonna be so sweet and soft anymore.

she’s drinking your pussy, tongue circling your sensitive nub, slurping every drop of white cream that’s sticky all over her chin. abby glances up at you, “good girl, so proud of you angel.” you bite your lip so hard that you wince a little at the sudden taste of blood, but you know better than to look at abby, let alone let her know how good she’s making you feel.

abby slides one finger into your pussy with ease, your drenched entrance practically sucking her in. “so wet for me.” she’s making out with your thumping clit, curling her index finger up, the pad perfectly tapping your g-spot.

you can’t breathe, you can’t think, you’re trying to move the controls of your game, your hands shaking. all you want to do is buck your hips up to her face, shoving her tongue so deep inside of you that feel her nose touch your clit over and over and over. “you’re close princess, i can feel it.” abby hums.

she’s going so agonizingly slow, the soft sensation of her saliva mixed with the unhurried pump of her finger, you’re dying for her to pick up the pace — and that’s exactly what she isn’t gonna do.

“cum slowly for me baby, ride it out.” abby continues lapping up your slick, using her free hand to hold your legs open. “that’s it sweet girl, riiight…. there.” you’re cumming all over her face, from her nose to her chin, her face is buried in your juices.

“let me hear that pretty moan of yours.” abby’s eyes fixated on your blissed out face. finally granting you permission, you scream out in euphoria, “uug-uuuh aahh aaa-bby-y-y!”

abby removes her finger, plopping it in her mouth, eyes rolling to the back of her head as she sucks your cum off.

sliding your shorts back up your legs and kissing the top of your head, she starts to walk towards the kitchen. “you want something to drink now?” she teases.

a/n : i loved writing this ପ૮๑ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ๑ აଓ hehe if u don’t love pervy!abby then idk what to tell u , ur missing out ! 😵‍💫💕 hope u enjoyed bbs <333

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆ @whore4abby @hersweetheart @enbesbians ♡🧁

[httpvomitello]

would you write a George one where he kisses her after winning the quidditch cup and then he confesses his feelings so they go on a date together after the match?

Own, that's sooo cute! I hope you like it ~ ♡

Victory and Confessions *⁠.⁠✧

Summary: After Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup, George is too caught up in the excitement to think twice before kissing you in front of the entire school. When the realization of what he’s done sets in, he figures there’s no going back now—so he confesses his feelings properly and asks you on a date.

george weasley x f!reader

The roar of the crowd was deafening. The red and gold banners waved frantically in the air, students jumping up and down in the stands as the final whistle blew. Gryffindor had won.

You barely had time to process it before you were being dragged from your spot in the stands onto the pitch with the rest of the Gryffindor supporters, everyone surging forward to celebrate. The players had already landed, and Fred and George were hoisting Katie Bell into the air while Angelina and Alicia hugged each other, screaming in excitement.

And then, before you knew what was happening, George turned, spotted you in the crowd, and without hesitation, ran straight to you.

You barely had time to react before he cupped your face and kissed you.

Your breath caught in your throat, the world around you fading into nothing but the feel of his lips on yours. The cheers and whoops from the students blurred into background noise as you melted into the kiss, your hands gripping his robes for support.

When he pulled away, his face was flushed—whether from the adrenaline of the match or the kiss, you weren’t sure. His eyes widened slightly, as if he had just realized what he had done.

The crowd erupted into even louder cheers.

Fred let out a loud whistle. “Oi, Georgie! Finally got the guts, did you?”

George blinked, looking between you and the sea of students watching with smirks and knowing grins. Then, he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Guess there’s no hiding it now, huh?” he said, still breathless from the match.

Your heart was racing, your lips tingling from the unexpected kiss. “No, I suppose not,” you replied, cheeks burning.

George exhaled, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Right. Well, might as well make it official.” His gaze locked onto yours, suddenly serious despite the chaos around you. “I really like you, Y/N. Have for ages. And now that I’ve gone and snogged you in front of half the school, I reckon it’s only fair to ask—will you go on a date with me?”

You stared at him, taking in the hopeful glint in his eyes, the slight nervousness in his posture, and the undeniable warmth in his voice. Then, a slow smile spread across your face.

“I’d love to.”

His grin was immediate, bright and triumphant, rivaling the excitement of the Quidditch win itself. “Brilliant. How about tomorrow, then? After we celebrate our glorious victory, of course.”

You laughed, still a little dazed but thrilled nonetheless. “Sounds perfect.”

Fred clapped George on the back. “Merlin’s beard, it’s about time! Thought I was gonna have to lock you two in a broom closet.”

George rolled his eyes, slipping his arm around your waist as the Gryffindors continued their celebration around you.

Victory had never tasted so sweet.

The next day, after the celebratory feast and a much-needed night of rest, George met you outside the castle, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Ready for the best date of your life?”

You raised an amused brow. “That’s a bold claim.”

He grinned. “I’m a bold guy.”

He led you down to Hogsmeade, taking you to Honeydukes first—because, as he put it, “Every good date starts with chocolate.” After stuffing your pockets with sweets, he took you on a leisurely walk through the village, pointing out all the places he and Fred had pulled their best pranks.

At Zonko’s, he insisted on buying you a Nose-Biting Teacup (“For when you’re bored in class.”). At The Three Broomsticks, he got you both Butterbeers and raised his mug in a toast. “To unexpected Quidditch kisses and very patient girlfriends.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Girlfriend?”

He smirked. “Well, I figured if you’re willing to be seen in public with me after yesterday, I might as well make it official.”

You rolled your eyes fondly but couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face. “You’re impossible.”

“But charmingly so.”

You shook your head, laughing. “Alright, fine. You can call me your girlfriend.”

George beamed. “Best Quidditch win ever.”

[sealcowboy]

origami

jester!joost x princess!reader the one where he cheers you up by making origami

original idea by @michellemybell99 :D

rpf || dni if you don’t like, just block

you’ve had a day.

the kind of day where everything feels too loud. where the advisors won’t stop talking, the dress they made you wear is too tight in all the wrong places, and the lessons dragged on forever. someone insulted your handwriting, the court painter made your nose too big in a new portrait, and your favorite tea was out of stock.

you finally escape to your room, flop face-first into your pillows, and groan so hard your lady-in-waiting asks if you need a healer.

you wave her off. you just want silence. or a nap. or both.

and then.

a knock.

you groan again. “please, unless it’s war or a dragon, i don’t care.”

until a soft voice says, “i brought a turtle.”

you blink.

there’s joost. not doing cartwheels or juggling or balancing teacups on his head like usual. just standing there in his usual colorful jester clothes, holding something in his hands.

you look closer.

it’s… a turtle. made out of folded parchment. not perfect, but definitely a turtle.

“a turtle?” you ask, brow raised.

joost steps closer and gently places it on the windowsill in front of you. “yeah. figured you could use this.”

you snort. just a little.

he smiles like that was a win.

without asking, he sits down on the rug, legs crossed, and pulls out a small stack of scrap paper from inside his sleeve. he starts folding again, hands careful and steady.

“you don’t have to cheer me up,” you mumble, watching him.

“i know,” he says softly. “but i like to.”

you’re quiet after that, just watching him work. the way his gentle hands creased the edges, and the occasional furrowed brow when he folds something wrong.

after a few minutes, he hands you a fox.

“that’s you,” he says. “clever. elegant. might bite if provoked.”

you raise an eyebrow, but you’re smiling now. “and who are you?”

he grins and starts quickly making something, before he holds up a crumpled attempt at a bird with lopsided wings.

“clearly not very good at flying, but very enthusiastic.”

you laugh—really laugh this time—and take the bird from him carefully.

he makes a few more. a cat, a crane, something that looks like a dragon but also might be a horse.

you don’t ask him to stay, but he does anyway.

by the end of the hour, your windowsill has turned into a tiny paper zoo. you’re holding the fox in your lap. joost is still folding, humming quietly to himself, completely content.

short one, sorry guys :( been having writers block

[kittenan2]

Pretty Little Warzone

Pairing: Mafia!Jin x Reader Genre: Romantic Comedy, Domestic Fluff, Mafia AU, Smut, Family-centric, established marriage Rating: Mature (18+ for explicit smut) | Minors DNI Tags: Mafia AU, Overprotective Dad Jin, Domestic Chaos, Soft!Mafia Boss, Humor, Sweetness, Smut, Girl Dad!Jin, Stick Figure Violence, Kid Hijinks, Spicy Kitchen Moments, Past Elopement, Mafia Romance Word Count: ~5k words

The morning sun spills through the frosted glass of your sprawling, ridiculously secure mansion, bathing the hallway in a soft golden glow.

You’re cradling a steaming mug of coffee, the kind that’s strong enough to wake a coma patient, when you hear it—a giggle so pure it could melt the heart of even the most hardened hitman. Your five-year-old daughter, Minji, is in her room, surrounded by a fortress of stuffed animals, her tiny voice carrying through the open door.

“Daddy, I think I’m gonna marry Jiho from my class,” she declares, brushing her favorite unicorn plushie with the seriousness of a boardroom executive. “He’s soooo handsome.”

You pause mid-sip, eyebrows shooting up. Oh, this is gonna be good.

Kim Seokjin, your husband, the man who once ran the most feared mafia syndicate in the city and now spends his days arguing with a kindergartener over glitter glue, stops dead in his tracks. He’s sprawled on the floor, surrounded by Minji’s plushie kingdom, holding a tiny teacup that looks comically small in his broad hands. His dark eyes narrow, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head.

“Oh?” he says, voice deceptively calm, like he’s negotiating a turf war and not a conversation with his five-year-old. “Handsome, huh? Who? Me?”

You stifle a laugh, leaning against the doorway, your silk robe brushing your thighs. Jin’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt and gray sweatpants—because of course he makes even loungewear look like a magazine spread—and his dark hair is still mussed from sleep. He’s unfairly gorgeous, and he knows it, the smug bastard.

“No, not you,” Minji says, rolling her eyes like she’s sixteen instead of five. “Jiho. He has shiny hair and gives me his crayons.”

Shiny hair? You bite your lip to keep from snorting. This kid.

Jin’s jaw ticks, just a fraction, but you catch it. “You’re gonna marry him?” he asks, setting the teacup down with the precision of a man defusing a bomb. “Already planning your future, huh?”

“Yep!” Minji beams, oblivious to the storm brewing in her father’s overprotective soul. “You won’t do anything to him, right, Daddy? He’s so handsome.”

You can’t help it—you giggle into your coffee, the sound muffled but not enough to escape Jin’s notice. He glances at you, and you see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, but it’s quickly overtaken by his trademark drama.

“Daddy's gonna send him to God,” Jin says, voice low and deadly serious, like he’s ordering a hit instead of teasing his daughter.

Minji gasps, her tiny hands flying to her cheeks. “Nooo, Daddy!” She crawls into his lap, her glittery sneakers kicking as she unleashes her ultimate weapon: puppy eyes. Those big, sparkling eyes could disarm a SWAT team. “You can’t!”

“Yes, I will, baby,” Jin teases, poking her nose gently. “No one’s stealing my princess.”

Minji giggles, swatting his hand, and you finally step into the room, unable to stay out of this chaos. “Kim Seokjin, she’s five,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, one hand on your hip. “You’re already planning to whack a kindergartener?”

Jin looks up at you, his lips curling into that infuriatingly sexy smirk that still makes your knees weak after all these years. “I don’t negotiate with crayon-sharing pretty boys.”

Minji, still in his lap, tugs at his shirt. “Daddy, Jiho’s nice! He gave me the blue crayon.”

“The blue one?” Jin gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been shot. “Oh, he’s done for now.”

You burst out laughing, setting your coffee on Minji’s tiny desk. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, but your heart does a little flip at the sight of Jin with Minji, his broad shoulders relaxed, his usually sharp edges softened by her presence. He’s a mafia boss turned girl dad, and the contrast is equal parts hilarious and heart-melting.

Later that night, Minji’s tucked into bed, her unicorn plushie clutched tightly under her chin. The mansion is quiet, save for the faint hum of the security system Jin insists on keeping at Fort Knox levels. You’re in the kitchen, the one room in this ridiculous house that feels like a real home, with its warm wooden cabinets and the faint smell of garlic from last night’s dinner.

You’re stirring a pot of pasta sauce, the kind Jin swears he can make better than any Michelin chef, when he sneaks up behind you, his arms sliding around your waist. His chest presses against your back, warm and solid, and you feel the familiar spark of heat that never seems to fade, no matter how many years you’ve been together.

“You’re so dramatic,” you murmur, leaning back into him as his lips brush the curve of your neck. “Threatening a five-year-old over crayons.”

“He’s a threat,” Jin mumbles against your skin, his voice low and teasing, but there’s an edge of possessiveness that sends a shiver down your spine. “No one’s good enough for my girls.”

You turn in his arms, the wooden spoon still in your hand, and raise an eyebrow. “Oh, please. You didn’t have a problem when I fought with my parents and ran off with you.”

Jin’s smirk widens, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Sweetheart,” he drawls, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, “I kidnapped you from your own wedding. Big difference.”

You laugh, the memory flooding back like a scene from a blockbuster action movie, vivid and chaotic. Your family—another mafia dynasty, because your life is nothing if not a soap opera—had arranged your marriage to some sleazy heir to secure an alliance.

You’d been miserable, stuffed into a gaudy wedding dress that made you feel like a tiered cake, standing at the altar while your groom-to-be leered at you like you were a prize horse. The ceremony was seconds from starting when the doors burst open, and there was Jin, all sharp jawline and black suit, striding in like he owned the place. His crew followed, guns drawn, and the guests scattered like roaches under a flashlight.

Before you could process what was happening, Jin had you over his shoulder, caveman-style, your dress fluffing around you like a parachute. You should’ve been terrified, but instead, you were laughing, your heart pounding with exhilaration as he carried you out to the waiting helicopter, bullets pinging off the walls behind you.

Inside the chopper, the roar of the blades drowned out the chaos below. Jin set you down, his hands steadying your waist as you wobbled in your heels, your veil askew. You ripped it off, tossing it into the corner, and glared at him, breathless and buzzing with adrenaline.

“You couldn’t have called first?” you snapped, smoothing your dress, though your lips were twitching with a smile you couldn’t suppress. “I’m in the middle of a wedding, Seokjin.”

He grinned, that cocky, heart-stopping grin that had drawn you to him in the first place, when you’d met in secret months ago, sneaking around your families’ feud like rebellious teenagers. “Yeah, well, you didn’t look thrilled to be marrying that sleaze,” he said, stepping closer, his hands sliding up your arms. “Thought I’d do you a favor.”

“A favor?” you scoffed, crossing your arms, though the proximity of his body was already making your resolve waver. “You just stormed my wedding with a small army, Jin. That’s not a favor, that’s a scene.”

He laughed, low and warm, and before you could fire off another retort, he cupped your face and kissed you. It was fierce, desperate, all teeth and tongue, like he was claiming you right there in the vibrating belly of the helicopter.

You melted into him, your hands fisting in his suit jacket, pulling him closer as the world outside faded away. His lips were hot, insistent, and you kissed him back with equal fire, your heart racing as you poured every ounce of your defiance, your desire, into it.

When he finally pulled back, both of you panting, he rested his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your face. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “Fuck your family, fuck that guy, fuck the alliance. You’re mine, and I’m not letting you go.”

You smirked, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Pretty bold for a guy who just kidnapped me in front of two hundred people.”

“Kidnapped?” he teased, his lips brushing yours again, softer this time. “Sweetheart, you were practically climbing into my arms.”

“Keep dreaming,” you shot back, but you kissed him again, slower, deeper, your body pressed against his as the helicopter carried you away from your old life and into his.

Back in the present, you snap out of the memory, the wooden spoon still in your hand, a smear of marinara on Jin’s shirt where you’ve smacked him. “Technicalities,” you say, grinning. “I was a willing participant.”

“Willing?” Jin snorts, grabbing the spoon and tossing it onto the counter. “You were screaming ‘faster, Jin, they’re gaining on us’ while I was dodging bullets.”

You laugh, looping your arms around his neck. “And you loved every second of it.”

“Damn right I did.” His voice drops, husky and intimate, as he pulls you flush against him. “Still do.”

The air shifts, the playful bickering giving way to something hotter, heavier. His lips crash against yours, and you melt into him, the taste of him familiar but still intoxicating. His hands roam, one slipping under your shirt to trace the curve of your spine, the other gripping your thigh to hitch your leg around his waist. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue teasing yours in a way that makes your head spin.

“Jin,” you murmur against his lips, your fingers tangling in his hair. “The sauce is gonna burn.”

“Let it,” he growls, lifting you onto the counter with ease, his hands sliding under your thighs to spread them. “I’m starving for something else.”

You laugh, but it’s cut off by a moan as he kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone. The kitchen, this domestic haven, suddenly feels like a battlefield, all heat and urgency.

His hands are everywhere—sliding under your shirt, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, teasing the sensitive skin just above your hipbone. You arch into him, your body responding to his touch like it’s programmed to, every nerve alight with want.

“Seokjin,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders as he presses himself closer, the hard line of his arousal evident through his sweatpants. “We’re supposed to be cooking.”

“Fuck the pasta,” he murmurs, his lips finding that spot behind your ear that makes you weak. “You’re my favorite meal.”

You’re about to make a snarky comeback when he slides a hand between your thighs, his fingers brushing against you through the thin fabric of your shorts. Your head falls back, a soft moan escaping as he rubs slow, deliberate circles, his eyes locked on yours, dark with desire.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he says, voice rough with need. “Always have been.”

You tug him closer, your lips crashing against his as you grind against his hand, chasing the friction. The counter is cold against your skin, but Jin’s body is all heat, his touch igniting you like a match to gasoline. He tugs your shorts down in one swift motion, and you kick them off, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.

“Impatient,” he teases, but his own breathing is ragged as he slips a hand into your panties, his fingers finding you slick and ready. “Fuck, baby, you’re so wet.”

“Whose fault is that?” you retort, but your voice breaks as he slides a finger inside you, slow and deliberate, his thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure. You moan, your head tipping back, and he takes the opportunity to kiss down your throat, his lips hot and hungry.

He adds another finger, curling them just right, and you’re a goner, your hips bucking against his hand as he works you with the precision of a man who knows your body better than you do. “Jin,” you gasp, your hands clutching at his shirt, his hair, anything to ground yourself as the pleasure builds, sharp and overwhelming.

“Come for me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low growl that sends you spiraling. “Let me feel you.”

And you do, your body tensing as the orgasm crashes through you, your thighs trembling around his hand. He doesn’t stop, drawing it out until you’re a panting, boneless mess, clinging to him like he’s your lifeline.

He kisses you softly, a contrast to the intensity of moments ago, and you laugh breathlessly, your forehead resting against his. “You’re gonna burn the house down one of these days,” you say, still catching your breath.

“Worth it,” he says, smirking as he licks his fingers clean, his eyes never leaving yours. “You taste better than any sauce.”

You swat at him, but your heart’s doing that stupid fluttery thing it always does when he looks at you like that—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

The next morning, you’re all in the living room, sprawled on the plush rug with a pile of crayons and paper. Minji’s in her element, her tongue poking out as she scribbles furiously, her glittery sneakers kicking in the air.

Jin’s pretending to read a newspaper, but you catch him sneaking glances at her drawing, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. You’re cross-legged beside Minji, doodling your own little stick figure—a terrible attempt at a cat that looks more like a potato with whiskers.

“Done!” Minji announces, holding up her masterpiece with a grin that could power a small city. It’s a stick figure family portrait: you in a flower dress, Minji in a sparkly gown with a tiara, and Jin—oh, Jin. His stick figure is wielding a comically oversized bazooka, complete with little red flames shooting out of it.

You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “Minji, what is this?”

“That’s Daddy’s love gun!” she says proudly, pointing at the bazooka. “He protects us with it.”

Jin chokes on his coffee, setting the mug down with a thud. “Damn right it is,” he says, puffing out his chest, but his ears are turning pink.

You give him a look, one eyebrow raised. “She’s five, Seokjin. Stop encouraging her.”

“What?” he says, feigning innocence as he pulls Minji into his lap. “I meant emotionally. Right, princess?”

Minji nods solemnly, like she’s in on some grand mafia secret. “Emotionally, Mommy.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling. Jin leans over, snatching a crayon from the pile and adding to Minji’s drawing—a tiny heart above your stick figure’s head. “There,” he says, winking at you. “That’s you. All heart.”

“Oh, please,” you say, but your cheeks warm as you nudge his shoulder. He catches your hand, kissing your knuckles softly, and Minji groans dramatically.

“Eww, Daddy, stop being mushy!” she says, but she’s giggling as she grabs another sheet of paper. “I’m gonna draw us at the park now. With ice cream!”

Jin leans closer to you, his voice low so Minji can’t hear. “She’s got my artistic talent, clearly. That bazooka is a masterpiece.”

You snort, shoving him playfully. “You’re so full of it.”

He grins, stealing a quick kiss when Minji’s distracted, her crayon scratching furiously across the paper. “Full of love for you,” he murmurs, and you roll your eyes again, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts.

Minji looks up, catching you both in the act. “Mommy, Daddy, focus!” she scolds, waving her crayon like a tiny dictator. “You’re supposed to help me draw the ice cream truck.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jin says, saluting her with a mock-serious face. He grabs a crayon and starts doodling an ice cream cone that looks suspiciously like a grenade.

You shake your head, grabbing your own crayon to add sprinkles, and soon the three of you are lost in a chaotic, colorful mess of drawings, laughter, and Jin sneaking more kisses when he thinks Minji isn’t looking.

This is your life now—a retired mafia boss, a glitter-obsessed kindergartener, and a house full of love and chaos. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The backyard dojo is Jin’s pride and joy, a sleek setup with padded mats and a rack of training weapons that look like they belong in a museum. He’s in full Dad Mode today, teaching Minji basic self-defense moves while you watch from a lawn chair, sipping lemonade and trying not to laugh at how serious they both look.

Minji’s wearing a tiny gi that Jin had custom-made, her pigtails bouncing as she mimics his stance. “Like this, Daddy?”

“Perfect,” Jin says, adjusting her tiny fist. “Now, if someone tries to grab you, what do you do?”

“Kick ‘em!” Minji says, swinging her leg with surprising force for a five-year-old.

“That’s my girl,” Jin says, high-fiving her. “Why do you need to know this, Minji?”

She pouts, crossing her arms. “Why do I need this? I’m strong already!”

“Because you’re a Kim,” Jin says, crouching to her level, his voice softening. “And Kims are strong, but we’re also smart. And…” He pauses for dramatic effect, his eyes twinkling. “You’re only allowed to marry someone who can beat me in a fight.”

Minji’s eyes widen, like he’s just revealed the secret to the universe. “No one can beat you, Daddy!”

“Exactly,” he says, winking at you.

You snort, setting your lemonade down. “You’re setting her up for a life of spinsterhood, you know that, right?”

Jin grins, sauntering over to you and leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Good. More time for me to spoil my girls.”

Minji tugs at his sleeve. “Daddy, can I have a bazooka like you?”

You choke on your drink, and Jin laughs so hard he nearly falls over. “We’ll start with a water gun, princess,” he says, ruffling her hair. “Work your way up.”

That night, after Minji’s tucked in with her unicorn and a bedtime story about a mafia princess who saves the world (Jin’s storytelling is wild), you find yourself back in the kitchen. The pasta from last night is long gone, and you’re craving something sweet, so you’re whipping up a batch of brownies while Jin cleans up Minji’s latest glitter explosion.

“You’re such a softie now,” you tease, stirring the batter as he sweeps glitter into a dustpan. “The great Kim Seokjin, feared mafia boss, defeated by a five-year-old with a glitter glue obsession.”

He straightens, tossing the dustpan aside and stalking toward you with that predatory grace that still makes your pulse race. “Softie?” he says, his voice low and dangerous, but his eyes are all warmth. “I’d still burn the world for both of you, baby.”

You smile, your heart doing that fluttery thing again. “I know,” you say softly. “You and Minji are the one who makes me feel safe enough to laugh in a house full of weapons.”

He’s on you in an instant, his hands gripping your hips as he backs you against the counter. “You’re gonna pay for calling me a softie,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours, teasing but not quite kissing.

“Oh?” you challenge, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt. “What’s the punishment, Mr. Kim?”

His eyes darken, and before you can blink, he’s lifting you onto the counter again, the brownie batter forgotten. His lips crash against yours, hungry and demanding, and you kiss him back with equal fervor, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.

“Fuck, I love you,” he growls against your mouth, his hands sliding under your shirt to grip your bare skin. “Always have, always will.”

You moan softly as he kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Jin,” you breathe, your fingers tangling in his hair as he unbuttons few buttons of your shirt. His hands are everywhere, cupping your breasts, teasing your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra, and you arch into him, desperate for more.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, his voice rough with need as he unhooks your bra inside shirt. His lips find your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple, and you cry out, your hips grinding against him instinctively.

“Jin, please,” you whimper, your hands tugging at his shirt until he pulls it off, revealing the sculpted chest and abs that still make you weak. You run your hands over his skin, feeling the scars from his past life, each one a reminder of the man who’d fought for you, who’d chosen you over everything.

He tugs your pants down, his fingers slipping into your panties to find you already soaked. “Fuck, baby,” he groans, his fingers sliding through your slickness, teasing your clit until you’re trembling. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

“Then we’ll die happy,” you gasp, pulling him closer for a messy, desperate kiss. He slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you moan into his mouth, your body arching off the counter as he works you with expert precision.

But before you can lose yourself completely, a small voice pipes up from the doorway. “Mommy, are the brownies ready yet?”

You freeze, your heart lurching as you shove Jin away with a panicked push. He stumbles back, caught off guard, and bangs his head against the edge of the kitchen island with a loud thunk.

“Ow, fuck,” he hisses, rubbing the back of his head as you scramble to pull your shirt and pant back on, your face flaming.

Minji stands there, clutching her unicorn plushie, her eyes half sleepy. “Why’s Daddy on the floor?”

You choke on a laugh, trying to compose yourself as Jin glares at you from the floor, still rubbing his head. “Uh, Daddy just… tripped,” you say, hopping off the counter and smoothing your hair. “Brownies aren’t ready yet, sweetie. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Jin groans, pulling himself up as you usher Minji out of the kitchen. “You owe me for this,” he mutters, but there’s a grin tugging at his lips as he watches you lead your daughter away.

Later, after Minji’s back in bed, snoring softly with her unicorn, you find Jin in your bedroom, sprawled on the king-sized bed, still rubbing the back of his head dramatically. “You tried to kill me,” he says, pouting as you climb onto the bed beside him.

“You’ll live,” you say, straddling his hips and leaning down to kiss the spot he’s rubbing. “Poor baby.”

His hands find your hips, pulling you closer, and the playful glint in his eyes turns heated. “You’re not getting out of this that easily,” he murmurs, flipping you onto your back with a swift, practiced move. “We’ve got unfinished business.”

You laugh, but it’s cut off by a gasp as he kisses you, deep and hungry, his hands sliding under your shirt again. This time, there’s no interruption, no tiny footsteps to derail you. He takes his time, peeling your clothes off slowly, his lips trailing fire across your skin—down your neck, across your collarbone, lingering on your breasts until you’re squirming beneath him.

“Jin... Mhmm...,” you breathe, your hands tugging at his sweatpants, desperate to feel him. He obliges, kicking them off, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him close as he presses himself against you, hard and ready.

“Fuck, you drive me crazy,” he growls, kissing you again as he slides into you, slow and deep, filling you perfectly. You moan, your nails digging into his back as he sets a steady, intense rhythm, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure through you.

“Love you,” you gasp, your body tightening around him as the heat builds, your hands clutching at him like he’s your anchor. He groans, his lips finding yours in a messy, desperate kiss, and you lose yourself in him, in the way he moves, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.

When you come, it’s with a cry of his name, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure crashes over you. He follows moments later, his thrusts growing erratic as he spills inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting, sweaty, and utterly spent.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms, and you nestle against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head.

“Worth it,” you say, echoing his earlier words, and he laughs, the sound warm and familiar.

Sunday morning dawns bright and chaotic, as all mornings in the Kim household do. You’re flipping pancakes in the kitchen, the smell of vanilla and butter filling the air, when Minji marches in, wearing oversized sunglasses and wielding a neon-green water gun.

“I’m defending Daddy from Jiho today,” she announces, striking a dramatic pose like she’s in a spy movie.

Jin, who’s stealing a pancake from the stack, pauses mid-bite, his eyes twinkling with pride. “That’s my girl,” he says, ruffling her hair. “No crayon-sharing pretty boys allowed.”

You roll your eyes, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of Minji. “She drew you another bazooka, by the way,” you say, pointing to the latest masterpiece taped to the fridge. It’s Jin’s stick figure again, this time with an even bigger bazooka and what looks suspiciously like a flamethrower.

“Good,” Jin says, dead serious. “That’s accurate.”

Minji giggles, climbing into her chair and aiming her water gun at Jin. “Pew pew!” she says, squirting a stream of water that catches him square in the chest.

Jin clutches his chest, falling dramatically to the floor. “You got me, princess! I’m done for!”

You laugh so hard you nearly drop the spatula, but then Minji turns to you, her sunglasses slipping down her nose as she points an accusing finger. “Daddy, you gotta stop kissing Mommy every five minutes,” she says, her tone scolding but her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Jin props himself up on his elbows, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Baby, she is my girl before you,” he says, winking at you. “I get first dibs.”

Minji gasps, clutching her water gun like it’s a sacred relic. “Nuh-uh! I’m your princess!”

“You both are so dramatic,” you say, leaning down to kiss Minji’s forehead before turning to Jin, who’s still sprawled on the floor, looking far too pleased with himself. You offer him a hand, pulling him up, and he steals a quick kiss, earning another “eww” from Minji.

“Gross!” she says, but she’s giggling as she sprays you both with her water gun, turning the kitchen into a chaotic battlefield of pancakes, water, and laughter.

You shake your head, your heart swelling with love for this ridiculous, chaotic, perfect little family. Jin might be a former mafia boss, and you might have a house full of weapons hidden behind secret panels, but right now, in this kitchen, with pancakes and water guns and stick-figure bazookas, you wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

A/n: Softie Jin is everything I want. 😩🙈

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bebabido

[brights-place]

⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫‼ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🌹་༘࿐

Happily Ever After — MASTERLIST

A/N: SCREAMING HOPING THIS SERIES IS GOOD

Summary: Once upon a High School, in a land beyond imagination, comes the tale of Ever After High. A High School for the next generation of fairytales. Where spellbinding students are destined (or not) to follow in the footsteps of their fairytale parents.

Yet the most important part of it all is who they seem to fall for in their fairytale, so what happens when the twisted wonderland boys fall for the fairytale characters who they want to spend forever after with?

So what are the relationships like?

゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐆𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝-𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫⟡ ݁₊ .

The aroma of fresh sugar cookies swirled like a magic spell through the Heartslabyul dorm's kitchen, curling around every corner, sliding beneath the heavy doors, and tickling the noses of unsuspecting students mid-rule-following. For once, even Riddle didn't complain. He'd threatened a demerit when he first smelled cinnamon, but one bite of the caramel-frosted tartlets had silenced him into bliss.

Which meant, naturally, that [Name] was to blame. She hummed to herself over the mixing bowl, folding a swirl of rosewater frosting into a double-layered sponge cake shaped like a teacup. "Perfect," she whispered, setting it aside to chill. Her candy-colored nails glinted under the soft light. "Now for the candy-lace rim."

"That smells..." a calm voice started behind her, "...suspiciously like you're trying to take over my kitchen." [Name] didn't jump, used to the subtle way Trey could appear without a single sound, but her cheeks still went a little warm. "Trey," she said sweetly, turning to face him. "I thought I'd borrow your oven. Again..."

Trey adjusted his glasses, the corner of his mouth twitching into that tell-tale smirk. "Noticed," he replied, arms crossed, watching the sugary chaos around her. "You've enchanted the ovens. They only bake at 350 now that was your frosting spell, wasn't it?" "Technically? I called it Sweet Heat. It's efficient!" [Name] defended with a soft laugh. "And... maybe I wanted to impress you." He blinked, that smirk faltering for the briefest second. "Oh?"

"Well, you are the Vice Housewarden. And the pastry prince of this school," she teased, crossing her arms with mock defiance. "I figured if I want to stay in this kitchen, I'd better prove myself." Trey stepped closer, quiet as ever, stopping just beside the counter where she stood. "You proved that the moment you made those candy-cane croissants. Ace tried to steal Riddle's share. He's still recovering."

She giggled. "Then I'll take that as permission to use your mixers too?" His hand lifted before she could reach the large whisk hanging above the counter. "Ah ah. Only if I get a taste test." She stared at him. "You always want a taste test." "And you always give in." He leaned closer now, warmth rolling off him like sunlight through a window. "That's the trade. You enchant my kitchen and I get to find out what gingerbread dreams are made of."

Her breath caught slightly at how close he was now close enough to see the faint sprinkle of flour across his cheek, the way his gold eyes flicked down to her lips for just a heartbeat too long. She gave him a shy smile, reaching behind her for the pink-frosted heart she'd just finished piping.

"Then try this," she said, holding the heart-shaped cookie to his lips. "A little spice. A little sweetness. Just like me." Trey took a slow bite, the frosting smudging his lip for a moment before he licked it away. His eyes closed as he chewed, and then "...You're dangerous." She blinked with confusion. "What?" "This cookie," he said seriously, "is the best thing I've had since... ever and that includes Che'nya's birthday chocolate mousse, which is saying something." A pleased grin pulled at [Name]s lips. "Well, Vice Housewarden Clover, I'll be sure to submit it to the dorm's rulebook under 'Authorized Magical Desserts.'"

"And I'll sneak it back in later to help you with this" Trey's expression softened, gaze drifting to her glasses, her flour-dusted cheeks, the candy-pink streaks in her hair. "You know... you remind me of someone." "Who?"

He hesitated, then looked away for a moment. "Me. Back before I got used to... expectations. Rules. People thinking I had to be someone else." He glanced back at her. "But you... You're bold enough to stay sweet. Even when others try to say you shouldn't be."

Her eyes widened, her heart thumping just a bit louder in her chest. "You don't want to be the villain in your story," he said quietly. "And I never thought I'd find that so... admirable." She reached for his hand, her floury fingers brushing his. "I think you're a better prince than you think, Trey Clover. You've got the smile for it. And the soul."

He didn't answer right away. Just gently turned her hand over in his and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. "And you might just be the only spell I'd fall under willingly." The timer dinged. The oven opened on its own. But neither of them moved. Not until the scent of caramel and sugar finally broke the spell between them.

"...Want to decorate the cakes together?" she asked, voice light. "I'd like that," he said. "Forever after, if possible." [Name] beamed as she spoke "Oh? your using ever after lingo?" Trey shrugged and pecked your cheek and that night, as frosting sparkled under enchanted chandeliers and her laughter tangled with his quiet chuckles, the kitchen knew something sweeter than sugar had begun to rise.

Headcannons

- Their relationship is the literal definition of sugar and spice. While Trey is the calm and composed pastry pro, [Name] brings magical flair and glittery chaos into the mix.

- Their dates often revolve around baking together experimenting with enchanted ingredients, frosting duels, and accidental flour fights. Trey always lets her win. Except that one time she summoned a sentient cupcake army he still has frosting in his shoe from that day.

- [Name] enchants Trey's aprons to tie themselves around him with little love heart knots. He pretends to be annoyed, but secretly keeps them knotted even when she's not around.

- He makes her custom chocolates every Friday. Each one contains a spell [Name] has to guess based on flavor. (Cinnamon and rose? but once, she accidentally turned her voice into a melody for a whole hour.)

- Trey tucks candy-wrapper fortunes into her bag with tiny handwritten notes. They say things like “You're the sweetest part of my day” or “This one melts in your mouth not like me, though.”

- [Name] keeps a sugar crystal necklace Trey made for her using her own frosting charms. It glows a soft pink whenever he's nearby.

- The kitchen becomes their unofficial dating spot. They have “his and hers” mixing bowls and enchanted measuring spoons that bicker about which one of them is the real head chef.

- Sometimes the sweets they bake together react to their emotions. When they're flirty, the sugar boils faster. When they're blushing, the frosting swirls into heart shapes.

- Trey absentmindedly brushes flour off [Name]’s cheek during study sessions. She pretends not to notice, but her ears always go pink.

- [Name] kisses the tip of his nose whenever he’s overthinking or hiding his feelings behind his usual calm smile. He usually melts faster than butter in a hot pan.

- They often sit up late in the dorm gardens with a thermos of enchanted tea and leftover cookies, talking about dreams, family, and how hard it can be to not fit into other people's molds.

-  Trey tells her she reminds him that it’s okay to want things for himself. [Name] tells him he’s not just a supporting role in someone else’s story he’s her main character.

- Trey gets adorably serious if anyone disrespects her. He won’t raise his voice, but his quiet disapproval? Chills.

- [Name] once hexed someone’s dessert into exploding jelly when they called Trey “boring.” Trey didn’t stop her. In fact, he smiled for the rest of the week.

- [Name] doodles his name in icing on cakes. Trey leaves notes in powdered sugar. Their friends know not to touch the “couple’s tray” unless they want a spontaneous love spell (Ruggie learned that the hard way).

[otterly-darling]

Polyjuice Potion

'Erm...' James slowly closed the door and looked at Remus. 'Erm,' he said again, 'Moony, I hate to alarm you but... ah, how do I put this? Moony, Moony seems to be in your bedroom.'

'What?'

'Moony is in your bedroom. He's lying on your bed, in fact.'

Remus cocked his head to the side, a bit like Moony did sometimes, James thought to himself. 'Are you okay, Prongs?' He reached forward and pressed a hand to James' forehead. 'I know that bludger hit the back of your head last Sunday but I thought Merriweather gave you the all clear-'

'Moony is asleep on your bed!'

'O-kay,' Remus said slowly, clearly disbelieving. He reached for the door handle. 'Fucking hell!'

James' head popped round the door. 'Told you!'

'There's a massive dog on my bed!'

'I told you, it's Moony!'

'But I'm Moony!'

'Are you telling me I wouldn't recognise my old pal Moony if I saw him?'

'Are you telling me that I wouldn't recognise that i'd turned into a werewolf?!'

James stopped with hum. 'Hmm. That is a good point. But seriously, Moony - it's Moony!'

'My head hurts,' Remus mumbled, starring at the large furry bundle curled up on his pillow. He took a step closer. James was right, it wasn't a dog. The wolf was large, with glossy fur, the exact shade of Remus' hair. And then it opened his eyes and Remus gasped as his own eyes blinked sleepily up at him.

'What- how?' Remus didn't know what to say as the wolf sat up, tall and broad, its tail thumping slowly on the bed and gave a sad sounding whimper.

James meanwhile, completely oblivious to Remus' current existential crisis was poking around the room. 'Sirius was here,' he said to no-one in particular and then rounded on the wolf, finger waggling. 'Did you eat Sirius?'

The dog whimpered again, padding forward and nosing at Remus' hand.

'Sirius?'

'That's what I just asked him-'

'No,' Remus interrupted James who was now sniffing suspiciously at a glass of green sludge. 'I think this is Sirius.'

'That,' James said, still holding the glass, 'That might actually make sense. Smell this.' He thrust the glass at Remus and then pointed at the wolf again. 'Say awoo if you're Sirius.'

The wolf gave a very Sirius like huff. 'Awoo.'

'I don't actually sound like that do I?' Remus turned wide-eyed to look at James. 'That was pathetic!'

James looked unimpressed. 'Really? That's what you're going with? Not why has my boyfriend brewed some secret Polyjuice, broken into my flat, stolen my hair and transformed into the one part of me that I hate beyond all measure?'

'Oh yeh,' Remus glared at the wolf. The wolf snarled at James and then licked Remus hand.

James rolled his eyes. 'I am going to do something very unusual and give you guys a moment.' He started towards the door. 'I shall be in the kitchen making tea if you need me.'

The moment James shut the bedroom door Remus turned back to the wolf. 'Explain yourself,' he said sternly, although the vitriol was slightly lost by the fact that Remus was scritching behind the wolf's ear and making his back leg thud repeatedly onto the mattress.

'Awoo.'

'Awoo to you too. No, stop that!' He pushed the wolf's snout away from nuzzling at his neck. 'I'm mad at you. I'm going to go and have tea with James. You can sit here and think about what you've done until the Polyjuice wears off.'

The wolf snapped his jaws menacingly but Remus was unmoved. 'What you going to do?' He raised an eyebrow. 'Bite me?'

----------

An hour later James and Remus had just polished off their third cup of tea when Sirius came shuffling sheepishly into the kitchen, his hair a mess and several Moony coloured strands of fur on his joggers.

'Well?' Remus put his teacup down and crossed his arms.

'I didn't realise it was Moony's hair,' Sirius mumbled. 'I thought it was yours. I took it off the hoddie you were wearing last full.'

Remus did not look mollified. 'And tell, pray, why you felt the need to Polyjuice into me?'

Sirius opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking between Remus and James.

'Oh don't be shy,' Remus said mercilessly, 'Please do share with the class.'

'Umm-'

Remus drummed his fingers on the kitchen table. 'We're waiting.'

'wantedtogiveyourselfablowie.' Sirius said, very quiet and very quick.

'Speak up!' Remus barked, 'Say it again.'

'You said you wanted to know what it would be like to give yourself a blow j-'

Remus was up out of his chair and slamming a hand over Sirius' mouth quicker than the bludger that had knocked James for six last Sunday.

'HAHAHAHA,' Remus laughed loudly, slowly turning a rather nasty puce colour. 'Looks like being in Moony's head for a couple of hours has sent him a bit loopy.'

'I see,' James smirked.

'Yes,' Remus pressed his hand more firmly, covering up Sirius' indignant squawks of protest further. 'I think he probably needs to sleep it off a bit more actually.'

'Right.'

'Yes- ow!' Remus hissed as Sirius bit him. 'See, gone all rabid werewolf on us, Prongs. I'd get going if I were you. Doesn't seem like it's safe at all.'

James rolled his eyes. 'I'm going, i'm going.' He got to his feet and watched a moment longer as Remus struggled to drag an outraged Sirius out the room before he headed for the front door, listening to Remus all the while.

'There there, Padfoot. A nice nap and you'll feel right as rain.'

'Look at all the fur on my pillow! Bad dog!'

James grinned and opened the front door. He didn't move an inch before slamming it shut again. There was silence, just for a moment and then-

'Do you- do you have any Polyjuice left?'

@wolfstarmicrofic

[queserasora]

IZOU X FEM READER / NSFW WC: 4.7k CW: soft dom!izou, sub!reader

PART ONE

Why don’t I show you what my mouth can do?

Although he recognizes it as his own voice, although he knows the words jumped off his own tongue and past his own lips, Izou still struggles with believing that he is here like this–with you.

He had dreamt of this for so long, wondering when you’d give in to his honeyed words, his gentle manners, the calculated moments of attention. From the moment he had seen you he had wanted you; you in your blinding glory, curls around your face like a halo–a crown of untamed wilderness. Under the sun you were incomparable. Its rays fell upon your bronze skin like they knew nowhere else to go; like they had no other home but the curves of your cheeks, the wide bridge of your nose. Sunshine would go to rest on the hollow of your cupid’s bow. 

Izou wondered if he could taste it there–its warmth; the light that gave life.

There’s an amused snort that blows through his nose. He was behaving like a lovesick teenager. How could he waste time drowning in his melodramatic emotions when he had your lovely leg in his possession? Izou drags the pads of his fingers along the width of your calves. He grips the meaty flesh there, enjoying the sensation of his fingers sinking into your heat and muscle. When he looks up at you through his lashes, his own lids heavy with desire, your relaxed expression melts away any remaining apprehensions. 

There had been shadowy doubts, touching their frigid fingers to the back of his mind. Izou never had any qualms about how he presented himself. He was who he was, and he loved every part of himself. What others thought of him, did very little to undo his confidence. Yet, there were moments of his life, where he’d meet someone whose acceptance he’d unknowingly long for.

Like you.

You had always made him feel comfortable. He could always be himself with you. Just one more thing he adored about you.

His large hands massage your calves slowly. He works the tense muscles, doing away any knots that have the misfortune to find themselves underneath his fingers. In the back of your throat, a soft moan dies out, muffled by the warm sweet tea that gently coats your throat. It was doing wonders for your soreness, soothing any rawness Izou’s roughness had caused before. Now, as you nearly consume half the contents of the teacup, he was setting other fires on your skin. You try not to be devoured by the flames, focusing instead on the velvety feeling around your tongue, the sweetness of it, the light herbal scent that wafted from the cup in between your hands. The pads of his fingers are calloused, and rough. They scratch pleasantly down your skin as he moves his attention to your feet.

“I like your nail color,” he tells you in a velvety voice, using his thumbs to massage deep into the arch of your foot. You bite back a whimper, nose wrinkling. “Sorry, darling. Am I too rough?” he asks, one of your feet on his lap. Izou leans down with parted lips, taking your breath away. He firmly kisses the arch of your foot as he brings it up to his face, and the inside of your ankle, leaving red lipstick marks on your skin. “Forgive me. I guess I don’t know my own strength.”

There’s a shiver that runs along your spine. It dies on the ends of your curled toes. Your skin feels bumpy under your yukata as you watch Izou poke his tongue out. He drags the flat of his tongue from your ankle all the way up to the inside of your calf. You gasp when he hikes your leg higher as he slides closer to you, angling your limb on his shoulder.

“You’re sensitive,” he murmurs against the back of your knee. You smell divine even there. The rich and full scent of cocoa butter floods his mouth, inspiring him to dream of devouring you, piece by piece. Starving, his tongue runs along the crease behind your knee and you gasp, a hand shooting out to grab his hair to steady yourself. You nearly spill the tea as the cup shakes in your free hand. Izou’s hand is warm on top of yours as he frees your fingers from his hair. 

“These hands,” he says, voice growing even deeper. “They’re being so naughty right now. Finish your tea, don’t leave a drop.”

He looks up into the warmth of your eyes, and is lost for a moment. He finds his way back when you blink, when your pretty lashes make lewd promises with every flutter. Izou finds himself temporarily embarrassed at how quickly he has reached this point of desire. Just how could you bewitch him with one heated look down your nose?

“Make sure you keep drinking,” he tells you, a newfound determination brewing in the darkness of his eyes. You sense the incoming storm in the way he lowers himself slowly between your legs. There’s a change in the air–electricity sizzles between the two of you. When Izou presses his cherry colored lips against the inside of your thigh, your senses fray. You feel a jolt go through your leg. Heat pools at the center of you, as your own arousal starts to once again slip from between your folds. 

“Spread your legs, darling,” he asks you, gently pushing your knees apart with his hands.

There’s a little noise you try to muffle with the remaining tea, something between surprise and arousal as he continues his streamlined assault on your thighs. When you look down, cheeks bulging, Izou has covered your skin with lipstick marks. He looks up as he drags his tongue along your thigh, making eye contact as you watch him with your heart hammering in your chest. Izou licks his lips, thrilled to have your taste all over his mouth. 

“Did you finish?” he asks you, nipping at your flesh. You almost spit out your tea, and swallow with a shake of your head. “No? Very well, I’ll try to be patient.” 

Izou licks up the spot he had nibbled before he opens his mouth. He sucks with force, persistence causing his brows to furrow. You watch with slightly trembling hands, making the tea in your cup spill slightly on your yukata. When Izou finally relents, there’s a dark red bloom taking residence on your skin. Now that he’s tasted your skin, now that your scent seems to be filling up inside him he can’t get enough of you. 

His mouth is hungry, leaving open mouth kisses as he works his way higher between your legs. You pant, leaning against the bed where you sat on the floor. You tilt your head up to stare at the ceiling, mouth falling apart as Izou digs his teeth into the tender flesh between your thighs. He bites down and you cry out, clutching the teacup for dear life. He is painfully close to your sensitive core. You can feel his heavy breathing against the crease of your thigh and hip. 

His nose grazes your underwear as he shifts to take in the smell of your arousal with an open mouth. He breathes in noisily, then breathes out, his hot breath clashing against your clothed pussy. Your breathing is irregular, barely controlled as you feel yourself dying from anticipation.

Izou drags his hands up your thighs, his palms warm against your skin. You hum, and try to remind yourself to drink the tea, to finish it before you spill it all over yourself; and you almost do when Izou gives your fabric covered cunt an open mouthed kiss.

“Oh, Izou!” you cry out, your tummy contracting from pleasure, as he moves slightly higher to suck at  your clit through your panties. His tongue presses against your sensitive nub, teasing the bundle of nerves with precise quick licks. His touch is firm, and rhythmic–at a toe curling pace that has you whimpering against the edge of the ceramic tea cup. “Nng, I can’t take it,” you whine, your whole body shivering from stimulation. “I need–”

Izou cuts you off by nipping at your erect clit through your underwear. You give a yelp. Tea spills again, this time on your chest. You feel it ooze between your breasts as it soaks through the yukata; warm and slightly sticky.

“Did you finish your tea like a good girl?” he mumbles against your pussy, rubbing his face against it as he takes in your scent. He uses his tongue to trace the shape of your slit. “Well?” he asks again.

“No,” you reply reluctantly with a defeated whimper. The inside of your thighs are shaking, and they spread wider before you can even stop yourself. You feel Izou laugh against you, his breath hot and tantalizing against your sensitive puffy pussy. 

“No?” he sings back at you, humor coloring his words in bright seduction. “Then you don’t get to make demands, darling.” Izou pokes at your entrance with his tongue, pushing the panties into you slightly. He continues to thrust into you, giving you pleasure that took you just to the edge. It just wasn’t enough. You curl your toes, determined to finish your tea even if it scalds your throat. You chug as best as you can, fighting your own moans to avoid choking. 

Izou ignores your plight. Instead, he goes back to sucking on your pussy fully, opening his mouth as wide as he can. Your panties are so soaked. You’re not sure what’s the reason for it; whether it is Izou’s spit or your own arousal from wanting him so much.

“I-I’m done!” you stammer quickly, desperately. “I’m done. Please,” you plead breathlessly as Izou drags his tongue along the elastic of your underwear that is biting into a part of your ass cheek. “Please take them off.”

Izou finally pulls away. He emerges from between your legs, his head poking away from under the yukata. You shudder at the sight of him. His eyes clouded with lust, lids so heavy you can barely see the beautiful dark brown of his eyes. His lipstick smeared against both cheeks, lips tinted red, including part of his pale chin. There’s a glistening wetness all over his mouth, on his chin. You can even see a trail oozing down his neck. Izou wipes at that with the back of one hand.

He brings it to  his mouth slowly. Izou opens his mouth to lick it up: “Show me,” he murmurs, sucking the back of his hand clean. There’s a wicked smile that follows after, one that hooks a corner of his lips high until a dimple forms. You start to shove the cup at him but Izou raises a finger. 

“No,” he interrupts. You bring the cup back towards you, as if you had just been chastised. Shame floods your cheeks, feeling your face heat up. “Over your head,” Izou instructs. “Turn it out. If even so much a drop falls,” he pauses to raise a perfectly groomed brow at you. “You’re in trouble my darling. Is that clear?”

Panic seizes you. There was a dangerous sparkle behind Izou’s eyes that you’d normally challenge; however, you had taken enough of his teasing. If he planned on depriving you from orgasm some more you wouldn’t know if you could survive it. You were desperate to feel his mouth closer to you, you wanted to feel his tongue slip inside your entrance, for him to stretch you open with his fingers, until he was satisfied; until he couldn’t wait to fill you up with his cock.

You’d do anything to fulfill that fantasy playing in your head in a loop.

You throw pride away. You cast inhibitions to the ground as you bring the cup to your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the inside of the teacup, licking up every bit of liquid you can find. 

Izou watches you with dark satisfaction. Your tongue, berry colored and adorable, swirls inside the ceramic tea cup. His eyes take in the hungry glint in your eyes. You are determined. Your brows furrowed together as you turned the cup around and around, licking up the walls. Izou’s own tongue dips out to lick the corners of his lips. His cock is stiff between his legs as he watches you. He grunts as he palms himself, his fingers curling beneath his shaft to grasp his balls. He squeezes them tentatively, biting down on his lower lip.

It isn’t until you’re satisfied you’ve cleaned the teacup with your tongue enough for it to look as if it never held any liquid in the first place that you bring it up over your head. Izou watches as you hold it there, upside down over your messy hair. Not a single drop falls. Izou smiles.

“Very good,” he tells you with a voice so sticky and sweet you feel him cling all over you. He moves towards you. Izou’s hands slip under your yukata as he slides his palms up your thighs. He stops to kiss the corner of your mouth, and whispers against it: “I’ll take them off for you, but still, I have something I want you to do.”

Your heart picks up a neck breaking pace. You bite down on your lip to keep from saying something embarrassing. The scent of Izou’s cologne is making you dizzy. His mouth is so close to yours you feel like dying. If he doesn’t kiss you. If he kisses you. Either way you think it would end in your death. 

Izou moves away, and he squeezes your hands. He pulls you up as he stands. 

“On the bed darling,” he instructs, and helps you sit on it. You watch him from the edge of the mattress as he fiddles with his obijime. He unties the string at last, and slides it through his fingers repeatedly. His dark gaze is on you, his smile crooked once more. “Lay down. We’re not using our hands again.”

You do as you're told, and lay down on the bed. Your pillow is slightly uncomfortable underneath your hair but you don’t dare complain. After all, the bed dips when Izou joins you. He throws a leg over you, straddling you. 

“Arms up,” he orders, and starts tying the obijime around wrist. “You’re being such a good girl. I never knew you were this obedient.” His tone is teasing, if not mocking. You feel embarrassed and aroused. You rub your own legs together, feeling slick make the inside of your thighs slippery. He loops the obijime around a metal bar of the headboard before he ties the other end around your other wrist. “That should hold,” he says quietly, touching the knots tentatively. “Why don’t we test it out?”

He looks down at you and can’t help but smile. Your chest is heaving, your lips parted with want are red and puffy. He would love nothing more than to kiss you, once, twice, a thousand times tonight. He’d kiss you like he had imagined countless times before but that would be too easy.

Izou kisses your cheeks instead, slow and tender. He kisses up the line of your jaw, and your ear. He follows the shell of your ear with his tongue, his breath hot against your sensitive cartilage. His soft little pants floods you with desire, a pleasurable pull at the pit of your belly makes you delirious.  Izou goes back to your face. He kisses you all over. You move your head, trying to catch his mouth with yours but he continues to evade you, a light grin on his lips. 

The tip of his tongue touches your bottom lip. You gasp, thinking this is your chance, but he runs it along the outline of your lips instead, tracing the shape of your mouth. Izou licks your bottom lip. His breath comes out in puffs, dying in the back of your open mouth.

“Touch me,” he pleads breathlessly. You move to touch his face, to run your hands down his broad back but they go nowhere. The string tightens around your wrists. You try one more time, groaning in frustration. The headboard rattles, the metallic noise blending in with Izou’s laughter.

“Sorry, dear,” he murmurs as he kisses your cheek. “I couldn’t help but tease you a little bit. You’re just too cute to resist.”

Izou kisses your jaw, your neck. He leaves sloppy kisses there, his saliva cool against your heated skin. His hands fondle your breast over your yukata, squeezing without much gentleness. There’s a wrinkle on your nose he misses, when you hold back from crying out. Izou moves down lower, ignoring your yukata. You try pulling at the string agains, increasingly frustrated at the barriers between your skin and his. You want nothing more than to be naked; nothing more than for Izou to explore every inch of your body but he was determined to edge you into insanity.

He is between your legs again, pushing your yukata up slowly over your thighs. Izou brings his face closer to your entrance, takes another loud sniff. You wiggle your hips testily. Izou grips one with a rough hand. 

“Behave,” he growls before he grips the elastic of your panties with his teeth. Izou starts pulling, and you help him by lifting your hips. He drags them down over your plush thighs, and all the way down to your ankles. Izou hooks them off your feet. He holds it one hand, his thumb brushing over the half soaked underwear. “You were practically drowning, darling,” he tells you with a grin, tucking the wet panties into the inside of his yukata as a keepsake. “You poor thing. Let me make up for it.”

You watch him with burning lungs, barely able to breathe. Your vision is cloudy, but you still see him slip his arms out of his yukata. He makes a grand show of it, slow movements that accentuate every ripple and stretch of his shoulder and chest muscles. His large pecs captivate you as the yukata spills away to pool around his waist. His shoulders are so wide, your legs immediately spread open, as if your body wanted to make room for him immediately.

Izou laughs softly.

“Greedy girl, I’m going now,” he lowers himself in between your legs. Your mouth drops open when you finally feel his tongue lap at your folds. You look down, little moans dying in your throat as you catch sight of his muscular back. The large tattoo that reminds you of what crew he belongs to looks back at you–a silent witness to your undoing. 

“Nng, Izou!” you cry out, your back arching, as he sucks on your clit with force. “Yes, yes. Just like that. Yes, finally!” 

Izou laughs against your puffy pussy. Your voice sounds so thin, needy and desperate he can’t help it. He teases your entrance with one fingertip, circling around it repeatedly, while he licks at your sensitive bud. Your hips jolt as you try to guide him to enter you.

“Please,” you whine, the metal headboard rattling with every involuntary jerk of your body. “Please. No more. Please.”

“Such a needy little thing,” he growls against your hip, biting down until you cry. “Beg more. I want to hear you beg even more.”

Izou slips a finger inside you, groaning as he feels you tighten around him. He pumps his fingers lazily, slurping a lip into his mouth. Your moans entice him, remind him of his hard earned reward. You were finally here, underneath him, at his mercy. He had wanted this for so long and never knew how to approach the matter without scaring you away. Had he known it would be this easy he would have acted sooner.

The more you cry, and whimper, the more he wants to hear you. He covers your pussy with his saliva, sloppy wet kisses that never stop. Your clit is so sensitive, it is almost painful when he sucks, when he flicks his tongue over it again and again. You feel a familiar hot tightening sensation inside you, one that becomes even more intense when he starts sucking and pumping two fingers inside you at the same time. He curls his long fingers, searching for that spot that will make you cry.

He brings you dangerously close to the precipice, the rattling of the headboard is drowned out by your own cries, by you shouting his name.

“I’m so close, Izou!” you beg, your hips pushing up against his flicking tongue. “I’m so close, please. Yes, right there, ah!” You shut your eyes tight as your legs kick out, as you feel the muscles in your thighs contract, and just when you think you’ll finally get there, that you’ll finally feel that relief you’ve been chasing this whole time, Izou pulls his mouth away.

There’s a sob you weren’t ready for that strains your throat. You cry, tears falling down the sides of your face, as you pull at your restraints. 

“Goddammit, Izou!” you cry, shaking your tied arms, and kicking your legs. Izou kisses your cheeks, then licks up your tears, one by one.

“There, there,” he whispers, shushing you like he would a child. “I’ve really gone too far, haven’t I?” His voice is soft, gentle, and just the right amount of remorseful. You forget your anger, and try to regulate your breathing.

“Izou, please,” you beg one more time, turning your face towards him. He kisses you at last, pressing his lips firmly against yours. You taste yourself on his lips, musky and a little bit sweet. His tongue brushes against yours softly. He strokes the roof of your mouth, and the insides of your cheeks, moaning, as his hips push against yours. You feel the bulge under the yukata, and feel a slight sense of vindication.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs softly against your swollen lips, his hand tenderly cupping one cheek. Izou brushes his mouth against yours. “I just really wanted you to cum on my cock instead.”

You blink, taken aback by his honest admittance. Before irritation can settle in at his sheer audacity, you feel Izou fiddling between your legs. There’s a rustling of cloth that fills your ears, and you feel something hot and hard pushing against your entrance.

You gasp and clutch your fingers tightly, your nails biting into your palms.

“Mmm!” you moan, lips pressed tightly together. The tip of his cock pushes into you, stretching you out. He is girthier than you thought. Izou’s mouth drops open as he pushes into you slowly, feeling you stretch around him.

“Nngh” he groans, brows knitted together. His hands are on the bed, caging you in his frame. Izou looks at you, a frown still in place. “How are you still so tight? Come on baby, spread open for me.”

You cry out, spreading your legs wider as if that would let him go in deeper. Your body shudders as he bottoms out with a groan. Izou begins moving his hips slowly at first, feeling your heat wrap around him. You were so wet, he could feel you coating him all the way down to the base of his shaft. He continues to push into you, feeling you adjust to his size. He increases the pace of his thrusts, his hips slapping against your own. The wet sound of his balls against your ass spurred him to go in deeper, rougher.

You cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. You were so sensitive everything felt like too much. Every time he’d groan and push in deep, hold himself inside you to feel you flutter around him, you’d thought you’d die. The dark hairs around his cock would brush against your sensitive clit, making your toes curl repeatedly. It is madness, you’re sure, that makes you wrap your legs around Izou’s snapping hips. 

It is also madness that leads you to say your next words: “Fuck me harder, Izou,” you pant out, as he bites and sucks up the column of your neck. His hands gripping the soft flesh of your hips. “I want you to do it harder. I want you deep inside. I want you to make me lose reason.”

Izou pulls away from your neck, he observes the bruises blooming there, the crescent shape of his teeth, all with a smile. He watches you for a moment, slowing down the movement of his hips. Then, he laughs.

“You really are a greedy girl,” he coos, shifting his hands from his hips to your thighs. Izou moves your legs, he holds them by the back of the knees as he folds you over. “You just don’t know what’s good for you, do you?”

You were so beautiful underneath him. Your exposed brown skin glistening with sweat. You’d shimmer under the dim lighting of the room. The bright colors of the yukata were stunning on you, even with your lipstick smeared, even with your hairstyle in disarray. 

You were so gorgeous as you were now, and he’d love to ruin you even further.

No noise comes out of you when he slams his hips against you, so hard it takes your breath away. You shut your eyes so tight, you think you see stars. The noise of the bed creaking, the headrest slapping against the wall is jarring compared to before. You think it’ll break under the weight of Izou’s determination.  Finally, you find your voice, as he picks up the pace at a brutal speed. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes in the room, only outshined by your intense cries of pleasure.

“Is this what you wanted?” Izou enthuses with grunts between his words. “Is this what you wanted, love? You wanted me to pound into this pretty pussy until you’re a sobbing weeping mess? Oh,” he breathes out with a wide smile and a hoarse chuckle. “You naughty girl.”

He loved it. He loved the sight of your eyes rolling to the back of your head. He loved the sight of your mouth not closing, how you were unable to barely catch your breath between every moan and every scream and every cry. He loved feeling you around his thick cock, how wet you were, how tight your gummy walls were milking him as if you were desperate to get every last drop of him.

He pounds into you, his grip on the back of your knees bruising. You can’t bring yourself to care, or care about how you feel your legs falling asleep, your arms tingling and numb. You just want him to keep thrusting into you, you’re so close again, you scream as the coil tightens deep inside you. 

“Izou!” you cry out, spit dripping down your chin. “I’m so close!”

He nods, hips never stopping.

“You want to cum, don’t you?” he asks you. He smiles against the inside of your knee, and he kisses the spot softly. “Alright, cum then. Show me how beautiful you can look.”

You fall apart around him. It’s the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. You hear yourself scream, feel your body twitching as pleasure courses throughout your body, relaxing every tense muscle. It doesn’t take Izou long to join you. He cums quickly after you, spilling all of himself in your pussy. He slows down his movements, thrusting into you gently as he looks down proudly at the ring of milky cum around his shaft.

Satisfied, he leans over to kiss you, gently lowering your legs. They feel weak and shaky as they drop to the bed. Izou peppers kisses all over your face as he works the knots on the restraints with his fingers. Once your wrists are free he brings them to his mouth, and he kisses the marks left behind by the strings with tender kisses. “You did such a beautiful job, my good girl,” he murmurs against your wrist. Izou kisses the palm. “I can’t wait to see what else you can do.”

[iamgonnagetyouback]

hii ivy!! i was thinking for the 1k celebration, the prompt "I'm not cute" "sure, keep telling yourself that" for James??

I'M NOT CUTE.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤ ㅤ●ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ J. POTTER

SUMMARY ৎ୭ you’ve never considered yourself cute—black sisters are supposed to be intimidating, not adorable. but james potter seems determined to prove you wrong

WARNINGS ಇ. fluff, james being annoying (affectionate), reader insisting she's not cute (she is), james has a stuffed lion named leonard PROMPT ಇ. "i’m not cute." "sure, keep telling yourself that." A/N ಇ. i love your thinking very much, love! ♡ thank you so much for requesting ‹𝟹

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 800

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

It was a regular weekend, and you and James had somehow ended up at Madam Puddifoot’s. Not by choice, mind you, but because Sirius had practically shoved the two of you through the door, cackling as he held it shut from the outside until you resigned to staying put.

You glared at James from across the small, heart-covered table, wrinkling your nose at the frilly pink tablecloth. “This is your fault, you know.”

He grinned, dimples out and completely unbothered by the absurdly decorated café. “How is it my fault?”

“You’re the one who made me come to Hogsmeade with you. If I’d known we’d end up here, I’d have stayed in the common room.” You huffed, crossing your arms as he laughed. “I am not cute enough for this kind of place.”

“Oh, really?” He cocked an eyebrow, leaning in with that smirk that was just begging to be slapped. “I think you’re very cute, love. In fact, the cutest.”

You shook your head, scoffing as your cheeks flushed. “James, I am not cute.”

“Mm, sure.” He leaned back, crossing his arms and looking you up and down like he was challenging you. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You groaned, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response and instead busied yourself with your teacup. “No, really,” you said, setting it down with a soft clink. “I’m a Black. Black sisters don’t do cute—they do cool, mysterious, edgy.”

James snorted. “Oh, yeah, definitely edgy. When you fell down the stairs last week, that was really mysterious.”

You swatted at him across the table, your face heating up at the memory. “That was a one-time thing!”

“And when you tried to hex Snivellus and ended up accidentally hexing yourself?”

You pursed your lips. “My wand slipped.”

“Mhm. And when you spilled pumpkin juice on McGonagall?”

“I slipped again,” you mumbled, crossing your arms tighter as he dissolved into laughter.

“Oh, love,” he said, reaching over to grab your hand, his thumb tracing circles along your knuckles. “You are the cutest, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You scowled at his hand over yours but didn’t pull away. “Stop calling me cute. I’m intimidating.”

“Yes, absolutely terrifying,” he agreed, nodding seriously before cracking a smile. “I mean, look at those fierce little eyes and that tiny, scrunched-up nose. Positively horrifying.”

You sighed dramatically. “I’ll hex you if you keep this up.”

“Sure you will.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “I mean, you’ve done it so successfully before.”

You lifted your chin, doing your best impression of a dignified, aloof Black sister. “I don’t need your cheek, Potter. I am not cute.”

He raised a challenging eyebrow. “Right. So if I said, ‘Merlin, you’re adorable,’ you wouldn’t blush?”

“Exactly,” you said firmly, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks.

“Merlin, you’re adorable,” he said instantly, eyes trained on your face.

The color rushed to your cheeks faster than you could stop it. James laughed, squeezing your hand as he watched you squirm.

“You know what, Potter?” you muttered, feeling like an absolute fool.

“What’s that, darling?”

You leaned in, narrowing your eyes. “I think you’re cute.”

“Oh, now she’s trying to dish it back,” he said, beaming at you. “Sorry, but cute’s your title around here.”

You pouted, biting back a smile as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. It was enough to make your heart do an embarrassing little flip.

“Keep pouting, love,” he murmured, his voice low and soft. “It only makes you cuter.”

You groaned, but this time you couldn’t hide the grin. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re cute.”

“Stop calling me cute,” you said, leaning forward to poke him in the chest. “Or I’ll start telling people you sleep with a stuffed lion.”

James gasped, feigning horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

“You wouldn’t expose Leonard like that,” he whispered, clutching his chest.

You blinked. “You named it?”

He colored slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well—uh—what do you expect? I’m not a monster.”

Unable to keep up the act, you burst into laughter, nearly doubling over as James turned a charming shade of pink.

“Alright, alright,” he said, laughing along with you. “Maybe you’re a little mean.”

You smirked. “Thank you.”

“But still cute.”

“James!”

“Sorry, love,” he said, leaning over the table to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Can’t help the truth.”

You sighed, finally giving up. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re cute,” he repeated cheekily. “But don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret, yeah?”

You fought the smile that threatened to take over. “Fine. But if you call me cute one more time, I’ll tell Sirius about Leonard.”

He chuckled, resting his chin in his hands and looking at you with adoring eyes. “Worth it.”

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work