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goldfades · 2 months ago

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TROUBLE ─── RAFE CAMERON

request for blurb night! : "ev, hear me out—reader is sarah’s best friend who used to babysit wheezie. she's always thought rafe was just some spoiled rich kid until one night he helps her out of a dangerous situation, and she see a different side of him"

The sound of cicadas swells in the sticky summer air as you maneuver your car into the Camerons’ circular driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The house stands before you, grand and overbearing, like something pulled straight from a Southern Gothic novel. Even after all these years, it still has a way of making you feel out of place, like you’re trespassing on a life far removed from your own.

You killed the engine and take a deep breath, your hands lingering on the steering wheel. Coming here used to feel second nature—a daily part of your routine back when you were just Sarah’s friend who needed extra cash and Wheezie was a chatty eight-year-old who never seemed to run out of energy.

Now, it feels complicated. It’s not like you’re unwelcome here—Rose is always polite in her distant, Stepford kind of way, and Wheezie practically lights up whenever she sees you. Sarah treats you like family, but there’s always been one Cameron who makes you feel like you’re walking on eggshells.

Rafe.

Spoiled, sharp-tongued, entitled Rafe, whose condescending smirk had been a permanent fixture of your teenage years. The golden boy with a black hole of a temper, a trust fund, and an ego that stretched for miles. You’d never understood him, and frankly, you’d never wanted to. He was a hurricane you learned to avoid at all costs, never lingering too long in his orbit.

But life has a funny way of pulling you into places you swore you’d never go.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat and step out into the muggy heat, your sandals crunching against the gravel. Somewhere inside the house, you hear the faint echo of laughter—Wheezie, probably, shouting at Sarah over a card game or some other nonsense. The sound makes you smile despite yourself.

You weren’t always someone the Camerons—or anyone from Figure Eight, for that matter—gave the time of day. Growing up, you were just another Pogue, another kid from the Cut with hand-me-down clothes and a chip on your shoulder. The people from Sarah’s world weren’t interested in you back then. Why would they be? You had nothing they wanted—no yacht, no country club membership, no sprawling waterfront property. You didn’t mind much. You had your own circle, your own rhythm, and you learned to brush off the condescending stares whenever you ventured into their territory.

But everything changed when your dad’s business took off. What started as a small, bare-bones construction company turned into one of the most in-demand firms in the Outer Banks almost overnight. Suddenly, the same people who used to look through you like you were invisible started remembering your name. Invitations to parties you’d never have been considered for started showing up in your mailbox. They weren’t just tolerating you—they wanted you there.

Sarah was one of the first to genuinely befriend you during that whirlwind of change. She wasn’t like the others, who only smiled at you because their parents said it was polite or because they wanted a favor from your dad. She liked you for you—your sarcasm, your groundedness, your tendency to keep it real in a place where everyone else seemed to be faking something. And through Sarah, you met Wheezie.

Wheezie was eight at the time, still caught between childhood and whatever it is that happens when you grow up as a Cameron. She adored you from the start, trailing behind you whenever you came over like a little shadow. You didn’t mind. She was funny, curious, and refreshingly unfiltered—a lot more like the kids from the Cut than anyone wanted to admit.

When Rose offhandedly mentioned they needed someone to look after Wheezie while she was busy managing the house (or hosting one of her endless charity luncheons), Sarah volunteered you without hesitation. “She’s perfect,” Sarah had said with that trademark confidence of hers, as though your schedule had already been cleared.

To your surprise, it worked out. Wheezie loved you, probably because you didn’t treat her like a chore or talk down to her like so many others did. You indulged her weird little interests, let her ramble on about books and whatever new drama she overheard in the house. You made her laugh.

And if the Camerons noticed you weren’t exactly one of their own, they didn’t seem to mind much anymore. After all, in their world, proximity to success was enough to erase just about anything.

Even after a couple years had passed, it’s a little funny how much has stayed the same. Every time you pull into the Camerons’ driveway, you still get the same sinking feeling, like you’re stepping onto foreign soil without a passport. Except now, it’s become a routine. Cameron game nights.

It started as an extension of the babysitting gig—a casual invite from Sarah, insisting you stay for dinner one night after watching Wheezie. Dinner turned into a board game that Sarah claimed was “super quick,” which turned into three hours of family chaos. It was ridiculous, overly competitive, and a little awkward with Rose monitoring everything like a referee, but Wheezie loved having you there, and Sarah was relentless in making sure you felt included.

At some point, it just became normal. Even after Wheezie grew out of needing a babysitter, the tradition stuck. Every week or two, Sarah would text you about game night, and somehow, you always said yes.

“You’re like an honorary Cameron,” Sarah had joked once, and you’d laughed because the idea of that felt ridiculous. But there were moments, like now, when you almost believed her.

Wheezie’s voice echoes from the living room the second you step through the door. “You’re late!”

“I’m literally on time,” you call back, closing the door behind you. The smell of freshly baked something wafts through the air, probably cookies Wheezie convinced Rose to make under the guise of a family bonding activity.

“Technically, Rafe’s late,” Sarah says, popping her head around the corner, already grinning. “You’re just cutting it close. Come on, Wheezie’s already plotting your downfall.”

You laugh and follow her into the living room, where the familiar chaos is already brewing. Wheezie’s sprawled across the couch, a pile of board game pieces spread out in front of her, while Ward sits in his chair, sipping a scotch like it’s all beneath him but still keeping a hawk’s eye on the rules. Rose flits between the kitchen and the table, not-so-casually reminding everyone to keep the snacks on coasters.

And then there’s Rafe.

He’s leaning back in one of the armchairs, his legs stretched out like he owns the place—which, technically, he does. A half-smirk tugs at his lips as he spins a stray game token between his fingers. He barely glances at you when you walk in, but you catch the faintest flicker of recognition.

It’s been years, but Rafe is still Rafe: cocky, restless, and way too pretty for his own good. He’s toned down some of the more obvious brattiness since the early days, but the edge is still there, sharp enough to cut if you’re not careful.

And, as always, you do your best to steer clear.

The quiet hum of the boutique fades behind you as you pull the glass door shut, twisting the key to lock it. The click echoes in the empty street, a sharp sound against the stillness of downtown this late at night. The once-bustling sidewalks are deserted now, the streetlights casting uneven pools of orange on the pavement. Most of the shops had closed hours ago, their dark windows reflecting the faint shimmer of the moon.

You adjust the strap of your bag over your shoulder and glance at your phone. 11:43 p.m. Later than you’d intended. It wasn’t your shift to close, but your coworker had begged you to cover for her last minute, and you couldn’t say no. It’s fine, you tell yourself. You’ve done this before. Downtown isn’t that bad, and your car is parked just a block away. Still, there’s something unnerving about the silence, the way the shadows stretch a little too far when you’re alone.

Reaching your car—a trusty but aging sedan that you inherited from your dad—you fumble with the keys before sliding into the driver’s seat. The interior smells faintly of the vanilla air freshener you keep on the rearview mirror, a comforting contrast to the chilly night air outside. You toss your bag onto the passenger seat, then grip the steering wheel as you turn the key in the ignition.

Nothing.

You pause, frowning. That’s… odd. Your car’s old, sure, but it’s never been completely unresponsive. You twist the key again, harder this time, willing it to come to life.

Still nothing.

A low groan escapes your throat as you lean back against the seat. This can’t be happening. Not tonight. Not here.

You pull out your phone, half-tempted to call Sarah or even your dad, but you hesitate. Sarah’s probably asleep by now, and your dad’s a good thirty minutes away—not to mention, he’d definitely give you a lecture about not keeping up with the car’s maintenance. Sighing, you pop the hood and step out into the cool night air, shivering slightly as a gust of wind cuts through your jacket.

The street around you is unnervingly quiet. A stray cat darts across the road, its shadow flickering under the streetlights. You glance around, trying to shake the uneasy feeling creeping up your spine. It’s just your imagination, you tell yourself. No one’s here.

With a deep breath, you lift the hood and stare down at the engine like it might magically fix itself. You know a grand total of nothing about cars, but you wiggle a few cables anyway, hoping for a miracle. When you try the ignition again, the result is the same—silence, save for the faint hum of a streetlamp overhead.

Panic starts to creep in now, slow and steady. Your phone’s battery is hovering at 10%, and downtown—normally picturesque and charming by day—feels like a completely different place at night. The empty windows of the closed shops look less quaint and more sinister, their dark interiors like gaping mouths.

You lean back against the car, tapping your fingers against the metal as you weigh your options. Call someone? Walk to the gas station a few blocks down? Stay here and wait it out? None of them sound appealing, especially with the growing sensation that you’re being watched. You tell yourself it’s just nerves, but your skin prickles anyway, and you can’t help but glance over your shoulder every few seconds.

“Great,” you mutter under your breath. “This is how horror movies start.”

You huff out a shaky breath and decide to at least look under the hood. Not that you know what you’re doing, but it’s better than standing here like a sitting duck. Popping the latch, you step out into the cool night air again, every sound amplified in the unsettling quiet. Your shoes scrape against the pavement as you walk to the front of the car, lifting the hood and leaning over the engine.

The faint metallic scent of oil hits your nose as you peer into the mess of cables and parts. It all looks like a foreign language to you, but you fiddle with a few wires anyway, hoping for some kind of miracle.

That’s when you hear it—footsteps.

At first, you think maybe it’s nothing, just your imagination running wild, but then you hear them again, deliberate and getting closer. Your stomach clenches, and you straighten up, instinctively glancing over your shoulder.

Two figures are walking toward you from the opposite side of the street, their strides slow and unhurried. The dim streetlights reveal faces you vaguely recognize—Kooks, no doubt, probably from the same parties Sarah used to drag you to back in high school. Their names escape you, but the looks on their faces don’t—grins too wide, eyes too sharp, the kind of predatory energy that sets every nerve in your body on edge.

“Car trouble?” the taller one calls out, his voice carrying an edge of amusement as they stop a few feet away.

You force a tight smile, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah, I’ve got it handled. Thanks.”

The shorter one, stockier and wearing a backward baseball cap, steps closer, tilting his head like he doesn’t believe you. “Doesn’t look like it,” he says. His tone is casual, but the way his eyes flick over you makes your skin crawl.

“I’m fine,” you insist, taking a small step back toward the car. Your heart is pounding now, a sick thrum in your chest, but you keep your expression as neutral as possible.

“Hey, we’re just trying to help,” the taller one says, holding up his hands like he’s harmless, but there’s something almost mocking in his tone. “No need to be rude.”

The stocky one smirks, moving to your other side, effectively boxing you in against the car. “Yeah, we’re just being friendly.”

The air feels heavy, oppressive, and the space between you and them feels like it’s shrinking by the second. You can feel the tension in their postures, the way they’re both leaning in slightly, testing how far they can push.

Your throat tightens as you glance around, desperate for someone, anyone to come walking down the street. But there’s no one—just you and these two strangers who clearly don’t care that you’re uncomfortable.

“Look,” you say, trying to sound firm but calm, “I appreciate it, but I’m good. You don’t need to stick around.”

The taller one laughs, a low, unpleasant sound that makes your stomach churn. “Aw, come on. You’re out here all alone. What kind of gentlemen would we be if we just left you like this?”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the hood, your mind racing for a way out. You consider making a run for it, but they’re too close now, their presence suffocating.

Just as the stockier one steps even closer, his grin widening, a voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding.

“What’s going on here?”

The relief is instant and overwhelming, like a lifeline being thrown to you in a raging sea. You turn toward the sound, and there he is—Rafe Cameron, standing just a few feet away, his hands shoved casually into his pockets but his posture rigid, his eyes hard as they lock onto the two guys.

The taller one straightens up immediately, his smirk faltering. “Rafe,” he says, a weak attempt at sounding friendly.

Rafe doesn’t respond, his gaze shifting to you for the briefest moment before snapping back to them. “Didn’t realize we were having a party,” he says, his voice calm but laced with something dangerous. “You two invited?”

The stockier guy takes a step back, muttering something under his breath. “We were just leaving,” he says quickly, his bravado crumbling under Rafe’s glare.

“Yeah, you are,” Rafe says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The two exchange uneasy glances before slinking away, their footsteps echoing down the street until they disappear around the corner.

For a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your heartbeat and the faint hum of Rafe’s truck idling in the distance.

“You good?” Rafe asks, his voice softer now but still steady, grounding.

You nod, your throat dry as you manage to croak out, “Yeah… I am now.”

Rafe watches the shadows where the two guys disappeared, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight. You half expect him to say something cutting, maybe some sarcastic remark about how you can’t take care of yourself, but when he finally looks at you, there’s no smugness. Only something... softer, almost hesitant.

“You’re lucky I saw you,” he says, his voice low. “That could’ve gone bad. Fast.”

You nod, your throat still tight from the tension of the moment. He’s right. You don’t even want to think about how that could’ve ended if he hadn’t shown up. “Thanks,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe’s brow furrows like he’s surprised you said it. He leans back slightly, glancing at the car hood still propped open. “What’s wrong with this thing?”

“Won’t start,” you reply, gesturing vaguely at the engine. “Not that I’d know what to look for.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth quirking up just slightly. “Yeah, I wouldn’t expect you to.” His tone lacks the usual edge, though—it’s not a dig, just a statement.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there in the quiet. The night air feels less suffocating now, the earlier tension replaced by a strange calm. Despite everything you know—or think you know—about Rafe Cameron, there’s something about his presence right now that makes you feel… safe. It’s unsettling, in its own way.

“You should be more careful,” Rafe says, breaking the silence. His gaze is steady, not mocking or judgmental, just serious. “Downtown this late? Alone? That’s asking for trouble.”

You bristle slightly, your instinct to defend yourself flaring up. “I didn’t exactly plan for my car to break down.”

He raises an eyebrow, but instead of snapping back, he just nods. “Fair.”

The quiet stretches between you again, but this time, it’s not uncomfortable. Rafe steps closer, peering under the hood with a practiced air, and you’re struck by how uncharacteristically gentle he seems. No biting remarks, no smug superiority—just calm focus.

He taps a cable lightly, muttering something under his breath, then steps back, closing the hood with a decisive thud. “Battery’s probably dead,” he says, glancing at you. “You need a jump.”

You nod, your nerves finally starting to settle. “I guess I’ll call someone.”

“Don’t bother,” he says, already walking toward his truck. “I’ve got cables.”

You blink, caught off guard by his matter-of-fact tone. He’s not offering—he’s telling you he’s going to help. And for some reason, you don’t argue.

A few minutes later, Rafe has his truck pulled up nose-to-nose with your car, the cables stretched taut between them. He works in silence, his movements efficient, and you watch from the sidelines, unsure of what to do with yourself.

“You should get in,” he says, nodding toward the driver’s seat.

You do as he says, sliding back into the familiar confines of your car. The moment feels oddly intimate—just the two of you on this empty street, the hum of his truck filling the air.

“Try it now,” he calls out, stepping back.

You turn the key, but instead of the engine sputtering to life, it lets out a defeated whine and falls silent again. You try one more time, your chest tightening with frustration and dread, but it’s no use. The car isn’t going anywhere tonight.

You let your forehead drop against the steering wheel with a groan. Of course. Just your luck.

Rafe’s voice cuts through the night air, low and steady. “It’s not gonna work. Battery’s dead for real.”

You sit up, pressing your lips together as he leans against the open driver’s side door, his arms crossed. His expression is unreadable, somewhere between amusement and mild concern.

“Great,” you mutter. “So, what now? I call a tow truck and wait here till dawn?”

Rafe tilts his head, his gaze flicking over you briefly before landing on your car again. “Or,” he says, “I could just drive you home.”

The offer catches you off guard, and you hesitate, your immediate instinct to say no. Riding home with Rafe Cameron? That’s about as far outside your comfort zone as you can imagine.

But then you glance down at your nearly dead phone, the empty street around you, and the sheer impossibility of getting a tow out here tonight. What other choice do you have?

“Seriously?” you ask, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Rafe shrugs, the motion easy, like it’s no big deal. “You got a better plan?”

You don’t.

“Fine,” you say finally, grabbing your bag from the passenger seat and climbing out of the car. The night air feels colder now, pressing against your skin as you walk toward his truck.

Rafe opens the passenger door for you without a word, and you slide in, the faint scent of leather and cologne filling the cab. It’s clean but lived-in—practical, not flashy, which surprises you.

He climbs in on the driver’s side, pulling the door shut and starting the engine with a smooth turn of the key. The sound is steady, reliable, and for a moment, you envy how effortlessly everything in his life seems to work.

The first few minutes of the drive are quiet, the only sound the low hum of the truck and the occasional creak of the suspension as it rolls over uneven pavement. You glance out the window, watching the darkened storefronts blur past, trying to ignore the strange tension sitting between you.

“You gonna sit there and sulk the whole way?” Rafe asks, his voice breaking the silence.

“I’m not sulking,” you shoot back, turning to glare at him.

He smirks, his eyes still on the road. “Sure you’re not.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m just… processing the fact that my car officially hates me. And that I had to be rescued by you of all people.”

His smirk softens into something closer to a smile, and for once, it doesn’t look mocking. “Yeah, well, it’s your lucky night, I guess.”

You roll your eyes but don’t respond, and the quiet settles over the truck again. It’s not entirely uncomfortable this time—just strange, like you’re both trying to figure out how to navigate this unexpected moment.

After a while, Rafe glances over at you, his expression more serious now. “You really shouldn’t be out here alone like that,” he says quietly.

You shift in your seat, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his tone. “I didn’t exactly plan for my car to break down,” you mumble.

“Still,” he says, his grip tightening slightly on the steering wheel. “Things could’ve gone bad. You know that, right?”

You do. The memory of those guys, their leering smiles and the way they cornered you, is still fresh in your mind. A shiver runs through you, and you glance at Rafe, his profile sharp in the dim light from the dashboard.

“Thanks,” you say, softer this time. “For stepping in.”

His jaw tenses for a moment before he nods. “Yeah. Don’t mention it.”

The rest of the drive passes in a blur of streetlights and quiet conversation. When he finally pulls up outside your house, you feel an odd sense of disappointment, like the night is ending too soon.

Rafe cuts the engine and looks over at you, his expression unreadable again. “You good?”

You nod, your fingers curling around the strap of your bag. “Yeah. Thanks for the ride.”

He hesitates, his eyes searching yours for a moment, and you swear you see something uncharacteristically soft in his gaze. “Anytime,” he says, his voice low.

You climb out of the truck, turning back as you reach your front door. Rafe is still there, leaning slightly out of the window, watching you with an intensity that sends a strange flutter through your chest.

“Night, Rafe,” you call out, your voice steadier than you feel.

He nods once, his smirk returning, but there’s a warmth to it now that wasn’t there before. “Night.”

You watch as he drives off, the tail lights disappearing down the street, and you can’t shake the feeling that tonight, something shifted. Something you didn’t see coming.

The living room is alive with laughter and the sugary smell of freshly microwaved popcorn. Wheezie is sprawled across the couch, her legs tangled in a blanket as she debates the finer points of the movie you’ve just paused, while Sarah snorts beside her, throwing a handful of popcorn in her sister’s direction.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, sipping from your drink and soaking in the warmth of the moment. It feels good to let your guard down like this—to laugh and tease and forget for a little while.

“Okay, but how does she not realize he’s the bad guy?” Wheezie demands, gesturing dramatically at the screen.

“Because she’s blinded by love,” Sarah says, grinning. “Or maybe she’s just as dumb as you are.”

“Excuse me?” Wheezie gasps, clutching her chest in mock offense.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t know. I feel like if someone was being that obvious about being evil, I’d notice.”

“Would you, though?” Sarah teases, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey!” you protest, chucking a stray pillow at her.

The playful banter continues, the night stretching on in a haze of easy conversation and snack-fueled chaos. You’re halfway through arguing over which movie to watch next when the sound of the front door opening pulls your attention.

You glance toward the entryway just as Rafe steps inside, his hair slightly mussed, his keys jingling in his hand. He pauses when he sees you all, his expression flickering from mild surprise to something unreadable.

“What’s this?” he asks, his voice carrying that familiar mix of curiosity and amusement. “A girls’ night?”

“Yeah,” Sarah says, throwing a popcorn kernel at him. “And you’re not invited.”

“Tragic,” Rafe deadpans, stepping fully into the room. His eyes flick to you for a split second, and your stomach does an unexpected flip.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just residual nerves from the other night. Nothing to do with the way his presence seems to fill the space or the way his gaze lingers just long enough to make your cheeks heat.

He smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t worry, I’m not staying.”

“Good,” Sarah says. “Bye.”

He ignores her, pushing off the frame and heading toward the kitchen instead.

“I’m getting more popcorn,” you announce quickly, needing a reason to escape the sudden heat prickling at your skin. You grab the empty bowl and dart toward the kitchen before anyone can respond.

The kitchen is cooler, quieter, and you exhale a sigh of relief as you cross to the counter. You’re halfway through scooping kernels into a bowl when you hear the low hum of Rafe’s voice behind you.

“Didn’t know you were here tonight.”

You jump slightly, glancing over your shoulder to find him leaning casually against the counter, his arms crossed and that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.

“Yeah, well,” you say, turning back to the task at hand, “I’m kind of a regular around here.”

“I’ve noticed,” he says, his tone light but edged with something that makes your stomach flutter.

You keep your focus on the popcorn, refusing to let him get to you. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

“Only when they’re interesting,” he shoots back smoothly.

You roll your eyes, but the flush creeping up your neck betrays you. “Interesting? That’s a stretch.”

Rafe chuckles, the sound low and warm. “I don’t think so.”

His voice is closer now, and you glance up to find him standing beside you, his gaze fixed on your face. You freeze, your fingers tightening slightly around the bowl as you try to think of something—anything—to say.

“Relax,” he says, his lips quirking up into a grin. “You look like you’re about to run out of here.”

“I’m not,” you insist, though your voice comes out shakier than you’d like.

He leans in slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I was starting to think I might scare you.”

“You don’t scare me,” you say quickly, your voice a touch too defensive.

“Hmm.” His smirk deepens, and he leans back, giving you just enough space to breathe again. “If you say so.”

With that, he grabs a water bottle from the fridge and steps away, throwing one last glance over his shoulder as he heads toward the stairs.

“Goodnight, trouble,” he calls out, his tone teasing but soft enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You stand there for a moment, staring after him, your heart racing and your face burning.

By the time you return to the living room with the popcorn, Wheezie and Sarah are too busy laughing at some inside joke to notice how flustered you are. You settle back into your spot on the floor, your mind still replaying the way Rafe’s voice sounded when he called you trouble.

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anto-pops · 1 year ago

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Cheirophilia - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: Following the summer leading up to your seventh year, you return to Hogwarts to discover that Sebastian has undergone changes that greatly appeal to the eye. Your eye, to be specific. There’s no easy way to tell the man you’ve been dating for two years that your attention has been fixed on a part of him otherwise deemed normal, but after a while, you’re forced to face the truth of the matter.

Alternatively summarized as you have a hand kink and Sebastian Sallow has extremely nice hands.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, explicit sexual content, hand kink, size difference

Full fic can be found here on Ao3 (with more diverse tags)

You had to be losing your mind. That was the only plausible explanation for the wild, unrestrained thoughts that had been plaguing your brain for the last week every time you so much as glanced at Sebastian. Yes, he was attractive. He was charming and confident, and quite frankly he was the epitome of male perfection as far as you were concerned. Not a day went by where you didn’t consider yourself lucky to be able to call him yours, and you knew he was just as enamored with you.

But your newfound infatuation with his hands had started relatively recently, and you had no clue what to make of it.

Sebastian was touchy to begin with, and he always had been. From casually brushing shoulders with you in the Great Hall during mealtimes, to tucking your hair behind your ears at night– the man was constantly finding ways to be closer to you, and your appreciation for his efforts knew no bounds. It made you feel treasured, wanted, revered, and a slew of other things that made your heart swell with affection. Maybe you could attribute your blatant ogling of his appendages to that, or maybe you had just finally started to notice after your Divination class last week.

Professor Onai, for all her outlandish preachings on clairvoyance, had taken a more mundane approach in teaching her students ‘fortune telling’ a few days ago. “Palm reading,” she had said, “is a delicate and fixed art. It can be as vague as it can be accurate, and it takes an expertly trained eye to decipher the true meaning behind the grooves in one’s hand.”

You were far from an expert in anything relating to Divination, but you did have an eye for nice things, and Merlin– were Sebastian’s hands exquisite. They were nearly twice the size of yours and covered in calluses, a lingering sign of the grueling physical labor he’d done over the summer in Feldcroft. His fingers weren’t as dainty as Ominis’, but they were long, thick, and lined with pulsing veins that stretched across the backs of his hands and coiled around his toned forearms. As you’d traced the lines on his palm with your fingers, he’d shivered at the featherlight feeling and chuckled at the deferential way you seemed to commit every part of the appendage to memory.

You didn’t even want to begin to recount the way your heart had hammered in your chest when it had been his turn to read your palm. Maintaining your composure had taken every ounce of willpower in your body.

Since then, your mind had wandered an unhealthy amount.

By some miracle, Sebastian hadn’t noticed your unwavering eye contact with his hands yet. The two of you had been kept preoccupied with the mountains of classwork that came with the start of the new school year, and as a result, your only opportunities to spend time with him had been during mealtimes. Today was different, however, because Lucan had finally set up the first Crossed Wands match of the season. You and Sebastian were both participating, and your boyfriend was all too eager to jump back into dueling after the summer months spent away.

Your eyes scanned him dutifully from across the room, watching with rapt interest as he chatted with Brattleby about the upcoming fight. Sebastian had grown considerably since your fifth-year, virtually towering over Lucan as he looked down at the curly haired Gryffindor. The latter had gone through a growth spurt of his own, but it was easy to overlook him when he was standing next to your boyfriend. Sebastian was big; broad shouldered with long, powerful legs and thick wrists that complimented his massive, mouthwatering hands.

Said hands were fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt as he rolled them up, nodding down at Lucan as he replied to something the younger boy had said. You didn’t know what they were discussing, and quite frankly, you didn’t care. His deft fingers adjusted his uniform as he prepared for your duo’s duel, and instead of following suit, you were unabashedly studying his every move. That is, until a voice from your left drew your attention.

“Did something happen over summer?”

You startled easily, warranting an eye roll from Imelda as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the wall. It was a rarity to find her in the Crossed Wands courtyard, but you knew she had been hounding members of the Quidditch team to prepare for trial runs and scrimmages, and Sebastian factored into that assortment of people. Schooling your nerves the best you could, you started to shed your robe in an effort to simultaneously get ready for the duel and distract from the metaphorical eye candy across the room.

“What do you mean,” you asked vaguely, keeping your eyes pointed at the floor as you moved.

Imelda was having none of it– clearly smarter than you deigned to give her credit for. “Don’t play coy with me. You’re always checking Sallow out, but since we’ve been back it’s ten times worse. Did he sprout a second cock or something?”

You damn near choked on your own tongue as you whipped around to glare at her. “Do you have to be so crass all the time?”

She waved you off, “Yes, I do. Who else would rile you up this way if not myself? Now answer the question.”

Heaving a deep sigh, you draped your robe over a stack of crates and began to gather your hair back into a loose braid as you muttered, “No, nothing happened over summer.”

“But something is going on. Come on,” she implored with a taunting tone, her brown eyes glimmering with amusement. “At least tell me if it’s something bad.”

“It’s not bad,” you relented. “It’s– I’m not sure what it is, to be honest. We haven’t even done anything since we’ve been back, we’ve been too busy. But…”

You trailed off, staring at the wall behind Imelda as you brought your hair over your shoulder to finish off the plait. She waited patiently, however, all too eager to get the inside scoop on your love life. “But?”

“I don’t know– have you ever found yourself focused on other body parts? Like, really random parts of another person?”

The Quidditch captain’s face shifted into a confused expression as she chanced a look at Sebastian, evidently trying to figure out what on Godric’s green Earth you were referring to. “Uh, no? If you’re talking about his feet though then I’m going to ask that you forget I even brought this up–”

“No!” You blurted loudly, drawing the attention of a handful of students in the courtyard, Sebastian included. He cocked a brow at you from across the room, and you flashed him a bashful smile in silent reply before mouthing a timid ‘sorry’. Imelda snickered under her breath when you turned back to her, a deep scowl settling on your face. “Dammit, not his fucking feet. I’m talking about his hands. He has really nice hands– I never noticed before.”

“You’re telling me you’ve had your knickers in a twist for the last week and a half because of Sallow’s hands?”

To say Imelda looked dumbstruck would be an understatement, and you suddenly felt incredibly stupid for having said anything at all. You kept your eyes downcast as you tossed your braided hair over your shoulder and slid your wand free from its holster, doing your best to ignore the woman’s burning stare. “Nevermind– forget I mentioned it.”

“I doubt I could even if I wanted to, but for the sake of your dignity I’ll go grab a seat and let you get your head in the game.” You felt your cheeks heat up instantly in response to her snide comment, and you lifted your eyes in time to watch Imelda turn towards the far corner of the room with a smile on her face. She paused before taking off, murmuring over her shoulder, “Make sure you’re paying attention to your opponents and not Sallow’s hands.”

Sweet Merlin… you should have kept your big mouth shut.

***

As it turned out, your head was so far out of the game that it became collateral in the midst of your duo’s duel.

It was your own fault, really. Despite doing your best to focus on the task at hand, your eyes had continually wandered over to Sebastian, tracking his movements as he fired spell after spell in retaliation against your opponents. He had always been exceptionally graceful while fighting– be it in Crossed Wands or in the Highlands at your side– and his sudden growth spurt over summer had only added to his preexisting agility. It was all too easy for you to get absorbed in his fluid movements as he ducked and rolled, then blocked and countered every attack with astonishing finesse.

Unfortunately, that meant you were left wholly unprepared for the Depulso charm that sent you careening across the room into a stack of crates. Your head had been positively spinning as you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, but your vision cleared in time to watch as Sebastian abandoned the duel entirely to hurry over to where you lay prone against the broken wood. Lucan had shouted something about the match being called off, but you could hardly pay any attention to his words with Sebastian fretting over you, mere inches from your face.

“Merlin’s bloody balls, what the hell happened?” The brunet hadn’t even given you ample time to reply before he had hoisted you up in his strong, capable arms to carry you to the Hospital Wing.

That was how you’d ended up where you were now; laid out in an uncomfortable hospital bed with Nurse Blainey hovering too close for comfort while your boyfriend sat beside you with his arms crossed stiffly over his chest. His expression was virtually unreadable, but you weren’t able to focus on him for long without your head pounding in silent protest.

“Drink this,” Nurse Blainey dutifully instructed, thrusting a vial of Wiggenweld in front of you as she scanned your bandaged temple. “It will help with the swelling and the gods-awful headache I’m sure you’re sporting. My diagnostic spells came back negative for any internal injuries, but that doesn’t mean you can rush back to your foolhardy dueling club. A concussion is a concussion, no matter how small.”

Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth so you nodded in response instead of speaking– only to instantly regret the movement. Sharp, concentrated pain shot through your head, and you took it as a sign to carefully knock back the contents of the potion she’d given you. A soothing warmth overtook you in a split second, and the throbbing in your skull lessened considerably, prompting you to relax against the pillows situated behind you as your eyelids fluttered. Evidently pleased with your subdued demeanor, Nurse Blainey jotted something down on the clipboard that had been tucked under her arm before turning to Sebastian.

“I trust that you’ll ensure she actually takes it easy for the next few days, Mr. Sallow?”

Your eyes cracked open in time to watch Sebastian’s gaze flicker to yours, and the muscle in his jaw ticked as his attention zero’d in on the thick bandage that now adorned your head. “Of course. She’ll be a model patient for as long as needed.”

Satisfied with his agreement, Nurse Blainey pivoted on her heel and strode to the back end of the room, leaving you and Sebastian alone in a tense silence.

Heaving a heavy sigh, you gathered your hands in your lap and let your head tip back against the bed frame, wanting nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you whole. All of this because you couldn’t stop ogling your boyfriend for a measly twenty minutes when it mattered most… it was an embarrassing and stupid mistake to acknowledge. Moreover, you’d basically ruined the first Crossed Wands duel of the season– something you knew had to be bothering Sebastian, given his competitive nature.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled half-heartedly. “I should have been paying closer attention.”

Sebastian scoffed to your left, and when you peered at him through the corner of your eye, his head looked like it was on the verge of imploding. “Are you seriously apologizing for getting a concussion right now?”

There was no stopping the frown that spread across your face, and you nervously started picking at your cuticles as your mouth opened, shut, then opened again. “Yes– I mean– no. I’m sorry that the match got canceled because of me. You were probably excited to get back into Crossed Wands and I just… messed it up. I wasn’t thinking clearly out there.”

“Obviously,” Sebastian countered easily, the amused glimmer in his eyes vanishing before you could take proper note of it. “You’re never one to let your mind wander when you fight, but you have to know I’m not mad about the duel. I was worried about you– I don’t think you realize how terrifying it is to see you of all people bleeding.”

You gaze fell to your lap as you pursed your lips and lifted your hand to the bandage taped to your temple, trying and failing to recall if you’d actually bled at all. It was all something of a blur if you were being honest. When you looked up at Sebastian once more, he had sat forward in his seat and was reaching towards you, wearing an expression that was equal parts concerned and curious. With your brain still muddled, all you could really do was stare wide-eyed at the nearing culprit of your misfortune; his Merlin-be-damned hands. Those long, flexing digits came to gently stroke the side of your cheek, turning your head to the side briefly to allow him a good look at your patched up face, and as Sebastian tsk’d disapprovingly, you were fighting back a slew of unholy thoughts that had no business arising in the midst of such a tender moment.

The side of his mouth quirked up as he thought back to your debacle in the clock tower courtyard. “Did your inability to ‘think clearly’ have anything to do with whatever you and Imelda were talking about earlier?”

Being reminded of your discussion with the Slytherin woman at such an inopportune time caused your face to flush a deep red, and you nervously clasped your boyfriend’s larger hand in your notably smaller one and drew it into your lap. You gently thumbed over the veins on the back of his hand, taking note of the constellation of freckles that ran up his wrist and forearm, and you saw Sebastian tilt his head to the side as he let you fondle the limb.

“Maybe…” you drawled lazily. Perhaps you would chalk it up to your concussion later on, or perhaps you just wanted to get your insane obsession off your chest. Regardless of the why, you steeled your nerves and swallowed thickly before muttering, “You have really nice hands.”

Silence. Sebastian said nothing– and that was considerably worse than him saying something– anything. Your brows slammed down just as you lifted your head to gauge his reaction, only to discover a bewildered smile plastered on his smarmy face.

“…I think you hit your head harder than I thought. Should I call Nurse Blainey back over here?”

Ah. He thought you were delusional. Brilliant.

Letting go of him as though his skin were heated metal, you sighed and sat forward to swing your legs over the edge of the bed, shivering slightly when Sebastian placed his hand on your hip to steady you. His face conveyed genuine apprehension as he asked, “Are you sure you should be trying to move right now?”

Part of you was thankful he hadn’t taken your confession seriously, but another stronger part of you was annoyed that you had said anything to begin with. Here was Sebastian, acting chivalrous and doting on you in the wake of you flying face first into a crate, and all you cared to think about was having his hands on you. On your bare skin, between your legs, around your neck…

Something was definitely wrong with you.

“I’m alright– stop worrying. I promise I won’t overdo it. At this point I just want to eat and go to sleep.” Thankfully he made no move to stop you when you stood yourself up on shaky legs, instead placing that damnable hand on the small of your back to help you keep your balance. You closed your eyes momentarily to will away the vile, uncouth thoughts that seemed to run rampant in your concussed skull, but if the way his fingers tensed against you was any indication, Sebastian clearly thought your brief pause was due to your injury.

“Fine,” he bit out, sounding all too displeased with your stubbornness. “Food, then straight to your dorm. But if I think for even a second you can’t manage, I’m carrying you to bed myself.”

It hurt to do it, but your eye roll was heavily warranted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, dad.”

As the two of you walked from the Hospital Wing to the Great Hall, you realized just how serious Sebastian was about his promise to Nurse Blainey. His hands were constantly hovering at your side, ready to catch you at a moment's notice in the event you required the help, which you fortunately weren’t in need of. You didn’t think you could take any more coddling– or any more… hands-on-torment, so to speak.

Ominis joined the two of you for lunch shortly after you’d arrived, and you were unsurprised to discover that he was very much aware of your blunder in Crossed Wands earlier. He made sure you were in good spirits and feeling alright before he began nagging you in typical Ominis fashion.

“Honestly, a Depulso charm?” He chastised you further, resting his chin on his palm as his other hand came to tap absentmindedly against the surface of the table. “I would have expected something like Bombarda to finally end your win-streak, not a paltry Force spell.”

“That’s what happens when you get complacent,” Sebastian added helpfully, skewering yet another sausage from the platter in front of you. He had to have inhaled four of the blasted things already. Those deep brown eyes of his darkened as they shifted to the injury on your temple, and if he deposited his food on his plate a little more aggressively than normal, you certainly didn’t say anything about it. “She’s just lucky things didn’t end up worse.”

Ominis hummed in agreement and looked in your direction. “Yes, do make sure you’re not breaking your fall with your face anymore. I would like to think the three of us will graduate in one piece together, but between the two of you and your extracurriculars, my hopes are lessening by the day.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” came your monotonous reply. “Thanks for the words of encouragement, guys. You really know how to make a girl feel better about getting launched into a bunch of boxes.”

“Well it was quite the spectacle. I’m sure you’ll be the talk of the school for at least a few days, so get used to it.”

You didn’t even need to turn around to know Imelda stood directly behind you, presumably with her hands on her hips and a wicked smile stretching from ear to ear. She was exactly who you didn’t want to deal with right about now– especially considering she was the only living soul privy to your innermost thoughts regarding Sebastian– but she had no qualms about sidling up beside you and making herself comfortable at the table. Her face swam into your peripheral vision as she inquisitively scanned the side of your head now decked out in thick gauze and tape. “So, what’s the verdict? Brain hemorrhage? Cracked skull? Memory loss?”

“Concussion,” Sebastian answered around a mouthful of food. He fixed you with a stern look as though to remind you, “She’s been instructed to take it easy for a few days which means no broom trials, Reyes. Don’t even think about dragging her off the castle grounds.”

The Quidditch captain’s hands shot up in mock surrender, her expression the picture of innocence as she shifted back a little in her seat. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I take it that means you’ll be out of class for the foreseeable future?”

You answered swiftly this time around, lest your boyfriend deign to speak on your behalf once again. You’d hurt your head, not your mouth. “For today at least, yeah. I doubt I’d be much good in Transfiguration with a splitting headache.”

If you were only allowed one word to describe the look that overtook Imelda’s face, that word would be trouble. Her tawny eyes crinkled at their corners as a mischievous glint twinkled within them, and you could practically see her gearing up to say something you knew would piss you off. She folded her hands neatly over one another atop the table and leaned sideways on her elbow to shoot you a conniving look, and you couldn’t help but stiffen as a wave of apprehension crept up your spine.

“Well let me know if you need a hand getting notes for the day. Though I’m sure Sallow would be more than happy to assist. Isn’t that right, Sebastian?”

The emphasis she placed on the word didn’t escape you, and judging by the confused expressions on both Ominis’ and Sebastian’s faces, they didn’t miss it either. It took unwavering focus to maintain your composure and not react, and you prayed to whatever higher power existed that your cheeks weren’t as rouge as they felt. You sighed softly and glanced at the brunet through your lashes, all too aware of the puzzled look he now bore. “How about it?” You opted to simply play along for the time being in a bid to hide the true meaning behind Imelda’s telling comment. “Can you bring me the notes later?”

Sebastian nodded slowly, his gaze shifting between you and Imelda for a long moment before he set his fork down and ran his long, dexterous fingers through his hair. Your eyes tracked the movement against your will, which only seemed to intensify the curious glimmer in his dark eyes, and when he flashed you that sinful Sallow smirk you were all too familiar with, you swallowed nervously.

Surely Imelda hadn’t just helped him put two and two together, right?

“Am I missing something here?” Ominis chimed in from across the table, a scowl tugging at the corners of his lips.

“No, no,” Imelda said, the words dripping with false dismissal. The urge to throttle her was intense. “I was just implying that our dear friend here is bound to be a handful for the next few days, so she’ll need help. Let me know if I can do anything, although I’m sure you’d much rather have Sebastian be the one to–”

She was cut off by the booming slap of your hands against the tabletop as you clambered to your feet, desperate to escape her pointed comments and Sebastian’s prying stare. “Will do!” you exclaimed with too much bite. You lowered your voice and did your best to keep your tone even, “I’m sure I’ll manage, but I can’t be bothered to figure it all out right now. I’ll just– I’ll see you guys later.”

You didn’t dare look back as you swung your legs over the bench and took off towards the massive double doors. At this point, you were wishing that your collision with the crates had put you in a coma. Maybe then you could have avoided Imelda’s inevitable pestering, but even then you were positive your nuisance of a friend would have found a way to taunt you in your dreams. This was something you were going to have to acknowledge with Sebastian sooner or later, but until that day came you would do everything in your power to avoid any more awkward run-ins with Imelda. At least when Sebastian was with you, you reasoned. For now, you needed to get away from the general public and sleep on your deranged thoughts before anything else embarrassing could happen.

Apparently the universe had other plans for you, however. You recognized Sebastian’s heavy footsteps running up behind you without even checking to be certain, and even though you wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep the remainder of the day away, when his large hand came to coil around your bicep to halt you in your tracks, you let him.

“Hey, are you alright?” His eyes softened as they took in your miserable appearance, but all you could pay attention to was the feeling of his thumb caressing the back of your arm as he held you in place. “I’m sorry if I upset you– I didn’t realize Imelda was trying to poke bruises, otherwise I would have told her to leave as soon as she came over.”

Shaking your head absently, you stared over Sebastian’s shoulder and directed your next words towards the wall, because that was infinitely easier than eye contact at the present moment. “I’m not upset, you don’t have to apologize. She’s just… a lot to handle right now.”

“I’ll say,” he concurred easily, moving his head so it was in your line of sight– only to furrow his brow when you ducked your chin to avoid looking at him. His jaw clenched and his hand around your arm tightened, if only briefly, and then he was tugging you along after him. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your dorm.”

***

He knew.

He had to know.

It was the only plausible explanation you could come up with to give reason to Sebastian’s over-exaggerated use of his hands for the last three days. At first you hadn’t thought much of it; you still had a staring problem and Sebastian still had really nice hands, but the difference in the last seventy-two hours was apparent. It was as though your boyfriend was modeling his hands for you, constantly finding ways to dangle the appendages right under your nose and simultaneously letting his touch linger against your skin for far longer than normal. It was driving you insane, and you were positive he was doing it intentionally.

Realistically it had started the day after your botched Crossed Wands duel. You, Ominis, and Sebastian had been sitting in the Library to study and work on assignments, your motley trio focused intently on your individual work for the bulk of the afternoon. Ominis was using his dictation quill to take notes, his foggy blue eyes narrowed in concentration while he muttered softly under his breath. Sebastian skimmed his own Herbology textbook with hooded eyes, the book propped against the knee he had crossed over his other leg, and his laid back posture coupled with the way his fingers idly played with the hair around his temples was enough to leave you entranced. Once he had taken notice of your staring, however, he’d smirked to himself and made a show of licking his finger to turn the page over, maintaining eye contact with you the entire time.

You didn’t need a mirror to know you’d flushed beet red at the suggestive act.

The day after that, the two of you had been in Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Sebastian had been asked to demonstrate the proper wand movement for Confringo by Professor Hecat, and shortly thereafter she had asked another student, Hector Jenkins, to take point across from your boyfriend for a friendly duel. Naturally you were prohibited from participating without Nurse Blainey’s go-ahead, so you’d stood at the back of the crowd and looked on ahead with rapt interest, eager to watch Sebastian make short work of his opponent, because of course he would. Chocolate brown eyes had met yours from across the room, and the movement that followed was subtle but obvious– at least, to you it was.

As Professor Hecat droned on and reminded her students of the rules that went hand-in-hand with dueling in class, Sebastian fondled his wand. Quite literally. His nimble fingers had run along the wood, stroking the handle with such a light touch that his pinky had remained elevated the entire time. His thumb and index finger came to pinch at the tip softly before skimming down towards the checkered handle, and he made a dramatic show of wrapping each one of his fingers around the base before deftly angling the thin wood at you.

Your breath had caught in your throat at the brazen motion, and Sebastian shamelessly winked at you before settling into the usual, confident persona he embodied while fighting.

To say you’d become a ball of nerves afterwards would be a monumental understatement. You wound up leaning back against the wall with your ankles crossed to ease the rampant ache that had settled between your legs, doing your best to not look like you were going into an animalistic heat, which was easier said than done.

Later on during dinner in the Great Hall, you found yourself seated next to Sebastian and across from Ominis, as per usual. The evening had started out much the same as always; with the three of you discussing the events of the day and planning for the upcoming weekend. The only difference was your boyfriend had seemingly taken it upon himself to distract you from the conversation entirely, covertly placing his hand on your thigh beneath the table to run the damn thing up and down your leg. Every time he reached your knee, he would steadily drag his palm higher up, teasing you with an occasional squeeze the closer he got to your center. Since you didn’t want to clue Ominis in on his best friend’s antics you were forced to keep your lips firmly sealed– left with no choice but to silently endure your boyfriend’s unique form of torture.

As Ominis idly discussed wanting to escape to The Three Broomsticks on Saturday, Sebastian’s grip on your leg tightened while he sat forward to spoon a serving of the night’s dessert onto his plate; a colorful fruit tart with a healthy dollop of whipped cream slapped on top. You swallowed thickly as he delicately skewered a strawberry with his fork and brought it to his lips, pausing to reply to Ominis before popping it in his mouth.

“I’m game, better to go now before Quidditch practice starts again. Merlin only knows how many trials Imelda intends on cramming into my weekends before long.”

Ominis snorted and set his cutlery down on his plate, “You say that as though she’s doing it to spite you and you alone. In case you’ve forgotten, there’s six other people to account for on the team, and not all of them were blessed with the free time to practice over summer like you.”

Sebastian side-eyed you briefly, and the corner of his mouth quirked up into a condescending grin. “That has a whole lot of nothing to do with me and everything to do with them being lazy. But my point still stands– that woman lives to invade my free time, so butterbeers this weekend sounds like a solid plan. What do you say, darling?”

The brunet chose that exact moment to sensually take the strawberry between his teeth and pull it free from the fork prongs, smiling wickedly at you all the while. A tiny bit of the whipped cream had stayed behind on his bottom lip, but before you could point it out to him or wipe it away yourself, Sebastian did exactly that, drawing his finger into his mouth to suck deviously at the remnants. Your eyes were wider than saucers as you watched his tongue lave over the pad of his thumb and forefinger, and the telling squeeze he bestowed upon your thigh immediately afterwards all but confirmed your fears.

He absolutely fucking knew.

***

“I think there’s something on your mind,” Sebastian said from beside you. “Something that’s been on your mind for a while now. Care to share?”

The two of you were on your way to the Room of Requirement, having just left the Hospital Wing after Nurse Blainey had summoned you there to evaluate your recovery progress following your mentally arduous week. She’d been all too pleased when Sebastian told her you had adhered to her guidelines to the letter– minimizing your physical activity and resting at every opportune moment, much to your boyfriend’s credit. After a few diagnostic scans, mobility trials, and a never ending list of questions designed to test your memory, she had deemed you fit to return to your usual activities– though not before making you swear to stay out of her sight for the rest of the year.

Affectionately, of course.

Sebastian’s comment reeled you back to the present moment, however, and you shot him a stern look out of the corner of your eye as you ascended the spiral staircase within the Astronomy Tower. “Unless you’re referring to how stunned I’ve been thanks to your obscene behavior this week, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He skipped ahead of you until he reached the top landing, spinning on his heel to face you as you breezed past him without so much as a second glance. “Oh, but I think you do. Surely you know why I’ve been behaving so ‘obscenely’. You’re the one who gave me the idea after all.”

Keeping your expression schooled was difficult, but you managed. As the wall concealing the door to the Room of Requirement began to shift and change, you were all too aware of Sebastian sidling up next to you so he could run the tips of his fingers up your arm and over your shoulder, sending shiver-inducing chills down your spine. The gesture was intimate and suggestive, and you sighed softly as you stepped out of his reach to make for the fully formed entryway in front of you– not particularly keen on putting on a show for any students that potentially milled about the tower.

You made it three steps inside the room before Sebastian grabbed you by your shoulder and spun you sideways, swiftly and effortlessly guiding you backwards until your back collided with the wall, and the startled gasp that ripped from your chest seemed to ignite a spark of interest in your boyfriend’s eyes. The hand he had on you traveled up along the smooth skin of your neck until he had a loose grip on your chin, and the sinful way his thumb trailed over your bottom lip spoke volumes about his intentions.

“Do I need to coax the truth out of you, or can you be a good girl and say what it is you want?” His other hand slipped beneath the fabric of your blouse, his touch blazing and leaving you hot with want the higher up your torso it traveled. The tantalizing feeling of his blunt nails scraping along the plane of your stomach had your muscles clenching and your breath hitching, and Sebastian dipped his head lower so he was directly in your line of sight. You knew he saw your rampant need for him reflected in your eyes when his pupils dilated, and he moved his thumb away from your lip to caress your cheekbone as you stared wide-eyed up at him. He cocked his head to the side as he goaded you further, “Come on, darling. You’ve never had a problem with saying what’s on your mind before, why switch up on me now?”

“Because it–” you started to say, cutting off mid-explanation when Sebastian curled his long fingers around your waist to press against your ribs in a way that nullified all coherent thought. His domineering presence over you left you nearly breathless.

He smirked, all too aware of the effect he currently had on you. “It what?”

Merlin, he was doing you in with barely any effort. Reducing you to nothing at the hands of his… well, hands. You were pathetic. He waited for your response though, his fingers dancing up your side promisingly while you worked to formulate a sentence. “I-It’s ridiculous,” you stammered out. “It’s embarrassing…”

The hand he’d tenderly ghosted across your cheek slipped behind your head, and his fingers tangled in your hair at the back of your skull to tug gently. The motion forced you to crane your chin up to follow Sebastian’s unwavering gaze, and his lips were close enough to yours that you felt his airy chuckle fan across your nose. “I already know what it is and I can tell you this much; you and I have very different definitions of what qualifies as ‘embarrassing’, darling.” His head dipped into the crook of your neck so he could better bestow wet, open mouthed kisses against your thundering pulse, and your stomach flipped at the sordid sounds he made as he went. “Come on, say it,” he implored you, his voice like velvet. “It’s only us here– tell me what you want.”

“I…” you began, shuddering immediately after when Sebastian nipped at the spit-slick skin of your throat. Finding the words was only going to get increasingly difficult from here on out, you wagered. “I want your hands on me. I haven’t been able to get the thought out of my mind since school started.”

As though to punctuate his retort, Sebastian’s hold on your hair and your waist intensified, and a barely there squeak weaseled its way past your lips as he pulled away from your throat to fix you with a heated look. “My hands are already on you, sweetheart. Tell me why, use your big girl voice.”

Bastard. Your eyes sharpened in response to his quip, and your palms came to rest flat against the larger man’s chest before you dug your nails into the fabric of his shirt. “Because you really do have very nice hands. Because the mere idea of having them on me does things to me that I can’t begin to describe. And because I’m asking you nicely,” you purred the last bit to the best of your ability, relishing in the insatiable, hungry look that crossed Sebastian’s face at your tone. “Touch me, Sebastian. I want you– all of you. Please?”

As soon as Sebastian’s lips captured yours, your inhibitions ceased to exist. All you could taste, smell, feel, and hear was him, and judging by the demanding way he pulled you flush against him by your waist, that was exactly what he was going for. You keened needily as his nails dug into your sensitive skin and the fingers buried in your hair wound tight around the strands, and your boyfriend eagerly bit at your lips before backing away just enough to stare at you through his hooded, lust-dark eyes.

“Keep talking to me like that and I’ll do anything you want,” he groaned, utterly captivated by the sight of you so wound up. You caved to his ministrations completely then, your stomach flipping over on itself when his chest pressed against yours and sealed you more firmly to the wall. His groin followed soon after– the long, hard length of him tangible through his trousers as he leaned into your spread legs further– and your own hands finally came to grasp at his shoulders when he rolled his hips against yours fervently.

“Touch me,” you implored him, the request practically a whisper as it fell from your lips. “Your hands– please, Sebastian.”

A pleased sound snaked its way through Sebastian’s clenched teeth as he obliged you instantly, releasing your waist and hair to run his hands down your torso before delving beneath your shirt. The rough, chill-inducing feeling of his calloused palms trailing against the bare skin of your stomach had you moaning in earnest, and your head tipped back against the wall with a thunk as he cupped your breasts in those heavenly hands you’d grown to adore so much. Sebastian took full advantage of your submissive position and buried his head in the exposed crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your skin as he murmured, “You sound incredible when you beg, darling. So fucking perfect– gods.”

No words came to you to formulate a reply, especially when your boyfriend’s tongue darted out of his mouth to lave down the slender column of your throat, the biting sting of his teeth on your shoulder following soon after. Your next breath caught in your chest when Sebastian ground his stiffening cock against you once more, and his airy chuckle against you was seductive and ripe with promise. Those nimble fingers of his clawed gently over the rounded tops of your breasts before pinching your hardened nipples, and that was what finally pulled coherent English from your lips.

“Fuck,” you groaned, unaware of just how much the brunet adored the needy timbre to your voice.

Sebastian’s hands left your body for the briefest of moments to push himself off the wall, then took you by the hand to guide you towards the small bedroom tucked away in the back of the Room of Requirement. Between the two of you, your combined excitement was palpable– thick enough to cut with a knife– and as soon as you made it through the threshold of the door, he was back on you in a heartbeat. It was all a flurry of lips, teeth, and tongue as he steered you backwards towards the spacious bed, those magnificent hands of his holding your hips steady with firm reassurance.

Once the backs of your calves connected with the mattress, Sebastian pulled away from your mouth with a wicked smirk, giving you a playful shove that sent you sprawling back on the bed with a startled yelp. It hardly mattered, though. Not when the man before you began undoing the buttons on his own shirt, exposing the tanned, freckled expanse of his toned chest. Not when he shrugged the attire off his sculpted shoulders and lowered himself to his knees so he could peer at you over your bent knees. Nothing else mattered aside from him.

“You know,” he started to say as his hands reappeared on your hips, tugging at the waistline of your trousers so they started to slide over your hip bones. “You’ve inadvertently given me lots of new ideas.”

A shiver coursed its way down your spine at the suggestive tone he spoke the words with, amplified tenfold by the unrepentant fantasies that flickered through your mind. “Oh really?”

“Really,” he agreed simply. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards and he gestured wordlessly for you to lift your hips so he could slide your pants down your outstretched legs. You obeyed, if only to get a move on with things so you could see the new ‘ideas’ Sebastian had apparently come up with. Dark, eager eyes met yours as he dropped your clothing to the floor, and then Sebastian asked, “Do you trust me?”

Without missing a beat, you murmured, “Always.”

Not another word was uttered, and you watched through hooded eyes as Sebastian prowled up the edge of the mattress to crawl over your prone form. Amusement seemingly glimmered in his lust-laden gaze as he set to expertly unbuttoning your shirt with his adroit digits, revealing inch after inch of your flushed torso, and goosebumps broke out over your stomach in the wake of Sebastian’s knuckles brushing against your heated flesh.

He didn’t bother removing your blouse fully, opting to instead flick the sides of the undone top outward to let them hang disheveled against your sides. The shallow, anticipatory breaths you let loose was the only sound you made as the freckled man above you gathered your wrists in one of his larger hands to pin them above your head, and the entire time he worked to restrain your arms, his eye contact with you remained unwavering. Warriness and excitement alike pooled in the lower pit of your gut, mixing with the telltale ache between your legs that fueled the heat that slithered through your veins.

Sebastian’s free hand came to touch you then, starting at the swell of your breasts before he gently thumbed over the peak of one of your nipples. The sensation had you sucking in a breath loud enough to make your boyfriend pause– only for him to repeat the motion a second time. “You’re rather pent up, aren’t you?”

Despite yourself, you narrowed your eyes in response to his taunting and rolled your head to the side in an attempt to hide the blush you knew spread across your cheeks. “Shut up…”

The hand on your breast flew to your face, gripping your chin and turning your head back so you were forced to meet his penetrating stare. “Come on, be honest,” he goaded you further. “You missed me. Say it.”

“Of course I missed you,” you relented quickly. “I didn’t see you for two months.”

That damnable smirk of his made its grand reappearance, and you hated how much you loved the sight of it. “You managed well enough last summer. Or were you lying through your teeth about handling the distance ‘easily’ on your travels?”

Your fingers twitched in his unrelenting hold, the urge to crane your neck away again taking over, but you were forced to keep your eyes trained on his. “I wasn’t lying then, but I still missed you.”

The way his head tilted to the side curiously reminded you of an animal attempting to get a better look at their prey. “So why the sudden change?”

Chewing your lip thoughtfully for a moment, you decided to voice your inner thoughts regardless of how bashful the idea made you feel. “Because you changed. You’re… bigger.”

Your drab attempt at an explanation didn’t escape Sebastian, but that amusement still glinted in his eyes as he released your chin and trailed his hand down your torso towards your aching center. “Bigger, huh? Care to elaborate?”

Skillful fingers slipped under the cotton of your undergarments, already damp with arousal, and you mewled softly when one of his digits slid through your wet folds before pressing down on your clit with delectable pressure. It nearly derailed your train of thought entirely, but Sebastian helpfully pulled away and snickered when your disappointed sigh slipped through your clenched teeth. “Dammit–”

“You talk,” he fucking purred down at you, looking far too smug for your liking, “and I work. Sound like a fair trade?”

His offer was emphasized by one of his fingers probing at your slick entrance, further enticing you to oblige his request. When you angled your hips to meet the feeling, he pulled back swiftly, quirking a brow at you with a knowing look.

Bastard, you thought.

Fine.

“Y-You’re bigger,” you started to say. “More muscular than before, and I think you grew a couple inches.”

Sebastian’s hand resumed its teasing exploration of your center once more, gingerly inserting his middle finger inside of you as his thumb took to rubbing titillating circles against your clit. The flutter of your eyelids brought a coy smile to the brunet’s face, and his hold on your wrists tightened a fraction as he increased the intensity of his movements. He mockingly said, “You like having a big, strong boyfriend or something? The scandal.”

You barely registered the gibe– not with his thumb slowly working over your clit in time with his finger. It damn near voided all of your brain’s function. All you cared to focus on was the bliss that came with finally having his hands on you. “Yes,” you groaned with blatant need. “I love it– I love it so much– you’re perfect, Sebastian.”

Spurred on by your praise, Sebastian leaned down to mouth wetly at your throat, biting and sucking at whatever smooth skin he found as he pumped his finger in and out of your wet heat steadily. Your head rolled to the side to allow him easier access as he presumably worked a bruise into your flesh, and you relished in the knowledge that he was rebranding you as his after the summer months spent apart. A guttural moan spilled from your mouth as he laved his tongue over the mark and covertly slipped a second finger inside your cunt, crooking the digits up to reach a depth you could never hope to when you were pleasuring yourself.

He took it slow, half for your sake and half for his own, but as Sebastian scissored his fingers and upped his tempo, he could see how you fell apart for him. You struggled to breathe, your every exhale colored with a panted, needy little sound while your thighs twitched and tensed on either side of his arm. When he shifted his fingers up just slightly, your entire body shuddered as your back arched off the bed and you choked on a breathy whine. You were so sensitive, so incredibly vocal, and it was driving him crazy.

Sebastian’s size allowed him to stretch over the majority of your upper body easily, his hold on your arms still firm as he dipped his head lower to lick his way down to your breasts. Ever so gently, he took one of your nipples between his teeth and clamped down with a cautious amount of pressure, increasing the pace of his fingers when he heard your breath hitch in your throat. You could feel his lips stretch into a smile against your chest as your heart rate sped up and your hips involuntarily bucked up into his hand in search of more friction– more of him.

“Merlin–” you writhed atop the sheets as that familiar ache took root in your gut, your finish approaching dangerously fast as Sebastian pressed the palm of his hand against your clit and somehow managed to pump his digits deeper inside of you. “Fuck, fuck!”

He pulled away from your torso to watch you with rapt interest, a flicker of something primal flashing in his brown eyes as he observed your features pinching together with obvious focus as you chased the euphoria he bestowed upon you. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it… I never thought just my hands could do it for you like this, sweetheart. Consider me pleasantly surprised.”

His words meant nothing to you– not right now. Your climax was so close, so painfully close that all you cared to focus on was the steady rhythm of Sebastian’s fingers and his strength holding your wrists down to the bed. Brainlessly, you rolled your head to the side as Sebastian worked you towards the edge, only to blink blearily up at him when he released your wrists to grab the underside of your jaw and force your eyes back on him.

“Look at me while you come on my fingers. I want to see every second of it.”

Who were you to say no?

Your release was akin to a tidal wave– crashing over you violently and stealing your breath as you tried your hardest to keep your eyes open and glued to Sebastian. Mouth falling open around an airy moan, your boyfriend continued to finger-fuck you through your orgasm as he captured your lips in a desperate, lethal kiss. “That’s it,” he groaned into your parted lips. “Good girl.”

The brunet had the good grace to slide his fingers out slowly while he pulled away, laughing softly at the slight jolt your body gave when his palm grazed over your bundle of nerves once more. Dazed and twitching beneath him, you didn’t notice he’d brought his hand to his mouth until it was inches from your face, and the stars clouding your vision cleared just in time to watch him take the two fingers that had previously been inside of you between his lips.

“I– what are you doing?” Your incredulous tone didn’t deter Sebastian in the slightest, and he smirked around his fingers before pulling them out of his mouth with an audible wet sound.

“Tasting you,” he said casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Then with a wink he added, “You’re very sweet.” Nearly all the blood in your body rushed to your cheeks in that instant, warming your face as your mouth fell open in silent shock. It was balmy– completely and utterly bewildering. Yet you couldn’t help but find the brazen move equally… arousing.

You’d officially lost your mind.

In a flash, he lowered his hand closer to your own open mouth, shoving the fingers past your lips and grinning when you squealed with indignant surprise. There was nowhere for you to go– nowhere for you to turn your head to escape the taste of yourself on his digits– and so you were left with no choice but to allow Sebastian to run his fingers along your tongue. The added knowledge that you found his hands so alluring only made the whole spectacle more intimate, and before you could stop yourself, you found yourself sucking shamelessly at his skin, working your tongue over his knuckles as you stared up at him with unrestrained desire.

“Gods,” he muttered, swallowing thickly before pulling his fingers free from your mouth. His voice was shaky, and you dimly registered that your eager submission had gotten to him.

You licked the remnants of yourself from your lips as Sebastian shuffled back to the edge of the bed, standing straight to hastily undo his trousers and shove the material down his long, toned legs. Numbly, you followed suit, sitting up shakily to shrug off your now wrinkled blouse and toss it aside to join the growing pile of clothing at your boyfriend’s feet.

Nude as the day he was born, Sebastian confidently stared down at you and took in the full picture of you before him with an animalistic hunger shining in his eyes. His chestnut hair was unruly and curled wildly in every direction, the breaths he hurriedly sucked down causing his shapely chest to rise and fall in a way that dragged your attention to his strong, capable body. You drank in the sight of his tan, freckled skin, your wide eyes roving lower and lower until they landed on his hard cock arching proudly against his taut stomach.

Maybe you were imagining things, but you could have sworn that was bigger too.

When your eyes jumped back to Sebastian’s, you were positive he knew exactly what you’d been thinking, if his wolfish grin was anything to go by. “See something you like?”

“Please fuck me,” you groaned, too turned on by the sight of him alone to be embarassed about how desperate you sounded.

Sebastian effortlessly crawled back onto the bed and settled over you, pulling you into another intoxicating kiss as he slipped between your spread thighs and rolled his hips, grinding his achingly hard cock against your slit with a dizzying sort of precision. You couldn’t help but moan into the kiss, your eyes squeezing closed before you tilted your head back and arched up against him. “F-Fuck, you’re so hard,” you gasped, loosely hooking your legs around Sebastian’s hips.

Groaning his agreement, Sebastian nipped at the side of your jaw and murmured, “You have no idea… want you bad.” He nuzzled your ear for a moment, humming at the way you shivered under him, then mouthed his way down your throat with hot, wet kisses that pulled a slew of tiny noises out of you as he rocked his hips again.

Before you could wrap your arms around his shoulders like you’d planned, Sebastian was sitting back on his heels to manhandle you exactly where he wanted you. Those big hands of his grabbed you by your waist, hauling you down the bed like you weighed nothing so your rear was balanced over the tops of his knees and he was perfectly aligned with your slick entrance. The way he easily moved you around spoke volumes of the physical labor he’d done over the summer, slaving away the muggle way to restore his Uncle’s former home for the two of you to use after graduation. Every stone moved, every log chopped, and every wheelbarrow trundled was cataloged within the corded muscles that lined his body.

If you weren’t already head over heels for the man, you were certain you would be deemed grossly smitten.

Sebastian’s hands slid from your waist to your thighs to better hold you in place as he bumped the tip of his cock against you, and your breath stuttered in your chest at the first steady roll of his hips, the head sliding home easily into your slick, tight, and warm heat. Your name fell from your lover’s lips in the form of a ragged moan, fingers digging into your legs as he rocked his hips slowly, feeling for any tension or resistance. Everything he’d done to soothe you, however, had paid off, and he found that once he pressed in more firmly, you took him perfectly, letting him slide deeper with every short thrust.

He really had gotten bigger.

“I could tell you thought so,” Sebastian said around a laugh. Had you said that out loud? “Your eyes just about bugged out of your head when you looked earlier.”

Embarrassed for the nth time in the last week, you looked away from him and quietly grumbled under your breath, “Whatever… don’t let it get to your head. Your ego is big enough as it is.”

“It’s not the only thing that’s big apparently,” he countered easily. As though to punctuate the statement, Sebastian pulled his hips back once more before spearing into you with brutal efficiency, and the gasp that ripped from your throat then was followed by a breathless sound that bordered on a wail.

It was so thick– Sebastian’s cock– and it filled you up and spread you open so incredibly, but it was the angle that was really rendering you incapable of thought. With your hips elevated, the blunt head brushed past your sweet spot with every dragging thrust, re-lighting that fire in your blood that threatened to set you ablaze. You wanted more, but you were almost afraid of how good it would feel, how high it would take you. Sebastian was all around you, with his hands gripping your thighs, deep inside you, stirring you up and coaxing brainless whimpers out of you, not bothering to hold back for your sake– and thank the gods for that.

A meek keening sound arose from your throat as you gasped Sebastian’s name, and the brunet responded with a rough growl, stroking your thighs tenderly before abandoning one of them to place his hand on the lower part of your stomach. He pressed down with his fingers splayed against your skin, thrusting into you deeper so you could really feel every long, delectable inch of him within you, and the added pressure made your head spin and your walls clamp down on him.

“Oh, fuck–” you moaned wantonly, arching your spine as much as you were able in a bid to feel as much as possible. Sebastian responded by moving his grip on your thigh to your waist, fucking into you harder until all you were capable of doing was whining for more with your eyes unfocused. Rational thought was gone– you were losing your mind with the way Sebastian was pounding into you now, that fire spreading through you– but you had quickly stopped being afraid of the feeling. The hotter you got, the more Sebastian’s perfect aim drove you higher until you were arching and pleading, noisy and half-coherent as overwhelmed tears filled your eyes.

When you finally caught hold of words beyond brainless, wavering cries, you threw your head back with a gasping whine to loudly beg, “Sebastian, please, please–”

“F-Fuck,” he stuttered out, moaning desperately into the empty air before he rasped, “You like it that much, darling? Want more?”

“Yes!” You clawed mindlessly at the hand he had clamped against your waist, urging him to use the damn thing in the way you had dreamt of every night since returning to school. Ever the fast learner, Sebastian obliged you mercifully and let go of your waist, leaving you to hook your legs around his hips as he brought his hands to your throat to pull you onto his cock harder and faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room and muddling your brain further.

“You look so perfect with my hands around your neck, darling.” Sebastian growled out in-between bestial grunts. “So pretty, so eager. Is it good?”

He wasn’t choking the life out of you by any means, but the pressure he applied on either side of your neck added a sort of high that left your tongue useless in your mouth. You could hardly formulate words, much less a full sentence, but you still managed to stammer out a raspy, “Y-Yes, fuck–”

You were fairly certain you were drooling all over yourself, but you couldn’t find the willpower to care. There were too many sensations to keep track of, and through the haze of it all, your climax came into sight. Your hand came to grasp at one of the ones Sebastian had secured around your throat while the other fisted in the sheets, squeezing as hard as you could as you rutted back against his hips the best you could. It wasn’t doing much as far as you were concerned, but Sebastian evidently appreciated your attempt as he groaned roughly, letting his head hang between his shoulders as he began pumping his hips faster.

“Shit– I’m close, I’m so close–”

Beyond your moans of encouragement, there wasn’t much else you could say. Sebastian took your motivating sounds in stride though, keeping one hand clamped around your neck securely as the other flew down to your clit, instantaneously rubbing urgent little circles around the nub in a bid to take you with him over the edge. Your voice was already raspy but so much louder and needier than Sebastian’s short moans of your name, and his half-baked praises and pleas intermingled with the distant banging of the headboard against the stone wall. Even through all that– through the spiking volume of your pleasure and the blinding need devouring you both– all Sebastian saw was you, and all you saw was ecstasy.

When you finally came you wailed, long and loud as your hands clung to the sheets beneath you and Sebastian’s thick wrist alike, the latter of which knew better than to stop now. Your muscles tensed dangerously tight, your toes curling hard and your nails scraping fresh tracks down Sebastian’s forearm hard enough to leave welts, and your boyfriend was already holding on by a thread by the time your cunt clamped down tight around him. It was almost too hard to move, but there was just enough give that your climax peaked impossibly further and Sebastian fell right after you, crying your name over and over with the rough, faltering tempo of his hips.

The two of you were hardly aware of anything as you both slowed down and came off of that high, but you eventually blinked the fog from your mind and came to realize Sebastian had long since abandoned his hold on your throat in favor of laying across your prone form, lightly peppering kisses against your collarbone as he sucked down breaths to catch his breath. The stinging twitch of uncoiling muscles and the swelling bites and scratches only served to bring you both back to reality in slow, leisurely time with one another, and at the end of it all it was Sebastian who found his voice first, murmuring yet another snide comment into the crook of your shoulder.

“Should I start wearing gloves now?”

Still breathless and spent from the last hour– hell, the entirety of the last week– your delirious laughter was uncontrollable as you realized and quickly accepted that the truth was now out there, and your boyfriend was more than ready to take full advantage of that. “I don’t think gloves will help, honestly.”

The remainder of the school year would end up being a testament to just how true that claim actually was, you guessed. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, would most certainly enjoy every second of it.

#sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x female!reader #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy oneshot #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #sebastian sallow x mc #kicking down the doors of 2024 with the longest oneshot ever to grace my google doc #dropping this depravity here and exiting stage left #my writing

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emeritusemeritus · 6 months ago

Text

Breed like Gnomes [Fred Weasley]

Title: Breed like Gnomes.

Pairing: PregnantWife!Reader x Fred Weasley

Timeline: Set after Canon (Fred lives!)

Summary: At Ginny and Harry’s wedding, you find yourself facing Aunt Muriel’s unpleasantness, so Fred decides to have some fun.

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, babies, sexual references.

Word count: 1.2k

June 4th 2003, a joyful and long awaited day for all in attendance. The marriage of Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley. It was a family affair, both in blood and bond, the entire venue packed with loved ones sharing in the happiness of the newlyweds.

Being Ginny's long standing friend and now sister-in-law, you were naturally made a bridesmaid along with six others who proudly stood by Ginny's side as she said her vows. It was beautiful, joyous and utterly heartwarming to see them unite and be declared husband in wife in front of the many people attending. The couple had initially wanted a much smaller affair than what had transpired but in the end, they were too deeply cared for by so many and the numbers were ever increasing, only made worse by Molly's excitement and welcoming nature.

It had been a truly magical day; getting to support your new sister in law, to see your daughter throw wild flowers down the aisle and most of all getting to check out your husband in his tux as he sat beaming beside his twin brother in the front row, holding back a tear at seeing his little sister suddenly looking so grown up.

"You alright sweetheart?" Fred asks worriedly as you lower yourself gently into your assigned seat inside the bustling marquee. It was getting late now, the party stretching into the night as people danced merrily around you.

You were exhausted from the day, the early morning, the usual nuptial stresses and from the shoes that were growing increasingly uncomfortable around your slightly swollen ankles.

You simply smiled warmly at Fred with a little nod, leaning into his touch when he placed his arm behind you on your chair, his fingers fidgeting with the strands of hair that had fallen down your back.

You both turned your heads in the direction of delighted squeals and watched as your children danced around, chasing each other and their many cousins with beaming smiles on their faces. Their nice outfits were quite frankly ditched at this point and they'd eaten more cake than you cared to admit throughout the day but as you looked at the three happy faces on the dance floor, you couldn't care less. Their uncle George took turns spinning and twirling them and you couldn't help but watch in devotion at seeing your oldest dancing with your brother in law, no doubt standing on his feet as he glided her around whilst the twins ran in circles around the dancing pair.

You let out a little surprise gasp when you felt a sharp kick to your side, just underneath your rib.

"I thought you were asleep," you say quietly with a loving smile as your hand drifts down to your blooming bump, gently rubbing over the spot where you'd felt a little prod.

"Letting you know he's there?" Fred asks with a smirk, noticing your movements. He moved closer and places his large hand over yours, wanting to feel for himself the little kicks that had you smiling at your bump.

"He?" You question sarcastically, with a slight raise of your eyebrow.

"Fathers intuition," Fred smirks with a slight shrug, "never been wrong yet."

"You didn't know there were two last time," you countered teasingly, nodding your head towards the two litttle boys causing havoc on the dance floor. He lets out a boyish chuckle and for a moment you both catch each other's eyes, both twinkling in delight and bound with love. You'd been married for nearly five years, together for much longer but it still took your breath away how much you loved this man, and how much he loved you in return.

"Good heavens!"

The nice moment passed as soon as the loud, screechy voice sounded out on the next table, forcing you apart. You jumped slightly at the unexpected noise before realising that Fred's great aunt Muriel had taken up a seat at the table beside yours and as usual her presence was unwanted. Her voice went through you, like nails on a chalkboard. The high tone and the derogatory, unpleasant undertone to her words, accompanied by the constant hateful look on her face were enough to cement a negative association in your mind. Both you and Fred deflated a little at her presence, with Fred letting out an audible sigh that you felt in your soul. Even your baby let out a sharp kick as if to announce their own displeasure at the sound of her voice.

"Yes aunt Muriel?" Fred says in the most monotone voice he can muster, not even attempting to hide the dismay in his voice, or his face.

"Godric," she mumbles under her breath, casting her eyes between the two of you, focusing her beady eyes on your bump, and where your children were currently hanging off George like monkeys in a tree. "You breed like gnomes!"

You hope your face doesn't show the depth of your exasperation at her words but you doubted your ability to keep a straight face. Fred, of course, finds it hilarious and can't keep the smile off of his face. You can feel his shoulders moving up and down with silent laughter but he manages to contain it and simply clears his throat to hide the laughter.

"Have either of you considered simply reading of an evening? Instead of what I assume are your usual activities?" She says with a bitter tone, face downturned into her usual grimace.

Fred snorts at her words and though you feel slightly offended by her accusation, just as you always did by her comments, you can't help but chuckle yourself at the strangeness of the situation. Was she really commenting on your sex life?

"Onto your fourth already! And only 25! You’re worse than your mother, all of you breed like Gnomes."

"You see I've never been one for reading, but I tried," Fred replies coyly. From his tone of voice you can tell that he's teasing, about to prod the bear. "But it only gave me more ideas. What was is called sweetheart? Some muggle book... Kama sutra! Eroticism for begginers. Let me tell you, it's changed my life! Couldn't put it down... or her," he says, nodding his head towards you with a wicked smile on his face as his hand snakes around to cradle your bump once again.

You can't hide your smile this time as Muriel lets out a disgusted squark and turns away with a deeper grimace than before. You turn your head and snuggle into Fred's shoulder to hide your laughter whilst he openly chuckles to himself, head thrown back slightly in glee.

"You're terrible," you mutter with a smirk, pulling yourself away from the soft fabric of his shirt where it stretches over his muscled shoulders. His smile is wide and wicked as he takes in your words, hearing nothing but compliments.

"Hilarious is a better word," he quips, eyes shining in delight.

"Incorrigible."

"Completely irreformable," he agrees without a single care. "But I think you like me like this."

You look up from under your lashes at him, matching the look in his sparkling eyes and can't help but agree.

Taglist part 1 ♡

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#emeritusemeritus #emeritusemerituswrites #harry potter #fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley masterlist

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songbirdseung · 26 days ago

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walk home / nishimura riki

did you think you'd get a potential boyfriend on your way to the convenience store during one of your many midnight walks?

you had walked these streets every day for the past four years, each step blending into the next, creating a rhythm of routine. the same worn pavements, familiar storefronts, and repetitive decorations lined your path. nothing out of the ordinary ever caught your attention—just the usual, mundane occurrences that seemed to blur together. each day felt like a carbon copy of the last, a predictable cycle you had grown accustomed to.

but today, something unexpected happened.

as you made your way down the street, lost in your thoughts, a sudden burst of energy interrupted your mental drift. out of nowhere, a small, fluffy dog came dashing toward you, its tail wagging furiously, eyes alight with excitement. the little pup stopped at your feet, looking up at you with an expression of pure joy, as if you were its long-lost best friend. taken aback, you crouched down to greet the enthusiastic furball, your heart instantly warming at the sight.

"well, aren’t you a friendly one," you murmured, scratching behind the dog’s ears. the pup leaned into your touch, clearly enjoying the attention.

before you could wonder where its owner was, a voice called out from behind, slightly breathless. "bisco! there you are!" the voice exclaimed. you looked up to see a young man jogging toward you, his face flushed from exertion, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes.

"i’m so sorry about him," he said, stopping a few steps away. "bisco usually doesn’t just run up to strangers like this."

that’s how you met riki—and his dog, bisco.

you remembered the rush of emotions you felt when you first saw him. he was gorgeous, with a striking yet approachable face, his tall frame accentuated by his confident stride. despite his edgy clothing style, there was a softness to his demeanor that made him seem approachable and, frankly, adorable.

"hi," he said, still catching his breath. "i really apologize. bisco can be a little... unpredictable sometimes."

"it’s okay," you replied with a smile, still petting the dog. "bisco, huh? that’s a cute name."

riki chuckled, a sound that made your heart flutter. "thanks. he’s named after my favorite snack."

you laughed softly. "well, bisco seems to like me. he ran straight over."

"i don’t blame him," riki said, his lips quirking into a shy smile. "he has good taste."

there was a beat of comfortable silence, bisco happily wagging his tail between you. you felt a warmth spreading through your chest, a strange but pleasant sensation, as if something meaningful had just begun.

"so... do you walk bisco around here often?" you asked, hoping to keep the conversation going.

"yeah, we live just a few blocks away. this is his favorite route," riki replied, his hands casually slipping into his pockets. "what about you?"

"same. i walk this way almost every day. funny we haven’t crossed paths until now."

"guess bisco was determined to change that today," riki said, glancing down at his dog with affection.

"looks like it," you agreed, laughing softly. "maybe he’s trying to set us up."

riki’s eyes twinkled with amusement. "if he is, he’s doing a great job."

you continued chatting, the conversation flowing easily despite having just met. bisco occasionally tugged at his leash, sniffing around and wagging his tail, oblivious to the new connection forming above him. with each passing minute, the once-familiar street seemed to transform. what had always been a mundane path now felt filled with possibility and excitement, all because of this chance encounter.

"maybe we should let bisco choose our routes more often," riki said, his tone light but his eyes holding a deeper interest.

"maybe we should," you replied, feeling a smile stretch across your face.

as the two of you stood there, the world around you seemed to fade into the background. the once-ordinary day had turned into something extraordinary, thanks to a playful pup.

"hey," riki’s voice gently pulled you back to reality. you blinked a few times, refocusing on the present. he was standing in front of you, his head tilted slightly, an amused grin tugging at his lips. "you okay there? you zoned out for a second."

"oh, sorry," you said, feeling a bit flustered. "i was just... thinking."

"about the first time we met?" he asked, a knowing glint in his eyes. "you had that same dreamy look on your face."

you laughed, trying to hide your embarrassment. "yeah, you caught me. i was thinking about bisco running up to me and how awkward you were."

"hey!" riki protested with a mock pout, crossing his arms. "i wasn’t that awkward."

"you totally were," you teased, nudging his arm. "but it was cute."

riki shook his head, chuckling softly. "well, if it got us here, i guess a little awkwardness was worth it." he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle and familiar.

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen au #engene #enha #enhypen x reader #riki #nishimura riki #enhypen riki #riki x reader #enhypen niki #ni ki #riki nishimura #ni ki imagines #ni ki enhypen #ni ki x reader #ni ki fluff

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mariasont · 9 months ago

Text

My Assistant - A.H

a/n: im a little addicted to bimbo reader rn if you can't tell lmao

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

summary: you can't reach a book so hotch helps you out

warnings: none? fluff, reader climbing a fucking book shelf and for what

wc: 0.8k

"Oh, biscuits!"

It was a ridiculous thing to say, but frankly you didn't care. You were on your tiptoes, chest flush against a bookshelf. Spencer had asked for a book for the case they were working, and naturally, it was nestled on the top shelf.

Balancing precariously on your stilettos, you stretched as tall as you possibly could, your fingers skimming the spine that was an inch too far away.

You shifted your weight back onto your heels, planting your hands firmly on your hips as you considered the stubborn object just out of reach. Sure, Spencer would grab the book without hesitation if asked, and he'd do so with a smile, but you really liked feeling useful.

For over a year, you've been the one at Mr. Hotchner's beck and call--fetching coffee, filing papers, and attending to, basically, his every need (not the one you wanted though). To others, it might seem trivial, but you really liked it. Well, you really liked him.

At first, you were intimidated--how could you not? He had a reputation. You heard the stories--a man who never smiled, his ever-serious nature, and Penelope's not so family friendly description of his sternness was enough to unsettle anyone.

But you considered his reputed severity to just be part of his charm, he was far from the figure others painted him as. He was a good boss, always fair, never once raising his voice at you or demanding too much. In your eyes, he was perfect. You might be biased.

The idea of climbing the shelf was a gamble, especially in these shoes, and it seemed almost certain to end with a less-than-elegant fall. Still, you couldn't resist the challenge and hoisted yourself up anyway, the shelf wobbling perilously as you did so.

You pressed on, climbing higher, the wood's groans of protest falling on deaf ears. If this was how you were going down, so be it.

"Almost there," you muttered to yourself, straining every muscle in your arm, you were sure.

And just as you almost had the book, your balance faltered and then found new footing, the sensation of falling dissipating. In its place, you found your ass delicately perched, nearly seated on someone's broad shoulder.

You honestly didn't even need to look to know who it was--embarrassingly enough--you had basically memorized the feeling of Hotch's hands. Though they had never been wrapped around your legs like they were now. His grip was warm and strong, sparking a wave of electricity that rippled through your whole body.

"Got it!" you cried out, your victory fist pump nearly launching you from Hotch's shoulder. But his hold on your thighs clamped tighter, securing you in place. "Thanks, sir."

You angled your head downward, locking gazes with Hotch--his eyes a rich blend of ember and molten chocolate that you really liked looking at.

His eyebrows were arched in a silent question on his well-defined face as if he really couldn't believe what you were doing.

"Careful," Hotch murmured, his hands lowering you to the ground. There was a fleeting brush against your ass, surely accidental, yet it sparked a flurry of butterflies swirling in the pit of your stomach. "In the future, just ask. I wouldn't want you hurt over something as trivial as a book."

"Oh, don't you worry about me, sir. I'm like, practically a pro at rock climbing when I'm not here." you said, letting out a bubbly giggle.

He regarded you with a look that was equal parts amusement and disbelief, clearly not convinced.

"Okay, not really, but wouldn't that be cool?"

"Well, rock climber or not, let's keep those feet on the ground, please," Hotch remarked, the slightest quirk of his mouth suggesting a suppressed smile. "It's less of a fall from there."

"Sure thing, sir!" you beamed, popping off a silly salute, noting his struggle not to roll his eyes. "But I did get the book, so it all worked out in the end, right?"

With a gentle nudge on your lower back, Hotch directed you towards the conference room.

"Yes, it did, but for future reference, Spencer's height makes him more capable of reaching those books himself."

You couldn't help the blush that colored your face, and you managed a flustered smile.

"Well, I mean, it is what I get paid to do, sir."

"No, you get paid to do my bidding, not Spencer's," he teases, giving a gentle squeeze to your side.

Your laughter rang out, a bit too high, a bit too bright, as his touch sent a delightful vertigo spiraling through you.

"Well, yeah, okay, that's fair. But it's been pretty light on the to-do list from you today."

"And you're complaining about that?"

With the conference room in sight, you pretended to lock your lips and throw away the key.

A rare laugh rumbled through his chest, and you felt your knees buckle, you were sure you could have melted into a puddle right there and then. It was such a beautiful sound, and you desperately wanted to become familiar with it.

Spencer emerged from the conference room, his eyes landing on the book in your hands. "Is that The Selfish Gene?"

Hotch took the book from you, handing it to Spencer with a firm look. "Reid, I'd appreciate it if you didn't recruit my assistant for your library runs."

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo reader #aaron hotchner x assistant reader #aaron hotchner #hotch #hotchner #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x bau reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #Spotify

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vivwritesfics · 1 year ago

Text

10 Things I Hate About You

Sirius Black x Evans!Reader

Lily Evans isn't allowed to date. Not until her big sister does. At least, James Potter thinks so. What better way to rectify this than to get Sirius to date her. That shouldn't be hard, right?

3.1K

Lily Evans was not allowed to date. At least that was what James believed. He believed the reason she wouldn't date him was because of her sister.

Her crazy twin sister who was a loner freak. She was pretty, sure. Just as pretty as Lily. But she was abrupt, aggressive and, quite frankly, scared most people off. She was unashamed in voicing her opinions, not giving a crap on what anybody thought.

Lily Evans wasn't allowed to date because Y/N Evans wasn't dating. It wasn't a jealousy thing, it was a protective older sister thing.

"You don't need to waste you time on the guys at this school, Lils. You should just be focusing on your studies and getting the best grades you can," she said as she sat, stretched out on the couch in the Gryffindor common room, book open in her lap.

Lily let out a huff and returned to her homework. She knew there was no point arguing with her sister. And, it wasn't even like she wanted to date anybody, it just would have been nice to have the option. Especially when James Potter ramped up the flirting.

James Potter. He stared at her across any room they were both in. Pranks had gone wrong because he was too busy staring at Lily.

He'd asked her out several times. But her answer was always the same. She always turned him down and blamed Y/N.

So, James had to come up with a solution. He liked Evans, so damn much, he just had to get her sister out of the way.

Moony would never go for it. He was already sort of friends with Y/N. Academic rivals who had found friendship. They compared homework, attempting to correct each other. Which worked out great for James, Sirius and Peter.

Peter. Y/N would never go for him. Especially not after she'd caught him peaking into the girls hanging room after quidditch practice.

That left James with one last friend: Sirius. And might have well as been perfect for the job.

Sirius accepted. If it finally got James with Evans, he'd do it. Plus, Y/N was a challenge. If he managed to date her, he'd hate dated the biggest bitch in Hogwarts.

Of course, Sirius had the impossible task of getting her to agree to go on a date with him first.

On Sirius' first attempt, he waited leaned against the wall beside the doorway into charms. It wasn't a class they shared, and Sirius only knew where she was because he'd asked Lily.

So, he'd skipped his own class and waited outside of hers.

The girls in Y/Ns year giggled and batted their eyelashes at Sirius as the walked past. He flashed that ever charming smile, but that was the only attention he was going to give them. They weren't the one he was looking for.

"Hey," Sirius said as Y/N walked past.

She spared him a single glance and kept walked, not answering him.

It was a good thing thing Sirius was a persistent person. He followed Y/N away from her classroom, towards Muggle studies. "You got muggle studies?" He asked.

Y/N snorted. "What do you think?" She mumbled. "Haven't you got any classes whatsoever?"

"I might," he replied, leaning against the wall.

Y/N finally turned to look at him. She wouldn't admit it, but she noticed it, noticed his rolled up sleeves, his loose tie, the way he wasn't wearing his robes.

Sirius Black was undeniably attractive, sure, but Y/N wasn't looking to date. And good facial features weren't the only thing that mattered to her. So far, Sirius was all aesthetically pleasing facial features.

"I might want to stay here and walk to you."

Y/N scoffed and walked into Muggle Studies, leaving Sirius where he was.

***

"I'm telling you, James, she doesn't want me. She wants nothing to do with me," Sirius said as they lounged around in the common room.

James shook his head. "Come one, Padfoot. Every girl wants you, so why doesn't she?"

Before this whole ordeal, Sirius had wanted Y/N, but it was in the same way he wanted every girl. It meant nothing and the feeling would pass as soon as something had happened between them. But the more she rejected him, the more he wanted her.

So, with the help of Remus, the boys devised a plan. They were going to throw a party in the common room. And if Y/N and Lily came, and Lily saw Y/N with Sirius, maybe James might have a chance.

They spent the afternoon preparing everything, getting records together and sneaking alcohol into the grounds. Using the tunnel that led to the shrieking shack, Sirius and Remus managed to get to Hogsmeade. From there it was easy enough to by something to drink and get it back to the castle.

By the time the Gryffindors got back from dinner, the boys had the party in full swing. All that was missing was people.

It didn't take much to convince people to join their party. First, second, third and fourth years were ushered up to bed, since the marauders didn't want to be responsible for a bunch of drunk Fourteen year olds.

It was Peters job to make sure they stayed upstairs while everybody else partied. Sirius' job was handing out the drinks and Remus' job was to keep things rolling while James flirted with Lily.

Y/N was one of the last to make it back from dinner. Her sister had gotten to the common room first, and was already sat on the couch beside Marlene McKinnon, drink in hand.

Once Y/N walked into the common room, she scoffed and went to make her way up to her bedroom.

But Sirius caught her, getting in her way and handing her a drink. "Stay for a while," he said over the music and the chatter. "Have some fun with your housemates."

"I'm busy," said Y/N as she stared at him.

Sirius insisted, pushing the drink into her hand. "One drink, that's all I ask," he said. "Just one drink."

Reluctantly, Y/N took it. But one drink turned onto two, and two drinks turned into three. Soon Y/N was dancing on the table to the Queen records Sirius had put on.

Other students gathered around, laughing and watching as she danced. But Sirius could see it, see her slipping and falling from the table. So, he strode over, pushing his way passed the other Gryffindors, who let him pass without protest, and grabbed a hold of Y/Ns hands.

"Let's get you some air," he called over the noise.

"But I'm having fun!" Y/N shouted back, throwing her head back as she swayed from side to side. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

Sirius practically pulled her from the table. He wrapped his arms around her, leading her out of the common room.

Sneaking through the halls of the castle was hard enough on a full moon. But, with a drunk Y/N Evans clutching onto his arm, it was damn near impossible.

Sirius hid her in an alcove with him, holding his fingers to her lips as Slughorn came past. Y/N let out a giggle and licked Sirius's finger, but he quickly placed his hand over her mouth.

Once Slughorn was gone, it was easy enough to get Y/N outside. Sirius walked her down to the Black Lake, sitting her down against a tree. "How are you feeling?" He asked, sitting down beside her.

Y/N let her head fall against his shoulder. "My head feels fuzzy," she complained, shutting her eyes.

"That's because you've had too much to drink." Sirius pulled a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and pulled one out. He put one between his lips and lit it.

As soon as Sirius took the first puff, Y/N reached for the cancer stick. He gently batted her hand away, wrapped his arms around his shoulders. "You'll throw up if you smoke this," he said and Y/N just nodded his head.

***

She didn't want to talk about it.

Some Gryffindors laughed as they passed her in the hall, but Y/N's harsh glare was enough to shut them up.

She hid herself away in the library, in the darkest corner as she read through books. For one she wasn't studying, reading for the pleasure of it.

When somebody walked towards her, Y/N turned away.

When Sirius Black walked towards her, Y/N scoffed and shoved her nose deeper into her book. If there was one person she didn't want to talk to, it was the person that got her drunk.

He sat opposite her, drumming his black nails against the desk. "How you feeling today?" He asked, using his finger to lower Y/N's book.

She glared and lifted it back up. "Go away, Sirius."

"I'll go away," Sirius replied, "If you go to Hogsmeade with me."

Again, Y/N scoffed. But this time she stood up and walked away from him. She checked her book out of the library and strode out, all while Sirius watched her go.

Goddamn he wanted her.

He needed Remus's help.

Sirius met his friend in the Gryffindor common room. "We need to do something," he said as he paced in front of the fire place.

Remus was sat back, looking cool, calm and collected. Of course he was, he had virtually no part in this whole Lily and Y/N plan. "Do you think it's really fair that you're chasing her just so that James can date her sister?"

Stopping his pacing, Sirius stared at his friend. He wanted Y/N Evans and he wanted her bad.

Remus let out a sigh. "Have you ever noticed that she's always reading these romance novels?"

"So?"

"You'll need to do some sort of gesture, something big and romantic," Remus replied, running his hands through his hair.

Some big, romantic gesture, huh? Sirius could do that.

***

Y/N had never received a howler before. Never, not in her entire life. With her parents being Muggles, they didn't know how to send them. So, when the owl dropped the red envelope into Y/N's lap, her sister stared at her. "Who on earth sent you that?" Asked Lily as Y/N picked it up.

She shrugged her shoulders and unsealed it. Immediately, the red envelope and letter inside became a mouth. A mouth that started singing. "Oh my god," Y/N mumbled, hiding her face from everybody else in the great hall, eating their breakfasts. She'd never been this embarrassed in her life, not even when she'd gotten incredibly drunk last week.

The Howler sang Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy by Queen as Sirius came and sat opposite her, smirking with his ring covered hands clasped together. "This is from you, isn't it?" Y/N asked over the singing.

Instead of answering, Sirius climbed up onto the table. He sang along with the howler, kicking dishes of food away from the table. And, when the song was over, he held out his hands towards her. "Y/N Evans, will you go out with me?"

The embarrassment had turned into laughter. As embarrassing as it was, Y/N loved it. It was amazing. It was the most Sirius Black thing in the world.

But Y/N didn't get to answer him, not when Professor McGonagall came striding towards him and pulled him from the table. He waved at Y/N as he was dragged away to detention.

"What on earth," Lily muttered, shaking her head as Y/N stood up from the table.

"I don't know, Lils," Y/N said and ran office.

She knew exactly where to find Sirius. McGonagall had him in her office, writing line while she watched over him.

Y/N knocked on the door and waited for McGonagall to let her in. When she shouted, Y/N strode into the office. "Hey, Professor. As a Muggleborn student, I have some questions," she said and walked over to the window, pulling McGonagall's attention away from Sirius.

It took Sirius a moment to catch on. So, Y/N kept talking, kept holding McGonagall questions. "So, do how do Muggleborn students come to be?" She asked.

Sirius's eyes went wide. He stood carefully pushing his chair back while McGonagall was turned around.

But she went to turn back. "Like, do I have a magical family member from a few generations ago?" She asked as Sirius tiptoed towards the door. "And, how come Lily and I are both magic but our sister isn't?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Evans," McGonagall said, keeping her eyes on her as Sirius made it out of the door. Y/N got herself ready to run. "But I don't have time for this right now. Can't you see I'm busy?"

"You're right, Professor. I'm sorry," Y/N said and swiftly walked out of the office.

She got away quickly, before McGonagall could call her back and ask about Sirius's whereabouts. Y/N wasn't sure, anyway. Sirius was long gone by the time she got out of the office.

Suddenly, Sirius appeared out of nowhere. He strode forward and tapped Y/N on the shoulder. She turned quickly, ready to tackle her attacker, but when she saw Sirius, she relaxed. She went to say something, but he beat her to it. "Meet me on the astronomy tower later," he said and walked off again.

***

James walked towards Lily and placed his arms around her shoulders. "Word on the street is your sister is seeing Sirius," he said as they walked.

Lily didn't remove his arm, but she didn't give him the time of day, either. She just kept walking, as though James wasn't there. "So, now that your sister is dating, how about I take you on a date?"

"A date, James, really?" Lily asked, finally pushing his hand away.

James nodded his head. "If Y/N is dating, why can't you?"

Letting out a huff, Lily turned to face him. "Okay, if I go on one date with you, will you finally leave me alone?" She asked and James nodded.

One date. All he needed was one date.

***

Y/N made her way up to the astronomy tower. She was dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a knitted sweater, keeping herself warm as she walked through the castle.

Sirius was already up the astronomy tower, a picnic set up in front of him. He had the blanket, the basket, a candle surrounded by food. It was simple food, sandwiches and snacks.

"Wow," Y/N whispered as she walked over to him.

Sirius grinned and spread his arms. "Surprise," he said and sat on one side of the blanket, gesturing for Y/N to sit opposite him.

She took her seat and Sirius passed her a biscuit. "So, what is the deal with James and my sister?" She asked as she leaned back, looking across the castle grounds.

Sirius shook his head. "He really likes her," he said and ran his fingers through his hair.

Y/N let out a snort. "I think the whole school knows that."

"No, I think the whole school knows that I like you," Sirius muttered with a smirk.

They spoke the whole evening long. Even once the food had been eaten and they were comfortably full, Y/N and Sirius stayed where they were, talking about their lives. Y/N learned about his home life and just how shitty it was. She told him about being Muggleborn and how spiteful her sister was.

They were sat beside each other, Y/N leaning against him as he watched the stars. "So, why don't you date?" Sirius asked her. "You're gorgeous, I know so many guys that would be so happy to be in my position right now, so why am I the lucky guy?"

Y/N shrugged her shoulders. "I've just always wanted to be more focused on my studies," she said.

Suddenly Sirius placed his finger under chin and tipped her towards him. He kissed her, slowly gently, eyes closed as his lips moved against hers. He tasted of smoke and mint, the taste intoxicating. Y/N couldn't get enough.

She ran his fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp. Sirius let out a whine and pulled away, resting his forehead against hers. He couldn't stop the smile crossing his face as they just sat there.

There were footsteps, making their way up towards them. Y/N and Sirius pulled away to look at who was approaching.

"Lily," Y/N said as she stood, moving away from Sirius. "What're you doing up here?"

And then James appeared behind her. He grinned when he saw the two of them, both of them breathless. "Thanks, mate," he said as he and Lily came up the stairs.

Y/N stared at Sirius. "What does he mean?" She asked, picking up her things. "Sirius, what does he mean by that?"

"Y/N, listen, you've got to understand-"

But that was enough for her. Y/N turned on her heel and walked away from him, running down the steps and back to the common room.

Sirius spent the next few weeks trying to speak to her. He waited outside of her classrooms and tried to corner her in the common room, but Y/N marched away from him, a furious look on her face.

She was furious. Furious that Sirius had just asked her out for James' benefit, furious that she had fallen for him.

She was hurt, incredibly hurt.

She hated the way she felt around, the way he made her heart flutter. She hated the way his gaze heated her cheeks, hated the way her hand felt in his. She hated the way he smelt like cigarettes, hated the way he tasted of smoke and mint, and hated the way she loved it. She hated that he'd taken her on her first ever date and hated the way she loved it. But, most of all, she hated the way she didn't hate him.

Y/N sat in the common room, reading her book. She was constantly looking around, making sure Sirius didn't appear in front of her.

Suddenly, a couple of books appeared on the table in front of her. They were held together by a piece of twine, held together in a neat bow. Beneath the bow was a small note, her name written on it. Y/N grabbed a hold of it and turned it around.

'Forgive me? - S'

Y/N looked across the common room, meeting his gave. She gave him a quick nod and went back to her book, a grin splitting across her face.

#sirius black #sirius black imagine #sirius black x reader #sirius black x female reader #sirius black smut #sirius black x reader smut #sirius black fluff #sirius black x you #marauders #marauders imagine #marauders x reader #marauders fluff #marauders smut #marauders x you #marauders x reader smut #harry potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter x reader

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taegularities · 6 months ago

Text

you're okay | myg (m)

Summary: Let it hurt and burn. Let it out; and then let it fade away. Let it heal. Yoongi can't lift all your burdens, but he has taught you at least this much over the years.

➳ pairing: Yoongi x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: s2l/est. rel.; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: this one's heavy :') pov switches, switching between past and present, reference to the d-day documentary, mental health issues, therapy, depression and anxiety, mentioned unaliving attempt, mentions of fainting, slight mention of SA, implied panic attack, lots of trauma, lots of sadness, healing journey/healing with yoongi, feelings of loneliness, feeling unworthy, oc is very unsure and thinks she's a burden, tears and crying; explicit sexual content: (brief) protected sex, oral (f. receiving), masturbation, kissing/making out. please heed the warnings <3 ➳ word count: 11.5k ➳ a/n: hi hi. not the average taegularities fic, i think. once again, please do note the warnings before reading. it's okay if it's too heavy and you need breaks – take care of yourself. it's a very very personal piece that i just needed to get out of my system. yoongi's snooze inspired it; i still cry when i listen to it – i'm thankful it saved me in so many ways, and i hope you feel the same way about this fic. i love you all; here's to healing and living 💕 ➳ listen to: snooze by agust d ft. ryuichi sakamoto & woosung 🤍

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

The weather changes at warp speed these days.

When you left just this morning, it was raining buckets. The shower barely allowed a glimpse at the sky, grey as smoke; ominous clouds were bursting, fast cars and busy passengers on the sidewalk rushing through the world.

You were one of them, not necessarily impressed by the downpour. But you smiled when someone halted, stretching an arm to force the doors of the bus open until you were inside.

The tender gesture lit up your gloomy morning, a proof of how the world isn’t all misery and ruin. For a couple minutes and hours, that stranger’s smile lifted the weight off your leather jacket clad shoulders. You were burdened by nothing but the bag hanging on your side.

But now, the same jacket is draped over your arm and feels much heavier than before; stripped off when the sun broke through the clouds around the afternoon. The additional weight gives you grief; you’re relieved when you hang it onto a rack, step out of your shoes and drag yourself to the bathroom.

God, all actions seem so passive these days.

Passive and automatic, just half-conscious. You’re fatigued and lost in your head. Frankly, you need your bed. You hate that you still need to shower. You wish you could skip that part and still keep your body healthy and clean.

And as you stand under the water, shifting your balance to the right leg and back, you realise that another work day is over and another one is coming. Interactions, productivity, the craving your bed. You need the weightlessness.

So much so that you soon feel the knot in your chest, intensifying, and the heat of the water combines with an uncomfortable breathlessness until your knees bend a little. Immediately, you plant your palms against the bathroom tiles, taking a seat on the shower floor.

You cross your legs; the thought of your father is immediate because he always taught you to take a seat wherever once you start feeling dizzy. Since that one adolescence day when you passed out and hurt your chin, you have followed this advice and prevented worse.

Your head spins for a moment, your chest tight; and you hear a dull thump. There’s an odd rustle in your ears, mixed with the sound of the dripping water; so you don’t notice the call of your name right away.

Keeping your answer absent for another moment, you only wrap your arms around your chest, just to keep yourself whole. You feel like your body might fracture into a dozen pieces.

The shampoo bottle that presumably caused the thump before rolls against you, and you gasp in uncomfortable surprise; immediately hear another slurred, “Hey! Are you okay? What’s going on?”

It's him; he’s always worried. Maybe that’s what you’ve been struggling with so much lately. The fact that you never suffer alone whenever the weight on your shoulder and brain drags you down too far.

A worried voice chimes again, breaking the sound of the shower jet, and you suddenly become hyper aware of his concern, rushing to finally get out. You exclaim a reassuring, “All good!” before the silence can prolong or betray you.

His calls stop, probably relieved when you add another, “Coming.”

You envelop your body in your towel; just a moment later, he knocks. You would’ve opened even if he hadn't.

Yoongi stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and breathes in the sauna-esque air. His mouth turns into a surprised circle, and he blinks before he blows out a breath and states, “You showered hot today, huh?”

“Mhh,” you hum, “the sun never keeps me from doing so. Feels good.”

He smiles, watches your lotioned hands hydrate your skin, very slowly and very delicately. When you sigh in something he interprets as fatigue, he asks, “Do you need help?”

Four simple words, but they soothe something in your wrinkly, grey brain. The knot of stress loosens just a little, and you sigh deeply, telling him, “Yes, please.”

He doesn’t hesitate to step behind you, picking up the pink, wooden brush lying on the laundry basket next to you to release the knots in your wet hair. For a couple of minutes, you indulge in the massage; and then wallow in the feeling of his hands on your face, taking over to do your skincare.

And then, gentle as he is, he helps you into your clothes. You feel somewhat pathetic, but most of all, thankful — anything to get through the night.

“You all set?” he asks once he’s done, palms on your shoulders. You touch the digits of his left hand, leading them to your lips to kiss them softly before you nod.

You follow him into the living room, detecting the still present sunrays protruding through the spots that the sheer curtains don’t filter. It’s not dark yet, but the light is slowly fading. The star is preparing to drown behind the horizon, dusk in motion.

The pretty hues give you a brief yet strange burst of motivation; often, you fear the night more despite its serene reputation. Too dark, too haunting.

Yoongi has already set the table; he starts to ladle the sundubu-jjigae into your bowl, rice in another smaller dish next to it. You sit; you feel endlessly indebted and silently terrified at once. The food looks amazing, so the taste isn’t the problem.

Your boyfriend is a good cook, and you thank the deities every day for his existence. It was much harder to get by and assemble a meal when you lived alone.

But your expression is still the opposite of what it’s supposed to be, and when he sees it, he asks, “You good? Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Then eat a little, okay? As much as you can.”

You gulp, oblige. You know your body calls for it, so you listen to it, chewing a couple bites, even though it feels impossible to actually swallow. God; you need to stop your chest and stomach from trying to convince you that everything is heavy.

Your clothes, your heart, your thoughts.

You know it isn’t true. It drives you mad when your own brain proves this treacherous, attempting to lie to you like this.

Then again, energy dwindles faster these days. Your body knows; maybe that’s why you feel tired. You need to sleep — maybe that could help you feel a bit more feathery.

But shit, you wish there was a more efficient charger for human beings than sleep, so you could be productive. Your mind won’t let you sleep properly anyway.

“Is it good?” Yoongi asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s always the first to notice when you’re overexerting yourself, even just at dinner.

“It’s very good,” you respond truthfully, even raising your voice to make yourself sound livelier, “as I’d expect from you.”

“Then I’m glad. Thought I’d make you something good, since you worked longer.”

“Always attentive, aren’t you?”

“I try to be.” His spoon drops in his bowl, and he reaches out, touching your cheek just long enough for your heart to stir. “How was work?”

Hm…

You don’t remember too well. You know you went there at least, and you know you did whatever you had to — but you can’t recall details. So all you say without dousing the atmosphere in negativity is, “As always.”

“Was Nayeon at work today?”

“Nope,” you tell him, sending wordless, good vibes towards your best work buddy. “Still sick. A stomach bug, I think. I really hope she feels better soon.”

“Sana again then?”

“Yeah, spent most of the day with her. She’s always so sweet, though… I should talk to her more often.”

You dig into your rice again, trying it with a bigger bite this time. Then, you shake your head in apology, looking back at Yoongi as you ask, “Ah, I’m sorry, baby… how was work for you?”

“As always,” he echoes, “thought of you a lot.”

“Mhm… obsessed much?” you jest, trying a little beam.

“You know me.”

That’s it. You nod; you understand the weakness of your smile, so you lower your head altogether. He sees; of course he does. Yet, he waits and watches you toy with your food. You know the question is approaching before it lands, “Another low?”

Another low…

You could cry. You could burst into tears immediately if you didn’t feel so… empty. A vacant soul, pieces coloured by nothing but him. Yoongi sparks the magic most of the time, even drilling through the numbness.

“Yeah,” you whisper, not crying yet, but the corners of your mouth drop. “It’s been a while.”

“Months, yes? Which is great, my love.” His voice is so mellow, deep, like an antidote. “You’re doing really well.”

“Yeah.”

You are. Because at one point in your life, you used to feel this way all the time. Ever since you found somebody to rely on, someone who listens, you’ve gotten a bit better. He puts you together as if he’s resolving a dispersed puzzle.

But certain phases at certain times still hit you unexpectedly, like a revved up truck.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yoongi offers.

“There’s nothing really to talk about…”

“Okay. Do it if you need to, though, okay? Eat a little more?”

You do. Fuck, you feel so babied sometimes; you wonder if he discerns things like this, too. That he isn’t really taking care of and loving his girlfriend, but rather babysitting a broken child.

You whoosh the thought away with a blink, finishing more than half of your meal before you set the cutlery aside. You down the last bite with cold water, sauntering to the bathroom, and then meet Yoongi on your bed.

He probably already put the food in the fridge and the dishes in the dishwasher; he must’ve operated rapidly to be here already, awaiting you. The laptop is open and its screen bright, and you know without stepping onto the mattress that he’s opened YouTube.

Less for him, more for you.

If he wanted to spend the remaining minutes of the night scrolling through reels, he could easily do so on his phone. But no… this feels more like an invitation. A quick, sweet date before sleep, just to watch a few animal videos that rarely ever fail to make you smile.

As you crawl into him, watching cats protecting newborn babies or dogs jumping their owners affectionately, you do smile. You laugh, even. You feel somewhat at ease here with him, but you know you’ll go back to ground zero in the morning.

When you’ve left and he’s gone to work.

And you hate it. You hate that you’re dependent on him like this… Yoongi calls it finding comfort in somebody you love, and you don’t disagree. But adding to this, you think you’re limiting his options by shackling yourself to him.

By demanding that comfort.

You sigh in his arms, breathing calmer than before, but not enough to sleep. Yet, he asks, “Hey… sweetheart. Are you awake?”

“I am.”

“I’m just thinking… Do you want me to call the therapist tomorrow?”

Shit… why does the ball of guilt keep growing? How does he think of this and you don’t? Have you really sunk this deep again? You’re stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I… I should do it myself,” you mumble.

“I don’t mind.”

“No, I’ll just do it in the morning. I think I should… do things for myself, too, right?”

He pauses. Ponders your words; or at least, that’s what you surmise from the way he breathes and sighs and hums. And you’re proven right when he inquires, “Do you feel like I mind doing things for you?”

Yes. No.

No, you do not think so. But you sure as hell waste his time. Occupy it with this nonsense when he could be happier somewhere else, living his life, making plans for the future and rambling about the job he loves.

But no…

Fucking calling the therapist for you.

You break.

It always happens in the worst moments; you don’t know what it is, how it happens, but you break. Hard. Your motions stop, maybe even your breathing. But then you do sigh, so deeply that it burns, trying to keep your voice from shaking, to keep the tears at bay.

But this time, it doesn’t work. Emotions heightened when Yoongi utters something he’s provided as a reminder over the years, “Don’t hold back.”

So you don’t.

There were days when this lesson was necessary, a gentle nudge to release the weight, and today is one of them. You weep, starting with soft whimpers that grow louder steadily, and you press into his chest until you're suddenly sobbing.

You sniffle with an aching head, holding onto him for dear life, barely noticing when your sobs, once again, morph into absolute wailing.

He embraces you, tighter with each inhale and exhale. You’re so impossibly close to him, garbling something that he doesn’t understand. His voice is pain-struck and trembling when he encourages, “Come again, baby? Talk to me.”

It takes a while; it doesn’t work. And then, he chants, “God, baby. My baby… it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“No!” you cry out, slurring your words, “No… am a burden. Am fucking burdening you…”

This is a clear thought, isn’t it? Even in a moment like this, you think it’s true. And that maybe…

Maybe you should’ve never agreed to the lunch he offered you all those years ago. You would miss everything good in your life, lose the one thing you so cherish, but you’d at least rid him of you.

Those long six years ago, you should have just told him you were fine.

As a student, Yoongi always trod the same path from the second floor down to the entrance of the college, living into a routine — never really noticing much of significance. He’d see other students who’d be eating; talking; rushing to class.

And as a TA, Yoongi was used to another, different journey throughout the building, too; climbing down the same spiral staircase, hurrying through the scary, empty mezzanine, passing the same few rooms on the ground floor.

He’d prepare to go home or to the library after attending his favourite psychology professor’s classes, assisting him to his best abilities. But this was different from all the other familiar routes he’d grown accustomed to.

These Wednesday afternoons did offer something of significance. Someone of significance.

Because every time he reached those rooms on the ground floor, you’d be there.

At first, he reckoned you always waited for your class to start, just at the time when his ended. But you were alone each time. The doors to the classrooms and lecture halls were all closed, and then there was you, a sole soul waiting for whatever miracle to appear.

It took a couple weeks for him to gather that you might not have been supposed to be there. He noticed it when he saw your eyes fixated on a spot, pupils never moving an inch, even when he walked past. At some point, he’d memorised just this expression on your face.

And then, bit by bit, he realised that your stance didn’t seem quite normal. Your eyes were dead, hands never flinching. You emanated a sense of loneliness and stupefaction that he couldn’t express in words.

Today, something in him stirred. Perhaps because he’d just covered social behaviour as a topic or perhaps because any proper human would recognise that something was wrong with you.

Your hands were holding a lidless cup that day, barely steaming anymore. You were blinking slowly, if at all. This time, he approached you with care, as if nearing a wounded deer; as if trying to keep it there and not frighten it away.

But when he leaned into you, a hand scarcely touching your shoulder, your head moved up to look at him slowly but surely. And your first reaction to him ever was a smile.

You remember that when you first looked at him, like really looked at him, his face seemed familiar to you. You were sure you’d seen him before, even if just in passing. He had this long, pretty, dark hair, covering his neck, a couple inches above his shoulders.

A kind face. A calm demeanour.

He stood there with pure relaxation between his eyebrows; one you hadn’t felt in a while despite your falling face. Flawless porcelain skin, free of dark circles, free of exhaustion. When did you last look like this?

You smiled at him instinctively, a curious expression; you couldn’t guess at all what he wanted or needed, but you were ready to listen. You’d always listen to people — listen, listen, listen. Perhaps that was the exact problem.

This very attention towards him, coming this easily, made your shoulders sink in new dejection; everything did. Every thought was intrusive, unwelcome, too stretched for your liking.

Whenever you had a normal thought or a bad one that’d at least pass immediately, you considered it a good day.

But you felt a tension around your temples by now; your head never felt at ease.

Yet, you asked, “Yes?”

And he wondered in return, “Are you okay? You looked distracted and I thought I might ask.”

“Oh… that’s nice,” you commented, your voice a bit too quiet yet surprised; you cleared your throat, spoke up, “but I’m okay. I just sit here sometimes after my classes.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. To take a little break after all the information dump, yeah. I’ll go home soon, though, no worries.”

“Hm… yeah. I just,” Yoongi started, hesitant — you now know he was trying to reveal something without appearing creepy. “I noticed you here a few times, so I wanted to ask just to be sure.”

He saw you here? You? And he came up to talk to you, just because he’d noticed you before? Baffling. You didn’t think you were visible to anybody. You thought you faded in front of others’ eyes.

“You’re honestly so nice,” is all you said, hoping your eyes didn’t reveal too much. How much his words affected you, and how they made you think you were just a little, a tiny bit perceptible.

“Sure,” he responded, nodding. And when you failed to come up with more appreciative words, he prepared to move, bidding you goodbye with a single, “Okay…”

Then, he was walking away; as grateful as you were, your energy-lacking body forced your eyes shut. You drew a deep breath. These few words you’d exchanged with him took everything out of you — that was the worst part of all this.

Interaction drained you. Loneliness drained you. The world and life were all draining, and you couldn’t figure out anymore how to feel… awake. Sober without ever drinking.

When your eyes closed, you felt your surroundings starting to spin. Or maybe, it was you; as if someone had gripped your shoulders and was turning you in circles. There were so many weird particles behind your eyelids.

The rotation was insane, but nothing new. Shut down most of your other senses and people’s voices; like the one that returned a second later, the same as before. Shit. Had he seen you struggle? Was he seeing something nobody else ever would?

You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” the stranger with the familiar face asked, concern in his voice. “You don’t look like it.”

What was it? What was it about his gentle, low voice that lured you in? What was it about his attentive tone that made you want to tear up? Maybe because you’d bottled things up for so long.

But you held the liquid locked in your eyes. Proudly, barely.

“I’m…”

You considered lying. You considered pulling a lame excuse out of your ass. But something in you snapped, snapped hard, and the truth spilled just before you could think twice—

“If I’m being honest… I’m feeling pretty faint… I often do? I usually just need to sit down a bit or I’ll pass out.”

You hated using the word usually. As though your condition had become irreparable, like a chronic illness; and you were stating its treatment, only temporary.

“Hmm…” he hummed. “Have you eaten?”

“Not much…”

“Then that might be it,” he concluded, content with the deduction. In hindsight, you think he was hoping it was only that, nothing more. “Do you have something with you?” You shook your head. “Are you getting something?”

You shrugged.

You could’ve easily told the truth and said no; that the appetite was absent, that you were going to go home and hardly remember how you got there. That you’d throw your bag on the couch, take off all your clothes, not really bother for a shower and jump into your bed.

Then, you’d breathe. Survive.

You didn’t have the energy to eat, to shower, and right now, somehow not even to lie. The remainder of it had been used in today’s class and in this conversation.

He knew you couldn’t come up with any bad justification, so he offered, “Listen… I still have this sandwich with me that I was going to eat after class. You can have it if you want.”

What? That was…

“Oh, no,” you blurted, raising a hand to reject, “you should eat if you haven’t yet.”

“Look, I totally get being selfless, but you don’t look good and…” He sighed, tilting his head. Eyebrows raised and expression suddenly stricter. “If I can help anyhow, I’d rather have that than anyone else finding you unconscious here later. Please?”

How could you’ve resisted such a plea?

He was taking care of you and he didn’t even know you. And your body understood; your body heard him. Because your stomach grumbled at the mention of the meal; it didn’t mean anything to you, but it meant something to your hungry, craving body.

It often did that. Wishing to eat; then, not letting you swallow a bite.

You grabbed your bag and warily, carefully got to your feet. The man lifted a hand in caution, as if expecting for you to lose your balance. You did, just a little, swaying until you’d grounded yourself.

Goddamn it.

You nodded with a deep exhale and followed him as he suggested, “Let’s go to the courtyard. Get some fresh air. We can eat there and talk… or not talk if that's what you want.”

You kept moving your head up and down, fine with whatever. The fronts of it hurt due to the lack of nutrition; it was past four pm and you’d only eaten a damn banana.

He found you a shadowy spot away from the sun; it was late spring, the summer steadily approaching. The shade protected your tired eyes, guarded you from further headaches.

As you plumped onto the grass next to him, your fingers grazed it for a moment — and it felt good against your skin. A pleasant combination, the wind and the scent of grass; nearly freed your chest of the stuffy pain.

You watched his soft fingers fish out the sandwich, and then some salted peanuts for himself. Urged you to eat before spilling a handful of the nuts into his palm. God, you felt horribly guilty, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to convince him to share the meal.

He… didn’t even seem to mind a bit.

Wiping his hand on his pants, he finally introduced, “I’m Min Yoongi. Psychology student and TA. Judging from your spot every single Wednesday afternoon, you take psychology classes, too?”

“I do… yeah.”

You took a bite enough for mouses, but then proceeded with a larger, human-appropriate one. Your stomach felt odd; Min Yoongi’s small talk helped you eat, but the nervous feeling in your chest that never really went away weighed heavily on your tummy.

You added, “Thinking of dropping it, though…”

“Why?”

“Because I might be failing anyway. Haven’t done much, and I still have a presentation on my paper left but have prepared nothing for it yet, either.”

“Have you asked the professor about a potential extension?”

Of course you’d thought about it. You always did. Which is why you despised having to answer, “No…”

No. Of course not. To most professors, mental health didn’t matter as an excuse.

You understood, though. They graded every paper they received, surrendering their free time, their summer and their winter breaks. To grant you special treatment was something you regarded as unnecessary; you didn’t think you were worth it.

“Do you feel like you could do better next term?” Yoongi asked.

“I don’t know.”

Your sandwich was done and gone. You were still hungry; you felt the appetite all of a sudden. You knew it often came and went in waves, but somehow, the sandwich left you more pining than anything these days.

Yoongi saw as you licked your fingers clean of the mayonnaise; offered you some peanuts that you politely declined, greedy for something proper. Maybe you’d eat an actual dinner tonight.

After a while, Yoongi spoke, “Okay, I know I’m a stranger to you and everything, but if you want, I could try to help you.”

Shit, but… that would’ve meant putting in the effort. To get up, to meet him, to focus and to study. You didn’t know if you’d be able to do all that. You didn’t know how to—

But his eyes were so sincere; a pure dark brown, sparkling in hope, for whatever noble reason. And you thought… you thought…

If there was any chance to pass this class and get over with it, wouldn’t you feel a gigantic wave of relief wash over you? After so damn long? Wouldn’t it be worth it? Maybe a spark of hope ignited in your chest after all… maybe you could turn things around.

“Yeah…” you finally obliged. “Yeah, that’s really nice.”

“Great. Are you free this Friday afternoon?”

After that, it became part of your routine to meet up with Yoongi every Thursday or Friday, depending on his own schedule. A couple weeks passed like a breeze; or at least, compared to the days you were used to.

Some time later, those meetings increased, and you found a profound liking in them. You still often struggled with leaving your apartment at all, sometimes deeming getting out of bed or brushing your teeth an impossible task.

But whenever Yoongi called, offering a nearby café — always a nearby café — you’d place all your energy into moving, throwing on clothes, leaving. You felt unworried with him; at least for a couple hours.

He wasn’t just smart to an admirable degree; he was humorous, too. Motivating. Praised you for your ideas and your sharp mind. You’d forgotten you still had it in you — you thought time had altered your brain chemistry, killed too many of its cells to still let your mind operate.

Today, he didn’t suggest a café but a place you hadn't been to before. Yoongi had never invited you anywhere that wasn’t a public space, careful with your feelings without ever mentioning the obvious issues you had.

He only really crawled out of his shell and gave you the address to this new spot once you’d invited him over, too — he couldn’t make it, helping out the professor he assisted. But you reckon it was telling enough for him to understand how comfortable you’d grown with him.

So you went where he told you to go, and once you arrived, you recognised it as an office. A small one, but elegantly decorated, furniture sparse. And it wasn’t just any office. A therapist’s office.

“This is my mom’s,” Yoongi explained as you inspected the books on the shelf and the overall soothing and fitting atmosphere, “she’s out of town, so I thought we could study here today.

“Oh…”

He had to have heard your hesitancy, your uncertainty. This is the place they usually suggest in guidance books and in conversation to people like you. You didn’t know how to feel; the emotions washing over you were an odd sensation. Not good, not bad.

But scary, somehow.

Yoongi put a soft hand on your shoulder, making you turn, and asked, “Is that okay for you?”

“Yeah… it’s just… I’ve only really thought and read about therapy, but never quite seen an actual room like this.” You shook your head, clicking your tongue. “It’s crazy. How have I never been in one despite studying psychology for so long?”

“Hmm, many students haven’t been.”

“Yeah.”

You stripped your bag off of you, taking a seat on the cosy patient’s couch. Pulled out your laptop and placed it on the table between you and where he seated himself on the therapist’s chair.

Swallowing a strange lump, you cleared your throat, starting the study session with, “Okay, so… I was thinking about what you said about the research question last time.”

“Right…”

At this point, you couldn’t really fathom why, but he seemed reserved today, a little distracted. Still providing as much information and intellect as he could; but his thoughts were slower and his eyes gentler.

You think you studied barely forty-five minutes when Yoongi called for a break — unusual, because it was mostly you to announce a pause in thoughts, when your brain would demand a couple minutes of peace.

He sighed, hands touching his thighs and then got up to bring you something to drink. Came back with two cups of tea. You thought he’d be returning with a glass of water, but upon seeing the beverage, your eyes widened; you told him, “This is super nice of you, thanks.”

“Of course.” Pause. You slurped; then he did. A second later, he inquired, “Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm.”

You waited. Nothing came. You took another sip of the fruity winter tea in the middle of summer, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat under your nose that the heat caused. Then you looked up, big eyes staring into his just in time to see his mouth open.

“You always seem so surprised when I’m nice to you.”

Ah…

He’d said he’d had a question, but the indication of an inquiry, the one lifting in tone at the end never came. His statement was his question. And you thought it wasn’t the first time you heard it; you just never noticed you were doing it again.

Yoongi left the conclusion there, and the question mark hung somewhere between the two of you. Unspoken, containing a silent, ”Why?”

So you answered, “I just… uhm. People don’t just do something like this for me without me asking. It’s new to me how attentive you are.”

Sad. Just sad. You hated having to actually echo your innermost thoughts; you knew this wasn’t normal.

He knew, too, because he said, “This… is not how things should be.”

“But this is how they ended up being. I mean it’s just tea. But I don’t think anybody else sees me sitting there and goes like, Okay, I’ll do this lil something for her, you know?”

“Which is insane. You deserve it all so much. More than anyone I know.”

If you’d still been drinking, you would’ve choked. Those words were rare, not often uttered to you; how were you supposed to respond to them? You’d long forgotten how to react to things at all — it didn’t come too naturally to you anymore.

So all you did was laugh a little, as if replying to a joke. Genuinely, you wondered, “How can you say something like that?”

“Why not?”

“I mean, you probably know so many people.”

Yoongi blinked at you, as if waiting for your argument to proceed; but when it didn’t, he lifted a shoulder, steadfast with his opinion as he answered, “So? What do you think? That you feeling that way about yourself makes everyone else feel that way about you, too?”

You shrugged your shoulders just an inch, imitating his motions. Your gaze fell, as though catching yourself spewing pure gibberish. He continued, “You have a pure heart. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you being mean. And you’re strong, careful, and endure a shit ton.”

You looked up at him instantly. Let the last words reverberate in your mind, pushing them to the forefront between all your other messy thoughts. “Of course you knew,” you said.

“Of course. You’re so obviously hurt and I hate that you are.”

Well, you hated it, too. But…

Your desperation came out in a whisper, “I don’t know what to do about it…”

You put the cup back onto the saucer; your fingers were warm when you pushed them into your hair, pressing your palms against your forehead, holding onto your mane. Elbows on your thighs. The world spun again until you felt his hand on your arm once more.

“Hey.” He sounded softer again. “Do you want to take a longer break? We could stop for today and talk?”

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to. But it feels to me like you’ve never done that before… people don’t want to listen.” His words hit you like bricks. Like heavy cement bricks. The pain was excruciating. “Is that it?”

You were still staring at your lap when he posed the question; your head whirred, so you didn’t know where to start. Which is why you held onto the first complaint — you knew they were valid worries, but you always called them complaints, like you were a burden — and said,

“I just… I listen to everyone. I let people vent, I let them feel hurt, and I try to be there and lend a shoulder and just,” the words cascaded out of you like a wild waterfall; your throat clogged up again, “to be a good person and a good friend.”

You exhaled a shaky breath, the pressure back in your chest. “But why do I not get any of it back? Why is it that everyone goes silent when I’m hurting? Do I deserve this somehow?”

You felt tears pricking and burning in your waterline, and you blinked them away. Took another quick sip just to help your dry throat. Then, “I hate that I sound selfish? Like I only do things for people to get love back, but… that’s not it. I just want to feel worthy of something, too.”

“You don’t sound selfish. It’s never wrong or inhumane to demand affection and care, and if it is, then… every person’s selfish. Whatever.”

Up until that point, you hadn’t known that someone could be this tender and direct at once. Yoongi lived in a reality that wasn’t sugarcoated, but he understood empathy and heartbreak, knew to dip his words in an ointment alleviating enough.

You wondered what he’d endured to become this type of person; sympathy and a mind this sage often stem from grief once encountered, and you so hoped he was an exception to this belief of yours.

You looked at him with delicate fondness, mixed with some lasting trouble. He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t know what came over you when you leaned into his palm, kept his gaze, and stayed in place when he moved in.

Kissed you.

And you didn’t know why, but the moment opened your heart as if it’d been locked before; he was the key, undoing the lock so easily. That was when the first tear rolled down your cheek, meeting his skin, and you started trembling as he moved his mouth against yours.

You couldn’t grasp why he was doing it; even if parts of you knew. Did he not care that you were broken? That you were still breaking? That the ache always consumed you, that you felt whatever your brain inflicted on you throughout your entire body?

Maybe not. He always said you were funny, sweet, never humorous at anybody’s expense.

It was different from the things you’d heard before.

Nobody will love you like this.

Stop acting like you’re traumatised.

I didn’t love you — I kept you because you were attractive. Because you let me.

You had always asked yourself: why had your feelings always been shoved aside when you voiced your opinion? Whenever it differed from the one in your family or your friend’s circle?

Why were you told to never open up about your childhood memories? When you were caged in; when somebody three times your age indulged in impudence when they shouldn’t have, long ago when you were a child; when you fell in love at a later age and were forced to let go?

Why were you told you were tainted, that you couldn’t get any affection like this, to keep your pain to yourself and forget about your past? And why was this sequence of nightmares plaguing you right now, like you were dying, just when he was kissing you…

Because you were scared. So scared.

If you told Yoongi any of this, would he bolt? Would you hurt yet another person? Would he see you as a shattered porcelain doll, distance himself from you? Because honestly, why would he stay at all; with someone who hasn’t healed, who’d pulled him underwater, too?

Yet, you didn’t say any of this. You sighed; leaned into him. Took residency in his heart, cried into him.

He kissed you for another second, and then backed away. Wiped your tears. You broke and broke until your voice broke, too, giving way to quiet sobs.

You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.

And somehow, the realisation hurt anew, deep in your core and beyond.

Your tears had mostly dried when he resumed his position, sitting in front of you. His fingers were entangled and he waited.

Yoongi knew you’d cry again, though. The patient’s couch had some magic to it, his mother always said. They’d always cry, but they’d heal at the same time. Recognise hidden parts of themselves.

He was uncomplaining and composed, and kept looking at you until you said, “It just feels… like I’ll never be enough. I can do as much as possible, but none of it is ever seen because I’m taken for granted.”

“Who takes you for granted?”

“Everyone. I’ve spent many nights awake for people, and they abandoned me. In a crowd, others will always be praised for one thing and I’ll be ignored for the same. It’s made me bitter.”

He nodded in true therapist fashion, but his expression wasn’t as neutral as one; he looked pain-struck for you. Said, “You’ve been hurt… I see that…”

“I’m… hurting,” you corrected, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Yoongi attempted a different approach; you were in a hopeless spiral, and the strategy he needed to try wasn’t just to dig out your trauma, but to make you familiar with the good parts of your life, too.

So he asked, sincerely hoping you had an answer to his question, “Who could you trust as you grew up?”

“I don’t know…” Yoongi’s chest deflated, motivation dropping — that is, until you muttered, “My brother.”

“Parents?”

“Part of the problem.”

Okay; your answers came more rapidly now. He took it as a good sign; as readiness to talk.

“Where’s your brother?” he wondered.

“In this town,” you answered, and Yoongi sighed in relief. “But I can’t bother him with all of my shit.”

Your symptoms were as typical as they could be; you regarded your self-worth as buried deep under the ground, never wanting to disturb those who still deemed you close and loved. You’d established this distance between you and the others; he didn’t blame you.

The symptoms were typical.

“Why do you think so?” Yoongi prodded, whispering your name when you didn’t answer.

“I’ve bothered them all enough…”

“How so?”

Maybe he was doing too much. But it seemed you were on board with it; you weren’t complaining, not sighing, not withdrawing. You were listening and talking. Nobody let you talk, and now that you were, you looked like you needed to let it out.

You spat, “Because they never seemed to want to hear anything.”

God…

It hurt to see you like this. Damp eyes, a heavily rising chest, as if you were close to panicking again, but desperately holding back. He knew it; he saw it in the way you drew your breaths and in the things you said.

He knew you’d braved multiple nights and many, many sleepless hours before, spending these dark moments clutching your chest, trying to get rid of the unbearably tight feeling in your chest.

He knew that torturous pressure. He’d been there before. The persistent feeling of fear and unease — like somebody had dropped a weight onto his ribcage and tied up his stomach. The shallow breathing and thumping heart would strip him off focus.

Thoughts circling and circling, around each other; absolute bullshit most of the time.

He couldn’t imagine how overwhelmed you felt, but then again, he could. Was the world louder to you, too? The way it used to be for him. Did you hear that constant screaming in your head?

Vulnerable, senses heightened, sensitive to the slightest change.

He hated the thought of a wall between you and your peace. Hated hearing the words you narrated; of your home, of your childhood, of the people you met. The disrespect you suffered and the dirt you were treated as.

You deserved none of it.

Maybe he felt that way because nobody ever deserved it; or maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you. Not because he needed to save you, or because he felt like falling for someone who he’d have to fix could be a welcoming challenge.

He knew people who treated depression like this; saviour complex in full effect, they needed to be the hero or heroine to stitch a broken heart.

No — he fell for you because you were you. Despite everything and every pain you endured, you were still you; and most of the you that you were before you got hurt this badly was still there, under the surface.

He saw those joyful parts of you reemerge sometimes, breaking through the waves. Sometimes, right before your head would fall again; your body weightless; drowning — he saw those parts on those days for a split moment.

But not right now.

In fact, the true parts of you that knew to feel happiness were absent now, and he knew — in that sense, he was prepared for you to utter what you said next. Was ready to hear it, no matter how little he actually wanted to hear it.

“And sometimes, when it got too much…” You gulped. Yoongi knew what you’d say; he knew. But— “I didn’t feel like being here anymore. It seems that was the only and last time I opened my family’s eyes.”

But when you still said it, it stabbed his heart like a dagger.

“Only, after that… it soon became irrelevant again,” you continued, “they told me I should be thankful for being alive and regret the mistake I made… what I tried.”

And you spoke on. Spoke on and on. He leaned back, allowing himself a better position to breathe. His heart felt like a sewing pin cushion, riddled with tiny holes. His eyebrows furrowed in agony, but he saw worse pain in your eyes.

Tears slowly reappeared.

“And when I was judged for this, too… I realised I didn’t regret ever trying to leave the world. I regretted that I’d failed to do so.”

Maybe he felt that way because nobody deserved it; maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you.

But your words split him in a million tiny shards, like glass, until his pieces became tiny enough to resemble dust.

”Am a burden… Am fucking burdening you…”

Yoongi’s voice defeats the others in your head just barely; as if you’re separated by a glass wall and hearing him from afar, only clearing when you hammer through it and break the surface. He’s quiet compared to your cries, a hand firmly on your back.

His grip around you wants to glue you together so desperately; he’s not letting go, even though you get restless soon, quivering and ruining his shirt.

“Hey, baby…” you hear him say, but you interrupt, obstinately shaking your head.

“No… I’m— I never should’ve let you this close and—”

“No.” It’s his turn to interject. And he does it with determination; tone suddenly so low, cold, so you silence. “Stop.”

You do, only now noticing that he’s imprisoning your wrists in his grasp. Not painfully, but still solidly enough for you to understand what he means. You confirm it for yourself when you look up.

You already know your eyes are bloodshot, cheeks thoroughly wet; but you still recognise the heavy breaths he draws. See something entirely different in his eyes than yours.

Pain.

You hurt him. And this time, you could once again lament your destructive behaviour, argue how you keep inflicting these shit ass feelings on him. But…

The ache in his expressions says something else entirely. Fills you with hope, fills you with guilt.

Shows you that he despises the thought of you possibly regretting this relationship. His gaze proves that he doesn’t. That if he could go back in time and meet you again, talk to you again, fall in love with you again — he would.

You know it because he’s said it before. You know.

But your brain is half melting, hurting, spitting all negative assumptions at you like nobody’s business.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you stammer, pierced by the sorrow in his eyes.

“What?”

“I… shouldn’t have said that,” you start, gulping. Your crying ebbs down for a second as you register the growing agony in his heart, and you explain, “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, but I can’t stop thinking that…”

Break in conversation.

Then him again, “…That?”

“That you’d be better off without me. That you’re here so I stay alive and that you’d be less burdened with someone else…”

Another pause.

He stares at you, as if pondering his answer. Bites into his lower lip softly and releases it right away. Blinks, looks to your wrists, lets go of them and then whispers, “Do you want to know? What I’m thinking, do you want to know that, too?”

“…What are you thinking?”

“That it’s true that I’m burdened.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

The pain is searing, a burning arrow shooting through your heart. It’s what you expected and what you feared and what still hurts so much upon hearing and—

Are you crying again? Are you tearing up? You don’t know.

You’re not sure, but it does seem like you’re breaking once more when he shushes you carefully, touching your cheek. He calms you, and then speaks again—

“Of course I’m burdened, too. Yeah, of course. I’d be lying if I said seeing you like this doesn’t make me feel helpless… but do you know what it means that I’m still here?”

Your voice trembles when you speak, “Because you’re scared of leaving me in this condition.”

“No. I learned early enough to prioritise myself when I need to. No, I’m not leaving because I don’t want to — simple. Because I’ll share your, mine and the world’s damn pain along with my heart. ‘Kay?”

Retrospectively, his words sound logical. He said it’s simple, and in some way, it is. If you didn’t have the brain that you have, it would be. If you weren’t so neck-deep in the quicksand pulling you into doubts, you’d be less surprised at the finality in his tone.

“Baby—” you start, but he squeezes your hand, eyes glistening.

“We have enough enemies in this world. Don’t regard me as one, too. Okay? Please…”

“No, you’re not,” you defend, moving your head and the palm on your cheek along with it, “you’re anything but that.”

He nods, sniffling; you know he’s holding back the same salty, pouring liquid as you. He’s always done that, providing a sense of strength and safety to make you feel just that.

“We’ll be okay one day, love. The world hurts us a shit ton, and life is difficult, but…” His voice cracks here, and he waits to regain control, sighing. “We only get one of it and… it’d be so unfair if we were destined to stay like this, right?”

You don’t believe in divine beliefs that seemingly predetermine how your life plays out. Fate or destiny or whatever synonyms to notions that Jung or Freud believed in. You’ve heard of this stuff plenty in your studies, but it never affected your curiosity much.

You know Yoongi isn’t necessarily a representative of it either; not one to dive too deep into things that suggest the potential absence of a free will.

But the thought provides hope when nothing else does. You know. The fact that you can’t leave this world without fixing things; that you’re here to contribute to much larger and more important things.

You cannot have been born to spend your days here without the joy you deserve.

You’ve felt much of it thanks to Yoongi, but you’ve had too many setbacks to call this a proper life. You don’t want to end it like this. You don’t want to grow old like this.

And you want to gift him the life he deserves, too.

Fuck…

You need to get better. You need to get better. You need to get better.

You need to help yourself. Even if it takes time; even if the non-linear process of healing irks you, stealing hope and leaving anguish in turn. And it’s as if Yoongi reads your mind when he says—

“It’s okay, you know? To feel that way. It takes time. It doesn’t matter how much, but it’s okay to fall back and have ups and downs, as long as you don’t give up. Yes?”

“I can’t, I know… I— I won’t give up. I just… need you to be here.” Your voice is unsteady, and your heart is, too; fickle as can be. But you’d rather hang onto the aspiration right now… nothing else. “Don’t ever leave me, okay? I’ll fix this for us, I will.”

“For yourself first. I’ll be here, no matter what.”

“…I love you.” Your breathing is staggered, leftover pain still keeping the anxiety in your chest. It’ll take a while. But there’s power in your admissions when you repeat, “I love you so much.”

You lean in carefully, and he mimes the movement, bending into your kiss. It’s a peck, soft and gentle and encouraging, and you murmur through your sniffles, “So, so much.”

And then you climb up, using all your strength. Half your body comes to a rest on his; the immediate proximity and warm touch evoke motivation and longing in your heart. For not only him, but every second of a possible serene future, too.

This very hope is often born and reborn at the end of your lowest lows. It’s what pulls you up again, keeps you going each time before the next valley can swallow you. Sometimes it takes longer, sometimes not.

But you so desperately want this. Want it to work now.

You want to be okay. Want to travel and soak in the sun. Want to dance in the rain and scream from the peak of a mountain; want to snorkel in clear, blue seas.

The life you picture for yourself, the one you follow in those healing vlogs on social media — it’s what you yearn for. It’s what you want to feel. With him on your side.

Sometime in the future, you see yourself beaming in genuine happiness, see yourself smiling. And you want to work towards it. You’ve always wanted to.

Ever since Yoongi first showed you what love, contentment and merriment felt like, you’ve craved this. Ever since that night he told you he loved you, despite everything.

Despite, despite, despite.

He was there to catch your fall when you couldn’t keep yourself upright anymore. When your knees weakened and the ground turned into clouds, and you plunged through them and towards the cemented earth that’d shatter you.

He aided you in staying whole. Let you lean against his shoulder, nodding off into a slumber there, allowing you to dream because until then, you didn’t dare to.

You thought dreaming was pointless; just a fabrication of the unconscious mind to distract you from the horrors of the world. To keep you occupied, to torture you even when asleep. As time passed, you started making these horrors your life, and the line between reality and fantasy thinned.

Until…

Until he turned those nightmares into daydreams. Blossoming, vibrant colours appeared where you’d perceived greys before. Somehow, you fell apart a lot less when Yoongi spent his time with you, taught you to love again.

You became less terrified by dreams then, because the content changed. And whenever you weren’t dreaming, away from sleep, you experienced the utopia you’d always sought.

The day Yoongi first told you he loved you, you’d long defeated the semester you’d so worried about; started and survived the one after; and were now already tackling your very last one.

Even after all these months, you never let him forget how grateful you were for passing the last summer semester eventually, and in return, he never let you forget that he’d stay even after.

You didn’t study all the time anymore either; now, your afternoons and nights were filled with gentle words, promising embraces, lips against lips. It took some time to truly open up. To stop feeling like you were making a mistake.

“Doing yourself to him,” you called it, as if you were about to hurl him into his very own mistake.

Even then, you wanted to get better for him; you knew it hadn’t and wouldn’t happen overnight. All of it was much easier said than done; healing sounds so doable for those who attempt to support those who need it, yet they cannot grasp the meaning of a broken heart and scared mind.

But there was something so wonderful about the simplicity between Yoongi and you. So simple that it called forth feelings so complex.

They were tough to navigate, but never tough to admit.

That March night, the sentiments roamed your body the clearest, even though the skies were anything but that. The thunder sounded like the universe had cracked; the white and silver of the striking lightning illuminated your room.

It was the night you felt hope in all its glory, for the very first time in years.

“You keep hiding from me,” Yoongi said, legs crossed like yours, sitting vis-a-vis.

He was close enough for your knees to collide, and when they did for the umpteenth time, he put a careful hand on your fingers resting on your thigh. You didn’t protest, so he didn’t withdraw.

“I’m not hiding from you. I just…” you stalled, “I just want you to be sure.”

“About you?”

If it had been this easy, you wouldn’t have asked. Because you knew the answer to this. Yoongi didn’t need to explain it to you; he was already certain about you to an indisputable degree.

You shook your head. Elaborated, “About everything. I don’t just come with the few good times we had the last couple of weeks. I come with… everything I’ve ever experienced and that shaped me into this.” You gestured over yourself. “You’d notice soon.”

“I already do.”

His answers and arguments came promptly, as if he knew the script to this talk and had already thought out every response he’d be giving. This was so effortless to him; thinking about it today, you wouldn’t even have needed to say a word.

But it was important to you. You couldn’t permit him to grow this attached without making sure.

“You just take it, do you? All that I am,” you concluded delicately; wanting to inform him, but so terrified of scaring him away. “But if you fall for me, then you’re committing. And I want you to think about it because I don’t— I don’t want to ruin your life.”

When he spoke again, he seemed to finally deviate from the script he knew; because confused, he asked, “If?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, if I fall for you?”

Oh… oh.

You understood. It didn’t take the tiniest of nanoseconds for you to fathom what he meant. And you could’ve sobbed right there and then, but the storm distracted you a little; the thunder was growling, threatening to explode again.

Somehow, the chaos outside kept you at bay. But only for so long.

“…Yoongi.”

His fingers moved from yours to your entire palm, taking it in his with a whisper of your name. Then, he clarified, “The possibility of something happening is redundant if it’s already happened, you know? And I’m…”

You held your breath, but at the same time, you were nearly panting. Maybe one first, then the other? You can’t remember anymore. You felt dizzy. Teary-eyed and joyful at once when you saw him at a loss of words.

“You’re?” you encouraged.

“I’m just so… feet deep underwater and in love with you that you couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.”

“I—”

“I love you. You know I do.”

Fuck… fuck, you knew.

Of course you knew.

Your heart was vile at times, cooperating with this demon of a brain and feeding you wrong information. But this, you knew. You fought through the congested mess of thoughts and admitted this to yourself every day.

Isn’t this why you were having this conversation in the first place?

But to hear him say it…

I love you.

You know I do.

“Even if you try to deny it,” he continued, “you know I love you and that I’ll keep doing it.”

This is when your waterline gave up; lined with the liquid you’d always held back. But why? There was no reason to. You felt at peace; Yoongi knew your heart. There was no use in keeping you closed off anymore.

So you cried. Let the first tear roll that he caught with his hand, holding your face so firmly that you thought it was the only thing keeping your head upright. Optimistic.

“There’s… there’s a chance that I start doubting you,” you contended for whatever stupid reason, sniffling, “that I doubt myself and then regret pulling you down with me and— there’s a chance I forget that you’ll keep loving me, no matter what, you know—”

“I’ll keep reminding you.”

“I’m a handful.”

“My hands are big enough, baby.”

The endearment didn’t slip past you, but instead made your beating organ swell. You don’t think you’d ever heard your pulse pounding in your eardrums this loudly. And he kept inching closer; his forehead nearly touched yours until it did.

“Can you love me even if I fall, Yoongi?”

“I’ll pick you up. You know that.”

“…What if you feel like you’re not good enough?”

Stop asking questions. Stop stop stop.

But he kept answering.

“Remember what you told me a couple days ago?” Yoongi asked, his voice quiet, drowning in the storm. “That it’d been long since you’d felt happy like this.”

“I do right now… I just…”

“Yeah, and I— I think. If I’m able to stay by your side and make you smile anyhow? Then I think this… we… are good enough.”

That’s it. Your throat was dry, your mind out of questions. You could renounce doubts if he didn’t have any either. He seemed convinced enough; so you admitted your own convictions to him, too.

“I’m… I love you, too. I love you, I fucking do.”

Your last word was cut, merely a breath. Swallowed when you leaned in and kissed him, pulling him back with you onto the bed. Yoongi landed on top of you, draping the two of you under the thin, floral blanket.

The early spring rain tapped your window softly before the gentle noise turned into more aggressive knocking and hammering. This very storm they’d announced was the reason Yoongi had stayed tonight.

That’s what he’d told you at least; in truth, it was an excuse.

Before today, you rarely spent your nights together.

Whenever you did, he allowed you your space in order to not overwhelm you. He knew you were cautious, slow, took your time to trust. He’d sleep on the couch or crawl back to you when you approached him in the dead of the night.

Touching his elbow gently, shaking him awake, telling him so sweetly that it drove him insane, “I don’t want to be alone.”

So he’d cuddle in when you sought out his arms, dozing so peacefully. It delighted him because whenever he didn’t slumber next to you, he’d hear you from the other room. Woefully moaning in your sleep, as if crying, turning.

He never saw or heard any of that when you leaned into his embrace, held onto his shirt. Never did anything more than sleep; he was content with that.

But tonight was different, less chaste than that — and he was content with that, too.

You said you’d wanted to talk. And you had. You’d trembled through the conversation, heart combusting in your chest like it wasn’t part of you anymore, that treacherous thing with its own, stupid will.

But it thumped differently now when he kissed you like this. You felt the change so clearly when he held you, pushing you into the mattress; stripping you naked bit by bit; asking over and over again if you were okay, if he should stop.

You lived differently, too, when he pecked your bare skin, up and down, from head to toe, to and fro. His tongue explored your waist and your thighs and the wetness between your quivering legs.

And you loved differently when he immersed himself in you. Sighing and moaning against you as his tongue lapped you up. You felt the chills everywhere. Felt your shoulders rise, your hand in his long hair, the oxygen running out.

You’d nearly forgotten how such a moment felt — then again, you’d never experienced it like this before. You could barely breathe, and for the first time, you loved it. For the first time, it wasn’t your usual reason.

But the picture of the man over you pumping himself, covering his cock in the condom you’d bought weeks ago, just in case. Back when he started hanging around at your place. He was surprised about your preparation; was delighted about it, too.

And God… God, when he kissed you, sheathing himself in you, every inch connected with every piece of you. Souls and hearts and bodies merging. Moving in and out slowly, then a little quicker, cradling your face and kissing your neck.

Between all that, he kept asking if you were doing okay, and you said you’d never felt better. And the best part was that you fucking meant it and that’s when you knew—

That Yoongi warmed your coldest, most frigid spots. Helped you find a sense of heat that you’d long forgotten, that not even summer could ever bring back. The spring was right inside you, in the middle of your chest despite the rain.

But at the same time, somewhere next to it, he was there, too, becoming the storm that raged outside.

All at once, you remembered again. Even if you might forget in your worst times; even if he’d really need to remind you again.

You remembered that you could be loved, and that you were deserving of love.

You remembered that love towards somebody is often subjective and it’s not entirely up to you who feels it for you, and that only because somebody else was unable to give it to you the right way… it doesn’t mean everyone would act the same.

Yoongi was the spring and the storm; the rainbow you saw the next morning as the sky cleared.

Your mother used to struggle with migraines. Back then, you’d see her tied to the bed for half a day, struggling to get up, sleeping for a couple hours after swallowing her sumatriptan.

The evening or the morning after, you’d ask her how she was doing, and she’d say the headache was gone, but that some of the pressure still lingered. She’d feel it in the heaviness of her head, like it was falling against her clavicles.

Back then, you were too young to understand; you still don’t suffer migraines, knock on wood. But you somehow get what she meant — you guess the same applies to any other part of your body.

Like the soul.

They say a body becomes lighter after death since the soul leaves; and the morning after bawling in Yoongi’s arms, you feel the opposite. Like your grief makes you weigh more than during your good days.

Like you’re heavier than a month ago, without gaining a single kilogram.

But at least that means you’re alive. A soul intact.

And, just like your mother’s medicine, the night alleviated at least some of your pain. Maybe it was the conversation with Yoongi. Maybe the reassurance that he didn’t perceive you as the task you thought you might be.

Many years ago, you refused to seek help in others; be it loved ones, a partner or a therapist. Yoongi taught you to own who you were and to admit the problems you faced; that they were as valid as anything else.

Living with him and loving him this profoundly showed you that it’s okay to confide in someone. That someone will care. But it also taught you that ultimately, nobody is responsible for your well-being as much as you are.

That to heal, you need to accept yourself. That to accept yourself, you need to acknowledge the issues you face.

And for that, you need to be ready to combat your demons, understand that they can be fought.

You’ve always known that. In that sense, it isn’t true that you’re fully dependent on Yoongi. You know deep down that you’ll be the one pulling you out of this.

But…

It’s never bad for someone to initiate that thought process, is it? Even when it’s you emerging from the grave you dug for yourself; it’s okay to grab the hand as the earth breaks, pulling you out of the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi is the rope helping you out; but you’re the one to walk on once the endless well ends and you spot the daylight. You can rely on him. You can rely on yourself.

You’ll be okay… you’ll be okay.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks as you slip into your shoes. You look up, and nod, your smile soft. “Just a few more days, right?”

Right.

You’ll live day by day. Survive the hours, strive towards a better future. Count your blessings, find things to look forward to. It’s alright to fall sometimes, and whenever you do, you’ll remember you’re not alone.

That you’ll get up eventually. You hold onto this.

And onto those few last days until vacation calls. You booked it so long ago; it can be that one thing to grasp, to look forward to, right?

And… you laugh. Because you remember Yoongi telling you to get your nails done, that he’d even go with you. “But do not forget, because blue suits Greece and I’d love to see the colour on you.”

You act like you don’t know what his plea means. You act like you don’t know how much he loves you. How this very approaching plan of his proves that he couldn’t even let go of you if you gave him another reason to.

Isn’t this enough to understand that he never feels guilty of loving you?

Why are you so afraid…

Because.

Yoongi never viewed your pain as something you had control over or something you caused; whoever hurt you is at fault, not you. And Yoongi knows that; knows that you matter, with your past and present and future, however cruel they might be.

But despite the fact that your past made you who you are, and that your future will determine how you’ll further turn out to be, Yoongi always preaches to focus on the controllable.

We won’t ever be able to manage the future entirely; maybe you won’t even ever be faced with the fears you harbour, you know? The past is the past, the present is the present and the future is the future. They will torment us if we put too much meaning in them.

I know it’s hard. But it’ll be alright. One day, it will be — you’re okay.

It has to be…

You’ll be okay. You’re okay.

The weather might change at warp speed — but soon, it’ll be sunny again.

i know i said it's okay if you skip this one, but if you're reading this, you might not have, and i'm thankful for that <3 i needed these feelings out of my system, so it felt very cathartic to me. maybe it helped you a little, too? i hope so, at least – things will be okay 🤍

what do you think? since you're here, i'd love to know how you feel about this piece 💕

#yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts fluff #bts angst #bts smut #yoongi fics #myg smut

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ghoulphile · 8 months ago

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it's always the quiet ones | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | pre-war cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 700 ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; oral (m receiving), throat fucking, choking, dirty talk, bathroom sex ➥ summary | based off this ask; We can see that Cooper tends to go for good girls (like @ghoulfuckersincorporated mentioned!), but what if he ran into a seemingly innocent - or at the very least kind - person… but they dirty talk like a sinner in the sack? ➥ notes | i humbly offer this drabble to @gingersforeverbox 🙈 masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?

At least, that’s what Cooper’s mama always said (and he wouldn’t know how right she was until he found himself shoved in a swanky club bathroom, slacks tucked under his ass as the prettiest — politest — lady choked herself with his cock).

Frankly, how he got here’s a hazy blur of bourbon and cigar smoke.

Whispered conversations and coy looks. The flash of cherry red nails, and a well timed head tilt; a pretty little thing cozied against him as nameless faces passed in and out of view.

Another pointless after party (though far smaller of an event than he used to pull) where vultures circled the room, waiting for their chance to pick at his bones. LA devotee’s ready to snap up the scraps of the once great Cooper Howard.

Dog eat dog; he couldn’t stand the petty games —the mindless indulgences.

So, he’d invited you as a buffer.

An acquaintanceship that’d gone back years, having met on set of one of his earlier productions, you were always cordial and had a kind word to say about anybody. Not a mean bone in that body… or so he’d thought.

Now, he’s not so sure he knows you half as well as he thought he did.

“Fuck!”

Air hisses through his teeth, his hands hovering over the sides of your head, unsure where to grip. Your hair looks awfully pretty (like it took a long time to force into shape), he’d hate to ruin the style. But if you keep trying to suck his soul out through his cock, he might just have to sink his fingers into those delicate curls and yank.

“S-Sweetheart, what are you — oh, ssshit.”

You peer up at him from beneath the spiky fan of your lashes and hum. His hips jump and you choke, your tongue pinned as your teeth scrape along his thick shaft.

Spit drips past your swollen lips, clings to your chin in sticky strings. The lower half of your face is a mess of smeared lipstick and pre-cum.

He pants, gazing down at you with awe. “How’re you so fucking good at this?”

He’s so big, stretching your mouth to the limit. A tender ache sets behind the hinge of your jaw, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Those half-lidded eyes, dark and hungry, make it all worth it. The slack circle of his mouth, the pained furrow of his brows as he wrestles with his self control all the payment you require.

You pop off; trace along the throbbing vein with your tongue as the heavy weight of his cock slips free with a wet suction. Your thighs clench and your toes curl in your heels at the low-throated groan punched from his chest.

“Practice makes perfect, don’t you think, Mr Howard?” you press a sloppy kiss to his leaking slit, lapping up the salty beads of fluid. Your fingers roll his balls, dragging the tips of your nails along the sensitive skin to watch him shiver. “Besides, I’ve seen how you look at me.”

His eyes flick off to the side, blowing wide once he catches your reflections in the mirror. He gulps, his knuckles white beside his hips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”

“Please, spare me.”

You snort, roll your eyes and shoot him a catty grin. Laugh when his cock throbs at the teasing flash of your tongue.

“You’re sweet — as true a gentleman as they come — but you can’t fool me. You’ve wanted me since you met me... and I don't get my best dress dirty for just anyone.”

“...”

“Now, before you try to say otherwise, remember whose on their knees with your cock in their mouth.”

“...No. Y-You’re right but I… I shouldn’t want to.”

You wink, circle the crown of his head with a red nail. More pre-cum dribbles from the slit, sticky drops you kiss away with your tongue.

“It’s okay, Mr Howard,” you say. “I want you too. Now do us both a favor and fuck my throat until I can’t talk. Please, I want it to hurt — want you to make me cry.”

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x you #the ghoul smut #cooper howard smut #fallout smut #cooper howard #the ghoul

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izvmimi · 6 months ago

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cw: repost. oral (fem giving), inexperienced!zhongli.

for someone who’s been alive for well over 6000 years and prides himself on knowing... well, everything, zhongli isn’t always well-experienced.

not in one particular domain, anyway.

there’s a lot you have had to teach him about life among mortals that fails to be captured by faraway observation or between the pages of a thick encyclopedia.

but he learns quickly. always.

“t-too many!” you blurt out breathlessly, pulling your lips away from him to gently push his hand out of the way. you have been making out, your back against the wall by a bookcase in his living room, your arms around his neck, one leg hiked up and hooked around his waist to allow him access to your pussy. zhongli’s fingers look slender and delicate when compared to his large hand, but each finger is quite thick and he’s made it up to three in your hole while sticking his tongue down your throat. the stretch would be delightful if not for the fact that you haven’t been made ready yet.

he pulls out immediately, murmuring a word of apology. his cheeks are still flushed and the golden glow in his red-rimmed eyes hasn’t yet faded. mouth still slightly parted and wanting, he waits for your next step.

is it a hard stop you’re requesting? he doesn’t want to stop. his heart is pounding quickly and frankly he’d like to simply bury himself inside you at this point and lose his mind but he knows some restraint.

easing his internal distress you smile and kiss him on the cheek.

“let’s do something different.”

something different is having him sit back at the chair where he had been catching up on some reading just before you’d gotten entangled. you turn him in the chair to face you; he takes a careful look at your expression, unable to discern whether or not you’re angry.

knowing fully well what he’s thinking, you decide to be forthright with your intentions. leaning over him in his chair, you ask,

“do you trust me?” there’s a mischievous glint in your eye that he should be a little wary of. his eyebrows knit together but he replies yes.

“stay still then,” you sing. zhongli is normally controlled to the point of being immovable, but now you can feel how tense he becomes gradually as you slowly unbutton his pants.

zhongli’s erection is impressive in size, as you are well aware, with hardness fitting the literal god of rocks. his eyes lower as your hand circles the base, your touch light enough simply to cause him some nervous anticipation. you pause, appreciating the heat, and he fights the instinct to move against your palm.

“sweetheart...” he starts hesitantly, as you move painfully slowly to your knees. there’s a thickness to his voice that betrays his arousal. “what are you doing?”

his legs part to make room for you as you approach closer. from this angle, you realize you haven’t taken a very good look at his cock before. a lovely light brown, perfectly straight and thick all around with a prominent vein on the underside and a healthy blush at the head. he’s leaking from the slit, possibly more so because you’re staring at his package so intently. he might cum just from the sight.

you pump just once before wrapping your lips around the head and he deteriorates.

“shit.”

zhongli's speech has always been proper up until now. but at this very moment, as he feels the warmth and wetness of your mouth that is similar but also far different from the warmth of your walls, there’s no polite way to express the fact that he’s never had his head spin in exactly this way before. there’s only the deep moans that leave his throat as you hollow out your cheeks and take in as much of him as you can in your throat and tense grip in your hair that can express his excitement. his head falls back and he seems to wear away in his chair, then maybe he’s far too overwhelmed and trembles his hips jerk upwards, meeting your ministrations up and down his shaft.

his hands find their way around the back of your head as he fucks your face and gingerly, then with more force, he pushes himself even further into you, and tips over; you can feel hot cum hit the back of your throat and you breathe diligently through your nose, digging your hands around his hard thighs for steadiness.

zhongli has always looked at you with awe but now as you swallow every drop and pull back so you can breathe freely once again, giggling a little at his flustered/partially terrified face, he’s certain you’re a goddess.

“you must teach me how to do that for you.”

you straddle his lap and walk a few fingers onto his chest.

“now?” you tease.

“now.”

#zhongli x reader #morax x reader #zhongli smut #genshin smut #daydreams: genshin #mimi's notes

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confessedlyfannish · 1 year ago

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DP x DC Writing Prompt #9

"Are you sure about this?" J'onn asks, reading the discontent amongst the Kents. Clark and Lois each have a hand on their teenage son's shoulders, who several weeks prior was aged ten years old.

"We're sure," Clark says. He is not, nor is his wife. But his son is, who lays his hand on his mother's and squeezes. It is that surety that J'onn honors as he delves into the young (but not as young as he should be) man's mind.

The memories are hard to find but not gone, hidden behind what Jon can only see manifested as a glowing green wall. When he raises a tentative hand, the shield sparks green, but does no harm. Pushing through is like wading through the consistency of jello, which he finds an overall unpleasant experience. But he is unharmed as he passes through.

Before J'onn can sort through the memories he is all but sucked into the one at the forefront, where a Jon most similar in visage to the one recently returned perches on the edge of a building. Beside him lies a burger, partially unwrapped though uneaten, and a small soda.

As the memory builds out a sun sets on a small suburban town, and a muscled thigh knocks into Jon's, an older man with a shock of white hair and eyes the same light and color as the shield formed around these memories appearing. He's tall even sitting, likely about as tall as Superman, and looks to be in his thirties. A full body suit comprised of black and silver accents stretches across broad shoulders, a stylized D on his chest. He knocks his thigh into Jon's again.

"You said I couldn't go back," Jon says quietly.

"I lied," the man says lightly.

"You're lying now," Jon says, glaring at him. "I can hear your heart."

"Nice try, kiddo, I don't have a heart in this form," the man says, reaching a hand out, presumably to ruffle his hair. Jon dodges.

"I know you're lying. You would've told me. You would've helped me get home."

"Jon--"

"You're protecting Clockwork, aren't you?" Jon demands, eyes beginning to burn red. "That old coot decided it wasn't enough to play with you, he had to play with me too."

The man slaps a hand over Jon's eyes. "Breathe, like we practiced," he instructs firmly. Steam rises from where his palm meets Jon's eyes, but if it hurts he shows no indication. "In, 2, 3. Out, 2, 3."

Jon whimpers but heaves a breath, and the burst of red light dies down from between the man's fingers. His hand moves down to Jon's shoulder.

"I can't pretend to understand Clockwork's decisions," the man says, as tears begin to pool in Jon's eyes. "Frankly, I don't want to. I suspect they are hard decisions to make, sometimes."

"I don't get why you defend him," Jon says. "Dumbledore acting bastard."

"Language," the man says, lightly bopping him on the head. J'onn notes the boy actually winces, as if the blow hurts.

"I am upset with him, I hope you know that," the man continues. "But at the end of the day I'm also grateful. Because I got to meet you." He hooks an arm around Jon's shoulders, pulling him in. "And now you'll get to see your family again. And Sally, Arnold, and Damian!"

Jon sniffles, rubbing roughly at his face. He leans into the man's bicep. A trusted adult figure, then. One he's described his life to. A life, J'onn is sad to note, he appears to have lived for the past six years, as opposed to a sudden shift in appearance. Jon's next question all but confirm it: "Can I really go back? It's been so long. They'll be all grown up."

"Hey, of course you can," the man says, rubbing his shoulder. "I'm sure they've missed you so much. They'll be so happy to see you again."

Jon starts to smile. "I'm going home."

"You're going home!" The man laughs, shaking him.

"I can finally eat some decent barbecue again!"

"Hey!" the man protests, "The smoker blew up one time!"

Jon continues, beginning to get excited. "And Ma will make her jalapeño cornbread! I never could get it right, I can't wait for you to try it!"

J'onn notes the older man's smile fading, eyes growing sad.

"And Damian will definitely want to spar and oh, oh! With you on our side we can totally prank Batman! I bet Alfred will even help! And Mom gives the best hugs, Pops comes really close but Mom will be really excited to meet you, everyone will."

"Jon," The man says.

"I knew you'd be worried about it, but they'll want to meet you," Jon says, clocking his expression. "They'll be grateful. You, you helped me. You kept me safe and taught me how to be Superman. They'll love you, I promise."

"Jon, I can't go with you," the man says gently.

"I'm not saying you stay, but you can visit! I'm sure the Justice League can figure out a way to maintain a portal, they're super used to all that multiverse stuff. Once they have the coordinates, you can stop by whenever!"

"I can't go through the portal, Jon," the man says. "To other worlds, I'm a god. And gods can't interfere. The only reason I can continue to live here is because this is the world of my origin."

Jon gapes at him. "But--but,"

"You're going to see your Mom and Dad again," the man says. "And your brother, and grandparents."

"I can come here, then," Jon says desperately, pushing his way out of the man's arms. The man is already shaking his head. "I can!"

"You can't."

"Why, because Clockwork says so? He's a liar!"

"Because multiverse travel is never a good idea. If you got trapped here again--"

"I wouldn't,"

"You belong with your family,"

"You're my family!" Jon cries. The man freezes. "You, and Sam, and Jazz, and Tucker and Val and Ellie and Pops and Mads, you're all my family! I can't just leave you, I won't!"

"Oh kiddo," The man says, eyes wet. "I love you too. We all do."

"So I'll stay," Jon says decisively. "For all we know my world is a wasteland. Gramps wasn't exactly right in the head when I left. It's better to stay here."

J'onn notes a green vine unwinding from a nearby trellis. It slides down the eave towards the pair.

"You don't mean that," the man is saying.

"I'm sixteen. I can make my own decisions. I'm staying."

The man cups Jon's face. "Your parents did not have a choice in losing you. I'm willing to bet they're devastated. Because I'd be devastated, losing a kid as great as you."

"Maybe they're not even there," Jon says, but the words are half-hearted, and it clearly hurts him to say them.

"I know I seem like a pushover, but if I thought Clockwork was sending you back to anything less than your loving family, I'd destroy him first. And he knows that. They're going to be there, I promise."

"I don't want to go," Jon says. Behind him, the vine rises from the eave of its own will, poised like a cobra enchanted by a snark charmer.

"I know," the man says, eyes drifting to the vine. "I'm so sorry, Jon."

"For what?" Jon asks, as the vine attaches itself to the nape of his neck. His eyes roll back as he collapses into the man's arms. The man hugs him tighter than is strictly necessary.

J'onn expects the memory to now end, alongside Jon's consciousness. To his curiosity, it does not.

"For what it's worth," a young woman spits bitterly, vines supporting her weight as she slips over the side of the roof. "I still think this is horrible." Her eyes are red and miserable.

"Seriously, team punching Dumbledore in the face," A young black man says, appearing in the air supported by a woman almost identical in appearance to the man holding Jon, down to the suit colors. They land on the rooftop.

"Are you sure about this," the dark haired woman with powers over plants asks. "Because to be honest, Danny, I'm five seconds away from punching you in the face."

"Jazz won't speak to you for months," the girl, likely his sister, points out.

"Make it a year," the man says, crossing his arms.

The man, Danny, ignores them all. He cards a hand through Jon's hair. "He'll retain the experience, but not the memories?"

"Yes, he'll be a perfect little superhero, just as you taught him," the woman says, vines twisting agitatedly around her, wrapping around her thigh, wrists and neck almost punishingly.

"Sam," the man says. "He needs to go home. All of you know that."

"He doesn't have to forget us to do so!" the sister bursts, eyes flashing green.

"Remembering would be a torment," Danny says. "He'll know he was loved. That's enough."

"Danny," the plant woman says, sitting beside them both. She puts a gentle hand on his, both on Jon's back. "This is just a different torment."

"And if someone finds out?" Danny asks. He has been patient amidst their scorn, but now a tiny edge ekes into his voice. "A god's child, unprotected? Threatened? He would never stop looking for a way back, and being vocal about it could get him killed."

The others are silent.

"He'll be home. He'll be happy," Danny says. More powerful than a prayer. A directive. He raises his head past the child slumbering in his lap, past them all, face hardening, and says to J'onn: "And you will say nothing."

J'onn takes a step back, fear so thick he could choke on it flooding his very being. Thismanwillkillhim, thismanwillkillhim.

This man will reach through dimensions and kill him.

"Now, get the fuck out of my kid's head," Danny snarls. J'onn is pushed back with enough force he enters his own mind in a vicious whirl that leaves him physically on the floor, gasping.

"I'm sorry," he says as Superman rushes to lift him, and he's not sure who he's apologizing to. Green eyes will pierce his dreams. Vines will crush his throat in his nightmares, screaming silence, silence.

You will say nothing.

"I'm sorry," J'onn says, politely pushing Clark's hands away as he rises. He's already beginning to calm, because he understands. Those are consequences he will not face. He will do as directed. He looks at Jon Kent, bewildered but unharmed, clutching his mother's hand.

J'onn reaches down and dusts at his pants. "I'm sorry," he says evenly, ready to spin his tale. Perhaps the Kents will continue to seek their answers. Perhaps not. He will stay out of it either way. He has been warned.

You were loved by gods. And to keep you safe, they would quiet us all.

Part Two

#dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #dpxdc #superman #superboy #jonathan kent #jonathan samuel kent #my writing

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safetypinxtales · 1 year ago

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400 years | Azriel

summary: drinking with your best friend takes a turn when you happen upon some of Feyre's art supplies.

words: 3.2k

warnings: steamy 18+ mdni, nudity, sex is insinuated but not described, kissing, alcohol consumption (drink responsibly), reader and azriel are drunk, making out, big dick azriel, fluff, no use of y/n, neutrally described reader/no reader description

notes: happy valentines day, here's some azriel for youuu🤍 I got the inspiration for this whilst reading this fic by @solbaby7 bc who wouldn't want to draw az like one of your French girls?? Frankly there is nothing I would like to do more. Their fic is amazing and you guys should totally check it out if you haven't already! Anyways, I'm sorry for the "shut the door" type ending, but I cannot write smut to save my life so this will have to do. Hope you enjoy!🤍

masterlist

Thud.

The sound of Azriel accidentally smacking his head on the wall as he plopped down on the sofa across from you echoed within the walls of the cabin, and you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of you. Azriel’s own shaking shoulders and scrunched up nose let you know that he couldn’t help it either.

But that was to be expected wasn’t it? The past hour had been filled with nothing but bubbling laughter from the both of you, giggles from Az, and some very graceful snorts… also definitely from Azriel.

The reason why he had brought you to Rhys’ cabin in the mountains was long forgotten after the two nearly empty bottles of alcohol on the table in front of you. The heartache of getting stood up on your date earlier that evening buried under a considerable amount of drinks.

“As long as the glass is never empty in between refills, they don’t count.”

Azriel’s words from earlier came back to you, only fuelling your cramp inducing giggles.

That had always been your motto in times like these. A consistency that had lasted centuries.

“I can’t breathe,” you wheezed out in between fits of hysteria, your arms coming up to wrap around yourself. But your laughter didn’t die down, and neither did Azriel’s. Your uttered words only seemed to fire him on as he tipped over on his side, hand landing a slap on the armrest.

Seeing him like this, so free and relaxed, was rare. You could probably count each separate occasion on your hands. He only really let go like this when you needed it. When the urge to drink your walls down and flush the pain away seemed like the only remedy to whatever situation you were dealing with.

It was a very rare occurrence indeed. But one of your favourites.

Azriel’s carefree giggles, that luminous light in his eyes; you swore it could make budding flowers bloom.

You sat up straight, and the situation stopped feeling so funny as you laid eyes on Azriel’s still laughing frame. The uncontrolled giggles, and the way his wings shook in time with his chest. It was enchanting, the sight of your best friend being so relaxed, so happy.

The shadows that were usually crowding his frame were nowhere to be seen – with the exception of the lone swirl of darkness slowly snaking its way around your wrist, coming down to entwine with your fingers every now and again.

It took a couple more minutes until Azriel’s laughter had finally seized. You both sat on separate sofas, smiles stretched wide and eyes glazed over from the alcohol you had ingested, and as your breathing started to return to normal a thought struck.

“What?” Azirel asked as he leaned forward on his elbows, a curious glint in his eyes.

“What?” You prodded back, more confused than curious, blinking a few times to try and rid the alcohol-induced veil that surrounded you. What was he on about?

“Well,” he waved one floppy hand in your direction, “you just perked up, it was like you grew ten inches,” he exclaimed, before continuing in a slightly lowered, bemused voice, ”and that means you just had one of your ideas.”

The corners of your mouth quirked upwards as you slowly nodded your head. He was right – you had come up with an idea.

“Well, I was just thinking about how Feyre mentioned after the last time she was here,” you stood up from your seat, swaying slightly but quickly finding your balance, doing your very best to not bump into the table separating you. “Something about forgotten art supplies.”

Like a predator sighting a prey, Azriel’s interest piqued in a moment. His razor sharp focus was on your every step as you walked towards the supply closet at the other side of the room.

The closet was unusually dusty, a strange thing for being Rhysand’s property. He was usually very meticulous when it came to things always being spotless and presentable. But you supposed that a small, rarely used supply closet in the family cabin wasn’t a priority of his. Keeping it clean was not a good enough use of his magic.

Luckily for you, that just made your quest easier. You just had to look for whatever was covered in the least amount of dust bunnies.

“Aha!” You whipped around to face your friend, triumphantly displaying the sketch pad and charcoals in your hands.

Azriel’s eyebrows shot up at your revelation, grin still present on his beautiful face.

“That’s your big idea? Drawing?”

“You should know I used to be quite the whiz with the charcoals when I was younger,” you rebutted and Azriel’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly.

“I have seen your penmanship, so I will believe this talent of yours when I see it,” he muttered and you couldn’t help but gasp at the sheer audacity in his words. Your penmanship was not that bad.

Taking a few steps back in his direction with a huff, you flipped through the sketch pad in search of an unused sheet of parchment. You were gonna show him, alright…

You couldn’t help but admire Feyre’s old sketches as you went through the pages. Some you recognised as early-version sketches of paintings you had seen around the river house, and some were–

“Oh!” Your fingers froze as your eyes landed on what seemed to be an anatomical study. A very detailed, very beautiful, anatomical study of – oh my Gods. You felt your cheeks heat up.

“Is that Rhysand?!”

At the screech in your voice and the mention of his brother’s name, Azriel shot up off the sofa to get a peek at whatever had managed to pull such a reaction from you.

The warmth of his body radiated into your side as he peered over your shoulder at the drawing of the very naked high lord.

You noticed him stiffening out of the corner of your eyes and then, like a tether snapping, laughter started to boom inside the walls of the cabin. With a steadying hand on your shoulder he doubled over in giggles so contagious it didn’t take long before you joined in with his hysterics.

“No way,” he wheezed, “oh Gods – I can’t wait to tell Cassian!”

The mere thought of how Cassian would react to such a revelation, the look on his face, had you clutching your stomach. Poor Rhys would never hear the end of it.

And by the cauldron, if you don’t wake up with rippling abs tomorrow from the amount of laughter this night had brought….

“You can’t blame her though,” you mused once you managed to get your giggles under control, “I mean, nice job Feyre.” A low whistle left you as you peered down at your clearly blessed high lord.

The laughter quieted down beside you and you raised your gaze to look at Azriel, only to be met with an incredulous look.

“What, I’m just calling it as I see it!” You exclaimed and raised your hands in defence, charcoals and disrobed Rhysand still in your grasp.

His eyes flicked down to the sketch pad, before slowly coming back up to meet yours, that look never leaving his face.

“Oh, please.”

The words fell from his lips with such cool confidence your smile faltered momentarily, eyebrows knotting together.

“You can’t be serious?” He asked, and when you stayed quiet he continued, “that’s nothing.”

Nothing?

From where you were standing, respectfully, it looked like everything.

“What? Like you can do better?”

Your challenge seemed to light a spark in his eyes and time slowed as he took a step backwards, fingers coming down to grip the hem of his t-shirt.

One swift movement and his shirt was off, muscles rippling under his bronzed skin as he tossed the dark fabric on the floor, his eyes not once straying from yours.

He kept backing up, step after torturous step, until his legs hit the sofa. The corners of his mouth tugged up in a smirk as he plopped down, arms behind his head, far leg propped up, large wings casually draped over the armrest.

“Draw me then, whiz,” he challenged, using your word from earlier, “let me be your muse.”

The heat crawling up your neck, scorching the tips of your ears, were not solely from the liquor as you padded over to the opposite sofa.

No, it was from something very different. Something strikingly sobering, yet oh-so intoxicating.

You sat down and carefully placed the pad in your lap, flipping through it until you reached a blank page. You moved some hair out of your eyes and tucked it behind your ear, picked up a charcoal and brought it to the parchment – when you felt yourself hesitate. You took your lip between your teeth as you contemplated your next move. The risk. The absurdity. The excitement.

He was your friend. Your best friend, and yet…

You lifted your gaze to find Azriel’s eyes locked to yours with such focus, such challenge. Like he was sizing up an opponent on the battlefield.

His eyes flicked down to your hand, if only for a split second, as you gently put down the charcoal. He cocked an eyebrow when his gaze once again found yours.

“I just,” you took a deep breath, “I just don’t think it’s really fair on Rhys, you know?” The shadow around your wrist flickered, as if sensing what you were about to do. The lines you were about to cross.

You watched as Azriel’s eyebrows drew together, and you fought the twitching of your lips as you continued, “I mean, you are still half clothed.”

With a slight shrug of your shoulders, you watched as your words sank in. How his eyes seemed to darken, the corner of his mouth raised in the smallest of smirks.

��Is that so?” He mused, and you tried your best to level his stare. To not back down. Not shy away.

With an incline of your head, you nodded. And watched his hand inch closer to his pants. Down past that dark trail of hair, to the laces tied together at the waistband. Watched as he grabbed a hold of the string… and pulled.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t focus on anything other than his hand. How his fingers untied the font of his pants so slowly, so delicately it felt like torture. You were transfixed by his fingers. Loosening the laces, his thumb slipping beneath the waistband…

You snapped your gaze up to his face, to find him still looking at you – studying you.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sound of his pants hitting the floor. With your eyes still locked to his, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you wondered what you had gotten yourself into. Here you were, in front of your fully naked best friend – about to draw him.

Let me be your muse.

His words from earlier echoed in your mind as you tore your gaze from his face and dragged it lower, and lower, until…

Your head emptied. Your tongue felt about as dry as the beaches you had visited in Summer last year. Because the sight that beheld you was breath-taking.

The length between his legs, standing aroused and proud, really did make Rhysand’s portrait look like nothing.

A part of you had almost hoped that Azriel’s confidence had just been for show. That it was just his competitiveness shining through, a feat to best his brother.

The reality?

Monstruos would have been a fitting word had the sight not compelled you so. Had it not caused you to burn for him. Crave him.

Delicious seemed to be a better word to describe your friend. Beautiful. Mouth-watering. A thing of art.

Which is why you picked up your discarded charcoal and put it to the parchment.

You studied the planes of his body, the hard lines, the soft skin. The muscles that could have been carved by the Mother herself. You avoided looking at his face though, instead focusing on the various scars that marred his skin, telling stories of battles and fights. Of brawls with his brothers.

You felt him looking at you, however. He hadn’t stopped looking at you. Not since the sketch pad came into play.

It made it annoyingly hard to focus.

The scratching sound of charcoal on paper stopped.

“How long have we known each other?” Your voice wavered, mouth dry. You cleared your throat and raised your gaze to finally meet his.

Azriel tipped his head to the side, contemplating, “about 400 years.”

400 years. And never before had you seen him naked. Not like this. Not splayed out like a feast, waiting to be devoured. Not with his gaze so burning you were afraid it was going to singe your clothes to ashes.

“Right,” you mumbled, eyes flicking back down to your hands. They were smudged with soot, your thumb and index finger blackened, that lone shadow still curiously snaking around your wrist.

That is a very long time.

Azriel seemed to notice how the little confidence you had faltered, for he straightened somewhat from his leisurely sprawl.

“You okay?” There was only soft concern enveloping his words, a drastic change from the tension flooding the space between you just seconds before.

It was a very long time, indeed. So why didn’t this feel wrong?

You let out a deep breath, “yes, I think so.”

Your answer apparently didn’t settle his worries though, because he raised from the sofa and rounded the table between you.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him as he stopped in front of where you sat.

Only when he lowered his hand – fingers coming to rest under your chin, tipping you face up – did you meet his eye.

The heartbreaking concern written all over his face seized your heart. The soft furrow of his brow. The slight dip at the corners of his pouty lips. The brutal softness swimming in those hazel eyes.

It took your breath away.

“Are you sure?” He questioned, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t trust your voice, not with the vulnerable proximity between you. All you managed was a meager nod. A small up and down bob of your head.

His fingers tugged on your chin, and as if in a trance, you followed the wordless command and rose to your feet.

“I need you to use your words here, sweetheart,” his voice was soft, but the underlying command was undeniable, “please.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you swallowed and managed to breathe out “I’m okay.”

That seemed enough to ease Azriel’s concern, a breath of relief fanning across your face.

“Good,” he murmured, almost as if more to himself.

His eyes left yours, and flicked down. To your mouth, you realised, as his thumb moved from your chin up to graze your bottom lip.

That intensity was back in his gaze, that predatory focus – all directed at you. His thumb pulled at your lip before letting go, and the shudder that overtook your body could have made the earth shake.

There couldn’t be more than a foot of space between you.

So dangerously close.

He was your friend.

Right?

“400 years,” you whispered, eyes flicking down to follow the bob of his throat as he swallowed. “400 years of friendship.”

You felt light headed. 400 years, and all could be thrown away as easy as breathing. All you had to do was take half a step.

“Three,” Azriel’s voice grumbled above you as your eyes trailed down to inspect the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

“Hmm?” Your mumble was absent minded, your thoughts being too preoccupied by the male in front of you. What he would feel like. Taste like. The sounds he would make if you dipped your head and licked up the drops of sweat beading at the center of his chest.

“That’s how long I’ve loved you. Three hundred years.”

You froze.

The thickness coating Azriel’s voice was not something you were familiar with. Nor were the words he uttered.

Your gaze snapped up to his, scanning his features for any sign that he was, for some reason, making the cruellest joke in all of Pythian’s history. But all you found was open, unguarded truth.

Azriel loved you?

Azriel loved you.

The rapid beating of your heart was a stark contrast to just how very safe you felt. How right it seemed to take that half step forward. To cradle his face in your hand, the other coming to rest on that glorious chest – right over his own heart. And as you felt that wild drumming beneath his ribs echo your own, nothing seemed as easy as rising up on the tips of your toes and slotting your mouth against his.

The kiss was tentative, like the two of you were just dipping your toes in – testing the waters. You moved your lips against his, gently, savouring the feel of his pillowy lips. The feel of his body so close to yours. How the scent of him seemed to envelop you. You savoured how easily he took all of your senses hostage.

He was everywhere.

The sound of Azriel’s wings rustling behind him, the rapid beating of his heart in his chest, the taste of liquor on his lips – it intoxicated you in a way you didn’t know was possible.

You stayed like that, gently exploring each other's lips, savouring each other's closeness, until you had no other choice but to break away for air.

You pulled away only a few inches, rapid breaths fanning your faces. The pounding of your heart didn’t seize, and neither did his. You could feel every rapid beat under the hand still planted on his warm chest.

“Your heart is beating very fast,” you whispered, voice shaky from your breathlessness.

He swallowed, “It is.”

“So is mine,” you revealed.

“Yes, I can hear it.”

Oh.

“Will you kiss me again?” Your voice was so low, you wouldn’t have known he heard you if not for the strangled sound he let out.

Or for how he grabbed you by your waist and captured your lips with his.

This time the kiss was less gentle. This time he pressed your body against his as he devoured you. It was all tongues, and teeth, and needy gasps.

His teeth pulled on your bottom lip and you thanked the Mother he was holding you so tightly, for your knees almost gave out. A throaty groan escaped you as his hand cupped the back of your neck, angling your head upwards and deepening the kiss further.

Your own hands found his hair – and pulled. The deep rumbling in his chest and the way he moaned your name into the kiss was your undoing.

This kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative.

It was claiming.

And so you let him claim you.

Your clothes were quickly discarded as you laid down on the sofa, Azriel’s body on top of yours. And as you crashed together, entangled limbs and sworn promises, you let those 400 years of friendship, of tension, of longing dictate the start of this new chapter.

A chapter of what would hopefully be 400 years of something more.

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