#parchment ( ━☆・*。Washing. )
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brilliant-soul · 2 months ago
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Made a fancy dinner for myself
Yorkshire puddings w extra egg
Crustless quiches in 3 different flavours (original, Italian, bacon+cheese)
Breakfast sausages
Im so happy and everything is so delicious!
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yarn-dragon · 4 months ago
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In case you were wondering if my perception check curse was isolated to Fawn (my saytr Rouge/sorcerer)m in tonight's session I rolled two twos in a row and then a 4 trying to see if Prism was being watched
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swordgrace · 2 months ago
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❝ 𝐨𝐡, 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲. ❞
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┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬��𝐬: after a particularly rough mission, bob is insistent on taking care of you — though, you’re better at taking care of one another, instead.
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𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) x fem!reader.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.3K.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: soft smut (mdni), mentions of past trauma/insecurities, mental health talk, tooth-rotting fluff/loving antics, sub!bob but he’s also a little assertive, body worship, bob has a praise kink, hair pulling, face-sitting, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, heavy kissing, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, descriptions of cum, cowgirl position, riding. heavy aftercare.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: I am so obsessed with him that it actively eats away at my brain. 😭 Anyway, I love Bob & I love writing for him even more! I hope that you guys enjoy! Thank you for your support! 🫶
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Scalding columns of water douse you from above, the shower threatening to burn your flesh if you didn’t adjust the temperature.
In the aftermath of another Avengers operation, it’s as if pieces of yourself are chipped away, healing with time, a pang of exhaustion reverberating through your marrow.
Even with an inhuman durability, the pain is raw, indents of fists and flying rubble interlaced into your flesh.
Each bruise is muscle-deep, knots made by hostile hands, peppered against your ribcage, threading along your spine; even searing water offers little relief from the dull ache.
Steam wisps in damp clouds throughout your bathroom, tepid, but it clears your senses, as if it’s washing away the mission you’d recently returned from. Exhaustion hasn’t hit you yet, merely looming in the background, a patient spectator.
Lungs expand with a shallow inhale, droplets cascading over your body, carrying with it a trail of copper, swirling into the drain. A handful of cuts mar your flesh, dried blood scrubbed clean when the water blankets you.
Through furrowed brows, your gaze screws shut, content to marinate beneath the shower’s intense pressure, knees folded, tucked near your chest. Tresses are soaked, damp and sticking to your skull, oozing with warmth.
Soap suds have long since dissipated, swallowed by rivulets of water, trickling through the chrome grate. The drone of water hitting the floor provides a gentle ambiance, accompanied by your breath — steady, shallow.
Reaching for the knob, you turn it clockwise, the spout beginning to sputter as you shut off the shower. There’s a hush that follows, save for the idle hum of the fan, an occasional buzz of the lights that flicker, casting your bathroom in an orange glow.
A fluffy towel awaits you, strewn over black, metallic rungs that match the general aesthetic of your room. Valentina made everything neutral, mute — the distinct lack of color made for an eyesore, and you’d taken to decorating your quarters with a pop of vibrancy.
Drying off, you rid yourself of slick skin, finding some relief afterwards, crawling into one of Bob’s sweaters and your pajama shorts. It smells like him — parchment and sandalwood, hints of vanilla that you’ve rubbed off on him, the scent of home.
As you clean up, you nudge the door open, letting billowing steam drift into your bedroom, releasing the caged heat. Bare feet cross the threshold into your quarters, bed barely made, but everything else seems rather organized.
A golden sunset crests upon the horizon of the New York cityscape, visible from your window, bulletproof glass tinted to banish any onlookers. Waning rays of orange pool through, glittering over your quarters, catching flecks of dust.
With a huff, you collapse along your bed, mattress foamy, downy to cushion your battered body. Tension unfurls from you in one wave, bleeding out as you allow yourself to relax, cradled within the comforts of home.
Gentle raps at the door ensnare your attention, and from pattern alone, you know who it is.
“It’s open.” You call, perched along the edge of your mattress, index finger drawing slow circles around the sheets. The door panel slides open with a soft whirring, a momentary hum that fades away.
Bob is constantly anxious to see you, especially after a mission, gaze glittering with ardor, a sentiment as gentle as springtime, a warmth that extends into his features.
He’s in loungewear, plaid pajama pants with a mismatched sweater, brunette tresses a touch disheveled. There isn’t a need for him to ask to come inside — your relationship dissolved those barriers long ago.
“Hi.” His greeting is soothing, nervousness placated by your smile, a pearlescent, sparkling thing of beauty. The fumbling, awkward tension has evaporated between the both of you, making room for affection, for the feelings you openly share.
Slipping from your bed, your feet carry you with a sudden haste, arms slithering around his middle, hugging him as if he’d slip through your fingers. He’s warm, his own sun, an everlasting plane of heat that thaws your bones.
Beneath the collar of your sweater, Bob notices the cut there, brows creasing together. With every mission you complete, his worry grows, and the thought of you being injured is a discomforting one.
Despite the tenderness of your flesh, it doesn’t take an ounce of coaxing for Bob to reciprocate your hug, arms caging you in against him, cheek nestled atop your crown. You’re damp, but he’s unperturbed, cradling you close.
His embrace feels like home, comfortable and easy, a sanctuary that the two of you have forged together. He holds you as if he might lose you too, body curling around yours, able to hear the excitable tick of your breath.
Bob’s hands idly caress over your waist, over your spine, able to hear the audible exhale of relief that slips through your nose. Hands smooth wherever he can reach, reverent, each embrace always echoing with affection.
There’s a hush that falls between, a solemn silence that shatters when your voice hums against his chest. “I missed you,” You murmur, adjusting your head enough to stare at him, lips curling into a smile. “Missed you a lot.”
Bob preens at the softness of your confession, hand dragging along your spine until it shifts to cup your jaw. “I missed you too, so much,” He missed you terribly, gaze oozing with affection. “Are you hurt?” Through furrowed brows, he gestures to the cut lingering near your collar.
“Scrapes and bruises, but nothing serious,” Reassuring, you tilt forward, absorbing the heat that radiates from him, basking within it. “It was relatively routine for a mission.” You hum, feeling his lips press against your temples.
Affection is something he lavishes you in freely, though you pamper him enough, Bob knows when to take care of you, too. Dark blues shift to admire you, finding you to be so beautiful, the light of his life, sun piercing a veil of cloud.
He’s still somewhat shy whenever you become heated, dancing around the fringes of intimacy, getting close but not fully there. You don’t mind, content to take it as slow as he wanted, but there’s always a flicker of want that stirs within your chest.
“I’ll take care of you,” Bob murmurs, and the sentiment makes you preen with warmth. He’s good, the epitome of a devoted partner, the river you’re wading through. “I—If you want me to.” He clarifies, sheepish.
You’re often the one taking care of him, a role that you’ve seamlessly melded into without complaint. It’s never perturbed you, never crossed your mind that the roles could reverse for once, but you don’t want him to feel obligated.
He wants to, more than anything — you’re good to one another, ardor all-encompassing, and Bob is eager to let you settle, let him dote on you.
“I want you to,” Hands slip from spine to abdomen, palms flush against his ribs. “You’re never obligated, though.” Despite the gentle reminder, Bob nods, brown tresses stirring with each jostle of his head.
“I know, I just … You mean everything to me,” Bob sighs, allowing sentiment to blossom, flourish within the heat of your shared affections. He loves you, loves you gently, kindly — loves you more than anything else. “I want to.”
There is something wonderfully uncomplicated about the way he loves you, unconditional; judgment is nonexistent, and so is the fear of falling. Owlish hues bore into you, as if searching for your heart, but it’s on your sleeve, plain for him to see.
Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb lightly circling over the cut that’s settled along your jawbone, and you turn, lips kissing his palm. A stutter forms within his exhale, scarlet curling around his features, snaking toward his throat.
When he’d first met you in the underbelly of Valentina’s vault, he thought he’d seen an angel — you were aglow, framed by the hum of garish lights. He recalled your gaze, even now; kind and gentle, safeguarding him from harm.
It almost felt so long ago, seven months, but no amount of time with you was wasted, nor insignificant.
He’d grown in his healing journey, at a point to where things had become easier to manage, easier to navigate his trauma. Meditation and counseling were crucial, and sometimes you joined him, ensuring that he had support.
“You are so perfect, Bob,” Not perfect in the sense of ability or strength, but his heart — a tender thing, one that you had found your serenity in. His lips twitched into a smile, besotted, growing accustomed to hearing you say it. “How did I get so lucky?”
Lucky wasn’t a word he’d use, but he was working on his self-esteem, attempting to squash the malicious insecurities, the whispers of doubt. It was difficult to extinguish self-loathing, but he was making progress, day by day.
A keening chuckle slipped from his lips, followed by a glint of pearlescent teeth, perhaps a twinge of disbelief. “I ask myself that, too,” Bob confessed, fingertips grazing along your cheek, his touch loving, and never anything less. “Very lucky.”
Flattered, your nose crinkles slightly, digits smoothing over his sides as you tilt forward to press your chin against his chest. His physique is lean, cut muscle, stature taller than you, hovering above as he meets your gaze, seeping with affection.
Lashes flutter in their ardent appraisal of you, lips pressing against the bridge of your nose. For a man who holds the power of a thousand suns within his palm, he behaves shrewdly, as if his capabilities lie far beyond his reach.
“Little lower.” Through a velvety croon, you watch as Bob’s features burn with crimson, though he’s delighted to oblige you. His lips skim over your nose, finding your mouth with seamless ease, eagerness entangled with clumsiness.
His heartbeat climbs toward a quick rhythm, an excitable thrum that reverberates through his sternum, singing your name. Noses brush over one another, kisses often exploratory, slow — it makes for a sweeter experience.
In the brief seconds where lips part, he exhales, a warm sigh feathering over your visage, as if you’re absorbing the sun’s soft rays. Bob often overthinks whenever you’re physical, not of any fault of your own, he simply wants to be the best he can for you.
Even still, your presence soothed him, a wordless lullaby, ceasing his constant barrage of nerves. His hands are unhurried, mapping your body with familiarity, caressing until they’ve settled above your hips.
Thumbs circle patterns through the fleece of your sweater, his sweater, draped over your frame as the fabric brushes the middle of your thighs. Each kiss evokes a wave of yearning from you, soul to soul, wrapped up within his splendor.
Undaunted, Bob’s mouth melds with yours, two pieces seamlessly fitting together, hearts joined in-tandem. A furrow forms within his brow, that of concentration as he pours affection into his kisses, listening to the hitch in your breath.
Between parted lips, nudging aside to seize the air, your hands dance along his biceps, skirting lower, holding steadfastly to his forearms. “I love you.” You hum, three words that he never grows tired of hearing.
Bob said it first, a month ago — when it tumbled from his mouth, you thought he was teasing, or perhaps speaking out of-turn. His sincerity manifested in the form of tears and a wistful speech about how much he loved you.
You made it a point to tell him every day, heart growing warm with a muted buzz, an ardor that blossomed through your chest. He liked telling you how much he loved you, too; he had someone to protect, someone to cherish.
A warm, half-chuckle escapes him, the sound scratching pleasantly at the back of your mind. Still, his thoughts are shrouded by doubt, by a shadowy snarl that plagues him, taunting; Bob has gotten better at blocking it out.
Lips press sweetly to his jaw, beneath his eye, whatever you’re able to reach whilst stretching up upon your toes. Sunset stretches over his features, blanketing him in burnished orange, catching upon his dark blue hues.
“I love you too.” Bob murmurs, abashed by the doting affection you lavish him in, unable to stop himself from smiling.
Happiness wasn’t a prevalent theme in his life, but after he met you, it became a constant — he wouldn’t trade it for anything else.
Delighted, you crawl into bed, sprawled out upon your back, one arm tucked beneath your head. His sweater rides up along your hips, revealing the thin, cotton shorts that brush along your thighs.
Bob joins you, sitting criss-crossed at your side, tracing circles over your midriff. The soothing warmth of his touches makes your stomach surge with butterflies, chewing at the inside of your cheek.
“What are you thinking about?” A saccharine utterance slips past your lips, cadence tender as you tilt your head enough to peer up at him. Brunette tresses frame his face, chin bristling with a tiny hint of a growing stubble.
His mind is often a whirlwind — there’s plenty going on, from therapy and counseling to his own shadowed trauma, though his even days seem to eclipse the lows more often than not. Bob thinks about you the most, about your future together.
Sentry was supposed to be the pinnacle of good, the savior of citizens, the world’s mightiest hero; and part of him still wants it, to help, to be good. He wants to be a symbol of hope, of aspiration, of how brokenness can turn into something whole.
Though, with ascending the role, comes It, comes the darkness that haunts his silhouette, a penumbra of his innermost demons.
“A lot,” Bob confesses, noticing the twinge of perplexity that settles on your features. “Nothing bad, just … The future. Our future, my future.” He knows he can confide in you for anything — you’re his sanctuary.
“Our future?” Something hot snakes through your veins, an excitable heat that makes you preen. The fact that he’s given your relationship such consideration elates you.
“Yeah,” His timbre is soothing to you, a lower rumble that seeps into your bones, makes you feel entirely at-ease. “It’s the most optimistic I’ve felt about something in years.” Bob admits, digits nonchalantly toying with the hem of your sweater.
Reaching for his hand, you caress his knuckles, fingers curling around his hand, flesh and blood, tethering you together. “Me too,” You smile, your heart nearly bursting from your chest with joy. “You might be stuck with me forever.”
Bob’s gaze is heartwarming, raw — the concept of being with you forever is more of a comfort, no inkling of despair or discontent. “I’d prefer it that way.” He utters, voice barely hovering above a whisper.
Fingers squeeze together, and the beam you give him elicits another blush, scarlet blanketing his countenance, as warm as an open flame. He presses a hand against his chin, somewhat reeling with disbelief; he never thought he’d have this again.
“What about your future?” Feather-light, your tone is inquiring yet tranquil, noninvasive. With a soft groan, you manage to sit up, sweater ruffled around your middle. Bruises sit heavy within your muscle, soreness stretching throughout your body.
Leg-to-leg with him, you feel his fingertips circle over the top of your thigh, innocent instead of amorous. “With my powers and everything,” Bob murmurs, struck by a sudden wave of emotion. “I just — I want to help people, and I feel like I can’t.”
There’s a melancholy that swirls within his gaze, a thinly-veiled desperation to be useful, to safeguard — what good is he if he can’t even protect you? Tears prick at his eyes, glistening with a wet sheen as he attempts to blink them away.
Bob’s still working through the process of healing, but with that, he’s reluctant to use his powers. They’re there, he feels them — like waves before an earthquake, subdued yet powerful. He’s afraid of it all crashing down on him again, and you, the team.
“Bob, it’s only been a couple of months,” You soothe, hand caressing along his forearm. “Sometimes, the healing process can take a long time. I think you’ll still be able to help people — you help the team now, just as you are now.”
It’s reassuring, but he still feels a twinge of desolation, wanting to talk it through before it catalyzes into something worse. “I know, I just want to be useful. I want to be someone that people can look to for help.”
“You’ve no idea how useful and important you are, Bob,” In your eyes, he’s everything — he’s your heart. “If it weren’t for you, this team might not even exist. What we’ve built, the family we’ve become — it all started with you.”
He’s never looked at it that way, feeling a tear tumble down his cheek, one that he hastily wipes away with the sleeve of his sweater. You’re staring at him as if he’s moved mountains, the center of your universe, a sun whose light you stand within, even if it wanes.
Reassurance is something you’re good at; you’re soft for Bob, incredibly supportive, but you’ve never babied him. He doesn’t enjoy being viewed as helpless, and you’ve made sure that it’s never the case with your relationship.
Sweetly, your hands finds his again, lifting it to your lips as you press a kiss over his knuckles. Bob’s heart lurches, threatening to soar from his chest, mouth parting to make room for a tremulous exhale.
“I love you,” Bob murmurs, pearlescent teeth splitting through his forlorn expression like sunlight through a gray cloud. You have an extraordinary gift for knowing what to say, knowing how to keep him grounded. “I love you so much.”
Nothing short of genuine, he draws you closer, muscled arms caging around you in a hug that’s akin to a furnace. His temperature is inhumanly warm, often running hotter, but you’ve grown to adore it, especially on cold nights.
Without an inkling of hesitation, your arms slip around his middle, palms splayed beside his spine, rubbing his back in slow caresses. Bob finds solace in your embrace, as if you lessen the sting, rip his pain away and throw it elsewhere.
A pang of guilt follows when he realizes that he should be taking care of you, embarrassment settling onto his visage. “Sorry, I … I didn’t mean to make everything —” He stops when you shake your head back and forth.
“Don’t apologize, Bob. I want you to get things off of your chest, and your feelings are valid,” As if to cement your words, you plant a kiss against his cheek, still keeping an arm strewn over his midsection. “I’m always here for you.”
Melancholy and despair subside, and shadows dissipate with it, slithering away as they retreat from the corners of his mind. His chest expands with a shallow, concentrated inhale, breathing deep as he regains composure.
A comfortable silence lingers between, filling the void with affectionate smiles and longing glances, his hand tangled with yours. It’s a brief meditative state that he’s fixated on, something that he’d learned in therapy to manage negative thoughts.
You breathe with him; steady, lungs inflated with crisp air, stretched before you exhale. The process repeats itself, tangled together within the hush of your quarters, blood-orange sunlight twinkling through, turning his brown tresses to caramel.
Bob’s stare is fixated on you, as if he’s glimpsed something beautiful for the very first time, doe-eyed and yearning. He’s been teased for it before, but in the privacy of your bedroom, he’s unabashedly in love with you — no veil conceals his affections.
Melting beneath his gaze, you offer him a gentle smile, as if he’s kissed by summertime, lost within a world of warmth. Bob smiles too, canting forward, lower until his forehead brushes over yours.
Noses graze over one another, a subtle invitation for a kiss, which he initiates this time. He’s often riddled with nerves, but they seem quiet now, and the hush is comforting.
Lips meld together, seamless, and you’re floating, hands shifting to gather at the nape of his neck, carding through his hair. He’s exceedingly gentle, heart bleeding into your mouth, devoted — and you begin to lean backwards.
As you lower yourself down, back flush to pressed sheets and a thin comforter, Bob follows, one leg nestled between yours. Shrouding you with his body, the kiss resumes as if it hadn’t been broken to begin with, and he tastes of ardor.
Hands splay on either side of your head, sweater billowing from his musculature, offering you a glimpse of his abdomen. The serum had altered his physicality drastically — Bob sometimes didn’t recognize his own skin when he looked in the mirror.
He’d grown accustomed to it though, the muscle, the durability, inhuman stamina — exhaustion didn’t feel the same as it used to. Each kiss seems to elongate, mouths barely inching away from one another, entanglement crackling with embers.
When your mouth begins to still, gathering wisps of air to fuel your lungs, Bob’s tresses hang down, tickling your cheeks. “Hey.” You giggle, nose wrinkling slightly as you pull a laugh from his chest, body quaking above you.
“Hi,” Bob whispers, fingers reaching to caress over your cheek, extending into your hairline as he clears his throat. “You’re so pretty.” His murmur is low, a touch husky, stomach churning with butterflies as he shifts, leg ghosting over your core.
A subtle shiver grips your spine, lips parting as a sigh inhabits your throat, preening in the wake of his sweet compliment. “Yeah?” Swallowing the slight lump within your throat, your hand reaches to cup his cheek, thumbing across his jaw.
It’s present, the tension; a familiar burning that seems to crawl between bodies, amorous and wanton, lacking the hunger of lust. It’s thirst he feels, as if you’re a body of water, the lifeblood he needs to survive, to exist.
Bob exhales, warmth feathering over your features, the noise wrought with exhilaration. There’s a swell of sentiment dancing within his eyes, an amalgamation of adoration and something more.
Dipping lower once more, his lips brush over yours, missing by a mere inch, teeth dryly clicking together, eliciting a laugh from you. It’s bubbly, bright; he murmurs an apology, sheepish, but you’re drawing him back in.
Kissing him feels effortless, no expectation of performance, anxiety having bled away into nothingness.
It’s comforting, allowing your vulnerability to show, heart on your sleeve for him. Soft digits trace over his nape, other hand splayed flat against his shoulder blade.
Sunlight drains from the skies, the atmosphere infused with shades of mauve, an inky-black chasing after it. The orange glow dissipates from your bedroom, and with the coming of nighttime, the nightlight above your headboard flickers on.
Legs tangle within one another, a knot of limbs as he kisses you with such compassion, perhaps a twinge of something fervent. It’s as if he wants something, afraid to ask for it — there’s a hint of restraint in his kiss, even still.
“Are you okay?” A soft murmur echoes against his mouth when lips fleetingly draw apart, prompting another owlish stare from him. He’s flushed, thinking about you — everything he wants, pent-up in some knot.
“Yeah, I just — I love you.” Bob blurts in an effort to distract from what he’s really contemplating, turning over his desires in his mind, his incessant yearning. His lips twitch into a smile, one that’s still dancing with nerves.
“I love you too,” With a whisper, your fingers drift to sweep brunette tresses away from his eyes. “What’s on your mind, Bob?” You prompt, noticing his growing embarrassment when you pose the question.
Bob swallows again, flustered, but he decides to come clean about how he’s feeling. “You,” Spoken through a low, pleasant husk, it turns your stomach, bones lurching with butterflies. “I want to be with you, but I … I haven’t done anything in a long time.”
You know what he’s referring to without elaboration, feeling a pang of anticipation twirl within your belly. A brief exhale parts your lips, warmth spreading over your flesh. “That’s okay,” You assure, hand tracing his jaw. “I haven’t, either.”
You’ve been intimate before, in smaller steps — touching one another, half-undressed, sighing names into kiss-swollen lips. This is different, this is more; but you want him, want to give him everything that you can.
His past experiences were often muddled by drug-use, a haze of limbs that felt meaningless, something to extinguish the isolation. This was love, adoration — with you, things were different; each touch meant something.
Bob seems somewhat reassured, shoulders lighter, visage no longer wrought with stress. He relaxes, still poised above you, wondering how to start, how to naturally progress into the next step.
It’s you who closes the gap and initiates, lips softly tangling with his own. Passion festers, an active participant the more your mouths meld together, seamlessly molding to one another.
A soft groan echoes within his throat, swallowed by your mouth as lips clamor. You’re everything, everywhere; his heart beats a rhythm that only you seem to understand, fingers treading toward the hem of his sweater.
Each kiss was bruising, tender — wrought with such adoration that it made your belly pulse with a familiar heat. Exhilarated, your hand continued to caress over his muscles, dancing along his abdomen.
Heat radiates from him, as if he’s his own splendid sun, warm to the touch. You treat him so well, especially when intimacy arose, ensuring that he was always taken care of — Bob wants to return the favor tenfold.
With gentle coaxing, you begin to sit up, guiding him toward the pillows, letting him sit as you politely crawl into his lap. Thighs pin against his hips on either side, a pliant cage, feeling Bob’s hands shyly trace over your legs.
Mesmerized is a mere understatement; he’s bewitched, gazing at you as if you’ve moved mountains, doe-eyed and wanton. Love oozes from every fiber of his being, and you can taste it in his kiss when his mouth meets yours again.
Bob’s throat jostles as he swallows, exhilaration tangled with enthusiasm welling up inside of him. It seems to squash his initial anxiousness about it all, but only slightly. He feels your fingers card through his tresses, unable to his smitten expression.
The hem of your sweater, his sweater, ghosts over his fingertips, prompting him to take a gentle fistful of the woolen fabric. “May I?” Bob always asks — it’s the same sweeter cadence accompanied by a longing look.
With a nod, you lift your arms, stifling a laugh when the collar momentarily snags on your chin, gooseflesh clinging to your spine as the garment is removed. He sets it aside, a scarlet pallor invading his features; you aren’t wearing anything underneath.
“You’re so beautiful,” Bob is constantly awestruck by you, as if he’s seeing your body for the first time all over again. He feels fortunate then, fortunate now; he wants you to have all of him. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
His low, husky compliment makes your bones lurch, shivering in spite of his praise, your hands searching for the hem of his sweater. “You’re so sweet to me.” You murmur, gaze roving over his countenance, prompting him to sigh with elation.
Bob smiles, scarlet-faced as he moves to cradle your jaw. He’s relaxed, more excitable than nervous, stomach still coiled into an excitable, anxious knot, flesh bristling as he kisses you again.
Bodies twine together, and you’re slotted in his lap, hips occasionally urging against his own. There’s friction present, hot and familiar; he’s infatuated by the sensation. He feels your hand drag from his torso to chest, hovering over his heart.
Between tender kisses, hands fumble together, working in-tandem to peel his sweater away, musculature firm beneath your palms. His physique is godlike; sturdy, muscled, impenetrable.
Mouths became immersed in a mutual heat, a dance of hearts — you succumb so very quickly to it all, one hand clamoring to hold fast against his nape. Bob is easily vexed, flustered as his hands gently settle against your hips.
Fingertips trace circles over your waist, lips slow and passionate, savoring every sweet entanglement as if it might be your last. Bob withdraws, only to kiss your jaw, mouth climbing along your throat as it elicits a soft moan from you.
Arousal warms between your thighs, belly rolling into taut coils of excitement, bodies flush, the space between all but nonexistent. He’s considerate, layering your neck in kisses, no inch of flesh safe from his mouth as he finds your collar.
“Bob.” A moan is pulled from your throat, pitched with anticipation, your hand beginning to trail through his tresses. His arms cage you in, holding firm as he plants needy, wanton kisses over your chest.
There’s a sparkle in his eyes, softer, kind — he seems happy, less anxious than usual. His confidence is still shaky, leaning upon a cracked foundation, but there’s a progression in his self-esteem.
The heavy worry of disappointing you lingers still, a small constant within the back of his mind, but he pushes it aside as best he can. Bob continues to pepper kisses over your flesh, wherever he can reach, ending with your lips.
Tender hands roam his musculature, caressing him, ensuring that he’s doted upon. A warm scarlet invades his features, creeping over his skin like that of fire, stirring up inklings of arousal.
When Bob draws away, it’s to smile at you, predominantly sheepish, a boyish expression that oozes ardor. It’s his typical beam, one that you’ve grown to adore, pressing a chaste kiss to his brow, and then the corner of his mouth.
“I want to try something,” Bob murmurs, flushed at the mere fantasy of it. “If that’s alright.” Despite his lack of clarification, you are too curious for your own good, stomach churning with an excited anticipation.
“Of course,” Gooseflesh rakes over your spine when his fingers tease the waistband of your shorts, more assurance layered into his touch. Bob is still rather subservient, but he’s gotten better with initiating, too. “Want them off?”
Blushing, Bob’s head jostles in an eager nod, watching as you slip off of his lap in order to wriggle out of your shorts, socks coming with it. It leaves you in your panties, and you realize that this is the most exposed you’ve been.
With your back angled to him, his brows crease when he finds the scattered cuts laced into your flesh, the discoloration of skin. Wordlessly, he crawls closer, pressing a soft kiss to your spine.
The sensation makes you shiver, lips parting as a gasp splits through, feeling the warmth of his mouth kiss over a cut beneath your shoulder blade. Your body tingles with a pleasant ebbing, and you melt back into him.
Owlish hues bore into you, tracing along your form with a thinly-veiled appreciation, adoring, more like. Bob lets his back kiss the mattress, mussed tresses disheveled against the pillow, feeling you climb back into his lap.
Bending to kiss him, chests flush together, you feel his hands splay out along the small of your back, stroking your skin. Lips clamor together in another passionate collision, enough to draw a low groan from Bob’s throat.
His hands begin to drift lower, from the plush curve of your waist to your backside, gingerly kneading into the pliant flesh. He is cautious, painstakingly gentle as he lavishes kiss after kiss to your wanting lips.
It’s sweet, the way he touches you — always gentle, always loving. He marvels at you each time you part, as if he’s seeing you for the first time again, visibly enchanted. “You’re so pretty.” Bob murmurs, palm taut against your haunch.
“You are too — you’re perfect.” You whisper, managing a smitten smile as he huffs a light chuckle, fingertips brushing around the hem of your panties. He swallows thickly, as if silently asking for you to remove those, too.
With a nod, the exchange is left unspoken, but you understand what he wants through gaze alone. Your heart thrums violently beneath your breast, breath hitching within your throat as he helps you squirm from your underwear.
He’s getting nervous again, attempting to swallow it down as he appraises you in your entirety, awestruck. Bob’s hands relocate to your thighs, holding steadfastly to either, thumbs stroking circles into your delicate flesh.
Coaxing you closer, he inches you away from his lap, towards his chest; realization hits you, then. Before you can interject, Bob shakes his head back and forth, visibly flustered.
“I want to,” Insistent, his cadence oozed with warmth, a tranquility that eased your sudden bout of nerves. The both of you were anxious, wanting to expel that energy into one another. “I—I want to take care of you.” Bob murmurs, lips twitching into a placating smile.
Swallowing the lump within your throat, you’re abashed to confess that you want this terribly, palms steady against his shoulders. Even then, he’s holding you effortlessly, gazing up at you as if you’re the celestials themselves.
Bob doesn’t shy away, patient as ever, continuing to caress over your thighs. He’s done this before, a long time ago — it feels like some nonexistent memory, or one that he conjured up, but it’s there. His smile lingers, adoring, allowing you to move whenever you choose to.
“If you want to stop, just tap my thigh.” You murmur, belly churning with fire. You’ve never let someone do this to you before, but you trust Bob completely. He nods, waiting expectantly, unable to mask his growing excitement.
Shy, you inch forward, legs trembling beneath his touch as he gingerly nudges you closer, knees planted on either side of his head. Everything spins, the room spins, and you’re trying to steady yourself when his mouth warms your cunt.
Lips flush against your inner thigh, brief, drawing a shudder from your spine, feeling his mouth climb to the warmth oozing between your legs. His tongue raked embers across your cunt, nearly ripping the air from your lungs.
His ministrations are agonizingly gentle, rapturous, as if he might hurt you with enough pressure. Bob keens when you moan, the noise smothered within your throat as you try to keep from being too loud.
The tip of his nose brushes along your petals, tongue splitting deeper still, until he sluggishly laps at your core. Your taste permeates his mouth, a bittersweet ambrosia that draws him into some lovestruck haze.
“B—Bob,” His ministrations are wholly unexpected, thighs shaking, belly twisting into a heated coil as you press a palm against the wall. The other flies to the brunette crown nestled contentedly between your thighs. “Bob!” You squeak.
A myriad of moans shake your chest, fluttering through your diaphragm and into the cool air. The ministrations of his tongue are too good, as if this skill is something he’s practiced for some time.
Below, Bob is flushed, scarlet clinging to his features as he pleasures you, unperturbed by the lewd act. He loves it, and it’s making him squirm with how receptive you are to it, cock aching with a ceaseless throbbing.
The coil of taut heat within your stomach seems to tighten as Bob greedily laps at your cunt, like that of a man starved. A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his curls, urging him closer.
Your hips accidentally jolt forward, and you sputter a swift apology, body feverishly hot as you attempt to regain your balance. Bob’s hands are holding steadfastly to your hips, caressing and molding to your curves.
Admittedly, he’s finding pleasure in this, wanting to seek some relief for himself, but he’s too absorbed in you, in all of you. The taste of your cunt permeates his tongue, and he wants more, lapping at your core as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
A tremor gripped your thighs, twitching around his head as your hips lurched forward. The friction that simmers between you both is more than enough to keep him wanting, chest reverberating with a myriad of throaty groans.
“G—God, you’re so good at this,” There is a noticeable pitch within your voice, higher, wrought with ecstasy. You’re moaning his name as if it’s some desperate prayer, a confession spilling from your tongue. “Please don’t stop.”
Bob groans again at the sensation of your fingers dragging through his hair, the feeling incredibly pleasant, mouth buried against your cunt. He kisses along your slit, gesture mingling with soft, passionate laps of his tongue.
It is then that he seeks the pearl of your cunt, pressing a string of wanton kisses to the sensitive clutch of nerves. A shiver of delight grips your spine, throat erupting with a moan as your back begins to arch.
Vocal, a string of whimpered praise tumbles from your mouth, legs shaking like leaves beneath his palms. Bob wants to whine, and the sound of you moaning his name is enough to set his body ablaze, bleeding with a radiant heat.
His name rolls from your tongue with such reverence, enough to bring him to heel. Another broad stroke of his tongue laps across your cunt, gathering with it a slew of your arousal.
With a twist of his mouth, he moves to the pearl of your cunt once more, pliant maw wrapping around it, stimulating you with his suckling. Everything feels fuzzy, as if you’re trapped in some white-hot haze, ecstasy burning through your bones.
Bob holds you aloft with an effortless strength, hands still smoothing over your thighs, caressing your warm flesh. Each brief urge of your hips into his mouth sends him reeling, wanting to be good for you, pleasure you in the way you deserve.
A rush of white-hot delight sears your bones, blanketing you in a wave of pleasure, stomach swirling with a violent heat. Dizzy from such overwhelming arousal, your body began to furl, a coil of heat pulled taut within your belly.
Again, he traveled to your clit, gently suckling upon the bundle of nerves. Your poor thighs rattled on either side of his head, twitching with throes of ecstasy as he toyed with your pearl.
In this state, you weren’t going to last much longer, crumbling through his fingertips as your release slammed into you with such intensity. Bob sighed into your core, content to stay there for an eternity if you allowed him to.
Slowly, you unraveled, having to ground yourself to any shred of composure, throat wracked with a choked sob. The coil of taut heat snapped violently, giving way to an overwhelming release, a white-hot tide of bliss.
His name rolled from your tongue several times over, spoken lovingly, body trembling from the blissful aftershocks. Admittedly, your thighs weren’t up to the challenge either, muscles burning as you stilled above him.
Even still, he unknowingly works you through your release, gently lapping over your cunt, the gestures feather-light. A neediness festers within him, still treating you to little jolts of pleasure in the aftermath.
Lungs expand and deflate with swift, shallow sighs, clawing for composure. Bob breaths with you, labored yet exhilarated, cheeks tinged with a permanent shade of pink. Lips seal themselves along your thighs, peppering over your soft skin.
Inching backward, you neatly untangle yourself from him, slotted within his lap again, flustered when you catch the glistening sheen of slick on his mouth. He seems elated, happy; it’s satisfying to know that he didn’t disappoint you with his ministrations.
“Was that good?” Bob inquires, brunette tresses disheveled, an earthy halo that forms around his visage. He sits up, propped back against one arm, musculature catching upon the dim illumination that spreads through your bedroom.
“That was amazing,” Admittedly, you are surprised by how vigorous he was with it, as if his shyness had been momentarily stripped away. He politely wipes his chin off with the heel of his palm, his smile doting. “You’re amazing.”
In the afterglow, your thighs continue to twitch, spiraling down from your orgasm as you trace your fingers across his abdomen. Bob is blushing, gaze half-lidded and adoring, though it’s fleeting when you shift atop his lap.
Something firm pulses against your backside, and you watch him writhe, neck taut with strain as he tries to alleviate some of the friction. “S—Sorry,” He fumbles, withholding a husky groan. “You’re so pretty.” His murmur makes you flustered.
“Don’t be,” You assure, heart nearly beating from your chest as gazes linger on one another, oozing with a thinly-veiled affection. “I love you so much, Bob.” The words are enough to make him shiver, hand shifting toward your hip.
Bob preens beneath your soft declaration, adjusting his position, erection shuffling against you once more. He’s nearly bursting at the seams, wanting to be inside of you, feel your body against his, listen to your heartbeat.
In a soft entanglement, you kiss him, able to taste yourself upon his tongue. He’s delicate, each caress, each touch born of adoration for you. Everything slows to a momentary crawl as your hands shift toward his pants.
“I love you,” Bob murmurs, as if it’s something sacred, a hush between old lovers. He shifts, breath hitching when your fingers skim along the waistband of his pajamas pants. “I want you.” He says it reverently, making you shiver.
There is something mildly assertive within his tone, as if he’s gaining a bit of confidence, hands caressing circles into your hips. His head jostles in an acknowledging nod, allowing you to take it further, prying fabric aside.
That is when you feel it, the proof of his arousal pressing into your lower belly, oozing with precum as he slowly ruts his hips into you. Bob shivers, flushed as he writhes, desperate to be inside of you.
To your surprise, he’s painfully well-endowed, a fact that he is acutely aware of. Your pupils expand, attempting to smother your twinge of nervousness, gaze fluttering elsewhere.
A sharp moan blossoms throughout your diaphragm, palms gathering at the nape of his neck as you coax him in for a searing kiss. Lips move in a tender dance, arousal coalescing between your legs.
A groan rippled through his throat, escaping into twined mouths as you moved against his erection, enough to nearly make him sputter. His lungs burn with want, needing you as one needed air.
Bob’s desperation bleeds into you with a blinding intensity, so poignant and so palpable that it makes your knees buckle. He can’t remember the last time he’d done something like this, and even then, he only wants to remember you.
“Are you sure?” His whisper is gentle, a strained timbre that sends shivers down your spine. Through kisses and the exhales between, he wants to make sure that you’re certain, as if you might change your mind.
Pressing another lingering kiss to his mouth, you answer with assurance. “Yes,” You sigh, lips curling into a gentle, placating smile. “More sure than I’ve ever been.” With that, Bob seems to relax, his breathing heavier, heady as you begin to shift.
Wandering hands smooth themselves over the swell of your hips, clutching at the pliant flesh, his erection pressing against your thigh. A sharp inhale passes through him as you gently adjust yourself, comfortable within his lap.
A taut coil of heat pulls tightly within his abdomen, making him squirm, a familiar heat licking over his flesh as the flushed tip prods against your cunt. He’s trying not to combust, afraid it all might be a short-lived affair.
Sluggishly, you sink yourself onto his cock, drawing a moan from your diaphragm and a breathy groan from his. Bob feels your forehead, flush to his own, hot breath pluming over his features as you continue downward.
The sensation of your hands skimming over his collar is intoxicating, eliciting another half-whimper from his throat. He clings steadfastly to your hips, thumbs tracing shaky circles into your skin as you allow the both of you time to adjust.
Your fingers thread into his hair, and he attempts to stifle a groan, eyes pleasantly half-lidded as your hips shift slightly. Everything hums, a muted buzz thrumming through his body, bliss warping into the fringes of ecstasy.
Scarlet paints his features, skin flushed with crimson, body brimming with pleasure; you’ve barely moved yet. His hands cradle you even still, and as you begin to move, he’s gentle in his assistance, holding you aloft.
“Bob,” You moan his name, dragging your hips up halfway before sinking down again, a push-and-pull that makes your muscles burn with exertion. Lips pepper themselves to his jaw, and you feel his grip tighten through trembling digits. “You feel so perfect.”
A myriad of throaty groans escaped him as you began to move, hips rocking forward, disarmingly gentle and sluggish. It was a perfect storm of sensations, between your hand in his tresses, lips beginning to trail toward his throat.
Your cunt clenched pathetically, snug around his length as you continued to ride him, his cock bottoming out within you. Bob moaned, arms caging you in as you showered his neck in kisses, body vibrating beneath you.
“Please,” He huffed, continuing to caress along your thighs, digits clamping down whenever your hips lifted and lowered. Bob knew he wasn’t going to make it very long like this, cock aching for release. “D—Don’t stop.”
Everything felt so raw and sensitive, nerves set ablaze, arousal gripping him tightly as you continued to ride his cock, ensuring that you were still gentle. Your pace never became rough, nor demanding.
He thoroughly enjoyed watching you move, cautious and mindful of him, lips agape and visage one of sheer bliss. Sighs of passion tangled together, hot and fervent, breathing in the sweet air of one another.
Prying your mouth away from his throat, he’s moving in for a kiss, whimpering when your hips fall flush against his, cock buried inside of you. The pleasure is almost overwhelming for him, enhanced by you, by how much he loves you.
His name feathers from your mouth like a sacrilegious oath, repetitive, ensuring that he knows how good he makes you feel. The remnants of your previous orgasm still cling to you, thighs shaking like leaves.
Bob kisses you as if you might slip through his fingers at any given moment, unable to fully commit through wanton groans. His chest burns with a string of needy sighs, holding you tightly, feeling your skin flush against his.
Neither of you would last long in this state — him, in particular. He was dizzy, rendered stupefied by such wanton desire, his cock throbbing inside of you with an incessant need.
Drowning within ecstasy, Bob knew that he couldn’t cling to restraint any longer, seeing stars, body oozing with heat. His digits gripped you tightly, a choked groan emerging into the hollow between your throat and shoulder.
It only took one more roll of your hips for him to fall apart completely, in shambles beneath you, cum spilling inside of you. The rush of warmth soon flooded your insides, his spend sticky between your thighs.
Bob was shaking, groaning your name, embarrassed that it all seemed to end so abruptly, but he hadn’t done it in years — it would take some adjusting.
Foreheads pressed together, lips soon finding one another, disarmingly gentle as he allowed one palm to cup your cheek. His thumb danced over your jaw, the gesture unusually sweet as your hips began to slow to a mere crawl.
“Are you okay?” Gentle, you pressed a kiss to his brow, feeling him tremble beneath you, an amalgamation of heat and limbs. Bob nodded, swallowing thickly as he felt you move from his lap.
“Yeah.” Bob’s lips twitched into a smile, feeling content in the afterglow, less pent-up. His limbs felt like molten liquid, body recovering from the vast amount of pleasure he experienced.
In the solace that followed, his feet carried him over cold marble, clamoring into your bathroom, retrieving a glass of water. His stamina remained entirely intact, superhuman — the same couldn’t be said for you.
Retrieving his sweater, your tepid skin writhes into the wool despite the perspiration, finding your underwear, thighs shaking as you pull them back on. Bob returns, half-dressed, his throat flushed where your mouth had been moments prior.
Lounging along the corner of your mattress, your features warm when he steps closer, smile sheepish. “Here.” He hums, a low, blissful sound that strips away your tension, coming to sit beside you.
With several greedy swigs of water, you’re beginning to climb down from your peak, nudging the glass onto your nightstand. It’s an unspoken thing as Bob holds you, the both of you a tangle of bodies, laying down together.
“Was that good?” Bob asks again, soft, nervous that it might’ve been too quick for you. Your head presses to his collarbone, fingertips tracing indecipherable patterns into his skin.
“It was perfect,” Pleasant tingles flow through your body, soothed by his palm, caressing circles over the small of your back. “You are perfect.” The sweetness of your cadence makes his breath hitch, lips smoothing over your forehead.
A smile seems glued to your face, no disappearing in-sight, feeling his heart stutter underneath your cheek. It’s hushed, but it’s comfortable, merely basking in the presence of one another, and he’s still reeling from the whole ordeal.
Bob smiles, doe-eyed, gazing at you as if you’re the sun, his center of gravity. Keeping one arm around you, as if to shield you, the other continues to caress along your sweater-clad frame.
“I love you.” He utters, brows furrowing as if he’s swearing an oath to you, bodies leaving no trace of space, legs tangling together. As Bob holds you close, you’re almost drifting, eyes growing heavy as you cling to him.
You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
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sugarcherris · 2 months ago
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Headcanon: Captain Price’s Pathetic Pillow
Captain price x fem! reader, suggestive theme, 18+, mentions of uterus and cum, and the whole team clowning price.
Everyone thinks Captain John Price is a hardened man of taste—cigars, whiskey, and tactical brilliance.
Cigars? Expensive.
Whiskey? Aged and neat.
Tactics? Lethal.
Beard? National treasure.
And yet… behind closed doors… lies a secret so devastating, so shameful, so soul-flattening…the single most disturbing artifact known to Task Force 141.
His pillow is the saddest object in the entire United Kingdom. Possible Europe. Maybe the entire NATO alliance.
And not just any pillow.
No.
It’s not just flat. It’s deflated. Like it gave up sometime in 80s and never recovered.
This pillow has seen wars, sweat, spit, cigar crumbs, cum, and the weight of an emotionally repressed British forehead night after night. It’s yellowed. It crunches a bit when you press it. There’s one suspicious bullet hole no one asks about.
The first sighting
Gaz stumbled on it once and physically recoiled like it bit him.
“Cap— what the hell is that?”
“My pillow.”
“…Is it… alive?”
“It’s broken in.”
“IT’S BROKEN DOWN.”
Soap tried to surprise him with a brand-new orthopedic memory foam one. Price took one look at it, gave it one half hearted squeeze it, and muttered
“Too soft. Doesn’t smell like mine.”
Then flopped face-first back onto his tattered parchment of despair.. the war-torn crêpe he calls a pillow with the weight of a thousand suppressed emotions and let out a groan so guttural it summoned ghosts from WWI.
Laswell once compared it to a flattened Yorkshire pudding left out in the rain.
Ghost swears it whispered something to him once. He won’t say what.
That pillow has no bounce. It’s a sock filled with despair.
But he won’t replace it.
Because in his heart, Price believes if his pillow can survive everything it’s been through…
So can he.
You
You tried.
God knows you tried.
But after three nights of waking up with your spine curved like a question mark and your neck sounding like a glow stick every time you turned your head, you snapped. (Somehow all his pillows were deflated flat and soggy. His remarkable pillow is the worse one, the founder, the disease spreader)
Price, meanwhile, is sleeping like some half-naked forest bear—shirtless, sprawled on his war relic of a pillow, beard glinting like wet oak in the moonlight.
“John,” you hiss. “I swear on your beard—if I have to sleep on any more of this limp, moist rectangle one more night, I will summon God Himself to smite this pillow.”
Price rolls over, glowing in the moonlight like a Michelangelo statue who drinks whiskey and shaves with a knife, He shifts lazily, one thick arm draping over your waist, eyes half-lidded with that glint as he murmurs, voice deep and rough like thunder rolling through and just goes.
“Careful, love. That attitude’ll have you face-down ‘n beggin’ before you even touch the sheets.”
Sir. No.
Your uterus shrieked.
Your spine whimpered.
And the pillow—the goddamn pillow grinned.
The Battle Begins
You steal the pillow.
You tossed the pillow in the bin.
It crunched on the way down
You pray over its resting place like a sacrificial offering.
He came home. Sniffed the air once like a bloodhound.
He finds it. In the goddamn trash.
Washes it. Rescues it.
Holds it like a cradled child. Looks you dead in the eye and says,
“This pillow’s older than half the squad. Show some bloody respect.”
He sleeps like a WWII veteran with his hands gently gripping the corners like a parachute cord.
You’re convinced it’s not a pillow.
It’s a coping mechanism.
Eventually everyone started taking action
Soap starts a betting pool. He names it Operation Flat Bastard.
Gaz calls it Flatline. He salutes it sarcastically every time he passes the room.
Ghost adds it to a list of “Top 5 Unholy Objects I’ve Seen.” (It ranks above a haunted mask from Karachi.)
Laswell mails you a care package with six memory foam pillows. No note.
Price tries one of them once—after you begged. The next morning, he stares into space, grumbling:
“Had a vivid dream about paying council taxes. Didn’t like it.”
New plan
You surrender to fate.
But you plan.
One day, when he’s gone again, you’ll hold a funeral.
Full military honors.
You’ll bury Flatline under a crooked rock in the backyard. Light a cigar. Tap the gravestone twice. Whisper, “Rest now, soldier.”
And when he comes home?
He’ll lie down on a new pillow—one you’ve secretly been punching nightly, stomping with boots, smearing it with your cum, and ironing flat to simulate three decades of war.
He’ll grunt once.
Press his face into it. Inhales it.
And murmur:
“…Finally. Feels just right.”
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koffeinkaos · 1 month ago
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"Merlin?" Arthur called as he opened the door to his chambers. Merlin and him had fought earlier and after blowing off some steam on the training ground with Leon he was ready to admit Merlin was right.
But now only silence greeted him, no Merlin, not even the crackling of flames in his fireplace that would promise the servant's eventual return with dinner. That was strange.
Was Merlin still so mad he didn't even want to see Arthur? Should he go to the physician's tower to apologize or was it better to leave him alone for a while?
Well, whatever he did, he should at least get out of his armour first. And wash.
This would be challenging without help but if Arthur was one thing it was stubborn. And after some pulling and pushing and multiple minutes bent over so much his head almost touched the ground he was finally free from the heavy weight of his chainmail. The rest of it was fairly easy despite Merlin's accusations of Arthur not being able to dress himself so it wasn't long until he was clothed in his sleeping tunic and a pair of brown soft trousers. He would apologize to Merlin tomorrow. It was late anyway, Arthur only wanted to read the speech for tomorrow one last time before he would head to bed.
Sauntering over to his desk he frowned as his papers had clearly been touched. The note on top was new, but the tiny handwriting was familiar. Merlin
Rounding the desk, he took the parchment and began to read.
My Arthur
Arthur
Dollop
Arthur,
you're a prat, but I forgive you. By now you surely have had enough stab and punch time that your huge head could process that I was entirely right as always.
Arthur snorted, he could almost see the smirk on Merlin's face as he wrote the words down.
Unfortunately I cannot be there to tell you so myself. You see I have little time to explain why but I'll do my best as you should prepare for the worst. Please try to understand
Please don't hate me.
I understand if you would hate me
A strange feeling grew inside Arthur's gut, Merlin was never hesitant when he spoke to Arthur. Whether he was spitting treasonous insults or vowing undying loyalty, he always did it with a certainty that left Arthur speechless. To see entire lines crossed out, rewritten only to be taken back again left the king feeling uneasy.
Do you remember the druid boy we smuggled out of Camelot years ago? Mordred?
He joined Morgana in her efforts to claim Camelots throne for herself and unfortunately he knows abou something about me that gave them... leverage. It's complicated, but they know I would protect you with my life. Morgana always knew that I
It's what I was born to do, Arthur. But it's also what I chose for myself and I could never regret that. I am so incredibly grateful I got to be your servant, your friend, for the past five years.
Even though you were a prat in the beginning - and sometimes now - I hope you know I treasure the glimpses you let me get of you, the unguarded you. I hoped I would be there when you would be ready to let the rest of Camelot see that side of you as well. They will love you for it. How could they not
Just like me
I do too. I love you.
The words wrapped around Arthur's heart, squeezing tighter and tighter every time he read them. Merlin felt the same way? Since when? And why tell him in a letter?
They have my mother. And I swore I would do anything to protect you but I cannot abandon her, please forgive me. If I can save her by sacrificing myself, I'll do it gladly.
If I could ask you for a favour, would you please bring her to Camelot and make sure she's alright? This is a lot to ask and you have plenty of things to do but I'd feel better if I know she's not alone while grieving
I have to leave now. I wish I could see you one last time but I fear you would see right through me and I don't want to lie anymore.
I fear Morgana will take advantage once I'm no longer there to protect you, you should reach out to the druids they can help you.
Gaius got a letter as well, giving him permission to tell you what Mordred knows. I'm so sorry I will not be there to face your anger or to answer all of your questions.
I have no right to ask your forgiveness now, I only want to ask you to not blame yourself.
Eternally yours,
Merlin
The panic that rose in Arthur's chest was unlike anything he ever felt before. Before he read the sign off, he was already out of his chair and on his way to Gaius while screaming at some passing servant to prepare his horse and inform the knights. He prayed to every God he knew of, that Merlin told Gaius, where he went.
How long was Merlin gone?
How long would it take Arthur to find out where he went?
He would be too late, oh gods, he would be too late and Merlin would be-
No. Stop panicking. We need a plan. We will find Merlin and bring him back home. Gaius will know where to look.
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my-castles-crumbling · 16 days ago
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awesome - june 1 - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 401 - based on an idea that @emeryinthestars sent, lmk if you want me to take this down!
As soon as James went to the bathroom, Regulus took his chance.
He wasn’t a complete stalker, of course. He’d just learned a lot in his sixteen years of life. Namely, how one organized one’s room was a huge look into one’s personality.
So of course, when James Potter left him alone in the Gryffindor Boys’ Dorm Room, Regulus decided to snoop.
He started with the bedside table. It was…almost endearing. There were so many pictures. One of what had to be James’s parents, another of James with his friends. Regulus’s heart skipped several beats when he noticed one of himself on there, too. A few loose coins and a couple gum wrappers told him that yes, it was definitely still James’s table. 
He moved on to the desk, which was much messier.
Scribbled notes, crumpled up pieces of parchment, slightly-lewd doodles with several different types of handwriting, empty bottles of ink…it was overwhelming, but it was also, comfortingly, James.
The whole thing made Regulus smile until he looked at the shelf of books and gasped. 
“Potter!” he exclaimed, forgetting that he shouldn’t be looking through James’s things in the first place.
James ran back into the room, hands still wet (at least he washed them, Barty didn’t always do so, much to Regulus’s dismay). “What?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.
“Are your books…in rainbow order?” Regulus accused him, tone sharp, because the situation deserved it.
The seventh year broke into a grin. “Oh. Yeah! Isn’t it fun?”
Regulus blinked several times. Oh, this wouldn’t do. “I’m breaking up with you,” he muttered, standing and moving to the door. 
“What? Reg, wait!” James exclaimed, moving to wrap his (still slightly damp) arms around Regulus’s waist.
He squirmed, refusing to make eye contact. “Color, Potter? You organize by color? That’s…anarchy!”
James laughed out loud. “It’s fun! Plus, what were you doing, going through my things while I was in the bathroom, hmm?”
Regulus froze, stomach dropping. Oh. Whoops. “I was doing no such thing,” he murmured, looking down.
A hand moved his chin so suddenly, he was drowning in hazel eyes. “Sure, love,” James beamed. “You’re obsessed with me, aren’t you?”
He grimaced. “No. I hate you. You and your color-organized bookshelf.”
The Gryffindor continued to smile, bringing their mouths tantalizingly close. “No. You don’t,” he murmured, brushing their lips together.
Regulus groaned. “I don’t,” he admitted, before closing the gap between them.
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dracosprettygirl · 2 months ago
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۶ৎ baby
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Pairing: draco malfoy x reader Word Count: 712 words Summary: he doesn’t mean to say it. but it slips out — soft, aching, and far too intimate for two people who still pretend this isn’t what it is. A/N: inspired by this. also i sincerely apologize for not posting the last few days, i fell off a motorcycle and sprained my wrist haha.
♫ cherry wine - live by hozier
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It just wasn't fair.
It was late at night—late enough that the Slytherin dorms were silent in that near-sacred way it only gets when the clock tower has long struck twelve, and the walls themselves fall asleep.
You shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this—but that has never stopped you before, and it sure as hell wasn't going to stop you now.
You sat with your back against the headboard of his four-poster bed, knees tucked against your chest, swallowed whole by the Slytherin-green jumper that hung heavy with the scent of his cologne and cigarette smoke.
Draco sat at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing veiny forearms, jaw sqaured, trying to focus on the pile of parchment in front of him and failing miserably.
All because his eyes kept drifting. To you.
You noticed every single time.
"Are you cold?" he asked, his voice a low, breathy rasp—like he wasn’t sure if saying anything at all would make this disappear.
You shook your head, even as a cold breeze swept through the room, breathing a shiver down your spine.
A small twitch tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I could get another blanket," he offered.
"That's okay, I’m fine."
"You never let me do anything for you," he muttered, almost to himself.
You blinked. "You do plenty."
That made him pause. His quill stilled. For a moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of the dying fire behind him.
Then the chair scraped back. He stood, crossed the room, and climbed into the bed beside you without a word of warning. One hand curled around your waist like he couldn’t bear the thought of you being even an inch too far away, pulling you into his side.
You didn’t resist. You never did when it came to him.
"You’re warm," you murmured, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. You couldn't help the flutter that rose in your stomach when you took note of how perfect it felt.
Draco huffed. "Don’t sound so surprised."
"I thought you were made of marble. Or granite."
He pulled back just enough to glare at you. "Take that back, you monster."
"No."
"Take it back, or I’ll—"
“What?” you teased. “Glower me to submission?"
He scoffed, but the bite in his voice softened. "I’m too good to you."
"That's true."
The space between you stretched and settled into something quiet and fragile. His thumb brushed over your jaw, slow and reverent. His eyes searched yours like they were trying to memorize the way you looked beneath this flickering light, wrapped up in his sheets and secrets.
It wasn’t love. Not yet. But it was something dangerous. Something that felt like falling and flying all at once.
He leaned in and kissed you, gently at first. Like he was asking. Like he was warning. And when you kissed him back, his hand slid to your waist, grounding you like a lifeline.
And then—he said it.
It was soft. Thoughtless. A whisper against your lips that tasted like a slip of the tongue and felt like a punch to the chest.
"Come here, baby."
You stilled. Just for a moment.
His arm froze around you. "What?"
You blinked up at him. "What did you call me?"
He looked horrified. "I—forget it."
"Say it again," you said, your voice so quiet it barely made it out.
He stared at you like you’d gone mad. "I didn’t mean—"
"I liked it."
His brow furrowed, and you resisted the urge to reach out and smooth out the creases that appeared on his brow. "You did?"
You nodded. "No one’s ever called me that before."
Draco blinked slowly, something unreadable washing over his face. He looked at you like you’d just said something tragic. Like he didn’t understand how a girl like you could go this long without someone saying something as soft as baby.
And then, so carefully it almost broke you, he said, "Okay, baby."
You felt it in your chest. Felt it crawl down your spine, settle in your bones.
You exhaled against his collarbone. "Say it again."
He did.
And again.
And again.
Until it no longer felt like a mistake, or a nickname, or a borrowed comfort—but a truth.
Yours.
His.
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taglist !
@belovedenzo
© dracosprettygirl.tumblr 2025. do not copy, translate or claim any of my works as your own. reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated & motivating!
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viharbinger · 6 months ago
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💍 Romance And Weddings (Fred Weasley x fem!reader)
Pairings: Fred Weasley x Wife!Reader (I'm fuckign tweaking)
Warnings: Fred not dead 🤫🥰, pregnancy, marriage, reader is female, usage of pet names (love and darling), this is set shortly after the second wizarding war
a/n: I have exams tomorrow and I'm writing Fred Weasley x wife reader fic??? I think I need the mental hospital
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You and Fred started dating in your first year of Hogwarts. It was a small parchment of paper passed to you, asking, 'do you want to be my girlfriend? Circle yes or no' I mean you both were eleven, without a worry in the world and there wasn't any harm in dating. And when the school years went by, it seems like it wasn't just a silly childhood crush after all because you've both become accustomed to calling each other your boyfriend and girlfriend and hanging out together everywhere.
You've had your awkward first kiss, reluctant hand holding, and even broken up a couple of times during your time in Hogwarts. But what surprised you the most is why you said yes to his marriage proposal! I mean, it's common knowledge that most highschool relationships just don't work out. But now, you have officially been dating for a little over 6 or more years, if you don't count the times you've broken up over silly arguments— you've even moved in with him and George!
Even when you were dating, Fred would always teasingly flirt with you, it had you turning red all the time. And you'd also do it back at him, making him turn equally red. Soon enough, those awkward first kisses became natural and a daily occurrence for the both of you and you got more comfortable with each other.
So it was just a little after Fred and George had opened up their shop and the Wizarding community was starting to divide into two sides. Business was booming, Fred and George were making more than enough galleons to fit into their pockets and were looking to treat themselves.
They've bought themselves the dragon-skin suits, gifted their family presents and started living comfortably. But Fred had a thought. You've both dated basically throughout your most important years— and been with him the whole time! He wants to treat you to something but what he didn't think he would get was an engagement ring.
He just happened to come by a jewellery store when he saw it... A ring that would look so beautiful if it sat on your finger. He bought it without a second thought but decided not to propose just then, because you never know, right?
He kept the ring in his jacket pocket at all times, and even made sure you never washed the jacket yourself to prevent you from accidentally seeing it. He was gonna keep it for a momentous occasion, and... Maybe the momentous occasion was when you and Fred were in the middle of a fight against Death Eaters in Hogwarts.
"I'm sorry I couldn't do this earlier, love!" He shouts through all the noise happening in the school. "You're an idiot!" You snapped, hitting one final blow to a death eater, and then clutching Fred's arm to pull him away to safety, your finger glistening with the ring he just proposed.
"You couldn't have done this in a worser time?" You breathed, quickly blocking an attack at another Death Eater, and Fred fires at him. Teamwork makes the dreamwork. "Yeah, but you said yes, didn't you?" He laughs amidst the battle, now pulling you to where the rest of the survivors are also fighting.
When the fight was finally over, you were cuddled up against him with your head on his shoulder sitting on one of the dining chairs in the great hall. You finally had the time to admire the ring on your finger, and this action doesn't go unnoticed by Fred. "Once we're out of here, I promise I'll give you the best life possible. Anything for my darling wife." He cheekily grins, caressing the hand that you held up to look at.
"You're crazy, you know that?" You blush, hiding your face in his neck. And the news doesn't go unheard in less than a week. He's sent owls to his family, yours, friends and acquaintances all about your engagement and that a wedding date is to be announced.
"Fred, where are all these owls coming from?" The replies came around the same time, and he was just smiling cheekily. He pressed a long affectionate kiss to your temple as you opened the letters with furrowed eyebrows. "You told... Everyone? Already?!"
Every week without marrying you keeps Fred so antsy to marry you, it's adorable. Before he's even married you, he's already calling you 'Mrs. Weasley' or referred you as his wife in every conversation. When you're shopping with him too, he's insufferable. He's constantly making suggestions for the wedding, "I think this napkin would look nice on the guest tables, what's say you?" or "That dress would look lovely on you for the reception, love. Just suggesting."
And the first week back to the Burrow after your engagement was celebratory. Molly was ecstatic and welcomes you into her family warmly, not like you weren't ever part of it.
Finally came to the wedding, it would be big with a lot of friends and families. Being one of the Weasley twins, there would be fireworks setting off after your I do's and it would just be magical. Seeing you walk down the aisle for the first time, his eyes would burn trying to hold his tears. He thinks you're so beautiful, he couldn't help speaking it out loud, earning some laughter from the audience.
During the wedding reception, he couldn't help stare at you everytime, either. He also gets so drunk off of firewhiskey with his family, he starts calling for you if you leave him for longer than 3 minutes. He'd slur your name, and be so tired he would just lay his head on your shoulder for a short nap, ruining your perfect outfit with his drool.
And not even a few months had passed since your wedding when you find out you're pregnant with Fred's baby. Not surprising of course, being a wife of a Weasley basically meant you're gonna have a broody husband. You had no fear in telling him, because it was his idea after all. Well, he'd try to pretend it's your idea by planting it in your head.
He'd purposefully take care of Teddy Lupin to show how much of a good father he would be in front of you. Or he'd somehow shift the conversation to be about how he loves how cute babies are. "I know what you're playing at, Freddie." You jab a finger at his chest, and he catches it the second jab and presses a kiss to your hand. "Don't know what you're talking about, love."
When you finally agreed to the idea of getting pregnant, he literally wasted no time. He's already running his hands all over your body, kissing you breathlessly and pulling you to the bed... And the rest is history. But the first baby is just a start, he says. Like I said, he's broody and even jokes about wanting to have a 'full quidditch team' which you swat him for.
<3 pleaz reblog and like
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elikajinnie · 7 months ago
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hello!! may i request a drabble or a spin off from forbidden taste!heeseung with his reaction or thoughts after taking the antidote for amortentia? and also how he’s desperate to find y/n and why she’s avoiding him for days? 🤭 thank you!! i luv a desperate man 😩
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a/n: you may :3 i LOVED seeing this in my inbox when i woke up! And we do all indeed love a desperate man ;)
Warnings: ehm, a desperate man basically?
The fic in question --> click here
--
Heeseung was angry—no, he was livid. The moment the effects of the Amortentia wore off, his mind cleared like a storm breaking apart, and the first thing he thought of was you. Where were you? Why weren’t you there? He had searched and searched, every corridor and corner he could think of, but you were nowhere to be found.
It didn’t help that Yoonhee had been trailing after him, clinging to his arm, tears streaming down her face as she apologized profusely. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far! It was stupid—I know it was stupid, Heeseung, I’m so sorry!”
But Heeseung knew better. He could see right through her feigned remorse. The look in her eyes told him she wasn’t sorry for what she did—she was sorry she got caught. His patience, already paper-thin, finally snapped. He shoved her off and hissed, “Stay away from me,” before marching straight to a professor and reporting her. He didn’t wait to see the consequences unfold; he couldn’t care less. There were far more important things to deal with.
Like finding you.
You, who had been conspicuously absent through it all. You, who he hadn’t seen since after the Amortentia’s haze vanished. A knot of worry had formed in his chest, twisting tighter with every second that passed without an answer. He stormed into the courtyard, seeking out your housemates with frantic determination.
“Where is she?” he demanded, his voice sharp enough to startle a group of first-years nearby. “Where is she?!”
One of your friends finally stepped forward, hesitant but honest. “She’s... she’s been in bed all day. Said she wasn’t feeling well.”
The words hit him like a Bludger to the chest. Guilt and heartbreak washed over him in waves, drowning out the last remnants of anger. You had been suffering alone, likely because of him—because of what had happened, because of everything Yoonhee had done.
He tried everything—everything—to get through to you. He sent letters, each one carefully written, pouring his heart onto the parchment. He sent messages through your housemates, through your friends, hoping they might convince you to talk to him. Every time he saw a friend of yours, he’d stop them, desperate for any sliver of news.
“How is she? Did she eat today?” he’d ask, his voice laced with worry. “Did she sleep? Is she feeling any better?”
It was always the small things—tiny gestures—to show he cared. That he was thinking about you. That he was sorry. He wanted you to know that it had all been the Amortentia, that none of it had been real. None of it had been his choice. And above all, he wanted you to know that he never, ever meant to hurt you.
But no matter how hard he tried, you remained locked away. Your absence stretched between you like an invisible wall, keeping him out. You weren’t just avoiding him—you were avoiding everyone. And it hurt.
It hurt because he couldn’t see you. He couldn’t talk to you. He couldn’t hold you in his arms and kiss away the pain, couldn’t wipe the tears from your cheeks or make all your worries disappear. He wanted to tell you, face-to-face, how much you meant to him, how much he hated himself for letting this happen. But he couldn’t do any of that—not while you stayed hidden away in your common room, unreachable.
So, he waited. He stayed close, always looking for a chance, a moment, a sign. But until then, he would keep trying, keep hoping, because losing you was something he couldn’t bear.
And he did keep trying. Every day, he checked the places you’d usually be—the library where you’d bury yourself in books, the quiet corner of the courtyard where you’d sit when you needed to think, even the kitchens, where you’d sometimes sneak a late-night snack.
But you weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere.
The less he saw of you, the less he heard of you, the more desperate he grew. His patience—what little he had left—was wearing thin. He couldn’t focus in class, couldn’t eat properly, couldn’t sleep without his thoughts drifting back to you. He wanted—no, needed—to see you. To hear your voice, to know that you were okay, that you didn’t hate him. The thought of you hating him gnawed at his heart like a cruel curse.
He tried to remind himself to give you time, to respect the space you clearly needed. But it was hard. Too hard. Every day that passed felt like another piece of you slipping further away, and he couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.
When another one of your housemates brushed him off with a mumbled “I don’t know,” Heeseung snapped. He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but the frustration and worry boiled over. “How can you not know? You live with her! Hasn’t anyone even seen her?”
The girl flinched but reluctantly admitted, “She’s been in the dorm. She just... doesn’t come out.”
Those words were both a relief and a torment. You were there, within reach, but still so far away from him. The knowledge burned in his chest, twisting into something unbearable. You were so close—just a few walls separating you from him—but it might as well have been an ocean. And he was drowning in it.
Heeseung's desperation grew with every passing moment. He found himself pacing the corridors near your common room, running his hands through his hair, muttering curses under his breath. He couldn’t stand this helplessness, couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone, hurting because of him. The guilt was suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of the castle itself.
He tried to write another letter, his trembling hands scrawling messy, frantic words onto the parchment.
Baby, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know you don’t want to see me, but please, just let me explain. Please let me make this right.
He crumpled it and started again, feeling like no words could possibly convey the storm in his chest. How could he put into words how much he hated himself for what happened? How could he tell you that the worst part of it all wasn’t Yoonhee’s betrayal or the humiliation of being under the potion’s effects—it was losing you?
He sent the letter anyway, knowing it was just one of many you’d likely left unopened.
The next day, he cornered one of your closest friends in the hallway. “Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please tell her I’m sorry. Tell her... tell her I’ll wait as long as it takes. I just need her to know.”
The friend hesitated, giving him a pitying look before nodding. But he didn’t trust that it would reach you. Heeseung was running out of patience, running out of hope. Every time he thought about the tears you must have shed, the pain you must have felt, it killed him a little more.
Late one night, he found himself back outside your common room again, leaning against the cold stone wall, staring blankly at the entrance. He didn’t even know what he was doing there. Maybe he hoped you’d come out? Maybe he thought you’d sense him there, that you’d realize he wasn’t going anywhere until you let him in.
His fists clenched at his sides, and before he could stop himself, he let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against the wall, his shoulders slumping. “I’ll wait. As long as it takes... I’ll wait for you.”
His voice cracked on the last words, but he meant it. Even if it hurt. Even if it felt like he was being torn apart. You were worth it. You were everything.
Eventually, the Christmas Ball arrived, but Heeseung didn’t want to go. The last thing he wanted was to pretend to enjoy himself, but his friends had other plans. They nagged him, teased him, and pushed him to "just have some fun for once." After a mountain of peer pressure, he reluctantly gave in, throwing on his suit and styling his hair without much care.
He still didn’t expect much. The Ball wasn’t going to fix anything—it was just a night to endure. He let his friends drag him along, had a drink or two, and resigned himself to the chatter around him. None of it mattered.
Until he saw you.
Everything else disappeared the moment his eyes found you across the room. You stood at the edge of the Grand Hall, illuminated by the soft glow of the enchanted snowflakes falling from the ceiling. Your dress shimmered, and you looked breathtaking. Stunning. Like a vision he didn’t deserve to see.
And then he realized—you were staring back at him.
His heart stopped. You weren’t avoiding him this time. You weren’t looking away. Your gaze was locked on his, full of something he couldn’t quite place—uncertainty, maybe? He didn’t care. All he knew was that you were here, and you were looking at him.
Before he could even process what he was doing, his feet started moving. His drink was left abandoned on a nearby table as he strode across the hall, weaving through the crowd until he was right in front of you.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
He had waited for you.
But now, he was done waiting.
For weeks, Heeseung had been nothing but patient, forcing himself to hold back when every fiber of his being screamed to see you, to talk to you, to fix things. He’d stayed away when he knew you needed space. He sent letters, messages, and even flowers, trying to show you he cared without pushing too hard.
And still, he never got a response.
But Heeseung told himself he could endure it, because you were worth it. He could be patient, be understanding, because he loved you. He was good for you, wasn’t he? He cared for you in ways no one else could. No one else would wait this long, worry this much, or fight this hard.
And yet, when he saw you standing there, in your pretty dress, something inside him snapped. He had been so good. He had done everything right. He had given you all the space you asked for, all the time you needed. But seeing you now, after everything, reminded him just how much he’d missed you. How much he’d longed for you. How much it hurt to be apart.
He wasn’t going to let you slip through his fingers again. Not when he knew how good the two of you were together.
He didn’t ask for permission when he reached for your hand, didn’t even hesitate—he simply took it, his fingers curling around yours like they belonged there. Because they did. He believed that with every beat of his heart.
As he pulled you toward the corridor, he felt his resolve solidify. He had been patient, more patient than he thought he was capable of, but patience had its limits. He had waited for you to come to him, but you hadn’t. And now that he had you in front of him, he wasn’t going to let you go.
And when you didn’t fight him as he led you into the quiet hallway, it gave him hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, you wanted this too.
a/n: i love writing his pov :) also im not sure when you put ur perm taglist... so im not adding it here xD already posted so much.
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chloe-petrichors · 10 months ago
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seething, blooming // jace x reader
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your father has always been something of an opportunist, but trying to marry you off to the blacks while he courts the greens? this is taking playing the game to a whole new level.
the rose discovers she is an instrument of war. —victor hugo.
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fandom; house of the dragon pairing; jacaerys velaryon x f!tyrell!reader (no use of y/n) warnings; canon au (set after aegon takes the crown but before luke's death bc luke will never die in my eyes), altered timeline (jace and reader are in their 20s), arranged marriage, mention parental death/death in childbed (reader's mother), love at first sight vibes, jace is a flirtatious little shit with his betrothed, tooth rotting fluff, love confessions. word count; 6k+ notes; one day i might write for another man. but that day is not today. jace velaryon u have my heart. i'm not majorly pleased w this fic but it's given me enough trouble and it's as good as it's gonna get! this was longer originally, and was meant to be a bit more political at first hence the blurb/quote choice, but i haaated some of the scenes so ended up scrapping 'em. she's not as long as predicted as a result but still an ok length i think. some of the scenes i scrapped were tragically the smut ones, so have this fairly pg one-shot with the promise of the smut-shot sitting in my drafts coming ur way soon. fair warning that the scrapping of scenes has fudged with the pacing a bit but honestly i can't take this fic sitting in my drafts any longer so here u go!! i have a taglist now, mostly cos eldrith keeps telling me i have to tag her in everything, so lmk if you'd like to be added to it! requests; are open !
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the rising sun paints highgarden in shades of pink and gold.
you stand upon your balcony, finger curled loosely over the pale marble as you stare distantly out over the rolling green fields and blooming gardens. the faint bubbling of the river mander in the distance adds to the peaceful morning, the early wash of sunlight coaxing the sleeping world into life. a cool breeze carries the sweet smell of roses and you take a steadying breath, eyes fluttering shut as you tilt your face up to the sun.
it's a morning that starts like many others. you’ve always risen from bed early, the slow blooming of morning stirring you from slumber more often than not. birds chirp and bees buzz and the river flows and you rise with it, like part of you calls to the breaking dawn.
if not for the thick sheaf of parchment discarded on your father’s desk, it could be a morning like any other. but the parchment is there, and this day will be like no other before it.
today, a dragon is expected at highgarden.
a targaryen has not stepped foot in the reach since before you were born. you don’t think even the princess rhaenyra – queen, now, according to some – had come this far on her marriage tour years ago. but your father has taken it upon himself to invite a prince to your home.
you love your father deeply, but in this you think he must be a fool. as lord paramount of the reach he is, in theory, the power of this kingdom. but anyone with a lick of sense knows that it’s the hightowers that the people look to; oldtown is home to the starry sept, the citadel and, perhaps more importantly, the dowager queen’s family line.
the tyrells have only been in power for a few generations, and people’s memories are long. too many know the truth of how house tyrell had been only a steward when the gardener kings had ruled before the conquest. and so too many see tyrell as a house grasping for power that should be beyond their fingers, and your father is apparently determined to prove them all right.
he’s been careful about his neutrality as war threatens to break out between the targaryen kin, brother and sister both claiming their right to the throne and the realm splitting down the middle. your father has not officially allied with either side, walking a careful tightrope to appease both. up until now you had assumed he sided more with the greens, but he’d sent your assumptions crumbling with only a few sheets of parchment.
your father has always been too ambitious for his own good.
gods, how you miss your mother. when she’d been alive, she’d tempered the worst of your father’s foolishness. she’d been a stark before she’d married, steadfast and sensible in the face of your father’s folly. she’d been a woman unlike any other you’ve known; ferocious and a little wild, but with a good heart and a warm smile for any she’d met.
she’d taught you how to be a lady, but so much more than that – she’d taught you to know your own mind. to know when to mind your tongue and when to speak, how to grow your roots so deep you will always stand tall, flourishing and growing like the most determined of flowers. she’d taught you a little of that northern ice, too, reminding you oft that for as much as you were a rose of highgarden you were equally a wolf of the north, and the wolf’s blood has always run thick in your veins. 
she’d called you her little winter rose; delicate and steely and a rare bloom, indeed. she had loved you so fiercely you’d flourished with her tender care, just as the patch of winter roses she’d brought from the glass gardens of winterfell had bloomed ‘neath her careful ministrations. a piece of the north she’d brought south with her, a tiny bit of her home that she’d cradled and cared for until the day you’d lost her to the birthing bed.
your little brother is nearing six, now, and many moons have passed since the sudden grief of your mother had overwhelmed you. but, in recent days you have ached with her loss more often, wondering what she would think of your father’s plans, what she would say to soothe your storm of anxiety. with your looming marriage you find yourself missing your mother acutely, the grief a reopened wound in your chest.
because you are a betrothed woman, now, to be married to a stranger, a prince who is sure to be fighting a war against his kin in the moons to come.
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the velaryon prince arrives on dragon back as the sun reaches its peak in the sky.
he dismounts his winged steed in an empty stretch of land a distance from the keep itself, and your father greets him there with a host of staff to accompany him back to the entrance courtyard.
your brother leo bounces in place beside you where you stand with the rest of the household in the courtyard, fairly vibrating with energy at the prospect of seeing a real-life dragon. since the news of the prince’s arrival was announced a sennight ago, leo has done little else but babble about dragons and magic and targaryens. you wish you could share his excitement, his sheer uncomplicated joy, but this visit comes with too many conflicting emotions for you to enjoy it at all.
you’ve always known you would not marry for love. you are the eldest child and only daughter of the lord of the reach – love has never been a factor you could afford to consider. you would do your duty and marry for your house, to seal whatever alliance your father deemed important enough. you’d resigned yourself to this fate as a young girl when your mother had told you in slow, halting words the fear she had felt coming south to marry your father.
but you’d not expected to marry a total stranger. you’d thought your father would at least do you the courtesy of allowing you to meet a suitor before betrothing you to them, but in his feverish ambition to sit his blood on the iron throne he’d promised you to a man you’ve never laid eyes upon.
you don’t want to be queen.
frankly, you think yourself a touch unsuited for it. your father has many times bemoaned your wildness, the wolfs blood that drives you to stubborn recklessness. though you’ve mellowed a little with age and experience, you think you’re still a bit too prone to chaos to be queen of the seven kingdoms one day. never mind the complexities added by the fact that queen rhaenyra’s claim is so fiercely contested, and her half-brother is the one currently physically sitting the iron throne.
thinking about the mess you’re marrying into too much makes your head ache, and the blazing noon sun does little to ease it. leo beside you continues to whisper rapidly about everything he knows about dragons, which is actually quite a lot considering his young age. you think absently you might need to have a word with the maester’s again; leo has wrapped most of the household around his finger, and the elderly maester is prone to indulging your brother when he fixates on a new topic of interest instead of sticking to his lessons.
the sound of hooves on cobble stones startles you from your meandering thoughts, and you straighten your spine as your eyes take in the unfamiliar man riding into the courtyard beside your father while your brother finally falls silent.
he’s handsome, at least; a tumble of dark curls brushing his shoulders, a sharp jaw and a strong nose. though you like to think yourself more than superficial, it eases at least some of your worries to know the prince is attractive to you. your mother had done you the courtesy of explaining what was expected of you on your wedding night after your first moons blood, and in secret since you’d perused the library for books detailing more lustful acts in an effort to satiate your unending curiosity.
you’re worried enough about completing your wifely duties without having to worry about finding the man lying with you repulsive, and so you allow yourself a few moments of relief at his pretty face.
your father dismounts first, gesturing for you to step forward as the prince gets down from his own horse. leo moves forward with you, eyes wide and shining with something akin to hero worship as he gazes at jacaerys. you have a wry thought that perhaps he should marry him since he is so clearly already enamoured, but you brush that aside as your father and the prince approach.
“i am most pleased to introduce my daughter, your grace, as well as my son and heir, leo,” your father says as they reach you, his satisfaction in his successful planning clear as he smiles smugly.
you dip into a perfect curtsey as leo bows a touch clumsily at your side. as heir it would traditionally be leo’s job to greet the prince, but when you send him a sidelong glance you see he is too busy making moon eyes at the darkhaired man to say anything, and so you take it upon yourself to speak.
“welcome to highgarden, my prince. we are honoured to host you,” you greet, finally meeting jacaerys’s eyes. they’re a warm amber shade, the noon sun turning them to liquid honey as he looks at you, and you feel your cheeks flush with the appreciation you can see in his gaze as he drinks you in. it seems he does not find you repulsive either, at least.
he sketches a quick bow, eyes never leaving yours, and you feel your heart start to race in your chest at his attention. “it is an honour to be here, my lady, and to finally make your acquaintance.” he smiles at you then, small and a little crooked but there, and your flush deepens. “i look forward to getting to know you better in the coming days.”
you swallow, hoping your budding attraction is not as obvious as you fear it is. your father is looking increasingly smug as he watches the interaction, though it seems to war with some paternal annoyance as jacaerys lightly flirts with you.
“and i you,” you return softly, a smile quirking on your lips.
“—can i meet your dragon?” leo bursts out, seemingly unable to contain himself any longer, and jacaerys blinks down at him in surprise as you resist the urge to press your palm to your face.
“leo,” you scold immediately as your father chortles at his heir’s enthusiasm for dragons. “the prince has had a long journey. you should give him a chance to settle in before demanding anything of him.”
“right you are, my dear.” your father waves to the household steward before turning to the prince. “alyn will show you to your rooms, your grace, so that you might freshen up, and then we have a feast prepared for this evening to welcome you to highgarden.”
jacaerys nods easily as the greeting crowd begins to disperse, the maester corralling leo to take him for his lessons with fond exasperation even as the boy loudly protests. you mean to go walk the gardens, and so you stay standing in place as the prince trails after your father and steward alyn.
he pauses beside you, though, a slight smile on his face as you look up at him questioningly. your eyes catch on the smattering of freckles on his face, and it takes a moment for you to process his words. “i look forward to speaking to you further at the feast, my lady.”
you smile back at him, cheeks flushing once again as his eyes linger on your mouth for a breathless moment. “i shall save you a dance, my prince,” you return a touch coyly, tucking your hair behind your ear.
“only one dance?” he teases, eyebrow arching.
you hum, head tilting to the side in mock consideration as something like satisfaction gleams in jacaerys’s eyes. “i shall have to use the first dance to judge your dancing skills, your grace, before i risk promising you another.”
he laughs then, a little surprised but no doubt pleased as his eyes crinkle with his wide smile. “then i shall do my best to meet your standards, my lady.” he dips into a quick bow of farewell, then, as you finally take note of your father lingering on the steps to the keep with raised eyebrows.
“we shall see,” you return as you curtsey.
you allow yourself a moment to watch his retreating back, eyes dragging over the strong line of his shoulders before you internally shake yourself and head to the gardens, thoughts swimming with honey brown eyes and tanned, freckled skin and a slow dawning certainty that while this betrothal may be unexpected, you doubt it will leave you unsatisfied.
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the feast is in full swing by the time the prince arrives at the hall.
the minstrels are playing a jaunty tune as couples twirl on the dance floor. you sit at the head table with leo and your father, watching with a careful eye as your brother cuts up his food. he’s only just mastered the art of eating his food without spilling half if it down his doublet, but as distracted as he is by the festivities and the prospect of seeing a dragon close up, you worry he’s at risk of making a mess of himself regardless.
so absorbed in your task you are, it takes a long moment for you to realise jacaerys has arrived. it’s only when your skin prickles with awareness that you look up from leo and catch sight of the prince winding his way across the floor to the head table, eyes fixed on you. your head tilts to the side slightly as you watch him move, graceful and controlled, through the crowd.
he’s in black and red again, just as he had been when he’d arrived. it seems your father had been right when he’d stated that jacaerys favours his mother’s house colours. you smooth your hand over the skirts of your dress, the deep wine-red of the material feeling less out of place now, before standing with your father to greet the prince.
you all exchange pleasantries quickly as the noise in the hall dims, people realising the prince has arrived. your father ushers jacaerys into the empty seat between you and your father as he raises his goblet to the hall before speaking in his booming voice.
you don’t pay attention to your father’s speech, too aware of the warmth radiating from jacaerys who stands only inches from you to focus. you risk a glance at him from the corner of your eyes only to find his dark honey eyes fixed on you, and you cannot help but smile to yourself even as you flush, turning your eyes back to the crowd.
rousing applause and cheers draw you back to the moment, and you catch yourself in time to raise your wine in toast with your father. you go to sit back down as the crowd returns to its revelries, but the soft brush of a hand on your arm halts your movement. you turn expectingly to the prince, a soft smile on your lips.
“yes, your grace?”
“would you do me the honour of a dance, my lady?”
your lips quirk into a sly smile even as you bob your head in a nod. “i suppose i did promise you one, did i not?”
“that you did, my lady, and i have thought of nothing else since.” dark honey eyes sparkle with mirth as he offers you his hand, and with a quiet giggle you take it and allow him to lead you to the dance floor.
you feel the heat of his hand on your waist like a brand even through the layers of your dress, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. you inhale deeply in an effort to steady yourself as you rest your palm on his strong shoulder, and are immediately overwhelmed by the woodsy scent of him as he claps your hand in his and begins to dance.
you start the dance in comfortable silence, both of you taking a few moments to get a feel for the other and settle into the steps, and when you feel comfortable enough you speak.
“how are you finding highgarden, prince jacaerys?”
“jace, please,” he entreats, and elaborates only when you blink at him in confusion. “my friends and family call me jace, not jacaerys. we are to be married, my lady. it would please me a great deal for my future wife to refer to me as such.”
you nod in acceptance, butterflies erupting in your stomach at his eager expression. “jace it is, then,” you say, and try not to feel the way your heart flutters at his radiant smile in response. “although you have not answered my question. how are you finding highgarden?”
he hums, twirling you as the dance requires and then pulling you closer before responding. “your father has been very hospitable, and it is certainly beautiful here. the grounds especially, though i’m afraid i’ve not had the opportunity to see much of them as yet.”
“a shame we shall have to rectify, i think.” you offer him a small smile as you press just an inch closer, finding yourself wanting to be nearer him. “perhaps i could show you the gardens on the morrow?”
“yes,” he agrees a touch too quickly, and you giggle as his cheeks turn pink. “that is to say— i should like that very much, my lady. very much indeed.”
you lapse into silence once more as the dance reaches its crescendo, and you find yourself reluctant to leave the comfort of his hands as the music pauses while the minstrels ready their next song.
jace seems to share the sentiment, it seems, as his eyes linger on your entwined hands for a long moment before returning to your face. “have i met your standards enough for another dance, then?”
you take a moment to pretend to consider it, eyes narrowing slightly as you hum. he shuffles on his feet as he waits for your response, and you find the nervous motion far too endearing.
“i suppose so,” you concede after a moment, grinning at his smugly pleased smile as he tugs you closer.
“and what about the dance after that?” he asks lightly, something cheeky in his eyes as the music starts up again and he sweeps you along the floor.
“you should not press your luck, jace,” you say imperiously, although the effect is rather ruined by the silly smile on your face as he laughs with you.
jacaerys smirks. “my lady, since meeting you, i have felt nothing but a lucky man.”
you smother a snort, shaking your head at his unrepentant expression. “you are incorrigible.” it comes out a touch exasperated and yet far too fond.
“yes,” the prince agrees readily, a sly twinkle in his eyes. “but i think you rather enjoy it.”
your startled laugh is loud, though thankfully not so loud as to be heard over the minstrels. “perhaps.”
after that, the night is lost to flirtatious banter and dance after dance in your betrothed’s arms as a seed of affection is planted deep in your heart. and when you wake in the morning after dreaming of nothing but jace’s lips and eyes and words, you can think only one thought;
gods, i am in so much trouble.
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time passes in a slow trickle of syrupy summer heat.
as the days go by, you find yourself spending more and more time in jace’s company. you’re always chaperoned, of course, a household guard following at a respectful distance wherever the two of you choose to roam. you find the whole thing a touch ridiculous; jace is to be your husband. it’s hardly like spending time together alone would be a significant scandal in light of your impending marriage, but your father insists there will be no doubts about your honour before the marriage actually takes place and so ser dickon is assigned as your reluctant shadow.
the date of the wedding itself remains unset as you and jace start to know one another. your father wishes for the marriage to wait until the war is done – a last-ditch chance to keep his options open, perhaps. Or, if you are feeling generous, a way to try and keep you safe from the greens when war inevitably rages. jace’s mother wishes the marriage to happen as soon as can be arranged – a way to try and ensure further heirs with the uncertainty of war looming, you assume.
you find yourself hoping the queen’s will wins the day as time creeps on. jace becomes ever dearer to you the more you learn about him, and soon you think of your impending marriage with nothing but hope and warm desire.
because oh, how you want him. from the first moment you’d laid eyes upon him you’d been attracted to him, but the more you get to know him, the more your heart opens to him – the more you ache for him. for his mouth on yours, his fingertips on your skin, his voice in your ear. if you were a less reckless woman, a little less shameless, you’d be embarrassed of how easily you think of him in your moments apart.
but late at night when the candles burn low and you are alone in your bed, there is no shame to be found, only the wildness of your wolfs blood and liquid heat as your hand drifts between your legs and you find completion with your betrothed’s name on your lips.
beyond the desire, though, is a slow blooming affection. it feels like every time you learn something new about him or share a new experience together, another petal of tenderness unfurls in your chest. when your father had first told you about your betrothal, you’d not dared to hope for more than civility with your husband-to-be, but now you find yourself harbouring deep fondness on top of steadily burning desire, and you look to your future as his wife with little else but excitement.
you’re not sure if jace feels the same. you don’t doubt he desires you; his flirtation and the weight of his gaze on your form is too frequent a thing for you to think otherwise. but desire is not the same as affection, and though you hope desperately that the way he always seeks your presence whenever he steps into a room means what you want it to mean, you can’t be sure.
after a week passes, you both start to chafe at the relentless presence of ser dickon. it feels like every time you so much as think about inching closer to jacaerys, ser dickon is there with his stern glare of disapproval. and so, when one morning jace suggests taking you to meet his dragon, alone, you are quick to agree.
you leave your guard long behind at jace’s instruction; he doesn’t want vermax crowded with strangers, he explains, but you personally think he seems a little too gleeful at the idea of being alone with you for that to be sole reason behind his insistence ser dickon stays far away. you don’t say anything since you’re equally pleased to finally be spending some time with your betrothed without feeling others curious eyes on you.
your excitement starts to waver, however, as you and jace get closer to his dragon. you’ve only seen vermax from a distance before this, and though it perhaps shouldn’t the size of him startles you. he’s just so large and fierce looking, the sharp spines on his back catching your eye. the beast yawns as you slow to a stop, jace sending you a quick smile before he continues on to greet his dragon with fondness, and the glimpse into vermax’s open maw – gods, there as so many teeth – has your palms starting to sweat.
jace stands beside his dragon, murmuring soothing words in high valyrian that you don’t understand as his hand smooths along his snout. your heart races in your chest, nerves making your hands shake when faced with this great beast. you curse your reckless curiosity, your northern stubbornness that makes it impossible for you to refuse a challenge. you have no idea how jace can look so at ease, the line of his shoulders relaxed and the slightest smile on his face as he talks to his winged steed, but there he stands.
“you can come closer now.” he turns to you, brown eyes shining with excitement and, yes, a hint of challenge.
he expects you to back out, you think, and that realisation has you straightening your spine and pressing your lips together. you twist your fingers in your skirts to hide the way they tremble as you step cautiously forward, eyes darting from jace to vermax and back. when you’re within touching distance of the velaryon prince, he reaches for your hand. the shock of his bare skin against yours arrests you for a moment, the slide of calloused fingers around your wrist startling in how easily it sparks desire in you.
you’re so distracted by the feel of him that you don’t realise until it’s too late that jace has tugged you closer, guiding your hand until it’s pressed to vermax’s scales, and then you’re too busy being surprised by how soft they feel to be annoyed that he’s so easily coaxed you into this position.
you still as the dragon rumbles, swallowing thickly as your fingers twitch against green scales. he blinks lazily at you, an alien intellect gleaming there as he seems to consider you for a long moment, and as you blink back at him some of the fear in your chest shakes loose.
because this is not just some beast, you realise. this is fire and blood and magic made flesh. there is life and intelligence in vermax’s eyes, not one you recognise but one you immediately respect. being this close to the dragon is a heady rush of awe and adrenaline; the knowledge that vermax could so easily harm you at any moment but is choosing not to because he trusts his rider. it’s staggering and wonderful and beside you jace is beaming, eyes shining with happiness at seeing you greet his draconic companion, and you are helplessly, hopelessly, wholly overwhelmed by your affection, your desire, by jace.
you kiss him.
it’s barely a kiss, more a breathless press of your mouth against his, and he startles at the sensation even as his arm loops around your waist. you break apart for the barest moment, nose sliding against his as you tilt your head, and jacaerys sighs out your name with heavy relief before he captures your mouth once more.
you’ve been kissed before, so you know the mechanics of it, but it’s never been like this. his lips move smoothly against yours as his hand flexes on your waist, drawing you closer until your chest is pressed against his. your hand tangles in his hair, fingers twisting in the soft curls and he moans with it, hand dragging up your back to cradle the back of your head tenderly as his tongue sweeps over your lips.
the gentle pressure of it has you gasping and he takes the opportunity immediately, tongue sliding against yours as heat pools in your core. your thoughts tumble wildly, incoherent as you can think of nothing but of how desperately you want more. the taste – the smell – the feel of him is drowning everything out that isn’t jace and you cannot resist it, do not even want to.
you want to kiss him forever, want his hand in your hair and his tongue in your mouth for always. you think he might even let you with how relentless he is, barely giving you a moments pause to catch your breath before consuming you in another desperate kiss.
you finally part only when vermax grumbles, cheeks blazing with heat as you step out of jace’s arms. jace murmurs lowly to his dragon in valyrian, and he nudges his great snout against jace’s shoulder in response before stepping away and curling down into the long grass to sleep. you take the moment to properly catch your breath again, hand pressing to your heaving chest in an effort to soothe your racing heart.
when you peek up at jace from beneath your lashes, you flush deeply at the sight of him. his curls are a mess, his lips swollen and cheeks pink beneath his tan. he looks almost debauched, and it sends a rush of desire through you. you suddenly can think of nothing other than him looking like this only flusher and skin glistening with sweat and in your bed.
the thought startles you into dropping your gaze to your feet, and you shuffle uncertainly. you feel – unsettled. you don’t think there’s anything wrong with sharing a kiss with your betrothed, and yet something like guilt curdles in your stomach as you worry at your bottom lip. you had kissed him. for all that he’d kissed you back, you worry that now he will think differently of you. think worse of you.
a knuckle tucks under your chin, then, lifting your face so that you meet jace’s eyes. you feel small and strangely vulnerable in the aftermath of your kiss, like you have somehow shown him something you never intended to, and the urge to shy away remains. but you are not a winter rose for nothing and so you tuck the doubt away as jace runs his thumb soothingly along the line of your jaw.
“i have been thinking of doing that since the moment you first smiled at me,” he confesses, a hint of shyness in the quirk of his lips even as he stares steadily into your eyes.
“oh.” you blink at him once in surprise, the uneasiness in you finally settling at the fondness in his gaze. “oh. that’s— good.” you curse yourself for your lack of wit in this moment as jace snickers.  “i-i mean, i’m glad that it was not… unwelcome.”
your betrothed looks at you with deep affection, then, cupping your cheek and ducking down to press a fleeting, butterfly-soft kiss to your mouth before reluctantly parting from you. “it was most welcome, my lady. most welcome, indeed.” his eyes sparkle with mirth. “i find myself looking forward to the next time you greet vermax, if this is the kind of response such a thing garners.”
“jace!” you narrow your eyes at him in pretend annoyance, even as you smother a giggle with your fingers. “you should not expect me to indulge in such desires again, then, if you persist in being so smug about it.”
his laugh warms you as the two of you fall into easy banter, leaving vermax to his rest and returning to the ever-watchful ser dickon, and all the while all you can think of is how much you cannot wait to kiss him again.
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as the air cools with the dying light of day, you lead jace to the gardens.
in the week since your first kiss, jace has oft tugged you into shadowy corners for more kisses any chance he’s had. his desire for you is matched only by your own for him, and as your confidence in your mutual attraction has grown, you have been equally as likely to pull him into a dark alcove to trade sweet words and sweet kisses in secret.
it’s thrilling and exciting and wonderful, but as the week passes you find a growing doubt whispering in the back of your mind.
while you cannot doubt jace desires you, not when he is so relentless in chasing after your smiling mouth, neither of you breathe a word of any feeling between you beyond attraction. perhaps it is reckless of you, foolhardy to fall for him so quickly – but then you are your parent’s daughter, all wolfs blood and deep roots, and you know no other way of being than this.
so you take him to the gardens as the moon rises in the sky, sneak past the night guards and out into the fresh air. you guide him through the blooming flowers and swaying trees, stopping along the while when the fancy takes one of you to stop and examine an interesting bloom or inhale a sweet scent. at least three times he stops you to slot his mouth against yours, to swallow your breathless giggling with feverish kisses, and each time he does it takes longer and longer for you to disentangle yourselves from each other.
eventually, with swollen lips and mussed hair, the two of you reach the winter roses. your effervescent mood becomes sombre as the moon shines on the blue flowers, turning the petals almost silver, and jace seems to recognise the change in atmosphere, a seriousness overtaking him as he watches you approach the flowers.
“my mother planted the first of these roses,” you tell jace as you kneel at the edge of the flowerbed, uncaring of the risk of dirt on your dress as you brush fingers over the pale blue petals tenderly. “winter roses, they are, from the north. from winterfell. she was born a stark, you see, and when she was betrothed to my father the only thing she asked was to be able to bring a few blooms from the glass gardens. she used to call me her little winter rose when i was a child, and she would bring me here and show me how to tend to them.”
jace kneels beside you, glancing at the side of your face before turning to look curiously at the blue flowers. “they’re beautiful,” he tells you sincerely.
“i’ve always thought so, too,” you agree almost absently, stroking the petals in an effort to calm your racing heart. “everyone told my mother she’d never be able to get them to grow so far south. they’re very rare, you see, and need very particular conditions.” your lips quirk up into a fond smile. “but my mother, for all that she became a tyrell, was always a stark at heart. stubborn, you know. and now look at them, thriving.”
you gesture out at the carefully tended rows of roses. “nobody else comes here, now, other than the gardeners and me. i think… i think my father finds it too hard, being here. it makes him miss her too much. so i come here when i need to be alone. or when i wish to be reminded of her. it's the one place in the world where i feel i can be wholly myself, without any pretence or worry.”
jace’s gaze is fixed on you, now, eyes almost black in the faint moonlight as understanding dawns on him. “thank you for bringing me here.”
you nod once, climbing back to your feet, and jace follows you. he watches you so intently, like he’s afraid that you might disappear if he dares to look away. you feel a little like you might, feel tenuous and vulnerable and a breath away from cracking your chest open.
“i’ve never brought anyone else here,” you confess quietly, flexing your fingers with nerves as jace’s lips part in surprise. “i wished… i wished to share this with you. to share who i am, myself, with you, i suppose.” you laugh a little self-deprecatingly. “however pretentious that sounds.”
“it doesn’t,” jace denies immediately. you sense he wants to say more, but he seems to understand that you’re building to saying something yourself, and so he stays quiet, expression earnest and open and fond as he gazes down at you.
“i know it’s perhaps too soon – we have only known each other a few weeks. but i… when i first found out we were betrothed, i was so scared. i worried you would be some arrogant princeling, and i dared not hope for anything more than civility between us. i’ve always known i would not marry for love, but i did not ever consider i would marry a man i had never met.”
you pause for long enough to suck in a breath, feeling a little like the floodgates have opened and you simply can’t stop speaking, can’t stop the feeling pouring freely from you. “and then i met you, and you were so unlike anything i’d expected. i know we still have so much more to learn about each other, and i know that things are— complicated, with the war, and that our marriage may be a ways off yet, but still— i find myself feeling for you, and i cannot hide it anymore. i don’t wish to hide it from you anymore.”
you let the open affection in his face buoy you as you steel yourself, pressing your shoulders back in a mimicry of confidence. “i wanted to show you this part of me, this place, because i….” you hesitate for a breathless moment, biting your lip, before gathering every scrap of courage you possess and diving in headfirst. “i am falling in love with you, jacaerys.”
you inhale the sweet scent of the pale blue petals deeply, let the familiar scent soothe you as jace stares at you with wide eyes. the winter roses are something that, until now, have been so uniquely yours. as you’d told jace, none other than you and the gardeners comes to this corner of the gardens now. the staff that tend so carefully to the flowers know to leave you well enough alone if they stumble across you, skirts splayed on the ground and fingers diligently caring for the roses. you’ve never even brought your sweet little brother, though you can admit that’s for practicality as much as anything else – his childish energy is a bit too boisterous for these delicate blooms.
bringing jace here, bringing him here to confess the deepening affection you harbour for him, feels raw. feels like you’re tearing your heart out of your chest and offering it up to him for perusal, hands bloody and soul bare. feels like saying ‘this is all that i am and all that i have been and all i will ever be and i hope, i hope, i hope it’s enough.’
jace finally, finally speaks, sighs your name, soft and sweet and tender, and hope blooms in your chest.
“oh, my sweet lady,” he murmurs, crowding into your space as he cups your cheek, and the smell of woodsmoke and dragon and jace floods your senses. “i am falling so unbelievably in love with you. only, it does not feel so much like falling as it is like choosing it, like walking into love with you with my eyes wide open and seeing nothing but you.”
it's almost unbearable, the blazing heat of his gaze as he presses his forehead against yours, and it makes you tremble as your hands clutch as his elbows in an effort to ground yourself to this moment, to him. “our betrothal was decided for us without care or consideration for our own desires,” he says, lips brushing against your own with every whispered word. “i know that as well as you, but i need you to know that if i had the choice i would choose this. i would choose you, your stubborn heart, your fierce spirit, your gracious soul.”
his hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holds you so tenderly like you are something precious, and it steals your breath from your lungs as you revel in his unbridled affection. “i care not when we marry, if we marry, in truth, because in my heart you are already mine just as i am already yours.”
he kisses you, then, a desperate and greedy thing, as if he can no longer restrain himself from devouring you whole. and you are just as needy, hands fisting in his doublet as you press yourself against him and somehow finding yourself wishing to be closer still. the world narrows down to him and him only; his mouth, his hands, his hair. you can think of nothing else, and do not wish to, because in this moment you are wholly yourself and he is wholly himself and it’s enough, it’s wonderful and delicate and it’s enough.
and, there beneath the moonlight and amongst the winter roses, deep and enduring affection, the kind of love the bards sing songs about, takes root.
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taglist; @eldrith
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alexispunkkk · 2 months ago
Text
taking care of jackson!joel
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JOEL MILLER is always up before the sun. but you’re up before him.
- you like to wake up earlier just for the sake of packing him little snacks in a brown paper bag. jerky, dried fruits, little pieces of banana bread all wrapped up in parchment. you tell him it’s to keep him strong. but it’s actually to keep his belly nice and soft for cuddling.
- every morning, you throw a handwritten note into the pocket of his coat. sometimes it’s just a little heart, sometimes a stupid pun—he’s come to love those, thanks to ellie. sometimes it’s a sweet ‘love you,’ or a reminder of what you’re planning to do when he gets home. sometimes you’ll leave a cheeky compliment. but each time, he rereads it every half hour just to see your handwriting.
- without failure, you tell him he’s handsome each time he’s almost out the door. you can’t let him leave without the compliment and a little ruffle of his messy hair. he grumbles, acts tough. but on the way out, he’s fumbling with his gear and blushing like a teenager.
- when it’s extra cold in the winter, you force him to wear a scarf. can’t have him getting sick. he mutters something about it being too tight, how he’ll be fine without one. but he stops protesting when you kiss his chin and show him how warm and snug it really is.
- he didn’t notice the little symbol you’d stitched into the inside of his coat a few weeks prior—a little heart with his initials. neither of you ever mention it, but each morning he traces it with his thumb, rubbing it like a worry stone whenever he’s out on patrol and feeling overwhelmed.
- you’ve made it a goal to say the same thing to him every morning: “come back to me in one piece.”
- and you never let him leave without pressing a kiss to each and every one of his knuckles.
when JOEL trudges in through door at night, you’re always waiting patiently.
- his boots are off before he can even ask. you kneel down, gently tugging them off for him. and each time, you press a soft kiss to his knee on the way back up.
- every night, dinner’s waiting for him. warm and fresh on the table, while the glow of the oven tells him there’s also dessert waiting there. and on the side, you wear his shirts. he doesn’t think there’s a better sight he could come home to.
- you peel his coat and patrol gear off one piece at a time, asking about his day alongside the undressing. you touch him like you’re grateful he made it back in one piece, and he doesn’t miss the way your gaze checks for any injuries.
- if it’s ever raining, you’re sure to meet him at the door with a towel. warmed up in the dryer for him, of course.
- on the extra long days, you run a hot bath for him. it soothes his old man muscles, relaxing him to the point where his eyes gloss over with love. you undress him softly and sit beside the tub, watching and helping. brush his hair back and wash the grime from his neck, you don’t care your clothes are getting wet.
- on the weekends, you like to trim his nails. get them nice and short and filed, cleaning the dirt from underneath with rubbing alcohol and the back of a cuticle pusher. when he (rarely) let’s you push back his cuticles, he grumbles. but he never stops you.
- you make sure he’s not hurt after each patrol—very obsessively. you check for little bruises and scars in every place imaginable. he’s learned to hide them because he doesn’t like to worry you, but you always end up finding them anyway.
- when you do find a cut, each one gets cleaned and fixed with a soft kiss. his head lays in your lap when you check him over, free hand stroking his hair.
- sometimes, he’ll let you cut his hair. always has the radio playing when you do it, and he can’t stop moving his head. you act annoyed, but you’re both smiling.
- you make sure to give him massages when he’s extra sore. he melts under your hands when you sit on his back and dig them into his shoulders. sleeps extra good those nights.
- each night ends with you tucked against his chest, both of you clean and loved. you kiss his forehead once, then again, then again. you lose count.
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yay quick little blurb because i didn’t feel like writing a chapter last night. apologies if i’m slacking on getting chapters out for god only knows or any oneshots i promised 💔💔 anyway i need this old man so bad i would treat him so right ho
the giver and chapter 6 of god only knows will drop today 🤫🤫 and they’re gonna be filthy so get excited!!!
comment or go in my asks for any requests! i’m happy to fulfill anything yall want mwah
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swordgrace · 3 months ago
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❝ 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 & 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞. ❞
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┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: as jon prepares to retake winterfell, you are dutifully by his side — and he is quick to remind you of his love.
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𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jon snow x fem!northern!reader.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.0K.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, smut with fluff, established relationship, lots of yearning & love declarations, making out, hair pulling, thigh riding/thigh grinding, switch!jon, fingering, mild dry humping, unprotected p in v sex, descriptions of cum/creampie, cowgirl position, obligatory stark breeding kink.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was based on a request that I received (and boy it was a good one!) I love writing for jon (esp later seasons he was HOT) and this was super fun! I hope you all enjoy, as always! 🫶
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Raven brows creased before splayed parchment, shoulders coiled with a thinly-veiled frustration, jaw terse and beset by the sting of exhaustion.
Nights spent toiling over Ramsay Bolton’s occupation of Winterfell had frayed his nerves until they were threadbare, pulled taut like a bowstring.
A silvery sigh plumed over Castle Black, glow of the moon sneaking through shuddered windows, candlelight creeping along dark walls like that of ivy.
Nestled within the humble trappings of his chambers, Jon’s plight seemed endless. Wildlings, Mormonts, and remnants of Northern bannerman were still too few to retake Winterfell, and time was growing dangerously thin.
Rest eluded him, slipping between his fingers like smoke, dissipating into the inky-black skies, the dusk blanketed by wisps of cloud. He’d developed some innate trepidation of turning his back, oft keeping one eye open, even if it meant sacrificing slumber.
Knives of his brothers still felt so visceral, raw; dozens of wounds, blistering with a betrayal that still resonated throughout his bones. His scars ached, throbbing with a dull agony that served as a constant reminder of what he was, of oaths tarnished.
Grayish circles hung heavy beneath earthen-hued eyes, a weathered countenance grizzled by the shadow of a dark beard, brows pinched together. Concentration seemed fleeting, his thoughts ripped apart by a great many things, and he knew that it was worthwhile to cease his nightly ruminations.
Still, the map toyed with him, Flayed Men perched atop Winterfell, jeering at him through parchment — Jon nearly swatted at the carved obelisk until a knock rattled at the door.
“Jon?”
There was an immediate wash of relief that rippled through him, your voice a touch of gracious sunlight coming to warm his features. The chill that permeated the air had grown temperate, glacial gales having quieted to passing breezes, skies without a drop of snow.
“Come,” His roughened timbre seemed to soften a touch, hinges groaning in protest as you slipped through the gap, swaddled in a massive cloak. “What are you still doing up?” Jon’s inquiry lacked malice, wrought with an obvious concern.
Whatever mystical presence you possessed, it eased his surging anguish without question, bringing him down from his pinnacle of frustration. Brown hues fluttered to your visage, stung by the gnaw of frost, though nothing short of an unparalleled beauty.
Jon’s heart lurched within his chest, as if you had brought an instantaneous warmth with you, as hot as the hearth that flickered beside him. His ardent love for you was made painfully obvious, as clear as a midsummer’s sky, laid bare for you to see.
Latching the door behind you with a fumble of an archaic lock, you turned, bones settling as the heat of his chambers welcomed you in. Relief crept over your flesh, bitten by the Northern chill, one that you were well-acquainted with already.
“I should ask you the very same.” Hushed, your footfalls fell over old wood, creaking beneath each step. Jon was both persistent and determined, and you knew he was stretched thin with the duties of a born leader, poised to reclaim your home.
Beneath the wolf’s pelt adorning your shoulders, your dress was lined with wool, a prettier garment that Sansa had hand-sewn for you. Tresses spilled over thick furs, unbound and unbraided, eclipsed by the fire’s amber glow.
An oppressive weight clung to his countenance, brows furrowed with a twinge of discontent. In a valiant attempt to remain optimistic for your sake, it all seemed to waver when your gaze held firm, failing to avert.
“I can’t,” Jon husked, rubbing a palm over his jaw before planting it atop the rickety desk. Roughened wood felt uneven beneath his hand, careworn by the passage of time. “I know what you’ll say — without rest, this won’t be any easier.”
He knew you exceedingly well, you thought, inching closer until you stood at his side, hand gingerly tracing along his arm, shrouded by a padded tunic. “I suppose I do not need to say anything at all — you’ve spoken for me.” The softness of your jest was unmistakable.
A low huff reverberated through his chest, a warmer sound that carried a hint of ease to it. “Prefer it if you’d speak — it’s the only thing worth listening to. I’m growing tired of hearing my own thoughts.” Jon countered, peering at you with a worn smile.
Exhaustion screamed from every fiber of his being, disquiet echoing amidst his tired gaze, and yet he remained present for you, even still. Tension remained furled within his body, coiled and tightly wound, traces of it taut within his muscles.
With a tender smile, Jon felt his flesh burn, as if stricken by fever, marrow singing your name with such ardent fervor. Effortlessly, you brought some semblance of peace to him, as if his toiling could finally meet some resolution, albeit temporarily.
Pressing a kiss to his scarred brow, you ensured that he had proper reassurance, knowing what great stress rests upon his shoulders. If it weren’t for what support he had, he might’ve been crushed beneath the weight of it all.
“The odds seem slim now, but you’ve not yet mustered all of your potential allies — there is still time,” In the serenity of your cadence, Jon found a shred of hope, however fleeting it might’ve been. “They will not appear if you stare at this table.”
Jon huffed, lips tugging into the ghost of a smile, knowing that your intentions were pious, pure of heart. “I want to believe you,” He uttered, gaze drifting toward the Bolton sigil, the Flayed Man leering at him, as if it were an unspoken taunt. “I hope it’s enough.”
Despite having proven himself many times over, coming back from the dead, slain White Walkers, bore the former mantle of Lord Commander — he never felt enough. Doubt clawed at the recesses of his mind, a conniving voice that filled him with a pang of dread.
Everyone else believed in him — he knew that it was an inner strength he possessed, but still felt lacking in, no matter how hard he tried.
Quietly, Jon reached for your hand, calloused digits folding over your own, feeling the icy sting of your flesh. With his attention now torn from the desk, he brought your palm to his mouth, roughened lips planting a kiss to satiny skin.
“It will be enough.” A gentle whisper ushered from your lips, instilled with an unwavering confidence in Jon, an unbreakable devotion. Still, he wanted to believe you, letting his vulnerability show, heart bared to you through the silence.
Briefly, foreheads brushed together, and he bent to reach you, eyelids fluttering shut as he absolved himself of any inner turmoil. A smile had graced your features, as if a permanent fixture, beguiled by your Northern paramour.
It was blissful, the wordless nature of the moment, allowing the both of you to bask in what comfort you found in another. Jon exhaled, breath tinged with hints of honeyed mead, flesh scented with hints of rugged leather and firewood.
“I love you.”
Resolute and with such certainty, Jon spoke it first, listening to the brief hitch that formed within your throat, an exhilarating sound. Tension began to unfurl from his form, whisked away with a steady exhale.
Between the journey to seek allies in the battle to come and mounting duties, he had not had a proper moment to be with you in the way that he desired.
No longer bearing the mantle of Lord Commander, what vows he swore to the Night’s Watch were nonexistent, instead replaced by a vow to you, a vow of love. A shiver iced your spine with such familiar words, never failing to make you yearn so intensely.
“As I love you,” With a beguiling sigh, as saccharine as blooming meadows, your presence consumed him with an overwhelming sweetness. Inklings of an ardent desire took root, coupled with longing, the wanton need to hold your heart. “Rest from this.”
He was of little use to anyone, deprived of rest, buried beneath the weight of oaths sworn to others, duty tethering him to other responsibilities. A night of proper respite away from that damned table would do him some good.
Jon nodded, pressing a kiss to your jaw, another beneath your eye, lips warm and touched by fire. A calloused palm cradled the nape of your neck, fingertips finding the silken tresses there, eliciting a hum of contentment from you.
As he allowed himself a moment’s peace, those umber hues of his softened, languidly tracing your form, swathed in thick furs and layers of wool, warding off the Northern chill. Beauty seemed so effortless for you, bewitching him with such ease, as if you were some enchantress.
Hushed, Jon moved to sit atop the impressive footlocker at the foot of his bed, draped in pelts of elk and bear, formerly belonging to Lord Mormont. “Your dress — did Sansa make that for you?” He inquired, recognizing the direwolf embroidery sewn onto your collar.
“She did,” With an amiable smile, you lowered yourself to his side, comfortable as you unclasped the buckles of your cloak. It was beginning to grow rather tepid within his chambers, a welcoming heat that melted away any semblance of cold. “She’s quite talented.”
A low huff inhabited his throat, lips maintaining a threadbare smile, exhaustion still tugging at the fringes of his visage. Reaching toward your collarbone, his digits gently traced the direwolf sigil, emblazoned upon the garment.
“You’re beautiful,” Jon uttered, catching the hitch that formed within your throat. Raven-hued brows drew apart, countenance warmed with a peculiar tenderness, one that he reserved for you. “It suits you.” His sigil suited you, his house — the words carried such ardent affections.
Heat licked across your spine, belly beginning to stir with a familiar warmth, butterflies erupting within as you treated him to a delighted simper. “It does,” In agreement, your hand lifted to join his, fingers interlocking as you brought it to your lap. “You should rest, Jon.”
Despite your well-mannered suggestion, his thoughts were less concerned with slumber, and more concerned with you. The hand that had fallen into your lap became contorted with a blossoming desire, heart stammering as his digits flexed against your thigh.
“Should I?”
An unmistakable huskiness permeated his tone, cadence laced with a thinly-veiled neediness. He hadn’t touched you in days, duty keeping him at-bay, and he could bear it no longer. As his inquiry lingered between bodies, your lips parted.
“You should,” Your insistence became somewhat weak, wavering in the wake of his desirous question, as sharp as steel. “Unless you’ve something else on your mind.” With a feigned naivety, your mouth twitched into a subtle leer.
Ardor resonated from his chuckle, hand idly caressing over your clothed thigh, as if walking the thin line of restraint. “Nothing proper,” Jon exhaled, absentmindedly tilting forward. “I want you.” His confession made your bones lurch.
Once the fire was stoked, it was difficult to smother it.
Without a shred of hesitation, you bridged the distance, hand ensnaring itself against the front of his leather jerkin. Lips collided in a heated exchange of fiery affection, your stomach flooding with molten heat.
“I need you terribly,” Sighed into the depths of his mouth, a wanton utterance tangled between kisses, Jon felt his muscles contort with excitement. He let your words sink into him, like talons, clawing for his heart; his heart belonged to you. “Jon.”
Between deepened kisses, he coaxed you closer, strong hands drifting to the swell of your hips as he urged you into his lap. Skirts shuffled, fabric hastily adjusted as he slotted you atop one thigh, muscle firm and tense between your legs.
There was a sense of relief he felt, lost within the labyrinth of your lips, passion burning with a searing intensity. Whatever stress that he’d felt before began to unfurl from his shoulders, abandoned to the sanctity of your presence.
As you found your place atop his thigh, your hands clutched at his tunic, over padded cloth and leather, feeling his palms smooth across your hips. Caging you in, his beard scratched ragged against silken flesh, mouths continuing to collide in an endless clash.
Lungs burned, wilted in the flame of his kiss, evoking a breathy moan that ripped through your diaphragm. Hips lurched forward, a sluggish roll as friction grew between his thigh and your clothed nethers, nearly making you writhe.
Days of repressed passion had blazed to the surface with a vengeance; a violent loving, a volatile ardor that seemed to consume the both of you. Digits eagerly sank into your haunches, roving over concealed flesh until he found the leather ties of your bodice.
In a clamor of bodies, your knee happened to brush over the growing tent in his trousers, eliciting a low groan from his lips. Still, you rocked yourself atop his thigh, unable to smother a whimper as kisses began to cease, foreheads pressed flush together.
With each carnal tryst, it all felt so invigorated, as if he were touching you for the first time all over again. Whatever glacial sting had permeated the air, it began to dissipate, the cold dying where heat prevailed. As lips brushed over one another, Jon stirred with a grunt, pupils black with desire.
A gentle, uttered string of breathy ‘I love you’s’ left you over and over again, each kiss ripping the air from your lungs, leaving your heart hammering beneath your breast. It left him burning, shrouded by your ardent flame, strong enough to extinguish the infinite chill.
“I want to see you.” Jon rasped, low and wanton, failing to conceal the blistering need he had for you. Digits pressed incessantly against the leather ties of your coarse gown, begging for a glimpse of bare flesh, and you obliged with a mere nod.
As he gently tugged upon the thicker threads, the fabric sagged upon your shoulders, allowing you to writhe from it, pooling around your abdomen. The velveteen plane of your skin glistened beneath dancing firelight, bathing you in the shades of waning embers, a sunset made flesh.
He had seen you naked several times already — and yet it never failed to make his breath hitch, nerves ablaze with boyish glee. “Gods, you’re beautiful.” With a tremulous exhale, his warm breath plumed at your visage.
As wool and hide peeled away from your body, Jon’s rugged mouth moved to your jaw, kisses slow and passionate, climbing over your throat. The grizzled scratch of his beard prickled against your neck, a grounding reminder of this blissful moment.
A sharp gasp penetrated your lungs, laced with exhilaration and an excitable zeal, hands draped over his shoulders. Insistent, your hips urged in a rhythmic dance, grinding yourself still against the taut muscle of his thigh.
Silken digits raked toward the nape of his neck, burying themselves like talons within his mane of dusky curls, evoking a grunt from him. “Jon.” A wanton sigh tumbled from your lips, his name akin to some sacred incantation.
A gale of fire churned ceaselessly within the pit of your stomach, a sensation not often quelled. You had let it burn, let it lick across your flesh like some blistering plague, friction still burning between the both of you.
Bridging the gap between you once more, lips sealed themselves together, his palm moving to cup your jaw. It was inherently tender, the purpose of it ensuring that you knew the depths of his devotion. Hearts beat with a swift intensity, akin to that of a bird’s wings.
As mouths clawed for one another, a gnawing ache began to fester within your stomach, manifesting as arousal that coalesced between your legs. Ceaselessly, you continued to grind your nethers against his thigh, a soft moan ensnared within your throat, bubbling to the surface.
There is little space between you, replaced with a heated friction that seeps into your bones. No longer tormented by the plague of the Northern chill, Jon is eager to rid you of this cold, one hand steadying you atop his thigh.
The rough pad of his thumb caresses circles over your jaw, lips connecting again, and then another, swollen from countless kisses. He withdraws, only to kiss over your collarbone, hand dropping with it as he cups your breast.
Unexpectedly, your satiny lips found the column of his throat, pressing a string of appreciative kisses there as he kneaded your chest. A sweet, keening groan escaped him, abashed at your embrace.
An unfettered bliss contorts your countenance, a thing of beauty, untainted still by the cruelty of the world. Jon cannot help but be wholly mesmerized, earthen hues occasionally flickering to find your face, his own features warming with a scarlet flush.
Committing this moment to memory, his lips continue to lavish passionate kisses against your throat, seeking the hollow between neck and shoulder. Your fingers grip and tug at his curls, mouth parted, erupting with a cacophony of gentle moans.
It is only when your hand ghosts over his chest that his concentration shatters, resolve turning to a pleasant startlement as your palm finds the tent in his breeches. A low groan paints your flesh in wisps of heat as his hold upon your hip tightens.
A coil pulls taut within his abdomen, an intensity that he had become acquainted with, lips parting as he continues to let you ride his thigh. The friction is nearly blinding, an exhilarating thing that leaves his chest burning, his need for you marrow-deep.
“I love you.” It escapes from your maw, desperate and ardent, more of a declaration than a statement. Jon has never grown tired of hearing you say it, especially now, countenance a picture of bliss, peering at him through a hooded stare.
Jon feels his flesh begin to warm, pale flesh flourishing with a light shade of vermilion, his heart slamming beneath his chest like a hammer against an anvil. Kneading at your breast, his head descends, enough to momentarily pepper your chest with kisses.
An urgent ache throbs within his cock, which continues to strain with obvious need against his trousers. Undeterred, your silken hand grinded over the swell once more, as if tempting him, goading him into taking you then and there.
A hoarse ‘fuck’ hisses beneath his breath, a subtle noise that you nearly miss, if it weren’t for his sigh pluming over your sternum. The sound makes you crave him, a yearning that is all-devouring, like that of fire, blanketing your bones in desire.
His gaze shifts to yours, doe-eyed and sparkling through waning firelight, searching for unspoken answers. “You’re perfect.” Jon utters; low, tinged with adoration as your fingers comb through his curls, planting a kiss to his grizzled jaw.
“As are you — completely perfect.” Your words send a shiver through his spine, pretty remarks that evoke a surge of molten heat from his bones. Caging you atop his thigh, Jon looks to you for consent, hands shifting toward your skirts.
With a deliberate nod, you shift enough for his hands to ruck your skirts up, hands threading into rough-hewn fabric, revealing pliant thighs. More often than not, he would take his time with you, savor it all, but neediness seemed to get in the way.
Admittedly, you were just as pent-up, desperate to feel him inside of you. Arousal began to coalesce between your thighs, an incessant ache that spread throughout your belly, a fire that demanded to be extinguished.
As the hem of your gown settled in a heap around your hips, your position adjusted, fully straddling Jon’s lap, hands finding the coarse threads of his trousers. His hands kneaded against your hips, digits caressing pliant flesh.
Foreheads ghosted over one another, lips connecting in brief, wanton entanglements as you went about freeing his cock. A pleading moan tumbled from your mouth, lost within the heat of your kiss.
The prodding of his cock against your slick petals made your head spin with a delirious desire, hands finding their purchase atop his shoulders. “Jon,” His name was steeped in reverence, mouths brushing over the other, bodies poised. “I missed you terribly.” You sighed.
Jon swallowed the growing lump within his throat, having to claw for composure, countenance blossoming with desire. “I need you,” He huffed; raw, vulnerable — his gaze glistened with devotion, cadence hoarse with want. “More than anything.”
Pressing a brief kiss to his jaw, you hovered over his cock, soft palm guiding his length to your slick cunt. Jon inhaled — a sharp, poignant noise that signaled a semblance of relief.
Relinquished to your mercy, his digits flexed against your hips, brazenly caressing your curvaceous physique over your gowns. Sluggishly, you began to sink lower, inch by agonizing inch, breathing punctuated and heavy, twined with his own cacophony of grunts.
Shuddering at the sensation of your cunt, tight around his cock like some vice, Jon fought against the urge to thrust into you. With each deliberate roll of your body, his length sheathed itself within you, the warm familiarity of it enough to make your body tremble in ecstasy.
Hands found themselves twined within his dusky curls, grip ironclad against the nape of his neck as bodies pressed flush together. Even through the annoyance of clothing, heat flourished, mouths briefly sealing together in a kiss.
Jon exhaled, warm breath pluming across your visage, kisses lavished to your jaw as his hands steadied themselves atop your hips. Slowly, he began to move you, akin to a guide as you fell into a blissful pattern.
The very picture of beauty, tarnished with lust; a maiden worth worshiping. Jon huffed, chest erupting with a string of pants and soft groans, lips agape as you adopted a steady rhythm.
His hands caressed circles into your hips, dark hues wide and mesmerized, doelike in their silent appraisal of you. The moon’s silver glow pierced through the ember-lit darkness of his chambers, pooling over your joined bodies.
A ceaseless throbbing pulsed through his cock, length buried within you before you drew up, and then descended once more. The pleasurable pace kept him hot, blood surging with ecstasy, heart pounding within his ears.
“Jon,” His name emerged as a needful moan from your plush lips, fisting at his tresses as he carefully steered you within his lap. Arousal fell slick between your thighs, heady and ambrosial, evoking some gnawing hunger from within.
Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Jon did not relent, hands sinking into your derrière as he guided you against his cock. The angle allowed for friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies tangled up within one another.
The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, yet all he could focus on was you, the lovestruck glimmer within your eyes, exuberance glittering beneath. He kneaded along your thighs, squeezing firmly when the pleasure mounted.
Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled his chambers. The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight.
Nestled within his mind’s eye, Jon envisioned you swollen with his babe — it wasn’t something he knew he truly desired until recently. Family was always something precious to him, one that he could begin with you, once all of this ended.
The fantasy was a tempting one, warped with his own desire and distant dreams, beginning to take root, an echo within his marrow. Chests brushed together, leather to the bare peaks of your bosom, causing a shudder to grip your spine.
In rhythmic urges of your hips, his cock continues to kiss your womb, again and again, cunt clenching pathetically around him. Tangled grunts and moans ripple within the space between your bodies, sending shockwaves of bliss through your belly.
Lost within the labyrinth of such ecstasy, you rode him as you would a broken gelding, ministrations turning to a heightened passion. Jon nearly fell into oblivion with your erratic movements, born of desperation and passion.
“Easy,” Jon soothed, voice a husked rasp as he clawed for any shred of composure. “Slowly — want to feel you.” With little more than a sonorous grunt, you nodded, lips briefly molding together in a soft kiss as your pace came to a crawl.
There wasn’t a reason to rush, nor a reason for haste — he was hellbent on savoring every drag of your hips, every wanton sigh. It all instilled a fire within you, raging as it seared your nerves, set all of you ablaze as his cock kissed your walls with a gentle fervor.
Jon guided your movements with a stirring tenderness, lifting you up before slowly sinking you back down upon his length. A groan ripped through his chest, brows creased in concentration, pupils as dark as pitch, wrought with ecstasy.
The way in which you began to draw out each roll of your hips was nothing short of mesmerizing, your cunt clenching around his cock. Lips occasionally found one another in between each urge of your body, sinking down and up again in a gentle rhythm.
Neither of you would last long in this state — him, in particular. He was dizzy, rendered stupefied by such wanton desire, his cock throbbing inside of you with an incessant need. Jon held you close, sharing in your warmth, hearts bleeding together.
A shudder wracked him, as sharp as steel as your nethers clenched around him, taking him perfectly, as if you were molded entirely for him. With one hand holding fast to your hip, the other wove between your thighs, thumb lightly grazing over the pearl of your cunt.
A sharp inhale inhabits your lungs, one of a dizzying surprise as Jon began to caress circles over the sensitive clutch of nerves. Thighs twitched, the action alone bringing you closer to the precipice of your release.
If it weren’t for such measured restraint, Jon would’ve collapsed beneath you long before, cock aching to spill his seed inside of you. Earthen hues carefully watched your countenance as it blossomed with bliss, lips parted to make room for a breathy moan.
With a brief jolt of his hips, he bucked up into you, nearly apologizing for it, toying with your pearl as you squirmed within his lap. Gooseflesh iced your spine, mind clouded with a lustful haze, bringing you closer to an ecstatic oblivion.
“Jon,” A throaty whine escaped you, teeth gnashing at your lower lip, hips urging forward with a sluggish rhythm. Sheathed fully within you, Jon gripped you hard, his hold bruising as he felt the tenuous heat snap, a thread being torn apart. “Gods, I’m close.”
Even as he crescendoed into his own release, he continued to circle your clit, lips peppering themselves along your exposed collar. Nails dug into the nape of his neck, a choked sob wracking through you as you clung to every shred of friction.
As his seed took root within you, painting your insides with such virility, you finally met your peak, the pleasure colliding into you with a disastrous force. Intermingled moans and grunts filled the space between, foreheads nestled together as you rode out your release.
The warmth that blanketed you made you forget about the bitter chill beyond the walls of his chambers, of the looming conflict that haunted your steps. It was just Jon that you thought of — chest to chest, heart bared to your own.
A soft chuckle eased your heart, the sound of Jon’s gentle laughter, accompanied with a thin smile, a flash of pearlescent teeth. It seemed to wane after a moment, but the light did not leave his gaze, transfixed upon you.
“You’re perfect,” Jon murmured, planting a kiss against your jaw as he eased you off of his length, a scarlet flush still clinging to his visage. “Are you alright?” He asked, low and husky as he regained his composure, lacing his trousers up as you crawled into his bed.
“I am,” Unable to rid yourself of a contented smile, Jon joined you, sitting at your side, palm finding your cheek as he caressed below your eye. “I love you — more than anything.” With a gentle sigh, you kissed his careworn palm.
He never envisioned himself hearing those words and having them last, steeped in such tenderness and ardor. Jon’s brows furrowed momentarily, his stress relinquished, even if it was slight. “Until my last day.” A low utterance slipped from his lips, a smile gracing the corner of his mouth.
“Come to bed.” It did not take much coaxing for Jon to oblige you, knowing well that he needed the rest. As he shed his leather jerkin and boots, you had slithered from your dress, the woolen garment pooled over stone floors.
Laying by your side, Jon exhaled with a semblance of relief, feeling you clamor into his arms, cheek nestled atop his chest. “Didn’t have to take your clothes off for me to join you.” He mused, feeling your body jostling with laughter beneath his hold.
“I did not, but it certainly helped get you here faster,” You teased, nose wrinkling with amusement as you kissed his grizzled jaw, basking within his warmth. He drew the furs around you both, lips gracing your crown. “Sleep — for my sake.”
Soothed by the gentle cadence of your voice, he heeded your words, getting comfortable before closing his eyes. It became easier to forget what weighed upon his shoulders with you at his side — and the chill had died altogether.
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crescenthistory · 2 months ago
Text
on pining and patching up in the prefects' bathroom
pairing: regulus black x fem!reader
request: could i request c13 "hold on, this might sting" with regulus and fem! slytherin reader? i was thinking maybe she got into a fight with another girl over an insult or something petty like that? and reader and reg are friends who are in love but also in denial about it.
wc: 1.8k
cw: minor injuries and reference to blood and violence, fluffy hurt/comfort, au where both black brothers ran away, rita skeeter bashing, best friends to lovers, yearning, slytherin gang shenanigans, first kiss
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“You need to stop spending so much time with Barty.”
Your hum was non-committal and quiet, yet its echo filled the entire bathroom. With your knees to your chest, you sat curled up atop the closed toilet seat lid in the widest stall the Prefects’ Bathroom could boast of. In front of you, Regulus was washing his hands, preparing to patch you up, and wearing his signature furrowed frown. 
Despite how polished of a prefect Regulus appeared in front of other students, there was no limits to how often he snuck his best friends into prefect-only spaces – whether that be for an impromptu bath where Dorcas almost drowns Barty until Pandora pretends to be the one drowning, or emergencies such as this one. You had argued that a busted lip and bleeding eyebrow is far from an emergency, but with his hand gripping your upper arm, he had clearly disagreed as he hauled you in here to clean you up.
Never mind the fact that you have an infirmary for these very instances.
“It would be a bit of a cop out to blame just him, don’t you think?” Barty may be the most forward in your friend group, but each of you had spilled blood somewhere in the castle.
Regulus mirrored your earlier hum. “I’d still like to anyway.”
You looked down at your knees with a bit of a smile. It was quite quaint in here, at least when you couldn’t see the opulent bathtub in the corner. Intimate. Regulus perched against the sink as he dried his hands, clearly staring a hole through your cheek.
“Who would you like me to blame then, hm?” he asked when you didn’t reply.
You huffed a little, meeting his eyes – his gorgeous steel eyes that you pretended did not completely evaporate any and all fight from you. “Try Skeeter. She was the one circulating that cursed pamphlet of hers. If she didn't beg to be punched, I would have left her alone.”
Regulus intertwined his fingers in his lap, raising a brow at you. “I didn’t know she cursed it.”
You adored your friend, but could not hold back your eye roll. You probably picked it up from him, anyway. “She didn’t literally curse it. It just was cursed. Horrendous. Abominable. Atrocious. Would you like more synonyms, Mr. Black?”
He gave you a flat stare. “I’m familiar with the dictionary, actually. I just don’t think anything Rita Skeeter writes down on a dumb piece of parchment is worth you getting a black eye.”
You held his gaze, internally kicking yourself for choosing to die on this hill all the while laying down on it stubbornly. “You didn’t read it,” you muttered half-heartedly.
“No, I didn’t. Why would I?” You felt he was sitting awfully still for someone who earlier had been seething about needing to heal you up quick. It felt like there blood was trickling down your temple even though you were sure it had dried by now. You wiped the back of your hand over it, drawing a hiss from Regulus as he stole your hand from you, keeping it captive. “There’s no reason you should be wasting any of your breath on that witch, amour. Neither in the form of an argument or a bloody fight.”
You convinced yourself you weren’t affected by his pet name for you that he only utilised in moments like this – but you couldn’t hold back the way your breath hitched when he rubbed his thumb over your knuckles while murmuring a healing spell. That’s your Regulus “I’ll try to master wandless magic early for no apparent reason” Black for you.
“I wasn’t fighting her for her, I was fighting her for what she was saying. And who she was saying it about. I feel like that’s an entirely different matter.” You shrugged, looking away once more.
Regulus squeezed your healing hand, dipping his head down to try and catch your gaze again. “I know. I know she’s been all wound up in mine and Sirius’ business ever since we left home, okay? I don’t care what she says about us, and neither should you. Please.”
You gave in and let him catch it, tilting your head slightly sideways as you looked at him, making some of your hair fall in your face. “Someone ought to care about you. If you don’t want to, I will.”
It was a silent battle of wills as you held each other’s gaze. Eventually Regulus sighed, dropping your hand as he reached for his wand.
You knew he was wordlessly letting you win this one time, but the loss of his touch still felt like a defeat somehow.
“What’s the problem anyway, Reg? It’s not that much of an issue, in the grand scheme of things. It’s just a small scratch.” You resented how pleading you sounded, but you didn’t want him to look so pained over this – especially when you stood so wholly by what you did.
Regulus laughed humourlessly at that, bringing his hand out to tuck your hair out of the way and cup the uninjured side of your face. “Well maybe you live in the grand scheme of things, but I live in the present. And presently, my girl is quite beat up.”
Your heart stuttered in a way that would have made any cardiologist cringe. You didn’t know whether to argue against the fact that he claimed you were beat up or react to the fact that he called you his girl – and how you would react to that was an entirely different conundrum you simply did not have the time for.
A bit dumbfounded, some tension melted from your shoulders even as you pressed your lips together. “I’m alright,” you settled with, voice barely a whisper.
He still didn’t quite meet your eyes as he sighed; but he tightened his grip on your cheek, thumb faintly brushing over the top of it. “I know, amour. Hold on, this might sting.”
The tip of his wand danced over your ruptured lip before travelling up to your brow, cleaning the wounds gently before sealing them. He was right, it did sting and you drew in a sharp breath between your teeths. Regulus made a noise that could only be described as cooing, a sound that seemed to command your body to lean further into his touch.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, though it was not his fault in the slightest. You hoped your eyes conveyed that sentiment because you feared your voice would fail you.
He tucked his wand away in the holster Pandora had made for him, and you prepared for the loss of his touch – but as soon as his wand was put away, his hand came back to your face. His other stayed in place as he cradled your face between them, with a gentleness that belied his usually sharp demeanour.
Regulus’ brows were furrowed deeply, but not in the way they would when Sirius annoyed him or second-years asked too many invasive questions. This was something else, something deeper. His eyes flickered between both of yours before darting down to your lips. Ever so gently, his thumb brushed over where your bottom lip had been cruelly cut, tracing a now invisible line.
With his gaze trained there, he whispered. “I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”
“It wasn’t because of–”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.” His gaze shot back up to yours. “Ever. Do… do you understand what I’m saying, amour?”
You thought you might. Your fingers felt like they should be shaking as you brought them up to curl around both of his wrists, stroking your fingertips over his pulse points.
“You’re saying the same thing I’m saying when I refuse for anyone to speak badly of you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s not right. You don’t deserve that.”
Regulus’ grip on your face loosened a little as his fingers spread out, some slipping back into your hair. “What do I deserve?” he mumbled.
For a brief second, you weren’t sure if you could do it. Your eyes flicked wildly between both of his before you dared drop them to his lips, plush and pink and slightly parted, as if he was waiting.
He didn’t deserve to wait any longer.
With the same grace and gentleness he bestowed upon you as he healed your injuries, you slowly tipped your chin up and leaned in until your lips met his, both’s breaths held.
It was not a long or dramatic kiss. It was not even a particularly memorable one. Yet somehow, it was everything to you; the best kiss you could imagine.
Regulus made a groaning sound in the back of his throat and pushed off the sink to pull himself closer to you, holding your face firmly, like it’s something precious that might slip away. His mouth moved against yours, breathing you in and making your head spin.
One of his hands moved to the back of your neck as you rested your foreheads against each other. The bathroom felt even quieter than it had before.
“You deserve that,” you whispered, eyes still closed. “Hopefully, I do too.”
“You deserve the world, amour.” Regulus gave you another chaste kiss, which somehow surprised you even though you had kissed less than ten seconds ago. He brushed his knuckles against your healed eyebrow, sporting a near-pout. “And you deserve to not be all duffed up.”
You looked up at that and snorted despite his sincerity. “I’m far from duffed up, Regulus.”
He laughed a little, eyes crinkled. “Don’t tell me I should see the other guy.”
“Mm, I’m pretty sure you did. Got her rather good, I’d say.”
At this distance, you could see how there were lighter specks floating in Regulus’ irises, making the grey look almost silver. They seemed to shine just for you as he murmured, “I don’t condone it… but I reckon you did, yeah.”
“The only reason you don't condone it is because I got hurt. I know you're far from above violence, baby.”
If it was possible for Regulus to look more pleased, he did. “Maybe so,” he whispered as he was leaning in.
The next kiss he pulled you in for was decidedly longer.
Around the same time, a small scribbled note came flying into the Slytherin common rooms and landed in Barty’s lap – who himself was perched in Evan’s lap. It took him a mere second after he read the note to go flying out of Evan’s arms, dragging the other boy with him.
“C’mon Rosie, we’ve got to get Dorcas. We have a witch to kill.”
For someone who condemned Barty’s bad influence on you, Regulus sure didn’t mind to utilise it for himself.
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simp-for-love · 4 months ago
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I got you
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Mattheo Riddle x femReader
After a grueling day, you can finally relax in your dorm. And your loving boyfriend is more than happy to help you with that.
Warnings: MDNI, smut, oral (f!receiving), fingering, praise kink, swearing, established relationship, soft!mattheo, aftercare, using of 'baby girl', 'good girl'
A/N: I didn't intend to write smut, but the last few days got the best of me draining my soul. Hope my work will help you feel better as much as it does me.
Thanks to a sweet angel, Jess, for proofreading my first smutty work 💕
It was rare, but it happened. The kind of day when everything just felt like too much. Too noisy in the Great Hall during breakfast, too hard to understand the material in class, too incomprehensible to write down your answers for homework, too annoying to hang out with your friends — even though you loved them with all your heart. Everything today was just too much.
You walked to your dorm after spending two frustrating hours struggling over your Potions essay. No matter how much you tried, the words didn’t feel right, and the more you stared at the parchment, the worse it got. You knew you could do better — but not today. Not when every ounce of energy and focus had drained out of you. Maybe if you went to bed early, you could rewrite it tomorrow morning?
With a heavy sigh, you tossed your bag to the floor near the table. The day felt like an endless stretch of torture, and you were finally free — finally in the quiet comfort of your room. Here, you didn’t have to be anything but a lazy bundle wrapped in a blanket, free from responsibilities and expectations.
You opened the closet, reaching for something more comfortable. Your fingers brushed against a familiar grey shirt — Mattheo’s. It was oversized and soft, and even after multiple washes, it still carried the faintest scent of him. You slipped it on along with a pair of wide, comfy shorts, hoping the feel of his clothes would ease some of the tension humming beneath your skin.
With another dramatic sigh, you plopped onto your bed, letting your tired body sink into the mattress. Your eyes felt heavy, the weight of the day pulling you under as you burrowed deeper beneath the blanket.
For a few blissful minutes, the silence wrapped around you like a cocoon, and you let yourself breathe — slow and deep. But just as your mind began to drift, a knock at your door pulled you back.
Your brows furrowed in irritation. You didn’t want to see anyone. Not now. You ignored the sound, hoping whoever it was would get the hint. But then the soft click of the door opening made you lift your head slightly.
The annoyance faded the second you recognized the guest.
"Hey there, baby girl," Mattheo’s voice was warm, smooth like honey, and the sight of him sent a flutter through your chest. His dark curls were tousled as if he’d run his fingers through them on the way over, and the usual edge in his eyes softened when they landed on your form wrapped in the blanket.
He crossed the room, settling on the edge of your bed. His hand found you immediately, brushing down the curve of your shoulder and along your hip through the duvet — a touch so familiar, so comforting, it made your whole body relax.
“I haven't seen you since class," he murmured, his tone playful but laced with quiet concern. “Thought I’d come check on my girl.”
You sighed softly, feeling the weight of the day loosen slightly at his presence. “Just… tired,” you admitted, your voice muffled as you tucked your face into the blanket. “It’s been a long day.”
Mattheo hummed in understanding, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along your side. “Poor thing,” he said, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your temple. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know I’m always here for you.”
His words settled something fragile inside you, melting the last traces of tension. Without a second thought, you shifted closer, and he took the invitation immediately — lifting the blanket and sliding in beside you. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his chest, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoed softly in your ear.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know,” Mattheo whispered, his lips brushing against your hair. “I’ve got you.”
The warmth of his body seeped into yours, easing the ache that had followed you all day. His hand never stopped moving — gentle, absent-minded strokes along your back as if he was determined to chase every last trace of stress away.
For a moment, you let yourself melt into him, your body softening under his touch. But then Mattheo shifted slightly, and his fingers trailed up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His lips pressed a soft kiss against your temple — tender and lingering.
“You work too hard,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your skin. “You should let me take care of you sometimes.”
Before you could answer, he tilted your face gently toward him, brushing his lips across your cheek. The kiss was featherlight, but it sent a shiver down your spine. Another kiss followed, this time at the corner of your mouth, lingering just long enough to make your heart stutter in your chest.
His thumb traced along your jaw, tilting your head slightly to give him more access as his lips trailed a slow, deliberate path across your face. Each kiss was soft, unhurried — like he had all the time in the world to remind you how much he adored you.
“You’re too sweet to me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
Mattheo's hand slided down to the small of your back, his fingers splaying possessively but gently over the curve of your ass. He pulled you closer until every inch of your body was pressed against him, from your soft breasts to your long, slender legs. He wanted to absorb your warmth, your soul, your goodness. He wanted it to seep into his bones and heal all the broken, jagged pieces of himself.
"Too sweet?" he scoffed quietly at your words. Salazar, if you only knew how he was afraid that one day you would get tired of him. Of his darkness, of his recklessness, of his demons inside. No, he could never be too sweet for you. He just liked to show you his appreciation for your presence in his life, his awe of your existence, his utter and deep love for you.
“I’m not sweet,” he murmured quietly, but the teasing edge in his tone softened when he pressed a kiss to the delicate spot just beneath your ear. “I’m selfish. I just want you all to myself.”
The heat of his breath against your skin made your stomach flip in a familiar way. His kisses wandered lower, trailing along the curve of your jaw before he found the sensitive spot on your neck. His lips lingered there, soft and warm, as he placed an open-mouthed kiss against your pulse.
A quiet sigh slipped from your lips, and Mattheo hummed in satisfaction, clearly pleased by your reaction. “That’s better,” he said, his voice huskier now. “You’re finally relaxing.”
His hand slid from your butt under the blanket, finding the bare skin of your waist beneath his oversized shirt. His touch was gentle — slow, almost teasing — as his thumb stroked lazy circles over your hipbone.
“You smell like me,” Mattheo murmured against your neck, his lips brushing against your skin with every word. “I like it.”
His confession made your chest tighten in the best way. You tilted your head slightly without realizing it, giving him better access as his mouth continued its exploration — kissing, nipping softly, then soothing the spots with his tongue.
“Mattheo…” His name slipped from your lips, barely more than a breath, but it was enough to make him pause. He lifted his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours, and the warmth you found there made you swallow.
"I'm right here," he murmured softly, brushing his nose against your. He pecked you gently, upper lip at first, then the lower one. "Gonna be a good girl and let me help you relax, yeah?" His tone felt better than any soft and warm blanket, making your heart stumble on its rhythm. The familiar heat pooled down to your stomach.
"Yes. I will, Matty," you whispered in his lips, feeling the anticipation tingling in your body.
His warm smile made something clench painfully in your chest. Mattheo's hand moved further, from your hipbone to your stomach, running his fingers there slowly.
"That's it," he murmured softly. His hand moved further, his touch was careful. It was obvious he knew exactly where to go, where to touch, where to kiss. His calloused fingers slid with confidence and gentleness against your heated skin, as he took on the mission to leave no inch of your body untouched, and his own body shivered in response to the sensation of you — feeling every dip and curve under the shirt, his shirt that you were wearing.
He pressed his lips back against your skin, a soft kiss here, a soft kiss there. Your body responded every single time, your muscles relaxing under his touch.
Mattheo felt the tension in your body ease with every touch and kiss he placed. This was exactly what he wanted — you to relax, to let go of the worries of the day, and trust him completely.
His thumb traced a slow, soothing circle over the sensitive skin of your hip, his gaze roaming your face, taking in every detail — every flutter of your eyelashes, every soft exhale of your breath.
"You’re so beautiful," he murmured quietly. "So damn beautiful." It was as if he couldn't believe you were real — that you were his, in his arms, letting him touch you, kiss you, make you feel good.
As his thumb continued its journey, tracing a path along the waistband of your shorts, his lips found that spot on your neck again. He sucked gently at your pulse point, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
Mattheo's words and actions made your body shiver, the sincerity in his voice making your breathing uneven. You lifted your hand, fingers tangling into the dark mass of curls at his nape, tugging him closer.
His touch was slightly rougher now as Mattheo played with the waistband of your panties. He wanted to feel your entire body respond to him, to have you arch your back against his hand.
Mattheo shifted slightly and gently tugged at the fabric, his lips moving to your ear. "Don't move," he whispered gruffly, his tone commanding. "Just let me take care of you."
The possessive edge in his voice made you swallow. You could hear the want and need in his words — the hunger for you, for your body in his hands.
His lips left a trail of kisses along your jawline as he continued to explore. His hands moved more confidently, his fingers dancing over your skin as he slowly pushed your shorts down your already trembling thighs.
Mattheo's hand skimmed along the bare skin of your legs, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of you, in his oversized shirt, underwear, and nothing else, sprawled out in front of him on the bed. "You have no idea how beautiful you are," he murmured, his words a soft exhale against your neck. "So good for me. So fucking beautiful."
There was a note of reverence in his voice, as if he was worshipping you with every word. His hands began to move again, his large and warm palms sliding up the inside of your thighs, spreading them gently apart.
His hands went to remove your panties, his touch caring and soft. In his position, he was laying between your legs, his face was just above your mound. You tremlled at the sight of his eyes on you. "You look so perfect like this," he said in a low, a bit hoarse voice.
Mattheo leaned in, his face close enough that you could feel his hot breath. His lips ghosted over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his tongue darting out to tease you. Then, in one smooth motion, his mouth was finally on you.
He started off slow, tongue tracing patterns along your folds, exploring, tasting. Mattheo knew exactly what he was doing, each movement calculated to give you pleasure, to worship you in the most intimate way. He took his time, every touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body as if he could savour you.
"Oh fuck," you gasped softly. His tongue found your sensitive bud, and he circled it, flicking it tenderly before taking into his mouth, suckling and tugging gently on it in all the right ways. You couldn’t help but moan, your fingers burying in his hair, holding onto him as if your life depended on it. He continued to pay worship to you with his mouth, like you were a holy place he had long waited to pay a visit.
"Such a good girl, letting me take care of you," he cooed lowly as he sank a finger deep inside you, reveling in the tight heat that welcomed him. He moved slowly, savoring the slick glide as he pumped his finger in and out in a leisurely, steady rhythm. Your body reacted immediately to his presence, soft gasps and moans spilling from your lips.
Every stroke of his digit made your body arch, your breathing ragged and uneven. It felt so good, but yet not enough. "Mattheo," you whined breathlessly, your voice a quiet plea. "Please..."
"Shh, baby girl. It's okay. I got you," he murmured, returning his mouth on your clit. A second finger slid inside, joining the first one in their steady pace. You felt like heaven to him, like the best thing he had ever tasted. His name slipped from your lips, a moan that was music to his ears.
The wet sounds of your heat filled the room, punctuated by your own ragged pants and the occasional whimpers that escaped your mouth. Mattheo continued his ministrations, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to bring you pleasure that you deserved. He could feel you getting wetter under his touch, responding to every move he made. He knew he was good, but the way you always reacted to him, the way you trembled and moaned, made him feel a surge of masculine pride, made him feel like a god.
"I love making you feel good. Love how I can make a pretty, intelligent girl like you whimper like that," he murmured, his tone a seductive and satisfied purr.
The pleasure he was giving you felt endless, a tidal wave of sensations that threatened to drown you in ecstasy. But nothing could prepare you for the moment when he curled his fingers inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars.
The blissful feeling was building, mounting with each flick of his tongue, each expert stroke of his fingers, each praise he was giving to you. Mattheo was relentless in his mission to make you feel wanted, needed, loved — his focus entirely on you. And you fully felt it.
His name spilled from your lips, a mixture of a moan and a plea. Mattheo responded to each of them with a low, satisfied hum, his eyes never leaving your face. He wanted to see every expression, every twist and gasp. He was drinking in the sight of you, completely focusing on your pleasure, on bringing you to the edge and making you feel good, just like you deserved.
The feeling of his fingers and lips on you was nearly overwhelming, and you couldn't help but whine, your voice catching in your throat. Your hands gripped his curls, desperate for something to hold onto, as you felt the tension coil low in your stomach. You were so close, and he knew it by the way your walls started to flutter around his fingers.
"Come for me, love," he coaxed against your skin, the words vibrating through your core. "Be a good girl for me and let go."
Mattheo's words sent another jolt of pleasure through you, and your body obeyed, clenching around his fingers. You felt yourself tipping over the edge, your fingers curled in his curls almost painfully as the tidal wave of the climax crashed over you.
He could feel you arousal gushing around his hand, essence dripping down onto the bed. The sight and sound of you coming undone on his fingers and mouth filled him with a deep sense of pride, possession, and love.
Mattheo didn’t stop. Even as you trembled and bucked against him, he continued his assault, his mouth and tongue relentless as they dragged every last aftershock from your trembling body. His lips and chin were covered in your juices, and the scent of your arousal only made him feel more hazy.
Just before he could overstimulate you, Mattheo carefully withdraw his fingers and mouth, placing the last gentle kiss on your inner thigh. He sat up, licking his fingers with a small smile on his lips, looking like a sated cat under the sun.
Then he bent over to the night table, taking your wand and casting the cleaning spell on both of you before gently pulling your shorts back on. With a satisfied smile he looked down at you, eyes shining with something warm and soft, something that made your heart flutter.
"Feel better, baby girl?" he murmured quietly as he slid back up the bed, gathering you in his arms, his body a comforting weight against yours.
"Always. You're mine to take care of, love," he said quietly in your hair, placing a gentle kiss on your head.
"Mhm," you hummed softly, nuzzling in the crook of his neck. "Thank you, Matty," you mumbled, feeling your body go limp as the tiredness of the day finally caught you in this relaxed and sated state.
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moscatosin · 2 months ago
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🖤 lists. mattheo riddle 🖤 oral. studying. fem!reader self insert. tongue in cheek. thank you to @nottscherry for reading this & confirming my idea was sane and @voidofsunlight for her bot that inspired the idea. mdni. raspberry vodka recommended (2.1k)
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It was painstakingly obvious that Mattheo's curiosity had clearly gotten the best of him. Slipping down into a seat beside you in the back of the library, he smirked; honey tinted eyes washing over you with a trail of unspoken questions he’d stop at nothing to get answers for. Reaching out, with careful fingers, Mattheo tucked some loose hair which had fallen down in front of your face behind your ear, using the gesture as an excuse to let his fingertips linger beneath your chin and turn your head to face him.
“You know, you really should be more discreet with what you keep in your dorm..”
For a few moments, an array of impulsive thoughts and taunting images raced through your mind. When he had asked earlier in the day about borrowing a textbook you had on ancient runes for a class he wasn't all that committed to, you hadn't thought much about lending it to him. He just wanted to pass - you were nice enough to extend the offer to a friend - end of story. Right? Nope.
That little shit had taken it upon himself to snoop around your dorm as if he owned the place rather than just walking in and walking out the way you'd expected, like a thief in the middle of the night. You'd told him exactly where the book he was after was - top shelf in the bookcase beside your bed in between a stack of parchments you vaguely could refer to as homework and the novelty coffee mug of a dog he'd brought you years ago in Hogsmeade after you mentioned you thought it was cute.
Mind racing; you wondered what he'd stumbled on. Ever so surely, you began to flicker through the mental catalogue of everything you kept in your dorm. Perhaps the lucky red lace bra you always wore on first dates? The novelty candy G-string Pansy bought for your birthday last month? The handcuffs your ex had far too many ideas for? The bullet vibrator you kept in your bedside top drawer shaped like a golden snitch? No, let's be real - all these things were far too safe for someone with the last name Riddle; far too vanilla. Yet whilst you tried so desperately hard to think, your mind just couldn't quite pinpoint what he was hinting at.
“I’m sorry”, you murmured out with a raised brow, half tilting your head to the side to act partially naive and yet to also shift away from his touch. “You'll have to be more specific, Mattheo. I don't quite have the gift of legilimency like you do..”
“The list, sweetheart.”
For a moment you froze as time seemed to stop still. A single blink is what it took for your brain to kick-start back into motion after going offline oh so temporarily at his simple statement. The list. The god forsaken list. A stupid piece of parchment you'd hidden well, you initially thought, between ties and mismatched socks in your trunk which he'd had to have gone digging through to find. What a little shit –
“So you've been snooping?”, you sigh, hands raking through your hair roughly as the breath that escapes you burns raw against your lips. “Mattheo, we're friends - I trusted you to walk into my dorm, get what you needed and get out. Something that really, should not have been that difficult of a task for a wizard like yourself..”
He cuts you off by placing a finger firmly against your lips and scoots the seat he's on a few inches closer towards yours; wooden legs of the chair scraping harshly like nails on a chalkboard against the floor. With his free hand, he plucks the folded parchment out from his robe pocket and sets it out in front of you; his eyes dancing towards it, daring you to open it. You do - with shy, trembling hands; trying so, so hard to keep yourself afloat in this sudden drowning chaos you're finding yourself trapped within. It's okay, the waters only ankle deep - you can still get yourself out of this without needing to swim.
At the top of the list in handwriting which is clearly your own - that perfect cursive that has witches jealous of your quill skills, is Mattheo's name. Beneath it; listed in no particular order, a few dozen reasons girls think he'd be a decent fuck along with their signatures beside the comment. You swallow; the feeling rather uncomfortable and intense which hurts your throat as you listen to him begin to read it.
“Would definitely let me call him Daddy - A. Greengrass. Has 99 problems but that cock sure ain't one - L. Brown. Hands that could choke me into place with ease - H. Abbott. Are you girls bloody mental? Who writes shit like this?”
Would you answer him? Eh… The whole idea of lists had started out as a joke a few weeks ago at a party. Sober thoughts meeting drunken confidence when you'd suggested a list be written about all the boys you knew. Not necessarily sexual in nature but at least suggestive to some degree Somehow, rather unexpectedly; someone brought up Mattheo's name in conversation after commenting on how damn good he looked wearing all black, sipping on firewhiskey like it was nobodies business and bang - the ‘I would fuck him’ list was born.
“Riddle, it was just a little harmless fun. Like you can honestly tell me that you and your mates don't talk about or rank girls you'd like to hook up with or date or –.”
“Your name’s not on it.”
The sound of the library fell into a deep and unexpected silence you could hear a feather drop within. Your posture straightened upright; both brows rising as the faintest shade of rosy peach colouring skimmed across your cheeks. Coughing to clear your throat, you let out a semi-soulless chuckle.
“Yeah, because we're friends and I don't exactly see you in that way Mattheo.”
“But what would you write?”
“Nothing”, you confirmed with a confused stare at him, “We're friends.”
“But if you had to..”
Oh, he was getting desperate for an answer. How interesting. Had the names and comments already listed not been enough to stroke his rather expansive ego. You glance at the list before looking back at him; licking your tongue over your bottom lip to buy a little time to further think.
“You're not being serious?”
“Dead right I am.”
“Matt - almost three quarters of the bloody castle have signed a parchment that declares they'd willingly want to fuck you, and you're caught up on the fact that I, one of your best friends, hasn't signed it?”
The puppy dog look he shot you without warning made it feel like you'd just kicked him. You were well aware that there'd be only one way to suffice him, so picking up your quill you scribbled the first thing that came to mind and signed the bottom of the list. Mattheo had shifted to be staring over your shoulder intently as you scribbled away neatly; the gasp that from deep within his chest sounding like he may or may not have just experienced a minor heart attack.
“Might know how to use that tongue? Might? What the fuck? You think I'd suck at eating a girl out? Are you insane? I'm the best—.”
“Mattheo, seriously - shut up! We're in a library and I'm trying to study and yeah, as a matter of fact, you seem like a guy who wouldn't want to get messy and doesn't have the patience to go down on a girl long enough to please her, so yes. Might - know - how to use that tongue. Take it or leave it.”
Your heart is racing at this point. It was a joke. This whole thing. The list, your comment, the fact the two of you were even having this conversation. He slaps a hand down hard against the desk causing your ink bottle to shake and lets out a gruff sounding growl making your thighs tremble and quake. No. No. No…
“You're a wicked little witch.”
The sentence comes out with a hiss and a little sprinkle of threat and before you know it, Mattheo has slid his chair back, not caring to glance around and see if the two of you have company before dropping to the floor and crawling beneath the desk. Your brain short circuits again, this time; involuntarily as you feel his hands spread your knees apart; lips pressing hot, slow kisses that burn up the inside of your thighs deliciously. God it had been so fucking long since you'd been touched.
“W-what are you doing?”
*Proving that statement of yours fucking wrong.”
His curls tickling against your skin, your hands grasped at the edge of the desk you sat at, knuckles whitening as his teeth sank in to nip sultry at your skin. Your body tensed for a split second before sinking into the seat, his lips continuing to pepper kisses up your thighs before planting a final teasing kiss over your panties against your core that had you seeing stars.
“Hell.. Mattheo - we need to sto-...”
Like he was about to listen. Honestly. Tugging your panties to one side, you felt him chuckle against your clit before pressing the softest of kisses against it; your nerves endings bursting into an electric craze. Tip of his tongue sliding neatly in between your folds, you bit a knuckle painfully between your teeth to stifle a moan and felt your body grow warm.
“Oh my god..”
The words are nothing more than an uttered whisper of submission as Mattheo's tongue flickered teasingly over your entrance, slipping in shallow to torment you as his hands wrap around your thighs in an attempt at keeping you still. Your head tilts back; eyes clamped shut, your own hands tearing your skirt up to find his curls and knot through them, keeping Mattheo's head and mouth exactly where you need it.
“Mhmm.. you taste so fucking good.”
Compliments? Ugh. Your toes curl as his tongue continues to slide between your wet folds, sucking at your clit before diving back into you again. Your hips rock to help fuck yourself against his tongue to which he doesn't object to; devouring you like a feral animal who hasn't had a feed in weeks. You can feel your thighs becoming wet; your arousal evident as it paints his chin, the seat, your legs slick. You try to control it; the coil of heat burning in the pit of your stomach but when he shakes his head, tongue flickering over every inch of you on offer, your mind loses it.
Clamping your thighs tightly around him, Mattheo continues to let his tongue work magic; sucking at your folds before one final hit at your clit that has you not only seeing stars but almost seeing the whites and sparkle of what you can only guess are the pearly gates of heaven. Breathing heavily, you feel your legs lose tension as you unknown your fingers from his curls; face flushed and body quivering as you struggle to regain your breath.
“Holy fuck that was -..”
“Amazing?”, Mattheo asks, picking himself up off the floor to take the seat beside you again.
You blush a little harder; struggling to pick up your quill, yet you manage to, crossing out on the list what you wrote to reconfirm what you'd doubted. Mattheo's gaze turns from hungry to soft as you correct your admittance.
A tongue that belongs to me.
He can't help but gloat; chest puffed out, chin still glistening as he smirks your way. Leaning across, Mattheo presses a kiss to your temple, slinking an arm around your shoulders almost possessively.
“I'll admit baby girl, I'm kind of impressed I was able to change your mind so quickly. Tell me though - are there other lists or am I the only boy oh so fortunate?”
“Oh”, you chuckle, shifting your tie around your neck to adjust it for some breathing room, “There's another list.”
“Another?”, Mattheo spits out immediately. The way you've suggested it and he's said it, making it clear that apart from his laying on the desk in front of you, there's only one other in existence.
“Mhmm”, you mumble in confirmation.
“So who's the guy?”
Oh this is fun - he got to tease you, and now the tables have turned in your favour for you to tease him. Twirling your quill between your fingertips, you reach out to dip the tip into your ink pot and smirk.
“Theodore”, you explain with nothing more than his best friend's name.
“...and is his ‘list’ as extensive as mine?”
“Oh it's longer..”, you giggle, trying to focus back on your studies, “..and before you ask, yeah - I've signed it.”
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my-castles-crumbling · 4 months ago
Text
name - march 30 - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 349
They’d been sitting in the library for a while. Regulus could tell James was bored–he’d finished his own work a few minutes ago and had resorted to fidgeting in his own chair, doodling on parchment, reaching out every once in a while to stroke a hand over Regulus’s cheek or hair. But, adorably, he refused to leave. He just waited patiently as the younger boy finished his essay.
“Hey, Reg?” James asked after a bit, voice a bit too loud for the library.
“Yes, Potter?” Regulus murmured, eyes flickering up from his parchments and back down again.
“What’s the name of that book you really liked? The Muggle one? The one you kept going on about the other day?” James asked, lowering his voice just a bit.
Regulus furrowed his eyebrows and looked at him with confusion. “The Little Prince?” he asked cautiously, shocked that James had even paid attention to his ramblings.
“Hmm, that’s the one,” the Gryffindor nodded. He then stood up and wandered off without another word.
Regulus considered going after him to get an explanation, but he decided that however he was entertaining himself was either not that bad or something he didn’t want to be responsible for. So he wrote a few more lines and had just gotten back into a groove when James returned.
However, the older boy didn’t say a word. He just sat back in his chair and disappeared behind a small book without making a sound.
Regulus looked at the title and almost melted in his chair.
James Potter was sitting next to him in the library and reading The Little Prince. Because he  liked it.
Something soft and warm washed over his body like a warm wave of water, and he beamed at the cover of the book for several seconds before hazel eyes peeked over and James raised an eyebrow at him. “Alright, love?” the older boy asked.
“Y-yeah,” he stuttered, blushing because he’d gotten caught. “Fine.”
“Good.”
They sat there together for another hour–Regulus writing and James reading–before heading to dinner and discussing what James had read.
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