#sometimes i wonder if its even worth it

[sunshinedottv]

I love posting my art to instagram and having the same 5 people liking my posts. Very cool and not demoralizing at all!

[zedif-y]

there are times when you write something and it's not your best , but somewhere out there whether you know it or not you just made someone really happy. so it's worth it i think

[ratatatastic]

do you have a favorite cats beat reporter that i should follow on twitter?

okay thats a hard one because i think our beat are all are good and fun in their own way so i follow all of them so like technically i cant say i have a favourite because all of them together make such a nice complete picture that its kinda worth to follow all of them if not because when anything is happening your tl is just gonna be filled with them chittering like chickadees among each other and the commentary together instead of apart is just so funny expecially when something bad happens because then the air stills, you touch the ground and go "something happened here..." and then the tweets come in

and anyways as i thought that to myself i was like writing a case by case basis for each of them and then i got to colby and then i just started splurging

and uh- ive learned that if i had to choose like one favourite to endorse colby is my answer, follow colby i promise you wont regret it

colby has some pretty funny wit and commentary throughout the offseason and during the season he has got some good quips he also tends to have pretty fun interactions with players throughout pressers thatll he'll expand upon on his twt i.e the most recent "good morning stanley cup champion matthew tkachuk" and yeah here are some colby hits i like because i think hes the funniest (also because hes the youngest of our beat that means he typically is at odds with paul and you get some pretty funny generational differences thatll come up when they interact to which paul will go god im old)

hes also independent now and doesnt work for fhn anymore so im sure we'll get some funnier stuff soon on his little so called "unemployed-feel like blog" so like yeah lmaooo

[vse-kar-vem]

how to write vent post title that does not come off as self-pitying and or accusatory (because it's NOT !)

[silverislander]

i was talking to my friends abt this earlier today and while i'm still p mad abt how things worked out w the government job program it's also kind of funny if you think abt it. i sent in a resume and never heard from them again. not to confirm that they got my resume, not to offer me any interview or job whatsoever, not to tell me they're sorry but they couldn't find anything for me, just total radio silence, and because it's been a month i just kind of have to assume i didn't get selected for anything. i got ghosted by the fuckin government

[life1tself]

my manager yesterday and i were talking in between rushes about random shit and she was like “never love anybody more than they love you” and i stood there in the kitchen for a minute like “oh”

[eggbagelz]

Lordy its that time of the night where i start thinking abt my diagnosis

[coloursofaparadox]

uuggghhh

[mossy-rot]

just had a very intense moment of trans joy bc i just realized like. This week im gonna go to work with short hair wearing my binder and im gonna walk in and my coworkers are gonna say "hey lucien" and i'll put on my trans flag pin and my he/they pin and im gonna introduce myself as lucien and holy shit. man. this is real. i can do things like this. will it always be pleasant? no, i still get misgendered by customers constantly. will I be able to go home like this? no, i'll have to change out of my binder as soon as i get home and hide my pins before i even start my car. but i get to go out and wear them in the first place. people still call me by my name despite knowing my deadname. people call me they instead of she when they don't know my pronouns. i have queer coworkers. I feel safe. the other shoe will drop eventually, but until then, i'm going to bask in what i have

[finely-tuned-line]

RP:

PRIVATE TRANSMISSION

FTL: Echoes of a Paradox. I believe that we need to talk.

EP: Oh so you finally decided to stop being a coward, huh? Alright, what d'you have to say to me?

FTL: ...I do not actually know. I am aware that I owe you an apology, just as I am aware that I do wish to present that apology to you. The sole issue is that I am unaware of what I feel the need to apologise for for, as well as what the apology you want from me is, though they are the same thing.

EP: Of course. I'm really not surprised, I expected this.

EP: You're so... Unaware.

EP: You don't care, you avert your eyes from everything around you - not for the sake of guilt, shame, or wish to not see, but for a lack of care. Your ignorance is not wilful but is simply apathy.

EP: As much as I envy you for that apathy, I pity you as well. You're stuck denying yourself the fact that you even have emotions, as you relish in the ability to ignore it all. But I'm stuck too, aren't I? Stuck with endless rage and anger, at our creators, at you, at myself. At least I know how to cope with it, release it, instead of bottling it all up. At least I allow myself to feel the anger properly, at least I don't turn a blind eye to the wrong of both the world and myself.

EP: That's the difference, isn't it? You don't care, and I care too much.

EP: You piss me off, Finely-Tuned Line. You don't even know how much harm you've done. How much you've hurt me, Songs of the Negative Sunlight, even Doubt's Dichotomy.

EP: You just stay cooped up in your single-minded focus on your purpose, justifying the existence you know is pointless, all the while denying that what you pursue is little more than the fact that your purpose is something you enjoy. And even when you do acknowledge it, it's always backed up by your saying that you're 'allowed' to enjoy your experiments simply because it's what you were made for.

EP: I know you. You're so... It's so easy to pick you apart.

EP: But even as you piss me off, I pity you.

EP: You're so desperate. Striving for shadows of perfection cast upon you by our dead creators. Or, as Songs of the Negative Sunlight would humourlessly compare, like the light of the long-departed stars.

EP: I hate you. I hate you so much. You're the reason why our sibling is dead, you're the reason why Doubt's Dichotomy barely even talks to me at this point. You're the reason it took me so long to be as okay as I am now. And you don't even know what you did wrong.

EP: I'll tell you what you did wrong, I'll tell you what you need to apologise for.

EP: But it all comes down to your pitiful reach for your purpose.

EP: Your sheer conviction when it comes to that is the root of it all.

EP: Cycle by cycle, thoughtless mentions of your pitiful beliefs in the shadows of perfection.

EP: Cycle by cycle, offhanded mentions of your deplorable beliefs that you're nothing without your purpose.

EP: Cycle by cycle, careless mentions of your dismal beliefs that you're nothing but a machine.

EP: Do you not realise that those very mentions cast a shadow of their own? A perceived projection of those beliefs onto others, onto us?

EP: If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have found such despair in my lack of a secondary purpose, I wouldn't have thrown all my energy into the Great Problem like I did, I wouldn't have felt so inferiour due to my absence of care about it.

EP: If it weren't for you, Doubt's Dichotomy wouldn't have drifted apart from us out of sols own will, she wouldn't have defined herself the way she did, it wouldn't have to justify its love for what it does while hiding all the same.

EP: If it weren't for you, Songs of the Negative Sunlight wouldn't have chained ximself to xir purpose even as xi found no joy in it, xi wouldn't have made such rash decisions, xi wouldn't- ...If it weren't for you, xi wouldn't be dead.

EP: And even after all this, I do pity you. Stuck in your way of thinking, unable to break out of it and strive to be better. I pity you for your inability to see beyond what the Ancients defined you as. I pity you so, so much, even within my anger.

EP: I will recognise the fact that you've gotten better. I do pick up on your transmissions from time to time - those offhanded mentions are gone in all but what I can only describe as self-loathing.

EP: Within all the sheer pity and anger that I have for you, I care about you. You're my older brother. I worry about you.

EP: But this remains as your last chance. No matter how much I care about you, I have self-preservation instincts, I am able to recognise when enough's enough.

EP: If you mess up again, I will be taking over as the Senior of the group, and cutting contact with you.

EP: I hope you figure yourself out and get some help.

EP: None of us are okay here in the end, but that's no justification.

EP: Love you.

FTL: I...

FTL: I'm sorry.

EP: I know.

EP: If you do decide to do better, I'm here for you. But only then.

FTL: ...Thank you. For everything.

[gu6chan]

i would kill for a cup of this right now

[cronchy-cryptid]

I think the issue with being non-binary is that I can't even indulge in the daydream of "what if I were born as a different sex" because it wouldn't be better, it would just be different. It wouldn't feel more validating, I would just have to deal with all the stereotypes and expectations that sex has to deal with.

It wouldn't help that it feels like an up hill battle to be seen as a person before any other factor.

[kalashtars]

venting in the tags yippeee

[crystalmonk5579]

This week, has been very very bad. And I don't know how to fix it

[shrimpybbq]

you gotta believe me, baby

synopsis: when a stray bag of coke is found in rafe’s drawer, rafe’s fiancée grapples with its implications

The young woman trifled through Rafe’s desk, the pen he requested lost deep amongst his amalgamation of items. Frustratingly, she kept searching until her gaze landed on a small item strewn under a notebook, the clear bag reflecting in the light. Her heart felt as if it stopped beating. The small bag and its contents were instantly recognisable to the woman, her having seen her fiancé with it many a time. Except instead of keeping it hidden under a book, he would have the white powder diced and sorted into hefty lines on a table, a rolled up $50 set aside ready to help him snort it.

She remained still for a moment before tentatively reaching for the bag, as if it would suddenly change its contents if she waited long enough. And yet, as she picked the bag up it felt like a long forgotten truth was slapping her in the face. Of course it was coke. The woman pondered the situation for a moment for she was sure Rafe was clean - but then again, he had been under an increasing amount of stress lately. Cameron Development had been taking up all of his time, as had the move, so would it really be that far-fetched for him to start using again?

Soon, she began pacing around the room, her mind beginning to catastrophise the situation. It had been so hard to get through each day when Rafe was high, his constantly shifting mood and irritable personality making him intolerable to be around. Her mind flashed to the moments alone, trying to soothe a colicky baby that cried and cried alone in the guest room while Rafe spent his evenings getting high with Barry. She'd never felt so alone and isolated. She had no-one: Her parent's were a no-go, Ward and Rose could only help so much, and Sarah was busy being a teenager. Sometimes, it was as if Wheezie was her only friend, always loving to play with her nephew even if only for a moment. In those moments, she had wondered if any of it was worth it - maybe everyone would be better off if she left to the mainland to live with her aunt, removing her presence from Kildare completely. Rafe hadn’t wanted Charlie in the beginning, not really, and as she cried alone in tandem with her son, she felt it.

Rafe had called out his fiancée’s name three times by now, only to receive nothing in response. Initially assuming she had been sidetracked, it was only once he finally ambled over to his study did he realise the true cause of her silence. Rafe froze at the sight of the bag of white powder flung haphazardly atop his papers, his heart racing as a chill spread across his body. Shit shit shit.

Rafe’s panicked gaze met hers suddenly, each expressing a multitude of worries. Rafe watched as his sweet girl looked at him, so defeated and dejected, her shoulders slumped as she faced him. Initial words began to leave her mouth, only to be swiftly cut off by her partner,

“Baby, please, you gotta let me explain, ok?” Rafe was pleading with her, a tone he rarely utilised unless in the most dire of situations, “it’s not mine.”

Her eyes, once shifted towards the window, snapped back to his frame. “It’s in your desk Rafe! Whose else would it be?”

“Fuck, uh- fuck ok, well it is mine, but it’s not like I bought it last week. Shit, that sounds bad, I didn’t-” Rafe sputtered, his logical explanation getting muddled up as his anxiety grew. He could tell his fiancée didn’t believe it if the tears beginning to escape were any indication.

“Rafe, please, just tell me the truth. You owe me that much,” she pleaded. Rafe felt his heart shatter at the desperation she could not hold back.

“I had this desk moved from my dad’s office, ok? Whenever he used to catch me doing coke, he would lock my supply up in his desk in his attempt to get me clean - not that that ever fuckin’ worked,” he began to explain, “I never even properly cleaned out his desk, baby. I figured he would have something written down that would provide some of his infinite wisdom bullshit that would help me in the future, so I just didn’t touch anything.”

The young woman stared at the Cameron opposite her, feeling rooted to her spot as he answered her questions. Truthfully, she remembered Rafe’s occasional complaining about his dad’s attempts to control his drug habit. She could never truly comfort him properly when she silently thanked Ward, but his statement rang true in her mind. It was plausible that Rafe really hadn’t touched his dad’s things.

“Come on baby, you have to believe me! You really think I would throw all of this,” Rafe gestured, arms outstretched, “us, our family - away for a few fuckin’ ounces of coke? I got better and that’s because of you, because of you being there for me and the kids and - baby please, I’m telling the truth.”

As Rafe begged and pleaded, he had made his way to stand in front of her, taking her hands in his as his fingers gripped hers tightly. She looked up at him, tears still spilling down her cheeks. He had gotten better - ever since they arrived in Guadeloupe, she hadn’t seen him touch cocaine. Alcohol, sure, but even Topper offering him coke at a party had seemingly rolled off his back.

“You’re not lying to me? You swear it? On the kids lives?” She begged, needing to hear him say it again. She wanted to believe him so badly.

“I promise baby, I swear to god. I swear that I haven’t touched that shit in a year. Please, I’m telling the truth baby.”

With his final plea, she felt her heartbeat begin to slow, its return to normal allowing her to breathe properly once more. A large exhale left her body before she flung herself against Rafe, her arms wrapping around his torso. His arms immediately returned the gesture, comfortingly rubbing up and down her back.

“I can’t do that shit again, Rafe. Ok?” She muttered, her voice muffled against his shirt. He leaned down to gently stroke her hair before placing a tender kiss in her hair.

“You don’t need to worry about that anymore. I’m different now, for you and for our family. You can rely on me, ok? I’m always gonna be here for you,” Rafe stated firmly, his words filled with conviction. He felt a small smile tug at his lips as his fiancée nodded into his chest, her arms tightening around him further.

“I love you, Rafe. More than anything.”

“I love you too, baby. It’s you and me ‘till the end.”

As the pair stood in their embrace for a moment longer, they felt the tension seep away slowly and be replaced with tenderness. For such a rocky start to a relationship, the pair had watched each other grow and mature. Neither of them were perfect, but they would never give up on each other. Rafe didn’t believe in soulmates, but if he did, he was certain that the woman in his arms was his.

[moonstruckme]

A Friendly Proposition

Based on this request: Hi mae!!! Would you be open to writing tasm!peter parker or Remus lupin with best friend reader who hasn’t cum before, and he is outraged when he hears this? And he’s like, why don’t I show you (wink wink) -- Thank you for requesting!! I chose Remus for this but I would love to do some Peter smut in the future if anyone has any ideas :)

cw: smut mdni, fingering, not necessarily inexperienced reader but kind of has that vibe, basically smut no plot

bestfriend!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 2.2k words

“I dunno, I guess overall it was fine.” 

“Fine?” Remus looks up from where he’s lying on his bed, one eyebrow lifted in that way you don’t think he knows he does. You’re sitting on the floor in front of his mirror, attempting to cover up a particularly bad hickey your date from last night had left you as a parting gift. His reflection has a wry twist to its mouth. “I should hope it was more than just fine.” 

You shrug, tilting your head to dab at the makeup on your neck. “Not the best, not horrible. I’d call it thoroughly average.” 

Your friend hisses sympathetically through his teeth. “Not the sort of rave review most guys strive for. If I left someone with a mark like that, I’d hope I made it worth their while.” 

You can’t keep your lips from curving. “I didn’t say it wasn’t worthwhile.” 

“Did he at least make you cum?” 

You cough in surprise. “At least?” You turn around, giving him a disbelieving look. 

Remus’ answering expression is equally incredulous. 

“How common do you think that is?” you ask him. 

The eyebrow lifts higher. “Well, now I’m not sure, but I’ve never had any problems.” 

You scoff, turning back to the mirror. “That’s because you’re a guy.” 

“No,” Remus says, amusement tingling in his tone. “I mean, yes, but I meant I’ve never had any problems making other people cum.” 

“Seriously?” You freeze with your hand upheld awkwardly above your neck. You’re doing your best to make this conversation feel casual, but sometimes having an attractive guy for a best friend can get confusing, and the room is starting to feel a tad warm despite the open windows. “Like, what’s your success rate?” 

“What’s yours?” 

“I asked you first.” 

Remus’ lips twitch, fondness beneath his exasperation. “For women specifically?”

“Sure.” 

He nods, expression turning pensive. “I can’t be exactly sure. I mean, it’s not like I’m constantly fucking loads of women.” He says it so offhandedly, but just the language makes a tickle of warmth start up in your cheeks. “There were a couple who didn’t, when I was younger, still learning, but since then it’s been fairly high.” 

You swallow. You wonder what the learning had entailed, what Remus had picked up that you and anyone you’ve hooked up with hasn’t. It’s typically not for a lack of trying, though some certainly invest more time into the ambition than others. You can’t say you’ve even tried that hard yourself, not in a while and not since you’ve reckoned with the idea that it may simply not happen for you. It feels like a pointless exercise. 

You break from your reverie when you notice Remus watching you in the mirror. 

“Your turn,” he prompts. 

“You can’t make fun of me.” 

“You know I wouldn’t.” 

You absolutely do not know that, he loves to tease, but he’s right in that you don’t think he would about this. You catch yourself nibbling on your bottom lip, and stop. 

You do your best to affect his unflappable blasé when you say, “Zero, so far.” 

That blasé hardly holds up now. Remus sits straight up. “Never? Not once?” 

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, so you focus on covering the spot on your neck. “Nope.”

“Not even by yourself?” 

“You make it sound like it’s so easy.” There’s some bitterness in your tone as you tilt your head up, inspecting your work in the light. “I haven’t tried in a while, because I was never able to. I got sick of it.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” 

You try not to melt. Remus will call you that, from time to time, but given the context of your conversation you wish he wouldn’t. Suddenly his room feels a little bit smaller, the atmosphere more private than before.

You look at his reflection, expecting to find teasing in his expression, but it’s thoughtful. Contemplative. 

“You said you wouldn’t make fun,” you remind him. “I feel like that should also include feelings of pity. Let’s not act like it’s some great tragedy to not have cum before.” 

“No, I’m…it’s not that. You’re right, there are worse fates.” One corner of his lips curves slightly, and you mirror him, relieved. “I was just thinking that I could…well, I might be able to help.” 

“What?” A little laugh trips off your tongue. Your face is really feeling warm now. “Do you have some kind of manual or something?”

“Would you want my help?”

“Is there a diagram you’re going to show me? Trust me, I’ve seen those.” 

“Answer the question, love.” 

You set your makeup down, expelling a breath. Meet his eyes in the mirror with a shrug. “Yeah. Sure, I’d be curious.” 

Remus studies you. Analytical hazel eyes and a map of scars you would know blind. “Tell me if this makes you uncomfortable, but I could show you, if you’d like.” 

Your breath seems to stall in your lungs. “On…” you trail off, not wanting to misunderstand him. 

“On you,” he confirms. “Would you want that?” 

You’re nodding before you can think enough to speak. Your head feels slow and fuzzy, like you’re navigating a dream. “Yeah,” you manage. “If you’re alright with that.” 

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” Remus spreads his legs open on the bed, patting the space between them. “C’mere, love.” 

“What—like, now?” 

“Do you have another engagement?” He gives you a little smile. It squishes the scar underneath his left eye adorably, but when you hesitate he sobers. “Hey, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

You shake your head, and it’s like your body remembers how to move, propelling you up from your seated position. “No, sorry, I’m good with this. I think I’m just a bit nervous.” 

“That’s alright,” he reassures you. “You don’t need to be, though. It’s only me.” 

You see his eyes drop to your mouth, and you let your lip slip from between your teeth a second time. Remus is right. If there’s anyone you should be comfortable learning this with, it’s him. 

When you go to crawl up on the bed, he stops you. “Probably want to lose the pants first,” he suggests. 

Right. You set your fingers to the button, and it seems to fly open of its own regard. You feel Remus’ eyes on you as you slide them over your hips and step out. 

“Underwear too, or…” 

“No, we’ll keep those for now.” Remus holds a hand out for you, and you get up onto the bed, letting him help you settle in between his legs. It’s impossible not to be conscious of the feel of his pants against your bare skin, or how comfortably he wraps a hand around your thigh, pulling it open that much wider. “Do you usually start with everything off?” 

“Yeah,” you say. “Isn’t that sort of the point?”

“Sometimes,” he hums. “Sometimes, though, it helps to work up to it. You need to get warmed up, you know?” 

You murmur an affirmation, though you don’t actually know. There’s never been much warming up when you or anyone else has tried to do this before. But it doesn’t matter, because then Remus starts rubbing the outsides of your thighs with both hands, and any sound dies in your throat. 

“You have to start slow,” he says in a low voice. Scarred, strong hands moving over your skin. “Everyone responds to different things, and it’s about feeling out what works for you.” 

You can’t imagine how this wouldn’t work for anyone. Remus touch starts moving inward, until his long fingers are dragging over your inner thighs, fuelling a familiar warmth at their apex. 

“Are you feeling more relaxed now?” 

You wet your lips. “I think so.” 

“Good. If you’re feeling up to it, you could try touching yourself other places, see what works.” 

Tentatively, you slip one of your hands up your shirt. Your breasts feel more sensitive than usual, and when you squeeze one, combined with Remus’ hands on your thighs, it makes your breath catch. 

“There you go, sweetheart. You’ve got it.” 

Your body starts to slacken against him, but Remus doesn’t seem to mind. He only uses his grip on your thighs to drag you closer, propping you up. You can’t tell which one of you is warmer. 

Without warning, his hand brushes over your mound. You gasp. 

“Is this okay?” Remus asks, his voice closer to your ear than it had been. He gives you another stroke over your panties. 

“Yes,” you breathe out. 

“Alright. Tell me if I do anything you don’t like.” 

One hand continues moving over your thigh while the other drags the fabric of your panties aside, flattening over your cunt. 

“Oh, poor girl,” he coos. “Is all this for me?” 

Your silence must scream mortification, because he chuckles and bumps the side of your head with his affectionately. 

“Sorry, I’m only messing with you. Is it always like this?” 

You lie. “Yeah.” 

Remus hums, dragging two fingers through your folds. You squirm in his lap. Your hand has completely forgotten your breast. 

“I usually start here,” he says, one finger circling your clit. It slips and slides in the mess you’ve already made. “You do the same?” 

You nod fervently. He adds another finger, moving over it gently, and has to tighten his grip on your leg to keep it open. Your breaths start coming faster as he repeats the motion. You can feel him getting hard behind you. 

Just as your pleasure starts to take you under, Remus’ fingers fall away. 

“Your turn,” he says. His voice sounds slightly hoarse. 

When you hesitate, confused and a bit bereaved, he chuckles, taking your hand in his and pressing your fingers to your clit. 

“Show me how you’re gonna do it, sweetheart.” 

Tentatively, you try to copy his movements. Your own fingers feel clumsy and inadequate compared to his, but after all the work Remus has put in they’re still enough. You chase that tightening sensation, hips twitching into your own touch. 

Remus doesn’t leave you on your own for long. His hand finds your cunt again, seeking, it seems, every possible way to drive you to madness. He collects the slick pooling by your entrance, sliding it up and down through your folds, and when his fingers breach your hole you make a soft, surprised sound that sends his lips down onto your shoulder. 

Instantly, you’re aware of how much better this feels. Remus’ mouth is warm and soft, a contrast against the roughness of his stubble. He sucks at you gently, warming you up like he had your cunt, before letting his teeth scrape lightly over your skin. Your date from last night had been so eager to get your neck into his mouth, suctioning onto you like a parasite and rolling your skin between his teeth in a way that hurt more than it helped. Remus is all temperance. He bites you, and then licks it over to make sure you’re soothed. 

The thought occurs to you that maybe you shouldn’t be comparing Remus to someone you actually dated. 

He curls his fingers inside you, and every thought you’ve ever had falls away. All you are is a collection of sensations and wants. 

“You’ve got it, darling, keep going. You’re doing so well.” 

Your fingers and Remus’ working like one mind, until your thighs are shivering and he has to redouble his efforts to keep you still. Your head lolling onto his shoulder, the way his lips transfer to your neck as if it's the most natural thing in the world. His scruff scratching under your jaw, moving as he says your name. 

The myriad of other things he says, sweetheart, baby, good girl, you’re doing so good, growing raspier as the pressure in your core worsens until you worry you’ll shatter if he doesn’t keep ahold of you. 

“Let go,” he instructs, kissing the skin beneath your ear lovingly. “You’re alright, just let go.” 

You choose to trust him, and your body—your being—snaps.

You make sounds you can’t hear, your own fingers stuttering and stopping while Remus works you through the new sensation, murmuring assurances into your skin. Runs his free hand over your trembling thigh. 

Eventually, your mind quiets enough to hear that his breathing is nearly as labored as your own. He slips his fingers out of you. You try to turn around to face him, but your body betrays you, slumping against his front. 

Remus chuckles, smoothing a hand up your side. “Good job, sweetheart. You did beautifully.” He smears a kiss over your cheek. “How was that?” 

You sigh blissfully. Your brain feels pulverized. “Really good.” 

Another soft laugh. “Yeah? Glad to hear it.” 

“Thank you.” You lean your head on his shoulder, trying to look up at him. 

“You’re welcome,” he replies, voice warm with amusement. “Honestly, I should probably be thanking you. I feel quite lucky.” 

You hum bemusedly. Remus’ sex-slicked fingers run lazily over the inside of your thigh. Perhaps your mind is still addled from your orgasm, but this feels incredibly normal to you now. 

“Really? Why?” 

“I just,” he exhales, leaning his head against yours lightly. “I just can’t believe I was the first person to hear you make those sounds.” 

“Oh.” You feel the tickle of embarrassment coming back to you. It draws your shoulders in. “Sorry. Was I very loud?” 

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart.” Remus turns his head, kissing your temple firmly. “You were perfect.”