#embossing press for books

[acornsalessealsstamps]

Add a charming touch to your book collection with this personalized library embossing seal. Featuring a winsome daisy design, this 1-5/8" press leaves a crisp imprint of your name—ideal for bibliophiles who love marking their literary treasures in style.

[mykingdomforablog]

Got a book embosser for Christmas. Librarians hate to see me coming

[becertainlust]

BIRTHDAY SUIT | Bakugo Katsuki

synopsis: Bakugo never made a big deal about birthdays—just another day in his book. But you're not letting this one slide. As his partner, you know better than anyone that under that explosive exterior lies a man who deserves to be worshipped. And tonight, that’s exactly what you plan to do. Dressed in nothing but a gift-wrapped surprise, you give him a present no one else ever could—you.

content: smut, shameless smut, established relationship, lingerie sex, birthday sex, reader takes the reins, blowjob, sloppy, cowgirl , orgasm,

Bakugo never cared about birthdays. For once, he'd let you celebrate him.

No grumbles, no sarcastic muttering under his breath about “dumb-ass traditions” or “waste of time.” No disappearing off to train. No flinching when his friends shouted “Happy Birthday, Katsuki!”

He actually stayed. Enjoyed it.

The apartment had been buzzing earlier with close friends, laughter, drinks, and too many snacks. But now, it was just you and him. The glow of warm lights filled the room, soft music playing low from the speaker. The scent of buttercream and spiced candles lingered in the air.

“Sit,” you said, nudging him down onto the couch.

He dropped onto it with a tired, satisfied huff, one arm slung over the backrest as he watched you crouch beside the small stack of gifts left on the coffee table.

“Ya didn’t have to do all this, y’know,” he muttered. “Just havin’ you around is—”

“Shut up,” you smirked, passing him the first box. “You can get sappy after we’re done with presents.”

He rolled his eyes, but the blush on his ears gave him away.

One by one, he opened them. A couple of gag gifts from Kaminari, a surprisingly thoughtful book from Todoroki, custom gloves from Kirishima. A shirt from you he’d side-eyed in a store window a few weeks ago but pretended not to like. He’d mumbled, “Not bad,” when he saw it then—but the way he smiled when he saw it again tonight? That soft, flickering look in his eyes?

Yeah. He remembered.

But the last gift made him still.

He turned the box in his hand like he didn’t quite recognize it, even though you knew he did. You watched his fingers move slower—more careful. He lifted the lid and saw it:

A first edition, limited-run All Might training journal.

Something he’d mentioned in passing once during a midnight walk months ago. Something he said he always wanted but could never find. He stared at it in silence, thumb brushing over the embossed edges.

“…You remembered that?” he asked, voice suddenly quieter. His eyes lifted to yours.

You smiled gently. “Of course I did.”

Bakugo swallowed hard, cheeks warming up in a way that had your heart blooming in your chest. “You’re insane,” he muttered. “You know that?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “A little.”

He blinked hard, then cleared his throat.

“Alright, alright—cake. Let’s get this over with before I start feelin’ like a damn Hallmark card.”

You brought over the cake, candles already lit, your face glowing in the soft flicker as you sang the most off-key, dramatic “Happy Birthday” you could manage. He groaned, but he didn’t stop you.

He blew out the candles.

You sliced two pieces, handed him a fork… then stole it right back.

“Say ah.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You really gonna hand feed me right now?”

“Our wedding reenactment,” you smiled, lifting a bite to his mouth.

He opened it, still scowling—but barely—as you fed him a chunk of cake. He chewed, crimson eyes on you the whole time.

“Good?” you asked.

He gave a slow, appreciative nod. “Yeah. sweet.”

"that so..."

You leaned in, swiped a little frosting from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. His lips looked so soft, gilding your frosted coated thumb onto them, then kissed it off his lips, pressing your own into the softness of his. It started soft.

But when your lips brushed his again—slow, and achingly warm, and just a little longer—his hands naturally found your waist, pulling you closer until you were nearly in his lap. He kissed back, gentle but hungry, lips parting to taste more of you.

You murmured between kisses, breath hot against his mouth: “Birthday kiss.”

He blinked slowly, his lips still parted from the kiss, eyes dazed and focused only on you. His hands anchored warm on your waist, thumbs stroking slow, thoughtless circles into your skin through the thin fabric. His gaze trailed over your face—your lips, your flushed cheeks, your eyes so full of mischief and adoration.

“You’re everything,” he murmured, almost like it slipped out without permission.

You kissed the tip of his nose, giggling softly. “Thank you.”

And then?

His hold tightened. Just slightly. And he pulled you into his lap.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he muttered, voice thick and low, “I’m gonna forget we were takin’ things slow tonight.”

You leaned in, straddling him without hesitation, your thighs hugging his hips as you settled against him. His body welcomed you instantly, his hands sliding up your sides, fingertips dragging the fabric of your top slightly—like he wanted less of it between you.

“I was never planning to go slow, birthday boy” you whispered, brushing your lips just barely against his jaw. “especially tonight.”

His breath caught—sharp, audible. You felt it in his chest, the way it stuttered under your palms. His reaction was subtle, but every part of him twitched with anticipation: his hands, his legs beneath you, the slight lift of his hips like he was already imagining how this night would end.

“Got one more present for you,” you murmured into his ear. “The real one.”

Bakugo’s brows lifted, suspicious. “Thought that damn journal was the real one.”

You grinned, climbing off his lap for just a moment—enough to walk toward the bedroom with that sway you knew drove him wild.

He watched, chin propped on his hand, eyes darkening the second your fingers dipped beneath the hem of your top as you disappeared down the hall.

“Oi,” he called. “What kinda present needs you to change for it?”

You didn’t answer.

But when you reappeared in the doorway—lingerie clinging to your curves like a second skin, chosen with him in mind—Bakugo sat up so fast he nearly knocked the fork off the coffee table.

Your name left his mouth like a groan.

“Holy shit…”

You were wrapped in delicate black lace, the kind of thing he never thought he’d see outside a magazine, and even then—never on you. Never just for him.

His mind blanked.

No words, no witty comeback. Just the shape of you silhouetted in the soft golden light. The way the sheer material clung to your curves, catching every dip and swell like it had been tailored with him in mind. The way your thighs moved when you walked, slow and sure, like you knew what that sight alone was doing to him.

His mouth had gone dry.

And still, he sat back—frozen on the couch, like his body had been rooted to the spot. Only his eyes moved, dragging over you with almost painful reverence.

Your presence wasn't just seen. It was felt. In the sudden hush of the room. In the way the air itself seemed to shift as you crossed it. There was a softness to it—like watching a flame flicker behind glass. Dangerous, but so goddamn beautiful.

Something in his chest ached.

It didn’t matter how many times he saw you like this—wanting him like this. That wide-eyed, breath-stolen reaction always snuck up on him.

His gaze caught on your collarbones, then drifted lower—hesitating on the swell of your breasts barely veiled by lace, down the soft line of your stomach, until it settled between your legs, where the thin strip of fabric left far too little to the imagination.

The sight knocked the wind out of him.

One of his hands, resting uselessly on his thigh, curled into a fist. The other—he didn’t even realize—had wiped itself discreetly on his jeans, sweat clinging to his palm.

Not from nerves. No. Never that.

Except maybe this time, it was.

Because you were walking toward him now, hips rolling, eyes locked onto his, and he could feel his body respond before his brain had even caught up. His mouth parted. Breath shallowed.

God, the way you moved. Like you were pouring yourself into every step. Like you weren’t just walking to him—you were offering yourself.

It made his pulse stutter.

And when you climbed back into his lap, warm skin settling over the growing heat in his jeans, he couldn’t think. All he could do was feel. Your nails dragging against the nape of his neck in ghost trails feather-light, his body withered under the touch. Your perfume mingling with his senses what scent was that? and why cant he stop sniffing you.

"You smell really good baby...really good" his nose ghosted your neck, hips pulling you closer. Your thighs oh so soft to him, bracket him so warmly.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He just looked.

Admiration wasn’t something Bakugo handed out easily—not to friends, not to strangers, and definitely not out loud.

But he was looking at you now like you were everything. Like you were a dream made real. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you, worship you, or fall to his knees for you.

He couldn’t stop drinking you in.

How had he gotten this lucky?

You kissed him again. Slowly, reverently. The kind of kiss that curled toes and short-circuited nerves. You would use a hand to pull him by the shirt, and when you pulled back just enough to murmur, “Happy birthday, Katsuki,” his lashes fluttered low, heat gathering in his face as he let the words sink in.

His breath hitched when your hands found his chest.

Just fingertips at first, dragging over the fabric of his shirt like you were memorizing him all over again. You didn’t rush—just let your palms glide across solid muscle, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath as your thumbs brushed the edge of his ribs.

He was already warm under your touch. And you hadn’t even done anything yet.

Leaning in, you pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw.

Then another—lower, slower. Your lips parted against his throat, leaving open-mouthed kisses in a trail that dipped down the curve of his neck. His skin twitched under each one, the breath in his lungs turning shallow, rough.

“who knew you’d do something like this,” he murmured, but the strain in his voice made it sound more like a will to give in than a tease.

You didn’t answer. Just smiled against his skin, your teeth grazing lightly before you sucked. Gently—just enough to make him feel it. And then again, lower. His hands tensed at your waist.

You tilted your head to kiss along the other side of his neck, scattering another series of soft hickies—like you were branding him in lace and affection.

A groan vibrated in his chest.

Your fingers slipped to the hem of his shirt. He didn’t resist. Didn’t even move.

He just watched you. Quiet. Obedient in a way only you got to see.

You peeled his shirt up, inch by inch, revealing the planes of his stomach—warm, lightly flushed, his abs tightening beneath your gaze. You kissed his chest slowly as you exposed it, lips brushing across firm muscle, leaving kisses that lingered just a little too long.

You didn’t break eye contact.

Not once.

Even as you sank further down, mouth worshipping the path beneath his sternum. Even as your nails lightly scratched up his sides, drawing out a low hiss from between his clenched teeth.

His body was buzzing now—caught between restraint and surrender.

And it was beautiful to watch him come undone like this. Strong and scarred and still, somehow, soft for you.

His head tipped back slightly, jaw clenched, one hand gripping your hip while the other fisted into the couch cushion. His thighs flexed beneath your hands.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the word half breath, half plea.

You hummed softly, letting your lips hover just above his waistband.

“You’re warm,” you whispered, voice sultry and low, like you were letting him in on a secret. “All over.”

And he was.

Buzzing. Flushed. Waiting.

With his chest bare, his breathing ragged, and his eyes glassy with anticipation—he looked up at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Your lips hovered just above the waistband of his sweats, breath brushing against the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the fabric. The muscles in his abdomen tensed again.

And still—you didn’t touch him where he wanted you to. Not yet. Instead, you lifted your gaze, locking eyes with him as your mouth curved in the faintest, knowing smirk. There was power in the way he was watching you. Tension in the way his thighs shifted restlessly beneath yours. Every inch of him buzzed. For you.

“Can I take these off Kats?” you asked, voice honey-slow.

Bakugo grunted, half-dazed. “… yeah.”

I mean what the hell were you asking him. If anything he just wanted on him immediately but it was all for you to watch him be a completely different person He sounded so obedient watching every moment like a patient puppy. His beautiful crimson eyes shimmering under the soft glow of the room.

Your fingers dipped under the waistband and dragged it down slow. The fabric caught on the hardened outline of him, and he hissed through his teeth as you freed him from the restraint.

His cock sprang up, flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. His hips twitched upward involuntarily, like his body was pleading before his mouth could catch up.

You made a sound of appreciation in the back of your throat—soft, reverent—before leaning in to press another kiss, just above the base. Your tongue flicked out, tasting the warm skin there. "You want me this much suki"

His whole body shuddered.

“Y-you're really gonna take your time with this, huh?” he muttered, voice rough, but low with awe.

You didn’t answer.

You just looked up again, lips parted, pupils blown, hands pressing to his thighs to steady him—before licking a slow, flat stripe from the base to the tip.

Bakugo cursed under his breath, his hand flying to the back of your head on instinct—but it never pushed, never forced. Just tangled in your hair, holding on for dear life.

Your mouth closed around him, warm and wet and unforgiving.

And he melted.

His head tipped back, jaw slack, a ragged moan slipping past his lips. You sucked him down slow—sloppy and deep—letting your tongue trace every sensitive vein, letting your spit drip down over your hand as you worked the base.

He was a mess.

Every time you hollowed your cheeks and sank lower, his thighs tensed. His breath hitched. His hips jerked upward before he caught himself, groaning through clenched teeth.

"Fuck... baby… you—goddamn."

You pulled back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, then sank down again, deeper this time.

And he twitched in your mouth, body locking up as you moaned around him.

The sound went straight to his spine—he was pulsing now, barely holding on.

When you pulled off with a wet pop, spit connecting your lips to him in a string, you wiped your mouth slowly with the back of your hand, lips swollen, eyes hooded.

“Wanna ride you,” you whispered, climbing back up into his lap. “Can I?”

Bakugo was panting. Eyes glassy. Completely undone.

He swallowed hard, leaning into your chest to whisper "Please.”

You hovered over him, your hair framing your face so bewitchingly. You lined him up with your entrance, already soaked and pulsing for him. And as you sank down, inch by inch, his eyes rolled back and his hands grabbed your hips like he needed something to anchor him to this earth.

You moaned low as he stretched you open.

“Shit—so full,” you breathed, resting your palms on his chest.

“Look at me,” he rasped, voice trembling. “Wanna see your face.”

You did. And when your eyes met his—when he saw the way you looked at him, like he was the only one you ever wanted—his whole expression softened.

His hands caressed up your waist, slow, reverent.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered, voice shaking.

You didn’t move right away.

Not really.

Instead, you hovered just above him, your entrance brushing the slick, sensitive head of his cock—barely letting him in, just enough to tease. Just enough to let him feel the heat of you. Your thighs flexed slightly, hips rolling in slow, agonizing circles that dragged your soaked folds over the tip again and again.

A soft, wet sound filled the space between you. Your juices clung to him, thick and sticky, smearing across his shaft with every grind.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head thunking back against the couch. “You’re—fuckin’ killin’ me.”

You smirked, gaze flicking up to watch him.

And god… the way he looked right now? His chest rising with every ragged breath, his lip bitten raw, his knuckles white where he clutched your hips. Every muscle in his thighs was trembling beneath you. Twitching with the restraint it took not to thrust up and bury himself in you.

You leaned forward, your chest brushing his while your hips stayed in motion—rocking slowly, teasing him with slick, hot friction.

“I thought this was your birthday,” you purred into his ear. “Shouldn’t I be giving you what you want?”

Bakugo grit his teeth, his jaw tight with tension.

“I do want this,” he growled. “You drivin’ me fuckin’ insane like this—teasin’ me—makin’ me feel like I’m gonna explode just from the tip—shit…”

You giggled, soft and wicked, and sat back just enough for him to watch.

One of your hands reached between you, guiding him so the head rested right at your entrance again. You gave a few slow bounces—just the tip sliding in and out, each time making him curse louder.

“S-shit! Baby—fuck—fuck, just let me in—” His voice cracked, his fingers digging into your skin like he was about to lose it.

You finally pressed your hips down a little more, letting him sink in halfway.

His mouth fell open, a deep, guttural curse ripping out of him. His head snapped forward to look at where you were taking him in, flushed and wide-eyed.

And you just smiled at the desperation in his gaze.

“are you feeling good baby,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his chest.

“God—yes—fuck yes,” he hissed, eyes fluttering as you dropped down another inch. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. You always do. Always…”

You leaned in again, letting your breasts press to his chest as you kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Then you better hold on,” you whispered, breath hot, “because I’m not gonna stop until you’re a mess for me.”

And with that, you finally sank down fully. All the way. His entire body jerked like he’d been electrocuted.

He let out a strangled sound—somewhere between a moan and a gasp—his head rolling back, hands gripping your ass like he was holding onto sanity itself.

You didn’t move for a moment.

Just stayed there, so full of him, clenching around him until he twitched helplessly inside you. And then—slowly, sinfully—you started to ride.

Your hips began to move again—slow, like honey melting in warm sun, like a wave building over time until it crashes. You circled them, let your walls flutter around him just to feel the way he shuddered beneath you. His eyes opened halfway, heavy-lidded and glazed, following every sensual sway of your body like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And to him—it was.

“Katsuki…” you whispered, your palms gliding up his abdomen. “You’re so deep.”

A sharp breath hissed between his teeth. He looked like he was trying to hold something back, but his hips bucked once—shallow, needy. You kept your pace measured, deliberate, grinding down into him with that same velvet friction that made his head roll back again.

“Shit,” he groaned, the sound low and desperate. His hands were clutching at your waist now, not to guide, but to ground himself. “You’re squeezin’ me so good, mmm"

You leaned down slowly, dragging your lips across his collarbone. Then lower—pressing open-mouthed kisses to his chest, his nipple. As you moved, your body rolled into his, your rhythm never faltering, hips undulating in a steady, torturous rhythm.

Every time you sank down, he twitched inside you, groaning louder.

“I love the way you sound baby,” you whispered, licking the salt from his skin. “All desperate and sweet. My perfect birthday boy.”

He looked at you like he’d melt.

One of his hands slipped up your back, tangled into your hair, tugging lightly as you nuzzled his neck. You licked a stripe just beneath his ear, then suckled gently at his skin, your teeth dragging slightly—leaving soft, loving hickeys along his neck and collar.

And every one had him groaning, his cock jerking inside you.

“Gonna mark you up tonight,” you murmured. “So everyone knows who you belong to.”

“I already do,” he rasped, voice nearly broken, “fuckin’ been yours.”

You smiled into his skin and sat back again, palms braced against his chest as you began to bounce now—slow, deep, full bounces that had him clenching his jaw and moaning through his teeth. His abs flexed beneath your hands. His hands gripped your hips tighter.

Your name left his lips like a prayer.

Your hips found a rhythm—delicious, sticky, sinful—and the way he filled you, the way he responded to every little grind, made your legs start to tremble.

He felt it. His hands slid down to cup your ass again, helping support your movements as he watched you from beneath heavy lashes.

“Baby,” he breathed. “You’re—fuck—you’re gonna make me come—just like this?”

You leaned forward again, kissed him deep, then pulled back just enough to whisper:

“Yes. Inside. Don’t hold back. I want you to come just like this.”

He let out a wrecked moan, his hips finally thrusting up to meet yours, matching your rhythm.

Faster now.

Deeper.

You clung to his shoulders, your mouth falling open as the coil inside you tightened and tightened—

And then he gasped—eyes rolling to close, mouth open and his cock twitching violently inside you as he spilled, deep and thick and hot, fingers bruising your hips while he cursed your name like a confession.

You didn’t stop.

Not even then.

Still slow. Still steady. Still riding out every aftershock as he moaned beneath you, overstimulated and undone. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and soft as they met yours. His hair stuck to his forehead. His chest heaved. His hands slid up your spine, arms curling around you as he held you close.

Your chest heaved against his, his heart pounding against your ribcage like a war drum. He was still buried deep, twitching, oversensitive—but you didn’t move. You just cradled his face, tilted it up so he had no choice but to look at you.

“Listen to you,” you whispered, voice sultry and sweet as sin. “Mouth full of curses… all because I couldn’t help creamin’ all over this fat cock.”

Bakugo groaned through clenched teeth, face flushed and jaw tight like he was holding onto the last thread of sanity.

“You heard it, didn’t you?” you murmured, grinding just enough to make him jolt, to let another wet, obscene squelch fill the space between you. “God, the noise we made—bet our neighbors think I was drowning in it.”

He groaned louder, head falling back against the couch.

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and lingering, then whispered, “Soaked you, Katsuki. You feel how messy I made you? Look at your lap—look at what you did to me.”

He peeked down—eyes glassy—and let out another hoarse, broken curse when he saw the slick still glistening between your thighs, watching how you both were still connected before you lift your hips to show him, with such a sly smile it did something to him, watching his cum dripping slowly out of you onto him.

You guided yourself back in, rocking your hips again, so delicately, and he twitched inside you, helpless. His whole body shivered with a groan, his head collapsing on your shoulder "fuck enough"

You grinned. “You liked it when I sat there and shook my ass on it, didn’t you? Teasin’ you right on the tip ‘til you were cussin’ like you were about to lose your damn mind, yeah?” you grind.

“You’re—fuckin’ evil,” he gasped, fingers twitching against your waist.

You kissed his jawline this time, biting lightly just below his ear. His hands gripped you tighter again, like he was about to flip the script—but he was still spent, still weak from how you dropped your ass on him, He just held you there instead, breathing ragged, letting you purr filth against his skin.

"A little"

[gojover]

nice boys don’t kiss like that.

when your former rival chances upon your diary and reads all the unpleasant things you’ve written about him, he takes it upon himself to change your mind.

— pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader — contains: fluff, developing relationship, former rivals to lovers, kind of suggestive, making out, profanity, posted as a mingyu fic on my main account but i want an excuse to post pining gojo on my birthday :) — word count: 3.3k — note: inspired by this scene from bridget jones’ diary. thanks for reading!

It is on a twilit Saturday evening, at precisely 7:01 P.M, that Gojo Satoru is accosted by a notebook for the first time in his life.

He lets out a startled grunt and finds himself with an armful of things—a denim jacket, a crumpled grocery shopping list, an empty box of Tic Tacs, a woollen beanie with a questionable brown stain he thinks is ketchup; all presumably from whatever depths of your drawer he can see you hunched over, searching for something that remains stubbornly elusive. The offensive projectile whizzes past his shoulder and lands on the polished wooden floor with a thud.

Satoru stands at the doorway to your bedroom, having bypassed the living room and hallway that leads to the kitchen in favour of pressing heated kisses to your cheeks and collarbones. He watches you, bemused. A few weeks ago, he might’ve laughed at your frazzled state with derision. Now, he still wants to laugh, but more in an affectionate way.

You turn around swiftly, nearly tripping on a stray stocking on the floor, and he bites back a smile when you mumble a string of curse words under your breath. 

“Hi,” you say, breathing heavily. “I’m really sorry.”

Then you slam the door shut on his face.

Well, Satoru thinks. This is the first time a girl’s closed the door when I’m in her apartment.

Faced with nothing else to do except wait for your arrival, he drops the Tic Tac box on the floor, hangs your jacket and beanie on the back of the sofa, and almost stubs his toe on the corner of the notebook.

Wincing at the close call, Satoru glares at the book like it’s the cause of all his troubles. DIARY, it reads, embossed in ornate gold letters. The cover is a rich shade of red, rough and leather-bound. He picks it up; it’s rather heavy, and judging by the frayed corners and the random bits of paper poking out of the sides, it seems to be quite old too. Regardless, it is well-cherished—he knows this because he knows you, and you’re the kind of person who wears your heart on your sleeve.

Which is why he knows opening it is a bad idea. 

Satoru shrugs and places the book on the coffee table, taking a seat on the plush, olive green sofa opposite it. He leans his elbows on his knees and interlaces his fingers under his chin. From the inside of your room, he can hear muffled screaming—should he be worried? The screaming stops. Satoru lets his tense shoulders relax.

His eyes zero in on your diary once more. He shouldn’t open it—he really, really shouldn’t. It would be a horrible breach of your privacy. Your trust in him would be broken forever, and even if he somehow manages to win it back, it will always be a stain in the fabric of your still-developing relationship.

But.

One tiny peek can’t hurt, right? He’s only waiting for you to come out of your room, after all. Just one little look, and then he’ll close the book immediately. It can’t possibly hurt. Curiosity is both a blessing and a vice, he figures, and since he’s already stacked up on vices, there is no harm in adding to his karmic points.

So he picks up your diary and flips to a random page, freezing momentarily when he hears an irritated grunt and the sound of something hitting the floor from inside your room. Your handwriting is a lot messier than it usually is; you probably save your best penmanship for official things, and your personal diary is not one of them. That, or you were just frustrated.

12th June

I fucking hate Gojo Satoru. I hope I never have to see him and his stupid handsome obnoxious face EVER AGAIN. I’m so DONE with him.

Satoru’s cheeks prickle with heat. He’s thoroughly invested now. He turns to another page.

14th June

Ran into G.S again today. He spilled coffee all over me what else is new but. he actually apologised!!! Crazy. Maybe he was just in a good mood. Either way, my new blouse is ruined so fuck him.

The strangest thing is that Satoru actually remembers that day vividly. You were wearing a gorgeous cream-coloured blouse, and he was so caught up in staring at you talking animatedly with your supervisor that he zoned out completely and accidentally spilled his coffee on you because he tripped over his shoelaces. Now, knowing that your blouse was new at the time brings up a slight twinge of guilt. He’ll ask you about it later.

22nd June

G.S is actually…… kinda nice? He supported me in the meeting today with the clients when they were being so tiresome. He has a nice smile I guess.

Satoru smiles widely. 

23rd June

Nevermind. I take back everything I said. Gojo Satoru is a prat with zero social skills. I mean, would it kill him to say hello back??? I get that he’s busy but i thought we’d made progress. One thing is for sure. Gojo Satoru is NOT nice. Not even a little bit.

His smile falters.

The next page contains a similar anecdote—something about how he always vehemently disagrees with everything you say, and how despite his good looks he was a complete and utter asshole. Further investigation reveals the same thing: you hate Gojo Satoru with a burning passion.

And… Well, he couldn’t lie and say the feeling wasn’t mutual at one point in time—but it has mellowed down since then, gently and slowly, like a fallen leaf being carried by a soft wind. There came a day where Satoru found himself glaring at you, not with disdain in his eyes, but with a steady thrum in his chest where his heart lay. Later, he would realise that he didn’t hate you—not even a little bit.

He assumed you felt the same way. Why else would your smirks, so full of malice, melt into grins that could light up a whole town? Why else would you agree to go on a date with him when he asked you out, one day, after work, tripping over his words like an elementary schoolboy? Why else would you invite him home and ask him to spend the night?

Of course, it doesn’t explain why you’ve locked yourself up in your bedroom currently (frankly, he’s a bit befuddled about that). But the sentiment must still be there.

It’s a diary, he reasons. 

It’s your diary, his brain screams back, and that’s the real issue here, isn’t it?

Diaries are full of crap, anyway, he thinks to himself.

Diaries contain the Real Thoughts And Emotions of a human being, his brain hollers back.

Mind swirling, Satoru closes the book and places it back on the coffee table, barely aware of his movements. Have you been lying to him? No, there’s absolutely no way—he trusts you far more than that, and besides, what would you even lie to him about? There are no benefits to stringing him along, and you’re not the kind of person who would do something like that, anyway.

You must have had a change of heart, then. That’s the only conclusion he can think of. Your diary entries come to a standstill after 27th June, which means you haven’t opened it in a while. It’s also around the same time you stopped picking fights with each other. Something must have changed by then; Satoru is glad it did.

Satisfied with his deduction, Satoru stuffs his hands in his pockets and crosses his ankles together. Behind your bedroom door, you remain suspiciously silent. He considers knocking on the door once to make sure you’re okay—or if you need any help, because staying put inside your room for over twenty minutes is certainly not normal when you have a guest and potential boyfriend over. 

Almost as if you’ve heard his thoughts, the door to your room swings open. You stand at the doorway, breathing heavily.

“Hey,” Satoru says, quickly standing up. “Everything good?”

You beam at him. “Perfect. Sorry to have kept you waiting, I—”

Your gaze drops to the coffee table, landing on your diary. Satoru keeps his gaze fixed on you. You look back at him, lips parted. 

“Um,” you begin. “It’s— It’s just a diary.”

“Clearly.” Satoru fights back a smile.

You chew your bottom lip nervously. “Did you read it?”

“I did,” he confirms, nodding. “I’m sorry. I was just curious—”

You groan, lifting your hands and covering your face with your palms. “Fuck.”

Satoru reaches out and encircles your wrists with his fingers, gently tugging your hands away from your face. He finds it oddly endearing. “It’s only a diary. I’m sorry I read it. I shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t care about that. You… you probably read all the horrible, mean things I wrote about you.”

“Well,” he says, shrugging a little, “some of the entries were definitely… interesting.”

You blink. Unable to help himself, Satoru drops a light kiss to the tip of your nose.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” you tell him.

“Mhm.”

“I’m serious.”

“Mhm.”

“Satoru.”

“I’ll tell you what I think about your diary later, ‘kay?” he says, hooking his pinkie finger with yours. “Come with me.”

“What? Where?” Confusion paints your features.

Satoru huffs out a laugh. “Just trust me.”

Satoru places the brand-new diary he’d bought for you on the dining table with a flourish. “D’you have a pen?”

You eye him suspiciously, gaze darting between him and the new, dark green notebook on the table. He grins, carefree and indulgent. Still wary, you hand him a blue ballpoint pen from the pen stand placed above the drawers to the left. He hums and uncaps it.

Flipping open the book to the first page, he bends down and writes slowly.

This book belongs to Gojo Satoru and

Satoru stops writing and holds the pen out expectantly to you. “Here. Write your name.”

Confused, but curious, you oblige. Your name, written in your handwriting, next to his own semi-legible scrawl, makes a warm, affectionate feeling bubble up inside his chest. He wonders what it would look like when both your names are signed next to each other on a marriage certificate. Then, he wonders when and where your wedding would take place. A summer wedding sounds nice, but the sweltering heat might be a bit of a problem. Winter weddings are beautiful for sure, but neither of you is a big fan of the cold.

He’s in the process of thinking of names for your children and pet dog when you break him out of his daze. 

“Hey. What’s all this about, hm?” You nudge his shoulder lightly with yours.

Satoru says, “It’s a diary, but for both of us.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. He swings an arm over your shoulder and draws you closer to him, smiling when flyaway strands of your hair tickle his cheek. 

“In your old diary, it was pretty obvious you, uh, didn’t like me much,” he explains, holding up his free hand when you open your mouth to protest. “I don’t blame you. We were assholes to each other most of the time. But we’ve moved past that. At least, I hope we have.”

Your reply is instantaneous. “Of course. Of course, we have.”

Satoru trails his fingers absent-mindedly over your arm. “Right. And… It’s kind of silly, I guess—I don’t know—but I thought—if we kept a new diary together, one that we could use to document our journey, with both our perspectives in the same place—I thought it would be nice.”

Your mouth parts and you look at him, an indiscernible expression on your face. He shifts from one foot to the other, feeling suddenly nervous. You don’t betray any hint of emotion on your face, but Satoru’s heart hammers inside his chest. What if you think he’s being silly and overly sentimental? What if you find the idea ridiculous?

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he quickly backtracks. “I know we’ve only just moved past the idea of being more than friends, but—” He stops himself.

“But…?” you gently prompt him, twisting around to see him better.

Satoru swallows. “But I can’t imagine not being with you.”

He hears your sharp intake of breath, and in the next moment, the breath is knocked out of his lungs when you throw your arms around his neck and pull him in for a tight, rib-squeezing hug.  Automatically, his arms circle your waist, and he presses a light, barely-there kiss to the junction of your neck and jaw. 

Eyes shining happily, you pull back slightly with a wide grin on your face. “You’re so hopelessly romantic, it makes my chest hurt.”

“Consider this your trial run. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He sighs, content. “Okay, I won’t.”

“What should our first diary entry be about?” you ask, loosening your hold on him.

“About how you ditched me inside your house for almost half an hour after you invited me over.” He’s only half-joking.

You look away, embarrassed and sheepish. “I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“I’m being serious, Satoru.”

“So you’ve said,” he agrees breezily.

“Actually,” you begin, a tad shy, “I was thinking it could be about this—about how you bought us a diary and then kissed me in front of the dining table after we christened the book.”

Satoru’s eyes widen, but before he can get a word in edgewise, your lips are already centimetres away from his. “May I?” you whisper.

“Yeah. ‘Course,” he murmurs back.

The kiss makes him feel dizzy, like he’s had one too many bottles of soda—fizzy and light-headed. Your lips are soft, mouth warm; you taste like chocolate, and he licks into your mouth desperately. His fingers dig into your waist, bunching up the material of your t-shirt, and you run your hand through his hair, tugging gently. He’s kissed you before, of course, but something about this time feels important, a core memory sort of thing. Later that night, he’ll sit beside you on your bed and watch as you write in your shared diary, and he’ll make fun of the way you chew on your pen cap when you’re thinking of what to write next and you’ll shut him up with a kiss.

But for now, he indulges himself whole-heartedly. You let out little gasps which he swallows with his mouth. He tilts his head and kisses you deeper. Only when his lungs are burning does he pull away, and even then, not without a parting peck to the space in between your eyebrows.

“Satoru,” you say, breathless. 

“Yeah?” he responds, unable to tear his gaze off of your kiss-bitten lips.

“I really am sorry about what I wrote about you,” you apologise, looking down once and then back at him. “It’s only a diary—everyone knows diaries are full of crap.”

“I know.” Satoru smiles tenderly. “I’m not mad.”

“You should be. I would be, if I was in your place.”

His eyes dart back to meet yours, and he grimaces. “If you really think about it, I’m the one who should be apologising, not you. I shouldn’t have read your diary, no matter how curious I was.”

“I… don’t really care about that, weirdly enough,” you say thoughtfully. “I was more worried about the fact that you thought I hated you and you were gonna leave me. Not so much about you reading the diary itself.”

“Pfft,” Satoru says, affectionately condescending. “If I left you, where would I go?”

Your mouth parts as you stare at him, dumbfounded. “Jesus. How do you say things like that unironically?”

“I could compose whole sonnets about you and it wouldn’t be enough.”

“That’s ironic, I hope.”

He tilts his head and pulls you close. “Only one way to find out.”

When he captures your lips with his this time, it’s with colliding bodies and biting teeth. He runs his tongue across your bottom lip, and you shudder in his arms, moaning. Somehow, you stumble back into the living room, a mess of tangled limbs.

Briefly pulling away, Satoru sits down on the same sofa he’d occupied earlier and clumsily pulls you onto his lap. You brace your hands on his shoulders for support, lifting your head up when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw.

“Fuck, Satoru,” you gasp, eyes falling shut.

He hums against your skin. “Tell me what you were doing in your room for so long.”

“I was—ah—it’s embarrassing.”

Satoru stops his movements. “I won’t judge you.”

“I know,” you say, teeth worrying your lower lip. “I’ll tell you someday.”

When you purse your lips, ready for him to kiss you again, Satoru lets out a soft laugh. “Sweetheart.”

“What?” 

“I think I need to correct some of your… perceptions of me,” he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your back.

You furrow your eyebrows. “What?”

“I’m sorry about your blouse,” he whispers. “You looked really pretty wearing it, you know. Got distracted. Couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“Satoru, I don’t know what you’re talking—” You gasp when he kisses the column of your throat.

“I’m sorry for being obnoxious,” he continues, lowering his head and pressing his lips to the pulse point on your neck. “But I’m not sorry you think I’m handsome.”

“Only your face,” you mutter, but you tug on his hair to get him to tilt his head up. When he does, you kiss him again, your hands warm and placed on the junctions where his neck meets his shoulders. 

“I’ll support you in more than just meetings,” he says, pulling back. His breath ghosts over your lips, prompting a shiver to pass through your body. Your eyes widen when you finally, finally realise what he’s talking about. “I’ll tell those stupid clients to shut up and take it.”

You laugh, bright and happy, and Satoru wants to bottle the sound up greedily. “That sounds kinda wrong,” you say.

He shrugs, his smile turning lopsided. “I’m sorry for ignoring you when you said hi to me. I won’t do it ever again.”

You laugh again, teeth flashing in the warm glow of the living room lights.

There’s an odd feeling in Satoru’s chest—something warm and golden—something he can only describe as being terribly, hopelessly lovesick for you.

He whispers your name again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Tell me what you were doing in your room for so long.”

You groan again, your previous amusement turning into embarrassment. Your next words are muffled by his shoulder, your lips warm against his clavicle as you mumble something only you can understand.

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you,” Satoru says mischievously.

 Another sound of mortification.

“I won’t laugh,” he says. “Promise.”

“Underwear,” you mumble, just loud enough for him to hear. “I was searching for a better pair of underwear than the one I had on.”

To his credit, Satoru really doesn’t laugh. It takes a lot of effort, though, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent his giggles from escaping. 

You lean back and narrow your eyes at him. “Oh, go on. I know you’re dying to laugh.”

He shakes his head, cheeks blown out like a pufferfish. You stare at him quietly.

Minutes later, he exhales shakily. “See? I didn’t laugh. I’m a nice guy.”

His lips find yours again, slower and more languorous this time. After all, he has all the time in the world now—to hold you like this, kiss you gently—and he plans to cherish each second. Your tongue swipes his lower lip, and he parts his mouth willingly. He feels like putty underneath you, as he uses one of his hands to cup your face and deepen the kiss. Your lips move against his, already familiar, but he could never stop craving it.

When you pull back to breathe, your eyes are wide and your lips are swollen—a fact that Satoru notes with pride.

“Nice boys don’t kiss like that,” you breathe out.

“Oh, yes, they fucking do.”

[sunshineangel0]

VALENTINES DAY PACT —﹙ B.C ﹚

⌁ wc 6.2k warnings nsfw content, protected intercourse, afab reader, greedy chan, childhood friends to lovers, one bed, fake dating, unresolved feelings, small town au! ⌁ part one of the "twin heart series"

Y/N stared down at the RSVP card like it had personally insulted her. Like if she focused hard enough, maybe the gold-embossed lettering saying "Save The Date, for this Valentines day, for the long anticipated Wedding of Kim Seungmins and F/N L/N!", would curl up in flames, the heart-shaped wax seal would melt into a puddle of regret, and the whole thing would vanish from the little round diner table of the "Seaside Diner" between her and Bang Chan. No such luck. It sat there, pristine and mocking, practically radiating smugness with its “You’re Invited!” script and tasteful floral border.

Across from her, Chan took a lazy sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. “You’re seriously going to fake an engagement?” he asked, like he was asking about the weather, like this wasn’t the most absurd idea either of them had heard before 9 a.m.

She didn’t blink. “No,” she said slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I’m seriously going to fake our engagement.”

He choked, just slightly, and set the mug down with a thud. “I beg your pardon?”

“Unless you want me to show up to this wedding alone, in a pastel tulle dress I didn’t choose, forced to make small talk with Jamie’s third cousins while everyone gives me the ‘poor Y/N’ look and offers me consolation shrimp,” she said, voice rising with every syllable.

He blinked. “You’re not even in the bridal party.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped, then sighed, folding her arms over her chest like armor. “Sunhoo’s going to be there. With her. Because Seungmin literally invited every every single person in Summerdale, and everyone still thinks my glory days ended after prom night.”

Chan tilted his head, considering this with all the seriousness of someone analyzing a chessboard. “I mean… you did peak at seventeen.”

Her foot connected with his shin under the table before he could smirk. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her point.

Chan grinned, that easy, lopsided one he always pulled when he was trying to cut the tension. But this time, it didn’t stick. Slowly, the smile faded, leaving something quieter behind — something almost solemn.

“You know I’ll do it, right?” he said, his voice softer now. “If you want me to. You just have to say the word.”

He made it sound simple. Too simple. Like this was just another favor. Like he was offering to carry her groceries or kill a spider in her apartment, not upend their already-complicated friendship for a weekend of smiling through their teeth and pretending to be in love.

She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Because it wasn’t simple. Not by a long shot. Y/N stared into her coffee like it might offer some clarity, but all she saw was her own reflection, warped and blurry. She felt her pulse ticking in her wrist, in her throat.

Chan leaned forward a little, forearms on the table, fingers laced together. Waiting. Not pushing. That was always the worst part with him—he never pushed. He let her make the first move. The last move. All the moves, really. “You don’t have to decide right now,” he said, gently. “You could ask one of your book club girls. Or… I don’t know, that guy who sold you your couch?”

“You mean Jae the furniture perv?”

“Right, forget Jae.”

She exhaled a slow, shaky breath and looked up at him. “I don’t want them. I want—” She cut herself off. Bit the inside of her cheek. He raised his eyebrows slightly. “You want?”

She hated how steady he looked. Like none of this touched him. Like the idea of pretending to be her fiancé didn’t stir up years of complicated history and one specific memory neither of them ever acknowledged: a truck parked by the beach, a humid July night, her skin pressed to his, the sound of crashing waves and a thousand stars above them that saw everything.

“You said you’d do it if I asked,” she said finally. “But you didn’t say you wanted to.”

Something shifted in his expression then. A flicker of something buried. Old. Familiar. Dangerous. “I didn’t say I don’t want to,” he replied. His voice had dropped a little, rougher now. “I’m just trying to be sure you do.”

Silence stretched between them. Not awkward—never awkward with him—but taut, like a thread pulled tight. She took another sip of her coffee, if only to buy herself time. When she finally set the cup down, she still didn’t feel ready. But she said it anyway, the words heavier than she expected.

“Okay. Be my fiancé.”

For a moment, he didn’t react. Didn’t move. Just stared at her like he was reading a page in a book they’d both sworn not to open again. Then something flickered in his eyes—just for a second. Not quite a smile. Not quite pain. A memory, maybe.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Guess I better find a ring.”

She tried to smile. Tried not to think about how easily he could borrow one from his sister. Tried not to think about how it might fit. Or how it might feel. But they both knew the truth. There was no version of this that wouldn’t mean something. And maybe it always had.

The word fiancé looked wrong on her screen. Too formal. Too fake. Like she was trying on someone else’s shoes and pretending they fit.

Still, she typed it out anyway. Committed to the bit. Or maybe just too far in to back out now.

Y/N: meet me at Bella´s after work Y/N: i need a ring Y/N: bring that hot fake fiancé energy 🔥💍

The three dots appeared instantly, which was either comforting or terrifying.

Fiance (Chan): i always bring the energy Fiance (Chan): but yeah, i’m free after 6 Fiance (Chan): you paying, or am i getting the diamond discount?

She snorted, thumbs already flying across the screen.

Y/N: were going to a pawn shop, chan. Y/N: you’re getting cubic zirconia and raw ambition

A pause. Then his reply:

Fiance (Chan): sexy Fiance (Chan): see you at 6, almost-wife

She stared at that last text longer than she meant to.

Almost-wife. Even as a joke, it buzzed in her chest like static—wrong and right all at once. She locked her phone without answering and tucked it into her bag, trying not to think too hard about what they were really doing.

Fake rings. Fake names. Real feelings they’d agreed to ignore. One night of pretending had already changed everything once. What would a whole weekend do?

She stood in front of the glass case at Bellas’s Trinkets feeling like she’d just committed a felony. Everything inside the case sparkled too much. Too bright. Too knowing. Like the rings themselves were in on the lie.

They glared up at her in neat little velvet boxes—diamonds, sapphires, gold bands winking like they knew exactly what kind of mess she was walking into. What kind of mess she already was.

Beside her, Chan crouched down to get a closer look, resting his forearms on his knees like he was evaluating ancient artifacts instead of pawn shop jewelry. His expression was pure theater—brow furrowed, lips pursed, head tilted slightly to the side.

“So,” he said thoughtfully. “What says ‘I’m hopelessly devoted to Y/N, but also not actually in love with her, except maybe a little bit in denial about it’?”

She didn’t dignify him with a glance. “Probably not the heart-shaped one.”

He followed her gaze and snorted. “Yeah. That one’s giving eighth-grade promise ring. Like I should be wearing a puka shell necklace and quoting The Notebook.”

She scanned the rows until her eyes landed on something understated—a slender gold band with a pear-cut stone. Not flashy. Not loud. Elegant, but practical. Like it belonged to someone who didn’t need to prove anything.

She pointed. “What about that one?” Chan leaned in. Studied it. “Hmm. Classic. Safe. Kind of like you.”

That made her turn. One eyebrow arched, hand on her hip. “Did you seriously just call me safe?” He looked up at her, unbothered. “Yeah, but like... in the way that you always have Band-Aids and backup snacks in your purse. You’re comfort-core.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Chan.” He gave a small shrug, then straightened up slowly, closing the distance between them by half. His voice dropped just a bit, enough to shift the tone.

“Okay. Fine. You’re the kind of safe that ruins men.” She blinked. He kept going. Steady. Sure. “The kind they meet thinking they’re fine, and then suddenly they’re reorganizing their entire lives around a woman who alphabetizes her spice rack and remembers how they take their coffee without asking.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed again. It shut her up, and he knew it. Smug bastard.

Before she could fire back, Bella—the owner, nosy and beaming—popped out from behind the counter, her apron dusted with rhinestone glitter. “You two picking out an engagement ring?” she asked, clasping her hands like she’d just stepped into a Hallmark movie.

Y/N opened her mouth, brain scrambling to assemble a plausible excuse, but Chan beat her to it.

“Yep,” he said smoothly, reaching for the ring she’d pointed out. “She said yes last night.”

Bella gasped like she’d won something. “Oh, honey! That’s wonderful! How’d he do it?”

Y/N turned to Chan, giving him the your move look. He held the ring up between his fingers and grinned. “Tell her, baby.” Oh, we’re doing this, she thought. Her pulse jumped. Without missing a beat, she looked Bella square in the eyes. “He wrote ‘marry me’ on a Post-It and stuck it on my fridge. Very on brand.”

Chan chuckled. “She’s lying. I spelled it out in candles on the beach. Nearly set myself on fire.” Bella clutched her heart like she was watching a proposal at Disneyland. “Young love,” she sighed. Y/N rolled her eyes, but when Chan slid the ring onto her finger, something in her chest skipped—hard. It was just for show. Just a prop.

But it fit. Perfectly. Of course it did.

Because nothing about this was supposed to feel real. But it did. Too real. Too easy. Too dangerous. Chan didn’t let go of her hand right away. And the scary part was—neither did she. And that specific feeling, of her hand in his, let her mind wander to a certain summer night almost ten years ago...

FLASHBACK — SUMMER, SENIOR YEAR

The heat that summer didn’t come from stolen glances or fake promises. It came from sunburned skin and sticky night air, from sand stuck between toes and sweat pooling at the base of her spine. It came from the restless pulse of being eighteen and wanting something you couldn’t name—only feel.

They were in the back of Chan’s dad’s pickup, parked behind the old boat shed near Breaker’s Cove. Hidden, mostly. The kind of place only locals from Summerdale knew about, where the dunes curved like secrets and the sea whispered too low for anyone to hear.

The truck bed creaked beneath them as they shifted—bodies tangled, skin flushed, nerves raw in the salt-heavy air. The blanket underneath them was faded, scratchy, smelled like garage dust and beach bonfires. It didn’t matter.

Nothing about that night had been planned. Not the way his hand found hers when she laughed too hard. Not the way he’d looked at her like she was something rare. And definitely not this—her fingers curled in his shirt, breath catching, hearts pounding.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the ocean. Chan leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “We don’t have to.” She held onto him tighter. “I want to.”

The words settled between them, anchoring something that had always been drifting just out of reach.

It wasn’t perfect. It was awkward—fumbling and unsure, the way firsts always are. A knee bumped the wheel well. Someone laughed, half-nervous. Her hair got caught on a snap in his jeans. But when it was quiet again, when it was just skin against skin and breath syncing up like waves, it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt true.

Afterward, they lay side by side in the truck bed, bare shoulders touching. The stars above them were bright and wild, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled salt. The sea murmured in the distance. The smell of driftwood and seaweed clung to the air.

She looked up and said nothing. Neither did he. Because anything said out loud might’ve made it real. Might’ve forced them to admit that this was more than curiosity or timing or heat.

And maybe they weren’t ready for real.

The next morning, she saw him at the Seaside diner. Her hair was still damp from a quick shower. His shirt was wrinkled. Their friends were loud, laughing, oblivious. They didn’t touch. Didn’t mention the truck or the stars or the way he’d held her after, like he didn’t want to let go.

They pretended it never happened. But later, when she reached for the syrup, his hand brushed hers. Just for a second. And it felt like remembering a secret no one else knew.

Back in the pawn shop, Chan finally let go of her hand. His fingers slipped away slowly, like they didn’t want to, like they hadn’t gotten the memo that this was all pretend. “It looks good on you,” he said.

His voice was unreadable—smooth, casual—but something in it tugged. Like he was trying too hard not to sound like anything at all. Y/N stared down at the ring. The stone caught the overhead light and threw it back at her in a hundred fractured angles.

“Let’s just hope your mom doesn’t recognize it from Bellas when we show up,” she muttered, trying to sound dry, detached, whatever the opposite of spiraling was. Chan chuckled, low and easy. “She won’t. But she’s definitely gonna ask how I proposed, so... we should get our story straight.”

Y/N nodded, forcing a smile. “Right. Proposal logistics. Just part of the illusion.” But her fingers were still tingling where he’d touched her.

This was fake. This was for show. This was supposed to be simple.

A weekend of make-believe. A ring. A few photos. One big lie tied in a bow.

And yet—

The weight of the band on her finger felt real. Heavy, like it meant something. Worse was the way Chan was looking at her—calm, careful, unreadable in all the ways that used to mean he was thinking too much. Or not enough. She tore her eyes away before she could start imagining things that weren’t there. But some part of her knew: she'd remember this. Not just the ring. Not just the shop.

Him. Letting go. Too slowly. Like maybe he didn’t want to.

The thing no one tells you about pretending to be engaged to your best friend? Everyone suddenly thinks your relationship is public property. They touch your hand, grab your arm, ask inappropriate questions with glossy-eyed sincerity and zero boundaries.

Y/N learned this twenty minutes after arriving at The Marigold House—a coastal bed-and-breakfast straight out of a Pinterest fever dream. Whitewashed clapboard, blue shutters, ivy curling up the trellises, and that faint, inescapable smell of vanilla potpourri and multigenerational secrets. It was charming in a “please don’t haunt me” kind of way.

They barely made it through the front gate before a cousin—Tiffany? Brittany? Something ending in -ny and wearing coral satin—latched onto her like they’d been close since preschool.

“Oh my God, look at that ring!” she squealed, catching Y/N’s left hand in both of hers. “You are so lucky. And you,” she said, pointing an acrylic-nailed finger at Chan, “locked him down? Seriously? You always gave off commitment-phobe energy.”

Chan didn’t even blink. Just smiled, that casual, unreadable smile he wore when he was lying with ease. “Guess I found the exception.”

Y/N didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around hers���subtle, firm. Like punctuation. Like backup. They navigated the social minefield of the lobby—the cousins, the vaguely familiar faces from high school, the girl who once threw up on her shoes at prom—and finally reached the front desk, where a too-cheerful concierge in floral pastels slid them a key with a wink. She made a mental note in her head to give Seungmin later a lecture on who-and-who-dont you invite to your wedding.

“One queen bed,” she said brightly. “Super cozy. Perfect for newlyweds.” Y/N opened her mouth. Absolutely not— Chan beat her to it. “Perfect,” he said smoothly. “We love cozy.” The key was already in his hand.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, the performance cracked like cheap veneer. “One bed?” Y/N said, tossing her bag down like it had betrayed her. “Are you kidding me?” Chan shrugged out of his hoodie, already at ease. “You RSVP’d with a fiancé, babe. Couples sleep together. It’s kind of the whole point.”

“You could take the floor.”

“You could stop pretending you mind.” She shot him a glare. That smug, maddening, not-wrong face.

She turned away, crossing to the window to hide the flush creeping up her neck. Her hand still tingled where he’d held it. The ring still felt heavier than it should have. And her body—traitorous, inconvenient—was already very aware of the fact that she’d be sharing a room, and a bed, with someone she once knew naked under a sky full of stars.

That smug, unbothered tone. That stupidly correct face. That fucking handsome face.

She didn’t answer. Just turned away, crossing to the window to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. Her fingers still tingled where he’d held them. The ring on her left hand was just cheap metal and cubic zirconia, but it felt heavier than gold.

She had convinced herself she could handle this. Keep it light. Laugh it off. But then Chan hoisted her suitcase onto the luggage rack like he’d done it a hundred times. And maybe he had. That was the problem.

It felt too easy. Too familiar. Too them.

“Remember crashing at my grandma’s lake cabin?” he asked, flopping onto the edge of the bed. “We used to fight over who got the couch.”

“Yeah,” she said, still staring out the window.

He hesitated. “Except that last time.”

Y/N went still. Because she did remember. Just not the way he said it.

“Wrong place,” she murmured, not turning around. “What?” “It wasn’t the cabin. It was your dad’s truck,” she said quietly. “Breaker’s Cove. The summer before college.”

The air shifted. The teasing fell away. Chan sat up. “Right.”

She finally looked at him. “How could you forget that night?” He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, carefully. Like he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Or maybe like he didn’t want to say the right one.

“I didn’t forget,” he said. “I’ve tried to.” Y/N let out a breath. Not a laugh. Not quite.

“That night—” she started, then stopped. “We never talked about it.”

“You never brought it up either,” he said gently. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Me either.” They were quiet for a beat.

The memory was so clear. The two of them in the bed of the pickup truck, parked just above the cove where the tide rolled in steady and slow. Salt on their skin. The blanket beneath them rough with sand and wind. Her hands tangled in his shirt, his mouth on her shoulder. His voice, low: We don’t have to. Her answer, barely a whisper: I want to.

After, they had stared at the stars like they were afraid to look at each other. And the next morning, they’d pretended it never happened. Chan leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. “If we’d talked about it back then,” he said, “I don’t think I could’ve kept pretending we were just friends.”

Her chest tightened. Because that? That wasn’t fake. Neither was the look in his eyes. And maybe it never had been.

Chan’s gaze was heavy—locked on hers like it cost him something to look, but more to look away. His voice dropped again, barely above a whisper. “If we’d talked about it,” he said, “I wouldn’t have been able to pretend.”

The weight of it sat between them, thick and electric. Something real. Something breakable. She didn’t realize she was leaning in until she felt his breath hit her lips—warm, steady, laced with mint and a hint of cinnamon from dessert. The space between them had vanished. Gone was the careful choreography of fake smiles and half-lies. Now it was just them. Bare. Unspoken. Burning.

“Chan,” she breathed, the name catching in her throat. She wasn’t even sure what she was asking. Permission? Apology? A kiss?

His eyes flicked down to her mouth like a reflex. “Yeah?”

It was right there—the moment. Teetering on the edge. Her hand twitched toward his chest, fingers aching to curl into his shirt and drag him closer. And then—

Knock knock knock. The door jolted in its frame. A muffled voice chirped through the crack, way too cheerful for what had almost just happened.

“The engagement dinner starts in ten! We’re doing a seating chart scramble, so don’t be late unless you want to sit with the kids’ table!”

The spell shattered.

Y/N blinked. The air between them popped like a soap bubble—leaving only cold, awkward space.

Chan let out a sharp breath and leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect timing.” She stood too fast. Her knees felt wrong. Wobbly. Her pulse thundered against the base of her throat. “Yeah,” she said, clutching for something to hold onto. “Great.”

The dining room at The Marigold House was over-decorated, over-catered, and overwhelmed with tension.

Long tables glowed with golden taper candles and florals that looked like they'd cost someone a paycheck. There were name cards, clinking glasses, a four-tier cake that no one dared cut, and a band softly playing something jazzy that clashed with the heavy energy in the room.

Seungmin sat at the head table beside F/N L/N, his fiance and soon to be wife.

Y/N kept sneaking glances at them between bites of lemon risotto and lies.

Seungmin looked... still. Too still. Like someone bracing for impact. His suit jacket was perfect, pressed, charcoal-gray. But his fingers tapped restlessly under the tablecloth. His jaw worked in silence every time someone toasted him.

F/N, meanwhile, was radiant. Smiling politely. Laughing in the right places. Her hand rested lightly on Seungmin’s arm like they were just another happy almost-married couple making it through a long weekend.

But Y/N saw the way they didn’t look at each other. Or worse—the way they did when they thought no one was watching.

And it wasn't nothing.

“Earth to fake fiancée,” Chan whispered beside her, nudging her knee under the table.

She blinked. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Yeah, I saw. You were watching them like they owed you money.”

She smiled faintly, but her stomach twisted. “Doesn’t it feel weird? Like, shouldnt you be happier on your wedding day.”

Chan shrugged. “It’s their celebration. I think they know what theyre doing", She didn’t answer. Just watched as F/N turned to Seungmin and quietly whispered something into his ear. His expression didn’t change, but he nodded once, jaw clenched tight.

The rest of the dinner was a blur.

Cousins. Compliments. Fake laughter with a dull ache behind it. Someone asked how they met and Chan said, “college bar fight,” just to mess with them. She’d kicked him under the table, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Someone else asked when the wedding was. Someone else asked if they’d picked a honeymoon spot. Recommending the best Honeymoon Hotels in Kauai or Maui.

Chan had rested a hand on the small of her back under the table. Gentle. Anchoring. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. But her skin burned where he touched her.

When they got back to the room, the silence hit hard.

Chan closed the door behind them with a quiet click, then flipped the lock. She stood near the bed, staring at her shoes like they were fascinating.

For a long, long moment—neither of them moved. The weight of what almost happened earlier still sat in the space between them. Pressing in. Buzzing like an exposed wire. Then she turned to him. Slowly. Controlled. But her heart was not calm “You were gonna kiss me.” Not a question. Not really. Chan didn’t even blink. His voice was low and rough and too honest. “I was kissing you.”

Her breath caught. Her hands curled into fists at her sides to stop the tremble. “You didn’t,” she said, voice hoarse. His gaze dropped to her lips again.

“I’m about to,” he said, stepping forward, “unless someone knocks again.”

The room shrank.

Two feet of space between them. Then one. Then half.

She didn’t step back. His hand came up, slow and sure, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Fingertips trailing her skin like a secret. His thumb grazed the hinge of her jaw, and she tilted toward him without meaning to.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, breath shivering. “Terrible,” he murmured. “Disastrous.” His other hand came to rest on her waist.

“You’re still wearing the ring,” he said softly, like it meant something. Maybe it did. “You’re still my fake fiancé,” she whispered. “Still want me to act like it?” Her lips parted. That look in his eyes—hungry and aching and afraid—it gutted her. “Yeah,” she said. “Just… don’t be too good at it.” He smiled. That same slow, devastating smile that ruined her back when they were kids. “No promises.”

And then he kissed her. And there was nothing fake about it.

Not the way his hands gripped her jaw like she was something fragile and vital, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding her together or holding himself back. Not the way her fingers fisted in his shirt—hard—pulling him closer like she was drowning and he was air.

Not the way his breath hitched when her mouth opened for him, soft and hungry, and he groaned into the kiss like it hurt. Like he’d wanted this for too long.

At first, it was slow. Careful. Like they were testing the edges of something they couldn’t name yet. A tease. A taste. But it didn’t stay that way.

It broke. Unraveled.

Turned into teeth and tongue and fingers digging into fabric. Her back hit the wall with a muffled thud, and he pressed into her, crowding her space, stealing every breath she had left. His hands slid down—one splayed at her waist, the other curling around her hip, pulling her against him so there was no space left to lie.

She gasped, and he kissed her like he owned that sound. Like he’d been waiting years to claim it.

Their mouths moved in sync—messy, frantic, starving. Every drag of his lips against hers felt like a confession. Every sweep of his tongue was a reminder of that summer night and all the words they’d never said after.

Her nails scraped along the back of his neck. He growled low in his throat and pressed harder, hips brushing hers, dangerous, deliberate. It lit her up like a struck match. Her body arched, met him halfway.

She felt it—him—all of him. Solid and hard and so ready to stop pretending. “Fuck,” he breathed against her lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She kissed him again in answer—deeper, dirtier, teeth dragging over his bottom lip—and his grip tightened on her waist like he was two seconds from losing control.

She didn’t care. She wanted him unhinged. Unraveled. Real. She wanted his mouth everywhere, his hands on skin, his voice wrecked and begging.

And if he didn’t stop soon—if he kept kissing her like that—she was going to forget all the reasons they were pretending in the first place.

Suddenly, her back hit the wall with a soft thud, and for the split second his lips left hers, chan licked them before crashing into her again. Hot, rough, open. His hands gripped her hips, hauling her up like she weighed nothing. She gasped as her legs wrapped around his waist, dress riding up, heat blooming everywhere.

“You have no idea,” he growled against her lips, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.” “Show me,” she whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. He carried her across the room and dropped her onto the bed, gently, but with intent. Like he was done playing games. Like he was about to ruin her in the best way.

His mouth followed, on her neck, her collarbone, teeth dragging just enough to make her squirm.

Her hands yanked at his shirt, and he let her pull it off, revealing that body she remembered too well. Broad shoulders. Sculpted chest. That little dip between his pecs she used to fantasize about when she shouldn’t have. “God, Chan,” she breathed. He smirked. “What, baby? You want something?” She glared. “You’re not allowed to be cocky and good at this.” His voice dropped as he knelt between her thighs. “Wanna bet?” He tugged her dress up, then paused.

“Take it off,” he said. Low. Firm.

The way he said it, not asking, made her stomach flip.

She peeled the dress over her head slowly, teasing, baring herself inch by inch until she was in nothing but a lacy bra and panties that were already soaked.

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

He kissed down her stomach, slow, wet, worshipful, while his hands spread her thighs wide. “Keep your hands above your head,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

She obeyed. Because the way he said it made her want to.

His mouth dipped lower. Tongue soft, then firm. His fingers joined—one, then two—curling just right, dragging moans from her throat that didn’t sound like her. Her hips arched off the bed, but he held her down with a strong arm. “Be good,” he said against her, voice muffled. “Or I’ll make you beg.” “Maybe I want to beg,” she gasped.

That made him grin. And go harder. By the time he pulled back, she was shaking. Desperate. He crawled up her body, lips crashing into hers again, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You want me to fuck you like we’re still pretending,” he murmured, forehead pressed to hers. “Or like I’ve been in love with you since that night in the truck?”

Her nails raked down his back. “Both.” He groaned. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is wearing that stupid ring and pretending I don’t want you inside me every second.” That undid him.

He grabbed a condom from his wallet, classic, infuriating Chan, and pushed his boxers down with a hiss. He lined up, dragging the head of his cock through her wetness slowly, just to hear her whimper.

“You’re so soaked,” he said. “So soeaked for me” “For years.”

Then he finally pushed in. And it was everything.

Rough. Deep. Perfect. Her legs locked around his waist, and his thrusts grew faster, harder, each one dragging a broken moan from her lips. He pinned her hands above her head again, breathing hard, teeth gritted.

“You take me so fucking well,” he grunted. “You were made for this. For me.”

He gave her more. His name spilled from her mouth like a prayer, and when he felt her tighten around him, he swore, loud, filthy, before grabbing her face and kissing her hard through it.

She came shaking. Gasping. Eyes locked with his. He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow. Not until he was right there with her. thrusts erratic, mouth on her neck, biting down as he spilled inside her. The room was silent except for their breathing.

When he finally collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest, he whispered: “Still want to pretend this is fake?”

She didn’t answer. She just curled into him and held on like she never wanted to let go.

It had been three days. Three days since the last toast clinked against borrowed glass. Three days since the band played its last love song, the last boutonniere wilted, and the champagne flutes were cleared like none of it had ever happened.

Three days since Chan had kissed her like he was starving—and touched her like he might never get to again. Three days. And not. a. word.

Not about the kiss. Not about the way they fell into bed like gravity had finally stopped being polite. Not about the things he said against her skin or the way her name had broken in his mouth when she came undone in his arms.

They hadn’t talked. Not once.

They were back now. Back in Summerdale. Back in their own apartments with walls between them. Back in their routines—coffee shops, work, texts about nothing—but none of it landed the way it used to.

The rhythm was off. Everything was too quiet. Until the knock.

It was soft. Hesitant. Like someone afraid of what came next. She opened the door without thinking. And there he was.

Chan stood in the hallway like the world had chewed him up and spit him out. Hair a mess. Hoodie half-zipped. Hands shoved deep into his pockets like they were the only things holding him together.

No smile. No greeting.

Just: “I can’t do this.” Y/N’s heart stopped. Her breath caught in her throat.

“…Can’t do what?” He looked up at her with eyes that had stopped pretending hours ago. “This,” he said. “All of this. The pretending.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stepped closer, just one step, but it was enough. Enough to make the hallway feel smaller. Enough to feel him again—his presence, his weight, his ache.

“I told myself it was just a favor,” he said. “That it didn’t mean anything. That I could go to the wedding, wear the ring, play the part, and walk away clean.”

His voice cracked. “But I’m not clean, Y/N. I’m wrecked.”

He laughed, bitter and broken. “I’ve been wrecked since that night in my dad’s truck. Since you looked at me and said you wanted to. Since you didn’t say anything after, and I didn’t either, and we both pretended we could live with that.”

Her chest ached. Her fingers curled at her sides. He kept going, his voice raw and urgent now, as if stopping would undo him.

“I love you,” he said, the words cracking out of him like they hurt. “I love you, and I’ve loved you since you kicked me under the diner table in eighth grade for saying ‘moist.’ Since we kissed under the pier and swore it didn’t count. Since you handed me that RSVP card and asked me to lie for you.”

He swallowed hard. “I tried to lie. I really tried.”

He stepped into her space, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his body. “But then I kissed you. And touched you. And watched you fall apart in my arms like you were made to be there. And now—now I don’t know how to be near you and not want everything.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just looked at him. Looked at his trembling hands and wrecked expression and the impossible weight of the words he’d finally said.

And then—quietly, without drama—she stepped forward. She reached out.

Gripped the front of his hoodie with both hands. Pulled him closer.

“You love me?” she asked, voice barely a whisper. He let out a breath like it had been buried in his lungs for years. “Yeah,” he said. “Completely. Stupidly. Always.”

And she kissed him. Not desperate. Not rushed. But slow. Like a key turning in a long-locked door.

He kissed her back the same way—hands on her hips, then sliding up her back, like relearning something he’d never truly forgotten. She pulled him inside, kicked the door shut behind them.

The hoodie came off. Then her shirt. Then his breath was warm against her ear, voice low and wrecked and dangerous. “You’re sure?” he asked. “Oh I’m sure.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and set her on the edge of the counter. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, down to the place that made her curse his name.

And when he touched her just right—exactly right—she gasped.

“Chan—where the hell did you learn that?” He pulled back just enough to smirk, voice smug and ragged. “YouTube. Trial and error. A wildly successful imagination.”

She laughed, but it choked into a moan as he did it again. Slower. More pressure. More heat. She gripped his hair, breath wrecked, legs wrapped around his waist like this was always how it was meant to be. And when he finally pushed into her, slow and deep and perfect, she couldn’t hold anything back.

Not the cry. Not the kiss. Not the truth.

Because nothing about this was pretend anymore. This was them. Unwritten. Unfiltered. Unstoppable.

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[slitherinky]

Masterlist | About me | Requests

Seductive Betrayal

Setting: Draco Malfoy x fem!Reader

Summary: Working the evening shift at a small bookstore, you’re surprised when a familiar customer walks in. With his effortless charm, Draco convinces you to let him stay the night—but it doesn’t take long for him to show you, that his dark side never truly left..

Warnings: 18+ smut, MDNI, dom!Draco, dubcon, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, hair pulling, a pinch of good gir

Length: 3k words or 12 minutes

Please be aware of the warnings before proceeding. If you are underage, sensitive to depictions of violence, or intense explicit content, it is do not to read further. This story is purely fictional and does not reflect or endorse such behavior in real life. Any attempt to replicate the actions described in this story in real life is strongly discouraged.

Harry Potter and the Wizarding World is a trademark of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros.

The bookshop was quiet.

Not the comforting kind of quiet—the kind that wrapped around you like a warm blanket, softened by the rustling of parchment and the occasional murmur of an interested customer. No, this quiet was heavy. It sank into the wooden floorboards, curled in the dim candlelight, pressed against the corners of your mind like a lingering ghost.

Outside, Diagon Alley was a different place than it used to be. The cobblestone streets were no longer filled with bright chatter or carefree laughter. The war had left its mark on everything, from the shattered windows of still-abandoned storefronts to the wary glances exchanged between passing witches and wizards.

You exhaled softly, running a hand over the spine of an old book, your fingers trailing over the gold-embossed letters. You should have been used to it by now—this new world, this fragile attempt at normalcy. You told yourself you were moving forward, that working here, in the tiny bookshop nestled between a half-repaired apothecary and a closed-down broom maker’s stall, was proof of that.

But some nights, when the silence stretched too long, you wondered if you were just hiding.

The bell above the door chimed softly.

It was late—too late for customers, but you looked up anyway, expecting to tell someone you were closing soon. Instead, your breath caught.

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, half-shadowed by the dim light of the shop. His hood was drawn back now, and even in the flickering glow of the candles, you could see how pale he was. How tired. But beneath the exhaustion, there was something else. Something magnetic.

"Y/N," he murmured, stepping further inside. You didn’t expect him to recognize you after all this time. But he did.

You swallowed hard. It had been years since you last saw him—back at Hogwarts, before the war turned everything to dust. Draco Malfoy had always been arrogant, distant, wrapped in privilege and sharp edges. You had noticed him, of course—how could you not? There was something magnetic about him, something intriguing beneath the sneers and cold indifference.

But now, standing in your bookshop with the night pressing in behind him, he was different. The arrogance was still there, but it felt strained, the distance less like a choice and more like a shield. His sharp features were worn with exhaustion, his once-perfect composure just slightly unraveled.

And yet, despite everything, he was still intoxicatingly attractive. Perhaps even more so now—raw, untamed, and dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with his name.

"Didn’t think you’d still be around," he said, his lips curling into something that almost looked like a smirk. "Figured you’d have left for a shinier life somewhere else."

You crossed your arms, raising a brow. "Not all of us had the option of running, Malfoy."

His smirk faltered, just for a second, before he laughed—a quiet sound, amused but lacking real mirth. "Fair enough."

You studied him, taking in the sharp lines of his face, the faint bruising beneath his eyes. He looked worn down, but even like this, there was something about him. Something alluring.

You shook your head slightly, breaking the spell. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

His gaze flickered around the empty shop, lingering on the books stacked in uneven piles. "I was just… passing through."

"Liar."

His eyes snapped back to yours. For a second, something unreadable flickered across his face. Then, instead of snapping back, instead of defending himself, he did something unexpected. He smiled.

It was slow, effortless, and gods, it was dangerous. "Alright," he said, tilting his head. "You got me."

You hated how your stomach twisted at that.

"I don’t have anywhere to go."

You didn’t react at first. You just blinked, trying to process his words. You knew things were bad for him—you’d heard the whispers, the murmurs about the Malfoys falling from grace. But somehow, you never thought Draco Malfoy would ever be desperate enough to admit it out loud.

And yet, here he was.

For a moment, you considered telling him to leave. That it wasn’t your problem. That he had made his choices, and now he had to live with them. But the words didn’t come.

Instead, you sighed. "You can stay at my place tonight."

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Just like that?"

"Don’t make me regret it," you warned.

He chuckled. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The walk to your flat was quiet, but Draco kept close to your side, his presence a steady warmth against the chill of the night. You were hyperaware of him—the way he moved, the way his fingers occasionally brushed against yours as you walked.

"Not bad," he mused when you finally reached your flat. "Could be worse."

You snorted, unlocking the door. "It’s not Malfoy Manor, but it’s cozy."

He stepped inside, glancing around. "Cozy," he repeated, as if testing the word. Then he turned to you, eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight. "I like it."

You swallowed hard. Something about the way he was looking at you sent heat curling through your stomach. He was close now, too close, and you could smell the faint scent of rain on his clothes, the warmth of his skin.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice softer now. "For this."

You opened your mouth to say something, but then—

His fingers brushed against your wrist. Light. Barely there. But it was enough to make your breath hitch.

"I never realized," he said, tilting his head slightly, "how beautiful you are up close."

Oh.

Your heart stumbled in your chest. "Malfoy—"

"Draco," he corrected smoothly, his other hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "If we’re going to be sharing a space, we might as well use first names, don’t you think?"

You should have stepped back. You should have told him to stop. But you didn’t.

Instead, you let yourself be pulled into the slow, deliberate way he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin. You could feel your pulse pounding as his fingers trailed along your arm, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against your ear.

You didn’t.

And that was when everything changed.

Because in the next breath, something sharp pressed against your back.

Your wand. He had taken your wand.

Your eyes snapped open, realization hitting you like a slap to the face. But before you could move, Draco stepped back, his own wand raised. His expression was unreadable, but his grip was steady.

"I really am sorry, love," he said smoothly. "But I need the money more than I need a place to stay."

And then he flicked his wand.

"Stupe—"

You moved before he could finish.

Years of instinct kicked in, and you lunged forward, grabbing his wrist before he could complete the spell. The shock in his eyes was brief—then you twisted, knocking the wand from his hand with a sharp strike.

But you weren’t fast enough.

Draco recovered in seconds, and before you could grab your wand, he moved. Faster than you thought possible, he grabbed your arm, twisting you back against the wall. Your breath left you in a sharp gasp as he pressed forward, pinning you in place with the weight of his body.

"Nice try," he murmured, breath warm against your ear.

You struggled, but his grip was firm. He was stronger than he looked, and the sheer confidence in the way he held you still sent a shiver down your spine.

"You’re full of surprises," he mused, tilting his head. "I almost underestimated you."

"Get off me, Malfoy," you gritted out, your pulse racing.

He smirked. "And if I don’t?"

Your hands twitched, fingers itching for a weapon, for anything to fight back. But Draco was already one step ahead, his body pressing you firmly against the cold wood of the wall.

"I should have known you'd be a fighter," he murmured, his tone almost admiring. "Makes this more fun."

His eyes flickered down to your lips for half a second—so brief you almost missed it. Almost.

The worst part? You didn’t hate it.

And he knew.

"Now," he murmured, leaning in just slightly. "How about we make a deal, love?"

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your spine. Your pulse pounded in your throat, a mixture of anger, adrenaline, and something far more dangerous—something you refused to name.

"You really think I’d trust you after this?" you snapped, testing the strength of his grip. It was no use. He had you right where he wanted you, and worst of all, he knew it.

Draco chuckled, low and smooth. "Trust is such a fragile thing, isn't it?" His thumb brushed over your wrist, the touch almost gentle. "But let’s not pretend this is just about trust."

Your breath caught and his smirk deepened.

"Oh," he mused, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I see. You like this, don’t you?"

You glared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Draco leaned in closer, until his lips were just shy of brushing against your ear. "I can feel your heart racing," he murmured. "Is it fear? Or is it something else?"

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Draco," he corrected smoothly. "You were saying it so sweetly just moments ago."

You gritted your teeth. "Let me go."

"Hmm. Tempting offer," he drawled, his fingers tightening just slightly around your wrist. "But see, I have a dilemma. I could let you go… or I could keep you right here, exactly where I want you."

He shifted his hold, pinning your hands above your head with one swift movement. The motion pressed his body flush against yours, and your breath hitched involuntarily.

Draco noticed. He noticed everything.

His free hand drifted down, fingers grazing your jawline, then lower, tracing the exposed skin at your collarbone. The touch was barely there, light enough to send a shiver through you.

"You don’t hate this as much as you want to," he murmured, his lips barely an inch from yours now. "Do you?"

Your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up. Your fingers curled into fists, but not to fight. Your breath stuttered, and the warmth pooling in your stomach was a traitorous, infuriating thing.

Draco tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he had just figured out.

"Admit it," he whispered, his breath teasing against your lips. "You want to know what it would be like, don’t you?"

You did.

You hated him, you hated the way he was holding you, hated the fact that he had turned this whole situation into something twisted.

But you wanted it anyway. And he knew.

His lips grazed against yours, soft and teasing. It was barely a kiss, but your pulse leaped at the touch.

"Mhm," Draco hummed. "That’s what I thought."

The way his hands moved then was smooth, practiced—like he had done this countless times before. You didn’t have a chance to resist as he swept aside your skirt, baring your legs. His touch was swift, deliberate, and despite yourself, you felt your pulse pound in response.

Draco’s fingers stroked over the outside of your underwear with a smoothness that left you breathless. 

It felt good—really, really good. Your hands were still pinned above your head, but now you were leaning into him, your legs trembling. He picked you up, putting you down on the kitchen counter next to you. Draco leaned into you, making your back arch slightly as he kissed you roughly. His right hand pulled down your underwear, allowing it to drop to the ground. 

Draco pushed one knee between your legs and you gasped from the contact. He smirked and slipped his knee even further between your legs. He pushed up against you, with the fabric of his pants rubbing against your pussy. You gasped and arched further. Your breathing became quickened and your cheeks turned pink. "I adore how hot you are for me, love," he purred.

His mouth slowly made his way down to your pussy. He started by kissing up your thigh. He used his hands to spread your legs even wider. You felt your pussy start to drip and he noticed, "so wet for me," he grinned.

He then placed his mouth on your pussy. You cried out from his touch. He stuck his tongue out and licked your pussy slowly. His tongue brushed over your clit and your entire body stiffened. "Oh my god," you moaned.

He started licking your clit harder. He took his fingers and slipped one inside of you. Your moans became loud and filled the room. His fingers moved up and down inside of you while his tongue moved in circles around your clit. The feeling of your orgasm built up inside of you and you tried to hold it back. You didn't want to cum already. But then he slipped another finger inside of you and your legs started to shake. He picked up the pace of his tongue on your clit and the orgasm was coming.

"Draco, I'm going to cum," you moaned. He groaned in response and that's what sent you over the edge. You exploded in pleasure as the orgasm hit you. "Oh Draco, fuck!"

He pulled away, "what's that, love?" he smirked, "are you asking for more?"

You nodded, "please," you begged.

He chuckled and kissed up your thigh until he reached your pussy again. He licked your pussy some more while slipping his fingers back inside of you.

"God, you taste amazing," he moaned, "you're so wet for me."

He then put his fingers on your clit and started rubbing. You moaned in pleasure. His fingers slid around your clit and you could feel another orgasm building up inside of you.

"Oh fuck, oh Draco," you moaned loudly. 

He smirked, "cum for me love, cum all over my fingers."

At that, your body stiffened and another orgasm hit you. You started to cum all over his fingers. He watched with a grin as the orgasm continued to wrack your body.

Your body shook and your breathing became ragged.

He then stepped away from you. You panted as you looked up at him. He smirked down at you, "did you think I was done with you love?"

You stared at him, your eyes widening as you realized what he meant. He pulled away completely, leaving you panting on the counter. His face was smeared, and it was hot. He slowly pulled down his zipper and pants, revealing his cock. It was big. It was so big that it made you feel self-conscious.

But Draco didn't let you dwell on those thoughts. He continued by pulling off his shirt and you were distracted by the sight of his abs. They were perfect. He smirked at you, leaning even further over you, his cock pushing up against your pussy. It was hard and it felt good. You started to drip even more, excited for this to happen. He smirked as he felt your juices dripping over him.

"Good girl. This is how I like it."

He then gripped his cock and started to rub it against your pussy, making you moan.

"You want this? You want my cock inside of you?" He asked, teasing you with the tip of his cock, rubbing it around your pussy.

You moaned loudly, "yes please, god yes."

He smirked, "beg me for it. Ask me nicely and I might give you what you want."

You stared at him. "You expect me to beg you after you almost robbed me?!"

He gripped your hair with one hand, pulling your head back. His expression changed into one of anger, "I'm your master for the night, so do as you're told or I will punish you," he warned.

You shivered at the threat. You had never felt so turned on in your life and decided to give in.

"Please Draco," you asked, "let me feel your cock inside of me."

“Good girl.”

He slowly thrusted himself inside of you, making you gasp at his size. He pushed in further, making your back arch from the feeling.

"Oh Draco, oh fuck!"

He started to move inside of you, slowly at first then quickly. You tried to push back, but he stopped you. "No, love," he chuckled. "Take it like a good girl." 

He moved his cock up and down, filling you completely and hitting all of the right spots.

He turned you around, so you were facing away from him. He then pushed his cock inside of you again, starting up a racing pace. You cried out at the feeling. He held onto your hips as he pounded into you. His right hand grabbing your hair, making you arch. His cock felt amazing inside of you, it stretched you to your limit but still fit perfectly.

"Fuck, oh god," you cried out.

He then reached around with his left hand, placing his finger on your clit. He rubbed it as he continued to pound inside of you. You cried out, overwhelmed with pleasure.

"Draco!" You screamed.

Your orgasm hit hard and fast, it wracked your entire body and left you shaking. Draco continued to fuck you through the orgasm until you were at your limit. 

His grip tightened on your hair, pulling you even further into his thrusts. His breath stuttered and you felt his cock thicken inside of you as he came. His cum filled your pussy.

"Fuck," he moaned as he came. "Oh god, it feels good."

He then pulled out of you, leaving his cum dripping down your legs. Your mind was foggy from the pleasure and you couldn't think straight. Your body laying half collapsed on the counter.

 "Come on, love," he mused. "Your bed awaits, or have you forgotten that I'll stay the night?"

© SlitherInky 2024 Do not copy, repost or translate.

You want more? My Masterlis

[vainvenus]

proofread possession | op81 | pt. 1

Pairings: Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It's been a few weeks since the best day of Oscar's life and now it's the weekend of the Australian GP aka the weekend that replaces the best day of his life.

Includings: Journalist/photographer!oscar, mclaren driver!reader, oscar fanboys to the max in this, he's kinda of normal in this too, light stalking, reader is an absolute sweetheart we love you!!, this is short and surprisingly tame!

An: Triple header? Nah triple post!!! Sorry to my Oscar lovers I've been neglecting this fic 🫶🏿

@vanteel

It had been weeks since the best day of Oscar’s life.

Weeks since you had noticed him like really, truly noticed him.

Weeks since you’d walked onto that carpet at the F-175 event in that stunning black dress of yours and made eye contact with him of all people.

Weeks since you stopped, looked him right in the eye, and smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing to his brain.

And then you’d talked to him. Laughed at how eager he was on the red carpet. Got personal as if the two of you had known each other for years. Said you hoped you’d see him again at the next Grand Prix.

Oscar had been living on that memory like oxygen. Replaying your words in his head. Writing a half-baked piece about your mental toughness that never saw the light of day because every paragraph turned into a love letter disguised as sports journalism.

Now it was race week.

Media day loomed close and this time, Oscar had the flight back home booked, his camera gear cleaned, the badge request submitted through his publication.

But he didn’t have a paddock pass, the network he was with was supposed to get him one but now it was too late.

He was still going, yes but as a regular accredited photographer, buried under fifty other journos with lenses pointed at you. He’d get a glimpse. A quote if he was lucky. Maybe a photo from twenty feet away.

That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t. Not after you said you’d hoped to see him again. Not after the way you looked at him like he was worth noticing.

Oscar didn’t want just a glimpse anymore.

★

The brunette nearly missed the package.

It was sitting at his door when he got back from a morning shoot, slim and nondescript, the kind of thing he almost left untouched. No return address. Just his name, written in blocky, clean handwriting.

He crouched down and picked it up before entering his house. He felt the weight, oddly light, but something rigid inside.

His fingers fumbled the edge.

Inside: a sleek, velvet-lined envelope with the McLaren logo embossed in orange. And tucked just underneath it—

Two passes.

One was a paddock pass with his name printed in bold, and the other was a McLaren garage guest credential.

Not media access. Not a press group badge.

A personal pass.

A you’ve been invited by the team pass.

A you’ve been invited by her pass.

Oscar’s mouth dropped open.

And then he saw the note.

"Didn’t think you’d want to watch from the sidelines! I'll see you Thursday, bring your camera. – Y/N"

He let out a noise somewhere between a choked laugh and a whimper. He dropped into a crouch on the floor, holding the note in one hand and the passes in the other like they might vanish.

Oscar whispered, “No. No way.”

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, like if he blinked too hard the passes might vanish, like the entire thing was some elaborate hallucination born out of too much admiration and not enough sleep.

But the credentials were real. The lanyard had weight. His name was printed in official McLaren font. And that handwriting? He’d stared at it long enough on hats, jackets, papers, and photo backings to know—it was yours.

That did it.

Oscar screamed.

A full, unfiltered, disbelieving scream that bounced off the walls of his house.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!!”

He paced, hands in his hair, shaking the note like it was some kind of sacred artifact.

“She remembered me! Actually remembered me!”

He dropped onto the couch, then immediately jumped off it again. “Im gonna be in the McLaren garage as her guest. What the actual fuck! This is mental!”

He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, breathing like he’d just finished a race. “Bring my camera? I will. I will bring twelve.”

Another scream burst out of him, one pure joy.

“I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die and I’m gonna haunt that garage forever. She’s gonna think I’m gonna be chill and normal about this and I am absolutely not. Oh my god.”

He clutched the note to his chest like it was oxygen.

He was already planning on having it framed above his bed.

★

Oscar barely slept on the flight over.

Between refreshing his email, triple-checking the guest pass, and trying not to combust thinking about you, the three-hour flight felt like thirty minutes.

Conveniently or maybe fatefully his publication had booked him at the same hotel as most of the drivers, teams, and press. He hadn’t seen you in the lobby, but he swore he caught a glimpse of your race boots peeking out of a gym bag yesterday when he passed the elevators.

He didn’t linger.

He wasn’t a creep.

Now it was Thursday morning. Media Day.

And Oscar was inside the paddock again, only this time not as just another photographer. This time, his McLaren guest badge caught the sunlight like a VIP pass to a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

Every step closer to the McLaren garage made his stomach twist tighter. He couldn't help but let the nerves get to him, be had been personally invited by someone he idolized for decades. He was nervously biting on his lip as he looked around like a lost child.

And then he saw you.

And all thoughts stopped.

You were walking through the paddock like you owned it, chatting beside someone in McLaren gear holding a clipboard. Your outfit was simple yet so you.

You wore a vintage papaya graphic tee, which he found cheeky and your jeans were that perfect mid-wash, straight-leg kind that fell just right over your burnt orange Gazelles.

Hair done. Nails done. Sunglasses sitting on your nose and your jewelry shining against your skin each time the Australian sun decided to shine on you.

Oscar already started to move his hands around his camera in attempts to get a candid shot of you speaking with whoever that was.

And then—

You spotted him.

He barely lifted his camera to his chest before you stopped dead in your tracks.

Your entire face lit up.

“OSCAR?!”

You were already jogging over, a grin stretched wide across your face like you were the one starstruck.

“Oh my god! You’re here!” You gasped, wide-eyed and glowing. “I didn’t think the passes would get to you in time!”

Oscar opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Because this felt unreal.

Because you remembered.

Because you cared.

“I...yeah...I got them.” He said breathlessly, laughing a little. “Tuesday afternoon. I practically screamed.”

You reached for his hand like it was instinct, tugging him a little closer into the shade of the McLaren hospitality unit. “I seriously was about to text someone like ‘if Oscar Piastri doesn’t show up today I’m throwing a fit.’ I’ve been checking every time someone came in—”

“You were…looking for me?” He asked, still stunned.

You looked at him like he was being ridiculous. “Obviously. I invited you.”

And God, you were close.

Oscar could smell your perfume—soft and clean. He could see the tiny smudge of eyeliner beneath your sunglasses. The flash of a smile that said I’m glad you’re here. The way you kept holding onto his sleeve like if you let go, he’d vanish.

“C’mon,” you said. “You’re not staying out here all day, are you? You’re coming with me.”

He blinked. “With you? Like...now?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do have a camera, don’t you?”

He nodded, stunned.

“Then yeah." You grinned. “Come on, you're not my special guest for no reason. I’ve got press rounds to do and so many mini challenges with Lan and I need someone to make me look good.”

Oscar followed, limbs weak and heart doing laps in his chest.

Your special guest.

He was your special guest.

He didn’t know what he expected from Media Day but it wasn’t this.

He did not expect you to react as if he were an old friend you hadn't seen in years.

He did not expect you to tug him into your space, dragging him through the paddock with his head spinning and your laugh dancing in his ears.

And still, somehow, it felt exactly right.

[idkyetxoxo]

Three | Where Smoke Lingered | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.2k

Warnings - Mentions of domestic abuse, slight angst

<- prev || series masterlist || next ->

The house had finally settled into silence. An oppressive, suffocating quiet that seemed to press against the walls like a breath held too long in the lungs waiting to collapse. 

Everyone had gone to bed, or at least to the semblance of sleep.

Amren had returned to her apartment in the city without a word. Mor had gone with her but she hadn't said goodbye either. The way her eyes had darted, catching on every shadow, every scrape on the wall, like she expected the house to shatter beneath her feet. 

She hadn't looked at me. Couldn't. As if my presence was too painful to acknowledge.

Cassian, Azriel, and Rhys had retreated to their rooms, each one taking their guilt and fury with them, no doubt combing over the wreckage of the night, grasping at broken threads, replaying words spoken and those that should have been. 

No one had followed me. No one had stopped him.

The small home library was dim when I stepped in, the faelight from the hallway casting long, shivering shadows across the spines of books I'd once loved. 

Everything was smaller somehow. Duller. Like the air itself had forgotten how to hold colour.

My breath caught violently in my chest as my gaze swept the room. Daeron stood by the fireplace. Still. Silent. 

The worst version of himself—the calm kind. 

That calm wasn't peace, it was control. Measured cruelty. The kind of stillness that only came before a storm or after something precious had already been broken.

His expression was unreadable, but there was a satisfaction to his stillness, a smugness to the silence that exuded from him. 

Something about it felt intentional, like he was waiting for me to fall apart, and he was already savouring the taste of it.

My eyes flicked to the windowsill with mounting dread, and the cold inside me turned to panic.

The book. My mother's book. My book.

It was gone.

The same one she gave me when I was little, the one that smelled like jasmine and old parchment and her. The one that had lived on that sill since the day she was murdered. 

I'd read it a hundred times, a thousand. Memorised the words not just on the page, but how they made me feel—safe, grounded, whole. A tether to a world where she still existed.

I moved without thinking. Fingers trembling, I tore through cushions and blankets, checked under tables, behind shelves, desperate and fumbling. I checked places it couldn't be, wouldn't be. 

I didn't care. I had to find it. It was more than a book. It was the last real piece of me.

All the while, he watched.

He watched me fall apart. Not with confusion or concern but interest. Like he was studying something. Like he was savouring the unravelling of something delicate.

"Where is it?" I asked finally, my voice a raw whisper. My throat burned. My chest ached. 

The air had thickened, turned noxious, and something inside me, something quiet and precious, began to crack under the weight.

He didn't answer at first.

Instead, he tilted his head and then slowly, deliberately pointed to the fireplace behind him.

I didn't understand at first. I didn't want to. But then the smell hit me. Burning leather. Charred paper. Memory turned to smoke.

I stumbled forward, my steps clumsy, my hands clutching at nothing. The flames licked hungrily at what remained. 

Blackened, curling pages. The gold embossing melted and twisted. The spine cracked and split, the story bleeding into flame. 

My mother's handwriting, the notes in the margins—ashes. All of it. Gone.

It wasn't just a book. It was her voice. Her warmth. Her comfort. Her love. And now it was smoke in my lungs, soot on my skin.

My knees almost gave out.

I turned to him with wide, disbelieving eyes. My magic, a thing I hadn't touched in years, fluttered weakly in my blood, responding to my grief like a ghost too long ignored.

He didn't flinch.

"Do not mourn too long," he said with a shrug, already turning his back, like what he'd done was inconvenient, trivial. At the doorway, he paused, one hand braced against the frame. "I expect you to pay for how your family treated me tonight. Come to your room when you're done with the weeping."

The words clawed at my insides.

"Why?" It left me without meaning to. Barely a breath, more ache than question.

He turned, eyes empty of remorse. "Don't pretend you don't know."

Then he was gone.

And I stood there alone, the scent of burning still clinging to the air, watching the ashes of my mother's voice dissolve into nothing.

That was the moment I understood, really understood what my family had been trying to make me see all these years.

He doesn't hurt me. He erases me completely.

The next morning, I woke to find him gone.

The room was quiet, sterile in its stillness, no trace of him left behind, save for the evidence etched into my skin.

Bruises bloomed like poisonous flowers across my thighs, ribs, wrists. My jaw ached from where his hand had gripped too tightly. My lip was split again, a thin line of dried blood cracking as I moved. 

But it wasn't the physical pain that hurt most. It was the silence inside me.

The kind of silence that only comes after you've screamed and screamed and screamed.

I moved like something newly dead, dressed in the dark with trembling fingers. I couldn't look in the mirror. I couldn't stay in that room where the walls still echoed with his voice and the smoke of my mother's book clung to the air like grief.

So I went to the kitchen.

The motions were automatic, muscle memory from a life that no longer belonged to me. My hands found the ingredients with the ease of habit. I didn't think. I just did. 

Chocolate chip cookies.

The kind Rhys always claimed he could smell from miles away. The kind Cassian would devour in seconds, crumbs on his shirt, chocolate on his grin.

The kind my mother used to make with me on quiet evenings, when everything felt okay.

I clung to that memory like a lifeline, like if I stirred the batter just right, if I measured perfectly, if I didn't drop a single grain of sugar—maybe I could still be that girl. The one before the erasure.

The timer beeped, breaking through the fog. I opened the oven door, expecting comfort.

Instead, the smell hit me first—burnt. Acrid. Wrong.

The cookies were blackened discs, charred beyond saving. I blinked at them, not understanding. 

I had made this recipe in my sleep. Hundreds of times. I knew it better than I knew myself.

I reached for the tray with my bare hands. The heat seared into my palms, but the pain didn't register.

I just stood there. Holding onto failure. Holding onto ashes again.

Then, warm hands, scarred hands took the tray from mine, gentle but firm, setting it on the counter with a hiss of cooling metal.

Azriel. I hadn't heard him come in. I didn't know how long he'd been watching. He said nothing.

Instead, he turned me gently toward him, his touch light like he thought I might shatter. Maybe I already had.

His hazel eyes met mine—seeing, not just looking. My own eyes burned, raw and red, not from the oven heat. My lip quivered.

Still, he didn't speak. Didn't ask.

He just wrapped his arms around me and held me.

My body sagged into his, a sob catching somewhere deep in my chest that wouldn't come out. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to go back. 

Before last night. Before the fireplace. Before him.

But all I could do was stand there, clinging to Azriel, my hands scorched and useless, my heart cracked open.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.

And maybe Azriel couldn't fix it. But he didn't try to.

He didn't offer hollow promises or quiet revenge. He just held me. A steady, silent shield against the wreckage I'd become.

My voice cracked as I finally spoke, the question tumbling out like a stone too heavy to carry any longer.

"Does he hate me?" I asked. "Is he... disappointed?"

I leaned back, just enough to see his face, Azriel's face, carved in the kind of stillness only someone who'd survived their own darkness could wear. 

Hazel eyes met mine. Steady. Searching.

Eyes I had known for years, eyes that had seen through me and past me and still stayed.

There was a shift in them now, soft and solemn. As if something had finally clicked into place. As if he was watching the version of me I had tried so long to hide begin to resurface—damaged, yes, but still here.

"Rhys could never hate you," Azriel said softly. The truth in his voice was absolute. "Not even close."

The shadows, his shadows, slipped from his skin to mine, curious and tender. They skimmed over my arms, brushing at my hands, whispering against my neck like they remembered me, too. Like they missed me.

Azriel's thumb grazed my bottom lip, feather-light, pausing at the cracked skin. His brows furrowed, not with anger but grief. His grief. For me.

Gentle hands. So unlike his. So unlike the last seven years.

"You don't have to carry all of it, you know."

I blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him. "What?"

He glanced down, then up again. "The guilt. The shame. The silence. None of it belongs to you."

I shook my head, a bitter laugh caught in my throat. "Doesn't feel that way."

"I know," he said simply. "But feeling it and deserving it aren't the same."

His voice wasn't soft for comfort, it was soft because he meant every damn word. Like he was giving me something delicate, he didn't think I'd believe.

"You didn't choose this," he continued. "It didn't happen because of you."

I swallowed hard. "I let it happen to him."

Azriel's jaw tensed, a flicker of something dark in his eyes, but not at me. Never at me.

I looked away, staring at the ruined cookies on the counter. 

"Az," I breathed, my voice thin against the weight of it all, ignoring the pulsing pain from my palms. It didn't matter now.

He hummed in response, quiet as the hush between heartbeats. "Yes?"

My gaze fell away from his, and yet the words rose unbidden, slipping from some hidden part of me that had never stopped hoping someone might understand.

"He erases me completely."

There it was. Laid bare. No metaphor. No veiled meaning. Just the truth.

I didn't know why I said it. I couldn't explain the reason or the timing or what part of me still had enough fight left to confess it. I just knew I had to say it—to him.

Azriel stilled.

I felt it in his body, in the way his breath caught, in the way his arms tightened just enough around me without ever hurting. 

And I felt it again in the small, silent ache that passed between us, shared like a secret.

His heart physically ached. I could feel it, like the shadows themselves carried the tremor of it.

And then he pulled me in again, closer this time. One hand stroking my hair, the way he had when I was younger. When Spring Court dreams turned to nightmares, when betrayal had carved a hollow so deep in my chest, I feared I would never feel warmth again.

He hadn't known what to say back then, either. But he had never needed to.

He just held me. Like now. Quietly. Surely. With a kind of love that didn't ask for anything in return.

Later, with my hands bandaged and raw, I found myself wandering back to the library, drawn to it like a tether I couldn't see. Something pulled at me, soft and persistent, threading its way through the hollowness that had taken up residence in my chest.

The moment I stepped through the doorway, I felt it.

The air had shifted.

Golden light poured through the tall windows, spilling over the spines of the books in long, honeyed stripes. Dust floated in slow circles, caught midair like falling stars. 

Everything looked the same. Familiar shelves, worn chairs, the quiet hum of stillness, but something was different. Something was waiting.

It sat on the windowsill, right where the original had always lived. The spot where I'd curled up countless nights, the place where stories had wrapped around me like blankets.

A book. Not the book. Not the one Daeron had burned to ash in the flames. That one was gone. Lost forever. But this...

This was a copy.

Bound in the same aged leather, edges worn like it had lived another life before finding its way to me. Wrapped neatly in a familiar blue ribbon. 

There was no note. No signature. Just this quiet offering, this breath of memory returned.

I hesitated. My fingers, still stinging beneath the gauze, trembled as I reached for it. I sank to the floor beneath the window, book in my lap, the ribbon slipping away like water through my hands.

I opened it slowly. The pages whispered as they turned, soft as a lullaby.

There it was. My favourite page. My mother's favourite line. The one she used to read with a smile in her voice and a tear in her eye. The one that had always felt like home.

Except now, beneath that line, something new had been written.

Delicate, careful script. Ink pressed just a little too hard into the page, like the writer's hand had been shaking.

"You are not what he did to you."

I stared at the words, and the world cracked wide open inside me.

Because I knew that handwriting. I would know it anywhere.

A/n - So we've further established that Daeron is a piece of shit x

I originally made her a baker just because I love baking but it ended up fitting the story so well, it's a perfect way to mirror her rise and fall!

Also there's a little easter egg hidden in this chapter for something coming later. I tried to keep it cryptic, so I doubt anyone will catch it... but if you do, we're basc on the same wavelength :)

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts so please don’t be afraid to share them <3

(i’m posting this from my phone on vacation hopefully i didn’t fuck up the format 😭😭)

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose @nerdybee123 @bookwormysblog @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @suspicious-stain-in-spain @anainkandpaper @theflowerswillbloom @queenoffeysand @historygeekqueen @lexi-in-wonderland @tele86

[mahalachives]

Part 2: Plot Twist: You're All Fictional

Summary: You were just rereading A Court of Thorns and Roses in bed when the universe decided to yeet you straight into Prythian, landing face-first in Rhysand’s lap. Now, you're a pajama-clad disaster with Cheeto fingers, emotionally harassing Azriel, befriending Mor, verbally sparring with the High Lords, and naming feral chickens after the Shadowsinger. You may not know why you’re here, but one thing’s for sure: you’re going to make it everyone's problem.

Genre: crack humor, drabble, minor az x reader (bcus why not)

Oops, I tripped Into Prythian - Masterlist

You had been in Prythian for exactly one week, and it was time to address the most pressing issue of all.

These people didn’t know they were in a book series.

You discovered this terrifying fact over dinner, when you accidentally let it slip that Feyre’s “entire life arc” hit harder than your student loan debt.

Feyre paused mid-bite. “My what?”

Cassian looked up, suspicious. “What did you say?”

You blinked. “Uh. Your... life arc. Like, the plot. The narrative. The emotional beats? No?”

Nesta slowly set down her fork. “Why does she sound like Gwyn when she’s two poems deep into a wine night?”

So naturally, because you had zero impulse control and no concept of self-preservation, you decided to fix the situation.

By holding a book club.

You gathered the entire Inner Circle in the House of Wind library and dramatically unveiled the stack of ACOTAR books Mor had helped you recreate with a little Illyrian smuggling and Helion’s glamour spells.

“Welcome,” you declared, arms outstretched, “to your unsolicited literary awakening.”

Rhysand eyed the books like they were cursed. “You’re telling me someone… wrote down our lives?”

“Multiple someones,” you said solemnly. “And then sold them. Worldwide.”

Azriel’s jaw ticked. “So strangers know... everything?”

You nodded. “Everything.”

Cassian leaned forward, grinning. “Even about-”

“Yes, Cassian,” you interrupted. “Even that.”

He fist-pumped. “Nice.”

Feyre picked up A Court of Mist and Fury, frowning as she flipped through the pages. “Why does this make me sound like a YA protagonist with trauma and a painting fetish?”

“Because you are,” you said helpfully.

She blinked.

Nesta grabbed Silver Flames and skimmed a few pages before muttering, “Well. This is uncomfortably accurate.”

Cassian peeked over her shoulder. “They really wrote that scene? That scene?”

Nesta smirked. “Word for word.”

Rhysand was halfway through A Court of Frost and Starlight when he scowled. “Why does this one feel like filler?”

“Because it is,” you and Nesta said in perfect unison.

Mor, gleeful, held up Wings and Embers. “Wait-does this mean Cassian is officially a simp?”

“Yes,” you said. “Certified. Trademarked. Embossed in gold.”

Cassian threw a pillow at you. “And what about you? Are you in these books?”

You shrugged. “Sadly, no. I am but a humble interdimensional interloper. However…” You dramatically pulled out a custom-made novella cover with YOU x AZRIEL: Mating Bond Mayhem printed on it in shimmering Night Court silver.

Azriel stared at it like it personally offended him.

“Please tell me that isn’t real,” he muttered.

You winked. “It is in my heart.”

Rhys flipped open A Court of Thorns and Roses, reading aloud. “He was the most beautiful male I’d ever seen.’”

You leaned in. “Yes. And that’s Tamlin. Remember him?”

Rhys dropped the book like it burned. “Unclean.”

Feyre giggled.

Nesta snorted.

Even Azriel’s shadows flared like they were trying not to laugh.

Then Elain, who had been quietly reading in the corner, finally looked up.

“I like this version of me,” she said softly.

Everyone froze.

You blinked. “You… what now?”

Elain held up A Court of Silver Flames, pointing to a scene where she verbally eviscerates Lucien. “I like that I get mad. That I have feelings. That I say things.”

Cassian whispered, “Oh gods. She's awakening.”

Azriel looked genuinely alarmed.

“Elain,” Feyre said slowly, “you’re always allowed to say things.”

“I know,” Elain replied, deadly calm. “But now I have dialogue.”

Mor cackled.

Nesta looked like she’d been waiting years for this. Rhysand leaned over to Feyre and whispered, “Do we… encourage this?”

You stood and raised your hands. “Friends. Fae. Chaos incarnate. I have one final proposal.”

Cassian perked up. “Does it involve more books?”

“No,” you said gravely. “It involves us starting a book club.”

Rhys groaned. “We live the events already, why would we-”

“Because,” you interrupted, “it’s different when you know spoilers.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “Spoilers?”

You grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know who your mate is?”

Everyone froze.

You turned dramatically toward him. “Spoiler alert: It’s me.”

Azriel turned and walked away.

You cupped your hands around your mouth and yelled after him, “I HAVE FANFICS TO PROVE IT.”

He didn’t stop.

But Elain, flipping through A Court of Mist and Fury again, murmured, “Wait… what’s fanfic?”

And you smiled.

Because Prythian wasn’t ready.

And neither were they.

To be continued.

[acornsalessealsstamps]

[hxxsxxng]

to have and to hold - lee heeseung ❦

「pairing」 : husband!heeseung x fem!reader

「word count」 : 1.3k

「genre」 : fluff. fluff. FLUFF.

「summary」 : heeseung always pays attention and remembers the little things, and his love language is definitly all of them.

「warnings」 : no warnings!

「authors note」 : this is the first part of the FROM THE HEART❦ series!

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I curled up on our plush sofa, my favorite book in hand and a steaming mug of tea on the side table. The soft pitter-patter of rain against the window created the perfect ambiance for a cozy afternoon at home. As I flipped to the next page, I heard the front door unlock, and a smile tugged at my lips. Heeseung was home.

"I'm back!" his melodious voice called out, followed by the sound of shoes being removed and keys jingling as they were placed in the bowl by the door.

"In the living room," I responded, not looking up from my book just yet. I was at a good part and wanted to finish the paragraph.

I heard his footsteps approaching, and soon felt the sofa dip as he sat beside me. A gentle kiss was pressed to my temple, and I finally tore my eyes away from the pages to look at my husband. His dark hair was slightly damp from the rain, and his eyes sparkled with warmth as they met mine.

"How's the book?" Heeseung asked, nodding towards the novel in my hands.

I marked my place with a bookmark and set it aside. "It's getting really good. The main character just discovered a hidden passage in the old mansion."

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "Sounds intriguing. Though I hope it's not giving you any ideas about tearing up our walls to look for secret rooms."

I playfully swatted his arm. "Don't worry, I'm content with our secret-passage-free apartment."

Heeseung's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Speaking of which, I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes."

Curiosity piqued, I did as he asked. I heard him move away and then return a moment later. "Okay, you can look now."

I opened my eyes to find him holding a small, gift-wrapped package. "What's this for?" I asked, taking it from him.

"Just because," he replied with a soft smile. "Go on, open it."

Carefully, I unwrapped the gift to reveal a beautiful leather-bound journal. The cover was embossed with intricate designs, and when I opened it, I found the pages were lined with tiny constellations.

"Heeseung, it's beautiful," I breathed, running my fingers over the smooth leather.

"I remembered you mentioning that you wanted to start journaling," he explained. "And I know how much you love stargazing, so when I saw this, I knew it was perfect for you."

My heart swelled with love. It was just like Heeseung to remember such a small detail from a conversation we'd had weeks ago. "Thank you," I said, leaning in to kiss him softly.

As we parted, my stomach let out a low growl, causing us both to laugh. "Hungry?" Heeseung asked, raising an eyebrow.

I nodded sheepishly. "I may have gotten a bit too engrossed in my book and forgotten about lunch."

“Okay c’mon, take a break from the book and we can cook some food together” he suggested, slowly taking the book away from my hands. “How about stir-fry”

"Sounds perfect," I agreed.

We fell into a comfortable rhythm, chopping vegetables and preparing the sauce. Heeseung hummed softly as he worked, a habit I'd grown to love over the years. As I reached for the soy sauce, I accidentally knocked over the bottle of sesame oil.

"Dang it" I exclaimed, watching in annoyance as the oil spread across the counter.

But before I could even move to clean it up, Heeseung was already there with a cloth. "Don't worry, I've got it," he said, quickly wiping up the spill.

"My hero," I said dramatically, placing a hand over my heart.

He grinned, tossing the cloth into the sink. "Always at your service, my lady."

As we continued cooking, I couldn't help but marvel at how in sync we were. Heeseung seemed to anticipate my every move, handing me utensils before I even asked for them and moving around me with practiced ease.

Once the stir-fry was sizzling in the pan, filling the kitchen with delicious aromas, Heeseung turned to me with a glint in his eye. "How about we have a little fun while we wait?"

Before I could ask what he meant, he pulled out his phone and hit play. The opening notes of our favorite song started to play, and I couldn't help but laugh as he started dancing, gesturing for me to join him.

I hopped down from the counter and took his outstretched hand. We twirled around the kitchen, our socks sliding on the smooth floor as we moved to the beat. Heeseung sang along, his voice harmonizing perfectly with the music.

As the song came to an end, he dipped me low, both of us breathless and giggling. "I love you," he said softly, his face inches from mine.

"I love you too," I replied, my heart full to bursting.

The timer on the stove beeped, bringing us back to reality. We reluctantly separated, and Heeseung turned his attention to the stir-fry while I set the table.

As we sat down to eat, I couldn't help but smile at the sight before me. Heeseung had arranged the vegetables on my plate to form a smiley face, just like he used to do when we first started dating and I was feeling down.

"What's got you smiling?" he asked, noticing my expression.

I gestured to my plate. "Just appreciating your artistic skills."

He laughed, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Only the best for you."

After dinner, we settled back onto the sofa, this time with our gaming controllers in hand. It had become a tradition of ours to spend our evenings playing video games together, alternating between cooperative and competitive games.

"Ready to get your butt kicked?" I teased as we booted up our favorite fighting game.

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. "Big words from someone who lost the last three matches."

"I was going easy on you," I retorted, selecting my character.

~

Later that night, as we lay in bed, I turned to face Heeseung in the dim light. He was scrolling through his phone, but set it aside when he noticed me watching him.

"What's on your mind?" he asked softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

I snuggled closer to him, resting my head on his chest. "I was just thinking about how grateful I am for you. For us. For days like today."

I felt his arms tighten around me as he pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "Me too," he murmured. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be than right here with you."

As I drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the warmth of Heeseung's embrace and the love that filled our home, I knew that this, these quiet moments, these small gestures, this deep understanding between us, this was what true happiness felt like.

And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

taglist: @jakeflvrz @simpjay @slutforjaeyun @rayofsunshineeee

[reiding-writing]

Incessant Insomnia [ s.r ]

summary:

The BAU had just finished a case across the country in California, and were now finally on the jet to fly back home, needless to say, everyone was absolutely exhausted and very ready to get some shut eye during the 5 hour flight. Trouble was, Spencer couldn’t sleep, even though he had managed to bag the jet’s sofa, which was arguably the comfiest place on the plane.

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers?

warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of child death, mentions of touch-starvedness, no use of y/n

wc: 2.4k

masterlist!!

a/n: this is my first upload so please bare with me i’m still learning 😭

As you board the jet alongside your team, you can't help but notice the exhaustion etched on Spencer Reid's face. It had been a grueling week, with a disturbingly gruesome case across the country that took all semblance of mental energy out of the team to solve. Spencer, ever known for his genius-level intellect and unwavering dedication, didn’t take a single moment to rest throughout it.

And even as he scored the jet’s long sofa for the flight, arguably the most comfortable place on the plane, that moment of rest still didn’t arrive, and Spencer had long given up trying to fall asleep by the time the jet had stablised at 40,000 feet.

He’d tried everything, a Tchaikovsky Sonata playing through his cheap headphones, a travel pillow around his neck, his shoes discarded on the floor so he could curl up his legs under him, he’d even counted the amount of dimmed lightbulbs in the light strips and the number of creases in the leather bound chairs. Nothing. And he was becoming increasingly jealous of the rest of the team resting soundly in their seats.

He’d battled with insomnia for most of his life, a curse of his intelligence as he liked to call it, his mind constantly running so fast it never gave him any time to relax. But this was a little different. Spencer hated working cases involving children, for what ever reason they seemed to press all of the wrong buttons in his mind, and in this instance, the child they’d been called out to save had died before the team had even arrived in California to help.

Spencer couldn’t seem to get the image of anguish from the child’s mother from his mind, replaying like a faulty cassette player with no pause button as he rolled onto his back and let his eyes fall back open. There was no way he was going to get any sleep on this flight.

He instead took to an ever-living comfort of his, reading, in the hope that his inner monologue would drown out the guttural sobs ringing through his ears from the grieving mother when the team had uncovered her child’s body, buried underneath her own house.

He pushed himself to sit upright, his legs stretched out in front of him to the point where his feet were hanging freely, and he rifled through the go-bag left tucked under the sofa beneath him for his hand-bound anthology of his favourite poets, a book you’d gifted him for his birthday a few months prior. A book he’d read a dozen times since then.

His fingers traced over the familiar cover. He could almost feel the indentations of the embossing on the hardcover, a tactile memory that was as comforting as the words within. The pages were already dog-eared from countless readings, corners turned down to mark passages that had resonated with him, pen marks and streaks of neon yellow over phrases that had touched his soul in ways that only the poetic articulation of human emotion could.

It had become more than just a collection of poems to him; it was a sanctuary, a haven he could escape to when the horrors of his job became too much. He cherished each line, each word, each letter, as they provided a counterpoint to the harsh realities he faced daily. Except, this time it didn’t seem to work.

His mind was still overrun with images of the recent case, each line of verse morphing into a haunting reminder of the child’s life cut short. The words that usually brought him solace now echoed with a sorrowful undertone, amplifying his guilt and making his insomnia all the more pronounced.

The jet’s engines hummed steadily in the background, a usual comforting sound, now merely adding to the cacophony of his thoughts. His eyes, red-rimmed and weary, scanned over the pages, but the words blurred, morphing into a tale of despair that was not originally intended by the poets.

He tried to divert his mind, to block out the pictures of the crime scene, the teary eyes of the distraught mother, the lifeless body of the child, but it was all in vain. Their faces, their voices, their cries, they clung to him, refusing to let go.

His fingers tightened around the book, knuckles whitening with the strain. He could almost hear the deafening silence that followed after they’d found the body, the grim realisation that they were too late, that a life was lost before they could even try to save it.

Spencer felt a lump rise in his throat, the weight of the guilt and sorrow threatening to suffocate him. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the emotions that threatened to break him. He was a profiler, a genius, he was supposed to save lives, not let them slip through his fingers.

He closed the book, the once soothing words now a stark reminder of his failure. He leaned back against the plush leather of the seat, his legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The soft hum of the jet's engines was the only sound that filled the silence, a silence that was deafening in its own right.

Sleep was a distant dream, an elusive solace that he knew wouldn’t come. The guilt, the sorrow, the failure, they were his companions for the night, refusing to leave.

“Spencer…”

Your voice cut through the chaos ravaging his mind, and he flickered his eyes to his left, where you were comfortably curled up under a fleece blanket, head nestled in the small gap between the padded chair you were sat on and the jet’s wall, eyes resting closed.

“Why are you moving around so much..?”

Your question was cut short by a yawn, voice laced with an obvious exhaustion. His restlessness must have woken you up.

"I can't sleep," he confessed, rubbing his temples. "The case... it's still playing in my mind." His voice was barely a whisper, the silence of the jet amplifying its weight.

Your eyes fluttered open at his confession, a mix of concern and understanding washing over your face. You knew how deeply these cases affected him, how they seemed to burrow into his mind, refusing to let go.

"Spencer," you murmured, your voice barely louder than his own. "You did everything you could. You always do."

He glanced at you, his weary eyes meeting your earnest ones, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t have the words to explain the turmoil churning inside him. “We didn’t- none of it mattered…”

You sighed, removing yourself from the comfortability of your previous position, letting yourself sit with your legs in front of you and your feet on the floor. “Spencer of course it mattered,”

Spencer pushed himself upright as you did, subconciously mirroring your actions as you wake further from your half-asleep daze.

“He still died-”

“He was dead before we even landed Spencer, there’s nothing you could’ve done to change that,”

You cut off the inevitable start of a ramble from Spencer, raising your voice a little to take over the conversation whilst still making sure not to wake your sleeping teammates scattered around the jet.

“I know… I’m sorry i’m just-”

Spencer sighs, dragging his hands over his face and through the unruly mess of his hair, flattened and tangled from his incessant restlessness. “I’m fine… Sorry for waking you,” He let himself fall backwards to lie down again, turning onto his right side so that his back was facing you, as if not being able to see you would put an end to the conversation.

You didn’t say anything else, and Spencer resigned himself to listening to the mind-numbing drone of the jet’s engine as he heard you shift around, presumably getting back into a comfortable position to fall asleep again.

Except you weren’t quite done with him yet, and your weight on the edge of the sofa shifted his position as you sat down, your hand ghosting over his shoulder, not quite sure if you should actually touch him or not.

You knew Spencer had an aversion to physical touch, he always had, as long as you’d known him anyway. He’d rattled on about the number of bacterial colonies on human skin and how their transference could lead to illnesses you wouldn’t even try to name, swerving handshakes for awkward waves and keeping a pocket-sized bottle of hand sanitiser on his person at all times. He’d insist on keeping his distance, even from the people he was closest to, claiming that ‘you never knew what illnesses someone could be carrying’.

But you also knew that he needed comforting, and that words seemingly weren’t enough.

You gently placed your hand on Spencer's shoulder, your fingers just barely grazing over the sleeve of his shirt, offering a silent comfort that words couldn't provide. He tensed for a moment, his body still on high alert from the intensity of the never-ending rampage of his thoughts, but then slowly relaxed into your touch. The weight of his exhaustion seemingly lifting off his shoulders as he allowed himself to lean into your presence.

The soft warmth of your touch seeped into his skin, soothing the deep-rooted ache within him. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes, conveying a depth of understanding and empathy that words could never fully capture. In that moment, you became his anchor, providing a much-needed respite in the midst of his turmoil.

As Spencer leaned into your touch, his eyes closed, shutting out the harsh realities that had plagued his mind. He found solace in the simplicity of your presence, the tangible reminder that he wasn't alone in his pain. The weight of the guilt and sorrow that had threatened to suffocate him slowly began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of comfort and support.

You sat there in silence, your hand still resting gently on his shoulder, offering a steady presence that allowed him to find a temporary refuge from his racing thoughts. You didn't need to offer empty reassurances or try to fix what couldn't be fixed. Instead, your mere presence and the touch of your hand conveyed a profound message: "I am here for you."

Time seemed to stand still as you sat there, connected by that simple touch. It was a fragile moment. Fragile, but powerful.

You slowly added a gentle pressure with your fingers, rubbing your thumb over the curve of his shoulder as his behaviour showed that the contact wasn’t crossing any boundaries, as Spencer felt the tension in his shoulders ease and his racing thoughts begin to quiet, a sense of calm washed over him.

The weight of the case and its tragic outcome still lingered heavily on Spencer's mind, but your presence provided a much-needed respite.

“I’m so tired…”

You slowly escalate your touch, running your hand slowly over his shoulder and up the side of his neck, careful to watch for any signs of discomfort from him.

“I know Spence…”

The soft nickname rolling off your tongue only fuelled to add an extra blanket of comfort over him in the moment, although joined by an uncertain ache that spread through his chest until it felt almost suffocating. Your touch comforted him more than he could ever thank you for, but it also upset him beyond belief.

Spencer couldn’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes, nor could he stop the slight tremble of his shoulders as they threatened to spill down his cheeks, and the shaking of his breath only proved to expose him further as you slowed the gentle caresses of your fingers to a halt.

As you felt the weight of his emotions, you gently pulled him into a comforting embrace, allowing him to release the tears he had been holding back as he buried his face into your lap. You held him tightly, offering a safe space for him to let go of the pain and sorrow that had consumed him.

“I’m sorry-”

Spencer choked out an apology through his tears, as though his emotions were burdening you. His tears soaked into your shirt, but you didn't mind. You were just grateful that he felt comfortable enough to let his emotions out, to release the pent-up pain that had been haunting him.

“Don’t apologise Spencer, it’s alright…”

You whispered soft words of comfort and reassurance as your hand moved to slowly run through his hair, reminding Spencer that he was a brilliant and compassionate person who had done everything in his power to help. You reminded him that he couldn't shoulder the weight of the world's tragedies alone, that he needed to take care of himself too.

Slowly, Spencer's sobs subsided, replaced by deep breaths as he regained control of his emotions. He pulled away slightly, his eyes red and puffy, but there was a glimmer of gratitude in them.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice filled with both exhaustion and appreciation. "I don't know what I would do without you."

You gently guide his head back down into your lap, allowing him to use your thighs as a makeshift pillow so he could finally get some rest from his own mind. “It’s alright Spencer, just relax for me alright?”

As Spencer finally succumbed to the exhaustion weighing him down, his breathing gradually slowed and his tense muscles relaxed. You continued to stroke his hair gently, your touch offering a sense of comfort and security that Spencer desperately needed.

The weight of the case and its devastating outcome had taken a toll on him, both physically and emotionally. He had carried the burden of the child's death on his shoulders, blaming himself for not being able to save a life that was already lost.

But in your embrace, he felt a glimmer of hope.

With each gentle stroke of your hand, Spencer felt a wave of warmth wash over him. It was as if your touch carried with it a healing energy, easing the pain and sorrow that had consumed him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to fully surrender to the comfort and safety of your embrace.

In the silence of the jet, Spencer's exhaustion finally overcame him. His body relaxed completely, finding respite from the relentless strain it had endured as it fell into a peaceful slumber. You continued to hold him, providing a sense of security and warmth that he hadn't felt in a long time, and you slowly fell into your own exhaustion, your fingers slowing their movements through his hair to a halt as you drifted into your own state of sleep.

[bradleysass]

believe - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 623 - with a hint of moonkiller

Regulus knew the exact aisle, the exact shelf, the exact centimeter where the book would be.

“Encyclopaedia Occulta: Lost European Grimoires,” he whispered like it was a prayer, his fingers hovering reverently over the spine. It was bound in a dark green leather, embossed with gold ink that shimmered under the warm bookshop lighting.

Barty was already sprawled in the reading nook, legs dangling dramatically over the side of the armchair like some bored Victorian debutante. Remus stood beside him, arms crossed, flipping through a poetry anthology with mild interest, his fingers occasionally drifting to Barty’s curls like it was muscle memory.

“Are you going to make out with it or buy it?” Barty asked, voice carrying obnoxiously far for a supposedly sacred space.

Regulus didn't turn around. “I will hex you.”

“Do it, please,” Barty grinned, “I need some excitement.”

Remus hummed, not even looking up. “He’s been insufferable all day.”

Regulus tucked the book under his arm triumphantly and turned toward them, lips twitching into a rare, barely-there smile. “Victory is mine.”

And then Barty, as if possessed by chaos itself, tilted his head and said, “Oh, by the way, I overheard James Potter saying he might propose to you.”

Silence.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Regulus blinked. “You what?”

Remus looked up now, lips parting. “Wait—what?”

Barty shrugged, like this was information as inconsequential as the weather. “Yeah, ran into him and Sirius outside Flourish and Blotts last week. They didn’t see me. James was rambling to your brother like—what if I propose soon, do you think it’s too much? and I thought—well, that’s a pretty massive thing to not mention.”

Regulus just stared at him, statue-still.

“I—he—we’ve only been seeing each other properly for like, six months,” Regulus stammered, cheeks flushing a deep, rare pink. “We haven’t even talked about marriage.”

“You’ve lived in his flat for four of those months,” Remus pointed out gently, but Barty waved a dismissive hand.

“Semantics.”

Regulus pressed a hand to his temple like he was trying to physically hold back a migraine. “You’re sure he said propose?”

“Unless propose is code for, like, ‘buy Regulus another fern,’ then yes,” Barty replied smugly.

Regulus sat down in the middle of the aisle. With his book still clutched tightly to his chest. “Oh my god.”

Barty snorted. “You don’t sound thrilled.”

“I am thrilled. Or I would be. If I wasn't being ambushed with this news here, of all places, surrounded by musty parchment and your poor impulse control.”

Remus chuckled, crouching beside him. “He loves you, Reg. He’s probably been thinking about it longer than you realize.”

Regulus let his head fall back against the bookshelf. “He still can't make tea without nearly setting the kettle on fire.”

“Then clearly, he's ready for marriage,” Barty deadpanned.

Regulus gave him a flat look. “You are the worst.”

“I try.”

Remus leaned in, nudging Regulus’ shoulder with his own. “You’re not scared, are you?”

Regulus hesitated. “No. Just—can't believe it. And kind of—” he inhaled, glancing down at the book in his arms, “—overwhelmed. Which is ironic, because I’ve imagined him asking me a thousand different ways.”

Barty looked genuinely moved for a second, then ruined it with, “Please let it be at a Quidditch match. In front of thousands. I want to see you faint.”

“Get out of my sight,” Regulus muttered, standing up with as much dignity as he could muster.

He paid for the book with trembling hands.

And as they walked out into the sunlight, Barty swinging his arms obnoxiously and Remus twining their fingers together, Regulus found himself smiling a little, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he should stop pretending he wouldn’t say yes.

[norel-ravenclaw]

Rook’s First, the Professor

Featured character: Emmrich Volkarin x virgin!fem!Rook reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 4400 of pure love and filth~

Description: Combining your tied votes of Rook’s first time with soft dom Emmrich~

WARNINGS: | virginity loss | all the sex | gentle dom and light bondage | possessive Emmrich | lots of pet names |

How is it possible? I’ve faced down the deadliest people and entities the world has to offer. So how… how can the sweet, ever thoughtful, adorably nerdy professor manage to intimidate me?

His breath is warm on the back of my neck as I scour the bookshelf. “What are you looking for, my dear? Perhaps I may offer my assistance.”

Gods help me. “Emmrich! You surprised me.”

He chuckles, low and languid, just like our time off is meant to be. “And here I thought it would be impossible for someone to sneak up on you.” His gold-laden hand gently rests on my back, and he graces me with his laugh again. “My my, feel how your heart races. I really did surprise you, didn’t I?”

I swallow hard, his voice in my ear, his body practically pressed against mine. We’ve been paramours for all of three days, and I am already entirely at his mercy. I’m frozen, flush creeping up my neck.

“Hm?”

I start as his other hand moves on top of mine. His long fingers trace the embossed title on the spine of the book.

“Embalming Techniques? Are you considering a new hobby, darling?”

“I- what? No! No, I just… Emmrich, you’re killing me.”

I hear the slight intake of breath behind me before his hand moves further down my back.

“Oh? Goodness, I am flattered that my mere presence has such an effect on you, dearest.” He presses his lips to my ear, slowly sliding his fingertips from my hand to my wrist. With a slow, gentle motion, he pins it to the shelf.

My heart speeds up. “Emmrich…?”

“I know we’ve not been together long, at least not officially. But there is something I wish to speak with you about. Hm, it seems that perhaps it has been on your mind as well. But I do not want to rush things.”

I glance over my shoulder at him, his eyes sparkling and close.

“I recall something you mentioned once at dinner. That you have never been with anyone romantically.” At my waist, his hand gently strokes lower, teasing at my hip. “I adore you, and would like very much to treat you in every way with the love you deserve. Would you permit me to introduce you to such pleasures, my darling?”

He presses a kiss to the back of my neck, his fingers pressing more firmly against my hip.

“You’re sure…?”

“I am. More than you could ever know. I long to hold you in my arms, to kiss every inch of your skin.” Teasing his teeth ever so lightly over the shell of my ear, his grip on my wrist tightens. “I want to make you come apart and show me all of you. To discover all that your body and soul have yet to divulge.”

Leaning closer, he kisses the corner of my mouth. “Will you entrust yourself to me, my Rook?”

A small keening whine escapes me, and all I can do I nod. “I love you, Emmrich.”

I can see enough of his face to watch his features melt into a lovestruck expression that just makes my heart squeeze even more. So too I watch that look quickly morph into something sharper, hungry. Those sage green eyes take on a predatory gleam as he pulls me into his arms with more force than expected.

“Ah!” My knees are weak as he practically drags me to the small bedroom off the side of the study. Although we’ve slept together the last three nights, my nerves rattle just as much as the first. This time will be more than polite touches and innocent cuddling.

He pushes me against the wall, putting his hand behind my head to keep it from getting bumped. Just as quickly, his lips are on mine.

I melt into his kiss, letting him conquer my mouth as he likes. His heated sighs make my hips jolt against his, over and over. I gasp as he takes one of my hands and pins it over my head. His fingers lace into my hair and hold me firmly. My own moans grow more pathetic as blissful minutes pass.

When he finally breaks away, he rests his forehead against mine. “Forgive me, darling, there is something about you that brings out a rather… aggressive side of me. How uncouth, I ought to-“

“No!” I cut him off a little more eagerly than I mean to.

His eyes widen in surprise, and his lips turn up almost imperceptibly. “Oh? Do you… enjoy when I am more firm with you? I wish only to hold you close and cherish you. Never would I do anything to you that you hated.”

I bite my lip, avoiding his intense gaze. “…I think I’m discovering new things about myself, of late. Emmrich… I trust you. I love you. I need you so badly, and I want nothing more than to submit to you. Please, show me what these feelings mean.”

Lips parting in a huff of breath, he takes my other hand and traps it, holding them both in one of his own. “As you wish, my dear. You will tell me if you dislike anything, understood?”

I nod, my skin hot. “Yes sir.”

Emmrich’s eyes again take on that edge, and I can’t help but clench my thighs together. No sooner have I done that, he forces his knee between them, pressing it against me.

“Ah,” he chides. “I will be the one to pleasure you.”

He kisses me again, his free hand unbuttoning my shirt. Despite his eagerness, his touch is slow, deliberate as he slips his jewelled fingers beneath the fabric to stroke my breast.

I sigh against his mouth as he gently begins to fondle me. His touch is reverent, sensual, exploring my skin thoroughly as he slips my clothes away one piece at a time.

He releases my hands just long enough to slip my shirt off completely, then kneels down to unlace my shoes. He presses kisses to my stomach as he removes the rest. When all that remains are my undergarments, he meets my eye as he slips his fingers beneath them to tug them down my thighs.

I feel so exposed as he slowly stands, his eyes taking in every inch of me before boxing me against the wall with his arms.

“You are stunning, my dear. How fortunate that you are mine, mine alone.” He buries his face in my neck, kissing and mouthing along my collarbone. “No one else will see you. You belong to me now.” He trails a hand up my arm, softly wrapping it around my neck. He applies no pressure, his touch is soft and light. Safe. Yet his message is clear. “Say it for me, will you?”

My heart hammers in my chest, and it takes some will to not cover myself in the face of his eager gaze. Instead I wrap an arm around his neck and slide my hand into his hair. “I-I’m yours, Emmrich.”

He groans and wraps his free arm around my waist. “Good girl.” With his hand still lightly on my throat, he kisses me again. His tongue explores and dominates my own, eagerly swallowing every sound I make. Every sound of his makes me wetter, and I pull my hips back.

“I’ll- mmph, ruin your slacks- Em-“

He chuckles and pulls away, leaving both of us panting. “How considerate of you. Very well then.”

With his hair slightly mussed, he holds my eye, still catching his breath as he unbuckles his belt. “Put your hands out for me, sweetheart.”

My eyes widen, but trusting him, I do as I’m told. He smiles, though it’s more of a smirk as he uses the belt to bind my hands together. Pushing them back over my head, he teases the sensitive skin of my hip and murmurs in my ear, “Keep them here.”

I nod, biting my lip as a bead of wetness slips down my thigh.

He steps back and makes me watch as he removes his clothes piece by piece. He tosses them over a chair with the rest of mine before coming back to press himself against me.

“So obedient for me, aren’t you? You enjoy being ordered around by me? Being bound and subject to my will?” He kisses along my jaw, massaging my hips.

I whimper, panting as he pushes his knee between my thighs again. He groans as my wetness escapes all over his thigh.

“My, it seems you like it indeed.” His eyes glitter with a dark mischief. “What else do you want me to do to you?”

I flounder at his question, unsure. “I-I don’t know.”

“No? You’ve not fantasised about me? Do you want whips? Chains? Wax? Toys?” He chuckles and licks up my neck. “Should I bring in some of the others to watch one of these days?”

My eyes widen in shock. “Wha- E-Emmrich!? Are you really into all those things??”

He laughs and runs a hand up to fondle my breast, gently tweaking my nipple between his fingers. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Do you like this leather, at least?” Tracing the belt binding my wrists, he grins and kisses me again. “Do you?”

“…Yes.”

Gripping my chin between his fingers, he leans close, his expression stern. “Yes sir.”

“Ah… y-yes sir.”

“Good. Now tell me what you want me to do next.” His thumb strokes over my lip, his eyes never leaving mine.

“…I want…”

“Hm? Use your words, sweetheart.”

My hips jerk as he lazily keeps his knee pressed between my legs. “Please, sir… I want to… feel your mouth on my chest.”

His eyes light up in delight and he rewards me with a kiss. “Do you now? Good girl. I will give you what you crave.”

Slowly, he kisses down my neck, bending down to rub a cheek against the side of my breast. His hands come to cup them, gently squeezing. Moving one away, he nuzzles the sensitive skin, kissing my peppled nipple then taking it into his mouth.

Without his leg between mine any longer, my hips buck against nothing. The warm wetness of his mouth and the skilled movements of his tongue make me moan and keen.

I arch against the wall as the cool gold on his fingers brushes my most sensitive places, in ways no one has ever touched me before.

“Emmrich… Gods just like that.”

He looks up at me from under his lashes. “Is it as you hoped it would be?”

The cheeky bastard goes back to pleasuring me with more intensity than before. Whatever answer I could have given is lost to the desperate, keening moans he draws from me.

And then he stops.

“Won’t you tell me? How will I know if I am meeting your expectations if you don’t tell me?”

I whimper and pout as he smiles innocently up at me. “Yes sir, it’s so good. Please dont stop.”

His ‘innocent’ smile loses its smirking edge as he returns to kiss down my body once again. “Good. How I delight in these delicious reactions of yours. Let’s see what else I can draw from you.”

Going down onto his knees, his hands work down my waist to my hips and thighs. I gasp as he pushes them apart a little more forcefully than is strictly necessary. He doesn’t bother hiding his smirk this time as he is afforded a clear view of my sex throb.

His lips work down my navel, teasingly slow until he reaches my mound, his hands never letting up their sensual exploration. Gentle fingertips dance down the meeting point of my hip and thigh, rubbing at the soft, sensitive skin.

Teasing ever upward, my hips buck towards him eagerly. He tuts his tongue and lightly smacks my thigh. “Now now, behave for me. How am I to work with you moving about so? Be a good girl and be still.”

“Mmph! I’ll try sir…”

“You’ll do more than try if you want me to continue.”

I tense at his threats, no place more intensely than between my legs.

The moment his nose brushes my clit, I fail. “Ah!”

With a stern look, suddenly I’m seeing stars as he places his open mouth to my folds, pulling them in his mouth and nibbling softly.

“What- ah! By the fade Emmrich!”

“Perhaps I’ll punish your disobedience with overstimulation, mm?”

My eyes start to fill with tears as the utterly overwhelming sensations wash over me one after another. His lips, tongue, teeth, and moustache seek out and stimulate every part of my dripping sex. Licking and sucking, he rubs his nose against my clit while his tongue prods at my opening.

I cry out and scream in ecstasy as he quickly learns from my reactions. “Em! Holy-“

Those graceful fingers push against my hips, one hand holding open my legs and the other shoving me back against the wall with every involuntary thrust of my hips. I struggle to keep my hands against the wall as he determinedly overstimulates me.

Crying out his name over and over, I eventually lose that battle. Dropping my hands down to his hair, I thread my fingers into the silky locks.

But then I gasp as he grabs my wrists, still wrapped in the belt. “Naughty, naughty girl,” he mutters, only looking up at me as he rubs his wet mouth against my inner thigh.

He gets up to his feet, his mussed hair hanging over one eye. He pulls my captive wrists to him as he pushes me towards the bed. His warm breath on my ear makes me shiver. “Can’t even follow simple instructions? Come now.”

Pushing me back onto the bed, he pauses to adjust his bangles before climbing onto me. He takes my bound wrists and pins them to the pillows above my head, leaning in to my neck.

“I only tried to take care of you, my darling. Yet you refuse to obey me? What shall I do to punish you?”

I whimper as he runs his lips and teeth down the curve of my neck. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t- ah! mean to…”

“Mm. You’ll have to persuade me of your penitence. Won’t you obey me properly this time?”

Squirming under his body, his knee working its was back between my legs, I mewl as he lavishes my heated skin with kisses and touches that seem rather more ill-composed than before.

The sheets rustle as he carefully rests more of his body weight on me, his gold jingling by my ear.

He hikes my leg over his hip and I groan as his cock presses against my thigh, nearly at full hardness. Nuzzling at my throat, he murmurs, “Well? Will you, dearest?”

“Yes! Yes, anything you say Emmrich. Please, touch me more.”

His eyes meet mine again, warm. “Good girl. Such a good girl for me.” Leaning closer, he kisses me again, wasting no time in slipping his tongue between my lips. Meanwhile, his hand moves between my thighs.

Running his fingertips through my wet folds, he teases at my entrance and gently presses against it. We both moan against each other’s mouths at the feeling as he sinks one inside.

My hips buck against his, and his own body responds. “Mm, you are so warm.”

I cry out as he presses his finger in a little deeper, rubbing at my sensitive walls. “Em! Oh!”

He pulls back to look into my eyes as he pulls and presses his ringed finger inside me. “How does it feel, my heart? Have you touched yourself this way before?”

I bite my lip and nod. “But it feels so much better when it’s you.”

“Oh? When you aren’t in control of the motions?” He smirks softly at my gasp as he eases the rest inside. “Do you like that I can reach deeper?”

Cries fall from my lips that he keeps nibbling at. Our bodies start moving in tandem in a small mimicry of what is to come. “Yes! Yes, Emmrich, Em, please yes…”

He releases my wrists to grab my chin, making me look at him as he presses a second finger to my entrance. “You’ll tell me if it is too much.”

With an eager nod, I feel my legs spread further instinctually. “Yes sir.”

His mouth is parted, hair somehow more dishevelled than before. Silver and black obscure his heated gaze as he eases me open for him. “You are taking this so well, my sweet. Such a pretty thing laid out like this.” His thumb rubs slow circles against my clit.

By the time he begins pressing a third into me, my body feels both light and heavy, driven by pure instinct as he thrusts them into me.

“Listen to you. Singing for me. I dare say I am already addicted to this saccharine sound.” Kissing over my face, he moves his hand from my chin to my neck, lightly holding it again. “I hope you are prepared, darling.”

“Em! Please, please I need you.”

He pulls back enough to look at me properly, and my heart speeds up. “Are you ready?” Tsking his tongue, his eyes take on mischief. “But are you sure? I am the one who is more experienced with such things after all. You really ought to yield to my knowledge.”

He scissors his fingers inside me, and my back arches off the bed violently. Groaning, he presses my hips back down with his own. “See? You are still much too wound up.”

We both cry out as he presses his hard cock against my clit, letting the small amount of friction as he moves his hand stimulate me further.

Squirming more, the pressure on my neck increases slightly. I choke out a moan and throb around his fingers, now abusing my most sensitive inner spot.

Emmrich’s eyes take on a gleam as he pushes me closer to the edge. “I want you to fall apart for me. Will you do that for me, dearest?”

“Yes! Em, I’m so close. Please, please don’t slow down!”

His nose brushes mine as he speeds up his motions. “Of course. Anything for you. Come for me, Rook. Let me feel you squeeze my fingers inside you. Let me feel your wetness gush out.”

I flush harder at his filthy words. “Em…!”

Moments later, he pushes me over the edge. I keep my eyes on him as he makes me release for the first time. The sensation washes over my whole body as I writhe and jerk beneath him. He uses more of his body weight to hold me down, his hand on my throat keeping me still enough to finish the job.

“Such a good girl. That’s it, just like that. Come apart for me. Fall apart and cry out my name.”

Tears slip down my cheeks as I finally catch my breath, whining and struggling as he begins to overstimulate me. “Emmrich! Em, that’s all! Please, I already came! Ah!”

“Oh? But you were naughty, remember? This is your punishment.” He chuckles and kisses my shoulder, releasing my neck.

I arch against him, struggling as he continues his relentless assault.

Smirking, he grabs my wrists again, pinning them down. “What was that about not moving? I think you need some training, my love.”

Shuddering and thrusting helplessly against his hand, I cry out his name again and again.

At last, he has mercy on me. “Are you ready now? My radiant girl.”

I nod mindlessly, finally allowed to catch my breath. He removes his hand, moving them both up by my head to rest for a moment. We stare into each other’s eyes, bodies and hair slightly damp with sweat. His foot moves back and forth over mine, his own energy pent up.

Smiling down at me, he leans forward to rest his head on one hand and moves the other to his mouth. Licking once, he then holds his wet fingers to my lips. “Be a good girl and clean me up, will you?”

Tentatively I open my mouth, letting him press his fingers inside, tasting my own essence. He groans as I lick and suck them clean, biting his lip with a furrowed brow.

“That’s it. Good girl. So lovely for me…”

Before I finish, he pulls his hand aside and captures my lips in a searing kiss. He’s ravenous, reaching down to align himself with my entrance.

“I need you, dearest. Please, grant me your first, and I swear to always be by your side.”

Another tear slips, overwhelmed physically and emotionally. “Of course, Emmrich, my love. Take me, please.”

He sighs heavily, his eyes glazed and laser focused on me. He lets his gaze run down my naked body before he presses more firmly against my entrance. “Then, my dear heart, accept me.”

With one arm braced by my head and the other on my hip, he holds my gaze as he slowly begins pushing his cock into me. Both our breath stutter as there’s a brief moment of catching. We both moan as he suddenly slips in a bit deeper.

He nuzzles my temple and murmurs my name again and again. “You feel heavenly, my darling. How do I deserve this pleasure? This honour of being the one to love you?”

I arch against him, my heart pounding as he slowly makes me open up for him. After a few overheated moments, he bottoms out, and we both moan.

“Em… So deep. I can feel you, all of you.”

He strokes my hair through my nonsensical rambling, matching it with his own senseless praise and words of love.

“Might I begin to move? Are you ready?”

I nod, burying my face in his neck. “Yes.”

“Yes sir.”

I cant help that I squeeze around him, and he laughs. “Y-yes sir.”

“Oh? Even now you wish for me to dominate you?” He chuckles and kisses my parted lips. “Well then, I’ll not worry about keeping your wrists bound.”

I gasp and whimper as he pulls back slowly, thrusting back in deeply. Every nerve is alight with the unfamiliar sensation and slight burn of the stretch.

With my wrists tied, I wrap my arms around his neck. He presses his forehead to mine, eyes burning like I’ve never seen as he thrusts into me slow and deep, again and again.

“So tight, goodness, are you sure I’m not hurting you?” he pants.

“No, Em, not at- no don’t stop!”

The grey curls of hair at his base stimulate my clit with every rock of his hips, and I try to match his motions.

He chuckles and peppers my face with more kisses. “No? Very well then.”

I buck and writhe beneath him with every thrust, mewling as the hand that had been comfortingly massaging my hip moves to my breast.

We exchange increasingly nonsensical words as he switches from shallow to deep, fast and slow. I hold him close, my legs wrapped around his waist.

He draws it out, slowing down every time the look in his eyes gets too manic as his own pleasure grows. Groping at my body, whispering filthy encouragements in my ear, making me wet enough to soak our thighs and the sheets below us. He rubs at my clit until it’s puffy and swollen like my entrance as he sweetly abuses my sex.

The pressure builds higher and higher after being overstimulated from the beginning, and my hips arch against his more desperately.

“Em, please, I can’t take it anymore. I need to come! Please sir!”

Emmrich moans and curses under his breath. “Such a good girl asking so nicely. Very well, darling. But don’t say you didn’t ask for this.”

I gasp as he grabs my hips, lifting them against his own for a better angle as he starts fucking me in earnest. The new tempo makes me scream, desperately gripping at the pillow behind me.

Looking up at him, haloed by the faint moonlight streaming in through the windows, I sink deeper into pleasure and subspace. “Emmrich!”

It doesn’t take long before he pushes me to the edge, and suddenly I’m tumbling over it. I can’t help but scream as I cum around him for the first time, his deep, fast thrusts making the orgasm stronger than anything before.

“That’s it,” he pants, gripping my hips harder, “I’m going to mark you as deeply as a man can. You’re mine, say it.”

Tears again slip free as he pounds into me. “Yours! Em! Please, yours- love you much!”

“I love you more than you’ll ever know, dearest. Taking me so well. Good girl.”

He pulls my hips close as his tempo falters, pressing as deeply as he can as he finally allows himself to release. His warm seed fills me and drips out onto the sheets as he pumps it into me with more eagerness than I’d have imagined.

Falling forward, he continues bucking into me as he clumsily resettles on top of me. We’re a mess of lewd sounds, damp skin, and ragged breaths, buzzing with the high.

When his hips finally still, the belt is half hanging off one of my wrists, with my fingers entangled in his hair. He nuzzles into my neck and shifts his weight down so he can lay fully on me. Doing so makes his cock slip free, and we both groan at the loss of each other’s warmth.

“You are exquisite, my dear. How I love you. You’re marvellous.” His lips find my nipple, and he takes to kissing and sucking with the last of his energy.

“Mm! Em! Please… mercy!”

He chuckles and grins up at me. “Oh? You would deny me your love?”

I moan and whine, weakly trying to push him away. “S’too much!”

He doubles down, his hand taking care of the other, only to slow down after a moment with a mischievous laugh. “Fine, fine. I must allow you to rest if I am to give you the rest of my love later.”

All I can do in answer is whine.

“Ha, good girl letting me take care of you. Rest now. I will lavish you with more of my skills later tonight. Though all time wouldn’t be enough to give you all my love.”

I card my fingers through his hair. “For all time it is, then.”

[returnsandreturns]

Crowley’s teased Aziraphale for centuries about not reading books exclusively because he likes the little crease he gets between his eyebrows when he doesn’t like how Crowley is behaving. He rarely gets to see it these days and it doesn’t show up as much as you’d think with some of the behaving Crowley does but the second he lounges against a shelf and says, “Dunno why you waste your time with all these books when television exists,” he’s sure to catch a glimpse of it. 

“They do the reading for you, angel,” he says. “And there’s–explosions and things. You know, ka-boom.”

He makes a little exploding motion with his hands and Aziraphale levels him with a look that would immediately scare off a mere mortal who just wanted to casually browse in a bookshop with an open sign right on the door. 

“This feels like blasphemy,” he says, “and I won’t have it in my bookshop.” 

“Oh, you let me blaspheme all the time until it’s about books,” Crowley says, trying not to smile too hard when Aziraphale’s glare turns into a pout. 

There’s an inevitability to books, though, with the amount of free time he’s created for himself and the amount of time he spends adjacent to them. He’ll leave the bookshop with paperbacks shoved in his back pocket, hidden by his jacket, always half expecting the angel to catch him as he’s leaving. His reaction would have been so complicated. Stealing is bad but reading is good. That’s the kind of black and white thinking you're taught upstairs. The gray of whether the virtue of reading overrides the sin of stealing is something Aziraphale is good at. A little puzzle that ends with the answer being libraries or politely asking.

The jig is up when Aziraphale happens upon him in the park, sprawled out under a tree with a copy of Tipping the Velvet, so engrossed in it that he doesn’t even notice until Aziraphale is standing over him. 

“Shit,” Crowley says, startled, dropping the book. “Since when do you loom?” 

“Since when do you read?” Aziraphale asks, like he’s just been given the most delightful gift he’s ever received. 

“. . .I steal,” Crowley says, sitting up on his elbows and raising his eyebrows. “From an angel’s bookshop, which is, I assume, doubly a sin. If I happen to glance through my stolen goods, that’s my business.”  

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, warmly, sitting a shopping bag down before moving to sit next to him. “Are there many paperbacks on my bookshelves?” 

“. . .just the occasional one lying around, I suppose,” Crowley says, suspiciously. 

“And why do you suppose that?” Aziraphale prompts. 

“. . .did you trick me into literacy?” Crowley asks, gasping.

“I merely placed books I thought you might enjoy around for you to make the choice,” Aziraphale says, adorably pleased with himself.

“Well, that’s familiar,” Crowley says, laughing. “You tempted me into literacy.” 

“Do you like this one?” Aziraphale asks, ignoring that and picking up the book, the broken spine immediately healing under his touch.

“I might,” Crowley says, defensively, then groans. “Oh, fuck, I lost my page.” 

“I miracled a bookmark before it hit the ground,” Aziraphale says, handing it back to him, and Crowley flips it open to see a black bookmark embossed with his initials and a lovely snake pattern, laughing.

“Satan help me,” he says, smiling at him, “but I kind of like this side of you. Bit of petty mischief. It’s cute.” 

“. . .could I tempt you into something else, perhaps?” Aziraphale asks, slowly. 

“Lunch?” Crowley asks. 

Instead of answering, Aziraphale reaches out to cup his cheek and kiss him, soft at first but then Crowley kisses him back, trying to hold back the impulses of thousands of years worth of not kissing Aziraphale as Aziraphale presses him down into the grass. 

Of course it was books that finally did it. 

“If I’d taken your suggestion to read all those poetry books you were pushing on me back in the eighteenth century, would you have done this then?” he asks, when they finally take a break. 

“Well, darling, if you must know, they were love poems,” Aziraphale says, despairingly, starting to sit up again until Crowley drags him back on top of him.

“I’ll read any poem you want, angel,” he says, hushed, “just don’t stop.” 

“Dangerous thing to say, darling,” Aziraphale says, kissing him softly on the forehead.

[lxndonorris]

to be loved - Logan Sargeant

Y/N x Logan Sargeant Theme: angsty fluff you're invited to a gala to honor you're achievements at work. Logan, however, is doubting himself. You show him how much you love him just for who he is x word count: 1120+ taglist: @game-set-canet thanks to @iworldlywriter for the idea! Another Logan story might be coming very soon as well. Haven't written angst in a while...

The Miami Grand Prix has culminated in a whirlwind of emotions and adrenaline. Logan, your boyfriend and talented young racer, gave his all on the track, pushing boundaries and challenging limits. However, the aftermath of it all leaves him feeling more defeated than ever. As he sits in the dimly lit living room of his home, the weight of his recent crash pressing down on him, he can't shake the lingering sense of inadequacy that gnaws at his soul.

Across the room, you sit perched on the edge of the couch, your gaze soft as you watch Logan. Then, you look down at your phone, glancing over the email you'd gotten a few days ago. 

The success of your latest book, "Echoes of Eternity," surpassed even your wildest dreams. Its poignant prose and captivating storyline captured the hearts of readers around the world, propelling it to the top of bestseller lists and earning rave reviews from critics and fans alike.

Amidst the flurry of interviews and accolades, one invitation stands out above the rest—a prestigious gala to honor your literary achievement. As you read the elegant invitation again, adorned with intricate gold foil and embossed lettering, a sense of pride and gratitude washes over you.

Still, a heavy cloud of concern lingers in your heart for Logan. The recent string of disappointments on the racetrack weigh heavily on him, casting a shadow over his spirits even amidst your own success.

"Logan," you say softly, breaking the silence that hangs between you. "I want you to come to the Gala with me."

Logan's eyes flicker with uncertainty as he meets your gaze. "I don't know, Y/N," he replies, his voice tinged with doubt. "I'm not sure I belong there."

You move closer, sitting down right beside him, and take his hand in yours. "Logan, listen. to me," you say earnestly, but he lets out a long, deep sigh.

"Y/N," he breathes, "I know what you're going to say." Logan looks at you, searching your eyes for reassurance. "But this season... I haven't lived up to the team's expectations, to my own expectations," he admits, his voice lancing with regret. "I feel like I don't deserve the seat... like, I don't deserve you."

Logan's admission cuts deep, stirring a tumult of emotions within you. The raw honesty in his words lays bare the depths of his inner turmoil, and the weight of his self-doubt feels like a heavy burden on your shoulders. 

As much as you want to reassure him and chase away the shadows that cloud his mind, you know that healing his wounded spirit will take time and patience.

Tears well in his eyes as he avoids your gaze, but you softly cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Logan, look at me," you say firmly. 

"You are so much more than your racing career. You're kind, compassionate, and incredibly talented. And none of that changes just because of a few bad races."

Shaking his head in disbelief, his jaw clenches with pent-up frustration. "It just feels like I can't catch a break," he admits, his voice raw with emotion. "No matter how hard I try, it's like I am stuck in this endless cycle of bad luck."

You squeeze his shoulders gently, offering silent support as he grapples with his emotions.

"I know it's tough," you say softly. "But remember, racing is just one part of who you are. You're so much more than your performance on track."

He swallows hard, a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty washing over him. "But what if I let you down as well?" he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Like I always do."

"You could never let me down," you reply, your voice unwavering. "Because being with you, sharing this journey together, is the greatest reward of all."

A few tears run down his cheek as he searches your eyes for even the slightest hint of doubt, something to fuel his belief in failure. 

"Do you really mean that?" he whispers again, his voice laced with vulnerability.

With every fiber of your being, you nod, your gaze unwavering as you meet his. "Yes, Logan," you say firmly. "I mean that with all my heart. I love you, not for being a professional racer, but because of who you are deep down inside yourself."

For a moment, silence hangs heavy in the air, the weight of your words sinking in as Logan grapples with the depth of your love. And as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close in a tight embrace, you know he needed that.

With Logan wrapped in your arms, his vulnerability lays bare. You hold him close, a beacon of unwavering support amidst the storm of his doubts. Gently, you lift his chin, guiding his gaze to meet yours, your eyes filled with love and conviction.

"Logan," you begin, your voice soft yet resolute. "I believe in you. I believe in the strength of your spirit, the depth of your resilience, and the power of your determination. You are capable of greatness, of achieving heights beyond your wildest dreams."

A glimmer of hope flickers in his bright eyes, and his expression softens just a little. 

"What if I never live up to my potential?" His voice is barely hearable, rough, and husky. 

You brush a tender kiss against his forehead, your touch a gentle caress against the storm raging inside him.

"Every setback, every stumble, is a stepping stone on the path to greatness. And I will be here, by your side, every step of the way."

As the weight of your words sinks in, a sense of resolve settles over Logan, his shoulders straightening with newfound determination. 

"Thank you, Y/N," he murmurs, gratitude shining in his eyes. "For believing in me, even when I couldn't believe in myself."

"Always, Logan," you reply, your voice a whisper of reassurance in the night.

He leans in once more, hugging you tightly, and as you hold Logan close in a comforting embrace, you feel the tension slowly melting away from his body, replaced by a sense of peace. With a gentle smile, you pull away.

"Hey, how about we order some of your favorite takeout?" you suggest, your voice warm with affection. "And then we can snuggle up on the couch and watch that movie you've been wanting to see."

Logan's eyes light up at the suggestion, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. 

"That sounds perfect," he murmurs, his voice soft with gratitude. "Thank you, Y/N."

With a tender smile, you press a loving kiss to his lips, a silent promise of unwavering support and devotion.

"Anytime, Logan," you reply, your heart swelling with love. "I'm here for you, no matter what."