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marauroon · 2 months ago

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𝟏 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟎𝟎 — 𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑. (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬)

two boys send you a series of letters over the course of the school year. one, a sweet ravenclaw boy who wants to get to know you. The other, well— you don’t know, but he already knows you.

eventual james x fem!reader | 14.0k | series masterlist.

main masterlist.

CW | the marauders are… reasonable human beings? technically oc love interest for plot reasons, james is a yearner, girlhood in its truest form

The first morning back is crisp and golden—the sort of late summer day that makes Hogwarts look like something out of a painting. You’ve just arrived off the train, your trunk bouncing along behind you, and the air’s got that unmistakable scent of lakewater, freshly-polished wood, and the beginnings of autumn. You’d missed it. Even if you’d never admit that to anyone.

Lily walks beside you, chattering about her summer, about Petunia being an absolute nightmare (what else is new), and how she’s already dreading the mountain of work that NEWTs are supposed to be.

You hum along at the right places, nodding as if you’re paying attention, but you’re mostly distracted—scanning the crowd ahead, watching as students laugh and jostle their way toward the carriages. You can already see the back of Sirius’ head, black hair tied back with a ribbon someone must have dared him to wear, and James beside him—his usual mess of curls half-tamed under a Gryffindor scarf, even though it's hardly cold enough for it yet.

They’re not causing trouble.

And that’s… strange.

You don’t realise you’ve slowed down until Lily stops too, blinking at you.

“You alright?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah, yeah. Just… forgot how much taller everyone’s gotten. They look like seventh years,”

She snorts. “Speak for yourself. Potter still looks like a fifteen-year-old with too much energy and not enough shame,”

You glance back at the group of boys as they vanish into one of the thestral-drawn carriages. The usual suspects: James, Sirius, Remus, Peter. The ‘Marauders’—still the stupidest name you’ve ever heard. Though you have to admit (not aloud, obviously) that it suits them. Or… used to.

Because something’s changed.

It started at the end of last year, when James had pulled you and Lily aside—separately, mind you, in an unusual display of emotional intelligence—and apologised. Properly. Not with a joke, not with a smug smirk, but with sincerity so unsettling that it had rendered you both speechless for a good few moments. You’d shared looks with Lily afterward, both trying to decide if it was a prank, some elaborate ruse meant to throw you off-guard.

It wasn’t.

And he hasn’t gone back on it either.

Which is why you’re currently standing in the entrance hall of the castle, shoulder to shoulder with your friends, and you feel a little… off.

Because things are peaceful. For the first time in years, things are actually peaceful.

The Marauders aren’t hanging hexed signs on people’s backs, they aren’t enchanting staircases to flatten when someone climbs them, they haven’t even thrown water balloons from the Astronomy Tower. And sure, they’re still winding up Severus at every opportunity—but even that’s been reduced from full-scale ambushes to petty jibes and muttered comments in the corridors.

It’s quieter.

Less… annoying.

And that should be a good thing.

It is a good thing. Probably.

—

You settle into sixth year like slipping on an old jumper. The classes are harder, of course—double Potions is hell on earth, and Charms seems to have tripled its expectations overnight—but there’s a rhythm to it.

You get up, you go to class, you spend time in the common room with the girls, laughing and playing Exploding Snap or braiding Dorcas’ hair while Marlene does impressions of the professors.

There’s no chaos. No Marauder-related distractions. And no James Potter, appearing behind you to tug on your robes or ask if you’re sure you didn’t drop your dignity in the corridor somewhere.

It’s… peaceful.

But peace, you realise after the third week, is a little boring.

No one’s called out your name in a loud, humiliating spectacle at dinner. No one’s nicked your favourite quill only to return it days later enchanted to sing show tunes. No one’s bewitched your name onto the Prefect noticeboard with the title “Most Likely to Hex You for Breathing Too Loudly.”

And no one’s watching you anymore.

Not in that way.

Because even when it was annoying—especially when it was annoying—there was something almost flattering about it. That attention. That sense of being seen, even if it was by someone like James Bloody Potter. It made you feel... well, not special exactly. But noticed.

You’d never admit it out loud. Not to Lily, not to Marlene, not even to yourself if you could help it. But in the quiet moments—when the library’s too silent, or the common room too tame—you find yourself missing the noise.

It’s deeply inconvenient.

—

The girls are thriving, though. Lily’s top of every class (no surprise there), Marlene’s got half the Hufflepuff Quidditch team vying for her attention, and Dorcas has taken to sketching everyone in increasingly dramatic poses. She caught Sirius with his eyes closed in History of Magic and drew him like a fallen angel; he signed it and stuck it to the back of Peter’s chair.

Even that felt nostalgic.

Because back in the day—not even that long ago—Sirius and James would’ve been howling with laughter, probably doing impressions of Binns until the man floated out in exasperation. Now, they seem more subdued. Not boring exactly, but... more grown up. As if they’re slowly starting to realise the world doesn’t revolve around them.

Well. Not entirely.

You still catch James showing off in the corridors sometimes—trying to balance a stack of books on his head while walking backwards or charming Remus’ tie to change colours during class. But it’s gentler now. Less abrasive. Like he’s finally learning the difference between being funny and being cruel.

And the strange thing is: you think you might actually like this new version of him.

You’re not sure what to do with that.

—

You’re sitting by the window in the common room, watching the storm pelt against the glass, your Transfiguration notes spread across your lap and a blanket tucked round your legs. The others are upstairs—Lily’s doing prefect rounds, Dorcas is in the bath, and Marlene’s probably flirting with the Ravenclaw Beaters again.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You stare at your notes, then out the window. Somewhere down by the greenhouses, you think you can see Sirius running through the rain, jacket over his head. You squint, and sure enough, James follows a moment later, slipping slightly in the mud but catching himself with a laugh you can’t hear.

They’re soaked.

They’re laughing.

And they didn’t come bother you once today.

You look back at your notes. Your quill sits idle in your hand.

You’re being ridiculous. Pathetic, even. You hated when they bothered you. They drove you mad, especially James. The constant attention, the teasing, the half-jokes that toed the line between affection and annoyance—it was exhausting.

But it also made you feel like someone had your name in their mouth. Like someone saw you.

You press your lips together.

No. You’re being selfish.

You wanted peace, didn’t you? You got peace.

And now you’re here, sulking because a boy hasn’t thrown a dungbomb near you in three weeks.

Brilliant.

—

Lily finds you later, your notes long forgotten, the storm still raging outside.

“You look like someone drowned your owl,” she says lightly, collapsing onto the sofa beside you.

You blink. “Just tired,”

“Mm,” She eyes you. “You’ve been a bit… quiet lately,”

You shrug. “Just getting used to the workload,”

“You sure it’s not something else?”

You hesitate. Then: “Do you think James actually changed?”

She tilts her head. “Honestly? Yeah. I do,”

You weren’t expecting that. “Really?”

“Yeah,” She picks at a thread on the blanket. “He’s still a prat, obviously. Still immature and annoying and thinks the sun shines out of his arse, but… he’s not mean anymore. Not like he was,”

You nod slowly.

“And he apologised,” she adds. “That meant something to me. To you too, I think,”

It did. It still does.

You think back to that moment at the end of fifth year—James, red-faced and stammering, looking more like a boy than he ever had before. You remember how he wouldn’t meet your eyes at first, how he said your name like it mattered. And how for the first time, he didn’t laugh at the end. Didn’t wink. Just waited.

You’d told him it was fine. It wasn’t, but it was getting there.

Now, it might actually be.

But still.

“I kind of miss it,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Lily looks at you, confused. “Miss what?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. Just… never mind,”

She doesn’t press.

But later, when she goes upstairs and you’re alone again, you look back out the window. The rain’s slowed to a drizzle, the sky dark and drowsy. You think about James—how he used to be, how he is now. You think about how, somewhere in that strange in-between space, you stopped dreading his presence and started noticing his absence.

And the worst part is?

You’re not even sure when it happened.

—

It’s a dull, grey Thursday in early December, the kind that makes you want to burrow into your scarf and pretend the rest of the term doesn’t exist. You’re in the Great Hall for breakfast, half-asleep, cradling a mug of tea between your hands and trying to pretend that the mere idea of double Potions doesn’t make you want to fling yourself into the Black Lake.

Around you, the usual morning chaos unfolds: first-years bickering over toast, owls swooping in with letters and parcels, and Marlene arguing with Dorcas over who used the last of the strawberry jam. Lily’s scanning the Daily Prophet with her usual “this world is doomed” expression, and you’re debating whether or not to try and eat a banana when—

A piece of parchment glides gently through the air in front of you and lands, neatly, on your plate.

You blink. Then stare. Then blink again.

It’s folded perfectly, sealed with a little silver charm in the shape of a star, and it is absolutely not yours.

The table goes very still around you. Lily sets her paper down. Marlene pauses mid-swipe at the jam pot. Dorcas leans in with her eyebrows already raised.

You glance upward, half-expecting someone to shout “surprise!” or for Peeves to come crashing down from the ceiling, cackling. But there’s no sign of trickery. Just a few owls flapping overhead and a Ravenclaw table full of students minding their own business—or appearing to.

“Open it,” Dorcas hisses, eyes wide.

“I—what if it explodes?” you whisper back, only half-joking.

“It won’t,” Lily says. “Look at the charm. It’s a standard animation seal. Whoever sent it used proper magic,”

“That just makes it more suspicious,” you mutter, but your curiosity’s already gotten the better of you.

You peel the charm off and unfold the parchment.

The handwriting is careful, slanted slightly to the right, and clearly someone’s taken their time with it. The ink is deep blue and slightly shimmering at the edges—someone’s fancied this up a bit.

You begin to read.

Hi, sorry to send this in such a dramatic way, but I figured a floating letter was better than stammering at you in person and making a complete idiot of myself. I know this is kind of out of nowhere, but I’ve… well, I’ve noticed you. And I was wondering if you’d maybe want to write to me over the holidays? Just letters, nothing weird. Or, you know, more, if you’re up for that. No pressure though. I just think you’re kind, and funny, and I’d like to get to know you. From, Nick (Ravenclaw, sixth year, dark blond hair, sits near the windows in Charms—just so you can place me, if you want to).

You stare at the letter.

Then read it again.

And a third time, just to be sure it says what you think it says.

It does.

You make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a choke, and immediately try to stuff the letter under your plate, but Lily’s already yanking it out of your hand.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, skimming it with wide eyes. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever read,”

“Wait, wait, let me see—” Marlene leans across the table, grabbing the other side. “‘Just letters, nothing weird’—what does that even mean? Is he worried about sounding like a creep? Oh, this is brilliant,”

Dorcas is fanning herself dramatically with her napkin. “Do you think he wrote a rough draft? This is totally a rehearsed letter,”

You hide your face in your hands, the heat of your cheeks threatening to set fire to your fringe. “Stop. Please stop,”

“I will not stop,” Lily grins. “You’ve got an admirer. An actual, charming, respectful admirer who wants to write to you like it’s the 1800s. That’s romantic,”

“It’s embarrassing,” you groan.

“It’s amazing,” Marlene corrects. “And you have to write back,”

“I don’t even know him!”

“That’s the point!” Dorcas says. “He wants to get to know you. He gave you a perfect way out, he’s not assuming anything, he’s just interested. That’s rare,”

They’re all smiling now, all leaning in, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a little helpless and a lot flattered.

Because it’s sweet. It is. And no matter how much your face is burning, there’s a fizzy, fluttery sort of feeling in your stomach you can’t quite ignore. You glance up again, eyes scanning the Ravenclaw table.

You spot him almost instantly.

Nick: dark blond hair, just as described, pale eyes, face mostly hidden behind a book, though he’s clearly not reading. He looks up. You look down. He looks away quickly, ears going pink.

You smile without meaning to.

“Right,” Lily says, dragging her bag into her lap. “We need paper. A quill. What colour ink should we use?”

“I’m not writing him back in the middle of breakfast,” you hiss.

“Why not?” Marlene’s already pulling a little bottle of silver ink from her satchel. “Strike while the iron’s hot! He’s probably dying of anxiety over there,”

You hesitate for a moment too long, and then the decision’s made for you—because Dorcas finds a clean piece of parchment, Lily’s already got your hand in hers, and Marlene is dictating a reply out loud while you splutter about how this isn’t how people normally handle these things.

You’re still trying to snatch the quill back when a voice drawls from behind you:

“What’s all the noise about, then? Secret girls-only plot to overthrow the Ministry?”

Sirius.

Of course.

You twist in your seat and find him lounging half on the bench, half on the table a few seats down, chin in hand, eyes glinting with nosy curiosity. He’s got toast in one hand and mischief in the other.

Lily lifts her chin and says, very primly, “None of your business,”

“Oh, now I have to know,” he says, kicking his legs up beside you.

You glance to your side—and there he is.

James.

Sitting quietly at the Gryffindor table, a few seats down, half a piece of toast hanging forgotten in his hand as he watches the scene with a blank expression.

It’s only a second, but you see it. That flicker of something behind his eyes.

Recognition.

Understanding.

And something sharp that he swallows before it can show too clearly.

Because James Potter knows what giggling girls and secret letters mean. He knows.

And it shouldn’t matter—it really shouldn’t. You’re barely even friends. Civil, maybe. Tentatively polite. But whatever it is between you now, it’s not enough to warrant the sudden, stiff way he turns back to his plate.

It shouldn’t sting.

But it does.

—

You finish the letter with the girls' help. It’s nothing dramatic—just a polite reply saying you’d be happy to exchange letters over the holidays, and that you appreciate his kindness. You keep it short and friendly and completely avoid saying anything that might sound too enthusiastic.

(Which is a lie. You’re a bit enthusiastic. But you don’t need them knowing that.)

Dorcas folds the reply with military precision, Lily reattaches the little star charm, and Marlene volunteers to deliver it on your behalf—“to spare you the embarrassment,” she says sweetly, already halfway across the hall.

You look down at your plate, appetite long forgotten.

“Alright?” Lily asks, nudging your shoulder.

You nod. “Yeah. I think so,”

“You’re allowed to be excited, you know,”

“I am excited. I’m just… surprised,”

She smiles. “It’s nice though, isn’t it?”

You glance again toward the Ravenclaw table. Nick’s looking at Marlene like she’s an incoming Howler, his whole face red to the ears as he takes the letter from her hand.

You smile again.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It is,”

—

Across the table, James doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t need to.

Because he saw the whole thing. The letter, the blushing, the girls all but bouncing in their seats. He saw Marlene walk across the hall with that parchment and Nick take it with shaking hands.

And it’s stupid. Petty.

But it hurts.

Because it’s been nearly two years since he realised he might actually like you—properly, not just in the annoying-you-is-fun way, but in the way that meant he started watching you when you weren’t looking. Noticing when you got a haircut. Learning the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh.

He apologised. He grew up. He’s trying.

And it still wasn’t enough.

You’ve got someone now. Or the beginnings of someone.

And he’s just James Potter, watching from afar with jam on his toast and something bitter on his tongue.

He shoves the toast in his mouth and doesn’t say another word for the rest of breakfast.

—

You don’t expect the first letter from Nick to come so quickly. It arrives the morning after you get home for the holidays, hand-delivered by a glossy, silver-feathered owl you don’t recognise. Your name is written in the same neat, slanting script, and it still makes your stomach flip just a bit.

The note is folded crisply, the parchment thick and expensive-feeling. You hesitate before opening it, standing by the kitchen window with snow dusting the garden outside, everything quiet.

First off, thank you for not laughing at me. I thought I’d regret sending that letter the second I did it, and I very nearly snatched it out the air mid-flight to get it back. But you were so... kind. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t kindness. So thank you. It feels a bit odd writing like this, doesn’t it? But I also kind of like it. There’s no pressure when it’s just words. I don’t trip over them this way. So, here’s me: I like Charms best. I once accidentally set my robes on fire in Herbology (don’t ask), I’m allergic to pineapple, and I think people who can fall asleep on trains are borderline magical. Tell me something about you? Anything. Something silly, or secret, or both. Yours (nervously), Nick

You smile like an idiot for a full five minutes before you even think about writing back.

And so it begins.

The letters come every few days, sometimes short and scrawled in rushed excitement, sometimes long and meandering with little sketches in the margins. He tells you about his mum’s failed attempt at decorating the tree with actual enchanted snow, and how it flooded the sitting room. You send back a drawing of a dog dressed in a Father Christmas hat (badly drawn, but Nick says it’s ‘profoundly moving’). He tells you he’s rereading Hogwarts: A History just for fun, and you reply with a list of reasons why that’s definitely unhinged behaviour.

Sometimes he signs off with ‘Yours, Nick.’

Sometimes with ‘Yours (hopefully).’

Once—‘Yours (unless the owl’s eaten this and you never see it).’

You find yourself checking the sky for owls more often than you care to admit.

It’s not dramatic. Not whirlwind, heart-racing, can’t-breathe kind of love. But it’s nice.

And after the year you’ve had, ‘nice’ feels revolutionary.

—

You return to Hogwarts with a small box of letters tucked at the bottom of your trunk, tied neatly with a silver ribbon courtesy of Dorcas, who insisted they deserved to be “presented like the delicate artefacts of flirtation they are,”.

The minute you’re back in the dorm, you’re swarmed.

“Show us everything,” Marlene demands, already bouncing on the edge of your bed.

“Yes, come on, let’s see what your secret Ravenclaw Casanova had to say for himself,” Lily adds, mock-prim, though she’s clearly grinning.

You hesitate only a moment before reaching into your trunk. The box feels warmer than it should, like it’s soaked up some of the good from the past few weeks.

You hand it over, and the girls descend like a pack of curious Kneazles.

“Oooh, look at this one—‘Yours (unless the owl eats it)’—alright, he’s cute,” Dorcas says approvingly, flopping onto her stomach with the letter held aloft.

“Is this a little sketch of a Thestral wearing a party hat?” Lily giggles. “He’s got your sense of humour. That’s weirdly adorable,”

Marlene sniffs, mock-serious. “I give it two weeks before they’re holding hands by the lake,”

“Two? You’re being generous,” Dorcas snorts. “I give it until Sunday,”

You hide your face in a pillow. “You’re all horrible,”

“Don’t change the subject,” Lily grins. “Have you written him since we got back?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Told him I’d meet him after lunch. Figured we could, I don’t know… actually talk in person,”

They cheer like you’ve just won the bloody House Cup.

—

You find Nick leaning awkwardly by the courtyard archway, his hands stuffed deep into his robe pockets, and his scarf trailing loosely over one shoulder. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps—and immediately fumbles to straighten up.

“Hi,”

“Hi,” you smile.

It’s quiet for a moment, but not the awkward kind. Just the sort of quiet where snow mutes everything, and your breath fogs the air between you, and the castle feels suspended in time.

“It’s nice to see your face,” Nick says finally. Then pauses. “I mean—obviously I’ve seen your face before. Loads. I’m not, like, suddenly surprised you have a face,”

You laugh.

“I know what you meant,”

He exhales, relieved. “Good. I wasn’t sure I’d manage to string two sentences together without turning purple,”

“You’re only a bit pink,” you tease. “That’s manageable,”

You end up walking the long way around the courtyard, snow crunching underfoot. It’s a bit stiff, at first—he trips over his words, you don’t know where to put your hands—but something about it feels... promising. Like maybe the letters weren’t just a fluke.

He makes you laugh. You make him stammer in a way that’s far too endearing. It’s not dramatic, and it’s not sweeping—but it feels nice.

And when he says, quietly, “I’m really glad I wrote to you,” you don’t hesitate before replying, “Me too.”

—

From then on, you start seeing him more often. You meet by the greenhouses for walks after Herbology. You sit beside each other in the library, sometimes talking, sometimes just reading in companionable silence. You laugh when he fumbles his words or stutters a bit too quickly, and he blushes when you compliment his handwriting.

It’s soft. Sweet. Easy.

And that ease is what James hates most.

He doesn’t mean to. Really, he doesn’t. But every time he sees you and Nick tucked away in a corner, talking with your heads bent close, something in his chest twists too tightly.

He tries not to look. He tries.

But he always does.

He catches glimpses of you in between lessons, notices the way your smile tilts differently when you’re with Nick, the way you lean in without thinking. He sees the way you laugh, just slightly quieter than with the girls, more private.

He sees all of it.

And it kills him.

Because Nick doesn’t look nervous anymore. Not like he did in December. He looks like he belongs next to you now, like he’s settled into a space James never even realised was open.

And James?

James is still stuck in the same place, staring from a distance and pretending he doesn’t feel like his lungs collapse a bit every time your eyes skim past him without stopping.

The worst part is that Nick’s not even unlikeable. He’s polite. Respectful. He doesn’t show off or brag. He’s never hexed someone. He’s the kind of boy you should be with.

Which makes James feel like even more of a twat for hating him.

But he can’t help it.

Because you’re slipping further away with every shared smile and hushed conversation, and James Potter—Golden Boy, Quidditch Captain, supposed heartthrob—is left standing on the sidelines, too late and too cowardly to do anything about it.

Not that he deserves to.

Not really.

Not after everything he used to be.

—

There’s a quiet little path just past the edge of the Forbidden Forest, winding between thickets of tall grass and old stone walls from Merlin-knows-when. It’s not quite on the Marauder’s Map because it’s not technically a shortcut or a secret passage — it’s just peaceful. Removed. The kind of place couples start to frequent when they want to be left alone.

You and Nick have discovered it recently.

It’s become something of a habit, heading out there after classes with a thermos of tea or stolen pastries from the kitchens, bundled up in scarves and gloves, talking about everything and nothing as the winter wind rushes through the trees. It’s your space now, and it’s lovely. Safe. Uncomplicated.

You don’t notice the stag at first.

He’s standing far off at the treeline, half-hidden behind some low-hanging branches. Massive antlers, golden-brown fur, eyes sharp even from this distance. He looks almost surreal — like he belongs in some enchanted forest painting, too noble and elegant to be real.

Nick notices your distraction. “What is it?”

You tug his sleeve and point. “Look!”

His head turns, eyes following your finger. When he spots the stag, he startles slightly. “Blimey,”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, smiling. “It’s just a deer,”

“That’s not just a deer, that thing’s the size of a carriage,”

You laugh. “Don’t scare him off,”

You take a slow step forward, fascinated. The stag doesn’t move. Just watches you, eerily still.

There’s something oddly… familiar about him.

And James — because yes, of course it’s James — is having what could only be described as a full-scale emotional breakdown inside his stupid stag body.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Not exactly.

It had started out harmless enough — a little sulking, a bit of brooding, the usual staring-longingly-across-the-classroom-at-your-empty-chair sort of behaviour. And then Sirius had made some off-hand joke about how you and Nick probably had a “special little spot” by now, and James had laughed like he wasn’t actively dying inside.

Cue: terrible decisions.

Because obviously the most reasonable response to your blossoming teenage romance was to follow you in his Animagus form. Spy on you. Lurk.

Real mature.

But he couldn’t help himself.

There you were, sitting beside Nick, cheeks pink with cold, smiling in that soft way James remembered from last year when he made that ridiculous fireworks spell in Charms just to make you laugh. And Nick — bloody Nick — looked like he’d won the lottery.

It should’ve been him. He should be the one making you smile like that.

And then you turned, eyes catching the movement in the trees. James froze. For one horrible second he thought you recognised him, that somehow you could see straight through the fur and hooves and spot him for who he really was — awkward, lovesick, completely out of his depth.

But instead, you grinned.

Properly grinned. That wide, sparkly-eyed smile that had always made something in James’ chest flutter.

“You know stags are a sign of good luck,” he said, smiling softly at you.

You tilted your head. “Are they?”

“In some places, yeah. Seeing a stag’s supposed to mean… well, something sacred. Or new beginnings,”

James, still very much standing there like a massive idiot, nearly snorted.

New beginnings, his arse.

You took a step closer to Nick, hands fiddling with your scarf. “How fitting,”

Nick’s cheeks flushed red, even under the pale winter sun. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

James felt the moment before it happened.

There was a hush in the air, the kind that hangs between two people right before something changes. A kind of invisible pull. You leaned in—just slightly—and Nick moved at the same time, closing the space with a nervous sort of determination.

And then you were kissing.

It wasn’t a dramatic, spin-you-around kind of kiss. It was tentative. Careful. Sweet.

But it wrecked James all the same.

He wanted to close his eyes, but he felt as though he physically couldn’t. He wanted to disappear, but he was literally a giant animal. Instead, he stood there, paralysed, watching the girl he loved kiss another boy while he pretended to be a woodland creature.

You pulled away first.

Nick, ever the gentleman, looked nervous again.

“Sorry,” He muttered, hands fumbling. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I did, obviously, but I didn’t want to make it weird. Was that… alright?”

You stared at him for a moment, lips parted. “It was,”

Nick smiled, visibly relieved.

And James—full of repressed feelings and bad decisions—bolted.

He galloped full-tilt back through the trees, hooves skidding over frosty ground, lungs burning with the kind of emotion that didn’t make sense in this form.

When he finally transformed back, he nearly punched the wall.

—

He storms into the dormitory, robes askew, hair windswept and damp from snow.

Remus looks up from his book. “Alright there?”

“No.”

“Did you fall in the lake again?” Sirius asks from his bed, chewing a Sugar Quill and looking thoroughly unconcerned.

“No,” James grinds out, pacing the room. “Worse.”

Peter sits up. “Worse than the lake?”

“I watched her kiss him.”

There’s a pause.

Sirius, now mildly interested, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “You what?”

“In the forest,” James says, throwing his arms up. “I was— I don’t know—just following—walking—I didn’t mean to stay that long, but then I saw them and I couldn’t move, and then he kissed her.”

He collapses into the armchair with the weight of a man who’s just seen war.

“Mate,” Remus says gently, closing his book, “you followed her?”

James groans. “Don’t say it like that.”

“In Animagus form?”

“Don’t say it like that!”

Sirius is cackling now. “James, my boy, you absolute idiot,”

James throws a cushion at him. “Do you want me to cry?”

Peter’s eyebrows are high on his forehead. “So… you watched them snog and then what? Ran off crying in your stag form?”

“Yes, Pete, that’s exactly what happened, thank you for summing it up so eloquently,”

Remus sighs. “Look. I know this is hard. But what did you expect to happen? You’ve been watching them from afar for weeks, acting like you don’t care, and now you’re surprised that she’s moved on?”

James sulks deeper into the chair. “I didn’t think it would hurt like this,”

Sirius tosses a Bertie Bott’s bean at his head. “Then do something, mate,”

James blinks. “What?”

“Tell her,”

“I can’t,”

“Why?”

“Because!” James flails his arms. “She hates me,”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says calmly. “She was just… wary. And to be fair, you earned that. But you’ve changed. She sees that,”

“Lily’s talking to you again,” Peter adds. “That’s a massive shift from last year,”

“She’s dating Nick,” James mutters.

“So?” Sirius shrugs. “Relationships end all the time. Especially school ones,”

Remus shoots him a look. “Not exactly the message we want to send right now Pads,”

“Sorry, Moony, but it’s true. James has been pining for her like a tragic protagonist in a bad romance novel for years. If he doesn’t say something soon, he’ll combust. Or do something even stupider than stalking her through the forest,”

James groans. “You’re making it sound so much worse,”

“You made it worse, mate. You literally watched her kiss another boy from the bushes,”

He buries his face in his hands. “What do I even say? ‘Hi, sorry I was a git to you for years, but now I fancy you and have no idea how to act like a person anymore’?”

“Honestly,” Remus says, “not a terrible start

James peeks up between his fingers. “I can’t just tell her,”

“Then write,” Peter suggests, surprisingly earnest. “You’re always better in writing,”

The room falls quiet.

James slowly lifts his head.

“…Do I have to sign it?”

Remus frowns. “You want to send it anonymously?”

Sirius leans forward, interested. “Like a secret admirer?”

“No, like… a vent. I get it all out with no risks,”

“You think she’d read it?” Peter asks.

James shrugs. “She might,”

Sirius leans back, chewing on his quill now. “Alright. An anonymous letter. Bit dramatic, but very you,”

“You think it’s stupid,”

“I think,” Sirius says, “it’s better than sitting here moping while she falls in love with someone else,”

James doesn’t reply.

Instead, he stands, walks to his trunk, and pulls out a piece of parchment.

And a very fancy quill.

Because if he’s going to tell you the truth—even secretly—he’s going to do it properly.

—

It arrives one cloudy morning at breakfast, right between a plate of toast and a half-soggy letter from your mum asking if you’ve remembered to send your Nan a Christmas thank-you.

You barely register it at first—the slip of parchment settling onto your plate with an elegant little flutter, the ink shimmering faintly as if kissed by starlight. You glance up, expecting to see an owl flapping off, but the air above the Gryffindor table is clear.

Weird.

You look down again. It’s not a scroll, not a Howler, not a folded scrap from Lily asking about Herbology notes. It’s stationery. Thick, cream-coloured parchment that feels almost too nice for Hogwarts post. The edges are trimmed with delicate gold foil. The writing, when you unfold it, gleams like the surface of the Black Lake at midnight.

And it is… a lot.

You don’t know me. Not properly, anyway. Maybe you think you do, and maybe that’s my fault, maybe I’ve made sure you didn’t want to. Maybe I got too used to being the kind of boy people only like in theory. I can be a bit of a twat, but if I’d ever had the courage to actually be honest with you, this is what I would’ve said: I notice everything. I notice the way you chew your lip when you're thinking. The way your handwriting changes when you’re writing something personal. I notice that you give away half your dessert even when you complain you’re starving, that you always carry extra hair ties in case your friends need one, that you hum when you’re nervous. I’ve noticed that you like thunderstorms more than sunshine, and that you pretend not to care when people don’t listen to you, but it bothers you. I wish it didn’t. You’re not just pretty, you’re brilliant. You’re clever in ways people overlook, and kind in ways that make them assume you’ve never been angry. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen your temper flare and your spine straighten and I’ve wanted to be someone who could stand beside that, not against it. I used to think if I just waited long enough, you’d look at me the way you look at the pages of a good book — like something worth opening. But I don’t think you ever will. And I’m tired of pretending I’m fine with that. So this is me. Being honest. Finally. I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.

You read it three times before you even breathe.

It is—quite literally—the most intense thing anyone’s ever said to you. And they didn’t even say it. They wrote it. Anonymously. No name. No initials. Just… left it here like a bloody emotional bomb.

“Oh my God,” Marlene breathes, peering over your shoulder. “Who wrote that?”

You blink, still dazed. “I don’t know,”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Dorcas is already reaching for the paper. “Let me see,”

Lily sets down her tea. “That’s not Nick’s handwriting,”

You snatch the letter back instinctively, folding it like a guilty thing. “It’s not from Nick,”

“Oh hell no,” Marlene says, loud enough to turn heads from the other end of the table. “What kind of coward doesn’t sign their name to something like that?”

You flush, tucking the letter under your plate. “Can we not do this here?”

“No, sorry, we’re absolutely doing this,” she says, hands in her hair. “You just got the Hogwarts equivalent of a bloody sonnet and we’re supposed to ignore it?”

You shrug, trying for breezy but failing miserably. “It’s probably a joke,”

“It’s not a joke,” Lily says, eyebrows furrowed. “No one puts that much effort into a joke. That was… honest. Painfully so,”

Dorcas whistles low. “I can’t believe someone’s been carrying all that around. And didn’t even sign it,”

“They should’ve,” Marlene says. “You don’t get to say all that and then disappear. It’s manipulative,”

“It’s anonymous,” you say quietly. “Not manipulative,”

“They want something from you without saying who they are,”

You shrug. “I don’t care who they are,”

Which is, of course, an outright lie.

Because for the next two weeks, you read the letter every single night after the others have gone to sleep.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That it’s like solving a puzzle, trying to piece together who might’ve written it based on the phrasing, the details. You go through every male voice in your head like a bloody index file: is it someone from your year? Another House? Is it someone who sees you more than you realised?

And worse: is it someone you’ve hurt without knowing?

Because how long has this boy—whoever he is—been noticing you? Caring about you from some hidden distance? How long has he been watching you laugh, cry, argue, love your friends… and stayed silent?

Because now that someone has said those things to you—someone who wants your laugh, your bad handwriting, your bloody spare hair ties—you’ve started comparing. And Nick, for all his sweetness and quiet charm, hasn’t said anything remotely like that.

Nick likes you. He likes your face, your smile, your laugh. He likes sitting next to you at lunch and holding your hand when you walk to class. He likes being liked.

But whoever wrote that letter doesn’t just like you. They see you. In this terrifying, intense, specific way that makes your stomach twist every time you reread it.

And that’s the problem, really.

Because now every interaction feels dimmer by comparison.

When Nick compliments you, it feels too rehearsed. When he kisses you, you wonder if he’s noticed the freckles on your shoulders, or if he’s just decided that kissing you is nice. You still like him. You do.

But you also can’t stop thinking about the letter.

—

Meanwhile, in the boys’ dormitory, James is slowly unraveling.

He hadn’t meant for the letter to actually get to you.

Well, he had, obviously. That was the plan. Fold it all up, pour his heart onto the page, let the Marauders deliver it like some weird emotional owl service. But he hadn’t expected it to work. He thought maybe you’d read it once and toss it in the bin.

But you didn’t.

You read it. And then you kept reading it.

James knows because he keeps watching you. Not stalking—definitely not stalking—just… observing. From across the common room. Or the Great Hall. Or occasionally (and he hates himself for this) while pretending to tie his shoelaces in corridors you happen to be walking through.

You’re thinking about it. He can tell.

You’ve gone quieter, more introspective. You still hang out with Nick, still smile when he tugs you along to some late lunch in the courtyard. But the spark in your eyes when you look at him doesn’t quite reach the edges like it did before. Not like it does when you’re reading.

James sees you in the library with it tucked into a Transfiguration book.

He sees you smiling at it in Charms when Flitwick isn’t looking.

And every time, it hurts.

Not because you know it’s from him—but because you don’t.

You’re holding a piece of his soul and you don’t even know it’s his.

The Marauders are no help.

“Just tell her,” Sirius keeps saying. “It’s not going to kill you,”

“Yes it will,” James mutters into his pillow. “Instant death. Right there. You’ll have to plan my funeral,”

“Moony can write the eulogy,” Peter suggests. “Something tragic,”

“I’m not writing him a eulogy,” Remus says dryly. “I’m writing him a howler if he doesn’t grow up,”

But James doesn’t want to grow up. He wants to hide.

Because this is worse than being rejected. This is watching you choose someone else while still holding onto the most vulnerable thing he’s ever written and having no idea it’s from the boy who used to trip over his words around you.

He thought writing it would help.

It hasn’t.

If anything, it’s made everything worse.

Because now he knows how close he got. And how far away he still is.

And you— well, you’ve got a letter folded fourteen times and stashed in your pillowcase like some embarrassing secret. You’ve got Nick waiting for you after class and your friends teasing you about mystery boys and you’ve got no idea that the person who sees you best is someone you’d written off two years ago.

But you’re starting to wonder.

Because whoever wrote that letter knew things even you hadn’t noticed about yourself.

They knew how you listen harder when people talk about books, how you write longer sentences when you're nervous, how you care more deeply than you let on. That kind of observation doesn’t happen overnight.

That kind of thing takes years.

—

There are times in relationships when it feels like the edges of your life blur together, and the lines that once separated who you were from who you are in someone else’s eyes start to fade. It’s a strange and subtle thing. At first, it feels like you’re merely adjusting — slipping a little to fit more comfortably into someone else’s world. But gradually, as time passes, the edges of that world begin to shape you. And in the process, you start to lose sight of where you end and they begin.

That’s what happened with Nick.

At first, you thought it was something gentle — a sweet, budding connection. After all, the letters had been lovely, hadn’t they? The way he wrote about things you’d never noticed, the way his words seemed to speak to you in places where you hadn’t realised you were waiting for someone to. He was kind, he was funny in his own way, and he tried his best to get close to you. Really close.

But the truth is— he tried too hard.

You hadn’t noticed it at first, or if you had, you dismissed it. After all, it was sweet, wasn’t it? The way he wanted to take you to Hogsmeade every weekend, the way he seemed to try to do all the right things, say all the right words. He’d bring you flowers—small, simple ones from the Greenhouse, wrapped in brown paper. You’d smile, thank him, and tuck them into a glass jar on your windowsill.

But soon it wasn’t just flowers. It was sudden plans to study together for hours, even when you weren’t sure if you really needed to. It was long conversations about everything and nothing, always turning into late-night talks that kept you tethered to him, even when your mind wandered to other things—or to other people.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the truth crept in. Little by little, things started to change. At first, it was just the fact that when you sat with Nick, it was easy to forget. You didn’t think about the boy who’d written you that anonymous letter, you thought maybe this was enough—that Nick was enough. But after a while, something started to feel… off.

It wasn’t his fault, not exactly. Nick was a genuinely good person. But somewhere along the way, he began to push harder than you could keep up with. And rather than reassuring you, that energy felt suffocating. The careful gestures, the predictability, the pressure to move things forward.

You began to realise that you weren’t sure if you wanted to move forward. Not with him. Not like this.

The shift became obvious one cold afternoon in the library, when Nick tried again—really tried—to kiss you. His hand brushed yours as he leaned in, but instead of feeling that warm flutter you’d always read about in romance novels, you felt yourself stiffen.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. You did. But with each moment that passed, the picture you’d once thought was perfect started to crumble. In that space between the kiss and the hesitation, you saw what was missing. It was like the world suddenly tilted. You realised you’d been holding on to something that wasn’t quite real, a dream of what could be, rather than what was.

You pulled away.

“I think…” you started, the words heavy in your throat. “Maybe we need to talk,”

Nick paused, his expression flickering with concern. “Talk about what?”

“I think I’m not really sure what I want anymore,” you said quietly. It wasn’t easy. It never is. “I think I’ve been… confused. I don’t want to lead you on,”

He blinked, his lips parted as though he was about to speak but couldn’t quite find the words. “You’re saying this now?”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve said something sooner,” You looked at him, trying to make it hurt less. “But I think maybe we both rushed into this, and now… I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready for this. For us,”

There was a long silence, his face softening, eyes full of something like defeat. And then he spoke, his voice quiet but steady.

“I think I knew, somewhere in the back of my head,” he admitted. “I wanted to be the one to make you forget. To make you forget the other person. The one who… knows you. Like that letter,”

You froze at his words, staring at him. “What do you mean?”

Nick shifted uneasily, rubbing his neck, looking around as if he wanted to find some kind of answer in the shelves of books. “I mean…” he said slowly, “You were never really mine, were you? Not in the way I wanted. Not in the way I needed,”

A knot tightened in your chest. He was right, but it hurt to hear it. “You’re not wrong,” you murmured, your heart sinking. “I don’t know what I was looking for. But I don’t think it was this,”

Nick gave a soft, resigned chuckle. “Yeah, I think I figured that out a little too late,” He paused. “I tried. You know? I tried to make it work, tried to be what you needed. But I guess… you’re right. I couldn’t compete with someone who really knows you,”

“I’m sorry, Nick.” You said the words because they were true, because you did care about him, but you also knew that this wasn’t right anymore. You couldn’t force it to be something it wasn’t.

He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. “I just… I don’t think I can keep pretending I’m okay with the idea of you still thinking about someone else. I’m not him, am I?”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “No. You’re not,”

For a moment, you both sat there in the quiet of the library, the sounds of students working, the soft scratch of quills on parchment. It was a peaceful kind of sadness, though. Not dramatic or explosive — just two people who had tried, who had cared, and who were now realising that they had reached the end of the road.

Nick exhaled softly, meeting your eyes. “I just want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me,” he said quietly. “I think you need to find the person who really gets you. The person who sees all of you, like that bloody letter,”

You felt something tighten in your chest at his words. “I want you to be happy too. I’m sorry,”

He smiled faintly, his eyes soft. “Don’t be. It’s just… I think we both knew this wasn’t going to last, not like this. I care about you. I always will. But I can’t be the person who’s always second best. I can’t compete with someone who sees you the way you deserve to be seen,”

You nodded, your throat tight. “I get it,”

“Good luck,” Nick stood up, dusting off his robes. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. Even if it’s not me,”

And with that, he walked away.

—

It took a few weeks for the aftermath to settle in. You weren’t sure if you’d done the right thing. But as time passed, you started to understand. You’d never been in love with Nick. You’d never been in love with the idea of him, either. And even if you hadn’t fully understood what that letter meant—the one you’d read so many times, the one you’d kept hidden under your pillow—you were starting to.

You’d tried. You’d tried to make it work, to make Nick fit, to make everything make sense. But in the end, you couldn’t ignore the cracks that had formed the moment you started comparing his kindness to the depth of someone else’s words.

You hadn’t found it yet, whatever it was that you were looking for. But you knew you would. It wasn’t about finding someone who could match Nick’s sweetness, or someone who could take his place.

It was about finding someone who saw you.

—

The Marauders had a plan. A very misguided, very well-meaning plan. And, naturally, that plan revolved around James.

They were determined to fix him, to make him move on, to help him forget about the girl who had (without him knowing) already managed to ruin him. But, as usual, they hadn’t bothered to take into account the very real fact that James didn’t want to move on. At least, not in the way they thought he should.

Ever since his brief but very real heartbreak — the one that no one, especially you, knew anything about—James had been moody. His attempts at pretending he was fine fell flat. He acted like he was fine, smiled like he was fine, but everyone who knew him could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t fine. He was not fine.

But the Marauders, being the Marauders, had an answer. They were going to find him someone to kiss, someone to distract him from you.

James had tried to shrug it off. He had told his friends, repeatedly, that he wasn’t interested in anyone else. He didn’t want to be fixed, and he certainly didn’t want to forget you, not when he couldn’t forget that letter, not when every little thing about you still echoed in his head.

But the Marauders were insistent.

“Mate, you’ve got to move on,” Sirius said one evening, sprawled across the couch in the Gryffindor common room. He was half-teasing, but there was a seriousness to his voice that James couldn’t ignore. “You’ve never kissed anyone else. Never shagged anyone. How do you know you don’t like it, huh?”

James shot Sirius a dry look. “I don’t need to shag anyone to know I’m not interested in anyone else,” he muttered. He had been hoping to avoid the topic altogether, but Sirius, as always, was relentless.

“You don’t know that until you try, Prongs,” Sirius said, winking as he nudged James in the side. “Besides, you can’t just pine over her forever. You’ll drive yourself mad,”

James clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. “I’m not pining,” he growled. “I’m just… not interested in anyone else. It’s that simple,”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so,” He flashed a grin. “But you’re coming to the Quidditch after-party tonight, right? I’ve got a plan to fix this. You need to at least try,”

And that was how James ended up, several hours later, at the Gryffindor Quidditch after-party, reluctantly swept into the chaos of his friends’ scheming. There was no getting out of it. Sirius had insisted. Remus had given him a knowing look. Peter had simply nodded along, looking vaguely terrified of being left out of the plan.

James had been forced to accept that the Marauders weren’t going to leave him alone until he did something. So, with as much reluctance as he could muster, he gave in.

The party was rowdy, with a thrumming energy that could only come from a Gryffindor Quidditch victory. It didn’t take long before Sirius had dragged James into a conversation with a fifth-year Gryffindor girl, a girl James vaguely recognised from the common room. She was nice enough, but James wasn’t interested. Still, he followed through because, well, Sirius had already set it all up.

"Just give it a try, mate," Sirius whispered, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up from across the room. “You might actually enjoy it,”

James barely suppressed a groan. He couldn’t explain it, but the thought of kissing anyone but you felt wrong. There was a tightness in his chest every time he tried to think about being with someone else.

He didn’t know what it meant, whether it was the letter, or the way you had slipped so easily into his thoughts, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be here. That he wasn’t supposed to be kissing someone else.

Nevertheless, after some awkward small talk, the girl leaned in, and there it was. His first real kiss, forced and strange, under the loud cheer of the party around them. It lasted barely ten seconds before he pulled away, completely baffled by the sensation. She smiled at him, clearly pleased with herself, but it didn’t feel right. The kiss, the girl, the situation, none of it.

It wasn’t until Sirius erupted from across the room, clapping and cheering loudly, that the full weight of the absurdity of the situation hit James. Sirius, always the showman, made it a scene—announcing loudly that James had officially kissed his first girl, and proudly pointing at James with a triumphant grin as if it was some massive accomplishment. It was a joke, sure, but it made James cringe.

You were standing near the punch bowl with Marlene and Dorcas at that very moment, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes as the whole situation unfolded in front of you.

There was something about the way Sirius made a spectacle of it that rubbed you the wrong way. The obnoxious cheering, the over-the-top comments, the way everyone turned to look at James and the girl like they were stars on a stage.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint why it bothered you so much. Maybe it was the sheer lack of subtlety. Maybe it was the fact that James didn’t seem to care much for the girl at all, or that he was only doing this to prove something. You couldn’t quite place it, but something about it left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You found yourself staring a little too long, a little too intently, at the scene. Maybe it was the stupid party. Maybe it was the fact that James had always been so full of himself. But whatever it was, it didn’t sit right with you.

Your friends noticed. Marlene raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You okay?”

You blinked, startled by the question. “Yeah, of course,” you said quickly, though your voice was a little too sharp to sound convincing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she and Dorcas exchanged a knowing look, and you felt a flush of embarrassment rise up your neck.

You glanced back at James, still awkwardly standing with the girl, still the centre of the attention. You looked away, the feeling in your chest growing uncomfortable. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way this felt, or the way it made you feel. And yet, you couldn’t deny the slight tug of something — something more complicated than you were willing to admit.

After the party, James felt it too. The awkwardness. The discomfort. The wrongness. He sat with the Marauders, and despite the fact that they were celebrating his “success,” James couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all been for nothing.

“I don’t know what I expected,” James admitted, dropping his head into his hands as they all sat around in their dorm. “It didn’t feel right. I didn’t… I didn’t enjoy it,”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, an almost sympathetic look crossing his face. “You didn’t enjoy it?”

“No,” James muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It just felt wrong. It wasn’t the same,”

The Marauders exchanged glances, the air thick with unspoken understanding. Of course it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. Not when his mind was still filled with someone else. Not when James wasn’t ready to let go.

“Well, mate,” Remus said softly, “I think we all know what’s really going on here,”

James shot him a look of frustration. “I’m not interested in anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else,”

“Alright,” Sirius said, his voice suddenly serious, “If you’re really not ready then we’ll leave you to it,”

James sighed, rubbing his eyes in defeat. “I don’t want anyone else. I just… I don’t know what to do about it,”

The Marauders fell into a thoughtful silence, each of them looking at James with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. There was nothing they could do for him, not unless he was ready to confront the real reason he was so stuck.

And, for now, James was content to wallow. He didn’t want to move on, and he wasn’t about to let anyone push him into it.

—

There was a strange sort of silence to James’ heartbreak. It didn’t roar like his laughter or crackle like his temper. It didn’t come out in jokes or pranks or the boisterous chaos that usually followed him around like a second shadow.

No, this was something different. Something quieter. Quieter than anyone had ever expected of him. There was a whiteness to it, an absence, a stillness—a kind of stillness that looked out of place on him.

He didn't speak to anyone about it anymore. The Marauders had tried—Sirius, mostly, with his not-so-subtle nudges and jabs—but James had stopped responding. He didn’t mope, exactly. He just grew more introspective. Not solemn, not angry, just… somewhere in between. And every time someone mentioned your name, something behind his eyes would flicker and then dim again.

It wasn’t until he overheard you, Marlene, and Lily chatting in the corridor near the library that everything shifted again.

You were trying to be quiet—your voice low, tone calm, your words slightly hesitant. But James had always been good at picking you out from a crowd. It was something he hadn’t even realised he’d trained himself to do until recently. So when he passed by that corridor and caught your voice, he paused. And then he heard it.

“Well, it wasn’t like Nick did anything wrong. He’s sweet. I just…” You sighed. “I don’t know. It stopped feeling like it was about me, you know? He was chasing something, not necessarily me. And after that letter turned up, it just made it worse,”

James stopped breathing. That letter.

“You still don’t know who it’s from?” Lily asked, a note of intrigue in her voice.

You huffed out a laugh. “No. And it’s driving me mad. I feel like… whoever wrote it knows me better than I know myself. And I don't even know his name,”

Marlene scoffed. “If he knew you that well, he’d grow a spine and tell you who he is,”

“He’s probably scared,” Lily offered gently. “Those letters aren’t just passing notes. They’re—intimate,”

James ducked into an empty classroom before they could spot him, heart pounding. His palms were damp. His whole body felt too hot, too aware. You'd broken up with Nick. Because of him. Not that you knew it was him, but still. His words had changed something.

He had told himself, after that first letter, that it was a one-time thing. A catharsis. An exorcism of all the things he couldn’t say to you out loud. But after his revelation. He found himself itching to write another. And another.

The second letter had come days after he saw you in the courtyard laughing at something Dorcas had said, your head thrown back in a way that made his chest ache. He’d gone back to the dorm, heart full and throat tight, and written about it—how he wished he could be the one making you laugh like that. How he’d never seen anything brighter than the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

Then came the third letter, and the fourth. And soon, it had become a habit. A ritual, almost.

When he couldn’t sleep, he wrote.

When he saw you in class and wanted to say something but couldn’t find the nerve, he wrote.

When you passed him in the corridor and gave him a polite, almost friendly smile, he wrote.

And the letters changed. They weren’t just emotional ramblings anymore—they were layered with observations, with memories, with confessions he had never let himself say aloud.

You wore your hair different in Potions today. I liked it. But I think I would’ve liked it even if it looked awful, which is… probably not a great thing to admit, is it? You’ve got this little crease between your brows when you’re concentrating—it only appears when you’re really focused. I don’t think you know you do it. When you walk down the corridor, I can tell what kind of mood you’re in before I even see your face. It’s in the sound of your steps. In the rhythm of it. Happy-you walks different than annoyed-you.

You never responded. You couldn’t. There was never a return address, never any way to send anything back. But James didn’t care. He didn’t need a reply. Just writing to you—being able to express it, even anonymously—felt like enough.

Sort of.

Because the truth was, as much as it helped to write the words down, it also hurt. Every letter was a reminder of everything he wanted and couldn’t have. Everything he’d spent years pretending not to feel—buried beneath jokes and hexes and all the noise of adolescence.

And you? You kept every single one.

You didn’t tell the girls about it. Not really. Not after the second letter. You pretended it was over, that it had been some sweet, silly little mystery. But in truth, you’d hidden them. All of them. In a little shoebox under your bed, wrapped in an old jumper. Some were creased from how often you unfolded and re-folded them. Some had the faintest smudge in the corner from where you’d cried, unexpectedly, at something you hadn’t realised you needed to hear.

You didn’t know what to do with them. You weren’t over Nick—not really. That kind of closeness doesn’t disappear overnight. But it was impossible to keep pretending that he had understood you like this anonymous writer did.

Whoever he was, he had seen you. Not just the version of you that most people acknowledged—the smart, sharp, sometimes-sarcastic girl who was always one step ahead of a comeback. No, this person had paid attention to the margins of you, the unnoticed edges. The things you didn’t even know were there until he wrote them down.

I think I started liking you back in fourth year. You were defending someone in the corridor—some little second-year who’d dropped their books, and some Slytherins were laughing at him. You didn’t even hesitate. You stepped right in like it was the most obvious thing in the world. That’s when I knew. Only I’m not sure if I just like you anymore. It’s something more. Something I don’t know how to name. Is it pathetic to say that I hear your voice before I see you? That I can pick you out of a room before I even look up? I don’t mean to. It’s just—it’s like my ears are tuned to you. Like a frequency I can’t ignore.

You lay awake most nights now, reading the letters again after the others were asleep. You tried to analyse the handwriting. You wondered if it was someone in your year. You made a list of suspects in your head and crossed off half of them, even though it didn’t bring you any closer.

Sometimes, when you caught James looking at you from across the room, you’d wonder. But then you’d scoff at yourself, because James Potter? Really? He was… well, James. All swagger and messy hair and cocky grins. You’d made peace with the fact that he wasn’t half as insufferable anymore, but he was still James.

And yet…

The letters were not the work of someone who didn’t care. They weren’t careless. They were intimate in a way that left you breathless. Each one revealed a little more—each sentence brushing up against truths you hadn’t admitted even to yourself.

They came like clockwork now—one every week, always arriving in the oddest of places. Slipped inside your Arithmancy book. Folded neatly on your dinner plate. Once, even tucked inside your scarf in the common room, which really freaked you out because it meant he was closer than you thought.

It was terrifying and exhilarating. And the worst part? You were beginning to need them. Crave them, even. His words had become a constant, something you looked forward to with equal parts dread and hope.

The box under your bed grew heavier by the week.

And James? He was slowly losing his mind. Every time he saw you reading a letter—head tilted, eyes flicking across the page, your expression soft and unreadable—it hurt in the best and worst way. You liked them. He knew you did. But the longer he went without saying anything, the more impossible it felt to tell you the truth.

Because what if knowing ruined it? What if it stopped being magical the second his name was attached?

He was a coward. Marlene had said so, loudly, and James knew it was true. He could face down a rogue Bludger, duel a seventh-year, prank Filch and escape with a grin—but he couldn’t tell you he was the one who had been writing to you.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

He poured his soul into those margins. Into those pages that would never carry his name. Because it was the only way he could tell you the truth and survive it.

And maybe that was enough.

Or maybe, eventually, it wouldn’t be.

—

You didn’t mean to tell them. Honestly, you had every intention of keeping the whole thing a secret forever. But Marlene had a sixth sense for drama, and Dorcas had a sharper nose for mystery than a trained bloodhound. So when your bed-curtains had rustled suspiciously in the middle of the night and Marlene had caught a glimpse of shimmering ink through the crack of your open trunk, it was game over.

You’d barely managed to shove the letter beneath your pillow before she pounced.

“Aha!” she whispered in triumph, yanking back your curtains with no regard for your sleep schedule. “I knew you were hiding something!”

“Marlene, go away,” you groaned, but Lily was already sitting up, blinking owlishly, and Dorcas was dragging her own blanket across to your bed.

“Nope,” Dorcas said brightly, sliding in beside you with terrifying ease. “Spill it. Is it more letters?”

You were betrayed by the silence. The way your face didn’t even have time to arrange into a proper lie before the truth fell across your cheeks.

“Oh my god,” Lily whispered. “There’s more?”

“There’s loads more,” Marlene said, shoving aside your blankets and finding the shoebox tucked beneath your bed like a woman possessed. “Holy hell, you’ve got a whole bloody collection.”

You didn’t fight it. Not properly. Not after the fourth letter was unfolded and read aloud in a reverent hush, the girls falling completely silent around you—save for the occasional sniff or soft exhale of disbelief.

“He watched you drop your quill and memorised how you tucked your hair behind your ear,” Dorcas said, practically vibrating. “I thought blokes only noticed when girls breathed near them,”

“It’s beautiful,” Lily whispered. “It’s like something out of a novel,”

“Romantic,” Dorcas agreed.

“Terrifying,” Marlene added. “I mean, what if it’s Mulciber or something?”

You almost choked. “Please don’t even joke about that,”

Thus began the unofficial—and entirely chaotic—formation of The Girls’ Detective Agency. It wasn’t your name for it, obviously, but once Marlene had made badges (from parchment, glitter, and sheer manic determination), you didn’t have much choice in the matter.

The mission was clear: uncover the identity of your mysterious letter-writer.

Their methods, however, were… questionable.

They started with handwriting analysis. Marlene attempted to casually wander through the library, requesting to borrow ink samples from boys “just out of curiosity,” and Lily spent an afternoon in the common room “helping” people with their Transfiguration essays so she could examine their penmanship. Dorcas, who had stolen your Divination notes under the pretext of “astrological clarity,” tried to match the emotional tone of the letters to various star signs.

“I’m telling you,” she said one night with complete certainty, “this is a Cancer Sun, maybe a Pisces Moon. This is water sign poetry,”

You didn't know what a Pisces Moon was meant to mean, but Dorcas said it like gospel, so you just nodded.

Meanwhile, Marlene was not subtle. At all.

“What if it’s Remus?” she hissed once across the common room, loud enough for three people to turn around. “He’s broody. And he reads so much poetry,”

You swore you saw Remus twitch.

But you shook your head. “No. It’s not him,”

You were sure about that. Remus was clever, kind, thoughtful—but the letters didn’t sound like him. His voice was steadier, more deliberate. The person writing to you was something else entirely—someone who struggled with the weight of what he felt, who was reckless with his emotions in a way that wasn’t controlled or clean. Someone who wrote like he was bleeding onto the page.

There were flashes—little things—that made you wonder if maybe, maybe, it could be James.

But every time the thought flitted across your mind, you swatted it away.

James Potter didn’t write letters like this. James Potter was a menace with a Quidditch obsession and a lopsided grin. James Potter, who had only recently evolved into someone tolerable, wasn’t exactly someone you pictured lying awake at night, pouring his soul into parchment.

Sure, he wasn’t as obnoxious as he used to be. And sure, there was something softer in the way he looked at you lately—but you’d chalked that up to the fragile peace you’d made after last year’s chaos. There was no way he was the one leaving notes beneath your scarf.

Besides, if he’d written something this vulnerable, he would’ve shoved it into your hand and dared you to read it aloud just to watch you squirm. Right?

So, no. Not James.

You were wrong, obviously.

But that wasn’t the point.

—

The final week of term came faster than expected. sunlight glittered on the edges of everything—floating house flags outside the Great Hall doors, open windows letting in a soft breeze, a warmth that seeped into your bones. Everything felt a little too warm, a little too bright.

And still, the letters kept coming.

The last one arrived on the morning of the train home.

It was simpler than the others. A small square of parchment, no shimmering ink this time. Just words. Words that didn’t try to be anything other than honest.

I don’t know if I’ll write again. I think I might be running out of ways to say it. I miss things I’ve never had with you, and that’s a strange kind of grief. Have a nice holiday. Try not to overthink things. I know that’s rich coming from me. Yours, always— even if you never know who.

That was it.

You folded the letter carefully, hands trembling, and slid it into the shoebox with the others. And then you stared at it for what felt like hours, until Lily touched your arm gently and said, “We’ll miss the train,”

And that was that.

—

James watched you leave through the frost-smeared train window, his heart quieter than it had been in months. The Marauders were deep into a loud game of Exploding Snap, Sirius laughing at every blast, Peter shouting protests, Remus rolling his eyes fondly.

None of them knew he’d written another one.

James had stopped telling them after the fifth or sixth. It felt private. Sacred, almost. Sharing it would have made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could handle. So he kept it to himself—his stupid little secret. His confession scrawled across parchment instead of spoken out loud.

He knew he was being a coward. That had become obvious. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not when he saw the way you read them, all curled up with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. Not when he noticed the way your hand trembled slightly on the paper. You felt something. He was sure of it.

But he also knew that eventually, you’d want more. And he couldn’t keep offering faceless intimacy forever. So he wrote the last one. Said goodbye. Sort of.

And then he sat on the train with his forehead pressed to the glass, pretending he didn’t care that you hadn’t figured it out. That you were probably leaving for the summer thinking about someone else entirely. That maybe, despite everything, he’d never actually be enough.

—

Back at home, the days grew longer. The pace slowed. The house was warm, the food good, the sleep long and uninterrupted. And yet every night, without fail, you found yourself at the window.

The box of letters came out the first night you returned. You told yourself it was for closure.

It wasn’t.

You read them again—each one from the beginning. Chronologically. Like chapters in a book. You traced the handwriting with your fingers, letting the words sink into you slowly.

He loved you. That was the truth of it.

Maybe he hadn’t said it directly. Maybe he hadn’t signed his name. But no one wrote like that without meaning it. No one watched you so closely, noticed so many tiny things, remembered throwaway moments from years ago unless they’d been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you were still no closer to knowing who he was.

That was the worst part.

How could someone be so close and still so invisible?

You stared out the window into the night, watching your breath fog up the glass. The snow fell softly outside, blanketing the world in silence. Somewhere out there was someone who had seen all of you—really seen you—and hadn’t asked for anything in return.

And you missed him. Terribly.

Not Nick. Not the quiet comfort of that easy romance.

But him. The one who knew the cadence of your footsteps. Who listened for your voice before he saw your face. Who remembered fourth year like it was yesterday and noticed how your hands trembled when you were angry.

You missed someone you didn’t know. And it felt like the loneliest thing in the world.

—

I know I said I wouldn’t write you anymore, but I’m afraid I can’t help myself. The truth is, I’ve been terrified of saying it out loud, of giving you something you don’t need or want. But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve loved you for so long, in ways that I can’t even put into words. I’ve watched you, really watched you, every day, and I’ve noticed things about you that no one else ever could. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking, the way you hum softly to yourself when you’re studying, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you care about. I’ve memorised the way your voice sounds when you laugh, the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed, the way you frown when you’re trying to figure something out. And I’ve done all of this because I care about you. So much more than I should. I’ve tried to get over you, to forget you. I’ve tried to date other people, to move on. But none of them were you. None of them could be. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever send it. But I need you to know that I’ve been here, always here, loving you in the quietest ways, the most secret ways. Maybe this is selfish. Maybe it’s unfair of me to ask you to care about someone who has never had the guts to say this to your face. But I don’t know what else to do anymore. I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t matter to me. Because it does. You matter to me, more than I can say. I’ve always been here, waiting, in the margins of your life. Maybe that’s where I belong. But if you ever look up, I’ll be there, still waiting. —James F. Potter

He stopped writing. Blinked down at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.

His hand hovered over the signature. It looked too sharp, too obvious. Too final.

He stared at it for a long time.

Folded the letter in half.

Then unfolded it.

Folded it again.

“Mate, you’re torturing yourself,” came a groggy voice from across the room. Sirius, of course. “Just send it to her already,”

James looked up. “She won’t want it,”

“You don’t know that,”

“She might hate me,”

Sirius yawned and flopped back down onto his pillow. “She definitely won’t hate you. That’s the worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that tragically romantic brain of yours. And even if she did… so what? At least you’d know,”

James looked down at the folded parchment.

He could send it. He could sneak into the Owlery now, under his Invisibility Cloak, and you’d get it tomorrow. And then you’d know. Everything.

But then you’d know.

He imagined your face when you opened it. The surprise. The disbelief. The way you’d go back and read every single letter again, this time with the truth laid bare. Would it be relief? Would it be disappointment?

Or worse—would you already know, and just not want to face it?

James tucked the letter into his pillowcase and lay back down.

His heart was racing.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t send the letter, either.

Not yet.

Maybe never.

—next part.

#marauders #marauders fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #james potter x reader #james potter #james potter fluff #james potter angst

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solbaby7 · 9 months ago

Note

Hii could I please get a neat Moscow mule with a salt rim ❤️

🧉here you go 💗💗

[ “i don’t like the way he / she looks at you” + smut + az ]

-> BLURB BAR <-

There had always been whispers about Illyrian males and the possessive streak that scorches its way through their veins. How it awakened with their first cry at birth and remains until their last breath.

You’d never thought you’d witness it firsthand.

Seeing that shift in Azriel’s features is unmistakable. The comfortable lines of his stoicism usually rests heavy along his brow bone, casting shadows along his eyes until the rich amber of his iris is stark in contrast. Even then, you’re used to seeing some semblance of warmth residing in there but the danger lingering within them now is staggering—forces the object of his surveillance to raise a hand to the back of their neck, eyes scanning the crowd for the culprit.

Az is too good to be caught though. Too skilled to be seen. A wolf that blends in seamlessly in a crowd full of sheep and he detects it immediately when another predator is present. “Who is that?”

You follow his line of sight, grumbling in distaste almost instantly when you notice that familiar tuft of curly blonde hair. “Tyson,” His brow raises at your tone, stance sturdy and arms crossed over his chest. You can feel the heat radiating off of him; briefly acknowledging the sentient shadows that nudge you in closer, partially hiding you behind his bulk. Protecting what they deemed as theirs. “—but all the Valkyrie’s call him tick.”

“Tick.”

“Yeah,” Your head nods along in confirmation, fingers hooking in the loops of your leathers to shimmy them up higher on your hips. “‘Cause he latches on like one—damn near impossible to shake.”

There’s a brief pause, a rumble of a noise vibrating through his chest like a lion in wait that rests on its haunches. Azriel’s prey drive is triggered, specially attuned to the way Tyson leans casually against a post, blue eyes trained on you while you warm up, taking time admiring the way your leathers fit like second skin. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

He’s skilled with a sword, Az notes, but that wandering eye is sure to get him killed. The shadowsinger can feel the way his fingers form into fists when Tyson’s gaze meanders down the slope of your back and settles around the generous curve of your ass. It wobbles temptingly as you practice, core tight and form stunning as all sorts of daggers are shot through the air at warp speed.

Every blade hits its respective bullseye.

You're one hell of a prize. One that Tyson so foolishly thinks he’s good enough to win.

Shoulders square, feet apart, knees ever so slightly bent. Even breaths as you line up the next blade, eying where you wish for it to land. "How does he look at me?"

"Like he wants to fuck you."

You pray he doesn't notice the way your body freezes in place, grip faltering on the hilt of your dagger. A thick swallow, throat clumsily clearing and lashes fluttering with nerves as you make a point to keep your face forward. "How would you know what that looks like?"

"Because, I want to fuck you." Thighs clench at the flippant way he says it—so casually. Like it's common knowledge. As if he hasn't just rendered you speechless and filled you full of want off one sentence alone. The smell of him engulfs you when he closes the distance, his chest to your back. Shadows teasing at the sides of your thighs like phantom palms that waste no time memorizing the new terrain. "You're holding that wrong."

"Am I?" More intelligent words are robbed right off of your tongue when he presses against you, the weight of his growing erection digging into your spine, teasing around the dimples that rest right above your ass. You can't help but lean into him, allowing him to adjust your fingers around the daggers hilt.

Never once had you thought such a simple touch could ignite this kind of spark within you. A fire that damn near burns you alive; it begins in the pit of your stomach, gnawing at organs and muscle, tearing through soft tendons and sinew in its desperation for release. "Like this, baby." His lips graze the curve of your ear, forcing goosebumps to assault your skin.

Azriel doesn't adjust a thing about your form. Instead, he openly gropes at the fat of your hips. Slides his palm possessively over the soft swell of your abdomen. Trails a hand up the crease of your breasts until a five finger grip is curling its way around your throat. "What are you doing?" You whisper, craning your neck to provide more access. Allowing the steady pressure squeezing at your jugular.

He's putting on one hell of a show.

Staring that blonde bastard right in the eye as he drags his nose along your temple, pressing his lips against your skin just because he can. "Pest control." A thick thigh nudges its way between your legs, the bulk of Azriel's body blocking you from all peering eyes but one.

Tyson vibrates with rage as Az guides your hips, dragging your clothed cunt along solid muscle until lids flutter and lips part. It's an agonizing kind of pleasure—one that's everything and nothing at the same time. Stimulating but not fully satisfying when you really crave the turgid length of his cock that strains against his leathers.

It takes a second too long to realize that he's not really doing this with your pleasure in mind.

He barely pays you any real attention as discreet shadows creep under your top to twist at taut nipples, squeezing and pulling until the heartbeat in your chest travels all the way down to your pussy.

No, he merely uses you as a pawn. Plucking and toying, licking and biting at the junction of your neck until all that can be scented on you is arousal and Illyrian. "Az, I'm gonna—"

"Not yet, sweet thing. Want him to look at you when you cum for me."

#acotar x reader #acotar #acotar x you #azriel #acotar azriel #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #az smut #az x reader #azriel smut #az blurb #blurb bar #azriel blurb

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moonsaver · 9 months ago

Text

Lemon is the sweetest fruit.

Yandere!gojo x reader.

Your childhood best friend likes you a little more than he lets on. He professes by a kiss.

TW/CW; sub/noncon[just kissing], slight angst(?), yandere tendencies mentioned. Reader is mentioned as "pretty girl".

A/n; a short drabble i wrote. Its barely 300 words i think.

–

Satoru was your best friend

Note: "was".

Being your best friend was the best thing that happened to him in its own right, of course. Giggly whispers shared during classes, holding hands as you both ran up to higher land to see the fireworks, promising to stay in contact even after you both long graduated, nightly phone calls with occasional features from his other friends; Shoko and Suguru.

It had, however, started dawning on him how much more he craved you a long time ago. When you carelessly handed him a lollipop you were just eating, how his heart fluttered when it was in his mouth, tongue hesitant as it felt the lingering warmth of your own on the hard candy. He'd remained ignorant of it – he needed to. You were his best friend. Being friends is better than potentially ruining it.

And he didn't want to.

Not with his childhood best friend. You knew him like the palm of your hand; but as strange as it sounds, love had rendered him both knowing everything and nothing about you simultaneously. Romantic love, so to speak.

He ignores it. He bottles it up. Eyes that linger on your form a bit too long forced to rip away. Hands that twitch to hold yours forced to slump on your shoulder in a friendly manner. Ignorance when your familiar laughter ignites a plethora of sparks in his stomach.

And the feelings fester. They fester and rot and turn into something uglier. But Satoru can't slip up – hell no. The whole world can collapse out of balance and he wouldn't mess this up. Not you. Anything but you.

It's almost agonizing. He measures it inch by inch in silence, sitting at your dining table, looking at you working in the kitchen under the yellow lighting. He finds those feelings twist inside him like a needle caught in taut fabric.

"Hungry?"

For you, yes. But his tongue is trained not to say that.

"Nah, got anything sweet?"

He leans in his chair, feet rising up as he pushes it back, balancing it on its hind legs, looking up at the ceiling with his scaling retinas.

"Humm.."

You hum, the sound of rustling accompanying you as you scavenge through your stock.

"Hard lemon candy."

"Works f'me."

"Really?"

You toss the small, plastic bag of the candy towards him, his hand reaching out to catch it. And he does. He whistles slightly as he reads it, the chair slightly creaking as he leans forward, pushing it back onto all 4 of its legs. One of his arms is still slumped over the chair, the other holding up the packet in front of his face as he scrutinized it.

"You'll burn a hole through it, pretty boy."

"You'll deal with it, pretty girl."

You roll your eyes, sitting down across him, and yawning, stretching out in your chair before slumping, almost mirroring his own sloth-like posture.

"Rough day huh?"

"Yeah, everyone's out for a drink, too."

"Troubles and bottles. That's how everyone deals with it."

His fingers snap open the packet, and coaxes a small piece out of it and into his mouth. It clacks slightly against his teeth, immediately sweetening his saliva once engulfed by it. His eyes snap to your lips.

"Not you though."

Your lips are wet, and your teeth shine slightly when you smile.

He wants to kiss you.

"Not us."

The rest is silence.

––

Satoru was your best friend.

But you don't call him that. Not anymore.

"Satoru–"

"Shh."

His finger presses against your lips, hushing you. His eyes are terrifying – you've never realised. You always saw them shining brilliantly like a clear lake under the sun. But right now; they're nothing like you've seen before. Huge, ice cold irises that almost engulf yours as they bore into you.

His hand is cold, as it slips down under your chin, his palm cradling it, his thumb pressing against the end of your jaw, where it ends.

"Your skin is so pretty."

He whispers it, mesmerised. It's one of the few rare times he's sincere when he says so. The last time he did; it was in an aquarium after he'd horribly crushed his exams in the midst of a family fued.

You remember he was your best friend. But you remind yourself he might not be anymore.

"I've always wanted to know what your lips taste like."

He says, his eyes lowered onto your lips, unshamedly. If it's any consolation; his white lashes almost curtain the hungry look in his eyes. He leans in, almost hovering closer as you swallow thickly, instinctively squeezing your eyes shut. This causes him to chuckle breathlessly for a moment.

"Open your eyes, sweetheart."

The drawl in his voice is almost sickening; it sends an upward shudder in your body. He's never addressed you in such a manner before.

"Open~"

He says, slightly elongating it at the end in a sing-song manner, fingers squeezing into your cheek in warning.

Your eyes creak open the slightest bit.

There is the sun.

His pupils are dilated. Much more closer to you before he closed his eyes.

"There you go. What a pretty girl."

He sighs, cocking his head to the side, his eyes slowly scanning over your features, taking you in.

"Don't. Please."

You manage to whisper.

He blinks. Has he blinked before?

"Why not?"

He asks, in a whisper.

You swallow, again. You breathe in to answer, but he cuts you off;

"This won't hurt. I promise."

His words are so soft. So loving. You almost want to let him. His eyes are so gentle in that moment you almost forget.

Until his lips are on yours.

They're cold, yet somehow soft. Slightly chapped. He kisses you, gently. You breathe in, sharply, as you register the contact. You flinch, however – when his hot tongue prods at your lips.

You take the time to contemplate; and Satoru gives it to you. His hand has slid from your chin,and around to rest on your nape. His other hand desperately grips onto your shirt, right in the hollow curve of your waist. Can you really stand your ground?

And you let him in.

His tongue is eager when it enters your mouth, a soft, breathless moan leaving him as his tongue feels the warmth of your mouth, parting slightly at the sudden burst of feelings at the contact, before crushing down onto you again. His lips are sealed against yours, as his tongue takes it's time to feel every ridge of your teeth, sliding against your tongue and diving into the pools of saliva in the crevices of your mouth.

There's a string of saliva still connecting your lips, when he finally parts. Both of you pant slightly, out of breath as he grins like an idiot in love.

"You taste as good as I imagined."

His face ducks into the junction of your shoulder and neck, his white tufts of hair tickling your face a bit as he does so. He inhales, deeply.

A kiss. And then another.

He trails wet, small kisses from the base of your neck to your jaw. His hands move to cup your face firmly, as he plants a kiss onto your nose, playfully rubbing his nose with yours, as he smiles.

"I love you. You do too, right?"

You can taste the lemon candy from his mouth. This won't be the last time you taste it.

---

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0x-cinder · 8 months ago

Text

Fem!Reader is under the control of an unknown force. Zoro cannot bring himself to take her down.

Content Warnings: violence and a bit of angst (with comfort 🙂‍↕️)

"Who are you?"

After 20 minutes of belligerent fighting, Zoro finally dealt the finishing blow to his opponent, who crumpled to the ground with a thud. Sheathing his swords, he began scanning the battlefield for you, who had been fighting by his side until moments ago before another enemy pulled you away.

When his gaze reached you, you were doubled over on the ground, clutching your head as if you were suffering immense pain. The swordsman rushed towards you. Despite the chaos around him, the only thing he saw was you.

Then your body went limp, your hands falling to your lap. Zoro paused as you stood, arms swinging by your sides, clutching your swords.

You turned to face him. Relief rushed through his body as he saw that you were alive... but something was off. You weren't looking at him the same way you usually did, with bright eyes and a big smile. In fact, you weren't looking at him at all; your gaze was focused on the ground beneath his feet.

"Oi, you okay?" Zoro called as he continued his approach cautiously. He watched carefully as you moved into an offensive stance, drawing your swords as if you were about to attack him.

Your darkened eyes slid up to his, and your mouth twisted into a manic smile. "Roronoa Zoro..." You chuckled. Your serious tone and unfamiliar expression caught the swordsman off guard.

"Hey... That's not funny. Quit playing around." Zoro reached out to take your arm.

Then you attacked. Slashing at him first with your left sword, then your right. Zoro jumped away, barely dodging your blades.

"What the hell?" He shouted, "What was that for?"

You chuckled ominously in response before running towards him to attack again.

"I'm going to kill you, Pirate Hunter," you declared.

Zoro sidestepped your third strike. He didn't know what was happening, but this wasn't like you at all. Your attacks were clumsy and reckless. This wasn't how he taught you to wield your swords.

"What's with you?" he grunted as he drew his swords to block your assault. "Snap out of it."

You laughed, "Only on the defense? C'mon, have a bit of fun!"

Zoro's brain ran through a thousand reasons why you could be acting like this, each idea more confusing than the last.

"I'd love to spar later, Princess." he grunted, "but I really need you to tell me what the fuck is going on."

You swung both swords down with all your might as your laughter turned into a crazed giggle, "I knew it! You won't hurt this body. None of you silly Straw Hats will."

A shiver ran down Zoro's spine as your swords clashed against his. This wasn't you. This wasn't the girl he'd spent hours training, the girl that'd fall asleep during long meditation sessions, or the one that would bandage him up when he was too prideful to admit he was hurt.

The girl fighting him now was not the girl he fell in love with.

"Who are you?" he growled, pushing you back, racking his brain for a way to win without injuring your body.

"Great! You understand now!" ‘not-you’ smiled, rushing back towards the swordsman. "Come on then. Kill me."

This was hopeless. The swordsman started to panic as he parried one attack after another. His muscles ached. Your fighting style may have been sloppy, given the circumstances, but your strength, speed, and stamina were the same. "Give her back!" He demanded as he rammed his swords into yours, knocking your body to the ground.

"Not until I kill you and the rest of your stupid crewmates." The imposter smiled up at him, eyes glimmering with amusement.

Anger flared in Zoro's chest. How dare they use your beautiful smile to taunt him. How dare they look up at him like that with those stolen eyes.

Yet, despite his rage, he couldn't move. He couldn't attack even though he had rendered his enemy vulnerable on the ground in front of him. Not when that enemy was you. Shit, he thought.

"Zoro!" Usopp's voice called from behind the swordsman. "Knock her out! He can't control her if she's unconscious!"

There was a pause as Zoro watched the malice faded from your eyes, a mixture of fear and confusion taking its place. "Zoro?" you asked, sounding as confused as you looked, "What's going on?"

Hope flickered in the back of the swordsman's mind. He lowered his guard ever so slightly but kept the hilt of one of his swords poised to put you out if needed.

This could be a trick. He reminded himself.

"What was the first sword drill I taught you?" He asked, testing you.

"Zoro, what-"

"Answer me." He cut you off. It was an easy answer. The ‘forward figure eight.’ It had taken you ages to figure out how to coordinate your movements correctly, but once you got it, you absorbed the rest of his instruction like a sponge.

"Zoro please, you've taught me so much I-" In a flash, the fear vanished from your face, replaced by that menacing smile.

The imposter lunged at him.

The world went dark.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦. 　⁺ 　

You opened your eyes slowly, wincing as they adjusted to the light. A dull pain throbbed behind your eyes as you examined your surroundings.

You were lying in one of the beds inside The Sunny's infirmary, the sheets tucked tight around your body, your head propped up on the pillow against the metal frame headboard. Chopper stood across the room, absorbed in whatever he was doing.

"Chopper?" you called, surprised by how weak you sounded.

The reindeer jumped as if you'd scared him before whirling around to face you. "You're awake!" He cried, leaping onto the bed and pulling you into a hug.

You winced as pain shot through your head at the sudden movement.

Chopper pulled away. "Sorry. I'm just so glad you're finally awake."

"What…happened?" You inquired. Moments ago, you were fighting alongside the others, but you'd somehow ended up back on the Sunny with no recollection of how you got there.

Chopper shifted uncomfortably. "You were mind controlled or possessed I think, I'm not sure how the man's devil fruit worked but-" he paused. "You tried to kill Zoro. Managed to graze him a bit too before Ussop knocked you both out."

Your breath hitched in your throat. "I tried to…Kill Zoro?"

"He's okay, don't worry. Just a little...Mentally scarred from the whole thing." The doctor reassured you.

Guilt crept into your consciousness. "Is he...Upset with me?" you asked, anxiously fiddling with your fingernails.

"I don't think so?" Chopper replied, "He's been checking on you every couple of hours so I think that's a good sign. I-"

"You're awake." A gravelly voice sounded from the entrance to the infirmary.

You turned your head to see Zoro standing in the doorway with a blank expression, his elbow resting on his swords. His open shirt revealed white bandages wrapped around his chest. Your guilt intensified.

Chopper scrambled off the bed. "I'll give you two some space." He announced awkwardly before hurrying out of the room.

Silence hung heavy in the air for a moment before Zoro spoke. "What was the first sword drill I taught you?"

Your brows wrinkled in confusion, "A forward figure 8," you replied. You remembered because learning that skill was the first time Zoro had touched you, guiding your sword arm from behind, his breath hot on your neck. Your face flushed slightly at the memory.

Zoro exhaled and strode to your side, "I just had to be sure it was you this time."

You sat up on the bed to look at him properly, getting a closer look at the bandaged wound on his chest. You bit your bottom lip in remorse. "Did I do that?"

Zoro looked down at his chest. He said nothing, but the shamed look on his face confirmed your suspicion.

"I'm sorry." You apologized, looking up at him, "I didn't mean to-."

"You were being controlled." He cut you off, clenching his fists at his sides.

You looked down at your hands. "I know, but-" You took a breath as you searched for the right words. "There must have been a way to push him out, but I don't remember… I'm sorry."

Zoro sat on the edge of the bed awkwardly. "Maybe if you didn't fall asleep instead of meditating, you'd be able to guard your mind better."

You winced, "I'm sorry. I'll try harder."

Zoro lifted his hand to cup your chin, returning your gaze to his. "Stop apologizing. I'm fine. You're fine. No one is dead. I'll incorporate more mental training into our sessions."

"Why didn't you fight back? I could have killed you."

A faint smile crossed his lips. "Don't get too cocky."

"Zoro I'm serious."

A pained look flashed through his eyes. He moved his hand to caress your cheek softly. "I couldn't bring myself to hurt you."

Warmth spread over your face. "But I hurt you."

"Again, it wasn't you. I just-" he sighed and brought his forehead to rest against yours, "I just couldn't do it."

"Zoro.." You trailed off, leaning into his touch and placing your hand over his in attempt to comfort him.

"The worst part is that I know I'd let it happen again." Zoro let out a shaky breath and shut his eyes tight as if he were trying to erase the memory from his mind. "I'd take a thousand hits before I hurt a hair on your pretty little head."

Your eyes widened as an aching pain shot through your heart. "But…Why? I'm nothing special."

His gaze pierced through you. "Don't be an idiot." he let out a strained laugh. "Everyone on this ship cares for you. I care for you." he inhaled sharply and shook his head. "I mean shit, princess, I think I'm in love with you."

Your lungs forgot how to breathe. "You're in…Love with me?"

Zoro backed away slightly, looking down at his hands. "I mean what other explanation is there? If it was anyone else I'd have killed them instantly. I constantly find myself looking for you, thinking about you, worrying about you. Believe it or not, you're a huge distraction, but I just can't bring myself to stay away from you."

You stared at him in shock at his confession, feeling as if your heart was going to beat out of your chest. "Zoro I-"

"If you don't feel the same, that's fine." He cut you off; you'd never seen him look as vulnerable as he did in that moment, "but the thought of not having you around anymore kills me."

You brought your hand up to his cheek, daring to move your face closer to his. "You silly swordsman." You chuckled softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Zoro froze, "You're not?"

"No." you smiled, "In fact...I think I'm in love with you too.

Inspired by Grand Line Fics' "They hurt you while controlled" stuff. (Linked below, you should check them out)

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece fluff #anime #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro x reader #zoro #one piece zoro #fem reader

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kitkatscabinet · 2 years ago

Text

Whumptober - 09: Human shield/hostage

Simon Riley x gn! reader

You’d fucked up.

It was as simple as that and if you somehow get out of this alive you knew Simon was going to have your fucking head for worrying him. That and he’d make your life a living hell of PT and combat training.

You don’t even know how you’re managing to think about your potentially grim and annoying future when there’s a gun barrel pressed into the back of your neck, digging into the cervical column of your spine.

Your knees sting from the cool cement you’ve been kneeling on for what feels like hours. They’re bloody and scraped to shit and your feet have long gone numb, attempts to wiggle your toes thwarted by the tingling pins and needles.

Your wrists and hands are hardly faring any better, the thick rope having cut off circulation and rubbed the skin bloody and raw from your escape attempt. The one that had earned you the butt of a rifle to the gut so hard you’d almost thrown up.

Sticky blood still drips down your forehead from where you’d been struck, pouring into your eye and rendering you half-blind.

Whatever plans your captors have are derailed when Simon, no, the Ghost barrels into the room, an entity out for blood. He stops the second he assesses the situation, placing his hands up in a surrendering gesture when the muzzle of the captor's rifle digs more harshly into your spine.

To the untrained eye, Ghost looked as calm as possible, seemingly barely phased by the scene in front of him. To you who knew him better than any living person, however, you knew that was far from the case.

You’re glad Ghost is wearing his hood, he’s always had such an expressive face. You’d seen the way his eyes, the ones that always stared at you so softly, had widened in panic before he’d composed himself.

He’s trying to defuse the situation or stall long enough for a sniper to get a good shot, which is unlikely given the incredibly small windows.

It had been nothing short of a miracle that you and Ghost had even been deployed on the same mission (lack of available personnel), and you couldn’t be more thankful if you tried. Not because you thought he’d be able to save you, no matter how much you hoped, but because selfishly it gave you one last opportunity to drink him in.

Desperately you prayed that Simon wouldn’t be forced to watch your brains splatter against the floor, though you can’t help but be glad that the last thing you see will be his eyes. The eyes that keep flickering back to yours to reassure you, though you think it's more for his benefit as he too memorises your features desperately.

It’s also his way of silently apologising for putting on such a cold front. Training indicated he had to pretend not to know you very well, otherwise, the first instance of his true feelings shining through would result poorly for the both of you. It would give the enemy even more leverage over the situation.

You can’t run the risk of nodding along or giving any indication that you understand and trust him more than anything, you just have to let it shine through on your mostly impassive face. They wouldn’t get to witness any of your panic, you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Negotiations don’t seem to be getting anywhere when you finally tune back into the conversation. The situation is incredibly grim and just as you are about to accept your death an ear-shattering shot echoes through the room.

You’d never be able to truly remember the next few seconds if you tried, adrenaline kicking into overdrive when your body hits the floor covered in blood before your brain registers that you are very not dead despite the gunfire.

Everyone turns to the man holding the gun to your head in confusion. One, two, three, four seconds pass as it registers that he had not been the one to fire. Instead, it’s his body hitting the floor with a thud as red sprays from his skull.

Those four seconds are all Ghost needs before he raises his rifle and takes out the other three men with a yell. It doesn’t take another four before he’s sliding onto his knees beside you, taking your head into his hands and pulling you against his chest as he pleads for you not to be dead.

Your eyes open through the blood that’s drenched your upper half and Simon inhales shakily in relief when you finally murmur that it’s not yours. Your face is buried against his neck and his arms ensnare your shoulders, holding you crushingly tight against him as his shoulders shake slightly.

You feel, because you can’t see anything past his vest, his head turn and his nose press tightly to your hairline as his breathing slowly evens out.

“S’ok. I’m ok, you saved me” Your voice is hoarse with unshed tears and stress that finally burst forth as the dam wall you’d been keeping up crumbles. Simon mumbles something but it’s too soft for you to hear, you don’t ask him to repeat it because you understand the sentiment.

His comms flare to life but Simon ignores them in favour of clutching you tighter against him, it takes you gently nudging him to answer for him to relent his grip even a little as he has to pull away a little to answer. Though he’s diving back against you almost instantly, this time he pulls off his mask, letting the bare skin of his nose press against your pounding pulse point.

You don’t make any move to push him away, even as your arms and legs ache from the position because you understand. You don’t doubt you’d be just as clingy and desperate had the roles been reversed.

Chin resting on his shoulder you speak softly and slowly, just for him. It’s a bunch of random nonsense that you won’t remember later but it doesn’t matter. It’s just another way to reassure him and you that you’re still alive and breathing.

That you aren’t going anywhere. Not yet, and if the world lets you have your way, not ever.

#cod simon riley #x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #ghost

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rivatar · 1 year ago

Note

Hi can I make a request for Jake sully x fem human reader! (first movie when he gets really buff towards the end!)

Ok hear me out:

Reader is obsessed with Jake sully’s muscles like gets super aroused like down bad for them!! The reader lures Jake into a trap (but Jake doesn’t know that he thinks he’s getting love from her like normal) but reader ties him up with a rope/leash!! (Very unexpected) And super spicy and exciting things happen between them!?!?!?!?!?

I’ll let you finish the story if you dare…😉

Tbh I have been craving a spicy story for weeks now!!

Thank you and have a wonderful day/night!!!

Much love from your fan!!!! 🩷😁

Fell Into the Trap

Pairing: Jake!Sully x fem!human!reader

Warnings/content: smut MDNI🔞, restraints/handcuffs, masturbation, multiple orgasms, p in v, some degradation, they’re both switches kinda, cream pie, think that’s it but lmk :)

A/n: FINALLY got this request done!! I hope you and everyone else enjoys!! It’s pure filth heheh 🫶🏼

W/c: 4.4k

Biceps, abs, quads, pecs, forearms, back muscles.

His muscular physique was running through your head nonstop today (and maybe everyday) and God, it was eating you alive.

It probably didn’t help that Jake had already given you a taste. You befriended him when he arrived on Pandora, rolling in on his wheelchair. You were and still are under Dr. Augustine. You thought Dr. Augustine and Norm gave Jake way too much hell at first, but they eventually warmed up to him. You would always laugh at his witty jokes and sarcasm from the very beginning. And it seemed like he noticed, as he started approaching you more and aimed to make you laugh whenever he could. This turned into a unique bond the two of you developed. You were obviously friends but this elevated into something more after spending so much time with him. He was sweet and charming, and you had no other romantic prospects so why the hell not? You gave into his flirtatious advances months ago and have slept with him ever since.

Now, months later, Jake is officially trained as Omatikayan warrior, having just passed his rites of passage not even a full week ago. You were so proud of him, as was the rest of your department. Everyone celebrated his accomplishment and his recognition was well deserved. Since then, he has received many welcoming gifts to his kelku and even courting offers from a lot of the women in the clan, to which he would respectfully decline.

But selfishly, you were ready to have him back to yourself. He’s been so busy now that he’s officially one of The People that he’s barely in his home and barely has come to see you. You were also tied up with your own work to be fair, but you were used to seeing him for hours everyday after the workday was finished.

The past few nights you would touch yourself before bed or else you would toss and turn all night, craving his touch. It wasn’t enough though. Your fingers paled in comparison to him. He would spend hours pleasuring you with his tongue, fingers, cock, and whatever other body part you desired to touch on him, sometimes opting to ride his abs or thighs. You could just eat him alive, you thought to yourself.

It was late at night as you tossed and turned in your bed for yet another night. Deep in your (horny) thoughts, you decided you would somehow catch him tomorrow and make him make it up to you. You didn’t care how many plans he might have as he’s settling into his new life, it would all just have to wait. You may have been thinking with your cunt instead of your brain but you didn’t care at this point. And by Eywa, he was gonna pay for it.

…………………..

You had your plan perfectly in order. After finishing up your work for the day as quickly as you could, you headed off into the village. You wore a jacket, solely for the reason of being able to load down the pockets with your tools. Tools needed to take a 9 ft tall Na’vi man down and render him helpless.

After making enough small talk with the villagers you passed by, you finally spotted Jake. And fuck, he looked better and better with each passing day. His slutty little tewng barely covered him at all, and it looked like a new tewng, you don’t think you’ve ever seen it befor- “Y/N! Come here, we were just talking about you!” Jake snapped you out of your trance once he spotted you, motioning you to come forward. You were hard to miss in a sea of blue people.

Clearing your throat and masking a smile, you walked towards him and the two other warriors standing next to him. They smiled politely and nodded their heads at you. “All good things, right?” You responded, smirking slightly. They looked to be carving out arrows and assembling them.

Jake chuckled, “More or less,” he teased. You scoffed playfully, crossing your arms. Then you gathered up the courage to tell him the reason you were there.

“Jake, can I borrow you for a minute? It’s nothing bad—just some things Grace wanted me to discuss with you regarding mapping the area,” you grabbed his wrist and tugged him with you, “It might take a minute, it’s a lot of information,” you lied to the warriors that were standing with him as you walked the two of you away. The two men looked at each other knowingly, like they knew what you were really doing. Although Jake looked clueless.

“Sure, but I thought we already discussed this?” He giggled a little at you guiding him, clearly confused what this was about.

“Yes but she wanted to finalize the details. You have the map in your kelku, right?” You asked, already knowing the answer and hastily making your way towards his home.

“Yeah I do but I’ve told her I’ve added everything to it that I know for now. I don’t think there’s anything more I can do,” he thought carefully. His home was in sight, just another minute or so away.

Just keep making excuses, almost there.

“I’m just following her orders, Jake,” you smiled up innocently at him, “let’s just see what we can do, yeah?”

His home was a few feet away, all you had to do was get him past the door and inside. You could nearly taste the sweet victory. You motioned your arm out a little for him to go in before you as you snuck your hand in your pocket to pull out a Banshee Catcher, stretching it out behind his back.

“Yeah, we’ll see what we can d- SHIT!” He hit the floor in the middle of his home with a loud THUD. Your aim was perfect, hitting his ankles precisely as the catcher wrapped around them, making him lose his balance and fall forward. He tried to catch part of his body as he fell, but still ended up hitting his head on the ground. Raising himself up a little, he rubbed his forehead as he winced and turned back to look at you. “What the fuck??”

“Shut. Up.” You barked as you walked towards his laid out form, unraveling the rope you got out from your other pocket and tying it in a loop.

Jake was still laying on his stomach as he continued rubbing his temples. You approached him swiftly before he could make any moves and hooked the loop around his neck, tightening it up.

“B-Baby, what are you doing?” His voice came out a little more shaky than he’d like to admit. His hands found the ground beneath him as he tried to start pushing himself up. You stomped your foot on his back and pushed him back down with all your weight.

“Do not move!” You scolded while tightening the rope you had on his neck as you stood above him.

He relaxed his arms and held his hands out to the side in surrender. “Okay, okay. Jesus Christ— who taught you how to take down a man like this?”

“I’ll never share my sources,” you smirked cockily.

Reaching into your back pocket of your jeans, you pulled out your final item.

“Arms behind your back,” you demanded.

His eyes grew wide once they came into view as he craned his neck back to see what you had. “Where the hell did you steal handcuffs from??”

“I have my ways and it’s none of your concern! Arms back, Sully.”

He shut up in defeat, slowly placing his arms back. You snapped the cuffs around his wrists and finally let out a sigh of relief that he was pretty much helpless now, even with you being a human and him being a Na’vi, he wasn’t getting out of this.

“Okay, you got me now. Good job. Now can you please kindly explain what this is about??” He huffed in annoyance, feeling kinda proud of you yet embarrassed you took him down so easily.

“I’m about to show you,” you said while squatting down to place your hands around the banshee catcher, “I’ll undo this if you promise not to run,” you offered.

“Yes, yes, please— I won’t leave, I swear,” he pleaded. You eyed him for any bluffing but he seemed rather honest. So graciously, you released the hold the catcher had around his ankles. He spread out his legs in relief, not daring to try to take off. Besides, how would he tell everyone a human girl managed to get him in handcuffs? They would never let him live that down. And also, he didn’t particularly mind seeing you so… feisty. Although he didn’t know why you were being this way, specifically towards him. Nevertheless, you had his full attention. He rolled over on his back to face you.

You slightly pulled the rope around his neck, urging him to sit up on his butt. You swiftly tied your end of his leash, per se, around a sturdy post in the middle of the room.

You couldn’t help but bust out laughing at his astonished look of pure and utter disbelief. “God, I wish you could see the look on your face right now,” you giggled uncontrollably, hunching over a little to hold your tummy as it started to hurt from laughing. He just looked more and more confused by the second, wondering why you were laughing and what had gotten into you.

He chuckled a bit uncomfortably, “Haha, yeah… so what now? You gonna leave me here?” He presumed.

“Oh Jake… is that what you think this is?” You poked your bottom lip out to mock him, “No baby, but you’re gonna wish I had left you here by the time I’m done with you,” you giggled triumphantly. His eyebrows scrunched together more, trying to figure out why you were acting so crazy. He was beginning to be speechless.

To confuse him even more, you decided to start taking off your clothes. You wore comfy gym shorts and a sports tanktop today as it was hot and sunny outside. You peeled up your tank and tossed it at his face, to which it hung onto him for a split second until falling down to the ground. His mouth hung open slightly as saliva pooled in his mouth, eyes roaming everywhere on you.

Then you peeled off your sports bra and your breasts popped out, bouncing a little as they settled freely with no more restriction. You kicked out of your shoes and shimmied your shorts and panties down in one go, tossing everything to the side and out of the way.

“Get my meaning now, Jakey?” You mocked his little nickname, tilting your head at him with your hands on your hips.

He licked his lips and swallowed all the drool that pooled up in his mouth from such a mouthwatering sight. His pupils were blown up and his tail was stiff and pointing upwards in high alert. “Shit baby… if you wanted some you should’ve just asked,” He said with a slight groan, eyes still soaking up every inch of you.

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, having already been fed up with waiting for so long, “I’ve given you several hints and you ignored them. Ignored ME!” Your voice rose as you pointed at yourself, “So, I had to take matters into my own hands,” you shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly. To you, you were only doing what anyone else would’ve done. Take control of the situation instead of suffering.

“So now you will listen to me and do whatever I want, got it?” You demanded.

Jake couldn’t help the wide grin that split across his face. He looked like a kid who had just been given some ice cream. This was supposed to be his punishment and the bastard never looked so happy. “Yes ma’am,” he followed your orders. Happily. He shifted over to get on his knees, a little too excited already as he had a prominent bulge in his loincloth.

You walked towards him with an all-knowing smirk. It was laughable that he thought he was gonna get some pussy right away. “Yeah, you’re good at following orders, aren’t you Marine?” You grabbed his face and brought it right up to yours.

His breath was hot and came out in quick exhales, fanning across your lips. “Mhmm,” he licked his lips while he stared at yours, being so close yet not close enough to seal them together.

You kept teasing him, acting like you were about to kiss him and then you just didn’t. He leaned forward to try to catch your lips and you leaned back before he could, laughing in his face. “Don’t get all desperate and pathetic on me already, Jakey,” you teased as he looked visibly disappointed. His cheeks were already a purplish tint.

“‘m not desperate,” he grumbled.

“Oh really? Let’s see about that,” you said prettily and innocently as you lowered yourself to the ground, laying back and propping on your elbows as your legs sprawled out for him to see everything.

Sharp canines came into view as he bit his bottom lip, eyes hooded over with pure lust. He crawled on his knees to get closer but the rope held him back. A growl left his chest in frustration. “How the hell am I supposed to touch you when you’ve got me tied up, huh?”

“Who said anything about you doing any touching? This is not for you, Sully,” you scolded, “Now, follow my orders—Watch.”

Your scooted back a little to lean against the wall so you could relax without holding yourself up. You ran your two little hands down your soft body, slowly and sensually to drag out as much pleasure as possible. The lightest feathery touches on yourself heightened your sensitivity. You massaged your breasts, pinching your nipple between your thumb and index finger. The feeling went straight to your core. Slick started leaking out of your hole, begging for some attention. You left one hand to keep stimulating your nipple and the other hand trailed down to your pussy. You ran two fingers through your glistening folds as you teased around your entrance and on your swollen clit. Your head fell back as a soft moan escaped your parted lips, to which you then bit your lip.

“Jesus,” He whispered, “Okay, I get it and I’m sorry I didn’t make time for you and that sweet pussy. I regret it so much and it won’t happen again!” He babbled as his erection was becoming more painful by the second.

“Hmm, how sorry are you?” You hummed as you kept pleasuring yourself, sticking two fingers inside. But it wasn’t nearly enough.

“So fucking sorry! Baby please, I’ll make it up to you, I swear!!” He pleaded, watching desperately as your fingers sunk into your heat.

You started a steady pace going in and out, not really caring for his words but appreciating the deep baritone of his voice getting you off more. “Damn right you’re making it up to me,” you all but moaned.

You were getting lost in your own world, it felt like pure hot liquid gold was pooling in your tummy as your orgasm built up. “Stand up, Jake,” you whimpered. You wanted to see his entire form in all its glory.

He did as he was told like the good little soldier he was. And fuck, his physique was blessed by Eywa herself. You would thank her later for her perfect design of him. His hair looked so pretty, as two shorter strands hung out front to frame his face, and damn— that face. ‘Handsome’ was an understatement that didn’t do him justice. Chokers adorned his strong neck that flared out to incredibly broad and sturdy shoulders. His arms were amazingly strong and bulky— much bulkier than the other Na’vi. They were much leaner and smaller-boned than Jake. His mix of human DNA in his Na’vi body was nothing less of perfect, in your opinion. His chest was powerful looking, with plump pecs showcasing his strength in that area. Then his waist— God, his waste. It was so slutty, the way it narrowed down so much compared to how wide his shoulders and chest were. Even though it was lean, it still housed just as many muscles in his abs and hips, with not an ounce of fat, just pure muscle. His thighs and calves shouldn’t be left out either, they were equally as beautiful. And of course you couldn’t leave out a particular body part you deemed as your favorite— his veiny cock. Just like the rest of his body that everyone else got to see, it was just as perfect as him. Long and girthy, littered with his unique bioluminescent pattern on it.

And now as he stood, you could savor the sight of him. Seeing his muscles ripple slightly as he shifted his stance and strained against the handcuffs was all you needed to finish. You sped up on rubbing your clit as your other hand plunged in and out of your sopping cunt.

“Fuckkk, Jake!” You screamed as you rode it out, your body twitching and trying to get away from the overstimulation. You swore you heard a low rumbling growl but it was hard to tell over your choked sobs.

“You’re torturing me, baby,” he said shakily, almost whimpering. He watched intently with eyes trained directly on your pussy as the precious scene took place before him. Some slick gushed out of your hole and around your fingers as you pulled them out slowly.

“I know,” you replied wryly.

“Can you untie me now so I can help you out?” He was sounding so desperate now and it did you well to get beneath his skin like this.

“Hmmm,” you pretended to think, “Maybe later.”

He groaned in frustration and bared his teeth briefly, clearly getting aggravated.

“Don’t get sassy with me,” you snapped while standing up to saunter over to him. Once you were closer you could see the wet spot on his loincloth from his pre-cum.

“Awww, are you pent up? Poor guy needs to cum so bad, don’t you?” You teased and mocked him, “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

You seen the way his jaw clenched in restraint, he felt like a little kid in timeout again. He stared down at you with a piercing gaze. You were pushing all his buttons. He swore he was gonna tear you apart later the moment he got out of these damned restraints.

You grabbed one of his wrists and led him to a chair in the corner of the room. “Sit down,” you tugged his wrist down, urging him to do so.

He sat down and thankfully the rope was just long enough for him to go to this corner without it straining on his neck. You eagerly climbed into his lap, straddling over one of his thighs with your bare cunt coating your leftover slick on his leg. He let out a shaky breath at the contact of finally at least feeling your warm body against him.

“Y/N, please. I can’t take it much longer,” he whined.

You gave him a peck on the mouth, “Not much longer.” Then started your assault on his body.

You started on his neck, first smelling his natural musk, then licking and sucking on the sensitive flesh there. He quietly groaned and you felt his hips jerk up underneath you, frantically searching for some friction. You felt all around his shoulders, chest, and arms, grabbing all you could get and moaning in appreciation at the straight up beefiness to him. Then your hands went lower and felt up his abs, that were constricting currently due to your neck kisses that drove him mad.

“Hmmm, gonna fuck the shit out of you later,” He promised.

You couldn’t help the soft moan that hummed against his skin where you were kissing, sucking, licking. You quickly stopped to reach around and untie his loincloth hastily. You were gonna die if his dick wasn’t shoved inside you within the next minute or so.

“You stretched out enough?” He asked a bit worriedly as you grabbed his cock and slid it through your folds.

“I hope so,” you breathed out before you slammed your hips down with as much force as you could muster, letting your weight help you sink down.

A slew of curses left both your mouths as your small pussy engulfed him entirely. “Holy shit, you needed it bad, huh?”

“Yes!” You nearly cried as tears already formed in your eyes from the sheer fullness from him. His dick hit every spot you needed to be touched.

Raising up, you slammed back down on him and picked up a ruthless pace. You held onto his shoulders for stability and you had so much adrenaline that your legs weren’t burning from doing the work. You bounced vigorously, barely allowing either one of you enough time to even breathe.

His head was thrown back as guttural moans left his mouth, having no choice but to take what you were giving him. You moaned and cried above him, tears streaming down your cheeks from the incredible sensations. The coil in your core was about to snap at any second but you tried to hold it off as long as you could. But you couldn’t hold it back.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You screamed as your orgasm overtook your entire being. You clenched hard around his length and moaned in time with you.

“S-Shit, gonna make me cum too!” he groaned as his hips stuttered and his hot seed shot up into you. Synchronized moans and whispered of praise filled the room as you worked through your highs.

You slouched onto him as his dick remained inside you, twitching from aftershocks. You were both sticky with sweat and quietly panting.

“Untie me,” his voice was hoarse. You leaned up, slightly confused at his tone. But after you looked in his eyes, you could see the mischief he was trying to mask.

“Yes sir,” you smirked playfully and got off him with wobbly legs, walking over to your discarded clothes to retrieve the key for his cuffs and a knife for his rope. You knew subconsciously that he was about to give you the dicking down of your life after this stunt you pulled, and you weren’t complaining.

You gave him a small smile as you cut the rope and reached around to unlock his handcuffs. He threw the cuffs to the side and scooped you up, and then set you down on the open floor.

“Hands and knees, babygirl,” he demanded. You scurried almost pathetically to get into place, poking your ass out as your arched your back and looked back at him sexily.

“Like a bitch in heat,” he snickered, “Just how I like it”

You arched even more, only eating up his degrading words. Some would call it pathetic or whorish, but by Eywa, you were fine with just being his whore if that’s all he wanted. And you didn’t care how that sounded.

“Now let’s get one thing settled,” he smacked your ass hard, “That was cute and all, but I’m the one in charge here, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” you whimpered and pressed your ass back to nudge against his cock. Your switch up was crazy but again—you’d do nearly anything for this man and that’s why you were so cranky without him. You wanted him to be rough and fuck you hard, so you couldn’t be more pleased with how your plan has went.

“God, you’re such a slut. Only for me though, right?” He taunted.

“Yes, only you!” You swayed your hips around, trying to get him to just put it in you already.

He chuckled darkly behind you and drove it in with one stroke. You sighed contently in unison. You wish you could bottle up this feeling and keep it forever, every second of every day. But then you’d get nothing done ever.

“So goddamn tight and wet still. Needy little thing,” he smacked your ass again while continuing his thrusts.

His thrusts were hard and sloppy. No doubt you would have bruises tomorrow from his pelvis smacking you over and over again. But you didn’t care, not when his cock was kissing your cervix so perfectly.

He grabbed your neck and bent himself over to be right next to you. He kissed your cheek and panted roughly in your ear, “My little slut. Just needed to be fucked silly and stuffed full of cock, right?” He smiled briefly through his panting. Your jaw was completely slack as loud moans fell from your mouth. “Mhmm!!”

He craned your neck back ever more to meet your lips in a sloppy kiss. This position had your back arched so much that your eyes rolled in the back of your head. He sped up his thrusts and you were both nearing another climax.

He pulled his lips off yours because he felt you starting to clench, indicating your incoming orgasm. The third one tonight. He was about to burst himself.

Your eyes kept rolling back and squeezing shut. “Look at me when you cum,” he held your neck in this position, craning up towards him.

“Cumming! I’m cumming!” You cried. You stared in his eyes as your coil snapped and his did too as he stared back at you. It was the type of eye contact that was dangerous, the type that ties people’s souls together and makes them fall in love. There was no going back though.

He pulled out slowly and moved your body to lay down as he laid down beside you. You were both trying to catch your breath.

He pulled you into his chest and kissed the top of your head. “Tired?” He hummed sweetly, noticing your body wasn’t moving at all.

“Mhmm,” you hummed and he laughed.

“Go to sleep, we’ll clean up later,” he stroked your hair, “Just make sure to get those handcuffs back to their rightful owner later,” he chuckled.

“Hush.” You hummed, giving into the sleepiness beckoning you to rest.

Taglist: @bambithewriter @neteyamssyulang @anemonelovesfiction @luvv4j4ybe11 @vogueweb @nonamevenus @inolaphoenix @neteyamsoare @professional-yapper @plantgirliewholovespandora @etherynn @jakesullyfatjuicypeen @ladykat37 @loakstahni @zafrinaxyz @xylianasblog

#avatar #avatar smut #jake avatar smut #jake sully x human reader #jake sully x fem!reader #jake sully x you #avatar jake sully x reader #jake sully smut #jake sully x reader #jake sully #james cameron avatar #avatar fic #avatar fanfiction

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thr0wnawayy · 11 months ago

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How Corrupt Is Hero Society?. Part 2

Nomu and Endeavor, a cause for concern

To add to the today's chatter about Endeavor and his excessive force and how that applies to the rest of MHA's "heroics". I'd like to point something out

It has always been this way

Excessive violence against Nomu isn't anything new, ever since Hori downgraded them into punching bags so the audience wouldnt question the morality of it all.

It does, however bring into light just how desensitized Hero Society is, how they view villains and may display some quirk-ism. Allow me to elaborate.

To the publics knowledge this is a PERSON.

The general public, hell most heroes. Had no fucking clue what a Nomu was. To their knowledge this was just someone with a heavy mutation quirk.

And they just, carry on.

Endeavor's gut instinct here was to burn his head off to stop him from regenerating and no one bats an eye.

But don't worry it gets worse.

Gran Torino is someone the community has dug into countless times for his attitudes towards Shigaraki and belief that "killing is another way to save"

So when Torino does this:

it doesn't really help his case, especially when Endeavor tried to kill that Nomu prior to this by incinerating him alive (almost killing 2 civilians. But I'll get to that)

Such a move would at the very least, sever someone's spine rendering them paralyzed for life. While I can see what Torino was trying to do, the ends do not justify the means here.

I'm not saying the Nomu are innocent, but it's blatantly obvious that they should be aiming to detain them rather than resorting to lethal force right away.

The worst part is the public has no reaction to this. No one asks anything and the authorities sure as hell aren't telling them squat.

We see it again during the Hood Fight and what's worse is that Hood can talk, bringing into question of how sapient is Hood.

Again Endeavor incinerates the Villain and no questions are asked.

Alright remember what I said about the two civilians?. well it gets worse, Firstly, they didn't even know if they were alright until near the end of the Hosu Incident, just letting them run off.

After Endeavor recklessly unleashes a wall of flame, the Nomu absorbs it and processed to reflect the same attack.

(on a second note: Torino and Enji even refer to the Nomu as if they were fighting a Human!?)

What does this mean?. Well that Enji ran into that fight without thinking!.

He didn't even so much as think up a strategy (just like a certain blonde we all know and despise) for what would happen if the opponent just, didn't die.

In Vigilantes he opts to bathe an entire city block in fire because he can't find the Villain (6)

He creates a fucking fire tornado with no thought for collateral damage

(The reactions of his sidekicks concern me, though knowing how Burnin' reacted to Dabi's exposé I'm not suprised.)

Given that he's this destructive and openly antagonistic in public, I don't even want to imagine the state Rei was in after every "training session" spent protecting Shoto.

This is why looking back, I can't say I'm suprised how some of the civilians dove back into worshipping heroes, even after Hawks killed a man and Heroes left them to fend for themselves.

Because as the saying goes

A bird stuck in a cage believes flying to be an illness

_______________________________________

Additional Info:

As pointed out by @gecmi09 (thank you for bringing that up), Endeavor did indeed refer to Crawler and Popstep as villains, as seen here:

I'd like to draw attention to the fact that he is drawn in a similar manner to Number Six, who is also often drawn in a silhouetted fashion, especially when his true colors are exposed.

The two characters are ironically very similar. Both are willing to resort to destructive means if it means achieving their goals.

Both willingly hurt those around/close them and use flawed logic in an attempt to justify their actions.

Both pretend to be something/someone they're not

Both of them brought about their own demise through one of their victims (Dabi and Knuckleduster [who took in Koichi] respectively. Though Six's was more indirect.)

Even though Vigilantes is loosely attached to MHA, I find it interesting that these two characters are so similar. Really makes you think.

#mha critical #anti endeavor #anti enji todoroki #anti gran torino #the nomu deserved better #at least potential wise #to throw it out there #justice for rei himura #bnha critical #anti bakugo katsuki #if you squint

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jinx-xxed · 1 year ago

Text

Out in the Cold

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; This kind of AU is what most of my writings are based in, so I hope this is a good introduction! There will be more of these to come :) I hope you enjoy!

Part of Written in the Stars

Part 2

Summary; You are a pupil of the Force under Supreme Leader Snoke along with Kylo Ren. You hate him. He’s arrogant and cocky and has done nothing but make your life miserable. So what happens when you have to save his life?

Content; Aftermath of TFA, treating Kylo’s wounds, enemies to ???, Kylo’s a loser, reader taking things into their own hands, probably some medical malpractice, some Force connecting, reader also hates Hux

Wc; 3.9k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

“Leave the base at once and come to me with Kylo Ren,” Snoke’s voice manages to remain booming and intimidating even amongst the collapsing rubble. His projection leans back in the throne he’s sitting in, his gnarled face creased in contemplation. “It is time for you both to complete your training.”

“Right away, Supreme Leader,” you say, head bowing. His projection fizzles out not even a second later, leaving you alone to figure out how to complete the new task you’ve been given without losing your life in the process. The planet is imploding, and there’s only so much longer before the sun boiling beneath the surface breaks through and burns everything on it to mere ash in the atmosphere. It all went awry so quickly, it’s almost laughable. Starkiller Base—Hux’s little passion project—has been rendered a failure, destroyed by Resistance forces.

You tear through the halls of the base, the entire foundation shaking and crumbling around you. You stop by your office, which has already been mostly cleared out by members of your elite personal fleet—Fleet 74—and grab BB-12 who’d been waiting for you. He rolls obediently behind you as you rush out. People are in a frenzy, most trying desperately to get to transports and get the hell out, others trying to stick it through and finish whatever duty they’d been given by a higher up. You tell whoever you can to head to the hangars, to pile onto transports and evacuate, even if it’s hard to hear over the commotion. You click on the radio that’s attached to your shoulder. “Fleet 74—this is your captain speaking. I’ve been given a new assignment I have to complete before I can leave, so I can’t lead you out. Follow formation, follow Chief, and I’ll get back to you when I can.” You say, shoving past a panicked lieutenant.

“Heard, Captain. Stay safe.” Chief, your second in command, responds. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

You enter into hangar eight, and it can only be described as chaos. Stormtroopers and engineers and all kinds of different workers are running about, getting into whatever kind of ship they can while trying to maintain some kind of pathetic semblance of order. TIE fighters screech as they shoot into the burning atmosphere, orange and red and black blazing outside the hangar opening. Flames lick at the darkened sky, rising from the cracks in the planet that look as though they’ve been torn open by a gods hands. You can feel the planet dying beneath your feet, you can feel its desperate call to the universe as it burns and burns and burns, swallowing itself whole. You focus on your breathing to block it out.

You fly down the catwalk, down the steps leading to the main floor, searching for one of the smaller transports. Workers part for you, letting you take your pick, knowing you take priority when it comes to evacuations. In the eyes of the Order, they are lesser, meant to be your stepping stones—but you’ve never seen it that way. You’ve never cared much for the hierarchy despite your favorable position within it.

You clamber into the transport, immediately shutting the ramp when BB-12 is safely inside and connects himself into the ships’ systems. You haphazardly slide into the pilots seat, flipping switches and pressing buttons with a near panicked efficiency. “Gods damn all of this,” you mutter to yourself. Although from the look of the base, it seems the gods have already done a good job of damming it all to hell.

The ship roars to life, engines purring and controls feeling sturdy within your palms. You shoot from the hangar, leaving the caving infrastructure of Starkiller Base behind and entering into the thick pine woods surrounding the territory. That’s where Kylo Ren is supposed to be. He left the base when this all started, chasing after some fresh faced Jedi girl and the traitorous Stormtrooper that decided to accompany her. It creates a strange uneasiness in you, wondering what state Kylo must be in to result in him having to be retrieved. Snoke better not have me going out here just to find a dead body.

“BB-12, activate life-form scanners.” You call back to the droid. He gives a robotic chirp in response and the scanners activate on a monitor to your left, the screen a jumble of different information. A sensor runs across a circle, beeping idly as it comes up with nothing. You curse, also hearing the alarms to your right as the ship warns you of dangerous surface level conditions as if you don’t already know about the planet splitting apart beneath you. It looks far worse from your place in the sky, fractures akin to spiderwebs forming and spitting lava that swallows chunks of earth and trees. You can see the specks of straggling Resistance fighters amongst the stars as they flee, shooting into hyperdrive and getting far, far away from this place.

Trying to find one man in an expanse of trees and snow and darkness and fire is going to be near impossible like this, you realize. Relying on sensors that are jammed from broken frequencies and a crumbling planet isn’t going to work. You sigh to yourself, straightening your back in your chair, flicking on autopilot, closing your eyes, and steadying your breathing. The destruction around you steadily fades as you descend into the Force, becoming merely background noise as you search for one thing in particular. Your Force combs through the planet below, running through the trees like a wolf on a hunt, sniffing, searching, chasing.

There.

A heartbeat, erratic and struggling, fighting to be heard amongst the wailing of the dying planet. Your eyes shoot open and your hands fly back to the controls, snapping the ship out of autopilot as you jerk to the right. You begin descending when the heartbeat gets louder, pounding in your ears. You ease towards the ground, crushing a few trees in the process and kicking up clouds of snow. You order BB-12 to stay on board as you lower the ramp.

Snow sucks at your ankles, it settles into your hair and bites at the exposed skin of your face. You’re sure there’s ash mixed in there—you can smell it in your nose and taste it on your tongue when you breathe in. You hurry forward, eager to get this all over with. You notice the signs of a struggle on the trees as you pass, burning gashes within the bark, branches sliced clean in half and charred at the ends. Lightsabers. There’s blood on the ground as well, standing out starkly against the white of the snow. This battle had not been a good one for either side.

Up ahead, you see something abnormal. A black form, laying lifelessly in the snow—and that’s when it hits you. You’re overwhelmed by feelings of rage and disappointment and grief and fear and blatant pain, coming to you in waves of violent flashes of color and creating an uncomfortable tenseness in your muscles. It’s suffocating and purely Dark.

Kylo is collapsed on his back, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, chest steadily rising and falling. At least this wasn’t a waste of my time, you think. You study him with disinterest, some sick sense of arrogance rising in you at the sight of him fallen on the ground, entirely at your mercy. You take note of the wounds littering his body, the most obvious being the massive gash that now lays across the left side of his face. It’s open and bleeding, smearing his skin red, running from his collarbone all the way up past his eyebrow, the edges cauterized and burnt black. A lightsaber wound, just like the ones within the trees. Part of you wishes you could’ve seen it, seen the slash that did this to him, see the girl that managed to do what you never could. You sense rather than see the other injuries on him, knowing he has quite a few and that they’re all causing him to lose an alarming amount of blood. He won’t last much longer out here, that’s for sure.

Leave him, a voice hisses from the darkest corners of your mind, the ones you try to ignore. You shake your head and ignore them now. Leaving him here would do nothing for you, your head would be on a spike just as soon as you abandon him.

You look past him to the cliff he’s laying on, the ground split perfectly through the middle, entirely isolating him from the way back to what was once the base. An ominous orange glow emits from the fissure, and you can feel the raging heat from where you stand. A tree crumbles right in front of you, the earth coming loose at another quiver of the planet and succumbing to the lava that swallows it in less than a second. That’ll be you soon if you don’t move it.

You grumble to yourself, glaring down at the man that’s the bane of your existence, and position your body. You grab at his arms first, the fabric of his robes wet with melted snow. You haul him up and sling him over your shoulders, nearly buckling under his weight. “Oh good fucking-“ you hiss, muscles bunching and straining. You knew he was dense but not that dense. You use the Force to help, taking off some of his brute weight and at least allowing yourself to walk.

You stumble back to the transport, your glower feeling like it’s permanently etched onto your face at this point. You move to the cargo hold where there’s a cushioned fold out table set into the wall. You gracelessly slide Kylo onto it, struggling for a second to get all his limbs in place and secure him in position. Without his weight on your back, you’re able to hurry to the pilot’s chair, the planet now rumbling more violently than it had before. Surveillance systems on the monitors are screaming at you, telling you to get the fuck out now. It doesn’t have to tell you twice. You prepare the hyperdrive, flying higher and higher into the sunless sky, the edges of it beginning to blur with bright blues and whites as you ascend into lightspeed. You’re shot far from the planet just as it finally gives in to the molten heat boiling in its core, a shockwave exploding from its center that rocks the ship and makes it beep in alarm.

You collapse in your seat, blowing a sigh out of your lips in relief. You scrub your hands over your face, the tips of your fingers cold from the snow. However, your relief isn’t allowed to last long as you hear movement behind you, turning the chair to see Kylo suddenly back in the world of the living, trying to get up and off the table. You can almost feel the way that each shift of his face or neck pulls unpleasantly at that gash, birthing a searing pain that’s so acute it’s nauseating.

“Stop-“ you say, getting up and out of the pilots chair, “stop moving. You’ll only make it worse.”

His eyes snap to you, only now noticing that you’re there, deep brown irises dark with a swirl of unpleasant emotions. His brows furrow, despite the way it pulls on the wound, as if he wants it to hurt more. Portions of his hair are plastered to his forehead and cheeks, both from melted snow and blood, his skin is clammy and pale, making him look entirely disheveled and nothing like the Commander he usually does. There’s a shame that’s rising in him, brewing like a storm. Shame that you’re seeing him like this, shame at the fact he lost—shame that’s going to quickly boil into anger. “Why are you here?” He demands, his voice low and holding a wild uneasiness. He’s vulnerable and he’s weak, two of the worst things to be when you’re in the First Order. It makes him as volatile and dangerous as an injured animal.

“I was ordered to retrieve you before you imploded with the planet.” You say roughly, immediately on the defensive. “We’ll be returning to the Finalizer and then moving to the Supremacy under Snoke’s command. He told me we had further training to complete.”

There’s a confusion that flashes across Kylo’s face, but it’s brief as you sense his consciousness shift drastically like an uneven scale, his body slumping against his will. His head smacks back against the cold metal wall, eyelids fluttering weakly, shallow breath passing desperately between parted lips. His left hand clutches at the cushions beneath him, though it’s an absent action—he doesn’t know what he’s holding on to, or why he’s doing it, only that if he doesn’t, he thinks he’ll lose his last anchor on whatever’s keeping him together. The adrenaline in his body has fully run out at this point, nothing left to keep the blood-loss and debilitating pain at bay, and now it’s hitting him at full force. You can only imagine the wave of nausea that’s probably rolling through him, creating an awful sinking feeling in the gut.

There’s panic that rises in you at the way his condition has worsened so quickly, and you hurry to dig through the deeper part of the cargo hold to pull out the standard issue first aid kit. “BB-12, open your storage port.” You snap, the droid detaching himself from the ship’s systems to follow your orders. A compartment in his front clicks open, revealing a small assortment of materials you keep hidden within your companion. You pull out a syringe, a can of ointment, and a bag of pills—all things you definitely shouldn’t have but stole anyway. “Send an alert to the Finalizer, an urgent order for medics at the ready on my return.”

BB-12 leaves you be to assess the situation before you: a gravely injured man that’s very possibly on the cusp of dying under your watch. There’s five injuries of note; the one on his face, a clean gash on his right shoulder, the jab of a saber on his left, the blaster shot in his side, and a cut along his left leg. You grit your teeth, channeling every bit of medical practice you’ve gotten from Jaharah—your fleet’s medic—and from the base training every officer receives. Keep your hands from shaking, focus on stopping the blood, clean the wound, do what you can. Don’t let him die. If he dies, it would definitely mean your own demise at the hands of Snoke, so there’s plenty weighing on you here to keep you focused.

You move for the syringe first, biting off the cap of the needle and going to move down the collar of his padded armor. In his agony-filled haze, he reaches his hand up and grasps at your wrist, his hold weak and weightless. His fingers are freezing, even beneath his gloves, a result of an onset of hypothermia. He mutters half-coherent phrases like don’t and leave me, but you ignore them and shake him off. You and him share a similarity in the way you’re both so vehemently against any sort of pain relief, whether it be as a result of training or some sort of masochism, you’re not sure. But you remember all those years back when you were all alone and dealing with your own gruesome wounds, trying so desperately to stave the blood, to keep it from hurting as badly as it did. You remember wishing for something, anything, to make the pain go away but never being given the relief. You’re sure he’s feeling the same now. So you stick the needle into the taut skin of his neck and shove two pills into his mouth, forcing him to swallow.

A low groan leaves him, his head slumping, fresh sweat beading along his hairline. “If you die on me I’ll be so fucking pissed with you.” You hiss, mostly to yourself since you doubt he can hear much of anything now anyway. He’s still with you, just barely, and you feel his anger rolling off him in waves. He probably wants nothing more than to throw you out of an air lock and into the cold vacuum of space. You move to focus on the wound that’s eaten into his side, too deep to have cauterized enough to stop the worst of the bleeding. You struggle to pull back the burnt layers of his uniform to see the injury, quickly resorting to just cutting it away with the scissors in the first aid kit. It’s bad, of course, with just the outer edges of the wound black, the rest a throbbing, oozing red. You grab the gauze and coat it in the ointment: a highly potent healing salve that’s meant to help with different kinds of system regeneration and pain relief—and a salve that’s nearly impossible to find or make nowadays, hence why you keep a secret stash. He better be grateful that I’m using what little I have on him.

You press the gauze to the wound, blood almost immediately soaking through and staining your palm. You add more and then put a wrap around it all to keep it in place. The others aren’t as bad, being simply surface level injuries from a lightsaber, so you instead focus on the awful wound on his face. You haven’t seen a wound this horrid on someone else in a good few years. You take your clean hand and place it against the top of his head, using it as a sort of direction control, tilting his head back. He keeps silent, the only evidence of his discomfort being the stuttering of his breath and the twitch of his good eye.

The sedatives and pain relievers have kicked in by now, evident from the slight release of tension in his shoulders, how he’s not trying to fight you despite him regaining consciousness, and the way his suffering is no longer suffocating the Force around you. You begin to clean around the wound, your faces so close together it’d be considered invasive in any other circumstance. The space is silent except for the sound of your mixed breathing, the smell of blood and burnt flesh assaulting your nose with each inhale.

You try to be gentle with your work, but pulls on the gash are inevitable, and you see his hands clench out of the corner of your eye each time. There’s also the occasional flicker of the lights as his Force shoots out from him since he’s unable to keep control on it in this state, and so it’s taking his anger and pain out on the things around him, thankfully avoiding you in the process. You move down his face, down his neck, and to his shoulder where you have to cut away more of his uniform. The wound doesn’t get any better until it finally cuts off just below his collarbone, and it gives you a feeling of relief, like a light at the end of a tunnel. You clean as much of the blood as you can, then layer on ointment and gauze. You gather a general sense of his condition with your Force, digging deeper than the surface which is now unbelievably easy with him in a weakened state, unable to put up as many walls against your prodding. The ones he does have up are weak and simple to bring down. You almost feel bad… almost. The salve is doing it’s work, trying so desperately to start the regeneration process in a desolate environment, but it’s doing a good job of easing his pain and bringing him steadily away from death’s doorstep. You begin to clean the remaining injuries until there’s urgent beeping at the control panel, drawing your attention.

You huff, straightening yourself. Kylo’s stable enough to where you could leave him to see whatever’s causing the disturbance, but it still makes you uneasy. You unclip your cloak, rolling it into an odd shape and putting it at one end of the table. You then ease him onto his back, idly feeling the warmth of his body beneath the layers, his head lying against your cloak. “Rest,” you order, “we’ll be back to the main ship soon, so you can get proper medical attention.”

His dark eyes watch you as you move to leave, his face drawn into a tired neutrality. “You did a good job.” His words are quiet, weak, but they make you stop regardless. There’s something else he wanted to say that he kept to himself, something he’s quickly hid away so you can’t access it. You feel some mixed emotions with a lingering sense of gratitude he’s trying to beat down, creating a weird feeling of embarrassment in him.

You don’t look at him, but the slight rise of your shoulders is enough. You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

You enter the cockpit—the beeping having not stopped—and slump into the chair. The blood staining your hands smears across the control panel as you mess with it, trying to receive whatever message is trying to come in. The radio communicator buzzes to life. “There you are, finally.” Hux. “I was beginning to wonder if your transport was an empty carrier.”

The muscles in your jaw tense automatically, words bitten through your teeth. “Do you have something important to say, Hux?”

“Did you manage to retrieve Commander Ren?” He asks, annoying voice made more annoying by the crackling of the comms.

A small growl builds at the base of your throat at his tone, like he doubted you were going to be able to succeed. There’s a reason the task was entrusted to you and not him, and it’d do him good to remember that. “Yes, I did. We almost didn’t make it before your little project ate itself alive. Really great job, by the way.” You know that has the general seething, you can practically see the way his nostrils would flare and his eyes widen in your mind. Starkiller has become both the height and ultimate failure of his career, and you’re just digging bloody fingers into his open wound. “Did the Fleet members on the base make it back?”

Now it’s Hux’s turn to bite his words. “No need to worry, General, all your friends made it back in one piece. I would suggest you hurry back to the Finalizer, there’s much to be done.” And then he’s gone, the communicator clicking off.

“Stupid bastard.” You spit.

You glance back at Kylo, a black mass laying on a fold-out table far too small for someone his size, his eyes closed. It makes another spike of panic spear through your chest, wondering if he died when you turned your back for just a moment, but a brief reach with the Force has you relaxing. He’s just fine—well, as fine as he can be in a state like that: covered in gauze, sedated to hell, bleeding, trying not to aggravate the wounds by moving. You study him for a second longer before turning back to the control panel, the Finalizer coming into frame along the upper edge of the glass paneling of the viewport. There’s a sense of foreboding that comes along with the appearance of the massive flagship, one that has you steeling yourself and sitting up a little straighter.

It seems one chapter has just ended and another one is just beginning.

#im excited to post these ones #I love this ver of reader #Star Wars #star wars x reader #Star Wars fanfic #Kylo ren #Kylo #Kylo ren x reader #kylo ren angst #Kylo ren fanfic #Kylo fanfic #kylo x reader #Kylo x you

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