#or learn how to spell in another language

[silver-grasp]

Ehhhhhhhh I mean it's good enough for casual interest, but there's multiple issues here so don't take this as a comprehensive guide to how tengwar work. First off, I recommend anyone interested in playing with tengwar look up another chart of the letter forms, because this one doesn't adequately distinguish stem lengths on most of the consonants and that hyarmen looks weird as fuck.

This guide also misrepresents vowel systems. The system that moves vowels to the left is the Quenya system, because Quenya words often end in a vowel. Sindarin words tend to end in consonants, so the Sindarin system shifts vowels to the right. English is usually written with vowels shifted right, because like Sindarin most of our words end with consonants. I believe OP may have misunderstood this as moving the vowels "to the middle", because that is not a typical form. I think people do that for calligraphy sometimes, but it's not standard.

Somewhat less importantly, this presents tengwar as having a mostly one-to-one relationship with the English alphabet, which it doesn't. There are multiple ways you can write English using tengwar, and opinions vary on the "best" way. Most people, however, agree that at least some measure of phonetic spelling should be used. Even this guide brings in phonetics, showing both forms of R (but not adequately explaining the difference) and providing the TH/CH/SH clusters as separate tengwar. However, it ignores the fact that hard C is usually written as K and long vowels should use a long vowel stem, which are two of the most common concessions to phonetic spelling that you'll see.

I'd like to point out that it took me (writes tengwar fluently) a hot minute to figure out what the last one says because it's spelled bizarrely. It's supposed to say "good luck" but it reads more like "godo luc k" or "ogod ulc k" because the vowels are placed incorrectly (this is an example of where you could use a long vowel stem) and CK as a consonant cluster is typically written as a doubled K.

The best online resource for learning tengwar is, hands down, tecendil.com. It has an automatic transcriber where you can type in whatever you want and it will generate the typical English form. You can also switch languages and transcribe other real languages like Spanish, or Tolkien's languages like Quenya and Sindarin. It also has a tengwar handbook that explains the system in very thorough detail, including the proper names of the letters, the standard letterform chart, and different language modes.

YOU WANNA LEARN ELVISH?! HERE YA GO!

[ndostairlyrium]

the time has come...

to block the tags before combat stuff and companions week lol

I feel like being in the dark about it << maybe I'll turn off anon for a while? I'll see

[nabaath-areng]

I've struggled so much with english these past few days and it's so annoying and embarrassing, and what's even more embarrassing is that I'm embarrassed at all in the first place!!! Everytime I make a rushed error with my unmedicated brain, or swap around with word order, or struggle to pronounce things or outright just fail to recall even basic words entirely I get so ashamed and stressed out.

And I hate being told things such as "you're better than some native speakers" because I know that isn't true! And I wish it could just be fine that I'm not! Sure, I've improved immensely ever since I actually tried to learn it properly 10 years ago, but it was such a bumpy and embarrassing road that it's practically a mercy for my self confidence that I was psychotic for a majority of the time, what with all the things I've forgotten or outright never memorized in the first place as a result lmao.

Everytime I have to edit captions and such after hitting 'Post' I always feel this overwhelming sense of dread that people will just pour in to nag and to correct me even over the smallest things, all without anything good to say. Which sucks, cause so many times where I've had people be condescending or outright degrading, the errors in question didn't even impede on the clarity of what I was saying. Just stupid, unimportant things like using 'has'/'have' wrong, using 'were' two times in a sentence, putting words in the wrong order in a sentence etc.

It's been years now since that was a thing that happened regularly, but that fear is apparently still so deeply imprinted that, even now, I can't read what I'm writing right here and now without this looming fear about how it will serve to make native speakers perceive me as stupid and unintelligent or outright infantilize me. Even though I know that's more than likely irrational of me to feel now. I seriously need to figure out how to overcome this mental roadblock, or at least not let it get to me like this. It's rarer these days, but I still feel it too strongly for my liking whenever my reservations do kick in.

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Adhd will be like “you’re not dyslexic, you just don’t read the whole word. Good luck with math you dumb fuck”

[curiousorigins]

Btw Inkling is a fantastic word. It sounds fun and it's meaning and use is solid.

I have too many words I'm found of, in English and Italian to have a genuine ranking. But if I did, this would probably be in the top 100.

Ink-one of my favorite sound combos. (And mediums to work in although the medium shares zero etmology with this work. Their only relation being sound and spelling) and the sound Cling. I know it's uncommon to have favorite phonemes/syllable combos, but this one combo is just so fun on the tongue. It brings me joy. Inkling.

[alien-with-headphones]

learning another language is always beautiful, no matter how long it takes. like, what do you mean you are crying because you had to read a sentence twice to get it, when at the beginning you had to do it five times? kicking yourself because you had to listen to an audio at .75x to understand it fully, when two months ago you could barely understand one or two words, even at your second try? getting mad because you had to research how to spell a word, when a few days back you didn't even know how to pronounce it? hell, that's amazing. keep going. you'll get there.

[qrovidcore]

@thestarsarelaughing GET BACK IN HERE AND KEEP TALKING IMMEDIATELY

AND another thing. because it HAS NOT left me alone for the past 3 weeks and if i must scream into the void about it then So Be It absolutely none of you are overlooking this rincewind characterization on my watch.

because the thing is. say, all of thirty pages into the light fantastic, we get some trymon characterization. some early, establishing characterization. setting up this guy. the main antagonist, the other primary viewpoint character of this book (insofar as it can be said to have either of those things, given the style of narration). this guy. who is cold, selfish, ruthless, and obsessed with things like ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ efficiency ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆. and. he’s bad at languages.

“He wasn’t very good at languages, he’d always found them highly inefficient things which by rights ought to be replaced by some sort of easily understood numerical system,”

and then we smashcut immediately to rincewind:

“Rincewind had a very good ear for languages.”

and yes, yes i will stand here and argue that this is in fact an EXTREMELY plot-relevant character detail, beyond the fact that it DOES have utility in the scene at hand. all joking aside about rincewind can scream for help in 47 languages, or however the line goes. i’m just.

points to this frantically.

rincewind, whose one EXTREMELY NOTABLE CANONICAL TALENT, is languages. who is being actively and immediately contrasted with trymon. this HAS been stuck in my head for three weeks but i opened my book to make this post and actually these scenes are LITERALLY back-to-back. these character descriptions are. immediately. directly juxtaposed to one another. and i want to say something about how this description of rincewind comes up because this is a skill he is actively using in the scene in question, that does give him insight into the world and does, perhaps even more importantly, allow him to connect with the gnome in this particular scene in a way that is helpful to him and twoflower, yes, but just. actually the only way i need to explain it is this:

we are told who trymon is, and that he is bad at languages.

we are told that rincewind is good at languages.

and, actually, without further elaboration, that says a whole fucking lot about who rincewind is.

[notanactressyayy]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭. | natasha romanoff

. ݁₊ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 . Natasha and you were the only 'constant' in each other's lives. poor you, to think you could get over her so easily.

. ݁₊ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 . smut! i am not responsible for your content consumption! — making out, g!p Natasha, guided masturbation, orgasm denial, unprotected sex (p in v), choking, swearing, homesickness, fluff, reconciliation.

. ݁₊ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 . english isn't my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors. been in love w Nat for a damn long time — i've been away for a while, but turns out i can't really live without her. i miss my red so much :(

Natasha Romanoff rarely had the chance to see the same face twice. She saw a lot of people throughout her life — as a spy, as a superhero, or simply as Natasha. The thing is: it was unlike she would return to a place she’s been before. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be on the run. Thus, she traveled around the whole world, and saw thousands, millions of different faces. Destiny made sure not to let her cross paths with the same individual again. It wasn’t only the diversity of people that she witnessed, though. This woman saw the world. She knew life’s ups and downs, and at some point in her life, she just got used to the idea that it would forever be like this: boring. Boring experiences, boring women, boring men, boring relationships. Nothing was ever exciting, thrilling. It felt like she was advanced in time, and the rest of the world wasn’t following her. This wasn’t a complete lie, she got her maturity at a very young age, which made her pay the price now, in adulthood. 

For a spy, the most important thing is to learn not to be caught off guard. But it seemed like life was never on Natasha’s side. And this time — it felt good. Oh, it felt so good. 

At first, she didn’t want to get high hopes. It would be just another temporary friendship to help her pass time, nothing more. However, you managed to surprise the red haired Avenger in the best way possible. When she decided to spare a little time of her life and get to know you more, it was really mind-blowing the side of herself she discovered. She never thought she could actually be.. giddy. Like a silly, hopeless romantic girl. That is what she became whenever it was time to see you. She got excited. Actually excited. She couldn’t see through you, read your emotions or body language, like she did with other people; It was a natural thing, sometimes she didn’t even mean to do that. But you, something within you, kept her at bay. Like you effortlessly turned Natasha into a normal woman. Somebody who could love. Somebody that wasn’t raised and enhanced to be a killer. Not that you went through anything like she did, but you weren’t naive. You showed her that people didn’t necessarily have to be traumatized to be aware of things, of reality, of the surroundings. And for her, you’re the most beautiful person in the whole world. Inside and out. She adored you. 

Opening up was never easy. Revealing the broken parts of herself wasn’t like having a simple chat. But patience is a virtue and thankfully, you followed that say just fine. Little by little, the secrets came out. Most of the parts you already knew — it’s not like she wasn’t a worldwide known superhero. What you mostly had to acknowledge were her feelings, the point of view of the little girl who was experiencing it all, and becoming a strong woman, with built up walls around her heart. Doing that was no problem. Natasha couldn’t be more thankful. 

She couldn’t be more infatuated. More in love.

She’d always remember that one day: in the bar with her team, and you — chattery, music, tons of drinks and laughter. Stolen glances. Stomach butterflies, wild. The moment Clint pulled Laura a little closer to himself, and Tony kissed Pepper’s cheek. How she used that as an excuse to pull you into her lap. Your breath getting labored. Eyelashes gently fluttering, to the point she could count them. Your gentle yet tight grip on her shoulders. Your goddamn eyes staring right into hers. And the part where everything would change: her own bodily reactions to all those little details about you. When you restlessly shifted on her lap, quietly gasping when something poked you through your dress. Eyes going wide at the bulge showing on her black jeans. 

From that point on, you belonged to her.

Or so, she thought.

The sex was great, but she was in conflict — she couldn't tell if the only reason for it to be that enjoyable was because you were both tipsy, almost drunk, or if it was really meant to be that way. It felt right, yes, to have you in her arms like this — naked, piles of discarded clothes laying by her bed.. the sound of your quiet snoring as you cuddled into her. It was also a relief to her. To have someone care for her, desire her, after so long, after forever. The night had been amazing. She was a mature woman anyway, wasn't she? She could sort her feelings out without messing up everything.

Wrong. By the morning, everything would change.

You stared at her as she got up and got dressed again, eyes still a little blurry from sleep, eyebrows ceasing into a small confused frown. "You're not staying?" you'd ask, sitting up and leaning against the headboard, bringing up the sheets to cover your unclothed body. "Ugh, my head hurts like hell,"

"Got things to do." she simply answered, cradling the side of your face and kissing your forehead. You could swear the look on her face was.. apologetic. She tilted her head towards the nightstand, where some aspirin and water waited for you. "Take these. I'll text you later."

"Okay.." you mumble, disoriented. As she leaves, you reach out, shoving the aspirin in your mouth and downing the pills with water. Was there something you were missing? Because all you could remember was how good her hands felt on you, the way they wrapped around you neck while she—

You shook your head, lying down again, and closing her eyes. All the fun and pleasure you had been given from the previous night was slowly vanishing and being replaced by a feeling of uncertainty and confusion. Natasha was an enigmatic person, okay, but you thought you knew her better. She had no reason to leave you just like that, especially when she had already vented about all her past experiences, flaws and failures. Nah, it was probably nothing, you were overthinking. Perhaps she indeed had something important to take care of. You closed your eyes as fatigue took over, and slept for a little bit more.

Natasha went back to her apartment — one of her apartments, and for the whole day, her thoughts ran like crazy. Her emotions were all over the place. She had just fucked her best friend, the one person she felt comfortable and at ease with. She considered her feelings carefully; this.. dinamic, between you two, had not been platonic for a considerable amount of time. But not being platonic doens't necessarily means being romantic. It could either be love, or lust. What happened the day before was carnal, once the two of you were way too much in a drunken haze to actually feel anything.

And, like always, Natasha didn't want to think about falling in love. She felt scared just by thinking about this. It was a new territory, one she wasn't willing to deep dive in. So she took her phone and deeply sighed, opening her chat with you.

"Yesterday was fun. But I need some time. I don't think this can work. Hope you're doing okay. xx"

That text just completely shattered you.

You had no idea what you did wrong. It was not like Natasha was pushing you away forever — but while being with her, the only thought running through your mind was: I wanna be with her. I wanna explore this with her. And Natasha didn't give a single sign that she thought the opposite. You felt... disappointed. With yourself and her. For hoping.

Yeah, getting involved with an ex kgb Avenger killer spy probably wasn't the best idea.

You wouldn't simply forget everything you shared together, so the easiest way here not to create a big tension was.. being fake. The two of you weren't stupid, you were aware of the unspoken feelings going on. But what happened that night should not happen again. So your friendship was what prevailed. A friendship like the start. But obviously, with a few changes. Natasha and you didn't lose touch — on the contrary, you were closer than ever. You spoke and flirted (a lot), but with one small rule, a rule that you subconsciously added to this.. situationship. No feelings involved. It would be singularly that. Friends, some casual hookups, and nothing else.

It didn't last, because that's not what you both wished, longed for.

Little by little, this turned boring again. Not that you were the boring one and she just didn't realize this before. Far from that. The thing was: Natasha and you were supressing your feelings, consequently, supressing all the thrill, the delicious tension that hanged in the air whenever she, once again, crossed paths with you. The russian wanted nothing more than just grab you and kiss you hard, pour all the emotions that she kept bottled up throughout her life into the kiss. But unfortunately, she couldn't. She had a duty to fullfil, as someone born, destined to save the world.

And with all of this, you and her settled a distance. You with your previous and trivial life, and her, saving little girls from bad guys, and bringing down cats from tall trees. It was truly shocking: one day, you lived for Natasha Romanoff. She was your everything and everything you'd ever want. In a blink of an eye, it ended. You followed your paths, like two completely different people, with different purposes.

Right person, wrong time.

Fool her, to think she could get over you that easily. Poor you, to try and put that inside of your head as well.

Sometimes, when normally doing daily tasks, you would catch yourself thinking about her — when you were going to watch TV and put your legs on the coffee table, instead of simply sitting. It was an habit of hers. Or when eating something with peanut butter. It was her favourite late night snack. When it rained. She liked to watch the rain. With somebody else's hands on you. It wasn't right. It was never right to have somebody else touch you. You were constantly thinking about your life before things with her changed — the memories brought comfort, a sense of nostalgia.. at some point, you weren't living in the present anymore. Just faking. Faking your feelings. Pretending it was okay to let her go.

This woman ruined you for everything and everyone else.

Natasha could relate to that. In a life that could be resumed in one word: a 'whirlwind' of a life, and you were her only 'constant' among all of this... she couldn't bear this anymore.

So she made an important decision.

The decision was today.

Today: she'd take you out again, praying that, if not reconciliation, she wanted at least to say everything she had to say. Because if life taught her one thing, was to make choices that she wouldn't regret in the future. And it was damn right she would regret choosing not to meet you tonight.

Sitting in the stool of the bar, in a more secluded corned, her eyes followed your figure as you approached — purse hanging on your shoulder, dress exposing your back and a little bit of your waist, eyes so awfully soft and gentle as you looked at her. It wasn't fair. A pang of guilt hit her hard. Oh, she regretted letting that go. She wanted you to be mad at her. But you were not. She shakily rises to her feet to kiss your cheek as you stand in front of her, thankfully not stumbling. Your eyes lock again, already in a trance. Just like that other day.

"How are you doing?" you ask. Natasha could cry. She missed that voice everyday. "Did I take too long? I'm sorry."

"No, no. Don't worry." she swallows hard. You both sit on the stools by the countertop. When the bartender comes, the redhead dismisses him. She wanted the two of you sober for this. "I'm... so much better now that you're here, honestly. How about you?"

"Amazing." you chuckle, tilting your head to the side and watching her. She didn't change a bit. Hair braided, black jeans, leather jacket. That was your Natasha. "I didn't expect you calling me here, to be honest..—"

"Me neither." she admits, in a whisper. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips, eyes involuntarily starting at your mouth. She sighs and looks into your eyes. "But I had to... I can't get you off my mind."

Her sincerity never fails to amaze you. With each second that passes, the butterflies in your tummy return, to remind you of the past — feelings and sensations resurfacing. You bite on your bottom lip and look around the bar, quickly scanning to see if there was anybody paying attention to the two of you. Maybe a few eyes here and there, which didn't linger. Everyone else was too busy minding their own business — and it's not like you'd care if someone was staring anyway. Natasha turned some heads. You felt greedy for that. You were the one having her. The only one having her.

"You live in my head rent free, Natasha." you tell her, voice having a sultry edge to it. You slowly stand, walking closer.

You take her hands and open her arms — making it possible for you to straddle her thigh. She tenses almost immediately. Her head tilts up to stare into your eyes, arms circling your waist to keep you close, where she wanted. You shake your head when you see a small frown between her eyebrows — lips pressing against that small spot, coaxing a little exhale of hers. She missed you. Everyday. Every minute. She wanted that respect and care all the time.

"What are we even doing here?" she whispers, so quietly you almost can't hear it. Her hands cup your waist and gently roam up and down your sides, palms brushing against your bare skin every now and then, all thanks to the waist slits of your dress. Your face leans closer to hers, noses bumping — the smallest of touches, making you both crave what you once had. "Why didn't I just invite you to my place right away?"

"I don't know. Why didn't you?" you raise one eyebrow, fingertips caressing her jawline. Her hands give your waist a squeeze — and you almost moan. She swore she could hear it. It replayed in her head, the beautiful sounds you made for her. She wanted to hear them again. She was going to make you sound like that again.

It wasn't just a physical thing — your body and mind craved her touch, her presence, so much that just the mere thought of being on her bed again got you soaked. She felt something wet through the rough fabric of her jeans, and that got her brain spinning. She fell for you hard. So painfully hard.

"Let's get out of here," she groans, hands firmly grabbing your thighs and lifting you up — wrapping your legs around her waist and carrying you out the pavement. Her hardness pressed right against your core — you blushed, hiding your face on her shoulder, wrapping your arms around her neck.

In a heartbeat, you were back at your house.

Your place, because it was the fastest way, when taking the cab. No words were exchanged, not yet. The aching, burning need had to be taken care of first — before properly talking. Your back hits the wall hard as Natasha pushes you against it — her body trapping you between herself and the hard surface — hands hardly, possessively holding you by the hips. Desperately, even. Making sure you wouldn't slip away from her grasp. Her lips dance with yours, tentatively, yet naturally, tongues tasting one another after what felt like centuries. She felt so good, tasted so good.

"Nat..—" you moan against her lips, having her bottom lip trapped between your teeth, then releasing it. Your forehead against hers, eyes soft and filled with desire. Your hands hold her cheeks, traveling to her jaw. Needily, you press kisses to the side of her throat, breathing shaky, heart hardly thrumming. "I never stopped thinking about you..."

"Yeah?" she hums, grabbing the hem of your dress and lifting it up, bunching the fabric by your hips. Her fingers hook around the elastic of your panties and pull them down, pooling around your feet — making you gasp, and pull away from her neck. Eyes wide open. The air hits your heat, making you needier for her.

You almost mewl.

"God, I need you." Natasha utters. She grabs you again and smashes her lips against yours once more, now with so much more passion, more need, more anxiety. Her bulge presses against your now unclothed wetness, coaxing a tiny cry of need out of you. You breathlessly pull away from her, reaching down and fumbling with the buttons of her jeans — until she stops you.

"No—"

"Quiet." she shushes, maneuvering you back, until your body hits the mattress. She climbs onto the bed and stays in a kneeling position, hungrily taking you in. Messy, needy, all for her. Sober, like she wanted planned from the first time. "That dress goes off."

Her voice is commanding, yet not harsh — and her eyes betray her a little. Her eyes are almost pleading, that it is clear how much she needs this. To have you all to herself, to show you how much she wants that. Her underwear becomes even more tight as she sees your trembling fingers, pulling the dress over your head and tossing it aside, lips parted. Just by her look, you can tell she wants the bra off, too. So you reach behind your back and grants her silent wish, breasts now exposed to her sight.

"There you are..." she moans to herself, shamelessly taking in the sight of you. You're a work of art. With her hand, she coaxes your knees open, and parts your legs. "My... you're so wet. So perfectly wet."

"You're still with a lot on.." you quietly complain, feeling hot and shy at the same time. But her gaze is enough to wipe away the confusion from your eyes. She had a plan.

"Touch yourself for me." she breathes out.

Your eyes briefly widen with the unexpectedness of this statement. You had certainly done this before — touched yourself thinking of her — but the idea of showing this, while she watched, never crossed your mind. But it wasn't an unpleasant idea. It was actually... hot. Sensual. They darken, pupils blown wide as you make yourself comfortable against the pillows, eyelids fluttering as your legs spread a little more, palm resting on your stomach, then moving down. Deliberately, it reaches your sex, a shakily sigh leaving your lips when your middle and ring finger collect some of the slick coat covering your sensitiveness, using it to slowly rub your clitoris, getting you to gasp louder.

"Natasha..." you whisper, eyes falling close, thoughts wandering.

Wandering back to the start — when you first discovered your feelings for her, then the climax, when you both got in bed due the alcohol — then the aftermath, when you needed her so much, felt so alone at night, that your fingers were the only solution. Little wet sounds echo within the room as you rub circles on yourself, applying just the right amount of pressure, that it doesn't take long for the pit in your stomach to manifest itself.

"Faster." Natasha rasps out, taking her jacket and quickly throwing it away. She pulls her tank top over her head, then undo the buttons of her jeans — leaving the bed, just so she can get rid of all the uncomfortable fabric, and climbing it again. She crawls closer to you — eyeing you as you worked on your pussy, her hands caressing your thighs, adding to the stimulation.

"Please...!" you whimper, doing as you're told — rubbing yourself faster — slipping one of your fingers inside your entrance, almost cumming, that quickly. "Please, I need you..!"

"I need you too," she moans to herself, and harshly grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. You moan loudly in protest — Natasha wouldn't tease you. Not today, when you both needed each other so much. She discards her undergarments, finally — groaning as she's set free. Your eyes lock on her hard length, which was practically hitting her abs now.

"Put it inside me." you beg, grabbing her shoulders to pull her closer. She hovers over you, bracing herself on her forearms, on each side of your body. Your fingernails gently graze her back. Natasha was feeling so much, so much more than she ever felt. Your eyes were sparkling so much, like you were crying — shimmering with the depth of your adoration for her. You grab her cheeks and press your lips to hers, in a gentle peck. Knowing her past, she didn't have to explain her reasons for what had happened. She was scared before, and you respected. "Go on. Love me."

She couldn't wait no longer. She lowers her forehead to your shoulder and places her hands on your hips — her chest against yours, as she lined herself with your hole, effortlessly pushing inside. Stretching you out, like she once did. Having the chance to hear that delicious sounds again.

"You're mine... shit," she groans, rolling into you gently, getting you used to the feeling first. You're so tight, so perfect around her. Natasha's overwhelmed. Her hands press against the base of your throat, squeezing firmly, yet leaving enough room for air. She's so hot. "That pussy is mine. You're mine. You're all mine—"

"Yes," you moan, wrapping your legs around her middle. You wouldn't take long to come tonight. Maybe she'd make you come over and over. She rocks into you, pace not too slow, not too fast. Just right. The right tempo to bring you both the pleasure and connection you so much needed. "Mhm.. fuck, Nat, missed your cock,"

"You're gonna take it over and over—" she comments — kissing your shoulder, roaming her hands up your body, her right palm cupping your breast and giving it a firm squeeze. Your head lolls back, mouth opening to allow a satisfied moan out. "I'm never fucking letting you go again,"

She accelerates, pulling almost all the way out just to slam back into you again — feeling her climax approach. She moves her mouth close to your ear and moans — her own sounds now mixing with yours.

"Natasha...! Fuck, you feel soo good," you gasp, a wave of pleasure washing over you as you get closer. She takes the hint immediately, cupping the back of your knee and pushing it up, allowing her a better angle. "Ah, gimme more,"

"My greedy girl," she groans, her head tilting back. Her cock twitches inside of you — precum already painting you white. She glanced down at where your folds swallowed her, eyes darkening impossibly more. "You're so goddamn tight... 'm not gonna last, moya krasivaya malysha,"

"Okay.. 'ts okay... Cum with me..." you beg her, tangling your fingers into her red strands of hair, pulling her down more, so her forehead rests against yours — the eye contact increasing the intimacy of the moment. She didn't know what to expect now. Didn't know what to think. Only that she had to fill you up.

"C'mon.. nhg, darling.. c'mon.. cum around me," she encourages, feeling her own legs shake as her orgasm washed over her.

She grabbed your hips hard and slammed into you — once, twice, three times, filling you up with her hot release. You squeezed your eyes shut as your body shuddered forwards, breasts pressing against her own as a long, strangled moan flowed out of you, nails digging into her back, pressing her body against yours as you finished. Your walls clenched around her cock, swallowing her more, not allowing her to pull away just that. "God.. I love you!"

Natasha blinks, not sure if she heard right. Her heart squeezes in her chest, arms wrapping around your body. Her back hits the bed and she flips you on top of her, still inside of you — but now, her member softened. The adrenaline was running wild, but you had calmed down a little bit. Just a little. Because this time, it wasn't pure sex. It was lovemaking.

Your face is buried in her chest as she brings up the covers, creating a cocoon of warmth around you. She buries her face into your hair and inhales deeply, staying silent. Just to process things.

"I love you, too. So so much." she murmurs into you hair. She felt terrified to say this. But once you're someone who she already showed her scars to, it's not that bad anymore.

"You do?" you ask expectantly, feeling tired, drowsy. Natasha smiles at that. She feels her eyes burning with heavy emotion. She nods.

"Yes... I love you so much." she confirms, softly stroking her hair, brushing some strands away from your sweaty forehead. "And I want you to be mine. Will you be mine?"

"You're asking me to be your girlfriend after the sex?" you chuckle quietly, but happiness was evident in your voice. Now you could sleep at peace. The first night of rest you'd have in a long time. In the arms of the woman you cherished, worshipped.

Natasha had won now. She was so fucking relieved. All because of a phrase.

"Of course I will, you idiot."

"I'm never, ever, ever letting you go again." the room is messy, smell of sex lingering around you. But now things were sorted out. By the morning, you could have a more direct, serious conversation. For now, you'd rest together, wrapped up in each other's arms, like it was always meant to be.

[soluversworld]

“𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡, 𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫” - REDACTED X G.N Reader nsfw

14 DAYS WITH YOU is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!-

Words: long

Genre: Smut

If you find mistakes I'm sorry I did not proof read

(Reader is G.N)-(This one-shot is nsfw!)

Summary : To distract REDACTED, you suggested looking at his damn sports motorcycle, Who knew- this would end up in..fuck

Trigger Warnings (TWs) and Content Warnings (CWs):

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

Graphic Sexual Content (NSFW, explicit descriptions of sex)

Breeding Kink & Possessiveness (mentions of ownership, possessive language)

Past Childhood Trauma (emotional distress, implied separation trauma)

Body Horror Elements (scarring, burns, detailed injury descriptions)

Overstimulation & Aftercare (exhaustion, body weakness post-sex)

Content Warnings (CWs):

Heavy Dom/Sub Dynamics (praise, possessive language, submission)

Affection & Intimacy Themes (nose kisses, hand-holding, childhood romance)

Food Play/Feeding Kink Lite (feeding partner cake, describing sweetness)

Emotional Vulnerability (crying, reassurance, romantic declarations)

It happened too fast, too slow, exactly as it should’ve. That day—you saw past the lie, past the face, past the teeth bared in something not quite a smile.

And today, they’re yours. Almost. A heartbeat away from fiancé, a lifetime away from certainty. It took time. God, it took time.

You wore the ring that day, but not for love, not for promises, not even for the pleasure of peeling back the layers of REDACTED like rotting wallpaper. That’s a story for another day, sweetheart. For now—

You love REDACTED more than Ren, more than the mask they made to hold the world at arm’s length. You love the rot beneath.

Realistically? A few years. Maybe forever. Maybe never. Ren’s been rewriting himself since before he even knew how to spell his own name, shaving down the edges of REDACTED into something soft, something pliable, something digestible. Someone lovable.

Because Ren, as he is, isn’t enough. Can’t be. He learned that young, learned it deep, learned it so well it’s a reflex now, a gut reaction. A knee-jerk flinch into being whatever you want, whatever keeps you looking at him. But REDACTED—ah. They don’t care. They don’t need to. They know the truth, and the truth is cruel:

You like a lot of things. You like a lot of people. But you’ll never like him enough. Not really. Not the way he wants. And he’s made peace with that.

Ren is Haruko, and Haruko is sweet. Haruko stumbles over words and tries too hard. Haruko is a puppet carved from borrowed smiles and practiced stutters. But REDACTED—RED is sharp, cruel, jagged in a way no one wants to hold. Cold, empty, tired in the bones. If he ever learned love, it was an imitation, an echo—flat, distant, never quite right.

The blushing? Real. The sweating? Also real. The stammering, the nerves, the pathetic little slip-ups? All him, honest and raw, because fuck, he never expected to have this. Angel wasn’t supposed to see him. Ren was supposed to be background noise, an afterthought, a whisper of a person that never solidified. But fate had different plans, and now he’s in too deep.

And this? This is life now. A life built on strings and careful calculations, on the soft lie of Haruko and the hard truth of REDACTED bleeding through the cracks. And you—you don’t know if it’s guilt that keeps you here. If it’s sympathy, or pity, or something worse. You don’t know if he even wants saving.

He’s shit in the saddest way possible. But he doesn’t care. Never has. Never will.

It’s all just—ah.

You’ve accepted REDACTED now, right? Last time, they held you through it—your own personal shield against every jump scare, every flicker of something too fast, too wrong in the dark. You screamed, clung to them like a lifeline, like a fucking lifeblood, fingers digging in, breath caught, and they—cool as ever—just patted your head. Like you were some trembling stray curled up in their lap.

Now? You’re a pro. A veteran. An unshakable force of—no, fuck that, you’re still scared. Still clutching them like a goddamn koala, half-buried in their chest, gripping the fabric of their hoodie like it might save your soul. And they let you. One hand still in your hair, absentminded, rhythmically soothing, the other loose on your thigh like they aren’t watching people get gutted on screen.

Both of your rings—the rings, the childhood ones—sit snug around your fingers. Like wedding bands. Like something binding. Like something permanent. Ah. Cute.

"Scary f’ ya?" REDACTED barely glances at the screen, more interested in the way you’ve tensed up, knuckles white against the blanket. "Want me t’change it?"

"Shut the fuck up." You don’t even look at them, eyes locked on the too-dark hallway stretching across the screen, waiting for something—anything—to lunge. Your fingers tighten in their sleeve like you’re bracing for impact.

They huff a quiet laugh, all amusement, all smug, before shifting. Heavy. Comfortable. Head dropping onto your lap like they belong there. "Suit yourself."

Their warmth sinks into you, grounding. Distracting. You don’t relax, not completely, but you loosen just enough to card your fingers through their hair. They hum, pleased, tapping lazy fingers against your thigh.

You flinch at a sudden jump scare.

They don’t even pretend not to notice.

They hum again, but this time, it’s different—deeper, slower, something deliberate curling at the edges of their voice. The kind of sound that sends a shiver through you, pooling low in your stomach. Their fingers, lazy against your thigh, trace an absentminded pattern, dipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely grazing skin.

"Y’really that scared?" they murmur, turning their head just enough to glance up at you, half-lidded, half-smirking. "Ain’t even watchin’ the movie no more."

"Maybe ‘cause someone won’t shut up," you fire back, but your voice is softer than you meant it to be, breath catching when they press their face into your stomach—right there—like they know exactly what they’re doing.

"Mm." They exhale slow, warm, lips brushing fabric. "Or maybe y’jus’ need a better distraction."

Their fingers ghost higher. Their grip tightens, just a little. Your heart skips.

Yeah. Fuck the movie.

Their lips are warm—almost searing—the weight of them pressed against yours stealing the air right from your lungs. It’s slow at first, teasing, like they’re testing the waters, but the second you start to lean in, the second your fingers curl in their shirt, they take it as permission to devour.

"Mm—" You barely get a sound out before they tilt their head, deepening it, a slow, deliberate slide of lips and tongue that has heat creeping up your spine. Their hand finds the back of your neck, fingers pressing just firm enough to make you shudder.

"Y’kiss back real pretty," they murmur, breaking away just enough to speak, their voice dipped in amusement, something smug curling at the edges. "S’good f’me, yeah?"

You barely get the chance to respond before their teeth catch your lower lip—a sharp little nip that sends a jolt right down to your gut. Your grip on them tightens.

Then your heel catches on the floor, and suddenly, you’re tilting back, balance slipping—

But they’re already moving, already got an arm wrapped around you, holding you steady before you can even process the fall.

They click their tongue, half-laughing, half-scolding, pulling you flush against them like you belong there.

"Clumsy," they chide, and you can hear the grin in their voice, the way it stretches, smug and sharp. Their fingers trace slow circles against your lower back, dipping just under the hem of your shirt. "Y’like bein’ held this close, huh? Don’t even gotta ask—jus’ throw y’self at me next time, sweetheart."

Your face feels like it’s on fire. The warmth creeps down your neck, settling deep in your chest, and you hate—hate—how easy it is for them to get you like this.

"I—shut up," you grumble, voice barely above a whisper, but it comes out embarrassingly shaky. You’re still pressed against them, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of their breathing, and god, their hand hasn’t moved from your back.

They hum, tilting their head, eyes scanning your face like they’re drinking in every little reaction. "Angel, y’okay?" The nickname comes soft, almost reverent, but there’s something else in their tone, something knowing. They’re enjoying this—your flustered little stammers, the way you can’t meet their gaze for too long without feeling like you’ll combust.

"I—I’m fine." You try to sound steady, but it’s hard when their fingers drag slow, featherlight up your spine. A barely-there touch, but enough to send another shiver rolling through you.

"Mm." They don’t sound convinced. If anything, they sound amused. "S’that so?" A pause, and then—"Y’look real cute like this, y’know."

You whimper. Actually whimper.

And they hear it.

Their grin stretches, slow and lazy, all dimples and sharp teeth. "That a little sound y’jus’ made? Cute."

"Shut up," you try again, swatting at their chest, but they just catch your wrist, bring it up between the two of you. Their fingers curl around it, thumb smoothing along your pulse.

"Y’really nervous, huh?" Their voice drops, honey-smooth, coaxing. Their grip is loose, easy to pull away from, but you don’t. You can’t. Not when they’re looking at you like that.

"...No," you mumble, and it’s a horrible lie.

They chuckle, and before you can think, before you can even breathe, they bring your wrist to their lips, pressing the softest kiss against the inside of it.

"You’re adorable," they murmur against your skin, and it’s unfair, unfair how easily those words send your heart into a frenzy. "Y’don’t gotta be shy with me, angel."

You’re going to combust.

You barely have a second to catch your breath before REDACTED tilts your chin up, their lips grazing yours again—slow, deliberate, teasing. They’re watching you, gauging every little twitch, every sharp inhale, every way your body reacts to them like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“D’you want more?” Their voice is low, a lazy drawl against your mouth. “Y’gotta tell me, angel.”

Your fingers clutch at their sleeves, grounding yourself. The way they speak—it’s like they already know the answer, but they want to hear it. Want to pull it from you.

You swallow, heat curling in your stomach. “Yeah.”

A quiet hum vibrates against your lips before they press another kiss there, just as slow, just as consuming. Their fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, gliding over your waist in a touch that barely lingers but leaves fire in its wake.

“That feel good?” They murmur between kisses, voice dropping an octave. “Tell me where.”

You almost forget how to breathe, arching just slightly into their touch. Their hands are so big, so warm, and when they drag their teeth along your lower lip, you can’t stop the way your fingers tighten in their clothes.

They chuckle, the sound deep and pleased. “Y’can’t even think straight, huh? S’cute.”

Your face burns hotter, and you bury it against their shoulder for a second, trying to compose yourself. But they’re not having that. Their hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, their lips brushing your ear.

“I don’t think y’can take all of me, angel.” Their voice is velvety, teasing, full of that patient kind of amusement that only makes it worse. “You’re practically stuffed full already.”

A whimper catches in your throat, and their hand tilts your head back, forcing you to look at them.

“Mm. Look at you.” Their thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and their eyes flicker down to where your lips are definitely a little wet from their kisses. Their smirk turns downright sinful. “You’re droolin’. Feels that good, huh?”

You can barely get a word out before their lips are back on yours, deeper this time, and—god—they’re not letting you go anytime soon.

REDACTED's mouth is still warm on yours, their breath mixing with yours in a way that makes your head feel light, like you’re toeing the edge of something sharp. Their hands don’t leave you—not yet, anyway. A thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip, a palm firm against your lower back. Secure. Unmovable. Like if they let go, you’d slip away. Like they don’t want that.

But your brain is drowning, so you do what you do best: open your mouth and let words spill out like you aren’t just trying to distract yourself from the way they have you pinned.

“…You have a motorcycle.”

A beat. Then, a slow blink.

“…Yeah.” Their voice is still low, still rough, like they haven’t quite left the moment behind. But their brow lifts, bemused, like they’re trying to understand how this is what you’re thinking about right now. “What about it?”

“I wanna see it.”

They stare at you. Like you just asked them to pull the moon out of the sky and hand it to you on a silver platter. You don’t think you’ve ever seen them look so…confused.

“It’s just a bike.”

“It’s your bike.”

Another pause. You watch the way their mouth twitches, some unreadable thought flickering behind their eyes. “You’re not thinkin’ of ridin’ it, are ya?”

You scoff, dramatic. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not even a little.”

You gasp. They smirk. The moment is broken—mostly. Their hands are still on you, after all. Their voice still has that drawl, like they’re tasting every word before they let it leave their mouth.

“Fine,” you huff, shoving at their chest (not that it moves them).

“…Alright,” they say finally, giving you one last kiss—slow, lingering—before pulling back. “Let’s go.”

REDACTED takes your hand like it’s second nature, like they don’t even think about it—just interlaces their fingers with yours and leads you through the mess of their garage.

It’s a wasteland. A graveyard for things they once cared about and then didn’t.

You see the car first, buried under dust, the tires slightly deflated. You remember when they bought it—thought they drove one, figured they might need it for you. But you should’ve known. A car was too…normal. Too practical.

The motorcycle, though—that fits them like a second skin.

Sleek black, polished even though they barely take it out. It suits them in a way the car never could. The sharp edges of it match the sharp edges of their jaw. The deep black mirrors the ink on their arms, the piercings that gleam under dim garage lights. And then there’s their eyes—blue, cutting through the dark like high beams. Jesus.

“I knew you’d be into it,” they murmur, watching you take it all in. There’s that teasing lilt in their voice again. The one that says they know what you’re thinking.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers twitch at your sides. You wanna feel it.

So you try to climb it.

And immediately almost fall on your ass.

REDACTED catches you like they knew you’d do that too.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, angel,” they laugh, hands firm at your waist, pulling you up like you weigh nothing.

“I got it!” you insist, except you don’t because this thing is heavy as hell, and you don’t know the first thing about handling a bike like this.

“Uh-huh,” they hum, clearly not believing you at all, but still helping you settle onto the seat anyway. Their hands linger at your hips, warm, grounding. They lean in, just a little, just enough for their breath to brush against your cheek.

“Y’look real sweet up there,” they murmur, lips just barely grazing your ear. “Too sweet.”

You swallow. Your heart does something weird in your chest.

“…Are you gonna show me how to ride it or just stand there flirting?”

They grin, slow and sharp. “Can’t do both?”

REDACTED chuckles, low and warm, like they heard the sound you just made—like they felt it vibrate against their chest.

They climb on behind you, and suddenly, you’re caged in. Their legs bracket yours, their arms reach past your sides, hands covering yours on the handlebars. You feel the weight of them, solid and unshakable, and then—

Their hands slide to your waist. Adjusting. Correcting. But fuck, they don’t have to be this slow about it.

“S’posed to sit like this,” they murmur, pressing you back against them, firm, like they know you feel everything. Their breath is warm at your ear, their lips barely brushing skin as they lean in to reach the ignition.

The bike rumbles to life. You feel it first in your fingertips, then up your arms, then—oh. It sinks into your thighs, a steady hum between your legs, and you swallow down the noise that threatens to escape.

REDACTED notices. Of course they notice.

“You feel that?” they murmur, voice all honeyed amusement. Their grip on your hands tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. “S’nice, huh?”

You nod, maybe too quickly, because their laughter comes slow and smug against

You turn. Maybe too fast, maybe too eager, but REDACTED doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, they welcome it—because the moment you do, their hands are already there, steadying you, holding you like they knew you’d come to them.

And then—

Their lips.

Soft. So much softer than you expected, given everything else about them—the weight of their body, the roughness of their hands, the way they talk, lazy and deep, like they’ve got all the time in the world. But this? This is different. This is gentle.

Like they’re savoring it. Like you’re something to be tasted slow, something they don’t want to rush.

Your back meets the sleek body of the motorcycle, and they follow, leaning in, caging you in, their weight pressing into you in all the right ways. You feel them—all of them—towering over you, surrounding you, drowning you in their warmth.

And then their fingers curl under your chin, tilting your face just right, deepening the kiss, making you feel it, and fuck—

They break away first. Just barely. Just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go.

“Y’taste sweet,” they murmur, thumb brushing slow over your lower lip. Their eyes are half-lidded, like they’re already thinking about going back in. “Knew you would.”

You’re breathless. Maybe a little dazed. Maybe a little—

Their lips ghost over yours, teasing, like they want to make you beg for it. Like they want to hear you say it, admit how badly you want them. Their hands? Firm on your waist, thumbs stroking slow, deliberate circles against your skin, like they’re mapping you out, like they’re memorizing the feel of you under their touch.

“Y’should see yourself,” they murmur, voice like a lazy drawl, all heat and hunger and patience that makes your skin burn. “Spread out on my bike like this. Look so fuckin’ pretty.”

The way they say it—like they own you, like they’re claiming you—it sends something hot curling low in your stomach.

Then their hands slide up, up, teasing under your shirt, knuckles dragging against bare skin, slow enough to make you shiver. “Feel good, angel?” They dip lower, fingers playing at the waistband of your pants, like they’re waiting for permission.

And then—fuck—their teeth. They nip at your jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking just enough to leave a mark. You feel the way they smile against your skin, feel the way they hum in satisfaction, like they love marking you up.

“Want my hands on you?” A little squeeze at your hips. “Y’gotta tell me where.”

Their fingers press in slow, teasing, just barely skimming where you need them most. It’s intentional, the way they hold back, the way they make you feel every inch of the wait.

“Fuck,” you breathe, hips twitching, chasing the contact, but they don’t give in. Not yet.

They chuckle, low and dark, a sound that sinks into your skin. “So impatient,” they murmur, dragging their knuckles up your inner thigh, agonizingly slow. “Y’been thinking about this, huh? How long?”

Their words feel like a game—like they already know the answer but want to hear you say it anyway. You swallow hard, your breath uneven as you try to focus, try not to let them see how wrecked you already are.

Their lips return to your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your pulse, while their hand—fuck, their hand—finally moves where you need it, fingers pressing firm and knowing. A sharp gasp leaves you, your head tilting back against the bike, exposing more of your throat to their teeth, their tongue.

“That’s it,” they murmur against your skin, voice thick with satisfaction. “Take what y’need, angel.”

And then they press in deeper, their touch turning slow and deliberate, coaxing out every little sound they can pull from you. Their other hand drags up your side, pushing beneath your shirt, fingers spreading wide as if they want to feel every inch of you.

It’s overwhelming—the heat of their body against yours, the steady rhythm of their touch, the way they watch you, like they want to memorize every reaction, every shudder.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” they rasp, pressing their forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips. “Could keep you like this all day.”

And from the way they’re touching you—like they have no intention of stopping—you’re starting to think they mean it.

You're not sure when you started shaking. Maybe it was the moment they first pressed you down against their bike, the cold metal sharp against the heat pooling in your stomach. Maybe it was when their lips barely grazed yours, teasing, promising, making you desperate. Or maybe—fuck—maybe it was when their hands started to roam, those strong, practiced fingers dragging slow over your skin like they were memorizing every inch of you.

And now? Now you’re undone.

They’ve got you caged in, their body flush against yours, their hands firm but patient as they press against your stomach, fingers spreading wide, palms warm as they pull you closer like they don’t want a single inch of space between you. Their breath is heavy against your lips, teasing, tempting, but they don’t kiss you yet. Not properly. They’re waiting. Watching.

They love watching.

“Y’know how fuckin’ pretty you are?” they murmur, dragging their fingers lower, pressing into the soft dip of your stomach, just enough to make you feel the possessive weight of their hands. “Could spend all night just lookin’ at you like this.”

Their words make something tighten low in your gut, an embarrassing whimper slipping past your lips before you can stop it. Their smirk sharpens, dangerous, and their hands move—one sliding down to squeeze your thigh, the other trailing up to your wrist, fingers brushing against your palm before lacing with yours.

Yeah. They love your hands too.

You feel the press of their lips against your knuckles, slow and deliberate, their tongue flicking out just slightly before they sink their teeth into the sensitive skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to mark.

“Mine,” they murmur, voice a little rough, a little distracted, as if the word just slipped out without them meaning to say it.

Fuck.

Your breath stutters as they lean in, their teeth dragging over your throat, nipping at the skin before soothing it with their tongue. They don’t stop there. They trail lower, their mouth finding your collarbone, then your chest, their hands still mapping you out, still pressing and teasing, like they want to touch everywhere at once.

Their grip tightens on your thigh as they spread you wider, their other hand still locked with yours, fingers squeezing tight. Their lips move lower, kissing a slow path down your stomach, mouthing at the sensitive skin, sucking, leaving marks, branding you as theirs.

"Y'feel so good," they breathe against your skin, voice thick with something raw, something real. "So soft. So perfect."

Their breath fans over your stomach, and they press another open-mouthed kiss there, their tongue flicking out to taste before their teeth sink in, leaving another mark—deeper this time. You shudder, a helpless moan slipping out, and they groan at the sound, their grip on your thigh tightening.

And then—fuck—then you feel it.

The cool metal of their piercing drags against your skin as they mouth lower, teasing, biting, before pressing their hips flush against yours, letting you feel everything. The sharp contrast of heat and steel makes you gasp, your fingers tightening in theirs, and they smirk, pleased with your reaction.

“You like that?” they ask, voice pure sin, hips rolling just slightly to let you feel the full weight of their arousal against you. “Y’like feelin’ how fuckin’ hard you make me?”

You whimper, head tilting back against the bike, but they don’t let you escape. Their grip on your hand tightens, grounding you, making sure you stay right here with them.

“Tell me,” they murmur against your stomach, lips brushing over each mark they’ve left, soothing, worshiping. “Wanna hear you say it, angel.”

Your breath shudders, your free hand moving to tangle in their hair, tugging just enough to make them groan. “EH- REDACTED? I love it.”

Their reaction is immediate. Their hips press against you again, firmer this time, more deliberate, letting you feel the piercing drag against you as they grind down slow, savoring it. Their mouth trails up, capturing your lips in a deep, heated kiss, their tongue teasing past your lips, taking, tasting, claiming.

“Good,” they breathe between kisses, pressing their forehead to yours, panting against your lips. “Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, angel. Just lemme take care of you.”

Got it. Buckle up.

The metal of the bike is cold against your burning skin, but you barely register it over the heat of him. [REDACTED] has you spread over his lap, thighs trembling where they bracket his, hands gripping the handlebars behind you for balance. You can feel him, hot and thick, stretching you open inch by inch—again. Your legs are shaking, overstimulated from how long he’s been toying with you, but he just won’t stop.

“Y’make the most lewd fuckin’ sounds.."

His voice is a slow, honey-thick drawl against your ear, and then—fuck

You try to turn your head away, but his free hand is already gripping your jaw, keeping you locked in place.

“Nuh-uh, angel."

He pulls you down hard against his lap, forcing every inch of him deep inside you, dragging that metal along your walls just like before. The sound you let out is shameless, and he groans at the way you squeeze around him.

“There it is,” he murmurs, smug as sin, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Knew I could make y’sing like that again.”

His hips roll slow, lazy, dragging out every second of your torment. You can feel every piercing along his cock, the cool bite of metal making you jolt, overstimulated and desperate, but he’s barely even paying attention to you—like he’s just using your body for his own pleasure.

“Look at how fuckin’ good y’look on my cock,” he drawls, watching your reflection in the mirror across the garage, watching your lips part and your lashes flutter as he thrusts up again. “You were practically droolin’ before. Y’must love bein’ stuffed full, huh?”

You whimper, but that’s not enough for him.

“Go on. Say it.”

He punctuates the command with a sharp snap of his hips, grinding you down so deep you feel him press against that perfect spot inside you, and your head thumps back against his shoulder.

“I—I love it,” you gasp, back arching, thighs squeezing around his waist.

His chuckle is low and dangerous, and then his mouth is on you—kissing, sucking, nipping at the base of your neck as he starts rolling his hips in earnest.

“My angel always does such a good job,” he purrs, barely above a whisper. His hands trail down your thighs, squeezing, teasing, spreading you open just a little wider. “Y’already know that, don’t you?” His fingers dip between your legs, pressing just where you need it most. “’Course y’do. Can feel you squeezin’ around me right now.”

Your fingers dig into his arms, nails leaving little half-moon imprints in his skin as you rock against him, chasing your high, but he tsks, stopping all movement entirely.

“Ah-ah. Not yet.”

You whimper, hips stuttering in desperation, but he just smirks.

“Be patient, angel.” His hands slide back up to your chest, pinching, teasing, making you whine. “Y’can cum when I say so.”

And if you start rutting against him for friction, panting and desperate, he just chuckles, smug and infuriating.

“Look at you. Y’just can’t help yourself, huh?” His breath is hot against your ear, teasing, taunting. “S’alright. S’what I made you for, ain't it?”

And when you finally fall apart—when you finally shudder and break, crying out his name as your whole body trembles—he groans, dragging you down hard against his cock, pushing himself as deep as he can go.

“Fuck,” he rasps, breathless for the first time all night. His hands slide up, one tangling in your hair as the other grips your hip, keeping you locked in place, making sure you feel everything. “Y’took me so fuckin’ well.”

His lips press against the curve of your jaw, almost tender, before he murmurs, “Y’did so good for me, angel. So, I’ll let you pick.”

His fingers trail down your stomach, teasing, possessive.

His words curl around your brain like smoke, thick and intoxicating, clouding out anything but him. Your breath stutters—just enough hesitation for his smirk to sharpen.

“Aw, angel.” His voice is a slow, rolling drawl, lazy and smug. “Y’can’t even pick, huh?”

His fingers drag along your stomach, teasing, possessive. The motion sends a shiver straight down your spine, your overstimulated body twitching in his grip. You’re still stuffed full of him, stretched wide and trembling, but he waits. Like he enjoys watching you struggle to speak, to even think through the haze he’s wrapped you in.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against your temple, deceptively soft. “Which d’ya want more?”

Your mouth opens, but all that escapes is a shaky breath. His fingers flex against your hip, gripping, kneading—waiting. And then, slowly, deliberately, he rolls his hips.

The noise that leaves you is barely human.

“Fuck—”

The sound of his chuckle is all teeth.

“There it is.”

His hand slides up your throat, tilting your chin so he can watch you—your dazed eyes, your parted lips, the way your body twitches at every lazy, deliberate grind of his hips. His gaze is half-lidded, burning, drinking in every inch of you.

“Feels good, don’t it?” His voice is syrup-thick, dragging down your spine like a physical thing. “Being stretched open like this, takin’ everything I give you…”

You swallow, barely nodding—too lost in the heat, the weight, the slow, devastating drag of him inside you. And he sees it.

His grip tightens.

“Y’can’t even fuckin’ talk, can you?”

You shake your head, eyes slipping shut, body keening against him. He hums, low and satisfied, kissing just below your ear.

“Don’t worry, angel.” Another slow thrust, dragging against that perfect spot inside you, making your whole body jolt. “I’ll decide for you.”

He shifts, pressing deep, locking you against him—and stays there, buried to the hilt, his breath warm against your neck.

“Be good,” he murmurs. “And take it.”

And then—heat. Possession. His arms tighten, his breath shudders, and you feel him let go—deep, slow, branding you from the inside out.

He groans against your skin, dragging his teeth along your pulse, and fuck—he doesn’t move away, doesn’t pull out, just keeps you there, completely filled, his cock still throbbing inside you.

“Guess we gotta keep goin’ till.."

His fingers trail down, smearing sweat across your skin, touching and teasing as he shifts beneath you—still hard, still inside.

And from the way his smirk curls against your jaw, he has no intention of stopping anytime soon.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, kneading, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Your whole body shudders as he grinds against you, still buried deep, his cock twitching with every shaky breath you take.

“Fuck, angel,” he groans, voice thick with heat. “Takin’ me so well—so fuckin’ deep—”

His hips roll, pressing just a little further, like he’s testing how much more you can take. The stretch is already too much, your body trembling against him, but the way he stays inside, stuffed to the hilt, makes you feel—

“Bet y’d look so good like this all the time.”

Your breath stutters.

He hums against your skin, slow and teasing. “All full of me. Carryin’ my cum inside that pretty little hole, leakin’ down your thighs…”

His fingers dip lower, just barely brushing over the mess he’s already made of you. A whimper slips out, and his smirk sharpens.

“Mm. Maybe I should make sure it sticks.”

You don’t even have time to process before his hands are gripping your hips tight, tilting you just right—before he thrusts up in one slow, filthy motion, grinding deep, making sure every drop of his cum stays right where he put it.

Your whole body jolts, overstimulated and trembling, but he just grins.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth along your jaw, pressing lazy kisses to your flushed skin. “Think I wanna see you full of me all the fuckin’ time.”

He rolls his hips again, still slow, still teasing, but his breath is coming rougher now, his grip tightening.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” His voice is a low purr against your ear. “Let me fuck you open every night, make sure you’re stuffed full—”

His fingers trail down your stomach, possessive, like he can already see it, like he wants to see it.

“Y’gonna let me breed you, angel?”

Your whole body clenches around him, and his groan is pure sin.

“…Yeah,” he breathes, voice all heat and hunger. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he moves.

Slow, deep, pushing you down to take him as he fucks his cum further inside, groaning at the way you twitch and shake, overstimulated but still so needy. His hands roam, pressing you close, dragging his nails down your sides like he’s marking his claim.

“Gonna fill you up every fuckin’ time,” he murmurs, lips trailing over your pulse, your throat, the corner of your mouth. “Till y’can’t even think of anyone else.”

"But, I- only think of you all the time.."

His grip tightens instantly. The second those shaky little words leave your lips, he stills—buried deep inside you, chest rising and falling against your back, hands locked around your waist like he needs to hold you there.

“…Say that again.”

His voice is lower now, rougher. Almost dangerous in how sweet it sounds—like he’s barely holding himself back.

You swallow, thighs trembling where they bracket his. “I—” Your breath hitches as he grinds against you, slow and deep, like he’s savoring the way you squeeze around him. “I only think of you—only you—all the time.”

That does it.

A sharp, ragged breath escapes him, his fingers digging into your skin. His control—his usual lazy drawl, that smug, taunting dominance—cracks.

“…Fuck.”

And then he moves.

Not slow this time. Not teasing.

This is needy.

Desperate.

Like you just shattered something inside him, and now he needs to prove it—to seal that claim inside you, make sure you never even consider anyone else.

His pace turns messy, all deep, rolling thrusts and ragged groans against your ear. He’s so worked up, so fucking sweetly possessive, whispering between every shaky breath:

“Mine.”

“You’re mine.”

“No one else gets you like this.”

“Fuck—no one else even knows you like this—”

His hands roam, clutching, nails scraping your thighs, your hips, your stomach, like he wants to mark you with every touch. His lips are everywhere—on your neck, your shoulder, pressed to the shell of your ear, murmuring between ragged gasps:

“You’re made for me.”

“Fuck—feel that? So deep inside you, fuckin’ claiming you—”

And then he loses it.

He slams into you, grip tightening, burying himself as deep as he can go—and he breaks, moaning into your skin as he spills inside, body shuddering with the force of it.

But even after he’s spent, even when his breath evens out, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays inside you, keeping you full, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles against your neck, still murmuring in that soft, wrecked voice:

“No one else.”

“Only me.”

“You promise, angel?”

And when you nod—when you whisper, "Only you, always,"—he sighs, pressing a kiss against your pulse.

“…That’s my good fuckin’ angel.”

His breath shudders against your skin, lips tracing the curve of your jaw as he stays inside you, keeping you locked against his chest, filled, owned. His hands, still trembling from the aftershocks, roam your body—soft now, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

And then, in a voice so quiet, so wrecked it barely sounds like him, he murmurs:

“We belong to each other, don’t we…?”

His grip tightens, pulling you closer, like he needs to hear you say it—needs you to confirm what he already knows.

You nod, dazed and pliant against him. “Y-yeah…”

But that’s not enough.

He tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes in the dim light of the garage—dazed, dark, utterly consumed by you.

“Mind,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your temple.

“Body,” another kiss, lower now, lingering against your cheek.

“Soul,” a gentle bite against your pulse, like he’s branding the words into you.

Then, lower—his hands sliding down your stomach, possessive and warm, pressing against the soft swell where he knows he’s still buried deep inside.

“…Everything.”

He groans, grinds against you just to feel it again, to make you squirm in his lap. His voice turns desperate, aching as he breathes against your ear:

“Your hole—fuck—your whole self—”

He kisses you then, messy and hungry, like he wants to swallow you whole, drag you even deeper into him until there’s nothing left between you.

He’s obsessed with watching you. The way your eyes flutter, the way your breath catches, the way your body reacts to every little thing he does. It’s intoxicating. Addictive. He needs to see it—needs to know exactly what makes you shudder, whimper, beg for more.

That’s why his favorite positions always keep you close. Always let him watch.

Missionary, but with your wrists pinned above your head, fingers entwined as he rolls his hips slow, deliberate, drawing out every little noise you make. He’ll whisper filthy things against your lips, drinking in every reaction, every quiver, every desperate squeeze around him.

Lotus, with you straddling his lap, chests pressed together, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He loves the way you tremble in his hold, loves how deep he can go like this, how your body reacts so perfectly to every slow, deliberate thrust. Loves when you bury your face in his neck, whimpering, biting down to muffle the sounds—he always grins when you do, his voice a husky tease in your ear:

"Y'don’t gotta hide from me, angel. Wanna hear every fuckin’ sound y’make."

And when you do let go, when you whimper his name in that breathless, wrecked voice—that’s when he loses it.

It’s never just about the act for him—it’s about you. About making you feel so thoroughly ruined that you never want to be anywhere else but here, tangled up with him, hands clasped, bodies moving as one.

His voice is a breathy, wrecked whisper against your lips:

“Look at me, angel. Wanna see your face when you fall apart for me.”

The second the words left your lips, the moment that trembling, breathless "I love you, [REDACTED]—" spilled from your mouth, everything changed.

His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, chest heaving against yours like you’d just knocked the air from his lungs. For a second, just a second, he didn’t move—just stared, eyes blown wide, lips parted, the slow realization of what you said crashing over him.

Then he broke.

A shuddered breath, a groan, and suddenly his arms were around you, crushing you against him, face buried in your neck. His body trembled—he trembled. His breath came in ragged, uneven pants, and then—fuck—he was whimpering, voice cracking as he choked out,

“Say it again.”

His hands tightened—one gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go, the other threading through your hair, pulling just enough to make you arch against him. His lips pressed to your skin, open-mouthed and desperate, his breath hot as he begged,

“Say it again, angel. Please.”

Your fingers curled against his back, nails digging into his skin, and you gasped as he rolled his hips deep, so deep it sent white-hot pleasure curling through your core. And even though you could barely breathe, barely think, you still gave him what he wanted.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I—I love you, I love you, I love y—ahh—”

He snapped.

A sharp, choked sound spilled from his throat—half-groan, half-sob—and then he was fucking you like he was trying to ruin you, like he wanted to carve your words into his soul. He didn’t care about pace, didn’t care about teasing, didn’t care about anything except chasing that feeling, that overwhelming, all-consuming rush of belonging that had his vision going hazy.

“You—fuck, you love me—” His voice cracked, rough, wrecked, like he couldn’t even believe it. “You—you really—ah—”

You felt something wet against your shoulder, and that’s when you realized—he was crying. His body shuddered with every thrust, every ragged breath, every desperate whimper he tried to swallow down. His fingers laced with yours, squeezing tight, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“I love you,” he rasped, voice breaking as he slammed himself deeper, dragging you closer, closer, closer. “Love you, love you, fuck—I need you—”

And then he ruined you.

The sheer desperation in his voice, the overwhelming emotion in the way he held you, the way his body trembled with each ragged thrust—it sent you over the edge so hard you screamed. Pleasure crashed over you in an electric wave, body convulsing against his, vision going white, mind shattering as he fucked you through it, chasing his own high.

The moment you tightened around him, he broke completely, moaning your name like a prayer as he buried himself deep, shaking, gasping, tears hot against your skin as he came hard, filling you with everything he had—everything he was.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just tangled bodies, heaving chests, skin slick with sweat, breathless, wrecked.

He held you through the aftershocks, pressing kisses to your damp skin, hands tracing soothing patterns down your back. And when his breathing finally evened out, when his heartbeat slowed, he exhaled shakily, voice hoarse when he mumbled:

“Gonna make you say it every time, y’know that?”

A smirk tugged at his lips as he nuzzled into your neck, voice still thick with tears, still so incredibly soft.

“Need t’hear it. Need t’feel it.”

Then, with a slow, teasing roll of his hips, he hummed,

“Think y’can say it one more time for me, angel?”

He came for the last time...

His cum is thick, dripping slow and warm from between your legs, and [REDACTED] watches with a lazy, satisfied smirk, eyes half-lidded as he traces a slow, possessive hand down your stomach.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb dragging through the mess he made before pushing some of it back inside. “S’like your body don’t wanna let me go.”

His voice is deep, wrecked, still tinged with the aftershocks of pleasure. He’s barely moved, still pressed against you, still inside you, his cock twitching at the way you whimper from oversensitivity. And even though you can feel him softening, you know he’s not quite done with you yet.

Because when he finally pulls out, slow and deliberate, he groans at the sight of his release leaking out of you, thick and white, dripping down your thighs. His fingers spread you open just a little, just to watch, to admire the way his cum still clings to your hole, and he lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle.

“Bet y’didn’t know that was one of my favorite sights,” he drawls, smug and easy, but there’s a hunger beneath it, something darker and deeper that makes his breath hitch. His fingers tease at your entrance, gathering up what’s spilling out before pushing it back in.

“Gotta keep you nice ‘n full, angel.”

Your body jerks, overstimulated, but he just leans down, kissing your temple with something achingly tender.

“S’my favorite way to mark you,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across your jaw, pressing another slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Better than hickeys. Better than bruises. ‘Cause even if no one else can see it…” His breath fans warm over your lips.

“You’ll know it’s there.”

His hand lingers for just a second longer before he finally sighs, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before rolling

"Stay put," he orders, voice soft, indulgent, like he's speaking to something fragile.

You hear the rustling of fabric, the quiet drip of water, and then—warmth. A damp towel glides over your skin, gentle and slow, as he wipes away the evidence of everything he just did to you. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of your body all over again. And when he finally deems you clean enough, he brushes his knuckles along your cheek, tilting your face toward him.

“Y’good?”

His voice is quiet now, searching, scanning your features for any hint of discomfort. And when you nod—when you lean into his touch, pressing a sleepy kiss to his palm—his lips twitch into something almost fond.

“Mm. Good.”

Your whole body feels like it’s floating—boneless, weightless—except for the ache between your legs and the warmth still pooling deep inside you. You're barely clinging to consciousness, vision hazy, skin flushed, legs utterly useless after how hard he wrecked you. The bike’s cold metal bites against your overheated skin, but you barely notice—too busy trembling in his lap, still impaled on his cock, still dripping with him.

[REDACTED] presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, voice still thick and breathless as he rasps, “Look at that, angel…” His fingers trace slow, teasing circles over your stomach, dipping lower—just enough to feel the way his cum is seeping out of you, trailing down your thighs.

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, like he can’t fucking believe it. His hand drags lower, gathering some of his release on his fingers, pressing it back in—slow, teasing, possessive. You jolt, over-sensitive and trembling, but he just smirks.

“Y’think you can walk?”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe, let alone move. Your limbs feel like jelly, muscles twitching in the aftermath of too many orgasms, and your hands are still gripping the handlebars behind you for dear life.

“Tch. ’Course y’can’t,” he murmurs, amusement curling in his voice.

And then, without warning, he lifts you.

A startled gasp tears from your lips as he scoops you up, arms firm and steady beneath your legs, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. His warmth envelops you, his scent thick in your lungs—leather, sweat, sex—and you can feel the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat where your head rests against him.

He carries you effortlessly, his grip firm yet careful, keeping you close. And fuck—there’s something so intimate about it. The way his fingers flex against your thighs, the way he presses a kiss to your temple without thinking, the way his breath hitches slightly when he adjusts you in his arms—like he just loves holding you like this.

His voice is softer now, a low, affectionate drawl as he hums,

“Think y’need a bath, angel.”

You barely have the strength to respond, just nodding weakly against his chest. He chuckles, shifting you higher in his arms, pressing you even closer.

“Don’t worry. I got you.”

His lips brush against your forehead, tender, lingering.

“I always got you.”

The bath had been too warm, too soothing, and between the exhaustion settling deep in your bones and the way [REDACTED] had kept tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh under the water, you'd nearly drifted off in his arms. He’d washed you—hands reverent, careful, like he was sculpting something delicate out of soap and steam—before wrapping you in a towel and carrying you back to the bedroom.

And then he’d leaned against the doorway, still damp from the bath, towel slung low on his hips, eyes dark

You'd barely had time to process before his hands were guiding you down, pressing you against the mattress, the cold air prickling against your freshly washed skin.

And fuck—he was so deep, stretching you all over again, hands gripping your hips as he fucked into you with slow, deep thrusts, dragging pleasure out of you until you were shaking beneath him, moaning into the sheets.

He’d taken his time—murmuring soft, possessive praise against your skin, watching the way your body took him, how it clung to him, milking him with every thrust until he finally spilled inside you again, filling you up just like before.

And even then, he hadn’t let you move.

He’d just stayed there for a moment, cock still buried deep, hands stroking down your sides as he hummed, pleased, murmuring something low and smug about "keeping you full for just a little longer."

And only when you whined—utterly wrecked and oversensitive—had he finally pulled out, chuckling at the way you shuddered, at the way his release dripped from you.

Now—

You’re in the kitchen, barely dressed, legs still unsteady as you focus on the dessert you’re making. [REDACTED] is behind you, clinging—all broad chest and heavy warmth, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles lazily into your neck.

“Y’ain’t gonna let me help?” he mumbles, voice still slow and drowsy with leftover satisfaction.

“You never help,” you tease, nudging him lightly. “You just stand there and hug me.”

A lazy smirk curls against your skin. “S’important job, angel. Gotta make sure you’re warm.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move to shake him off. If anything, you lean into him a little more, enjoying the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers flex gently against your stomach.

Then, without warning, you turn and press a kiss to his jaw.

His breath hitches.

Just a second. Just a tiny pause, barely noticeable—but you feel it.

And then he’s tilting your chin up, his gaze dark and unreadable as he leans in, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips. It’s unhurried, indulgent, his tongue teasing against yours as he takes his time tasting you. His arms tighten around you, pressing you closer, like he never wants to let go.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“You’re so fuckin’ sweet, angel,” he murmurs.

His fingers drift lower, toying with the hem of your clothes, dangerous in their intent.

"...Y'ever thought about letting me have dessert first?"

[REDACTED]’s breath catches. Their fingers twitch slightly in yours—scarred, burned, rough in all the ways that tell a story they’ve never spoken aloud.

You don’t press. You never do.

Instead, you lift their hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to each calloused knuckle.

Their face is unreadable—staring down at you, something flickering in their dark eyes, something raw, something fragile. Like they don’t know what to do with the warmth of your touch. Like it hurts.

And then, as you shift closer, your ring glints under the dim kitchen light. The matching band on their finger catches, too—two small, simple things, yet carrying the weight of a lifetime.

Childhood lovers. Meant to be.

Their grip tightens around your hand, just slightly. Just enough to tell you they’re holding on.

“…If you hadn’t taken his hand that day,” [REDACTED] murmurs, voice rough with something unreadable, “…would you have still said yes?”

Your heart aches at the memory.

That day, years ago—small hands reaching, fingers brushing, the quiet promise sealed with a ring—before Leon’s sneer cut through the moment, before cruel hands tore you away, before [REDACTED] had been left alone with nothing but the sting of rejection and the echo of their own heartbeat.

You squeeze their hand tighter. Hold it against your chest, where they can feel the steady rhythm beneath your ribs.

“I don’t know,” you admit softly. “Maybe my childhood self wouldn’t have understood love the way I do now.”

[REDACTED] swallows, jaw tightening.

“But…” You smile—small, warm, certain. “I’m happy that life gave me another chance with you.”

Something in them cracks.

They look at you—really look at you—eyes shining, throat working around words they can’t quite say. Their lips part, but no sound comes out, and then—then they just press forward, pressing their forehead against yours, squeezing your hand against their chest like they’re the one afraid you’ll disappear this time.

“…You love me?”

A whisper. A plea.

You cradle their face, thumb brushing over the dampness clinging to their lashes, and you whisper back—

“I love you, [REDACTED].”

And finally—finally—they let go.

Not of you. Never of you.

But of everything else.

[REDACTED] shudders—a small, barely-there breath that stutters in their throat, like they don’t know how to take in the weight of your words. Like they can’t believe they deserve them.

But you just hold them closer.

“Only you,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to theirs. “The real you.”

Their fingers tighten around yours, almost desperate. You can feel it—the way their body tenses, the way their breath hitches, the way they struggle against something unseen.

“I’ll tell you this for the rest of my life,” you promise, voice steady, unwavering. “I’ll say it as many times as it takes. Just so you know.”

Their eyes flutter shut. Their lips part, like they want to say something, but no words come—just the smallest, strangled sound, like something breaking apart in their chest.

“You,” you whisper again, softer now. “The real you is the one I feel the happiest with.”

And that’s when they fall.

Not physically. Not in any way you can see.

But you feel it—the way their last defenses crumble, the way their breath shudders out of them, the way they just let go and sink into your arms, forehead still pressed to yours, fingers tangled with yours, body trembling as they clutch onto you like you’re the only thing keeping them together.

“…You’re not leaving,” they whisper, barely a sound.

“I’m not leaving.”

Their lips find yours—not desperate, not rough—just deep. Slow. Like they’re memorizing the way you feel.

You giggle at the way [REDACTED]’s eyes soften when you press the small cake piece to their lips. “C’mon, try it,” you coax, voice light, teasing. “I made it just for you.”

They huff, but there’s no real resistance—just a tiny, reluctant smirk as they take the bite from your fingers.

A pause. Then, their expression melts.

“…S’ good,” they murmur, lips still brushing against your fingertips. Their voice is softer than usual, almost boyish in its honesty. “Sweet… tastes like strawberries.”

You beam. “See! I told you you’d like it!”

Their gaze lingers on you—eyes half-lidded, warm, fond. And then, in one slow, deliberate movement, they lean in and press a kiss right to the tip of your nose.

It’s so soft, so unexpectedly sweet, that your breath catches.

And when they pull back, licking the last traces of cake from their lips, they hum lazily, “Mm. You’re sweeter, though.”

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

"Cheer up, angel," they say, voice dipping into that low, syrupy drawl. "Can’t have you lookin’ cuter than dessert itself.”

You’re definitely not blushing. Not even a little bit.

[himasgod]

HOUSEWARDENS X READER

Where you are mute PART 2

How would the housewardens act towards you if you were mute?

kalim, idia, vil and malleus.

Part one with riddle, leona, azul is on my profile <3

Kalim Al-Asim

For Kalim, the fact that you're mute doesn't change how much he enjoys being with you.

If there's anyone who's never had any prejudices about how people communicate, it's him.

From the very beginning, he treats you with the same warmth and enthusiasm as anyone else.

His reaction to learning that you can't speak is more curiosity than concern.

"That's amazing! So how do you communicate? Do you have a special method? Teach me, I want to learn!"

He's not immediately good at sign language because he's a bit slow with memory :( but that doesn't stop him from trying his best.

If you use another method, like writing or using expressions, Kalim adapts quickly because he's already someone who is very guided by emotions and gestures.

Something he loves about you is that, even though you don't speak, you express so much with your eyes and your smile. He finds it beautiful how your face conveys so much without words.

When he's really excited, he forgets that you can't answer him right away and talks nonstop, but as soon as he notices you need a moment to type or respond with signs, he waits patiently with a big smile.

"Oh, sorry! I got too excited again, didn't I? Hehe, it's okay! Take your time, I want to know what you think."

Because he's so expressive, it's easy for you to understand him without him having to say much.

Sometimes just by looking at him, you know exactly what he's feeling, and that makes him even more attached to you.

If someone makes an insensitive comment about your muteness, Kalim flies into a rage. He's not the type to get angry easily, but if someone disrespects you, you can see the serious glint in his eyes as he says,

"Don't ever talk like that again."

Overall, Kalim is the type of person who loves and understands beyond words, and being with you is proof of that.

Idia Shroud

When Idia finds out you're mute, his first thought is like

“Great! I don't have to worry about talking out loud all the time-”

It's not that it bothers him when people talk, but he's someone who hates forced social interactions and finds it stressful to have to respond constantly.

However, when he starts getting closer to you, he realizes something important: it's not that you don't talk, it's that you have a different way of communicating. And that intrigues him more than he thought.

If you use sign language, Idia feels clumsy trying to learn it.

His fingers are fast for games, but when he tries to sign, it feels like he's casting a weird spell with his fingers.

“Ugh, this is harder than learning to program in five different languages…”

But if you use a device to type or communicate in other ways, he feels much more comfortable.

He programs a personalized app that helps you type responses faster, or even a voice synthesizer if you ever need it.

At first, he gets nervous trying to interpret your expressions, but after spending so much time with you, he begins to understand you with just a glance.

"Hey, hey, … in this new game, there's a character who communicates without speaking, just like you! Want to see it? I'm sure you'll love it."

If someone ever makes a hurtful comment about your muteness, Idia first goes pale with fright, then red with fury, and then hacks their devices to play a cruel prank on them

No one messes with his special someone and gets away with it :>

He may not say it out loud, but Idia truly loves how you communicate without words. After all, the best connections don't always require sound.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil has always believed that elegance isn't just about appearance, but also about the way a person communicates and expresses themselves.

When he meets you and discovers you're mute, his first impression is fascination.

“How interesting… You speak without words. It's a unique and beautiful form of expression.”

If you use sign language, Vil learns it without difficulty. He has an excellent memory and is a perfectionist, so he masters it quickly.

If you communicate in other ways, such as with expressions or writing, he watches closely. He becomes adept at interpreting your emotions with just a glance.

He loves the way you convey so much with so little. Sometimes, when others are filling the air with unnecessary words, he looks at you and feels that the connection you have is purer and more genuine than any empty conversation.

When you're in public with him, he doesn't let anyone make you feel inferior for not speaking up.

If someone tries to belittle you, a single glance from him is enough to make them immediately shut up.

“You don't need words to prove your worth. Your presence speaks volumes.”

Malleus Draconia

For Malleus, the fact that you are mute is neither strange nor worrisome.

He himself has spent centuries surrounded by awkward silences and conversations filled with empty formalities.

In comparison, your presence is refreshing.

From the beginning, he takes a genuine interest in how you communicate.

If you use sign language, he learns quickly, and whether you prefer to write or use gestures, he adapts seamlessly.

He isn't someone who needs words to understand you. Over time, he develops a special sensitivity to your body language, to the point where he sometimes asks you something and, before you answer, he already knows the answer just by looking at you.

"You don't need to explain anything. I can see the answer in your eyes."

He loves the reassurance you bring. In a world where people always fear him or treat him with extreme formality, the fact that you can communicate without words gives him a special kind of intimacy he's never experienced before.

When you go for a walk together at night, the silence between you isn't awkward.

Sometimes he simply sits beside you and enjoys the feeling of company without needing to speak.

If anyone dares to belittle you or mock your muteness, his dark presence becomes crushing. Suddenly lightning illuminates the sky man, and his gaze turns icy.

"You dare disrespect someone so precious to me? How insolent."

He's a prince, but to you, he's just Malleus, someone who understands you beyond words.

[blackbirdsblackberries]

I Hate The New Hero!

Pt 8: The Trapeze Artist's Fall

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 - Pt 5 - Pt 6 - Pt 7 - Pt 8 (You're here) - Pt 9 - Pt 10

It was his second week of school for him. In no way was he excited. Gotham was a fresh start for the young boy, private school was meant to be a fun experience - many would kill to be able to get premium education - but he finds he misses the countryside hills that he'd watch pass by as his mamă taught him how to spell and read. He misses his tată teaching him math and cool sciencey things.

He misses his family.

The school wasn't the problem, though he found he was falling behind in learning due to his homeschooled life beforehand. The problem was his classmates, the ridicule he'd get for simple slip-ups. It wasn't his fault English is his second language, it isn't his fault he slips-up.

Last Friday one boy in the class, Mac Doust, had put gum in his hair. Dick ended up crying in the bathroom until Alfred came to pick him up - not Bruce, no, Bruce was as unavailable as Dick's dead parents honestly.

Gripping the straps of his backpack Dick mutters under his breath, trying to assure himself he'd be okay. The whole weekend he had practiced hiding his accent so kids would think he was normal.

Upon walking into the school he held his head high and didn't mess around, he headed straight to class.

...

That's strange, why was the door only opened partly? Ms Xavier keeps the door wide open, always greeting Dick with a wide smile and some Romanian she had put in the effort of learning for him.

Dick opens the door hesitantly, peeking inside.

He only gets to see Mac's stupid grin before water is dumped on him, the metal bucket clanging on his head harshly.

He doesn't know what to do, he stands there, the bucket on his head as the sounds of giggles and cackles fill his ears. Warm tears contrast with the cold water soaking his face.

Dick went home early that day. The incident struck a chord in him. If he wanted to stop the bullying he had to become better than them, put in the work and effort.

He will be popular, he will be better.

He will never do that cruel prank to anyone. Never

Looking down at his phone as he walks he feels nothing but a cringing sort of pain. He stooped to a level he never thought he'd get to. It was disgusting really.

Dick feels like he's no better than Mac. That he's no hero. The video plays on loop as the man takes in the pained look on your face, he can't bring himself to look at the messages in the group chat.

They're most likely supporting it, congratulating him for doing what they all wished to do.

Hell, if he was in their place he'd probably be celebrating it too. But to be there, to be the reason you reacted that way, is sickening for the young male.

Even now all he can think about is himself, how he feels. God, how self-centered could he be? It's not like he was the victim in this.. But still, surely he can't be the true bad guy in this, right?

Dick had decided against getting driven home, he felt that if he walked to the manor in the rain it'd be enough to be even with you - look, we both ended up soaked! Everything's better now!

He chuckles under his breath at his thoughts - what would Aranea even think of him?

She'd probably be angry at him for his actions but comfort him, telling him the things he needed to hear. That it wasn't his fault, that Y/N was a bad person who deserved it.

Whatever words needed so he could sleep at night really..

Dick finally decides to exit the looping video, the image of you burnt into his mind forever.

He goes into his messages and pulls up Aranea's comm number - he had put it into his phone so they could talk off shift, something she was hesitant about but ultimately caved in.

He types out a simple message. Then another. Then another.

"Heyyyy!!! Are you busy rn??"

"It'd be cool to hang out and patrol together!!"

"Bruce doesn't have to know"

He stares at the messages, waiting for them to be marked as read. 1 minute turned into 5, then 5 turned into 10. Dick sighs and exits out of the message log, clearly Aranea is busy.

He gazes on the chat log "Y/N. 🤮"

Maybe he should message her? Say sorry and try to make it up to her.. Yeah, that's what Aranea would say to do! She was always about communication.

"I know you're probably upset, I get that. I'm super sorry for what I did|

"I know you're probably upset, I get that. I'm|

"I know you're|

"What I did wasn't right. I'm sorry that I did that because you had a different opinion than me. I never meant to make you cry, only angry, I promise!"

Finally happy with the message he sends it off.

Only to remember the wonderful fact that your phone is fried due to the water.

Lucky him. He sighs, fed up with this bad luck streak he's been having.

Suddenly he remembers that he has money! More than you can even imagine!

He can buy a new, amazing phone to make things even. Yes, it's perfect. Surely you'll forgive him now!

He changes course and heads to the nearest electronic store, determined to make things right in his head. The purchase was swift and quick, the best phone he could find in the place.

Now, all he had to do was go to your apartment and give it to you!

Lucky him Tim leaked your address to everyone in the family as soon as he entered your apartment. So, with a high head he makes the slightly anxiety-inducing journey to you.

Knocking on the door of the apartment Dick stands straight as a board. The door opens and on the other side is a woman, she has severe eye bags and (H/C) hair. She seemed to have just gotten back from work. Her grey, lifeless eyes peer at him with suspicion before realizing who he was and smiling brightly.

"Mr Grayson! What a pleasure, is there anything you need?" She asks, Dick internally cringes, there was something about her voice that just grated against his ears.

There was just something so... Off... About her.

Still, he does what he usually does. He smiles and remains patient.

"Hello ma'am, is your daughter available? Something had happened and well.." Dick trails off, he doesn't want to get on Y/N's mother's bad side.

Her mother's eyes seem to cloud over at the mention of an incident, yet her smile remains in tact, if not strained. It's possible you told her already..

"Oh. An incident? What has she done, Mr Grayson?" Her mother asks, dark undertones coat her otherwise curious words. Dick furrows his brows slightly at the sudden change in the woman's mood. "Ah, well, it was my fault. I had played a nasty prank on her and her phone was ruined, I bought a new one to make it up to her!" He shows the brand new phone in it's box.

The woman doesn't look impressed, still, she smiles and hums. "Hm. Well that's lovely! Would you like to come inside? She isn't home currently but I'm sure she'll be home soon."

Something in Dick tells him not to go inside. Something was wrong. Yet, he reminds himself that he is a hero, if anything happens he will be prepared.

So, he heads inside, trailing behind the woman as he takes in the dungeon-like interior. "It's a... Lovely place, ma'am" Dick says, hoping to seem polite. The woman scoffs.

"M/N, my name is M/N. No need for such formalities!" The woman hurriedly states before flicking her hand dismissively "Y/N's room is the second door. You can wait there, or, if you want, you can hang around me!" She smiles sweetly, too sweetly, disgustingly sweetly. It reminds him of eating giant spoons of brown sugar.

He smiles politely, trying not to show his discomfort. "I'll just wait in her room for her..!" He hurries to Y/N's room, shutting the door once he's in. That woman gave him the creeps.

He looks around the small room, holy shit, no wonder you're always so pissy! He'd be pissy too if his room was just a bit bigger than a school storage closet!

The man knows he shouldn't snoop, he's done enough damage. But, maybe, if the guilt doesn't settle he can use information gathered here to help!

Dick makes his way to the chest and looks around, picking up an engineering bit, he isn't too into the whole mechanical side of things so there was no name he could pin it to.

Placing it back he moves to sit on the bed and wait. As he sits on the bed his eyes are drawn to a floorboard that seems to stand out from the rest. He kneels on the floor and digs his nails into the floorboard.

He starts to lift it up when..

RINGGGG

RINGGGG

RINGGGG

His phone goes off, he scrambles to answer the call, not checking who the caller was.

"Dick? Dick, okay, you're the only one that has answered!"

It was Duke, he sounds frantic. What happened..?

"Duke? What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"No, no, something bad's happened! Steph, Cass and I were at a cafe and Y/N and her friends were there as well but some waitress had messed up the orders and Y/N had an allergic reaction - or something like that!" Duke rambles, his words slurring together in a rush.

Dick's eyes widen and he feels the air leave his lungs, forgetting about the floorboard and quickly leaving the room. He'll put the new phone on your bed for when you return.

He brushes past M/N and leaves the apartment. Holy shit your luck was bad, he couldn't help but think.

"Okay, stay calm, are you guys at Gotham City Private Hospital or Gotham City Public Hospital?"

"Private."

"I'll be there in half an hour, it'll be okay."

With that he hangs up and runs out of the apartment complex.

Like hell was he about to let anything bad happen to you before he could make things right!

Taglist:

@rissareader @delias-stuff @hogwarts9 @marsmabe @randomlyappearingartist @coralaura @nervousalpacalady @citrushalo @chericia @soriansick @v0idl1nq @scrumdidiliyumyum @kittykatcreatster @feral-childs-word @anon34570 @shycreatorreview @sunny-sp3lls @fluffypackofships @cynniee @yuyuzi-ling @coffeeaddictxd @starryperson @readermommy @niggrrooo @bunbunboysworld @yanrandom @fluffypackofchips @vanilliona @wizzerreblogs @cens0r3d

[ledesaid]

Recipe #2 – To Bring Out the Best in Oneself └┴┐└┴┐└┴┐└┴┐ (Billy Batson's Magical Recipe Guide for Healing Almost Everything)

Shayera: Cap, we’re in position—are you coming?

Marvel: Sure! Give me a few minutes while I fix something...

The red marker was sliding erratically across the bound old scrolls: “literally extracts everything” right below “a pinch?”

Shayera: Is everything okay, Cap?

Marvel: Ah, it’s nothing. I just bottled Barry’s soul in this little bottle.

The slight shaking of the bottle before Shayera left her breathless.

Marvel: I’m looking for a recipe to put it back into him.

With a subtle juggling motion, the little bottle was handed to Shayera, who tensed up and held her breath... Was she holding Barry’s soul?!

Marvel: The proportions and effects aren’t well specified! What would you think if someone described it as 'a generous pinch'? It’d definitely mean one or two tiny pinches—not a whole fist!

Another scribble in the grand golden book.

Marvel: Because look at it! It extracted far too much essence! You know, this morning I was supposed to whip up a simple recipe to bring out the best in a person, but that pinch of life dust caused this minor problem. These ancient wizards were far too careless—they didn’t mention in the instructions that it extracts souls if mixed wrong! I’ve said it before, but if I hadn’t added more cosmic dust, I’d have ended up with another bottle holding his spirit. *He lowered his voice as he flipped through page after page.* So now I’m searching for another recipe to put it back in.

...

Marvel: By any chance, you wouldn’t happen to know how to spell “reinsert” in ancient Aramaic, would you?

Shayera: No... sorry, Captain. That’s definitely a bit beyond the reach of my reincarnations.

Marvel: Heavens! Do you think Vandal Savage might know how?

Shayera: Ehmm, I don’t think it’s a good idea to ask a villain about it, Cap...

Marvel: I know, but I don’t know many living people who have learned that language.

-----

Part 1 |U are here | Part 3 | | Part 4

[mwuaferrari]

FERRARI GIRL - LANDO NORRIS

summary: at carlos sainz's birthday party, lando meets a captivating woman who is part of carlos' close circle of friends. Instantly struck by her warmth and confidence, lando finds himself drawn to her in ways he doesn't fully understand.

pairing: lando norris x reader

warning: english is not my native language, so any spelling or writing error is the fault of the translator hehe.

I´M BAAAAACK

The place was alive with energy, music echoing through the spacious villa and laughter spilling out into the night air. Carlos’ birthday celebrations were in full swing, and his closest friends and family mingled effortlessly, drinks in hand and smiles on their faces.

She arrived late, fashionably so, stepping through the wide-open doors with a casual confidence that immediately drew attention. Carlos spotted her from across the room and waved her over enthusiastically, his arm slung over the shoulders of another friend.

“¡Por fin llegas!” (you finally arrive!) Carlos exclaimed, greeting her with a tight hug. “Ya estaba pensando que te olvidaste de mi cumpleaños” (I was starting to think you’d forgotten my birthday)

“Jamás” (never) she replied, grinning. “Me atrasé por el trabajo, pero sabes que no me lo perdería por nada” (Got held up at work, but I wouldn’t miss this.

He introduced her to the group around him, most of whom she already knew, except for one. Lando Norris.

Lando was mid-sip of his drink when Carlos gestured toward him. “And this is Lando—he’s part of the family now, I guess. You probably know who he is.”

She turned to him, her smile widening in recognition. “McLaren´s golden boy?”

Lando chuckled softly, setting his glass down. “Guilty as charged,” he said, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She shook his hand, her grip firm but friendly. There was something about her that caught him off guard—a mix of confidence and warmth, paired with a sparkle in her eye that made him forget for a moment how to speak.

Carlos, blissfully unaware of the silent exchange, clapped Lando on the back. “Don’t let him fool you; he’s way more interesting off the track than on it.”

She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Oh? Care to elaborate?”

Lando blushed slightly, waving off Carlos’ teasing. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just trying to embarrass me.”

Carlos laughed and turned his attention back to the group, leaving Lando and her to chat.

“So,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “What’s it like being part of the ‘family’ Carlos talks about? He’s so annoying, isn’t he?”

Lando relaxed a little at her lighthearted tone. “Oh, you have no idea. But I guess he’s worth the chaos. What about you? How do you survive being in this group?”

“Years of practice,” she replied with a mock-serious expression. “It’s all about knowing when to dodge Carlos’ pranks and when to just give in.”

Lando laughed, the sound genuine and warm. “I’ll keep that in mind. Any other survival tips?”

“Plenty,” she said, her smile teasing. “But you’ll have to stick around long enough to learn them all.”

Lando felt his heart skip a beat at her words, though he quickly tried to mask it with a confident grin. “Challenge accepted.”

They continued talking, the noise of the party fading into the background as they delved into an easy, flowing conversation. For the first time in a while, Lando found himself genuinely captivated—not by a race, not by a victory, but by someone who seemed to see him as just another guy at a party.

And as the night wore on, he couldn’t help but think this might be the best birthday party he’d ever attended—not because of the celebration itself, but because he’d met her.

…

The days following Carlos’ birthday party felt like a blur for Lando. Between training sessions, media obligations, and sponsor meetings, his mind was on autopilot. Yet, every now and then, a thought would creep in, derailing his focus entirely: her smile.

It wasn’t just her smile, though. It was the way she spoke with an ease that put him at peace, the way she teased Carlos as though she’d known him forever, and the way her eyes seemed to hold a quiet depth, as if she understood the world in ways others didn’t.

He found himself scrolling mindlessly through his phone one evening, laying on the couch in his apartment, the TV murmuring in the background. His thumb hovered over Carlos’ contact. Should I? he thought. Asking for her number felt… bold. Presumptuous, even.

“Mate, just do it,” he muttered to himself, groaning as he dropped the phone onto his chest. “It’s not a big deal.” Except, to him, it was.

After another ten minutes of mental back-and-forth, Lando sat up abruptly, picking up his phone again and tapping Carlos’ name. He typed a message, erased it, typed it again, and then sighed heavily before hitting send.

Lando: Hey, Carlos. Random question, but do you think you could give me your friend’s number? The one from your party? No worries if not.

The response came quicker than expected.

Carlos: Which one? You mean y/n?

Lando’s pulse quickened.

Lando: Yeah, her. If it’s okay with her, of course.

Carlos didn’t reply right away, and in that silence, Lando second-guessed every choice that had led to this moment. He was about to follow up, maybe even backpedal entirely, when his phone buzzed.

Carlos: She said it’s fine. Here you go…

Lando stared at the screen, his heart doing an odd little flip. She’d said yes. That had to be a good sign, right? He copied the number into his contacts, hesitating again as he stared at her name.

What should he say? Something casual? Something funny?

After a moment, he typed out a message and hit send before he could overthink it any more.

Lando: Hey, it’s Lando. Carlos gave me your number, hope that’s okay. I just thought it’d be nice to keep in touch.

The seconds ticked by, and he was already regretting his choice of words when his phone buzzed.

Y/n: Hey! Of course it’s okay. I was wondering when I’d hear from you.

Lando let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a grin spreading across his face. Maybe this wasn’t so scary after all.

…

Lando was lounging on the plush sofa in McLaren's team lounge, his legs stretched out lazily as he typed away on his phone. A small, content smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he read her latest reply.

Y/n: Wait, so you actually thought pineapple on pizza was a good idea?

He chuckled softly, quickly firing back a reply.

Lando: Listen, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Elite taste buds only.

He could almost picture her rolling her eyes as she typed her response, and the thought made his grin widen.

“Alright, mate. Who’s got you looking like that?” Max Fewtrell’s voice cut through Lando’s bubble, teasing and curious.

Lando jolted slightly, instinctively locking his phone screen as if he’d been caught doing something incriminating. “What are you on about?” he asked, trying—and failing—to sound nonchalant.

Max plopped down on the sofa beside him, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been sitting there smiling at your phone like some lovesick teenager for the last ten minutes. Spill.”

“I’m not—” Lando started, but Max gave him a knowing look, arms crossed, waiting. Lando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. It’s just... someone I met recently.”

Max’s face lit up with excitement. “Ah-ha! I knew it. Who is she? Is she fit? Of course she’s fit—she’s got you giggling like an idiot.”

Lando groaned, trying to dodge the interrogation. “Can you not make this a thing? It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, it’s a thing,” Max countered, grinning. “So, where’d you meet her? Tell me everything. What’s her name? Does she know you’re you?”

Lando rolled his eyes, but there was no real irritation behind it. “She’s a friend of Carlos’,” he admitted reluctantly. “We met at his birthday party.”

Max leaned back, nodding approvingly. “A friend of Carlos’. Okay, solid start. So, what’s the game plan? When are you seeing her again?”

“Don’t know yet,” Lando said, glancing back at his phone when it buzzed. Her latest message lit up his screen.

Y/n: You’re lucky you’re funny, Norris. I’ll let this pineapple thing slide….for now.

The smile returned to his face before he could help it.

Max smirked. “Mate, you’ve got it bad. Just don’t screw it up, yeah?”

Lando shook his head, chuckling. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Max.”

Max gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Anytime, lover boy. Anytime.”

…

Then the day came. After weeks of messaging and playful banter through their phones, he was finally going to see her again. Lando had tried not to think too much about it, but now that the moment had arrived, he felt the same nervousness he had when they first met at Carlos's party.

The paddock was its usual whirlwind of activity, with mechanics, drivers, and journalists rushing around. She was leaning casually against a barrier, chatting animatedly with Carlos and another friend from their group. On her head, she wore a red Ferrari cap emblazoned with the number 55—a clear sign of her loyalty to the Spanish driver.

Lando spotted her from the other side of the paddock. His heart was racing faster than he’d like to admit. He had managed to greet her that morning with a barely audible “hi” before she turned her attention back to Carlos, and since then, he hadn’t been able to shake the thought of going up to her.

“Come on, mate, just go say hi. She won’t bite,” Max Fewtrell said, grinning as he toyed with a water bottle beside Lando.

“Easier said than done,” Lando muttered, scratching the back of his neck, trying to look distracted.

“For crying out loud, you’re a Formula 1 driver. You literally race at 300 kilometers an hour, and you can’t walk ten steps to talk to a girl? Pathetic.”

“She’s not just any girl,” Lando mumbled, his gaze inevitably drifting back to her. She was laughing at something Carlos had said, her smile lighting up the space around her—or at least that’s how it seemed to him.

Max let out an exaggerated sigh and gave him a friendly shove. “Then do something. Or I’ll go over there and tell her you’ve been standing here like an idiot, staring at her.”

“Don’t you dare!” Lando whipped around, alarmed.

Max burst out laughing, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, mate. But seriously, don’t waste time. It’s not like Carlos is going to hand-deliver her to you. Make a move already.”

Taking a deep breath, Lando grabbed his orange McLaren cap from his back pocket and started walking toward her. Each step felt heavier than the last, like he was carrying the weight of the entire paddock on his shoulders.

By the time he reached her, she was still engrossed in her conversation, completely unaware of his presence. Carlos noticed him first, a knowing smirk spreading across his face.

“Hey, Lando. What are you doing just standing there?” Carlos teased, dragging out his words with obvious intent, clearly enjoying the moment.

She turned then, her eyes locking with Lando’s. “Oh, hi, Lando!” she greeted him with the same warmth she always did.

For a moment, Lando froze, his mind completely blank. Finally, he raised the orange cap in his hand. “I think you’re wearing the wrong hat.” Before she could react, he swiftly swapped her Ferrari cap for his McLaren one.

She blinked, momentarily stunned, before bursting into laughter. “Oh, really? Is this some kind of declaration of war?”

“Something like that,” Lando replied, scratching the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks flush. Carlos chuckled and walked away, leaving them to it.

She adjusted the orange cap, looking at him with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Bad boy isn’t really your vibe, but I appreciate the effort.”

Lando relaxed a little at her laugh. “Well, someone had to save you from that awful red cap.”

“Awful?” she said, feigning offense, though her smile betrayed her. “I guess I’ll have to get my cap back by any means necessary.”

“Good luck with that.” Lando finally grinned, the initial awkwardness melting away bit by bit.

It was a small gesture, just a simple exchange of words, but in that moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in the midst of the chaos.

[godricgryffinsnore]

So......tadaaaa, just when you thought you have striked off another request from the list, you have another.

(because I need some good Harry Potte/reader stuff, even if it takes weeks)

He was in a pretty bad mood, he had been stood up on a first date. He slumped on his way back when a girl came and sat beside him on the train, crying.

[slow burn please. Like the slowest slow burn. I am looking for a long slow burn...And Sirius is alive.]

All the Quiet Things ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : When a chance meeting on a train changes the course of two very different lives, what begins as quiet companionship turns into something deeper—something far more difficult to ignore. Amid shared silences, buried feelings, and a few missteps along the way, two souls learn what it means to heal, to choose, and to love without fear.

warnings : Emotional distress, crying, and healing, Jealousy, arguments, and dramatic love confession, Strong language and romantic angst, Explicit sexual content (18+): oral (both), unprotected sex, praise/dirty talk, slow to rough progression, Embarrassing moment (others overhear them), Canon divergence (Sirius, Remus & Cedric alive), Comfort, fluff, and aftercare. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. THIS IS AN 18+ FAN FICTION. PLEASE DO NOT ENTER IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE OR IF YOU ARE A MINOR!!!

della's note : Ya, so it happened... I don't know how, where or when I got the urge to write a smut scene, but I did. But don't worry, if you want this fic in a free-smut type of way, you can read it without the smut too. Smut is at the very end of the fan fic... and I will let you know when it starts. I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT <333

word count : 4.8k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune

He had never liked dates.

He didn't know why he’d even said yes. Lavender had cornered him with her glittering eyes and her sugar-slick voice, and something about the way Ron had elbowed him had made Harry nod before his brain could catch up.

Now, it was raining. Of course it was raining.

The coffee shop had smelled too sweet, and the date never showed. Harry had sat at the window, watching the clouds gather like an omen. He didn’t even like coffee. He’d stared at his reflection in the glass—scar, glasses, eyes too tired for eighteen—and had wondered what he looked like to the rest of the world.

The train back to Grimmauld Place was nearly empty. The wet streets had scared the tourists off, and he was grateful for the silence.

He slumped into the seat by the window, coat damp, hair clinging to his forehead. His jaw was tight. The overhead lights buzzed.

Then—

A soft sound. A sniffle.

He turned, and there she was.

A girl. His age. Book pressed tight to her chest, sleeves too long, eyes swollen and red.

She sat across from him, not noticing him at all, crumpling into the corner like she was trying to disappear.

Harry should have looked away.

But she was crying. Not loud, not the kind of crying that begged attention—no. This was the silent kind. The lonely kind.

The kind he knew well.

“Are you alright?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She startled, blinking up at him like she'd only just realized he was there. Her lashes were soaked, and there was a smudge of ink on her cheek.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. It was the automatic kind of lie.

He didn’t believe her.

But he didn’t press.

The train groaned into motion, and the city lights outside blurred into gold.

She turned her face to the window, but not before he saw it—that broken sort of look, the kind people wore when they’d held on too tightly to something that slipped right through their fingers.

He wanted to ask. Who hurt you? Why are you crying? What book is that?

But instead, he sat in silence. Watching the rain. Listening to her breathe.

They didn’t speak again that night.

When the train stopped, she stood and disappeared into the dark, and he didn’t even know her name.

── .✦

They saw each other again.

Weeks later, in the library at Grimmauld Place.

It was Sirius who called her in. “Harry! This is the one I told you about—she’s working with the new historical records team from the Ministry. She’s got the brains of a Ravenclaw and the patience of a saint.”

Harry turned, and there she was.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. But she did smile—a small, knowing thing that twisted something deep in his chest.

“You’re the girl from the train,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Her eyes flickered. “And you’re the boy who stared at me like I was made of glass.”

Sirius looked between them, brows raised.

Neither of them explained.

── .✦

Weeks became months.

She started showing up more.

She was clever. Quiet. Laughed softly at Sirius’s ridiculous stories, asked sharp questions during Order meetings, and always smelled faintly like old parchment and stormy nights.

Harry liked talking to her. He liked the way her mind worked—how she made him feel like he wasn’t just the Boy Who Lived but a person with questions and dreams and wounds that didn’t need to be hidden.

But it wasn’t easy. Nothing ever was.

There were arguments. Disagreements. He didn’t like how she looked at Malfoy when he visited to give intel, didn’t like how she smiled when she spoke to Cedric Diggory at the Ministry.

She didn’t like how he shut down when he was hurting. How he’d go quiet and cold and pretend like nothing ever touched him.

“Harry,” she said one night, voice sharp with something unnameable, “You don't get to decide who I talk to.”

“I’m not deciding,” he snapped. “I’m just saying—Diggory? Really?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

And that’s when it began.

The bitterness. The bite. The awkward silences at meetings. The thunder in his chest when she smiled at someone else. The way she flinched when he ignored her in front of Ron and Hermione.

They became enemies in the way only people who used to care could be.

But oh—he still watched her.

He knew how she took her tea. Knew she cried when she read tragic poetry. Knew she kept a picture of her little sister in her notebook and touched it when she thought no one was looking.

She knew him too.

She knew how he clenched his fist when he lied. Knew when his nightmares came back, even when he didn’t say a word.

But they were silent. Too prideful. Too afraid.

Until the night everything broke.

── .✦

It was a storm.

It always had to be a storm.

Grimmauld Place, the attic, papers flying, windows rattling. The Order had had a terrible night, and Sirius had been nearly killed, and Harry found her pacing, wild-eyed, her hands shaking.

“You could’ve died!” she shouted at him. “You just ran in! No plan—no—nothing! What if—what if I never saw you again, you bloody stupid boy?!”

“I didn’t need a plan!” he yelled back. “I needed to save him!”

“You’re reckless! Arrogant! Self-sacrificing and completely idiotic—!”

“And you’re impossible!” he roared. “You smile at Cedric like I don’t exist, then act like you care—!”

“Because I do care, you great big idiot! I always did!”

Silence.

Breathing.

The storm howled outside, but inside—utter stillness.

“I always did,” she whispered again. “From the moment you asked if I was okay on that train.”

Harry stared.

She looked like everything he’d ever wanted and been too scared to ask for.

“I love you,” he said, voice hoarse, cracking. “I love you and it’s miserable. You make me feel like I’m worth something and I hate it because I’m terrified of losing you.”

And then—

They kissed.

Like a war ending. Like peace being signed on trembling lips. Like two storms learning how to hold hands without turning to thunder.

── .✦

They didn’t speak about the kiss.

Not the next day. Not the day after that.

She went back to the library. Harry helped Molly with dinner. They exchanged glances like secret letters—quiet, cautious, trembling with things unsaid.

Sirius noticed, of course.

“Why are you walking like you’re being haunted by your own hormones?” he muttered to Harry in the hallway, raising a brow. “Did something happen or not?”

Harry flushed so deeply he might’ve been hexed.

But no answer came.

Because the truth was this: kissing her had felt like magic, real magic—the kind Hogwarts never taught. And now, he was afraid that if he said it aloud, it would vanish into smoke.

── .✦

A week later, she packed her bag.

The Ministry needed her in Bulgaria for a temporary assignment. Three months. Maybe four. She didn’t tell Harry until the morning she was leaving.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” she said quietly, her fingers knotting in the strap of her satchel.

Harry stared at her.

“I care too much,” he replied. “That’s the whole problem.”

She smiled sadly. “You’re not the problem, Harry. You never were.”

And before he could say something—anything—she was gone.

── .✦

He wrote to her.

Every week.

He never sent them.

They were scrawled on napkins, the corners of maps, the back of old Order memos. He’d fold them, unfold them. Sometimes burn them in the fireplace, watching the words curl into ash.

I miss the way you whisper when you read aloud. I miss your damn tea order. I miss your stupid bookmark collection and the way you smell like lavender and rain. I miss you like a wound. Like air.

She wrote too.

But never to him.

She wrote poetry. Scribbled it between research notes. Tiny verses that felt like bleeding.

He looks at me like I’m holy and runs from me like I’m fire.

── .✦

When she came back, it was snowing.

December wrapped London in white lace, and the streets were muffled with softness. She arrived at Grimmauld Place with wind-blushed cheeks and frozen fingers.

Harry didn’t know she was coming.

He opened the door and nearly dropped his wand.

She looked... different. Softer, maybe. A little older. But the second their eyes met, something in his chest cracked wide open.

“You’re back,” he said dumbly.

“Apparently,” she whispered.

And then—

He stepped aside, and she walked back into the house. Into his world. Into the place that always felt like it had been waiting for her.

── .✦

It wasn’t easy.

They were awkward. Stilted. She would laugh too loud around others, and he would grow quiet again, like a tide retreating. He was still jealous. She still didn’t explain the way she’d touched Cedric’s arm at the last Order meeting. The tension curled between them like smoke—every conversation a slow unravelling.

Then one night—it broke.

A Christmas party. Too much firewhisky. A hallway. A sideways glance.

He snapped.

“You still love him, don’t you?” he said, sharp as glass. “You talk to me like I matter, and then you run to him every time he walks into a room.”

She turned slowly. Her eyes were on fire.

“How dare you,” she hissed. “You don’t get to dictate who I speak to, Potter. You don’t even speak to me unless it’s convenient for your bruised ego!”

His breath hitched.

“You kissed me,” he said.

“You kissed me,” she snapped. “And then you disappeared.”

“I was scared!”

“So was I!”

A pause.

A breath.

Her eyes glistened. “You think you’re the only one who’s been broken? You think you’re the only one who’s terrified of being loved just to be left?”

Harry’s hands shook. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I,” she whispered. “But I’m still here. I’m trying.”

And then—softly.

“I love you,” she breathed, voice raw. “I’ve loved you since the train. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

His chest cracked. Splintered.

“I love you,” he said back. “I love you so much it hurts.”

And this time, when they kissed—it wasn’t fireworks.

It was home.

── .✦

“You’re an idiot.”

Harry turned, startled. Sirius was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, an infuriating grin on his face.

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to. You’ve got that guilty ‘I kissed her again and now I don’t know if it meant everything or nothing’ look.”

Harry groaned and dropped his head to the table.

Sirius chuckled. “Relax, Prongslet. I’m proud of you. Took you what—two years and a raging argument to finally confess?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you hate how much you care. You hate that she makes you nervous. You hate that you want forever and don’t know if she does.”

Harry looked up. “Do you think she does?”

Sirius tilted his head, suddenly serious. “She looks at you like you hung the stars, Harry. That kind of love doesn’t fade.”

── .✦

Meanwhile, upstairs, she stood in front of the mirror, still trembling from that kiss.

She touched her lips, blinking at herself like she wasn’t sure she was real. There was something quiet blooming in her chest—hope, maybe. Or peace. Or the terrifying beginnings of both.

And then—

“Mistletoe,” Sirius announced, bursting into the room.

She screamed and spun, nearly throwing her hairbrush.

“What the hell���?!”

He grinned. “I need your help with some holiday decorations.”

“Sirius Black, if you ever want to live to see another Christmas—”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted with a wink. “The mistletoe’s not for me.”

He disappeared before she could hex him.

── .✦

The next few weeks were... soft.

Not perfect. But gentle.

She and Harry spoke more. Laughed more. There were long walks in the snow. Quiet tea in the library. Glances that lingered like poetry.

And the touches—

A hand brushing hers when passing her a quill. A shoulder leaning too close while reading by the fireplace. A pinky that hooked hers under the dinner table.

They didn’t talk about labels. Or plans. Or the future.

They just were.

And it was enough—for now.

── .✦

New Year’s Eve.

The entire house was glowing—candles floating in the air, laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of cinnamon and firewhisky thick in the air.

At 11:59, Sirius shouted, “Make a wish!”

Harry didn’t need to.

He was already standing beside her.

And when the clock struck twelve—

He kissed her. Quietly. Reverently. Like a prayer.

Not because he had to.

But because he could.

Because she was real. And here. And his.

And when she smiled against his lips, he felt like maybe, just maybe, all the quiet things were the most beautiful.

── .✦

It was late January when they went back to Hogwarts.

Not as students, no—not anymore.

McGonagall had invited them to speak to the sixth-years about magical ethics and wartime resilience. (Sirius joked that his own speech would be titled “Don’t Trust the Government, or Your Mother.”)

But really, it was just an excuse. An excuse to go back. To remember. To stand in those halls again and feel, for a moment, seventeen.

They walked through the front doors together, their fingers brushing but not quite intertwining, boots crunching on the snow-slicked stone.

The castle was quiet, blanketed in soft winter. Icicles like crystal daggers hung from the towers. Somewhere, faintly, a choir of enchanted birds sang from the rafters.

She looked up at the ceiling of the Great Hall and whispered, “It still feels like home.”

Harry looked at her.

So do you.

But he didn’t say it.

── .✦

Later that night, she found a small box on her pillow in the guest quarters.

Wrapped in dark green ribbon.

No note.

She opened it carefully—and gasped.

A charm bracelet.

Delicate. Golden. With three tiny charms already affixed.

A lightning bolt.

A teacup.

A moon.

When she touched them, they shimmered with warmth—enchanted.

The lightning bolt whispered, I’ll protect you.

The teacup murmured, I remember.

And the moon breathed, Even when we’re apart, you’re never alone.

She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes burning.

He hadn’t said a word.

But it was the most beautiful confession she’d ever heard.

── .✦

They went into Hogsmeade the next day.

It was bright with winter sunlight, the sky a sheet of silver-blue. They laughed together in the snow, tried butterbeer with cinnamon, got caught in a tangle of enchanted scarves at Gladrags.

And then—

He saw it.

A man. Laughing with her near Honeydukes. Brushing snowflakes from her cheek.

Cedric.

Harry froze.

He knew they were friends. He knew.

But still.

His blood went hot.

Jealousy curled through him like smoke. He stood, fists clenched, eyes locked on the soft, lingering way she looked at Cedric as he handed her a sugar quill.

Later, she found Harry sitting alone by the Shrieking Shack.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

A pause.

He exhaled sharply. “You smiled at him like I wasn’t even there.”

She blinked. “Harry—”

“You still like him, don’t you?”

Now she was angry.

“Are you serious? Cedric is my friend. He’s been there since before you even looked my way!”

“I’ve always looked at you,” he snapped. “You just never saw me.”

“Oh, I saw you. I saw you when you ignored me. When you let me walk away. When you kissed me and vanished.”

“I was scared!”

“I wasn’t,” she hissed, eyes glistening. “And I still showed up. I still loved you. Even when you gave me nothing.”

His breath caught.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She turned away. “Maybe sorry isn’t enough anymore.”

── .✦

She didn’t speak to him for three days.

Not in the corridors, not in the common areas, not even during the goodbye dinner in the Great Hall.

Harry felt like the walls were closing in.

Everywhere he went, he looked for her. Every empty chair she used to occupy, every ghost of her laugh echoing down the halls—it all clawed at him.

And yet, he said nothing.

Until Sirius—who’d had quite enough—shoved him up the Astronomy Tower steps one evening, locked the door behind him with a muttered, “For Merlin’s sake, fix it,” and vanished.

She was there.

Of course she was.

The stars tangled in her hair, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the frost-glittered grounds below. She didn’t look up when he entered.

“I thought you’d given up,” she said softly.

He stepped closer. “Never. Not on you.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. “Then why did you keep leaving?”

Harry’s voice cracked. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

Her breath caught.

“Because I was terrified that the second I touched something good, it would disappear. Like everything else.”

She turned then. Slowly. Her eyes—shining, tired, beautiful.

“And what changed?”

He stepped forward, close enough to brush her cheek with his breath.

“You didn’t disappear,” he whispered. “You stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was a coward.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—quietly, trembling—he dropped to his knees before her.

“I love you.”

She stared.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another charm for the bracelet.

A star.

“Every time I lost my way, I followed you,” he murmured. “You were the light.”

Her lips parted. Her heart pounded.

He took her hand. “Let me try. Let me show you that I can be soft. That I can be better. That I can love you the way you deserve—without fear, without running.”

The silence cracked wide open.

And she kissed him.

Not in a storm of fire—but in a hush of stars. Slow. Gentle. Forgiving.

Her fingers trembled against his jaw.

“I love you,” she breathed back. “I think I always did.”

── .✦

Years later, Harry would still remember that night.

The soft rustle of her laughter, the way her fingers laced through his. The first time he felt like the world had stopped spinning just so they could finally begin.

They’d return to Grimmauld Place, hand in hand.

She’d read to him by the fireplace.

He’d cook (badly) and she’d pretend to love it.

Sirius would roll his eyes and tell Remus that finally, the idiots had figured it out.

And Harry—

Harry would never forget what she said to him one night, curled against his chest beneath a sea of blankets.

“You don’t have to fight for me anymore,” she whispered.

And he’d kiss the top of her head and murmur,

“No. But I’ll love you like I still have to.”

Grimmauld Place, the night they moved in.

The house was quiet. For once. Sirius and Remus had left for an Order errand, something vague and dangerous-sounding that neither Harry nor she had pressed too hard about. The silence that followed their departure was warm—not heavy. Not haunted. Just theirs.

And then Harry walked out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea—shirtless.

Shirtless.

With the waistband of his grey sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, hair still damp from a rushed shower.

She was curled up on the sofa, blanket around her legs and a book balanced lazily in her lap, but when she looked up and saw him standing there, her Harry, in their house—something shifted.

She grinned. “You’re not even trying to be subtle, are you?”

Harry raised a brow and handed her the mug. “Subtle?”

She gestured lazily to his very bare chest. “You’re practically begging to be devoured.”

His smirk curled up devilishly. “You offering?”

She blinked. “Oh, I’m more than offering.”

And just like that—air crackled.

Harry set his mug down slowly. Purposefully. Then crawled onto the couch, straddling her legs with a wicked look in his eye. “You think I planned this? That I came out here thinking, ‘Let’s seduce her tonight’?”

She leaned back, smirking. “Did you?”

“No,” he murmured, mouth brushing her jaw, “but now that we’re here... I’m thinking about a lot of things.”

His lips were hot as they kissed down her neck, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. He chuckled against her skin.

“Sensitive, aren’t we?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

So he did.

── .✦

They kissed like the air between them had finally caught fire. Slow at first, teasing, his tongue coaxing hers into a rhythm that made her toes curl under the blanket. His hands found her thighs, pushing the fabric aside, letting his fingers trail up and up until they ghosted over the soft cotton between her legs.

“You’re already wet,” he whispered against her lips, voice low and wrecked. “Is this all for me?”

“All of it,” she breathed. “Always for you.”

He groaned, deep and desperate, and kissed her again before sliding down the couch and settling between her legs.

“Let me taste you.”

She nodded, eyes wide, heart racing.

He tugged her panties off slowly, dragging the damp fabric down her legs like it was a gift he’d been aching to unwrap. And then he licked a stripe up her slit—slow, reverent—before moaning like he’d been starving for her.

“Fuck, sweetheart… you taste so good.”

His tongue was sinful. Deliberate. He licked, sucked, and circled her clit with slow precision, using his fingers to tease her open. She arched, hips rocking toward his mouth, gasping his name.

“Harry—oh, God—”

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice thick, lips wet. “Let me hear you. Let me make you come.”

He slipped a finger inside her. Then another. Curling them just right while his tongue stayed locked on her clit, flicking harder, faster.

She cried out—sharp, broken—and came with a full-body tremble, hand tangled in his hair.

But he wasn’t done.

He kissed his way up her body, letting her feel every inch of his weight as he pressed her into the couch. Her fingers found the waistband of his pants and shoved them down, gasping when his cock sprang free, hot and heavy against her thigh.

She flipped them suddenly, pushing him back onto the cushions.

“My turn.”

He stared up at her, dazed. “Are you—”

But she was already sinking down between his legs, tongue darting out to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned, head tipping back, one hand gripping the couch while the other threaded into her hair.

“Shit—fuck, baby…”

She took him deep, slow at first, letting her tongue swirl as she hollowed her cheeks, moaning around him. He bucked instinctively, hips twitching, then stilled.

“Merlin, you’re gonna ruin me.”

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, mouth full of him, and smiled.

That did it.

He pulled her up, breathless. “I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me.”

And he did.

── .✦

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly—so slowly—watching her eyes flutter shut, her mouth fall open in a silent moan.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, burying himself to the hilt. “You feel perfect. So fucking tight, sweetheart…”

She gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “Move, Harry, please—”

He pulled out almost completely, then thrust back in hard. She cried out.

And he talked her through every second.

“Just like that.” “Taking me so well.” “You were made for me, weren’t you?” “Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart.”

Their rhythm built—slow and deep, then faster, harder. Their bodies tangled, sweat-slicked and desperate, Harry’s name falling from her lips like a prayer.

He kissed her through her next orgasm—held her as she shook around him, tightening impossibly—and then buried his face in her neck as he followed, moaning into her skin.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and breath and love.

── .✦

Later, when the sweat cooled and the stars were peeking through the curtains, he pulled the blanket over them and kissed her temple.

“You okay?”

She smiled sleepily. “I’m perfect.”

He looked down at her, wonder in his eyes.

“We live here now,” he whispered.

“We love here now,” she corrected.

And Harry Potter—her best friend, her storm, her home—held her tighter and said,

“Only you. Always you.”

── .✦

The first morning in their home.

The sunlight spilled in warm and golden. It bathed their skin in honey, lit her collarbones, kissed the curve of her thigh where Harry’s hand had curled all night long.

He was awake before her.

Still naked, hair a disaster, the sheet barely covering his lower half, and his eyes were locked on her. Soft. Mesmerized.

She stirred, blinking against the morning light.

“Harry?” her voice was hoarse, sleep-heavy.

He smiled. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Mmm… I’m sore.” She winced as she stretched, then gasped when she felt it—the dull ache of being loved properly.

Harry leaned over, kissing her bare shoulder. “Good sore?”

She glanced at him and raised a brow. “Smug much?”

He kissed her again. “You were perfect. You always are.”

Her fingers found his curls and tugged him in. “Then do something perfect again, Potter.”

He smirked—slow, sinful—and slid the sheet down, exposing her breasts to the cool morning air.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

── .✦

It wasn’t fast this time.

It was slow.

He worshipped her.

Kissed his way down her body like every inch of her was sacred. Bit at her hips. Licked at her inner thighs. Suckled her clit with aching tenderness that turned quickly filthy, his tongue moving in perfect circles while his fingers dipped into her soaked heat.

She gasped, cried out, her hand over her mouth to keep quiet—but he pulled it away.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice dark. “Let them hear. Let the whole bloody house know who you belong to.”

She came with a strangled moan.

But he didn’t stop.

He flipped her over and took her from behind, her chest pressed to their pillows while his hands gripped her hips, fucking her slow and deep.

“You feel that?” he panted, voice rough. “That’s mine. All of this—yours and mine.”

She clawed at the sheets. “Yes, Harry, oh fuck—”

He reached around to rub her clit in fast circles, hips slamming into her harder now, all rhythm lost in raw need.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered. “Come for me again. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And she did. Shaking. Crying his name.

He followed a second later with a broken, “Fuck—yes—”, spilling inside her as he buried himself one last time.

── .✦

Later, when they finally dragged themselves to the bathroom, still shaky-legged and flushed, she tried to brush her teeth.

Tried.

Harry stood behind her in nothing but boxers, arms wrapped around her waist, his face in her neck.

“Stop,” she giggled through a mouth full of toothpaste. “Let me brush.”

“I like watching you,” he said, voice gravelly. “You’re too pretty to ignore.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

She spat, wiped her mouth, and turned around to face him—only to find herself lifted onto the sink, Harry between her legs again.

“Again?” she laughed, arms around his neck.

He kissed her, slow and deep. “Always.”

── .✦

Bonus :

Grimmauld Place, still warm from last night’s sins.

The kitchen smelled like toast. And sin. Mostly sin.

She was perched on the counter in one of Harry’s oversized T-shirts, her legs swinging lazily while Harry hovered at the stove, flipping eggs with the focus of a man who was absolutely trying to avoid a conversation.

Not with her.

No, she was grinning like the cat who’d eaten the canary. It was the other two occupants of the house they were both actively ignoring.

Because Sirius and Remus were seated at the kitchen table. And they were smirking.

“Well,” Sirius said, dramatically stirring his tea, “someone had a very active morning.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “Do we need to do this?”

Remus tried to keep a straight face. Failed. “You moaned her name like it was your Patronus.”

“Loudly,” Sirius added. “Repeatedly.”

“Honestly, I thought it was a murder.”

“A very sexy murder.”

Harry turned around slowly, face beet red, spatula still in hand. “You two have no boundaries.”

Remus lifted his mug. “We raised you. There’s nothing left to protect.”

Sirius leaned forward, chin in hand. “Though I have to say, I’m deeply offended you didn’t use a Silencing Charm. I live here, Harry. I live here.”

Harry turned to her, horrified. “Why didn’t we use a—”

She just beamed. “Because I like making you moan.”

Sirius choked on his tea. Remus actually blushed.

Harry groaned and buried his face in the kitchen towel. “I’m moving out.”

“You just moved in,” Sirius grinned. “And now you’ve christened the whole damn house.”

Remus chuckled. “Honestly, we’re just happy for you both.”

Sirius grinned, eyes sparkling. “Disgusted. Traumatized. But happy.”

Harry handed her a plate, still scarlet. “You’re evil.”

She kissed his cheek sweetly. “You moaned my name first, Potter.”

Sirius and Remus both groaned.

Harry hid his face in her neck.

The kitchen was filled with laughter, toast, and a love that was far too loud to be ashamed of.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

Happy birthday!! Rly feeling the

"You’re all mine tonight, don’t forget that."

With my main man 🔥 ace 🔥 and gn!reader

Bless ur soul for the meet cute series 🥴🤭 I go back and reread firestarter like… regularly now

Oh, Anon... *heavy sigh* I'm so, so sorry for the delay. It's quite possible you have already forgotten about this ask since my birthday was back in September *shame! shame! shame!* I still have a few of these to finish, and every time I open my askbox I cringe in shame... Honestly, I had this one practically finished in my WIP pile. It took just a little bit of editing to get it done. If you're still there, I hope you enjoy this with all my heart!

Source for Pic

Amo-te 🔞

Word Count: 2618

Tags: gn!reader; NSFW; MDNI; fluff and porn;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: After a rowdy night of drinking and games, someone dares Ace to tell you how he feels. Instead, he hands you a note written in Portuguese and tells you that if you find out what it means... you're all his for the night!

Notes: I'm not sure if it's canon or not, but I always see everywhere that Ace is Portuguese. So I wanted to pay a little homage to that and have some fun! Hope you enjoy!

|Masterlist|

You stare at the piece of paper Ace handed you as if the thing has eyes and two heads, then trace the messy handwriting with your fingertip: Amo-te. What the hell? How are you going to find out what that means? You suppose it’s Portuguese because Ace speaks it, but other than a few curse words, he hasn’t taught the crew anything else. 

Definitely not that word. 

You and Ace have been tiptoeing around your feelings for a while now, clearly interested in one another, but neither brave enough to take the first step. You, because you don’t know if he feels the same way, and he, because he doesn’t feel like he deserves to be loved.

Still, there’s barely a moment when you’re not near or touching each other. 

The crew has noticed this, even strangers on the islands you docked at have, instantly assuming you’re a couple before you have to clarify that you’re not. And still, you both pretend not to notice. 

Until one eventful evening aboard the Moby Dick, when the drinks are flowing freely, and the games start to become spicier and more daring.

-*-

Earlier…

The dares were getting out of hand. Crewmembers were taking dips in the ocean, drinking more than their fair share; someone even dared Marco to cut a piece of Whitebeard’s mustache off - though Marco took the penalty instead of fulfilling the dare, thank the Gods. 

The truths were embarrassing, to say the least. Thanks to them, you’d learned that Vista sleeps naked, Izou cuddles his guns as he’s falling asleep, and you had to endure Jozu explaining - in extreme detail - his routine for what he unfortunately calls his ‘pampering time’.

Which was the dirtiest thing you’ve ever had to hear. 

Then it was Ace’s turn to fulfill a dare.

“Tell them exactly how you feel.” Izou dared, pointing at you with a smirk. The ship tilted - not only because you were tipsy, but because maybe you weren’t ready for the truth - and your breath hitched. 

Ace seemed to ponder the dare for a while. Then he chugged his drink, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and strode towards you with confident steps, the curve of his smile kissing his freckles. 

He handed you the folded paper without breaking eye contact and leaned in. His hair brushed your face, and his breath felt hot against your ear. You swore the alcohol-laden whisper made you drunker than you already were. 

“If you find out what it means by midnight, you’re all mine tonight. Don’t forget that.”

-*-

Now…

Amo-te. 

What the royal fuck. You can feel Ace's smug smirk burning holes in your skin as he sits against the mast, arms behind his head, still shirtless, even though the weather is turning nippy, because he never gets cold. 

You have half a mind to just stride over to him and demand that he tell you what it is, but you know he’ll brag about outsmarting you - someone who thrives on challenges - and how you weren’t able to figure such a simple thing out. 

It has to be something meaningful. Why else would he have added the phrase that ‘you’re all his’ if you figure it out? Just the thought has you blushing and biting your lower lip. 

You’ve asked some people from the crew about it, Marco seemed to recognize the word, because he snickered and said ‘about damn time’, but then he pretended to be as dumbfounded as you, leaving you with no clue whatsoever.  The others were useless.

At dinner, Ace sits next to you, his smug grin growing even smugger as your frustration builds.

“Ready to give up?” He nudges you with his leg, sporting another smug grin, and you growl a ‘never’ at him, then shove food into your mouth, chewing as obnoxiously as possible. 

After a while in silence, you sigh, the paper burning a hole in your pocket. “What if I don’t figure it out? Will you still tell me?”

Ace puts down his food and turns his dark eyes towards you. The smugness in his grin vanishes, and there’s only sweetness in his smile now. “Probably.”

“And–” You hesitate as your eyes travel back to your plate, and your ears turn red. “About what you said after…”

Ace’s chuckle is both amused and sultry, and you have no idea how he manages that combination, because it gets your heart racing. 

“Sweetheart, that deal’s off if you don’t figure it out…”

Damn it.

“You’re being a tease,” you point out, knowing that both of you have tiptoed around the possibility of turning your friendly relationship into something more carnal whenever you’re at sea for so long, just so you can both take care of your urges, but that never happened.

“And you’re loving it.” He’s not wrong… and that infuriates you.

“Fine!” Resisting the urge to crumple the paper and shove it in his mouth, you finish the last few bites of your food and grab the plate to clear the table. “I’ll figure it out, Fire Fist, and when I do…” Your smirk is nearly unhinged. “You better deliver.”

-*-

The library!

With a smack on your forehead, you make a beeline towards the place, ushering quick apologies when you hastily bump into your crewmates. The ship’s library is not huge, but with Ace here, you’re pretty sure there has to be a book that can help you, or at least give you a hint about what this means. 

It takes you all but five minutes to locate a small ‘Common/Portuguese & Portuguese/Common’ dictionary and less than one to realise someone ripped the page that would show you what the word meant. 

The curses that come out of your lips next cannot be found in any dictionary. 

You slump against a bookshelf and wince when a book falls on your head. Defeat and helplessness wash over you, and you don’t even try to stop the disappointment filling your chest. 

Time’s running out. 

You know it’s stupid to feel upset about something this small, this trivial, but what if it’s not small or trivial? What if this next step is what both of you need to make things official? You and Ace banter a lot, but there are times when you crave affection instead of jokes; warmth instead of fire; love instead of friendship…

You crave to see Ace’s eyes light up with the same brightness as when he speaks about his little brother. With so much love and devotion and—

His little brother!

Luffy!

You practically fly over the steps, running through the ship, passing by Ace and making a vulgar gesture at him, who only snorts and taps his wrist obnoxiously, shouting ‘tick tock, tick tock’. Barging into a cabin, you thank the heavens above that there’s no one here to report you, because there are stipulated times for using the Den Den Mushis, and their sleeping schedule is not to be disturbed unless there’s an emergency. 

Though you’d argue and fight tooth and nail with anyone, claiming this to be a super-duper emergency. 

“Come on, come on…�� Your feet tap impatiently against the wooden floor, sweat dampening your forehead, as the Den Den keeps ringing. The footfalls coming through the hall can only belong to one man. 

A man who has come to collect your shame and make fun of your defeat.

Ace.

“Hello?” A curse and a prayer fall from your lips.

“Hi! Hi! I need to speak with Luffy, please, it’s urgent!” You tell the male voice on the other side your name and add that you met him once before, when you and Ace visited his brother’s ship.

Usopp, having identified himself as such, goes to fetch Luffy, and your foot taps faster and harder. You still have two minutes before midnight. Before you have to admit defeat and… perhaps… lose the chance to turn yours and Ace’s relationship into something more.

The footsteps come closer to the door. 

“Luffy!” You sigh in relief when a bright and cheery voice shouts your name on the other side of the line. “Listen, I really don’t have much time to chat, but I need your help, please, please!”

You don’t even wait for his reply. “Your brother gave me a note that says ‘Amo-te,’” you read, praying you got the pronunciation correct. “And I really need to know what it means! Please! Can you help!”

FUCK! Thirty seconds. 

“Wow! He said that to you?” Luffy’s laugh accelerates the ticking of the clock as he fills the time with mirth instead of answers. 

“Luffy! Please!”

“Alright, alright.” Ten seconds. “But if he said that to you, that means you’re special. Tell him to bring you over another time! We need to—”

“LUFFY!”

Three…

“‘Amo-te’ is Portuguese for—”

Two…

“I love you.”

One.

The door swings open, and Ace stares at you. The silence is so loud you can hear your breaths echoing off the walls. Luffy calls your name, and you hang up without telling him ‘thank you’ or ‘goodbye.’

I love you. 

“Do you mean it?” you whisper, your voice sounding both small and hopeful in the same breath. 

Ace scratches the back of his head, his usual confident smile nowhere in sight. He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything, just nods. 

Then he takes another step inside the cabin and locks the door behind him. All breath leaves your lungs in a soundless whoosh. 

‘You’re all mine tonight.’ 

You see his throat bobbing up and down and realise that, for once, he seems nervous. Is he dreading your answer?

“Prove it.” A tease. A test. A way to get him to come to you and make good on his promise. 

He delivers. 

With a groan, Ace takes the step separating you both and crashes his mouth against yours in a move that was long promised. Teeth collide, and you grunt in response. His hands cup your face as your palms find purchase against the planes of his chest muscles. With a nip of your lower teeth, he demands entry, and you open your mouth.

Immediately, his tongue explores. 

Everything about Ace feels like fire and smouldering heat. His touch burns, his tongue consumes, and the unholy little noises he’s releasing drive you to the brink of insanity. 

Clothes start to fly, and it’s a mercy on the poor Den Dens that some of the articles fall on top of their lazy eyes. At least this way, they’ll be spared from what’s about to happen. 

Ace’s tongue relents from your own only to latch onto your neck, down your jaw, tracing your collarbone and your chest. You look down and almost bite your lower lip off trying to stifle a moan at the sight of his length. 

“Fuck.”

“I intend to, sweetheart. Let’s get you ready first, shall we?”

Where are his nerves? Wasn’t he nervous just minutes ago? Was it an act? Or is this confidence the act? 

Maybe he was just scared of your reaction to his advances. 

He dips his hands and strokes, caresses, and teases. His fingers play you like a fine instrument, and your moans are the most wonderful melody. With a smirk, he drops to his knees, taking all your sane thoughts with him as his sinful tongue swirls, sucks, and teases some more. 

“Holy. Fuck.” There are no more words in your scrambled brain. Only pleasure. Blinding, hot pleasure. 

Your fingers thread through dark locks, and you pull, making him grunt against you, building up heat, pressure, and pleasure until you know you won’t be able to hold off any longer. 

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs against you, the slight vibrations of his lips on you sending a shudder down your legs and up your spine. “Gotta warm you up, real nice,” he says, and at the same time, he heats up his hands and - somehow - his lips, too.

It’s too much, too consuming, too intense. It’s…

Not enough.

“Ace… Ace… more… I… more…” You’re whining and writhing while he holds you still, tongue lapping, teeth nibbling, and the damn vibrato of his groans and grumbles turning you into a volcano ready to erupt. 

“Come for me, love.” And it’s the sensuous last word that completely wrecks you. Your hands grip, entwining with onyx hair as your back arches and your lips part to let out an otherworldly cry of pleasure. 

He holds you until you come down from your high, panting, sweating, dripping. Then he rises, all smug confidence again, as he flushes his body against yours, his cock gloriously saluting you, impossibly hot even against your still-feverish skin. 

“All tapped out? I said all night… didn’t I?” He licks a drip of sweat from your temple, and you groan again through a pant, trying to even your breathing.

“You said tonight. No specifics.”

“Ah,” he chuckles. “Semantics.” Ace gathers some of your juices on his fingers and teases them around your hole, testing slowly before trying to push one in, only to be greedily suctioned. “Fuck,” he whispers, finally rattled. 

“Say it,” you demand. And you know you don’t have to specify what you want, not when it’s something that’s been dangling over your heads for a long, long time now. 

“I love you.” Ace’s breath fans your eyelids, and you shudder. Not only from the warm sensation of the gesture, but also because he inserted another finger, stretching you up, opening you up just for him and his massive cock. 

“In Portuguese,” you breathe out alongside a wanton moan as he uses his other hand to spread you further so you can take another finger. 

“Amo-te.” You said it earlier over the Den Den, but the way the syllables come out of his sinful mouth has you twitching all over his hand. 

“Gods above… Ace, I love you, I love you, too.” He can’t seem to hold himself back anymore after that. With a feral groan, he takes your lips again and removes his fingers, smearing his precum over the tip of his cock and holding it steady against your entry. 

You part the kiss with a pant as he slides the tip in, head falling back in abandon. “Say it again!”

“Amo-te,” he repeats through pants as he sheaths all the way in with a slow, languorous movement. “I have for a long time—fuck. For a very long time. I never want to let you go, never—fuck.”

You muffle a wanton moan against him as you wrap your arms around his neck, adjusting to his length. 

“Me too, me too,” you chant, and he picks up the pace, pulling out slowly then slamming back in until you’re crying out his name between pants. “I love you, I love you, I—”

Ace groans, the tips of his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he angles you just right to take him. You’re already on the brink of ecstasy again, and by the sloppy thrusts and unhinged grunts he’s releasing, Ace isn’t that far behind. 

“I love you!” you cry out before succumbing once more to bliss and pleasure. 

“Amo-te,” Ace pants between clenched teeth as he pushes through before his own climax. “Para sempre.”

You lie in his arms, limp, drenched in sweat and still trying to catch your breath. Ace’s still buried deep inside you, and you can feel him twitch the last drops of his release. His body feels hotter than usual, sticky to the touch, but oh so divine. 

“Ace?”

“Hmm?”

“What the fuck is ‘para sempre’?”

He merely laughs, holding you tighter, closer, as whatever barriers were holding you both back from the forming of this connection crumble, never to rise again. 

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Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @igiulss @walmartmihawk

[yoiisa]

Hello! It’s my first time requesting, so it’s gonna be a bit awkward and off but can I request windbreaker boys suo, nirei, sakura + anyone you want to add with a crush who’s like yuki itose from a sign of affection? Where reader is deaf but is pretty much content with her life and she really enjoys everything despite not being able to hear? And shes really delicate and sweet yet also honest whenever she needs to be? Thank you!!?

this was one of the animes i watched recently as i was getting super back into it, and yuki is iconic, i love her sm!!

➜ suo hayato is super accommodating for you in every respect ➜ he's a lot like itsuomi in that respect. he will learn sign for you and enjoys having a language that only the two of you can understand ➜ he's a little shit sometimes though, and will probably use it to talk shit a lot, in front of other people ➜ he's also very likely to be protective over you because your deaf, but not in the way oushi is where he is just "stay inside, never go into the world, it's dangerous" ➜ rather, he'll be in the background, looming ominously, and threatening anyone who tries shit with you ➜ suo is protective bf #1, and wears it like a badge of honor

The two of you went to an anime exhibition at a nearby museum for your date. Suo kept you close the entire time, his hand interlocked with yours. He loves the way your eyes sparkle as you take in exclusive drawings for this exhibition, and the life size models of all your favorite characters. Your face is glowy and your lips are pulled in a perpetual smile. You did your makeup extra nice today and used a different type of perfume. Your hands are also really soft to the touch. He squeezes your hand three times, a way of telling you I love you. His smile widens as you squeeze back. However, as the two of you reach the merch section, and you're immersed in file folders and acrylic stands, Suo hears some snickering from a few feet away. He glances over to see another group of boys eyeing the two of you. His eyes drift down to you again, to see the neck of your shirt is hanging a bit low. Suo gives your shirt's neck a gentle tug and you straighten up. You stare up at him, silently asking what's wrong. "Nothing, I was just fixing your shirt a bit," he explains. You smile, nod, and continue perusing the merchandise. However, on your way out from the venue, Suo spots those boys again. Their gazes land on you and Suo feels a type of revulsion he never has before. Suo tugs at your hand and says, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom real quick. Wait here for me, okay?" As you nod, he hurries off. When he gets in the bathroom, the boys from earlier are huddled in the corner, laughing with each other. The sound is enough to make Suo sick. He approaches the two of them and they fall silent. They look as if they're about to ask him what he wants, but Suo slams his fist against the stall door next to them. "You're pathetic. You're immature scum that shouldn't be allowed to roam the Earth," he says, his voice low and threatening. "If I ever see you again, leering at anyone like that, especially a woman, you'll pay hell? Understand?" They give meek nods, and with that, Suo leaves them trembling in the bathroom to rejoin you for the rest of your date.

➜ nirei akihiko sometimes worries about how the two of your relationship will pan out ➜ after all, to live in a world without sound means that you're experiencing everything in a very different way than he is ➜ that being said, once he realizes that despite your different situations, you're just like him, and he couldn't be happier as your boyfriend ➜ he privately makes his own sign language guides in his notebook, and memorizes the alphabet so he can spell words out for you ➜ he also takes your deafness into account with everything you guys do, so you end up doing things like going to aquariums and museums a lot since those are more visual than auditory

Nirei hands you your ticket for the aquarium, and you take it, beaming up at him. Your face is bright and cheery, the sun making you glow. You look like an angel, fit with a halo and all. He links his elbow with yours and asks, "Ready?" At your nod, he returns your smile with an equally bright one and leads you into the aquarium. The blue hue of the tanks is everything. Unlike the sun, this light makes you look cool and refreshing, and he spends the whole day snapping candid photos of you. At one point, he captures a moment your bent over the touch tank, your hand gliding over the backs of sting rays. Your fingers graze the textured spokes of the starfish and your rub some sand between your fingers. Nirei lowers his phone for a moment, taking in the look on you face as you explore this tactile wonderland. You look so inspired by it all, your mouth split into a wide grin. Momentarily, Nirei wonders if you're gonna go home and draw some moments from today in your sketchbook. As the day continues to go by, the two of you spot some otters floating on their backs. Nirei's phone vibrates and he glances down. It's a message from you. you: id like to pet one one day ^_^ Nirei chuckles and nods, "Hopefully one day. They're cute aren't they?" As you nod, Nirei can't help but notice the way your cheeks puff up as you grin. Almost against his will, he reaches up and pinches your face. You startle and your smile falls. Nirei blusters and pulls back, spouting apologies like a running faucet. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me, please ignore that-" You giggle, the sound breaking through the fog of his panic. You shake your head and pinch his cheek back, before placing a tiny peck on the area your hand had been on. He looks like a tomato for the rest of the day.

➜ sakura haruka is a lot like oushi if i'm being completely honest ToT ➜ when you first meet/start dating, he treats you like you're fine china and the entire world is a garbage disposal ready to grind you into a fine powder and dump you into an incinerator ➜ on top of everything, you're so nice to everyone. sakura is a mistrusting person, and he always thinks there's an underlying motive to anything, so he's also very protective of you. it's more overt than suo's is though ➜ he'll get into people's face a lot if they so much as glance at you the wrong way ➜ it takes a lot of convincing on your part to get him to relax, but once he understands that you're not fragile, he lays off

His phone pings again. you: harukaaaa i can take care of myself Sakura runs a hand through his hair. He looks up at you, his eyes narrowed in concern. "I know you can, but still," he sighs. you: still what? "[name], you almost got run over! You might've if I hadn't been there, and-" his voice dies as he sees the stormy expression on your face. you: youre not some savior or my keeper whatever. im leaving. You turn on your heel to leave, but startle as Sakura's hand grasps your wrist. You whip your head around and your eyes widen as you see Sakura's expression. You're not sure there's a word to describe that expression. It's something between frustration, guilt, and desperation. "I," he pauses and takes a deep breath. He starts again, but slower this time, so you can really read his lips and get the gravity of everything he's trying to say. "I know I'm not some savior or anything. I never said I was. I- I'm sorry if I made you feel that way. I'm just worried. "I get that you've been living like this for your whole life and you're used to it by now, but . . . but I'm not. I hate the fact that these kinds of experiences are like second nature to you, but for me, they're not. I hate that I can't protect you from stuff like this." Sakura sighs and relaxes his body a bit, before finally finishing off with, "I just don't want you to get hurt." You stare up at him, noting the way the light bounces differently between his two eyes. Eventually, you take out your phone and type out another message. you: i get it everyone i meet is like this at first i hope you can get used to caring about me He pauses and shakes his head. "I don't need to get used to it. I care about you, that's all there is to it," he mutters as he pats your head. Sakura sighs before saying, "I'll try to not be as condescending in the future, and tell me whenever I am, okay?"

➜ if suo is protective bf #1, then umemiya hajime is supportive bf #1 ➜ this man will have whole dates with you where he does nothing but learn sign language with you ➜ you ask multiple times if he wants to do something else, like go shopping, but no. he's perfectly (and genuinely) happy just like this ➜ you end up teaching him a lot of vocabulary related to gardening ➜ additionally, he'll buy you hand creams a lot. he loves your hands, playing with them and feeling them pat him. sometimes, he worries that your hands might be getting sore from how much they move ➜ so around once a month, he stops by a department store and brings you a bunch of tiny tubes of lavender, rose, and daisy scented lotions

As you step out onto the roof, the first thing you notice is a tiny table set up on top of a picnic blanket. The table has a few pens and notebooks on it, and you recognize Umemiya's handwriting. A tiny marble rolls towards your feet and you look up to see him standing a few feet away, holding a basket with peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers in it. "You're early," he says. You nod and he sets the produce down next to the compositions. You walk towards him and he continues, "I got some new notebooks! Already labeled them all though, so don't worry about that." You nod, and move your hands to say I noticed. You sit next to him and he pours you some iced tea. As you drink, Umemiya opens the notebook to the first page, the crips white paper reflecting the sunlight back to both of you. You pick up a pen as he jots down the date in the corner of the page. 06-07-2016. The next hour is filled with you writing to each other about sign language. You draw diagrams for him to follow, and make notes of how he can improve in the notebooks. Once your guys' time is up, Umemiya has mostly mastered vocabulary about outings. "Alright, lemme give it a go," Umemiya says, stretching his fingers out a little. His hands move in quick succession, making the message Will you go on a date with me? You clap and smile, before quickly jotting down Good job! Umemiya blinks down at the scrawl before shaking his head and trying again. No, no, [name], you give him your full attention and he tries again, putting more emphasis on the questions. Will you go on a date with me? You stare at him in silence for a hot second, before turning redder than his tomatoes. You nod your head vigorously, and Umemiya laughs. "Don't give yourself whiplash," he says, gently holding your head and making it still. You stare at him wide eyed and he signs Thank you.

➜ togame jo initially doesn't think much of you. he thinks you're cute and stuff, but he doesn't pay you much mind otherwise ➜ however, that changes when he notices small things about you that differs from the rest of the hearing world. you never have headphones in to listen to music, you always watch movies/TV shows with subtitles on, and you spend a lot of time reading the signs in the subway rather than just listening to the announcements ➜ he can't say for sure when or how, but naturally he starts to gravitate towards you, and helps you out with some day to day tasks that are more difficult since you can't hear. he falls for you shortly thereafter ➜ he never treats you any different for your deafness however. he starts learning sign language, but it's a bit more difficult for him than it is for nirei or suo, so he sticks to notebooks for the most part ➜ he writes love letters to you, and is on top of it when it comes to texting you regularly

"Hey, she got another one!" one of your friends say excitedly. In her hands is another white envelope, the contents no doubt from Togame. You're sitting at your desk, your head on the wood as you take a nap. However, you rouse at the feeling of someone tapping against it. You raise your head to see your friend standing in front of you, the letter in her hands. "From that boy you're close with," she teases. The tone is lost on you, although the expression she wears isn't. You take the envelope and peel back the flap. You take out the letter and unfold the paper, before your eyes set to work. Togame's handwriting when you first started dating was like chicken scratch- you could hardly make out the letters. Not now though, he must've been practicing. You giggle as the image flashes through your mind, someone all tough like Togame praticing his handwriting to make it all pretty. Once you finish the letter, your friend looks at you expectantly, her eyes wide and anxious to know everything. "Well, what'd it say?" she asks, bouncing on her feet a little. You take your phone out and open your notes app. You begin typing out a message to her. Just him saying he misses me and stuff. The usual :x "The usual?" your friend asks incredulously. "That reminds, me, how often exactly are you getting these kinds of letters from him?" You shrug. He's starting to do it more nowadays. Before it used to be mostly through messages. Idk why he switched. When you first started dating Togame, he was pretty reserved and chill. You kinda felt out of place, sometimes wondering if he really did like you all that much. However, these letters and constant texts put those doubts to bed real fast. "You should ask," your friend suggests, but you shake your head. She's silent for a brief moment before sighing dreamily, "Maybe he wants something permanent for you to remember him by?" She smirks as you blush at the prospect. Just because you'd accepted that he really liked you doesn't mean it'd fully set in. You couldn't wait for it to though. You were more than ready for someone as loving as Togame in your life.