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morallyinept · 1 month

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Adulation - A Marcus Pike x Alopecia F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: You've been dating and getting to know the handsome Agent Pike for some time, but there's still one last thing you've yet to tell him about yourself.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Alopecia F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity. Reader does not have hair on her head and wears wigs.)

Word Count: 7.7k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here

Triggers & Warnings: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/thigh riding/gentle dirty talk/Marcus is completely smitten with you.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎

MAIN MASTERLIST | MARCUS PIKE MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

"We should try the sampler platter," Marcus suggests, his gaze lingering on the menu of mouth watering options. "That way, we can taste a little bit of everything?"

“Well, they say variety is the spice of life. I like your thinking, Agent.” You smirk as Marcus’s cheeks fill with blood.

You watch as Marcus sips from his wine glass, deep brown eyes meeting yours over the glass rim of dark berry liquid.

“You, uh… you look really beautiful tonight. You look so good in that dress. I can’t take my eyes off you.”

“Stop it,” you smile bashfully.

“Do you really want me to stop?” He teases, pouring out more wine into your glass. “I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

You feel your face warm with pleasure at his compliment, your heart fluttering with delight, skin flecking with goosebumps and tingles as his words make their way across it.

He always makes you feel like this with a simple sentence and look. Makes you feel… seen.

"Well, I thought I'd switch things up a bit," you admit, a hint of giddy laughter in your voice. "Gotta keep you on your toes, you know?"

His eyes roam over the sleek bob of midnight black, the sharp lines of the style adding an air of sophistication to your ensemble. Your hair shimmers in the gloaming candlelight, lending an aura of mystery and allure to your already captivating presence.

Marcus chuckles, leaning closer to you across the table. "You certainly have a way of keeping me captivated," he remarks, his eyes sparkling with a magnetising affection.

“I do?” You query, reaching for your wine glass.

Marcus's eyes widen in surprise, a grin spreading across his face as he admires you. "Yeah. I love it," he replies, his voice filling with genuine admiration. "It's different, but it suits you perfectly."

“Different good?” You query and a pang of worry flits through your veins, reminding you it’s constantly there. A trusty companion, alongside your long term friends, angst and fear.

“Yeah. It’s like I’m dating all these different women.” He chuckles at the absurdity of it, his cheeks glowing with warmth.

“Do you have a favourite?” You ask him, finger circling the rim of your glass and his eyes drop to watch it momentarily.

“Hmm. Let me think…” He smiles and you can’t help but be drawn into the way his lips curve up into a dimple on his cheek. A fleshed crescent moon that you’ve fantasised about tasting since the first time you saw it revealed to you.

Marcus Pike, FBI Special Agent in the Art Crimes Department, is the epitome of the perfect man, blending smooth determination with a profound appreciation for beauty and culture.

His sharp mind and keen eye for detail makes him a formidable agent, while his unwavering commitment to justice earns him the respect of his colleagues and adversaries alike. In the high-stakes world of art crime, Marcus stands out as a shining beacon of integrity and tenacity.

He approaches each case with a meticulous attention to detail, unravelling complex webs of deception and intrigue with adept precision and skill.

Whether he’s tracking down stolen masterpieces or uncovering elaborate forgery rings, Marcus's relentless pursuit of truth and justice never wavers.

But it isn't just his professional acumen that makes Marcus so extraordinary; it’s his genuine passion for art and culture that truly sets him apart.

That, and the fact he’s ridiculously handsome.

He has a deep appreciation for the beauty and significance of the works he seeks to protect, viewing each painting, sculpture, and artefact as a priceless treasure to be safeguarded for future generations. Marcus's love for art extends beyond the confines of his work, infusing every aspect of his personal life with a sense of wonder and curiosity.

And it’s where you first met him, in the serene halls of the local art gallery where you crossed paths with Special Agent Marcus Pike. Spinning on his polished heels to greet you with the softest brown eyes you’ve ever seen on a man, and how they sparkled at you instantly.

Harbouring your own passion for art and a keen eye for beauty, you work as a curator, carefully selecting and showcasing the works of talented artists from around the world as well as in the local vicinity.

Marcus, drawn to the gallery as a way of unwinding from his case loads, found himself captivated not only by the stunning artwork on display but also by the enigmatic presence of you. Colourful and striking; your clothes, accessories, and hair, all alive with vividness.

You both spent your individual free time exploring museums and galleries, studying the brushstrokes of the masters and marvelling at the stories behind each piece.

And when he wasn't immersed in the world of art, Marcus could often be found indulging in the delights of cuisine, tempting you with indulgent treats he started bringing to you on your lunch, innocently suggesting he thought you might like it, and recommending the best places to eat.

Until he boldly suggested you try them out with him.

But perhaps Marcus's most admirable quality is his unwavering dedication to those he cares about. He’s fiercely loyal to his team, always ready to go to bat for them in the face of danger or adversity.

And when it comes to matters of the heart, Marcus is a true romantic, believing in love with every fibre of his being and never hesitating to show his affection for those closest to him.

As you’d lingered in front of a particularly captivating painting, two lovers entwined in a dance of exaggerated colour, Marcus felt a flutter of excitement in his chest.

He turned to you, his heart pounding with anticipation as he mustered up the courage to ask you a question that had been on his mind since you’d first met.

His voice was tinged with nervousness and his words caught in his throat. "I know this might seem sudden, but would you like to go out to dinner with me? I'd love to continue our conversation over a meal, if you're interested?"

“Are you asking me out on a date, Marcus?” You’d asked with hopeful eyes.

“Absolutely I am.”

And you were interested. God, of course you were. Excited at the prospect of getting to know this incredibly gorgeous man some more.

But also, incredibly terrified.

The thought of dating had long filled you with a sense of dread and anxiety. How could you ever expect someone to love and want you when you struggled to love yourself?

Past experiences had let you down incessantly. The idea of revealing your secret to a potential partner filled you with a swamping dread, the fear of rejection looming like a dark cloud ready to break in the distance.

You’d spent years perfecting the art of concealment, hiding the bald patches beneath layers of carefully styled hair, until eventually the patches became an entirely bare head and you had no choice but to wear wigs.

But no matter how hard you tried to hide your condition, the truth remained - you were different. Convincing yourself that you were flawed, even unlovable for a while.

But deep down, you knew that you couldn't let fear dictate your life forever. Somewhere out there, you hoped, was someone who would see past your alopecia.

On your first date together, Marcus took you to a different art gallery, one of his favourites in the city, knowing your love for beauty and culture would be a perfect match for the setting.

As you both wandered through the halls adorned with vibrant paintings and striking sculptures, Marcus couldn't help but admire the way your eyes lit up with wonder and fascination.

He watched in rapt attention as you studied each piece with a keen eye, your curiosity piqued by the stories and emotions captured within the artwork.

You exchanged whispered observations and shared smiles as you explored the gallery together, lost in the magic of the moment.

Fingers accidentally on purpose brushing against one another until they interlocked. Lips inching closer until they finally met in soft hums of appreciation and want. Whispers that erupted into breathy giggles as you slipped into alcoves to explore those lips some more.

He complimented everything about you, your eyes, the way you taste and your hair, winding his fingers through the loose, flowing curls as they fell over your shoulder. Clearly unable to tell that it wasn’t your real hair, and that made it all the more devastating somehow.

You couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that chomped at your insides. Marcus looked at you with such openness and sincerity, yet you couldn't bring yourself to reveal the truth about your hair loss.

The thought of disappointing him, of shattering the illusion of perfection you had carefully crafted, filled you with guilt every time he smiled softly at you. How could you continue to deceive him, knowing that the truth would inevitably come to light?

As you continued to get close, your mind raced with thoughts of confession and consequence. You imagined Marcus's reaction - the shock, the disappointment, the inevitable rejection that would sure follow.

The fear of facing his judgement, of losing his affection, threatened to consume you whole. To the point you considered calling the whole dating thing off to save the heartache.

But you couldn’t abnegate yourself away from him either, drawn to him, by more than just your commonalities, which were growing in number and taste the more you shared time together.

The more he kissed you, held you close to him in his big hands, pressed you up against the warmth of him in a tight embrace, the more you just wanted him back.

Your dates had taken you both to bustling markets, where you’d sampled exotic street foods and danced to the rhythm of live music. You’d strolled hand in hand through tranquil parks, lost in deep conversation as you watched the sunset paint the sky with hues of pink and gold.

With each passing date, you and Marcus had peeled back the layers of your personalities, revealing your hopes and dreams to one another. Discovering shared interests and passions, as well as the unique quirks and idiosyncrasies that made each of you who you are.

He spoke of his previous marriage, divorced and left adrift on a lonesome island of singledom. Then he told you about a colleague he’d fallen for, but again it had left him facing the nights alone in his new apartment here in D.C. when she’d made another choice.

His talk of rejection stumped him for a while, those brown eyes pulled deeper into his skull as he contemplated, the scars still visible, and it melted the fear clinging onto your own shoulders somewhat.

You shared your own tales of heartbreak and there wasn’t much that you didn’t know about one another, revealing all your secrets and worries with ease.

Well, almost all of them.

Your finger winds through the cut length of the synthetic bob, one wig of several in your stylish armoury, and you swallow dryly, clearing your throat.

It’s been on the cusp of your tongue but never seems to become a whole word with sound and vowels. And terrifying repercussions should it want to be pronounced.

The waiter soon arrives with the sampler platter, a colourful array of small plates arranged artfully on a wooden board. Your eyes widen in delight as you survey the tempting spread before you.

As you both sample the various dishes laid out, around delightful hums of satisfaction, Marcus can't help but marvel at the diverse flavours and textures that dance across his palate.

He glances at you, a playful twinkle in his eyes, as he reaches for another bite, but holds it out to you instead.

"This is incredible, try this," Marcus remarks, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm as you lean in and taste it from his fork. You simply can’t resist him in any way.

“Delicious.” You agree.

You take a sip of your wine, a curious glint in your eyes as you look back at him.

"So, tell me something about you that I don't already know yet," you prompt, a playful smile dancing on your lips.

“You want a heinous dark secret, hmm?” Marcus teases.

“Sure. The more dark and twisted the better.” You giggle.

Marcus chuckles, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his gaze. "Well, you might not believe it, but I used to play bass in a band. I don’t think I've mentioned that yet," he confesses, his voice tinged with fond reminiscence.

Your eyes widen in surprise, your interest piqued. "Are you a secret metalhead, Marcus?”

“Well, not quite.”

“That's really cool," you confirm, leaning forward eagerly. "What was the name of your band?"

Marcus grins, his peepers glinting with excitement at the memory. "We were called 'Midnight Groove'," he reveals, a nostalgic smile playing on his pink lips. "And we were all about that funky, soulful sound. We played everything from classic rock to blues to jazz fusion."

Your lips curve into a smile as you imagine Marcus on stage, lost in the rhythm of the music, fingers plucking at strings. You glance at them around his glass, thick and you lick your lips.

"That sounds amazing," you remark, your voice filled with admiration. "I would love to hear you play sometime."

Marcus’s smile widens at your enthusiasm, his heart warmed by your genuine interest. "I'd like that," he says softly, his gaze locked with yours. "Maybe one day I'll dust off my old bass guitar and serenade you with some funky tunes."

“You don't play much anymore?”

“Disbanded. Work became all encompassing and we scattered. We stay in touch though. They’re a good bunch of guys.”

As the conversation and flirtatious looks flows between you both, Marcus leans in again, his eyes soft with genuine interest.

"So, tell me something about yourself that I don't know yet," he prompts, a warm smile playing on his lips.

His question hangs in the air, lingering between you like a taut thread of anticipation. Pulling tight, tight, tighter - until it snaps!

For a moment, you hesitate, your mind racing as you grapple with the weight of Marcus's innocent inquiry.

You search for something to share, something that will offer him a glimpse into your world without revealing the vulnerable truth you keep hidden beneath your wigs.

But try as you might, you find yourself at a loss for words, because he already knows everything. He knows where you grew up, how you got that little scar on your knee, who your first crush was...

He knows, he has to know right? It’s obvious. Has to be. The fact your hair is so different every time you see him is apparent that you wear wigs. He can’t be that naive or oblivious.

The weight of your secret bears down on you like a heavy burden, suffocating your ability to speak and leaving you feeling exposed and prickly. You look at him, eyes soft and lips smiling in playful anticipation of your secret you’ll reveal.

He knows everything about you. Everything. Except this one, tiny, completely significant detail you’ve deliberately left out.

As the silence stretches between you, Marcus reaches out to gently touch your hand, sending a jolt of warmth through your body.

"Hey,” the velvety feel of his thumb stroking over your knuckles makes you somewhat dizzy. “You don't have to share anything you're not comfortable with," he reassures you, his voice soft and grounding.

You contemplate ending it right here, before Marcus has the chance to discover it all.

Your mind flits between making up some white lie or excusing yourself to the bathroom and walking out, disappearing from his life without a trace. It would be easier that way, wouldn't it? Easier than facing the inevitable truth.

But as you look into Marcus's eyes, filled with warmth and kindness, you know that you can't bring yourself to hurt him like that. Despite your fears and insecurities, you can't bear the thought of losing him - not when he's become such an integral part of your life, not when you’ve come to care for him so deeply.

Your gaze falters for a moment, your mind racing as you debate whether to reveal it. It could change everything - you suspect it might. It has before, countless times before. A repetitive déjà vu you're doomed to live through on endless repeat.

You don’t want to tarnish Marcus with the same brush, it’s unfair. But you’ve walked this path before and it’s hard not to expect disappointment. People are such fickle creatures after all.

But the way he’s looking at you now, with deep brown eyes that reflect the candlelight, he softens your edges, makes the outline of your sight fuzzy and full of bokeh sparkles.

A flicker of uncertainty crosses over your features before you finally brave yourself to speak.

"Well, there's something I haven't really talked about before," you began slowly, your voice just above a trembled whisper.

And now you’ve started it’s unnerving to know how to finish.

“Do you wanna leave, go somewhere private and talk?” He asks, sensing your hesitancy.

“No, no, here is okay. Besides, if I don’t just come out and tell you now, I probably… won’t.”

“Okay.” Marcus says, his smile dipping a little. “Take your time. You can tell me anything, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezes your hand inside his to emphasise the point. And you instantly feel wretched for assuming that he would once he knows.

He’s done nothing but make you feel at ease since the moment you met. Make you feel awash with vibrancy. He sees all your colours, every single one and doesn't try to grey them out or tone them down. He really likes you for… you.

That’s all you’ve ever wanted, right?

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage as you meet Marcus's curious gaze.

"It's just... I-I have a condition called alopecia," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's why my hair looks different all the time. I wear wigs."

You pick up your wine glass, quickly downing the contents in two large gulps as your heart thuds inside your ears.

Marcus nods, the smile instantly returning. “Yeah, I knew that.”

You baulk. “Wait, you did?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t know for sure that it was alopecia, but I suspected it was probably something like that.”

“Your detective skills precede you, Agent.”

He smiles. “No, I just pay attention to things I really like looking at.”

You smile back, any panic instantly falling from your shoulders.

“I didn’t want to pry. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. I didn’t know for sure so didn’t want to assume. I've always admired your style. Especially your hair. It's so versatile - one day it's short and spunky, the next it's long and glamorous. I wish I had your knack for switching up my look."

“You look pretty fine to me, Marcus.” You say with a smile and his cheeks glow again.

“Either way, I kinda love all those different looks on you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. They’re amazing and really compliment your personality,” he says and you feel warm at his admission.

Throughout your dates, your hair has been a delightful kaleidoscope of colours and styles, each wig a reflection of your vibrant personality and adventurous spirit.

On your first meeting at the art gallery, your hair was cascaded in loose curls of rich chestnut in soft waves that caught his eye as you moved. The subtle highlights danced in the gallery's dim lighting, accentuating your features and drawing Marcus's gaze like a moth to a flame.

On a spontaneous night outing to a live jazz club, you surprised Marcus with a playful pixie cut of platinum blonde, the short strands framing your face in a halo of light.

With each nod of your head to the rhythm of the music, your hair caught the stage lights and sparkled like a constellation in the night sky, mesmerising Marcus with its silvery glimmer.

As your dates blossomed in frequency, you continued to delight and surprise Marcus with your ever-changing hairstyles. From long, flowing locks of fiery red to bold, statement-making curls of electric blue, and shorter edgy styles, each wig you wear is a testament to your creativity and bright confidence, and Marcus finds himself falling more deeply for you with each passing day.

And he never queries why, just admiring and complimenting, and accepting that this is who you are.

“Do you mind talking about it?” Marcus asks.

“Not at all. I mean, not many people want to, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Compassion and understanding is often hard to compete with judgemental stares and whispering, you know?”

Marcus frowns. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that. That must have been hard.” He says sincerely.

“The wigs help. Most people assume it’s a fashion choice.” You explain.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

He looks at you deeply. “Is it all over or just… your head?”

You breathe in. “Mostly my head. But for a while, I lost my eyelashes. I have hair… uh, elsewhere. But it tends to be really patchy so I keep it… trim.” You say, swallowing dryly as Marcus blushes.

“I’m uh… I’m sure it’s all perfect.” He surmises.

You smile. “My hair sometimes grows patchy on my head too, but it’s never long enough to grow out into full hair, if that makes sense? So I just shave it off. It’s easier.”

Marcus nods, listening intently. “What's your favourite wig that you have?”

You think about it for a moment. “The one I was wearing the day I met you.”

He blushes. “Yeah. I really like that one too.”

“Maybe I should wear it more often.” Tears well up in your eyes as you look at Marcus, overwhelmed by his kindness and sincerity.

“Hey,” he says, taking your hand again.

"I was so afraid that you’d be repulsed by me," you admit, your voice trembling.

“Why would you think that? I think you're absolutely beautiful. I’ve always thought so.”

“Oh, Marcus.” You sniffle, reaching for your napkin to dab your eyes before your mascara runs.

“I mean it.” He squeezes your hand again, wrapping his fingers around your own, his eyes filled with compassion. "Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me," he says softly, his voice filled with warmth. "But it doesn't change how I feel about you. You're still the same amazing person I've come to care about. I really care about you."

You look at him, his hand emanating so much warmth around yours. “Yeah?”

He nods, smiling. “Can I tell you another secret?”

“Sure.”

“I’m really falling for you, actually. Head over heels, completely and utterly.” He admits.

In that moment, the world seems to stand still as you process Marcus's heartfelt confession. A surge of warmth floods your chest, chasing away the lingering doubts and fears that have plagued you for so long.

"Marcus, I..." you begin, your voice choked with emotion. "I'm falling for you, too."

The smile that spreads across his face could outshine the sun.

With a soft exhale, Marcus leans in closer, his voice a tender whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

Marcus’s gaze locks with yours in a silent plea. "Would you... would you like to come back to my place after we finish up here?"

Your breath catches in your throat at Marcus's suggestion, your mind awash with a whirlwind of emotions and desires. The thought of being alone with him, of exploring the depths of your connection in the privacy of his home, sends a thrill coursing through your veins.

You can imagine him peeling you out of your dress, running his hands all over your skin. Asking you to stay with hot breath snaking in your ear because he wants to make love to you all night long. Wants to watch you buck and moan for him.

You’ve thought about it a lot at night, seeking satisfaction with your fingers and vibrator as your mind conjures up all the ways he can leave you satisfied. And you’d say yes, wanting nothing more than to let him fill you full of him, and then you’d have to take your wig off to sleep in his arms and-

“Oh.” Your thighs squeeze themselves together relieving some of that delicious anticipation, despite your mind penduluming between abject want and that familiar fear.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have any wild expectations. Just some more wine and maybe a movie? Some cuddles on the couch?” Marcus tempts.

With a slow nod, you meet Marcus's soft gaze with unwavering determination. You can’t abnegate yourself. Especially when it’s apparent he still wants to spend time with you, despite now knowing entirely everything about you.

"Yes," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'd really like that."

“Me too.” He smiles at you with a soft beam.

"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."

You smile as Marcus talks along with the film Casablanca rolling across his flat TV screen. Changing his accent to match Humphrey Bogart’s, which makes you giggle, because it sounds nothing like it at all. Then he laughs with you, his chuckles sounding like wind chimes.

Wrapped in a cosy blanket, you nestle closer to Marcus, your head resting against his chest as you lose yourselves in the timeless tale unfolding onscreen.

Marcus drapes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer with a gentle warmth that envelopes you in a sense of security and belonging.

Close up, Marcus exudes an aura of warmth and masculinity that’s impossible to ignore with each breath you inhale pressed against his broad chest. He’s dressed more casually now, exchanging his suit pants for casual grey sweats and his crips shirt for a looser round neck.

His scent mingles with the natural musk of his skin, creating a tantalising combination that stirs something primal within. You get whiffs of citrusy bergamot and zesty orange, base notes that are complimented by hints of spicy cinnamon and clove each time you breathe in.

You can smell the fruity tones of the cabernet on the soft warmth of his breath, cascading down your forehead onto your nose.

As you watch the movie together, your soft breathing mingled with the crackle of the fireplace fills the room with a sense of warmth and intimacy, something you’ve always craved with a partner. To just feel close and wanted.

Marcus will occasionally steal glances down at you, his heart swelling with affection at the sight of you relaxed and at ease in his arms.

“This feels so good.” You murmur into his shoulder.

“Yeah, it really does.” He agrees.

“Oh sorry, I was talking to Rick Blaine.” You giggle, his hand lowering and pinching your hip playfully.

“Oh really?” Marcus teases. “Shall I leave you and Rick to it then?”

You giggle some more and he pulls you in closer.

“He is really handsome, I’ll give you that. Maybe I’ll stay and watch.” He remarks.

“Kinky,” you smirk.

His chest heaves from another chuckle.

“He’s not as handsome as you, though.” You chirp, looking at him.

As you trace the lines of his face with your gaze - the strong jawline, the stubble-softened cheeks, the gentle slope of his nose - you marvel at the beauty of the man before you.

He’s a masterpiece in every sense of the word - a work of art crafted with care and precision, a reflection of the love and light that dwells within his gentle soul.

“Oh yeah?”

You nod looking up at him. “Yeah. Sexy too.”

He grins with twinkly eyes. “You think I’m sexy?”

“Really sexy,” you nod, leaning up to kiss him.

“I think you’re incredibly sexy.” Marcus says as he brushes his lips against yours. “Mmm, God… look at you.”

His tongue slips into your mouth, tantalising you into a willing submission inside his arms. It’s a kiss filled with tenderness and passion, a silent promise of love and acceptance that transcends words between you.

“It’s late,” you say softly, a dreamy relaxation settling into your bones, limbs warm from the wine and the snuggly blanket draped over you both.

Soft hums, hands that sweep up arms and into the back of his hairline, a nose that crushes against yours as you breathe into one another, you connect on deeper levels. You could kiss him forever.

“Yeah,” he glances over at the clock and it’s nearing midnight. “I’ll call you a cab., sweetheart.”

Looking a little bereft, he goes to move, but your palm on his chest stops him.

"Marcus, I... I don't want to leave, but-"

The thought of staying the night with Marcus is both thrilling and terrifying, for it means revealing your most vulnerable self - the woman beneath the carefully crafted facade of your wigs.

But every fibre in your body wants him pressed up close to you like he is now, holding you in his arms, skin on delicious skin.

You nod.

“It’s okay. I feel the same way. I'm nervous too."

"You are?"

"Because... you want me. It's felt like no-one really has most of my life. Second best." He says, his smile dipping.

"It's their loss, Marcus. Trust me." You smile.

"I really wanna hold you all night and wake up with you in the morning. Make you pancakes for breakfast.” He smiles again, brushing his nose against yours. “But I also don't want you to feel uncomfortable." He says, his fingers stroking against your cheek.

“But… when you’re ready, I do have something that might put you at ease.”

“What?”

“One sec.” He pushes off the blanket and disappears out of the room quickly.

You hear the thud of the stairs as he dashes up them and the shake again as he comes back down with something behind his back.

“Marcus-” You grin waiting for him to reveal it.

“I want you to know that I think you're beautiful, with or without your wig. And if and when you're ready to take it off, I'll be here for you, every step of the way. It changes nothing for me."

You smile softly at him.

“And I got this, for when you stay. I mean, if you want to. I hope you’ll want to. But I read some things about alopecia and some people said-”

“You read up on it?” You ask, your eyebrows rising.

“Yeah.” He hands it to you and your fingers stroke across a silken cap in a striking, deep sapphire hue.

“Marcus.”

The simple gesture speaks volumes about his thoughtfulness and care, touching you in a way you hadn't expected.

Tears well up in your eyes as you take the dainty cap from Marcus's outstretched hand, your fingers trembling with gratitude. It’s more than just a gift - it’s a symbol of his acceptance, his willingness to embrace every part of you, including your alopecia.

“I read that you might feel cold, when you sleep?”

“Yeah, I do,” you nod, wiping your eyes. “This is so thoughtful, Marcus.”

You’ve kept your alopecia hidden for so long, fearing rejection and judgement from those you care about. But Marcus's unwavering acceptance and understanding gives you a glimmer of hope - hope that you can be loved for who you truly are, wig or no wig.

"Thank you," you say softly, your voice tinged with emotion. "For being so kind and patient with me. This means so much much to me, more than you could ever know."

You look down at the cap, it’s colour bold and so pretty. Something so small, but means so much. A simple gesture that lets you know it's okay to be vulnerable.

To be yourself.

Marcus smiles, his eyes sparkling with affection. "You don't have to thank me. I care about you deeply, and I want you to feel comfortable and safe with me, sweetheart."

“I do,” you smile. “I really do.”

With a shaky breath, you make a decision. You know that you can't let fear hold you back any longer. Not when Marcus is right here, imbuing you with strength and desire.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach up to remove your wig, unclipping it and revealing the smooth expanse of your scalp beneath.

Marcus's breath catches in his throat as he looks at you, eyes roaming slowly over your head and his heart swelling with admiration for your courage and vulnerability.

"Wow," he says. He reaches out to gently cup your face in his hands, his touch tender and reverent.

He places a soft kiss on the top of your head, lips pressed gently into the smooth, bare skin and it lingers before he pulls you closer - large hands resting gently on your hips as he glides his lips against yours.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, his voice filled with sincerity. "Absolutely stunning."

"I'm really not," you whisper.

"You are to me. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

You feel his hands trail up your back and then disappear, the warmth from them now emanating on your cheeks again, thumbs stroking under your eyes.

“I think…” You begin with a breathless whisper.

“Yeah?” He breathes into your mouth.

“I think… I want to stay and for you to take me to bed, Marcus.”

“Are you sure?” He mouths against your cheek.

The subtle graze of his barely-there facial hair makes you hot under your skin. Your fingers clutch tighter around his shoulders, the material from his t-shirt bunching up there.

The little groan from the back of his throat is swallowed up as you breathe it down into your lungs.

“I’m sure. I want you.”

“God, I want you too.” He groans.

You don’t make it to the bedroom, instead straddling his lap right on the sofa as you kiss him with everything you have.

You help him out of his t-shirt, rolling it up and running your hands over his bronzed skin. Leaning in to trail open mouthed kisses down his chest, he unbuttons your shirt revealing delicate lace cups holding you in and groans audibly.

And you both laugh when he struggles to unclasp it.

“Fuck...” Marcus runs his mouth in a slew of delicate kisses over your cleavage, reaching around with nimble, yet trembling fingers to unclasp your bra.

"I think thas's the first time I've heard you curse." You snicker.

"I think the situation calls for it. My God... I can't believe how stunning you are!"

“What is going on back here?” He chuckles, and you help him out, letting your breasts spill into his face.

“God, look at those nipples.” He sighs hungrily.

“Put them in your mouth.” You husk.

Kissing and licking over your nipples you can feel the clamminess over your back as you sweat. His tongue draws tantalising circles around them and you could just come from that alone.

"Yes, ma'am." He sucks your nipple into his mouth, warm and wet as he swirls his tongue, giving each the attention they so deserve until they're hard and aching between the gentle pull of his teeth.

"Mmm," you groan in delight.

“Oh God, Marcus…” you whine, fingers tugging in his hair. You inadvertently rock your hips against his thigh, grinding softly on him. And he grunts glancing down at you doing it.

“That feel good?” Marcus asks as you moan softly, feeling the delicious grind of your clit catching against the fabric of his sweats.

“Yeah.”

He watches with rapt attention, his hands snaking their way around you and moving the henlm of your dress up round your stomach as you grip onto his shoulders.

“Mmm, feels so good,” you groan.

“You look so good doing that… fuck.” He whispers, losing his voice. “Use me, that’s it. Like that. Make a mess of me. Come on, baby.” Marcus urges, pressing desperate kisses to your throat.

Winding your hips, you clock the bulge straining in his sweats and palm it, and he hisses between his teeth. He feels big, thick and you groan as the pressure on your clit mounts.

He rocks you harder, faster as you grind and pant, moaning his name softly as you build. Your gasps are more throaty, your body tensing up, and he can feel it under his hands.

“Come for me, beautiful,” Marcus urges as you ride his thigh to a tingly oblivion.

Warmth spreads down your spine, laced with an aftermath of delicious prickles as your shudder and shake.

A dark patch is left on his grey sweatpants as your slick seeps into them.

“I wanna take these panties off. God, they're so sexy. Can I?” Marcus husks with dark eyes.

You nod and shimmy your hips so he can pull them down, laying you back on the couch as he parts your legs.

He licks his lips and groans at the perfectly bare pussy presented to him.

“Fuck…”

He strokes his fingers through your sopping folds, sucking on your nipples again as he slides his fingers up your slit, the pad of his finger pressing gently as you card through his hair.

“M-Marcus,” you whine as he teases your entrance with those thick digits, feeling you clench around just the tip.

He strokes his finger in and out as you lay there, leaving it in so you can work those muscles against it, clenching around him as you groan with desperate need.

He teases, slowly pulling it out and just as slowly pushing it back in again. Withdrawing and then adding another until he pumps them inside your aching cunt.

His other hand on the cushion beside your head inches closer, his thumb brushing against the smooth curve of your skin above your ear, and running his lips over your bare crown once more before resting his forehead on yours.

The slick of your pussy being fucked by his fingers echoes around you both.

“You are so beautiful,” he utters as he kisses you.

You tug at the waistband of his sweats, pulling them down over his ass to release his cock. Stroking the thickness of it in your palm as he circles your clit with his thumb, two fingers buried deep inside you and rubbing against that spot inside that makes your thighs shake.

“I need you, Marcus.”

“Mmm, you can have me, sweetheart. Anytime you want…” He croons, running his lips over your collarbone.

“Oh really?” You smirk.

“I’m completely yours.” And with the look in his eyes you believe him.

He is yours, yours to keep and love and grow old with if you want him - it's all there, deep in the golden swirls of his irises. A lifetime together; an irrevocable happiness that you’ve been searching for your entire life.

“Mine.” You repeat, pulling his face up and kissing him.

He lowers himself down, cock brushing against your folds as you groan. He pulls back to watch, teasing his thick head through those slick lips, watching as he slowly disappears inside them with a wet pop.

“Oh fuck…” he sweetly blasphemes, teeth griding tight.

He guides himself in, pushing gently with his hips as he crests through your tight hole. You’re so wet, dripping for him, that he slides in with ease.

You gasp at the thickness of him, the jolt as he runs his thumb over your clit as he slides in, cock filling you and stretching you around him.

His body is so warm and you can't stop touching him, stroking his skin and planting kisses all over it.

His lips move across your own, inking breaths and dizzy chants into the layers. “Feels so good, feels so good, feels so good…”

“Oh God,” you breathe.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, you feel really good.” It’s unlike anything you’ve felt before. Smooth and deep as he fills you up, connects himself to you on a level that transcends the basic intimacy of sex.

“I know, baby. God, you’re so tight. Ah, shit…” Marcus groans, eyes rolling back.

“Kiss me,” you plead, your tongue slipping into his mouth as he moves. Hips languidly rotating and thrusting slowly as he bottoms out.

You cry out when he does, fingers gripping into flesh, hot pants sinking into his pores.

“Can you feel me, right there?” He gasps, pushing himself as deep into you as he’ll go.

“Yes… God, yes!”

He watches as your eyes squeeze shut, how your teeth bite down on your lip as you moan and pant; feels how you clench tighter and more erratically around him the closer you get to your orgasm.

Your mouth chases his fingers, open and wanting as his thumb brushes down the side of your cheek and over your lips. Gentle, rhythmic strokes become harder and deeper as he’s utterly possessed by you, eyes rolling back and jaw slack as you feel every inch of him.

He squeezes over your ass, thighs, breasts, staring at you, completely captivated.

“You wanna ride me?” Marcus suggests with a coy smirk and apple flushed cheeks.

“God yes!” You hum excitedly.

You straddle him again and lower yourself down, his cock packing you out once more.

“Oh shit, Marcus!”

“Sweetheart-” he groans as you sit all the way down.

“Oh my God, that’s so deep,” you whine, your hands clawing at his chest.

You start to move, feeling so full and he groans looking up at you.

“Oh fuck, just like that,” he whines.

He feels incredible, looks stunning with his head thrown back on the couch as his cheeks keep that gorgeous pink hue and his rich cocoa eyes look deeply into you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…” His fingers are felt on the back of your bare head, stroking softly as he kisses you. And it feels incredible to have him touch you so intimately like this.

You lick into his mouth making him smile and grunt as you ride a bit faster, his cock hitting you so deep with each movement.

He groans out when he feels you come around him, squeezing his cock tighter and making him work harder through it. Squeezing and contracting as your slick soaks him.

“God, you’re even more beautiful when you’re coming all over my cock,” he puffs.

“You’re amazing,” you pant.

“It’s all you, sweetheart. Trust me.” Marcus groans. “Can you take it a little harder?”

“I’ll take it anyway you want to give it to me.” You smile.

“Oh, baby.” He fucks up into you harder, loud repetitive slaps fill the lounge along with your sweet, caustic whines as you build. “There are so many ways I wanna give to you.”

“Tell me,” you hum.

He smirks before licking across your nipple, eyes looking up at you the whole time. “From behind… up against the wall… on the kitchen counter.”

“Mmm,” you whine. You reach down to stroke your clit, gasping as your fingers swirl around in the immense wetness down there.

“Mmm, fuck.” He groans watching you do it as he continues to push up into you. “Yeah. Stroke that gorgeous clit for me,” he grunts.

“How else do you want me?” You pant.

You can feel it, rising in your chest, glittering behind your eyes. The building as your peak finds you amongst the heady bliss.

“In the back of my car… handcuffed to my bed railing and unable to escape while I taste you for hours…”

“Fuck!” Your legs start to shake once more, your back arching and your breasts pushed further towards his face. You lean back, gripping onto his thighs, hips bouncing as you chase that feeling so gluttonously.

“Look at me, let me see you come again, beautiful.”

It’s almost unbearable, the way he looks at you, his eyes filled with so much adoration that it threatens to spill out of your own.

He gasps, panting with you, enthralled and enraptured as you come undone completely around him, and he swears he's never seen anything more stunning in his life.

He absorbs that moment wholly, when the euphoria takes over your face, as your raspy yells of his name fall into silk whispers around his face. How you continue to bounce with fervour on his cock long after the shakes have dissipated from your bones.

“That’s it, that’s it… Oh God!” Marcus whispers, mouth curving into an astonished arc as that dimple reveals itself again. “You’re gonna make me come, sweetheart.”

“I want you to.” You whisper. "Come for me, Marcus."

“Can I come inside you?”

You nod as you press your mouth to his, swallowing his tongue as his grip tightens around you.

He slows right down, sliding up into you with deep, purposeful strokes and you feel him twitch before he groans out, long and low as he comes.

Marcus pulls out, watching the pearly white fluid drip out of you, gathering it on his pulsing head and slips it back inside you.

You both mewl together as he does it, his face falling into your chest and sighing out.

“Wow…”

“Yeah.” You agree breathlessly.

“Stunning,” Marcus whispers as he runs his nose up your cheek and plants another kiss against your smooth crown. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

You smile, eyelashes fluttering against his jaw as you wrap him tightly in your arms, never wanting to let him go.

You know that right here, in this moment and held in the safety of his arms, you’ve found something truly special.

“You still wanna stay?” He asks you.

You nod, smiling with a satiated beam. “If you’ll have me?”

“I’ll always have you. And I’ll always want you.” Marcus says.

The cap feels so soft and silken against your skin as you nestle down into the soft pillows, and watch Marcus come back in from the bathroom.

Gloriously naked and crawling up the bed, he trails kisses up your legs, stomach and neck until he reaches your lips.

“Looks really good on you,” he compliments and you smile.

“Thank you again,” you say, pulling him close.

“Anything for you. I can’t wait to wake up with you in the morning,” he yawns, a lone finger trailing the rim of your cap and down your cheek.

“Flaking out on me already, Agent?” You smirk as you wrap your legs around his hips.

“Mmm, you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” Marcus grins, nuzzling into your neck and sucking it gently into his mouth.

He relaxes against you as you stroke patterns over his broad back.

This feels good. Really good. A feeling you definitely want to get used to as you take in the feel of him crushed on top of you, arms holding you close, his hair tickling the bottom of your jaw.

This right here, is all you’ve ever wanted. And Marcus is willing to give it all to you. You feel like you've hit the jackpot and can’t stop grinning.

“Marcus?” You whisper.

“Mmm?” He sighs softly.

“Thank you for accepting the real me.”

The gentle snuffles of his light snores soon fill the room and you beam, reaching up to stroke over the silk of the cap, smiling at how you’ve found such a caring and thoughtful man who thinks you’re incredibly beautiful.

And as you drift off to sleep, you're convinced you hear him whisper to you:"I love the real you..."

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Marcus, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

MARCUS PIKE MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #pedro pascal characters #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike the mentalist #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fluff #bodies series #real bodies #diversity #inclusivity #every body is beautiful #jett's writing

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happyyyandcrazyyy · 1 year

Text

flu (remus lupin x reader)

summary: (y/n) meets remus in the hospital wing. it’s quite fitting, really

remus and (y/n) are aware of the lingering feelings but won’t confess, maybe all they need is a little marauders’ meddling

warning: chronic magic illness, slight canon divergence (in the sense that i made up magical stuff lmao), description of pain (not detailed)

request by @ladylokilaufeyson5 : “Hi, I was wondering if you could write another remus lupin x reader? Maybe reader and remus are lowkey in love with each other and everyone but them knows? And the marauders try to interfere? On another note I absolutely ADORE your writing <3”

a/n: hii!! thank you so much for the request and for your words <3 i’m sorry it took me so long to get it done, inspiration has been hard to find these days :/ i changed your request a bit and added addition stuff i hope you don’t mind and i hope you enjoy it !!

chapter 1: the flu (spoiler: it isn’t the flu)

1.0

Everything hurts.

(Y/N) is used to that, the lingering headaches and muscle aches. They’ve been there for as long as she can recall.

What she isn’t used to, however, is her skin feeling as if it’s been blasted with cold air. She’s freezing and the shivers that run through her body are only worsening the pain. She can’t help the pained grunt that leaves her lips.

There’s movement somewhere around her— she would open her eyes to see exactly who it is but her body’s being uncooperative, and her lids are just too heavy —and the next thing she knows there are hands on her face. The back of the palm is pressed against her forehead, there’s a mumble, too quiet for her to hear, and then the hand’s gone.

“How are you feeling Miss (Y/L/N)?” And it’s a testament of how much time she’s spent here that even with her brain feeling as if it’s been stuffed with cotton candy, she’s able to identify the voice.

She tries to reply, but it feels like her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth. It takes her a couple of seconds to be able to articulate the words, “Like I’ve been run over by a hippogriff.”

The matron chuckles at that, one of her hands delicately moving some of the hair in (Y/N)’s hair away from her eyes. The laughter sounds somewhat fond, like she’s grown much to used to her comments. That’s the real testament of how much time she’s spent in the Infirmary, the fact that she gets the privilege of gentle tones and sweet hands.

Madam Pomfrey helps her sit up, one hand on her arm and the other on her back. The change of position makes her head pound, but she keeps her mouth shut, she knows better than to say anything that will keep her bedridden longer than necessary. She’s handed a glass of water and the matron observes her, makes sure she drinks it all before nodding approvingly. If the matron notices the way her hands shake as she guides the glass to her lips, she doesn’t say a word. She does, however, evidently notice the goosebumps that cover her skin and wordlessly casts a warming spell. (Y/N) can’t help the way her muscles immediately sag in response to the heat, no longer tensing. The deep ache lessens slightly.

“Try to rest,” Madam Pomfrey instructs as she takes the glass away, as if (Y/N) had enough energy to do anything else. She only nods in response and closes her eyes as the healer walks away to tend to other patients.

It’s quiet for a while and (Y/N) finds herself drifting between consciousness and sleep when a sound startles her. Her eyes snap open and she turns her head around to try to locate the noise. There’s a hiss, followed by a swallowed groan filled with pain (the kind of sound you produce when you’re hurt and it’s painful, but you don’t want to bother anyone because, yes, the pain is bad, but it could be much worse). It doesn’t take much for her to identify where the noises are coming from; the bed right next to hers. Knowing who it is, however, is near impossible seeing that the curtains are pulled shut.

They must be badly hurt, she thinks to herself, because Madam Pomfrey only ever closes the curtains when the extent of the patient’s injuries is serious.

Whoever it is keeps on moving around as if trying to find a position that isn’t painful. (Y/N) can empathize and maybe that’s the reason she finds herself asking, “You alright?”

The movement comes to a sudden stop, and it seems like it takes a while for the person to realize that she’s talking to them.

“Uh, yes. I’m— I just— I got the flu.”

And that’s a lie if she’s ever heard one. (Y/N) isn’t even looking at them and she can tell. It’s such a bad lie that it’s kind of comical, it makes her huff out the most silent snort, “Okay.”

“You?” The person asks after a couple of seconds of silence, moving around once more before settling, “Are you okay?”

(Y/N) crosses her arms over her chest, biting her lip down when her muscles cry in protest, “Also got the flu.”

That brings out something that resembles a chuckle, but is much to pained to be one, from the person.

“Must be flu season.”

She can’t help the way her lips quirk in amusement, “Must be.”

1.1

She’s back in the Hospital Wing two times before she sees (hears?) the person again. If she’s being honest, she hadn’t expected to ever meet them again, not everyone is a frequent visitor like herself, after all.

This time, however, the roles are reversed. She’s the one with curtains pulled shut (because it’d been bad this time, real bad, she somehow managed to burn her right arm and part of her chest and the feeling of freezing to death had been bad enough that Madam Pomfrey had been forced to give her Pepperup Potion) and he’s the one who speaks up first.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to holler for Madam Pomfrey?”

It isn’t until she hears those words that she realizes she’s been letting out small whimpers of pain. She breaths deeply through her nose and tries to quiet down, it’s kind of hard when it feels like her insides have been liquified, but she manages.

It takes her a moment to realize she knows that voice, she’s heard it before. It’s a good thing, she thinks, that she has the ability to match voice to people with scary precision because it only takes her a couple of seconds to know where she’s heard that voice before.

“I’m good,” she replies, “It’s the flu, you know?”

The person is evidently startled, most likely not expecting that answer, because they let out a small laugh, “Highly contagious, isn’t it?”

They have a nice laugh, deep and rich and overwhelming warm. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard someone laugh in the Infirmary before. It’s nice, she decides, different in a way she could get used to.

“Very much so,” she plays along, somewhat amused.

They’re quiet for a couple of minutes before the person speaks up again, “I’m Remus Lupin, by the way.”

She hadn’t expected to exchange names with the person, but this is a nice development.

“The infamous marauder,” she teases, groaning low as she changes her position. The bandage around her arm is beginning to itch. “Whatever have I done to be blessed with your presence?”

“You know who I am?”

He sounds genuinely surprised and that’s confusing because, really, there isn’t a person at Hogwarts who doesn’t know the marauders. She tells him as much.

“I figured it’d be James and Sirius who everyone was familiar with.”

(Y/N) shakes her head, even if he can’t see it, and immediately regrets it when pain flashes through her eyes like lighting. “I’m pretty sure you all have fan clubs,” she responds through clenched teeth, doing as best as she can to keep the pain from her voice.

She’s moderately successful, good enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know her, but Remus must be familiar with pain because he asks, “Are you sure you don’t need Madam Pomfrey?”

And she does want some pain relief potion (badly, she wants it badly) but she doesn’t need it. Calling out for the matron will only end up with (Y/N) having to stay longer than she wants.

“I’m good, Lupin.”

He hums in response, obviously disbelieving.

“Oh, I’m (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” she tells him after a couple of minutes of breathing through her nose and clenching her eyes shut, willing the pain to pass. “Just remembered I never introduced myself.”

There’s shuffling, like he suddenly sat up. She swears she can feel his eyes on her, even through the curtains.

“The brightest witch of our generation,” he teases, but he’s unable to hide the evident astonishment from his voice. It seeps through, only a little, but enough for (Y/N) to notice.

She huffs and catches herself before she can cross her arms over her chest, the movement would be too much for her muscles right now. She’s not the brightest nor is she the most powerful, despite what everyone believes. Even if she was, it would only be due to an unfair advantage. It’s not really her.

Just when she thinks he’s going to ask something else about her magic, like everyone does— it’s always is it true you managed to cast a patronus when you were only twelve? and can you really perform nonverbal spells? and can you teach me how to cast protego with the power of my mind and no need of a wand? —his voice becomes gentler and he says, “Nice to meet you.”

And that’s it. No questions, no prodding.

She likes him, she decides in that moment. He’s not what she expected him to be.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

chapter 2: blooming friendship

2.0

Things don’t drastically change after that. She wouldn’t say they’re friends, not really. Acquaintances is a more fitting word, (Y/N) reckons, although sometimes it feels more intimate than that. Being aware of each other’s pain does that, she guesses.

Despite not running in the same circles, they’re friendly with each other; Remus nods at her when he catches her eye and (Y/N) always responds with a smile.

It isn’t until Professor McGonagall decides that she’ll be the one pairing up students for the upcoming Transfiguration project that things do change.

Now, usually professors allow them to choose who they’ll be pairing with— partially because it prevents conflict, but mainly because it prevents the heavily dramatized whines and complaints from Potter and Black, who grumble as if they didn’t spend their every waking moment stuck to each other’s side —so it isn’t surprising that the news are received with a communal groan.

(Y/N) shares a disappointed look with Crasswell, one of the best friends and someone she works splendidly with, and begs to Merlin that whoever is her partner isn’t Potter or Black.

(“Minnie, please! We’ll do anything.”

“Anything!”

“No running around past curfew.”

“No pranks for a whole week.”

“No stealing food from the kitchens.”

“No sneaking into Filch’s office.”

“No convincing Peeves to carry out mischiefs in our absence.”

“No trying to get the portraits to sing opera in the middle of the night.”

“This is all merely hypothetical, Minnie, of course. Not to say we’ve ever done any of these things.”

“Precisely.”

“But if we ever had, we could stop.”

“Grant you peace of mind for a week or two.”

“Because, honestly, I think I might die if I’m not paired with Prongs.”

“The separation anxiety would be too much for him, Professor.”

“I feel ill by just imagining it.”

“He does look kind of feverish.”

“Mr. Black,”

“Yes?”

“If you’re going to die be sure not to do it on my classroom.”

“Mr. Potter,”

“Professor?”

“Back to your seat.”)

Yes, (Y/N) really begs it’s neither of them.

“Ms. (Y/L/N) and Mr. Lupin.”

Merlin be praised.

She can’t help but sigh in relief, because not only is he not James or Sirius but Remus is actually a decent partner.

“You lucky sod,” she hears Black tell Remus as he begins to make his way towards her. “You got the best possible partner.”

It seems as if the class agrees because as soon as her name is called along with Lupin’s, the remaining students huff in discontent. She isn’t egocentric, but (Y/N) knows people were hopeful to have her as their partner— if Mulciber’s unblinking stare and Avery’s crossed fingers are any indication —after all, she’s known for being particularly skilled with any sort of magic that requires a wand. It makes her even more grateful to be partnered with Remus. He might be one of the few who wouldn’t exploit her to get a good mark.

“Hey,” she greets him warmly, moving her books aside to make room for him.

“Hi.” His smile is sweet, shy, it shows off a barely noticeable dimple in his right cheek. She thinks it’s adorable.

That’s really where it all begins.

2.1

(Y/N) ends up spending a lot of time with Remus. At first, it’s only because of Professor McGonagall’s assignment— they’re doing trans-species transformations, after all, and even with her unwanted magical advantage (Y/N) knows it’s a complicated and dangerous matter, so they’re forced to spend hours doing research before even beginning to experiment with animals —but it eventually becomes more than that. She finds out she enjoys his company, his attentive silence and quick-witted comments. Remus never looks at her like others do, not with a mixture of pity and sympathy like her parents, or like she’s an experiment that needs to be prodded at like some of the healers at St. Mungo’s. He doesn’t even look at her like some other students do, with greed and the intent of befriending her just to get a peek at her power, or intrigue and the desire to figure out why she disappears for days at a time. It’s like Remus is able to look past assumptions and expectations and see her. It’s different and (Y/N) finds out she likes the normality very much.

She discovers a lot about Remus Lupin in the months that they go from being acquaintances-that-see-each-other-at-the-Hospital-Wing-every-couple-of-weeks to friends-that-spend-every-single-moment-of-the-day-together. (Y/N) finds out that he’s got the gentlest soul and the kindest heart, that he’s someone who genuinely cares. He’s not much of a talker but is instead a great listener and an ever-better advice giver. It’s curious, she thinks, the way he becomes louder when he’s around the marauders. Not different, but brighter. Remus is also incredibly smart, not exactly in a book-smart-kind-of-way (somehow James and Sirius surpass him in academics, it’s one of the greatest mysteries to herself and Evans because they both swear on their lives they’ve never seen either of them open up a book unless the purpose was to destroy school property) but in an intellectual-kind-of-way, he’s knowledgeable and passionate about a handful of topics and it’s fun to have someone with whom she can debate about controversial topics.

Seeing the good in him is as easy as breathing, it’s all there in the surface for the public eye. Sensing his hardship, however, can be almost impossible in a good day. Still, (Y/N) manages to see what slips through, eyes that shine with an emotion that resembles guilt and shame crumbled together. After having Remus deflect when she’d asked, she knows better than to push him into discussing things he obviously does not wish to share, but those are the days that she pulls him closer.

“I think we might get this done tomorrow if we’re lucky,” (Y/N) speaks up as she rubs her eyes. After realizing just how well they worked together during McGonagall’s assignment they’d decided to partner up for all the upcoming projects. They’ve been cooped up in the Library, working nonstop on Professor Slughorn’s assigned concoction for hours, she feels like her brain is melting and never has she been more grateful to be done for the day. “Rem?”

At the lack of response, she turns around to meet her friend.

Remus is starting out the window, seemingly lost in thought. He’s been more agitated the last couple of days, anxious. (Y/N) has noticed he gets like that sometimes before ending up at the Infirmary.

“Remus, hey!” she moves her hand in front of his face, effectively pulling him out of whichever daydream he’d been in. “You good?”

“Yes, sorry,” he closes his eyes for a second as he runs his hands, “Uh, I don’t know if I’ll be able to meet up tomorrow. I haven’t been feeling well, might be coming down with the flu.”

And that’s the keyword, the word they both use, the one they know means something else entirely. (Y/N) wonders if one day he’ll trust her enough to tell her about his condition. She wonders if she’ll ever tell him about hers, too.

“That’s quite alright, we still got plenty of time to get this done, we’ll finish it when you feel better.”

Even months after knowing each other, Remus still seems surprised by her gentleness, and something akin to regret colors his features. She hopes he doesn’t feel bad for not telling her the truth, she doesn’t mind.

(Y/N) finds herself reaching out for his hand, squeezing it gently as she offers him a kind smile. “Get some rest, yeah?”

He huffs a little, like the idea of resting sounds impossible, still, he replies with, “I’ll try my best.”

Later that night, as she lies in bed with nothing but the full moon for company, (Y/N) wonders what kind of magical condition Lupin has. She can’t help but compare herself to him. From what she’s seen it appears like whatever he has doesn’t affect his everyday life and it also seems like he can always tell when it’s coming. She envies that. There are things she’ll never be able to do, like ride a broom and play Quidditch, and she can never tell when a new episode is about to occur. Well, that’s a lie, sometimes she’ll get the smell of citrus burning through her nose or a feeling of intense pressure between her eyes and she knows, but it’s never early enough to prevent the attack, only enough to allow her to escape to some place where she can be alone. Whatever Remus has leaves him drained and injured, she’s seen him sporting scratches and bruises, and that confuses her because if there’s one thing she’s learned by visiting every healer in the country from the day she was born is that magical illnesses don’t tend to be violent in nature. (She’s an exception, of course, because apparently she’s an exception to every single magical rule that’s ever been written.) The thing that itches at her mind the most is how Remus’s condition seems to be cyclical, not at all random like her own. There’s only a handful of cyclical illnesses, she’s read enough magical medical books to know that.

She sighs to herself, looking at the moon one more time before snuggling into her bed.

It isn’t until the next morning, as she brushes her teeth, that she makes the connection.

Her eyes widen in realization, toothbrush falling from her mouth to the skin.

Merlin’s beard, how could she be so daft?

A full moon high in the sky every single time.

When she visits him in the Infirmary later that day she brings him three chocolate frogs— which she’d bought the week prior with him in mind —and tells him not to worry about anything other than resting. He responds with a smile, one that’s pain-filled but genuine. She doesn’t tell him about what she thinks she knows.

2.2

Her next episode happens in the middle of the night, as she sleeps in her bed. That is new, she’s never had an episode while asleep. (Later on, when the pain is manageable, she’ll reach the conclusion that it’s not only new, but concerning.)

This, as it turns out, is both a blessing and a curse. Being asleep means she doesn’t suffer from the initial dizziness and nausea, just the muscle cramping and spasms that always come prior to losing consciousness. Even then, it’s like she passes out earlier on than usual, her body too disoriented to handle the pain. She counts that as a win, really. The downside, however, is that she wakes up feeling as if she’s been slammed by the Whomping Willow and stupefied at the same time, every nerve ending is flaring up. Tears well up in her eyes and begin falling without her permission. It’s been a while since she’s cried out of pure pain.

The pain not bad enough to knock her out again— she wishes it would —but it does manage to make her stomach churn. She turns around and throws up. Somehow Madam Pomfrey (when did she get here? had she been here all along?) foresees it and there’s a bucket that keeps her from making a mess out of the Infirmary.

She’s sticky with sweat, hair pressed against her forehead, and the tears keep on falling. Her body trembles with the effort of keeping her upright and heaving into the bucket. The muscles on her chest ache, badly. She’d feel gross if she had enough mind to think. What she does notice, however, are the shivers that run up and down her body. As if the pain wasn’t enough, she’s freezing.

Everything becomes a blur after that. She’s conscious, but she’s not. Madam Pomfrey works diligently around her (the shivers decrease but they don’t disappear completely). The curtains are pulled shut (are there any physical injuries or is it just that bad?). She drinks two potions (or were there three?), she doesn’t even register the taste. There’s mumbling (an incantation maybe?) and then there’s black.

It takes her a week to recover and three more days of rest before Madam Pomfrey lets her go back to her everyday life.

Her roommates come by and she finds out that they’d been frightened and worried out of their minds when they’d woken up and she hadn’t been in bed. (Y/N) doesn’t have to ask Madam Pomfrey how she’d known she’d had one episode; she’s been wearing the small necklace— one that is enchanted to detect increased flows of magic and heart rate —for as long as the episodes have been occurring. The matron was probably alerted by it. She’s also not surprised that her roommates didn’t hear a thing, she places a silencing charm around her bed every night in case something like this ever were to happen.

Remus also comes by; he brings her gummies and his favorite muggle book for her to read— he introduced her to romance muggle books and she thinks she might be addicted. He sounds evidently concerned about her, voice filled with worry (there must be rumors going around the castle, she guesses), but he never asks about her illness, only makes sure she’s feeling better. He fills her in on the things she’s missed, which include two highly amusing pranks by the marauders and a very public breakup by a Slytherin couple in the middle of the Great Hall.

Neither her friends nor Remus see her, the curtains stay shut until she leaves the Infirmary. The traces of visible magic floating around her fingers linger for days and it isn’t until they disappear that she’s released from the matron’s care.

chapter 3: hogsmeade, feelings and revelations

3.0

(Y/N) feels like her energy is being sucked out of her. Some days she wakes up to find out there’s already a headache building at the back of her head, others it’s hard to even open her eyes. She’s always cold. She uses a glamour spell to hide the dark bags under her eyes. What’s truly concerning is the feeling of her magic; it swirls unsteadily, uncurling only to tighten up again. It’s not painful— after all her magic doesn’t actively try to hurt her, it’s just too much —but it worries her because it’s uncontrolled. It normally takes a lot of effort to keep it reigned in, these days it’s even harder which results in her episodes occurring more frequently.

Madam Pomfrey wants to inform her parents about the recent developments of her condition, (Y/N) begs her not to— she knows what’ll happen, they’ll take her home and make her rest and then she’ll be visited by a thousand different mediwitches and healers only to find out that no one knows how to help her. Madam Pomfrey compromises, but only after (Y/N) starts pouting.

“You’ll come over after dinner every night to have your vitals checked,” Madam Pomfrey relents. “I’ll talk to Professor Slughorn about brewing a potion that’ll help you harness the magic.”

(Y/N) knew the matron had a soft spot for her, even if she tries to deny it.

“But if the condition gets any worse, if your health is at risk, I will inform your parents.”

(Y/N) hopes it doesn’t get worse, but that’s just wishful thinking, she knows it will. The cold feeling should’ve been enough of a warning; (Y/N) is pretty sure she’s dying. If that’s the case, she just wishes to be allowed to enjoy however long she has left before inevitably ending up bedridden.

That’s the reason why, when Remus asks her to accompany him to Hogsmeade, she doesn’t hesitate to agree, even when she’s exhausted beyond belief.

It’s how she finds herself walking around the small town, watching little snowflakes fall to the ground, one hand linked through Remus’s arm. Half of her face is covered by a red and golden scarf that Remus had taken off some hours ago when he’d noticed her teeth chattering.

He’s so unbelievingly attentive to her— he’ll pull her closer whenever she starts feeling weakness settling in her bone, letting her lean some of her weight against him, and he’ll gently guide them to whichever store is closest when the cold gets too much for her to handle. She doesn’t need to say a single word, Remus just appears to know, and that’s, honestly, impressive since she has a lifetime of experience at pretending to be okay. For a moment she thinks that maybe it’s just a coincidence, but then she catches the small glances he throws her way, filled with a tiny bit of concern and something else she rather not name. It makes her feel warm all over.

Everything’s going great, they’ve visited Honeydukes and Zonko’s (where, to no one’s surprise, they stumbled into the marauders, who, to no one’s surprise, teased Remus by making kissy faces at him when they thought she wasn’t looking) and walked around taking about everything and nothing. That’s another thing she likes about him, talking comes as easy as breathing, conversation just flows.

So, yes, everything is going great which means that inevitably something was bound to go wrong because that’s just how (Y/N)’s life goes.

They’re making their way to the Three Broomsticks when the cold hits her with a bone-aching intensity. She comes to a sudden stop, clenching her chest in panic, knees weakening. (Somewhere in the back of her head, she’s annoyed. It’s not even that cold, her body just seems to be spending its energy and heat in keeping the magic contained so everything feels colder than it should.)

When she comes back to herself, vision clearing up, she realizes that Remus is holding her by the arms. He’s speaking, but all she feels is pain and so his words are muffled. The frantic panic on his eyes, however, is unmistakable.

“I’m okay,” she reassures him when the pain lessens and the cold diminishes and she regains the ability to speak.

At some point Remus had moved them near an alleyway. Away from prying eyes, she realizes. Her heart grows fonder.

Remus stays silent for a second, studying her face. He doesn’t look panicked anymore, but the concern lingers and it’s obvious that he doesn’t believe a word she’s saying. He opens his mouth and hesitates briefly before speaking, “You’re still ill, aren’t you?”

It’s evident the way he worries about having crossed a line because he cringes slightly as the words leave his mouth. She doesn’t blame him, even when they both know the other is sick (is that even what they are? sick?), they’ve never openly spoken about it. It’s always the flu, and that’s that.

She considers lying, but it feels wrong to do so. Remus understands what it’s like to be limited by something beyond your control in a way not many can, it makes it easier to be vulnerable, “Some of the symptoms linger.”

He nods and (Y/N) expects him to ask more about her condition, to press for an explanation, but he just reaches forward to cup her cheek.

“You had me worried there for a second.”

Her heart beats louder at the admission, at the genuine concern in his eyes.

“I’m alright now, really.”

Her hand reaches up. She places it over his, the action reassuring.

“Godric, you’re freezing.”

But he doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he reaches out and places both of her hands between his. The warmth of his skin is soothing. If he notices the way her fingers tremble, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“You should’ve told me you weren’t feeling well,” Remus tells her, thumb running over the back of her hand in attempt to warm it. “We could’ve stayed in the castle—”

We.

He’s implying he would’ve stayed with her.

(Y/N) ignore the way that makes her heart race, the way she feels heat crawling to her cheeks.

“—played some magic chess or ransacked the kitchens.”

That snaps her out of whatever she’s feeling, the way he so nonchalantly suggests doing something that would most definitely end up with them getting detention. She spends so much time with him when he’s not around the other three that (Y/N) sometimes forgets he’s a marauder. Worst thing is, she would willingly accompany him to any adventure— risking detention and all— if he asked. She pushes that revelation to the back of her mind.

“You talk about raiding the kitchens as if you’ve done it before,” she teases.

She ignores just how handsome he looks, wind blowing his hair back and a smirk beginning to decorate his features.

“Maybe I have,” he replies cheekily, winking.

She rolls her eyes, somewhat amused.

(Y/N) isn’t surprised, if anyone would be able to find their way into the kitchens it would be the marauders.

They fall quiet and some of the previous tension returns. Remus’s face grows more serious.

He tugs gently at her hands, “Promise me you’ll tell me if you’re ever feeling unwell?”

She looks down at their joined fingers, observes the way his thumb keeps on caressing her hand, and turns her attention back at him, “Only if your promise the same thing in return.”

And at that Remus looks conflicted. He presses his lips together and looks away before sighing and nodding. His gaze returns to hers, “Promise.”

“Promise.”

“You want to head back to the castle?” He asks her as they make their way back to the main street.

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he looks at her and grins, “We might still have time to play some magic chess.”

She groans playfully, bumping her shoulder against his. “You know I’m terrible.”

“Exactly the reason I proposed it.”

Remus never let go of her hand, not once in all the way back to the castle. He keeps them intertwined, hidden in the pocket of his jacket.

This might be love, she thinks to herself, and maybe if she wasn’t dying she would do something about the feelings that are lazily brewing in her heart, but she can’t because that wouldn’t be fair to him.

She’s so wrapped in those thoughts that she doesn’t realize specks of her magics slipping though, she doesn’t realize that as she holds his hand the bone-chilling cold dissipates into nothingness.

3.1

(Y/N) wouldn’t say she’s a worrier. She takes things in stride, goes along with whatever life throws her way. Maybe if she hadn’t been born with her condition she would’ve been different, but life has taught her that worrying won’t help at all. When healers tell you that your life expectancy is twenty nothing really phases you anymore.

So, yes, (Y/N) wouldn’t say she’s a worrier, but that only applies to things concerning to herself. When it comes to her friends— to Remus, especially —she can’t help but worry at the first sign that something is wrong and, right now, it appears that something is very wrong.

Last night was a full moon and, as usual, she’d gone to the Infirmary first thing in the morning to check up on Remus, but he hadn’t been there and neither had Madam Pomfrey. (Y/N) couldn’t help the way her first thought had been that something had gone terribly wrong, bad enough that the matron couldn’t heal it herself, and he had to be taken to St. Mungo’s and now her heart is stuttering in her chest and she has to make sure he’s alright and that’s the only reason she’s making her way to the Gryffindor table. If there’s anyone who can have answers is the marauders.

Black notices her coming their way, bumps his best friend in the arm. James is a bit startled, but looks up, nonetheless. Suddenly they both are wearing matching wicked smiles.

“Is Remus okay?” she asks before either of them can open their mouth. If there’s something she’s learned about the marauders is that it’s always better to have control of the conversation.

Potter and Black share a knowing look, and it’s Sirius the one that answers. He rests his cheek against his hand, “Good morning to you, (Y/L/N). How are you doing on this fine day?”

“Yeah, yeah, morning, Black.” She manages to not roll her eyes at him and instead crosses her arms over her chest, foot tapping impatiently on the floor. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, why do you ask?”

“Are you maybe worried about him?” Potter interrupts, voice taking a teasing tone.

She wants to strangle them both. She would, but then she wouldn’t get answers.

“Where is he?” she’s surprised she manages to keep the exasperation off her tone.

“We aren’t always together, you know.” That’s both a deflection and a flat out lie.

She sighs out, shoulders deflating, “Look, yesterday was a…”

That catches their attention and she realizes her mistake too late. They don’t know that she knows. James stops chewing, Sirius straightens up. Their eyes are unwavering and the initial cheeky friendliness is gone. They might be jokesters but they’re also unbelievably perceptive and fiercely protective and it shows.

“Yesterday he said something about not feeling well,” she corrects herself. Potter relaxes but Black’s gaze remains on her, unwavering and somewhat untrusting. Like he’s measuring her up, figuring out how much she knows.

“He wasn’t feeling well,” Potter confirms, swallowing some pumpkin juice, “and that’s why he spent the night at the Infirmary.”

“He wasn’t there when I went to check up on him,” she replies, eyebrows scrunching up when she notices them share a look of confusion.

Then, they proceed to have a brief wordless conversation before muttering lowly between each other, as if she isn’t there. Their voices are almost a whisper and only catches the words because she’s had years of experience being nosy and eavesdropping on conversations between her parents and mediwizards.

“Do you think Madam Pomfrey discharged him earlier?”

“Last night was different, Prongs, wasn’t it? He was more present, more docile. He didn’t even have injuries.”

“That’s true.”

She waits for them to turn to her, but they don’t. Instead, they have another wordless conversation, all eyes, no words.

Black turns to her. Potter goes back to his food.

“He’s probably resting in the Common Room.”

“He likes to read in the couch after, well, rough nights.”

And despite knowing he’s okay something within her still itches with the need to see him and make that assessment for herself.

They’re both still looking at her, as if waiting for something else, but she doesn’t have anything more to say so she just nods her head, “Okay, thanks.”

As she goes to leave, Potter calls out to her, “Hey, (Y/L/N)!”

She turns and raises her eyebrows expectantly. Potter shares a look with Black before saying, “The password is Oddsbodikins.”

That she hadn’t expected and the surprise must show on her face because Potter chuckles.

He munches on some toast and waves his hand dismissively, “Go see your man.” The smile lingers and it’s softer than anything she’s ever seen in Potter’s face— except, perhaps, when he’s looking at Evans.

She’s grateful enough that she doesn’t roll her eyes at them, doesn’t even correct James.

“Thank you.”

3.2

Technically speaking, they should be studying— the NEWTs are closing up on them and even though there’s still time (Y/N) knows that she should at least begin revising —but they’d spent the last four days drowning in assignments and she’s decided she would much rather enjoy the last moments of freedom with Remus.

They’re sitting in the shadow of one of the trees by the Black Lake. (Y/N) is reading one of those muggle romance books that Remus got her hooked on and somewhere along the line Remus’s head ended up in her lap. She holds the book with a single hand, the other one running through her friend’s hair absentmindedly.

He looks calm, eyes closed and steady breathing. The bags under his eyes have slowly become less prominent and he doesn’t seem as tired as he used to be when the full moon was a few days away. He’s humming under his breath, it’s probably a muggle song because it doesn’t sound familiar at all, and the sound is soothing, it caresses her skin and floats away with the wind.

(Y/N) flips the page using her thumb. Her other hand appears to have a mind of its own because it travels from Remus’s hair down his cheek, fingers gently stroking the skin. It’s only when her hand meets rugged skin and Remus flinches that she moves her hand away, immediately looking down at him.

The scar, she realizes. She’d just touched the scar that runs along his left eye.

“I’m sorry,” she rushes out, but he only shakes his head and, without even opening his eyes, his hand looks out for hers. He places it back on his cheek.

Hesitantly, she smoothly thumbs at the wounded skin. This time he doesn’t move away, just sighs.

“Does it still hurt?”

It shouldn’t, the wound is years old and appears to be healed, but magical wounds are different, sometimes traces of the magic remain and when those traces are powerful enough they can cause recurring pain.

“No,” his voice is deep and rough, somewhat drowsy, like he’d been halfway through falling asleep.

“It’s ugly, isn’t it?” he asks after a couple of minutes of silence. She can’t help the sharp intake of breath, the way her eyebrows furrow at his words. Nothing in Remus could ever be ugly.

“I don’t think it is,” she replies, and the sentence comes out in a hushed whisper, like it only matters if his ears are the ones to hear it. She traces the skin, notices the slight blush that begins to cover Remus’s cheeks. “I think it’s a visible reminder of your strength.”

Part of her wants to reach down and kiss the damaged skin. She manages to abstain herself.

He lets out a self-deprecating scoff, “You wouldn’t believe that if you knew how I got it.”

His eyes remain closed and (Y/N) is somewhat grateful, she doesn’t think she could manage to see the self-loathing that sometimes paints his irises.

“I don’t have to know,” she responds firmly, fingers tracing the wound from where it starts on his forehead all the way across his eyebrow and his eyelid and his cheekbone. “You went through something, whatever it was, and managed to survive. That’s strength, Rem.”

He surprises her by catching her hand once again without the need to open his eyes. He links their fingers together, presses the back of her hand against his lips and then holds it over his chest.

Her heart stutters and she feels some of her magic tremble within her chest, wanting to slip through her fingers. A tiny amount of it does, it seeps through her and into his palm. She feels warm. With much effort she reels it back in and ignores the throbbing at the back of her head, the one that comes along with keeping her magic in check.

Remus’s voice brings her back, anchors her to the present. “I want to tell you how I got it,” he admits slowly, eyes finally looking up at her, “but I’m afraid you’ll see me differently.”

“I would never.” And its earnest and truthful and she hopes he can hear that in her tone. In case he doesn’t she squeezes his hand in assurance.

They stare at each other for some seconds. The book she previously held is now abandoned on the floor. Her hand, the one that isn’t intertwined with his, runs through his hair. Remus nibbles on his lower lip, hesitant and most likely debating if he should say anything at all, before he squeezes back.

“I got it when I was five,” he starts. His voice is low, quiet, meant only for her. His eyes stay trained on her face, waiting for any reaction. “It was given to me by a werewolf,” and although she knew she can’t help the way her breath catches at the back of her throat at the admission, “along with the bite.”

He stares expectantly, braces himself as if expecting some sort of disgust. Instead, she offers him a smile, “I was right, then. It is a visible reminder of your strength.”

That was obviously not what he’d been expecting because his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“You’re not scared?”

“Why would I be?”

“I’m a monster and—”

She cuts him off because she won’t have that, she will absolutely not stand for Remus Lupin badmouthing himself.

“You’re not a monster. You’re Remus Lupin, an incredible talented wizard that just so happens to turn into a werewolf every full moon.”

And that seems to appease him, shoulders relaxing.

“I’m scared all the time,” he admits, looking away and into the Black Lake, “of hurting people I care about. I’m scared I’ll somehow end up hurting you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

When he doesn’t look convinced, she removes her hand from his and places them over his cheeks. She forces him to look at her.

“You wouldn’t,” she repeats because she needs him to understand that she isn’t afraid of him. It isn’t until he nods his head that she releases the hold, thumbs running over his cheeks.

“Besides, anything could hurt me.”

My own magic does, she thinks to herself.

“So you don’t mind?” he asks, voice hopeful. “Me being a… you know.”

“You’re still my Rem.” The words slip out without thought, devastatingly honest.

He blushes again and she has to bite her lips to keep herself from commenting on how beautiful the red in his cheeks makes him look. She doesn’t say a word when he reaches for her hand again.

“Good.”

It’s quiet after that. She doesn’t pick up the book again, even when she was just getting to the best part, and instead basks on the afternoon sun. The throbbing of her head reappears but it isn’t a warning for an upcoming episode, it’s just pain. These days she’s getting a lot of that. (Y/N) looks down at Remus— someone who’d just laid his soul bare for her and had trusted her enough to not hurt him —and suddenly she’s speaking.

“I was supposed to have a twin sister,” she starts and the only reason she knows he’s paying attention is the way he shuffles and the feeling of his eyes on her. “But she died in the womb early on.” It’s weird, missing someone she never met, but (Y/N) does. She yearns for what could’ve been and what she could’ve had, a normal childhood, a lifetime companion.

With a sigh, she carries on, “By the time she passed we’d both already developed our magical cores and, somehow, my core absorbed hers. I carry within me both her magic and mine.” Every single healer she’d ever visited had been absolutely astounded, shocked beyond belief, because this should’ve never happened. According to every single magical law, magic dies with its user, magic cannot be taken away, magic cannot be transferred.

“Isn’t that… impossible?” Remus asks quietly.

“Theoretically, yes,” she lets out a humorless chuckle, “and yet here I am.”

And that was pretty much the reason she kept her condition a secret, because people looked at her differently after they found out (some in awe, as if she were some sort of medical miracle, some in fear of her potential, some with greed). If people— the wrong people —were to find out, she could find herself being studied in attempts to replicate what her magical core had done, to be able to steal someone else’s magic.

“It’s the reason I have an affinity to wand related magic and why I can do more complicated spells. There’s just more magic running through my veins,” she explains, her eyes fixed on some students playing by the shore of the lake. It’s easier to say things when she focuses on something else, like the way a second-year pinches a tentacle and runs away giggling when the squid splashes her in retaliation.

“The thing about magic in excess is that it’s volatile,” her tone becomes tense without her meaning to, so she sighs and forces herself to relax. “I can keep it controlled most of the time, simmering below the surface,” as if to disagree, the magic lurches forward and she clenches her jaw to keep it contained, “but sometimes it’s too much, too uncontrolled, and I lose my grasp on it. It’s like my body goes into overdrive. Best case scenario I have seizing episodes, worst case I seize and lose complete control of my magic. It can be incredibly dangerous.”

With that she looks down at Remus and finds him already looking at her. He’s deep in thought, which is understandable seeing that she is one of the most confusing medical cases in magic history, and Remus is nothing if not curious.

“You talk about your magical core as something you can feel,” he says and that’s a question she’d been expecting because magical cores aren’t a topic many wizards and witches have knowledge of.

“I can sense it,” she explains, not knowing how to word it other than that, “but it’s dormant on most magical beings, just a source of magic.”

He hums in understanding.

“Thank you for sharing it with me.”

She runs her fingers through his face and taps his cheeks twice in response.

(Y/N) swallows down the guilt of not telling him that she thinks she’s dying.

chapter 4: the marauders (and their need to stick their noses in everyone’s business)

4.0

Somehow being friends with Remus translates in being friends with all the marauders. It’s interesting, to say the least.

She goes from being exasperated by James and Sirius to being fondly exasperated by them. They worm their way under her skin and into her heart and— Merlin, she can’t believe she’s saying this —she grows to enjoy their company. She gets used to their jokes, teases them back, pretends not to hear them plotting how to break twenty school rules in one night.

It’s only because she’s grown a tolerance to their presence that she hasn’t snapped at either of them, hasn’t even rolled her eyes, even when they’re interrupting her study time.

“Don’t you like him, (Y/N)?”

They’ve been nagging at her for ten minutes, after growing bored of writing their own Potion’s essays. She’d thought ignoring them would make them eventually stop, but she should’ve known better; they are the marauders, after all.

It’s not after Sirius has repeated the question for the thirteenth time— they took turns asking, like the annoying children they are —that she sighs and decides to reply. Not even looking up and while she scrabbles a word, she says, “Of course I do.”

James clicks his tongue. She doesn’t have to look up to know that he’s leaning back in the chair and sharing an amused look with Sirius.

“See that’s what we’ve been trying to tell Moony.”

Merlin, she knows that tone and she knows where this is going. They’ve gone down this line of questioning with her a couple of times because, surprising to no one, they like to pry.

“Does he think I don’t like him?” she asks blankly and somewhat sarcastically, because she knows what they’re both implying but is decidedly not going to play their game.

“No, he knows you like him,” James assures her. He quiets down for a second and (Y/N) knows she’s not going to like whatever leaves his mouth next. James gets quiet when he’s plotting. “He doesn’t know you like like him.”

That makes her look up, unimpressed. “Never said I liked liked him,” she mocks.

Looking down to her writing and then back to the book of Advanced Potion-Making, she realizes she needs the fourth volume of Asiatic Anti-Venoms and pushes away from the table to go look for it. She lets out a deep breath when she hears them follow behind her. They’re like garden gnomes, impossible to get rid of.

“But you do,” Sirius singsongs from behind her, voice filled with mirth and amusement. It’s like her annoyance is his serotonin.

“Never said I did,” she parrots back, using his same tone. Her eyes trace the book and she hums to herself when she finds it.

Sirius is faster and slaps her hand away, reaching for the book. (Y/N) looks up at him, holds her hand out but Black only tuts and holds it up, far from reach.

“Come on, love, you’re a terrible liar,” James leans against the bookcase, watching as (Y/N) crosses her arms over her chest and smolders at Sirius.

“I’m not lying,” she responds, not sparing Potter a glance. “Come on, Black, give it here.”

“You might have a good poker face (Y/N), but your eyes give you away.”

“Please do refrain from staring into my eyes, Potter.”

James begins denying ever staring at her but she pays him no mind, eyes trained on Sirius.

“Black, I swear I’ll hex you into next life.” She presses her wand against his abdomen for good measure.

“Fine, fine,” he relents, not sounding in the slightest frightened by her threat. The smirk is still on his lips. “You might not be lying but you are deflecting,” Black tells her as he hands the book over, “and you’re also terrible at it.”

Scoffing, she looks at both of them, “Why are you two ganging up on me?”

“It’s fun,” James admits with a laugh, following behind her back to their table.

“And we want you to admit you like Moony so that you can be together and happy and all that,” Sirius completes the sentence.

Rolling her eyes, she plops back in her chair and forces herself to ignore their words. She won’t allow herself to go down that train of thought— about Remus and her and what could be —because it never ends up in anything but sadness. Instead, she opens the book and starts looking for the information she needs to finish her essay. When they remain quiet she looks up (quiet marauders are plotting marauders) only to find them looking at her expectantly.

“What?”

“So?”

“Will you confess and all that?”

Snorting, she goes back to the book, “You need to stop meddling in things that aren’t your business.”

Someone slams their head against the table. (Y/N) guesses it’s Sirius.

“She’s impossible, Prongs.”

She hides the proud smirk that grows on her face. Nothing makes her happier than annoying either of them.

“Look,” she does not look up, but James continues, “He likes you, (Y/L/N), and you like him, literally everyone can see it. So why can’t either of you accept it?”

Her hand stills as she flips the page.

“It’s complicated, Potter.”

I’m dying.

“So you do like him!”

She kicks Sirius under the table, but his teasing smile only widens.

“Oh, piss off, Black.”

“She so does, Prongs,” he mock-whispers to James.

(Y/N) kicks him harder on the shin but doesn’t deny it.

4.1

It was a bad day. (Y/N) knew it would be a bad day from the moment she opened her eyes to find colors swirling in her vision and a headache already forming at the back of her head. She, however, did not expect it to become a terrible day. Then again, life never goes the way she expects, and her bad day became terrible the moment her Divination professor told her he wouldn’t allow late assignments, even if she was submitting the assignment late because she’d been unconscious during the delivery date.

She’s upset and the headache won’t go away, and her fingers are beginning to lose sensation due to the coldness spreading from within her body. There’s nothing she wants to do other than slip under her covers and sleep for the whole duration of the weekend and yet, here she is. In detention. Because she didn’t hand in her assignment. Because she’d been unconscious.

To make matters worse she’s accompanied by Potter and Black— who are still going on about her and Remus and are apparently determined on making her life miserable. Now, on a good day, she would humor them, but this is turning out to be an incredible terrible day, she’s lightheaded and in pain and she will snap at them if they send one more ball of parchment flying in her direction.

Which, of course, they do.

“Fucking cut it off.”

The matching gasps are dramatic and followed by chuckles.

“I’ve never heard you cuss before, (Y/L/N).” Potter says in mock surprise, smirking widely when she flips him off.

“It’s madly attractive, I must admit.”

(Y/N) moves her middle finger in Black’s direction.

“Just messing with you, love,” Sirius leans back in his chair, a teasing smile taking over as he adds, “I know your heart belongs to our beloved Moony.”

There they go with that again.

She knows they’re just messing around, being dumb and intrusive as they usually are, but for some reason the words resonate differently with her this time. She wants to scream out, let herself feel all the love her heart harbors, act out on the desire of pressing her lips against Remus’s, but she can’t. That would be selfish, like offering a freezing person a fire that will die out as soon as they come close enough to feel the heat. She can’t do that to him, she cares too much.

Merlin, she wishes she wasn’t dying.

Pulling her sweater closer around her and crossing her arms over her chest, she cuts their rambling off, “Look, I think it’s better for everyone if Remus and I remain friends.”

And there must be a seriousness in her tone that hadn’t been there before, some sort of look in her eyes that she can’t control, because her words stun them into silence.

“Why?”

She doesn’t know how to explain why, it’s much too complicated, so she babbles out, “I— He— We just wouldn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

“Because, James.”

James studies her for a minute and he apparently dislikes whatever he finds because his features become stony. “It’s because of his condition, isn’t it?” All the teasing is gone, replaced by slowly growing anger.

She frowns, confused as to how he’d arrived at that very wrong conclusion. Her eyes trail from Potter to Black, the latter is looking at her unblinking, waiting for some sort of revelation.

“It’s not—”

But it seems like James Potter is quick to anger, especially when it comes to his friends, because he cuts her off and keeps on pressing, tone nothing but curt, “Moony told us you knew and he said you were okay with it but you’re obviously not.”

His voice rises, the lightheaded feeling she had slowly becomes a pounding headache.

“It has nothing to do—”

“It obviously has everything to do with it,” he’s breathing heavy, leaning forward on the chair, “why else would you say you rather remain friends when your pining is painfully obvious!”

“It’s complicated.”

“No, it isn’t,” he lowers his voice but the words are lethal and cutthroat, “You like him, and he likes you, but you want it easy.”

And all the semblance of calmness she has disappears at those words. Her sentence comes out cold and with spite, “You don’t know a thing about me, Potter.”

“I know you’re a coward,” he spits out.

“Prongs…”

Sirius’s warning goes ignored.

“He cares for you, a lot, and you can’t be with him because of, what?” he scoffs, “a condition he has no control over?”

Maybe it’s the rising anger or the increasingly painful headache, or the way Potter is looking at her with such misplaced disgust, that she snaps back, “It’s not about his condition, it’s about mine!”

The words echo around the classroom. James flinches back like he’s been slapped.

“What?”

(Y/N) presses her thumb against her temple, trying to soothe the pain away. “I’m sick,” she sighs out, closing her eyes and pressing her finger harder against her skin. The pain builds up and when she releases her finger it’s as if the pressure bubbles away. “Really sick,” she emphasizes because she doesn’t want to exemplify (most days I wake up nauseous and lightheaded, I can’t keep my food down, I’m growing weaker by the day, I feel cold even in the hottest days, the migraines make me unable to function, the episodes are more frequent than ever) but she needs them to understand it isn’t just a casual flu.

Both Sirius and James are staring at her in concern. The look doesn’t suit their faces, ones that are usually filled with life and mischief, so she waves them off, “It’s fine.”

It isn’t.

“I am sorry, (Y/N). I didn’t… I thought—”

“You’re an arsehole, James, and way too quick to anger,” he cringes at that, looking down. “But I get where you were coming from. You’re an arsehole with a good heart” He huffs out an incredulous laugh at that and looks up to find a warm smile sent his way.

(She’s never been one to hold grudges, life’s too short for that.)

“We’re good.”

chapter 5: on death’s door

5.0

The smell of citrus is so potent that it catches her by surprise, head reeling back and nose scrunching up. It’s only when she realizes that there are no oranges or lemons or anything in the table that would be able to produce such a strong smell that she grasps what’s going on. It’s an aura, one strong enough that it didn’t slowly make its presence known but rather appear out of nowhere.

She stands up quickly, only briefly stumbling, before rushing out of the Great Hall. It takes everything in her power to keep the panic from appearing in her face. (Y/N) only ever smells citrus when the episode it’s going to be a bad one— like the time she lost complete control and burnt her body and the time she’d remained unconscious for five days.

Pressure begins building up between her eyebrows and it’s a good thing she knows her way through Hogwarts blindfolded because her vision starts to blur out. Her knees weaken, she holds onto the walls to keep herself from falling to the floor. She must hurry and find an empty room, a place where she won’t cause damage to anyone else, because she definitely won’t make it to the Hospital Wing.

Her magic pulls hard and her chest constricts in pain, she can feel it slowly trailing down her arms, desperately needing to be released. She coughs as she feels everything tighten and there’s something in her mouth. She has half a mind to think that it may be blood.

Fisting her hands and stumbles forward. She feels all heat leave her extremities, her body’s attempt at keeping her magic restrained. The headache becomes a migraine, blindingly painful, and it’s accompanied by nausea. Everything is hazy and spiraling.

Tears well up in her eyes but the pain is too much, it won’t let them fall. (Y/N) feels herself falling forward, but her knees never hit the ground. There’s something holding her up.

With great effort, she turns her head around and even with the blackened edges of her vision and the mind-numbing pain she recognizes the face.

Remus Lupin.

There’s a brief moment of relief before the logical side of her brain catches on and then there’s full blown panic because if he’s with her when she loses all control of her magic he will undoubtedly get hurt. She tries to push him away but her arms are too weak. He’s saying something but the words sound far away and like gibberish, it’s like hearing a language she doesn’t understand.

She tries to move her mouth and form words, tell him that he needs to get away from her, that she needs to be away from everyone. She isn’t sure she’s successful.

Her ears are ringing, her magic is restless, her hands become cold enough to hurt. She feels the familiar tensing of her muscles and she’s submerged into blackness.

5.1

It feels like her brain and body are disconnected. She hears voices, rapid and hushed whispers. The words don’t make sense.

“Is she going to—”

“Her magic— too much—”

“There was blood and—”

Hands are one her. Her magic tingles in her chest, reacting to someone else’s magic. Everything fades.

The tugging of her magic core makes her regain consciousness. She can feel the threads of magic slipping down her shoulders and through her fingers. (Y/N) tries to move, but she can’t. It’s as if her bones are made of lead and her muscles of jelly. Her body doesn’t respond. She can’t feel any pain, but that’s probably just the potions.

“What’s happening?”

“Calm down, Mr. Lupin—”

“Should I—”

“Do not let go of—”

“I’d never seen—”

She loses consciousness before realizing that, for once, the magic leaking through her fingers isn’t uncontrolled.

Someone is holding her hand, that’s the first thing she realizes as she comes to. Second thing she realizes is that she isn’t cold. For the first time in a while, it doesn’t feel like her body is freezing, there’s heat steadily running through her.

Her brain takes a while to catch up and suddenly she remembers everything. The pain, the blood, Remus.

She bolts up, coughing out as her body protests to the sudden movement. She might not be cold, but she’s still weak.

“Hey, hey.”

Wide eyes look around in panic and they settle on the person who’s holding her hand. Remus. He has moved up from where he sat and is gently guiding her back to a supine position.

“You shouldn’t move,” he chastises, but his tone is gentle and his eyes evidently filled with concern.

“Are you okay?” she forces the words out and they sound something like a rough whisper.

His eyes snap up to hers in surprise, “Me?”

At her responding nod Remus shakes his head, “You are unbelievable,” his eyes look fond, “You almost died and you’re worried about me?”

When she only stares, eyebrows raised and eyes looking for any sign of visible damage in his face, he sighs, “I’m alright, love,” and plops back down on the chair.

(Y/N) doesn’t understand how he’s okay, she doesn’t know why he’s here and why he’s allowed to hold her hand even when there are traces of magic floating all around them. She blinks, watching the multicolored streams of pure magic travel around her. They don’t feel rampant but rather gentle.

Remus squeezes her hand, presses the back of her hand against his mouth and mumbles against it, “I was so worried, you wouldn’t know. You were bleeding and seizing and I…” he chokes on the words, “I thought you’d died.”

(Y/N) looks away from her magic and at him, ready to provide any sort of comfort, and that’s when she realizes that her magic is running down her own arm and into his. Frightened of hurting him, she tries to pull away, but Remus holds tight.

“Don’t,” Madam Pomfrey’s voice startles her. (Y/N) looks around to the source of the sound and finds the matron looking worse for wear. Nevertheless, there’s a glint of relief in her eyes.

“My magic—” she tries to protest, to explain, but is shushed with a single look.

“Mr. Lupin is what kept you alive.”

(Y/N) looks between both of her companions, confusion evident in her face, “What?”

“Drink this,” Madam Pomfrey hands over a vial and (Y/N) takes it with her free hand. It’s as she’s swallowing down the contents that the matron behinds to explain.

“Due to his own medical condition Mr. Lupin’s magical core acts differently to those of other witches and wizards.” That makes sense, (Y/N) guesses, but her brain is working in slow motion so this doesn’t explain anything to her at all. She looks at Remus and finds him already looking at her. “It’s acting as an outlet for you excess of magic.”

Her eyes snap back to the matron’s in surprise, “Really?” When she’d been nothing but a toddler she remembers some healers suggesting for her parents to find her a magical object in which she could channel her magic, they’d said it could be a way to manage her condition. Her magic had rejected every single object— regardless of how powerful it’d been or who it’d belonged to— and (Y/N) had been forced to learn how to keep the magic reigned in after one too many explosions.

Sentient beings aren’t supposed to be able to act as an outlet.

“And it doesn’t hurt you?” she asks Remus, studying his face for any sign of discomfort even when she can feel her magic being gentle with him.

“It barely even tickles,” he responds.

She looks at Madam Pomfrey with raised eyebrows because she must know this isn’t normal.

“The alteration in Mr. Lupin’s core allows it to harness your magic,” the matron explains.

“I think it even helps,” Remus adds and it sounds as if he’s just come to this realization, “My last transformation was my least violent one. It might be because of the time we’ve spent together.”

(Y/N) briefly remembers magic going out of her fingers and into his palm.

“Some of my magic slipped through the day we spent by the Black Lake. It went right into your hand before I could pull it back in,” she confesses, sounding apologetic. “I didn’t tell you because it was such a minimal amount I knew it wouldn’t harm you.”

“It appears like your magical cores are compatible.”

(Y/N) doesn’t know how she feels at that revelation.

5.2

Remus didn’t tell the marauders about (Y/N)’s magical illness, much less utter a word about their magical cores being compatible, so he really has no clue how they found out about either of those things. He’d asked them about it when they first brought it up, eyes going wide in surprise, but Prongs had only winked in response while Padfoot had pretended to sip his mouth shut.

“Your magical cores accept each other, Moony!” And this is probably only the fifth time Sirius has said this exact sentence, but Remus feels as if he’s heard it a thousand times before. He wishes they would stop repeating it because his mind has been spiraling ever since he found out, ever since Madam Pomfrey told them that (Y/N) needs to release some of her magic into him at least once a day to try and reduce the frequency of her episodes, to try to help her recover. They haven’t talked about it. They’ll sneak out through the Whomping Willow and into the Shrieking Shack every night and she’ll look away as her magic turns to life, wild and vibrant, and sneaks down her arm and into his. It’s like the revelation of the compatibility of their magic cores has shifted something in their friendship and Remus hates it. She feels distant even when they spend every second of the day together.

“It’s like… Merlin… like you’re soulmates or something.”

That makes Lupin still mid-action.

“We’re not soulmates, Pads,” he clears his throat, shakes his head and ignores the pointed look Sirius sends all the way from where he’s lying on his bed. “She’s a friend.”

Sirius scoffs at that and turns his attention to Prongs, who’s lying face down and skimming through a Quidditch book.

“Do you hear this guy, Prongs?” He points at Remus with his thumb and incredulous look in his eyes.

“Sounds like he’s delusional and in denial,” replies James without even looking up.

Remus rolls his eyes at that, ignoring the yelp of agreement that Sirius lets out.

“She’s a friend,” he repeats, trying to get it through his thick-skulled friends. (Because they could never be more than that, no matter how much he yearns for it. It’d be selfish to keep her from finding someone better, someone who isn’t tarnished.)

Prongs lets out a chuckle, “Sure, because you obviously hold hands with all your friends.”

“I… we don’t…”

“And walk them to their lessons,” Pads chimes in.

“And carry their books while doing so,” Prongs adds.

“I’m being chivalrous!”

“If you say so.”

“And, of course, I write all my friends little love letters that I keep hidden on the chest under my bed. Don’t you, Prongs?”

“‘Course I do,” James replies sarcastically.

“I told you to stop snooping through my things!” Remus’s indignation is ignored.

“Let’s not forget about gifting them muggle romance books because they’re obsessed with them and you think ‘it’s cute the way they smile’,” and Sirius changes the tone in which he says the last words making it somewhat deeper. Remus thinks to himself that his voice does not sound like that.

“I hate it when you gang up on me.”

“Funny,” Sirius grins, “that’s exactly what (Y/N) says when we annoy her. See, you even think alike!”

“Alright, knock it off, I get it,” Remus closes his eyes and sighs, “I’m hopeless.”

“You’re not hopeless, Moony,” James responds, his voice losing its teasing edge and becoming gentler.

“You’re in love,” Sirius teases, snickering.

Remus glares at him and before Padfoot can even blink there’s a pillow hitting him in the face.

“I’m joking, I’m joking” Pads says, not sounding apologetic at all, as he holds his hands up and dodges another pillow Remus sends his way. When he’s sure he won’t be getting smacked in the face he grins and says, “Things could be worse, at least she likes you.”

“As a friend, sure.”

His friends’ heads snap towards him.

James looks up so quickly from what he’d been reading that it looks comical, “You’re kidding, right?”

Remus shrugs as he shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Why are they looking at him as if he’s just grown another head?

“You’ve got to be the most obtuse person I’ve ever met.” Coming from Sirius it’s a pretty terrible thing to hear.

“What do you mean?”

“Moony,” and this is probably the most serious he’s ever heard Prongs be, “she looks at you as if you hung up the moon and the stars.”

“She does not—”

But Sirius has grown exasperated and cuts him off, “She does. Literally everyone is waiting to see when you’ll get together. There are bets going around and all.”

Remus shakes his head and ignores the part of him that is suspicious as to who started all those wagers.

“Look, it doesn’t matter if she likes me or not,” he ignores the way his chest hurts as he finally admits to someone other than himself, “I can never be with her, not with my condition.”

“Moony…”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” The more he thinks of (Y/N) the more he wishes things were different, that he was never bitten so that he could be worthy of her. He turns around and pulls the covers over his shoulder, “Good night.”

He misses the look Prongs and Padfoot share.

chapter 6: the masterplan

6.0

“James Potter I will hex you into oblivion is you don’t let us out right now!”

(Y/N) hears muffled whispers,

(“I don’t wanna die, Pads.”

“You won’t if everything goes according to plan.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“We die together, I guess.”)

before the answer comes back, clear as day, “We won’t let you out until you sort your things out.”

She sighs and turns around to meet Remus’s eyes.

“I tried,” she offers with a shrug, going back to her position on the floor besides him.

The storage closet is tiny and crowded, she holds her knees to her chest, the outer part of her thigh brushing against Remus’s elbow. There’s a squeak somewhere in the background, a sound that sounds suspiciously like a mouse. She breaths heavily though her nose and begins planning the marauders’ demise— current company excluded, of course.

“I can’t believe I fell for it,” she admits to Remus when she’s satisfied with the plan that surges in her brain for how to retaliate on the marauders.

There’d been a letter on her bed with only four words; fourth floor, 10:30 pm, tomorrow. The writing had been so unmistakably Remus’s that she hadn’t had a reason to suspect otherwise until she’d arrived at the spot only to be blindfolded and consequently pushed into this place.

Remus chuckles, “I can’t believe I fell for it.”

And, yes, it’s probably worse that he fell for it because he supposedly knows every single play in the marauders’ playbook.

From the corner of her eye she watches as he plays with the end of a broom. It’s a Silver Arrow— (Y/N) only knows that because her father is a fanatic — and it’s old and dusty and looks like it would snap in half if someone were to ride it. She can’t see the broom’s magic, but she feels it in the way her magic twirls uncomfortably in her chest. Being close to magical objects is a tricky matter for her, she never knows the way her excess of magic will react, so she tends to keep away from them. Right now, she can feel a headache beginning to bloom and the only reason she isn’t worried is because the broom is too old to hold powerful traces of magic, a headache is probably the worst thing that can happen.

“Your head hurts?”

It’s only when Remus speaks that she realizes her eyebrows are pinched together in discomfort. She forces her face to relax, but answers truthfully, “A bit.”

“Give me your hand.” He twists around to face her and offers his hand, palm up.

“Remus…” The words come out tentative, but that doesn’t deter him. His palm remains open, hand firm.

“We’re going to be locked up here for Godric knows how long,” he responds, “and we were going to do this later tonight, anyways.”

He’s right and that’s the reason she reaches down to take his hand in hers.

Immediately, as if her magical core detects his, her magic uncurls from where she keeps it reigned in her chest. It swoops all the way from her chest, down her arm and into her fingertips, mighty and bright. It’s mesmerizing, the mesh of colors and the palpable feeling of power, and she’s filled with warmth when the strands of magic curl around Remus’s wrist and into his skin.

She looks away.

“Why do you do that?”

“What?” she asks, even when she’s knows the answer.

“Look away from me.”

He’s got it wrong. She’s not looking away from him (she could never look away from him), she’s looking away from her own magic. There’s so much Remus doesn’t know, so much she hasn’t told him, and she can’t help the crippling guilt that fills her chest whenever he helps alleviate the pain.

“Rem, I have to tell you something,” the words are sudden and she feels like if she doesn’t speak them now, then she never will. Slowly, she looks back at him. “You’ve taken all of this in stride and I’m unbelievably grateful for how much you’ve helped me in the last couple of days, but I haven’t been completely truthful with you.”

He doesn’t seem hurt at that, only merely confused, “What do you mean?”

She breaths in through her nose and lets the words flow rapidly, feeling as if she doesn’t say them now then she never, “I’m dying.”

He stills, his hand tightening and his eyes desperately searching hers. His breath seems to stop for a split second when he doesn’t find any indication of jesting on her face.

“You’re what?” and he sounds breathless, words barely above a whisper.

“I’ve always known I wouldn’t live long. Most healers say I’ll be lucky if I make it past twenty,” she explains gently, trying to appease his worry. It doesn’t really seem to help. “My parents have looked desperately for any sort of solution but there’d never been one.”

He follows her eyes down to their intertwined hands.

Her magic tingles as it flows down her skin.

“Until me,” he breathes out in realization.

“Yes.”

“So you aren’t dying anymore,” he clarifies, watching as little specks of light start to flow out of the constant stream of magic pouring out of her.

“For now.”

His eyes snap back to her and the puzzlement is clear as day.

“This is just a temporary solution,” she confesses, “For it to work it would have to be done every day.”

“I would do this for the rest of my life it it keeps you alive.” His words are firm, coming straight from the heart, and she knows he means them.

(Y/N) shakes her head fondly, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” she repeats, firmer this time, because she’s been reading through tons of books and Remus really has no idea what he’s talking about. “Agreeing to this would mean agreeing to tying your life with mine. There’s a magical ritual that has to be done, a bonding of magical cores.”

And the implications appear to settle in because Remus’s eyes widen. This is advanced magic they’re talking about, ancient and complex. The bonding of cores is an archaic custom that nowadays is only ever done in marriages of pureblood families. It’s the most intimate magical tradition, it joins two people together for life and it allows them to borrow magic from their partner. It makes the bonded pair powerful in regards of their magic but also unbelievably vulnerable. The loss or separation of the pair can be fatal.

“I haven’t told my parents about this,” she gestures at their joined hands, “about you, even when Madam Pomfrey insists I do, because once they know they’ll end up persuading you of going through with the bonding and I wanted to give you a choice.”

Remus blinks at her and when he doesn’t speak she begins to ramble. “I’m sorry for not telling you before, it’s just that everything happened so fast and then I started looking into this core compatibility and I found this out and I didn’t know how to tell you. I don’t want you to think I was using you because I would never, I care so much about you and—”

“Hey, hey,” he hushes her and it’s a good thing because she thinks she might’ve kept on speaking for hours. His unoccupied hand comes to cradle her cheek, soothing all her worries away. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

He shakes his head and moves forward just enough to press his forehead against hers, “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” His voice is equally as quiet.

(Y/N) finally lets go of the slight feeling of guilt that’d been chasing her the last couple of days.

They’re close, too close, his breath is steady and she can feel the way it breezes past her lips. Her heart begins to beat louder, the trail of magic down her arm slows down.

“Would it freak you out if I told you that I wouldn’t mind going through the bonding ritual?”

Her heart skips a beat at that.

She wants to back away and search his eyes, but she can’t, not when being this close to Remus feels this right.

“Do you mean that?”

“I love you,” he mumbles, words meant only for her ears. “I cannot bear the thought of losing you. Of course I mean it.”

This does make her back away in surprise. She finds nothing but candor and warmth in his eyes.

“You love me?” and it comes out quiet and disbelieving because this was not what she’d been expecting. She just told him how much of a burden she truly is and he replied with fondness and she can’t quite believe her ears.

“You couldn’t tell?” he smiles softly and (Y/N) swears her heart is going to beat out her chest. The traces of magic run warmer, gentler than before and much brighter.

And it wasn’t like she didn’t notice his love because she did— just the way she hopes he has noticed hers —but she always thought herself too selfish for wanting him. A small part of her feared to be rejected because she comes with stolen magic and pain. She tells him as much.

He breaths out a soft laugh, “I thought of myself as selfish because you deserve much more than a half-breed.”

“I want you.” Only Merlin knows how much she does.

(Y/N) doesn’t know who leans in first— maybe it’s her as she presses her free hand to his nape and pulls him forward, or maybe it’s him and the way he holds her cheek with such tenderness, maybe it’s both of them acting out at the same time —but the next thing she knows his lips are on hers.

The kiss is soft, gentle, unhurried even when they’ve waited a long time for this. Remus kisses with such intensity, even in calmness, that she can’t help the sigh that escapes her. She feels the way her magic clings onto him, untamed but controlled for the first time in her life, like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be.

chapter 7: epilogue

Everything hurts.

(Y/N) is used to that, the lingering headaches and muscle aches. They’ve been there for as long as she can recall.

What she isn’t used to, however, is waking up to a hand holding hers and the feeling of warmth enveloping her. The pain is rapidly subsiding, she can feel magic trailing down her arm.

The first thing her eyes see is Remus’s face, always mildly concerned after an episode but so unbelievably full of endearment.

She’s so so in love.

“Are you back with me?” he asks and even though his voice is soft she can hear it over the ringing of her ears. He caresses the back of her hand with his thumb, patiently waiting for her to regain the ability to communicate.

After a few minutes she manages to nod her head, squeezing his hand as an additional response.

“Don’t look so worried,” she rasps out when she doesn’t feel like her tongue is made of lead anymore. “It’s just the flu.”

#remus lupin #remus lupin fanfiction #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin x y/n #marauders era #marauders era fanfic #marauders x reader #marauders x y/n #remus lupin x you #marauders x you #harry potter fanfiction #happyyyandcrazyyy writing

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dreamofjoys · 2 years

Note

For Vil, Rook and Malleus: May I request a f!reader/F!MC that is sleeping next to her man only to start… grinding up against their leg and calling their name in her sleep and it’s evident she’s having a… vivid dream… what would happen afterwards when she wakes up? 😈

a/n: thanks for the req! i enjoyed writing this. hope you like it 🥰 btw everything here is consensual

scenario: twst character sleeping with their s/o, only to be woken up to the sight of her grinding against their leg. she seems to having some lewd dreams.. what is her boyfriend going to do?

characters involved: vil schoenheit, rook hunt, malleus draconia x fem s/o

tw: minor spoiler for halloween event (rook) , thigh riding, masturbation, implied oral, riding

vil is a perfectionist

he has a strict set of schedule that he always follow, one of them being to get 7 hours of sleep everyday

of course things slightly changed after dating you

he would still be busy, but would often give cuddles at night, opting to do skin care routine with you before drifting to sleep

he loves you, he really do. even tho his job as the house warden of pomofiere and being a world wide celebrity had him busy all day, he would still allocate some private time for you

so imagine his surprise when one night, he woke up to feel his thigh wet

confused, he turned over and noticed that you were sloppily grinding, moaning out his name while you were…. asleep?

it did then clicked to him that you were having one of thoes lewd dreams

he sigh, feeling a little bad that he had not been paying any proper attention to you, maybe that’s why you are dreaming of such things

he gently shakes you, waking you up from your dream

when you woke up, you noticed that both of your legs were wrapped around vil’s thigh. and your pussy seems to be…. evidently soaking wet

“how’s the dream?” vil asked you as you gasped, understanding what he mean. did you just grind on his thigh…. and got caught by him?????!!!!?? “what dream?” you tried to play dumb, but vil was smart. “hm? do you want me to go into the specifics? you even moaned out my name.” vil taps his index finger on your cheek lightly, promptly teasing you as you blushed. “it was…good…..i just wished that it would be real…..” you trailed off, eyes looking anywhere else but him. vil merely laughs out loud, before giving you a head pat and kissing your cheek. “i can give it to you now, dear. you just need to ask for it.” and then… the both of you spend the next few hours making love to each other. it was probably one of the few rare moments where vil would risk his precious beauty sleep just to satisfy you <3

rook is a very observant person

he even subconsciously counts the number of hours that he sleeps…

so when he felt something, or rather you, grinding on his thigh, man is immediately awaked

he could tell what dream you were having with the way you were panting and moaning his name

got him a little excited and happy

happy cause you must have love him so much that you would even dream of him <3

and since his s/o is having some… troubles, what kind of boyfriend he is if he doesn’t help you?

he presses his thigh further onto your cloth cunt, rubbing it to further stimulate you

did you just moan his name louder? god, it turns him on so much

he unzipped his pants, freeing his cock from it, giving it a few pumps as he watches you grind on him

he could literally feel the warm of your pussy on him, so he opts to pull you even closer to him, letting you have your fun

he doesn’t wake you up cause he prefers to see your reaction when you are done with him

and when you are done, that’s when he gently shakes you awake

“mon amour,” rook whispered, gently shaking your shoulders. your eyes fluttered, revealing the (e/c) orbs that rook has grown to love. “rook….?” rubbing your eyes, you noticed that something was… wrong. your body was pressed against rook’s, both of your legs were wrapped around his thigh, and it felt awfully wet. looking down, you spotted your own slick being stained on rook’s thigh, and his dick was evidently standing up straight, with pre-cum leaking on top of it. “mon amour, can you help me please?” who are you to deny him? so being the good girlfriend that you are, you gave him the best suck of his life while he lets you ride on him whenever you want.

does this man sleeps? well actually yes, he does

he probably sleeps like 3-4hrs a day

but ever since the both of you start sleeping together, he goes to bed with you every single time, not caring if is 10pm or 4am

also another one that is very observant and aware of their own surroundings

he hugs you to sleep, i just know it

like rook, he knows it the moment you started grinding on his thigh, moaning out his name

is a little confused at first

child of man? what are you doing?? are you calling out his name because you need something? are you having a nightmare? is grinding on thighs a thing that humans do?

wakes you up immediately and asks you about it

“child of man, wake up.” malleus gently pats on your cheek, waking you up from your dream. you opened your eyes, noticing malleus looking at you with concern on his face. moments ago in your dreams, he looks erotic tho. “are you okay? you were calling out my name just now, grinding yourself on my thigh. what was that for?” malleus asks, stroking your cheek affectionately as he looks out for any injuries on your body. in his mind, humans are fragile, he wouldn’t want you to have any wounds. “no-nothing, i was just having a lewd dream about you…” you confessed, feeling embarrassed about it but you did not want to lie to malleus about anything. malleus only laughs and looks at you with adoration. “silly girl, just tell me what you want, i will give it to you. besides, are you satisfied with just riding on my thigh? come dear, you can ride on my cock instead.” he lifts you up by your hips and place you on his lap, his hardened cock directly under your clothed pussy. yeah, you spent the rest of the night bouncing off his cock

#twisted wonderland #imagines #malleus draconia #diasomnia #y/n #vil schoenheit #pomofiere #rookhunt #twst smut #rook smut #vil smut #twst rook #twst vil #twst malleus draconia #twst malleus #malleus smut #dreamofjoystwst

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gyroist · 2 years

Text

FRUSTRATED. — HEADCANONS.

— after neglecting your needs for too long, you end up asking your riding partner for “help”.

↺ feat. johnny joestar, gyro zeppeli, diego brando x afab!reader ↺ cw/tws. smut — oral (recieving & giving), fingering, handjob, light teasing, blowjob lol, barely beta read (sorry) ↺ word count. 2k ↺ note. happy saturday, have this short thing? not gonna lie, i don’t even remember what the inspiration for this was. didn’t mean to write anything other than headcanons but i guess i couldn’t help myself. oh well! enjoy.

masterlist.

▸ it’s been two in a half months since the start of the steel ball run. you had met your riding partner(s) by chance during the third stage, coming to a mutual agreement of helping each other out.

▸ while being partnered up was nice, it helped quell the loneliness being out in the middle of foreign lands brought, it did little to soothe the tension building up within you.

▸ truth be told, it’s been a while since you’ve had time to yourself… with all the fighting and the holy corpse being tossed and dragged around like a game of tag, finding privacy was hard. sure, you could finish your business while your partner was sleeping but… shame would creep up and overtake you before anything could happen.

▸ it doesn't help the fact that because you’ve been stuck with them for so long, unspoken tension has been building up between the both of you. looks like your only option is to swallow your pride and ask for some help….

johnny joestar !

asking johnny….

▸ at first, johnny would just stare at you blankly, processing everything you just said to him. ‘they..they want me to touch em? just like that?’ not to mention gyro was literally a few feet a way and surely had heard the absurd question…. ‘which is probably why he walked away further…’

▸ when it all settles into johnny’s head, a cute dust of pink creeps up on johnny’s cheeks. he adverts his gaze down to the small fire in the middle of the ‘camp’ you three had set. deep down, johnny had no real problems with this.

▸ “you’re real crazy for askin’ me to touch you while gyro was in earshot, he’ll probably tease me for this in the mornin’ but… let’s take advantage of the fact he ain’t here”

one of the many things johnny had learned from his many experiences, was how to use his mouth. he’d been in bed with many women in the past for him to already have a clear picture of what could get you to tick.

and that’s exactly what he’s doing, with his head between your thighs, johnny looks up at your expecting eyes. he can see clear as day how much you want him, he had barely done a thing and your thighs were already trembling.

“you look so pretty, darling” he mutters loud enough for you to hear, once you advert your gaze johnny leans down to kiss your puffy clit. a cute gasp escapes your lips, eyes snapping right back to look at him.

“pay attention to me, okay?”

and that’s the only warning he gives you as he dives back down to press his warm tongue against your folds. your body automatically jolts at the sudden contact, then quickly melts under his touch as he begins to lick a stripe up your sensitive pussy before sucking on your clit.

your hand slaps over your mouth as you try your hardest to bite back any moan that would erupt from you, fearing that gyro might hear what the two of you were up to.

“mmn, don’t. let me hear you” johnny mumbles into you, continuing what he was doing but with more pressure. making sure that any attempts of silencing yourself become futile. ‘bastard’ he knows gyro’s going to tease you both for this in the morning; yet, he doesn’t care.

you nearly lost all composure when you felt a finger slip inside your entrance, curling it against your spongy walls. your eyes shut themselves tight as you tried to muffle a moan that rolled out your lips. you could barely contain yourself, hips bucking up into johnny. his fingers were long and slender, just barely reaching up just enough to hit a spot you loved.

peeking down, you could see johnny looking up at you, putting on a show of him licking at your swollen clit. fuck, he looked way to pretty down there, hair sticking to his face and his pretty plush lips, it was unfair.

gyro zeppeli !

asking gyro…

▸ much like johnny, gyro gives you a blank stare at first. but it’s mostly due to him being taken back, ‘so bold’ he’d think as his expression quickly morphs into one of mischief.

▸ “oh bambina, my sweet little angel, how could i have not realized you’ve been so neglected these past few days?” gyro would tease, pulling you close and trailing up your thigh. he’d watch as you nervously squirm and press your thighs together. ‘cute’. gyro would lean real close to your ear, pressing a quick kiss to your lobe before continuing his teasing.

▸ “tell me, how much do you want me to touch you?” his hands would stop right at the hem of your pants. gyro wouldn’t go any further until you admitted how many nights you spent wishing he’d just help relieve you of all your troubles… those big hands of his, touching you in all the right places.

▸ if you were shy on telling him, gyro would continue pressing kisses to your hot skin, making you feel like you’d burst due to all the contact he’s giving you. after going for so long without any sort of intimacy, you cant help but get all worked up over it; and he knew this too.

▸ when you finally tell him, gyro would merely laugh before setting you on his lap. as much as he wants to take you right then and there, he wants to savor this moment (to your dismay.)

gyro isn’t exactly when it started, when he started fantasizing about you. admittedly, the race had made him increasingly needy just like it had to you. back in his hometown in Naples, he would’ve given in by now and went seeking for the first pair of legs willing to open for him; sneaking around his strict father of course. but here, gyro couldn’t do that as much as he wanted to.

yet here he is, getting ready to do the exact thing he swore off from doing. shamefully, he must admit that he’s spent countless nights thinking about fucking you stupid. the idea of seeing drool dribble down your swollen lips, his dark lipstick smeared all over your chest all while he pounds into your wet sensitive pussy, drives him crazy.

and here you are, straddling his lap while grinding down onto him, trying your hardest to get off. your glossy eyes filled with lust and need, staring up at him while you bit back your soft mewls.

gyro had no clue as to what he must’ve done in a past life to earn this heavenly sight right in front of him.

“eager are we?” gyro hums, his hands squeezing down on the exposed flesh of your thighs. you were beautiful, and he didn’t know if his patience would last. he wants you now, more than anything.

“gyro…” you whine, tugging on his belt. he only chuckles before undoing it himself, letting you unzip and free him from his clothed restraints. you watch as his thick cock springs out, precum already leaking from his red tip. swallowing thickly, you can feel arousal beginning to pool between your thighs. you need him now..

gyro lets out a hiss when your hands begin to stroke him, putting his hand to the back of your head guiding you down to his lips. for a minute he lets you take control, letting your tongue invade his mouth. gyro’s hands move from your hips down to the hem of your skirt, pulling it up and ripping apart your tights, giving him access to your still clothed cunt.

impatience takes over you, sliding your panties to the side as you adjust yourself over him. mind clouded with the want and need to feel gyro’s thick cock inside of you. his tip rubs against your cunt, causing a soft moan to escape your lips.

gyro’s holds onto your hips with a firm grip, slowly pushing you down onto his length. you tried your hardest to silence the moan that threaten to escape you, already overwhelmed at how good he stretched you out, how good he felt inside of you.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” he mumbles, eyes shut tight as he fully takes in how good you feel around him.

“you wear me so well, look so good like this,” he hums, kissing your cheek

diego brando !

asking diego…

▸ diego gives you an expression that you can’t really read, it’s teetering between “lust” and “what the hell are you talking about”. regret is already washing over you, asking diego should’ve been the last thing you did. before you can scramble up a half assed excuse and go back to bed, diego interrupts your thoughts by patting the space next to him.

▸ “very well, come here.” he beckons you over. his expression is surprisingly soft, and his words don’t hold their usual haughtiness. crawling over to him, the familiar feeling of anxiety stirs within you. diego’s silent, unusually so.

▸ “I'm not just doing this for your sake, is that clear? i can see the mutual benefit of this so I'll indulge you, just this once.” of course. diego wasn't usually the type to make exchanges without having some sort of end goal in mind. ‘maybe he felt lonely too…’

▸ “but first, you’ll have to earn it.” the smugness in diego’s voice is back, he smirks at your confused face before you notice him pointing at the ground in front of him. ‘ah…of course.’

uncomfortably shifting on the ground, your knees were already aching the second you sat yourself in front of diego. asshole didn’t have the decency to give you any sort of cushioning.

“well, what’re you waiting for? get on with it.” diego huffs, his dick already half hard with a very clear bulge on his left thigh. you roll your eyes before reaching for his belt.

you could feel diego’s stare burning through you. you could easily tell in his mind he thought he held all the power, with his chest puffed out and a smug smirk plastered on his face; but you knew better than that.

from what you could tell, diego was the most needy one out of the two of you. from just one look you already knew how much diego wanted this, how much he longed to be touched in the same way you wanted.

you don’t need to look up at him to tell that he’s biting his lip with his eyebrows furrowed, giving the cutest expression unintentionally.

choosing to ignore the soft gasp that escapes diego when your hand lightly strokes his cock, or when your finger rubs against his too sensitive tip. diego’s trying his damn hardest to keep up his composure and act, you gotta respect that man a little for that.

but, you still wanted to tease him just a bit.

“diego,” you say, licking a slow stripe against his shaft, kissing his tip. you feel diego twitch ever so slightly when your tongue grazed past the hole, as well as hearing light curses under his breath.

looking up at him through your eyelashes, you keep eye contact as you begin to suck on his tip, tongue swirling around it before taking it in your mouth. by now, diegos had a cute tint of red on his cheeks. his breathing was unsteady and each time you pulled away to press kisses down his shaft, his patience ran thin just by a little.

“jesus, what did i tell you to do?! just get on with it already!” diego groans in annoyance, having half the mind to just push you down onto him and fuck your face right then and there. but he wanted to be nice today… let you set the pace. but he was beginning to regret that

“patience wasn’t always your strong suit” you tease.

truthfully, you were as well. which is why it didn’t take long for you to give into his demands. of course, giving into diego was the only choice you had, unless you wanted to deal with an extremely whiny and needy diego later.

©GYROIST

#johnny joestar smut #gyro zeppeli smut #diego brando smut #jjba smut #jjba headcanons #johnny joestar headcanons #gyro zeppeli headcanons #diego brando headcanons #johnny joestar x reader #gyro zeppeli x reader #diego brando x reader #jjba x reader #joannewrites #afterdark

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house-of-mirrors · 2 years

Text

Finally finished reading the whole Moving Castle trilogy and I'm full of warm and fuzzy feelings :]

I simply love the way that Diana Wynne Jones writes. At least 10 separate and seemingly inconsequential points are introduced through the course of the book, and then in the last chapter there are at least 10 Chekhov's guns firing at once, and maybe you picked up on some foreshadowing or maybe you didn't but regardless it all fits together like a nice puzzle. You know the characters are never in any real danger, but you still feel the narrative tension, and the characters are written in such a way with realistic flaws and motivations that you can't help but care about them. There are as many objectively hilarious moments as there are endearing.

The worldbuilding proposes fascinating concepts of the multiverse without beating you over the head with it. This exists, no need to explain, just run with it. Too much fantasy takes itself too seriously. It feels like going to a Renaissance Faire where you can just forget about the real world for a while and go on an adventure. I can put aside the troubles of the real world and accept for a few hundred pages that okay, this is what we're doing, the king needs to be protected, the monster needs to be defeated, all the characters get the happy ending they want, and these random people can do magic because why not. Too much fantasy tries too hard to be subversive. Which isn't to say the Moving Castle trilogy isn't subversive: no one is a typical hero, and things are never as they seem on the surface. But the tropes that are used and the tropes that are subverted are done so for a reason and enrich the narrative rather than bungling it.

You don't need to throw random plot twists in for shock value. You don't need to be self aware or poke fun at the genre you're writing in. You just have to tell a good story and commit to it. What's all this with the modern trend of making speculative fiction "realistic?" By definition of the genre, it isn't realistic! That's the point. I don't need explanations for how a wizard came from Wales to another world, or why a little white dog is the protector of the realm, or why a carpet merchant got a prophecy. I just want to enjoy the escapism of the story.

Final obligatory comment that yes, there are small details here or there that were clearly written in the 1980's and would be different today. But no book or author is without flaw because the real world is not without flaw, and I can acknowledge the context in which something was written and extend grace to gloss over little parts in favor of the many, many good and important parts. And I feel like I'm entitled to love these books and this author when we still have people raving over HP after all JKR has done, but I digress

Final-final obligatory note that loving Sophie and Howl is bi and trans culture, reading these books made me more queer, thank you and goodnight

#howls moving castle #diana wynne jones #castle in the air #house of many ways #literature review #as an aspiring fantasy author I want my writing to evoke similar feelings to her writing #these books and this author are very important to me and nobody can change that #long post

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gretavansmut · 9 months

Text

rooftop ~jake kiszka

(a/n : just some fluff writing before we get into anything too crazy!!!! yall enjoy🥹😏)

"If we keep sitting out here like this we might get sick" I said to Jake looking over at him, he knew I was right I've been watching him rub his nose for the past 10 minutes.

"I know I know but I would like to stay out here a little bit longer if that's alright with you" Jake said looking over at me with his little red nose.

"Well I guess we'll get sick together than" I said to Jake.

Jake used to be in the greatest relationship I've ever seen him in, well that all changed this past summer.

He loved her more than any other girl i've ever seen him with and it also hurt me too. When she left Jake for some other man i remeber taking care of Jake in his time of needs. All those nights he was too drunk to drive himself him or even walk himself to bed.

And yes i was even there the next day for the hangovers.

jake of cousre as gave me thanks though but its still hard on him, it's been months now and he doesn't want a relationship or at least thats what I've been told by him and the rest of the band.

"Darling you seem to be in really deep thinking over there? Is something okay?" Jake asked me removing his arm to place by me.

"Just thinking back on when i was taking care of you this past summer....." I answered Jake.

I know that if anyone can love Jake the best it would be me.

Jake moved some hair behind my ear and lightly kissed the top of my forehead, something he's always done to me.

sometimes we never really get the answer of why people leave us and jake tried so hard to get that answer, a wound i hope he can heal. Soon.

"Come on let"s go get us some coffee to warm up and maybe go find something to do in the house" Jake offered.

"Jake.... can i ask something from you before we leave"? I asked sounding shy as always.

" I already know" Jake grinned with a sweet whisper.

He moved more of my hair behind my ear and placed his hand on my face, cold to the touch. Right when i closed my eyes Jake pressed his lips on mine, something I've been dying for him to do to me for years now.

"I've always wanted you to do that to me jake" i said real lowly, taking my time to look deep into his eyes.

" Me too but trust me baby i wanna do more than just kiss your lips" Jake said to me, now i'm not sure if he was playing around with my feelings or wanting this for real.

is this too soon or just what i wanted?

(lmk if yall want a part 2)

#greta van smut #josh kiszka #smut gvf #jake kiszka #greta van fleet #danny wagner #sammy kiszka #josh gvf #jake gvf #danny gvf #gvf #gvf series #fanfic #writers on tumblr #blog #gvf fanfiction #gvf fluff #gvf fandom #gvf fic

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thehaemanthus · 2 years

Text

Haves and Have-nots

SURPRISE turns out when I have deadlines I’m really good about writing quickly

Wrote this for @azrielshadowssing ‘s ACOTAR Writing Circle. This is part one of a Modern AU Feysand fic, to be continued by different writers for part two and part three. Can’t wait to see what others do with this!

Enjoy!

Feyre hissed a sharp note as her elbow knocked into a cup of paintbrushes. Firing off curses under her breath, she quickly straightened the cup and dumped the paintbrushes back in before shoving it on the nearest unoccupied space on her shelf.

Scrambling across the room— and tripping on the drop cloth she’d laid out— Feyre slammed her hand on her phone to check the time.

They were going to start arriving any minute.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she continued to mumble obscenities. It didn’t help her cleaning speed, but it did make her feel better.

Frantic hands hastily capped paints and shoved brushes out of sight. Feyre carefully toted her easel and half-finished creation to a corner, making sure it faced away from the one room studio. The drop cloth was a crumpled mess, missing the crisp corners and lines it usually received when Feyre folded it up. She had time to take her brushes to the sink before the irritating scream of the buzzer signaled her time was up. She hustled to the front door of her apartment, buzzing the anticipated guest up and unlocking her front door before sprinting back to the sink. Then she sprinted to the window and shoved it open a grand total of five inches, each of which was a hard fought battle that the window screeched through.

It would be fine. This was fine. Finish cleaning, get out the snacks, act like she was tastefully and intentionally unprepared to host this movie night that she had been obsessing over for a week now.

“Feyre, love!”

The tension that squeezed Feyre’s heart released. That was the power of Mor’s voice, that was how warm and welcoming it sounded.

“Hey!” she tossed over her shoulder, rushing to finish cleaning her brushes. “How was your week?”

“Dreadful,” Mor slid next to Feyre, wrapping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. “So many meetings. Why didn’t you save me, Feyre?”

“I like this extra affection,” she joked through the burning blush on her face. Mor was a very attractive woman and Feyre was not immune. “What did I do to deserve it?”

“It’s a down payment,” Mor said. “So that next time, you’ll come up with some reason to need me and I can skip my meetings.”

“I think you secretly like sitting at the head of a table and being in charge,” Ferye said. “No matter how much you complain.”

“Please, Feyre, I don’t sit at the head of the table unless I’m dealing with the male investors and I need to stake my claim.” Mor tossed her hair over her shoulder. On anyone else it would look overdone and cliche, but no gesture or look on Mor was ever anything but perfect.

“You’re done with those stuffy quarterly meetings though, right?” Feyre dried her brushes on a rag. “Back to the real work next week.”

“Hm, we have that meeting on the new product branding,” Mor leaned back out of Feyre’s space. “Are you getting to sit in on that?”

“I am.” Feyre couldn’t help the proud grin. She was just a team member, just another graphic designer for Mor’s growing empire, but she got to sit in on this big meeting. A year ago, Feyre never would have seen where she ended up. Even more shocking— that Mor would some day end up in her dinky little studio apartment.

She hadn’t expected to strike up a friendship with Mor, but somehow it had happened. Two months after graduating, she ended up at Mor’s tiny start up. A year later, and things were no longer so tiny. But their humble beginnings had made everyone close, and for some reason, Mor had been especially taken with Feyre.

“Can I help with anything?” Mor asked as Feyre finished drying her hands.

“Um…let me get out some bowls and snacks, and you can help put it all out.” Feyre darted around the small kitchen, bringing out the grocery bags of cookies, chips, and candy she had purchased for movie night. Certainly a dent in her budget, but a worthwhile one.

Mor tore open a bag of chips and poured them into a bowl. “You got a lot.”

Feyre busied herself with setting out the snacks, avoiding Mor’s gaze. “I like to…know I did a good job.”

“I know,” Mor said. “There’s enough here to make everyone happy. Now come on, I know Cassian said he’d bring the projector and screen, but we can move some stuff around before then.”

The only reason Feyre scored on hosting this movie night was because of the studio apartment. Just big enough to prop up a big screen, lay out some rugs, and lounge in a pile like they were at a sleepover. Cassian was bringing the projector and screen, and everyone had said they would bring blankets and pillows, so all Feyre was really providing was the space and the snacks.

She only hoped it all went right. She liked these people that Mor had introduced her to. The youngest, Tarquin, was still three years older than her. At 22, almost 23, Feyre often felt naive and clueless.

And it wasn’t just her age. It was who she was and who they were.

Mor had her own company, started with money and the connections she had from her family. Others owned their own businesses or held high-power jobs, sat on boards of directors or managed massive inheritances.

And then there was Feyre and her studio apartment on the edge of the city. Fresh out of college and vowing never to get another roommate unless the alternative was being unhoused, it could take upwards of an hour to reach her new friends at their apartments, townhomes, the fancy restaurants they didn’t need reservations for, and the exotic coffee shops they always wanted to meet at.

Sometimes it felt like Feyre had fallen into a dream and couldn’t wake up. Sometimes it felt like a nightmare.

Slowly, guests trickled in and her studio was transformed into a giant slumber party. Feyre scrambled to make sure everyone was comfortable. She handed Azriel a pack of Cadbury chocolate buttons she got just for him because he didn’t like sharing his chocolate, then monitored the microwave as several bags of popcorn rotated through. When Amren arrived, she made sure the older woman had a wine glass in her hand, and she kept Cressida’s gluten-free cookies set aside until she showed up.

“Oh, sweetie, you didn’t have to do that,” Cressida beamed. “How nice! I brought my own snacks but…”

“Oh,” Feyre deflated. What, Cressida didn’t think she could be a good host?

“No, no, this looks so much better!” Cressida grabbed the box of cookies and sauntered to the growing pile of pillows on top of Feyre’s rug. At the far end of the room, Cassian and Mor were snapping at each other as they tried to get the projector set up.

She did a quick headcount. Everyone was present and accounted for. Well, those who were able to make it, anyway.

“Ready to start?” Feyre’s voice rose in an attempt to be heard over the din.

“Not yet!” Mor waved a hand, eyes glued to her phone. “Rhys will be here in ten minutes!”

Several emotions competed for space in Feyre’s head. A bit of shock, panic, joy, and dread.

Cressida perked up. “I thought he was out all week?”

“Just got back a few hours ago.” Mor waved a hand. “It was one of those fancy retreats where they talk and eat and drink more than they work.”

“Don’t you know, that’s called networking, Mor,” Cassian snickered.

“The point is,” Mor said. “Rhys will be here soon.”

Rhys would be here soon. Rhys was coming. To Feyre’s small little studio. The ten minutes rushed by much too quickly, and then he was there.

“It’s movie night, not a happy hour—”

“How did you get here so quickly?”

“Sit, sit— no, you idiot, take off your shoes first!”

“Where’s the remote—?”

“Rhys, your shoes are so shiny I can see my reflection.”

Feyre stood on the edge of the mess, watching as everyone greeted Rhysand. He welcomed their affection with an easy smile, obediently removing his shoes like Mor wanted and folding himself to sit down. He was out of place in his gray button up and slacks, made just slightly casual with rolled up sleeves and a few buttons undone.

“I dropped off my bags at home and came straight here,” Rhys explained.

“Mor, what favor did you trade to get him to come?” Azriel asked.

“No favor,” Rhys said. “No convincing needed. I’m happy to be here.”

Sure. Happy to be in Feyre’s small apartment, sitting on the floor, after days in one of the most luxurious resorts in the world, talking to people who made more money in a month than Feyre did in years.

“Ready!” Her voice was a little too loud, but she didn’t let that stop her from starting the movie, getting settled, then handing a bowl of popcorn to Rhys.

“Thank you, Feyre darling,” Rhys grinned. “And thank you for inviting us—”

“Shh!”

Feyre shared a grin with Rhys. She was captivated by him until he broke the staring contest. While Rhys watched the movie and threw a handful of popcorn into his mouth, Feyre watched out of the corner of her eye. God, even the way he chewed was attractive.

She would not be surprised if everyone was clued into her massive crush by now. It started out as annoying attraction— a man too pretty for his own good. Then Feyre actually talked with him, and she could feel that attraction grow into something more dangerous.

But she maintained control of her rational mind. It was fine to have a crush. Healthy and normal. She knew nothing would, could ever come out of it. Rhys was seven years her senior and out of her league.

A harmless crush, one that was embarrassing should anyone ever mention it. But Feyre would get over it one day.

One day, she would be able to sit next to him in the dark, watch a movie, and retain what was on screen. But when the movie was done and the lights flickered on, grumbles and stretches and plans for the next meet-up floating in the air, Feyre found she hadn’t really enjoyed the movie at all. She had just thought about Rhys.

Her friends gathered their things and helped clean up. She pushed them out of her house, insisting that she could handle it herself. It was late, they needed to get home, Rhys had just come back from a flight that day and needed to rest. The offers for help and cajoling flew back and forth for ten minutes as Feyre worked to empty her home.

Soon, Feyre thought she had gotten everyone on their way. But when the door closed and the sink was running in the kitchen, she realized she missed a person.

Rhys washed the dishes silently, without complaint.

“Oh— Rhys, you don’t have to…” Feyre scrambled over. “Really, it’s fine. Leave it.”

He smiled at her. “I’ll wash, you dry and put away.”

“You should get home,” Feyre insisted. “You must have had a long day.”

“I’m fine,” he shrugged. “Slept a bit on the plane. It’s nice to stand and be a little active.”

He wasn’t stopping, and Feyre couldn’t move him. So she dried the dishes and put them away as he washed.

When she was on the last of the bowls, he gently touched her lower back. “I’ll be out of your hair soon.” He brushed past her to her bathroom.

Feyre finished cleaning the kitchen. Tomorrow she’d do her chores, sweeping and mopping, dusting, there was a load of laundry to do…

“What’s this?”

Rhys’s voice blended into the sound of the city at night— sirens and people talking, cars rumbling and music drifting out of windows. She spun around, watching as he turned her easel to see her work in the light.

“Oh, that’s just…” Feyre wrung her hands, stepping closer, not knowing if it was to explain or to gently remove his hands and hide her painting once more. “Um. A small project.”

“Looks great.”

“Yeah, it’s almost done,” she shrugged. “Just uh, something for fun.”

It was more than that. Feyre didn’t know why she concealed the truth.

The painting was based on a family photo, a loose retelling of a depressing story. The photo was crisp and clean, showcasing lifeless smiles and leeched personality. Feyre, Elain, Nesta; three young girls molded into identical shapes for this occasion. Their mother, ice cold and beautiful, and their father, prideful.

Feyre did not remember the day they took that picture, standing in front of their new home before the housewarming party.

“Your family, right?” Rhys murmured. “Mor told me that your mother passed when you were young.”

“That’s the last picture we took all together before she died,” Feyre nodded at the canvas. “Well no— obviously that’s not the picture. I meant, the painting is based on the picture.”

“Based on, but not the same,” Rhys said softly, still staring at the canvas.

“Yeah.” Feyre wrapped her arms around herself, shielding something vital. “How could you tell?”

“I don’t think any parent would accept this as the finished product,” he chuckled. “You don't look very happy.”

“No.” Feyre smiled. “I remember really hating that dress.” But that’s only part of it.

Rhys hummed. “You look like you were a stubborn child.”

Feyre tilted her head back and forth, noncommittal. “I didn’t act the way my mother wanted me to act.”

“And your sisters?”

Elain looked like a doll. If they all looked slightly lifeless in the photograph, Elain was completely dead in the painting. Stripped of her own personhood as a child, she had to grow and come into her own. Nesta, on the other hand, looked mean. An outsider would think her cruel. Feyre knew that her oldest sister was just fierce, and it took time, maturity, and experience to learn how to channel her fire away from the undeserving.

“We were all…different people,” Feyre sighed. “I don’t know. I tried to capture how I felt during that time, who I thought everyone was. It seemed more honest. I look at that photo, and…I used to think I should feel more, you know? That’s the last picture I took with my mom because she didn’t want to take pictures when she was sick. But I couldn’t feel anything about it because it felt fake. So…I thought if I tried to paint it, show a little more honesty…I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Rhys finally took his gaze from the unfinished work, smiling at Feyre. “I think it’s pretty brave.”

She didn’t expect that. “Cool”, maybe, said in a way when someone didn’t quite know what word to use. “Interesting”, to show that it wasn’t his style but he could appreciate it.

But brave?

“Like I said, just a little project.” Feyre uncrossed her arms, walking to the front door. “I’ve kept you long enough.”

“Do you paint often?” Rhys asked, taking his sweet time in joining her.

“When I can,” she shrugged. “I am lucky to have a job where I get to flex creative muscle every day, but my thing was always painting.”

He hummed. “Do you do commissions?”

Feyre laughed. “It’s just a hobby, Rhys.”

“That’s not a no.”

“I’d paint for friends,” she said. “No payment necessary.”

“Good to know.” Rhys finally opened the door, casting one last look at the painting before sliding out of her apartment. “Goodnight, Feyre darling.”

“Good night.” ~*~

It was the “Feyre darling” that started the crush.

Slipped out when Feyre was still new, still an outsider, she had first found it insulting. Infantilizing and rude, since they barely knew each other. Rhys figured out it annoyed her, and that only made him whip out the nickname more.

Then it stuck. Then Feyre paid attention. “Feyre darling” became less mocking and more affectionate.

A nice nickname, an inside joke between friends. Rhys would not be whispering it in her ear or saying it with tenderness.

Rhysand was turning 30 soon, and he had a full time job and promotions under his belt and property he owned. Feyre was 23 and in her first full time position and making spreadsheets to budget every month and hope to tuck away some money into a meager savings account. She had to ask HR how a 401k worked.

A harmless crush that would pass, that’s all it was. In the meantime, Feyre focused on being a good friend.

The next time everyone met was when Mor hosted one of her dinner parties— complete with a nice tablecloth (and a table large enough to fit them all), pretty plates, a separate salad fork and dinner fork, and wine pairings. Mor catered from exclusive restaurants, treating guests to a rotating variety of cuisine.

Feyre arrived early to help set up, rubbing her chilled nose as the elevator brought her up to Mor’s floor. The weather wasn’t cold yet, but it was turning nippy. The elevator ride up was long enough to get her mostly defrosted, and the warmth in Mor’s apartment finished off the job.

Large windows gave a magnificent view of the city. At night, staring out at the thousands of lights was mesmerizing, and during the day Feyre could spend an hour just observing all the life happening down below. Inside, Mor had furnished her apartment with warm colors and clean lines.

They chatted as they expanded Mor’s massive dinner table, adding in a piece in the middle and chairs to the ends.

“So,” Feyre started. “I have a question for you.”

“As long as it’s not about work.”

“It’s not,” Feyre said. “I need a picture of Rhys’s family.”

She hadn’t missed the way Rhys looked at her painting, or the way he asked if she did commissions. Rhys was intrigued by the idea of turning a photo into a nice painting, and his birthday was fast approaching.

While others might get him nice gifts, a new expensive watch or tickets to some high-culture show, Feyre had less to work with. She could spring for some nice oils and a new canvas though.

Mor set down her stack of dishes, giving Feyre her full attention. “Why?”

“When everyone was over for movie night, he saw this piece I was working on,” Feyre said, explaining the concept and Rhys’s interest. At the end, Mor loosened up a bit. “So, yeah, I think it would be a good birthday gift.”

“I think he would like it,” Mor said. “He would appreciate that you put so much time and effort into creating something. But…how much do you know about Rhys’s parents and sister?”

“Nothing,” she freely admitted. “Other than they’ve all passed.”

Mor nodded slowly. “Your personal project is focused on revealing…truths, I guess. Are you going to attempt the same with Rhys?”

“I’ll try,” she shrugged. “But it’s not personal, so it’s not the same.”

“Right,” Mor hummed. “Well. I’ll say this. Rhys’s parents did love each other, very much. But his father was always focused on legacy and security for the family, so much so that I think he missed a lot of what was right in front of him. They went through a lot of passionate ups and downs, but it seemed like things could have been settling when Rhys’s sister was born. I remember going to their house and feeling like something changed. But then…”

“They died,” Feyre completed the thought.

Mor nodded. “Rhys…obviously it still hurts, but he’s in a good place now.”

“Do you think he’d appreciate the portrait?” Feyre worried.

“I think so,” she shrugged. “Try and take his temperature today. If you think you can pull it off, I’ll send you a picture.”

They dropped the conversation to finish preparing. Feyre obediently dished out food into pretty platters, finishing up with putting together the salad when the guests started to arrive.

Around Feyre, conversations about planning exotic holiday vacations, the latest fluctuations of the stock market, gossip about the family everyone else knew, and insider knowledge about the passage of some labor bill shot back and forth.

It would be easier to be jealous of these people if they were anything but kind.

The first time Mor introduced Feyre to some of her friends— just Cassian and Amren— Feyre had almost run away. Amren had complained about her trip to Austria, and Cassian had bemoaned the black-tie event he had to attend and the tuxedo he would have to dust off.

She hadn’t expected a deep conversation to happen right there, middle of the day, lunch at a trendy restaurant. But somehow the topic had come up, and she learned that she and Cassian had more in common than she originally thought.

Obviously, Feyre had been wary about judging a book by its cover ever since then.

Plenty of people in this group were born with silver spoons in their mouth, that was true. But, blessedly, they were aware of it.

“Oh no, you don’t want that,” Helion found Feyre at the wet bar, looking through bottles of wine. “It has an expensive price tag, but it’s not worth it. Try this one.”

“Thanks.” Feyre waited as Helion poured the dark red into a glass, just a bit for her to taste. “Not bad.”

“Amren will tell you it has notes of cherry,” Helion shrugged. “It takes a real snob to detect that, I think.”

Said the man who owned a stable of horses upstate.

Feyre poured herself more wine, letting the warmth flood her senses and fill her with confidence. She had a goal for tonight. If she backed off now, it would be too easy to let it go.

She lingered near the drinks, hoping for the chance to spring her trap. Any moment, Mor would announce the start of dinner and they would have to take their seats.

Rhys wandered over, reaching for the jug of water, and Feyre stepped forward. “Hey, Rhys,”

“Feyre, how are you?” he smiled, pouring himself water and then facing her.

Step one, complete.

“Enjoying the cooler weather,” she said. “But I know that in a couple of months, I’ll be saying the exact opposite.”

“Not a fan of winter?” Rhys asked.

“Not a fan of the cold.” Inescapable, penetrating cold. Memories of little to no heat and numb toes. “My birthday is in the winter, so…it’s not all bad.”

“Right,” Rhys said. “December 21.”

“Yup.” She tried not to smile too broadly when she realized Rhys knew when her birthday was. “And…you’re November…?”

“Sh!” He hissed, but the exaggerated way he looked around told her it was mostly comical. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of my birthday.”

Feyre’s head tilted in confusion. “Mor is your cousin— how can you hide your birthday from her?”

“They all know when my birthday is,” Rhys said. “I just don’t want to remind them.”

“Scared of turning thirty?” Feyre teased.

“No, aging is a gift,” he said with unexpected sincerity. “Just…don’t like inconveniencing people.”

Something shuttered on his face, but Feyre couldn’t probe into it. She didn’t have the time. Later. She might get that chance to ask another time, who knows?

“Well,” she tried to be relaxed, but the way she gripped her wine glass probably was giving away her nerves. “I’d like to make you a gift. And before you say anything, it would not be an inconvenience! It would be something I want to do.”

“Oh, Feyre, you really don't—”

“I insist!” She plowed forward, though was mindful to keep her voice down. Rhys didn’t want people knowing, so she could respect that. “You asked if I do commissions— and when people ask that they are interested. So I’m going to paint you something.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Do I get to know what it is?”

“I’d like it to be a surprise,” Feyre said truthfully. “But I also don’t know if you’ll like it.”

“I really don’t care what it is,” Rhys said without hesitation. “I’m sure I’ll appreciate whatever you make.”

Feyre bit her lip, trying to think of a way to phrase her question without giving it away. “Well…I don’t know. I asked Mor what she thought—”

“Then I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said, looking away for a moment when someone called his name.

She panicked just a bit. “Rhys, I should just ask—”

“Feyre,” he interrupted gently. “Really. Don’t worry about it so much.”

“This is a painting for you,” Feyre pointed out. “I could misinterpret horribly…”

“If you need direction, you can ask Mor.” Done with the conversation, Rhys backed away. “But I’m interested in your vision, Feyre darling.”

Well. That was as definite an answer as she was likely to get. The next day, Mor sent over the photograph.

~*~

There was a strange balancing act in creating this kind of art.

The piece had to be revealing and poignant— there was a message there, and it needed to be expressed. But too obviously, to gaudy or in your face, and it could not be appreciated.

The depth needed to be in the detail. Feyre aimed to create something that was pleasant to look at upon a glance and beautiful to meditate on. She did ask Mor about Rhys’s family, just wanting to know enough to not offend.

The hand that Rhys’s father laid on his wife’s shoulder had a tighter grip, just a bit exaggerated from the photo. His little sister got a twinkle in her eye, a tilt in her head that screamed innocence and just a hint of something impish. Rhys’s stance changed, from perfectly upright and still to something more dynamic, feet positioned as if ready to keep moving. And his mother got some imperfections, flyaway hairs and an uneven posture as she leaned just a little bit closer to her daughter. Her smile grew, crinkling her eyes.

Feyre added movement, added some life that didn’t exist when everyone was trying to look their best for a fancy photo. It was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. There was a story happening.

The next time everyone crammed together, it was at Rhys's townhome for game night. Monopoly and Catan were banned, as they took much too long and created some extreme emotion, but Battleship, Cards Against Humanity, Clue, and Uno (with some crazy house rules) were some of the approved offerings.

Feyre shrieked in laughter and playfully booed, sampling a few of the games with a rotating cast of opponents and participating as a spectator in lulls. When the pizza arrived, everyone broke to grab a slice.

“I can’t believe we won’t be able to do a Halloween party,” Cressida bemoaned. “When’s the next time everyone is going to be in town? What’s the next excuse to get together?”

“Thanksgiving?” Helion offered.

It was probably Rhys’s birthday, but Feyre kept her mouth shut. So did Mor, Cassian, and Azriel.

Cressida didn’t get that memo. “Huh, maybe…wait no! Rhys! Your birthday!”

He accepted the attention with a smile. “Yes?”

“Don’t do that.” She was close enough to playfully slap his shoulder. “It’s in just a few weeks! What are we doing?”

Rhys shrugged. “I don’t have any plans.”

“Oh no,” Cressida gasped like it was the worst thing in the world. “But you’re turning thirty!”

Helion laughed. “No need to remind the man, Cress.”

“You’re older than all of us, you shouldn’t be making fun of anyone’s age,” she shot back. “But really, Rhys. No plans?”

“Nah,” he shrugged.

Cressida huffed. “Is no one else bothered by this?”

Silenced greeted her. Feyre was giving her own present, and it was a private thing that she would most likely present to him when they were not in a group setting. She was sure that Rhys would probably do a quiet family thing at home with Mor, Cassian, and Azriel, maybe Amren too.

“Unbelievable,” she rolled her eyes. “I bet you all forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” Azriel said. “I already have a gift in mind.”

“It’s a 30th birthday! You have to do something more fun than just a gift!” Cressida said.

Tarquin shrugged. “It’s a little late to plan now. I’m sure if Rhys had wanted something big, he would have said.”

“Please, it’s Rhys,” Cressida snapped. “And it’s not too late. I already have an idea and I can put it together.”

“Do I get to know?” Rhys asked. “It is my birthday, after all.”

“We’re spending a long weekend at the family beach house,” Cressida announced.

Ferye frowned. “Isn’t it a little cold for a beach vacation?”

“It’ll be fine,” Cressida waved a hand, already scrolling through her phone.

Mor cleared her throat. “The beach house is in Turks and Caicos.”

Oh.

“I’ll get the staff to prepare the house,” Cressida murmured. “We’ll have catering for a party, but for those of us staying at the house I’ll have to make sure the staff does grocery shopping…”

“Free beach vacation? I’m in.” Cassian said.

Cressida pointed at Cassian. “That’s the spirit! It’s Rhys’s birthday! It’s a milestone! Let’s make it fun! I’ll book a DJ and put together a guest list for one night, and that can be the larger party, but the rest of the time it’ll be just us. Mor, you still have that guest list from the summer picnic, right? They’ll all be able to fly out for a weekend.”

“This is too generous, Cress,” Rhys interjected with a polite smile.

“No way,” she put her hand on his arm. “Not for you.”

Something curdled in Feyre’s stomach. She looked away, but the sight that greeted her wasn’t much better. Amren and Varian were looking at his phone, seeming to be searching for flights. All the faces were of mild interest.

“It might be a lot, but it’ll be worth it.” Cressida turned back to her phone. “Right, I need food, I need to contact the staff, we’ll have to coordinate flights and rides…and I’ll need to go shopping. Mor, what was that name of the boutique you were talking about? The appointment-only one, I know it’s late notice but do you think they could fit me in?”

“Cress, it’s winter, they won’t have bikinis…”

Feyre sipped her cider, then rose to throw away her empty plate. The rest of them could talk about their fun plans. She would not be participating.

She didn’t have the money to fly out of the country for a long weekend, especially not with little more than a month's notice. Not to mention the vacation time. The only people who would be able to do such an insane thing were her insanely rich friends.

She knew Cressida wasn’t purposefully excluding her. Feyre was a newer friend, not even that close to her, and Cressida probably never had to make those accommodations.

Hell, Cressida probably didn’t even include Feyre in the invitation. It would be beyond generous to open her home to someone she didn’t really know that well.

Feyre tried to mollify herself as she darted to the bathroom. So she wasn’t participating in this fun. That was fine. She had her own way of celebrating Rhys’s birthday, and that was enough. And if she had to take an extra few minutes in the bathroom to get her emotions under control, well, that was just healthy and mature.

She meandered down the hall, hoping that the conversation had moved on and she could convince Azriel for a rematch at Battleship.

“...it’s really a lot, Cress,”

“You deserve it.”

It was rude to eavesdrop. Feyre should have just keep walking. But she didn’t move out of the hall, keeping to the shadows and out of sight from the bright kitchen.

Rhys’s laugh seemed a little forced.

“I mean it,” Cressida’s voice was so low Feyre almost didn’t catch it. “If you had it your way, you would stay at home for your birthday and return any gifts. This is the compromise.”

“Well, at least you are talking about it with me,” Rhys sighed. “I hate when people push their ideas on me.”

“Who would push themselves on you?”

“Happens more often than you’d think,” his voice was just a bit strained. “It just… reminds me of my dad railroading me, or pretending he was giving me options when he was really just trying to force me into accepting his decision. He didn’t understand that what was important to him wasn’t important to me”

“Well, the vacation is mandatory,” Cressida said. “The itinerary is on the negotiating table.”

“Thanks for the transparency,” Rhys answered. “I really didn’t want any surprises though…”

Feyre heard enough. She slipped into the living room and tried to forget the conversation.

Logically, she knew that Rhys was not talking about her and her gift. But she also realized that she might be doing exactly what Rhys just said he despised. She didn’t take his no for an answer when he said she didn’t have to do anything for his birthday. She took something she cared about— her art— and assumed Rhys would care. She even hedged on telling him what the painting was.

Oh God, the painting included his father. Mor said Rhys had a rocky relationship with him, but that was true disdain Feyre had heard…what had she done?

She was in a trance for the rest of the evening, going through the motions and forcing smiles. Blessedly, everyone was so consumed with party planning that Feyre flew under the radar.

“I’m going to head out,” Feye announced when she had enough. Cressida, in the interest of being transparent, asked who could help cover costs and started rattling off astronomical numbers. No one said it, but being able to cover the cost of the music or food or chip in for a fun excursion suddenly felt like the price of admission.

“I should get going too.” Just her luck, it was Cressida that spoke up.

Feyre kept her attention on her phone, wincing at the price of getting an Uber. Subway it was, then. She tugged on her coat and said her goodbyes, ready to be done with the night. Feyre hustled outside, hands in her pockets to keep them warm as she walked towards the nearest station.

“Feyre!”

She resisted grinding her teeth together and turned around, a pleasant expression plastered on her face. “What’s up?”

Cressida stalked closer. “Where are you going?”

“Um,” she looked around, as if that would provide clarity to the question. “Home?”

Cressida rolled her eyes. “You’re taking the subway.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” Feyre gaped.

“You’re not taking the subway alone at this time of night,” Cressida said. “I can’t believe Rhys would let you leave his home without offering a ride.”

Rhys knew better than to try and control Feyre. And he probably was busy planning his fancy birthday vacation.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ve done it before—”

“Come on,” the other woman turned away, expecting Feyre to follow. “I’ll drop you off.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I insist!” Cressida unlocked her car, opening the passenger door open like a chauffeur. “Get in.”

“You live in the opposite direction,” Feyre backed away. “It doesn’t make any sense—”

“You live so far, it’ll be faster for me to drop you off than to take the subway,” Cressida pointed out. “Just get into the car, Feyre, don’t be so stubborn.”

She hated taking the offered favor. But it would be faster and more comfortable to go with Cressida.

Feyre got into the car.

If Cressida thought it was awkward, she didn’t say anything. The low volume of her music filled the air, quiet enough to hold a conversation if they desired.

Ferye really didn’t want to talk. Cressida, though, obviously wanted the exact opposite. “Are you getting anything for Rhys?”

“Um,” she hesitated. Her gift suddenly seemed so silly. But the longer she was silent, the more suspicious it would seem. “I was going to paint something for him.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” Cressida said one thing, but her tone said something different.

Feyre sat up a little straighter, defensive. “What?”

“I don’t see Rhys as an art guy,” she shrugged, conveniently avoiding Feyre’s gaze and keeping her eyes on the road. “I mean, sure, he might kind of like it. But he’s not like Amren, right? He’s not going to gallery showings and stuff, he’d buy something to hang on his wall from Crate and Barrel.”

“Well…I’m glad I can give him something nice then.” Maybe. Her great idea seemed less and less ingenious by the minute, but Ferye could salvage something. Some sort of pretty, but meaningless piece to hang in a hall. She didn’t have any other ideas.

“Oh no, I don’t mean to discourage you!” Cressida said. “Really! I know you care about your work, and I can tell that you would put so much of yourself in it. And I’ve seen some of your stuff, you’re really good. I’m just one opinion.”

Feyre swallowed roughly. “But you don't think it’s a good idea.”

She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “I just don’t want to see you hurt when Rhys doesn’t react the way you might want him to. It’s Rhys, he’ll appreciate the gift of course. But it’s…ugh, how do I put this? Helion is arranging a private tour of an observatory because Rhys is a nerd obsessed with space. Mor is probably going to set aside a day for them to spend together and reminisce on childhood memories. And I want to give him a vacation because he always works so hard and literally never takes a moment for himself.”

“And my gift…” Feyre could barely speak. “Doesn’t matter as much.”

“It matters,” Cressida shot a glance at Ferye. “It does, because it matters to you. But don’t project that onto Rhys. Like I said, he’ll appreciate it, but I don’t want to see you get hurt because he doesn’t seem to care or like it as much as you might anticipate.”

Thankfully, they were only five minutes away from her apartment. Enough time for Feyre to fall silent in quiet contemplation, a late night a good excuse for the murmur of thanks and quick retreat when Cressida dropped her off.

As soon as she was out of the car, icy wind pierced her shields. Feyre’s throat tightened as she hustled into her building, pounding up the stairs. By the time she was through the door, she was well and truly humiliated.

Her phone chimed. Feyre automatically glanced at it and then wished she hadn’t.

Good appointment with orthopedic surgeon. Elain’s text read. Identified a problem, Dad will need more physical therapy, but they’re hopeful it’ll lessen the pain.

Nesta’s reply appeared. Send the bill, we’ll split it three ways. How many weeks of therapy?

Idk, at least 8 I think.

Feyre sagged, falling against the closed door. She and her sisters were getting by now, but their dad’s medical bills always put a strain on all three of them.

Definitely no vacations, or even trips to fun cafes, or going to see a new movie in her future. Not for a while. She took a deep breath, already thinking about her spreadsheets, then looked up.

The unfinished portrait taunted her from the corner.

She was such an idiot. Rhys might think her painting was cool, might have shown genuine interest— but that was because he was Rhys. He wouldn’t make her upset or be anything but kind, simply because Feyre was Mor’s friend.

But she wasn’t a part of his life, wasn't in the same circle. She had foolishly projected her own passions onto him, poured her soul into something that could never see the light of day again.

Grabbing a trash bag from under the sink, Feyre stalked towards the easel.

Pack it up. Get rid of it, and this entire night. She had miscalculated what to give Rhys, and quite honestly she had probably been miscalculating about her place here for a while.

She felt like a nice little pet, a charity case to be ogled by the rest of them until it was convenient to leave her behind. But that didn’t worry them, because they had been to her studio and they knew her too well, and what kind of broke 22-year-old would walk away from rich successful friends?

Feyre sniffed back tears, the product of a long week and too many bottles of cider at game night. She needed sleep. Rest, and in the morning she would be feeling less sorry for herself.

But first.

The painting stretched the plastic bag, sharp corners poking out. Feyre almost left it at her door, ready to be thrown out. But it was too obvious there, too in-her-face. She banished it under her bed instead. There, it could keep the monsters from her nightmares company and be forgotten under a layer of dust and regret.

#acotarwritingcircle #acotar #acotar fanfiction #feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand

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coffeexmythos · 2 years

Text

Psst psst psst, rantep shippers come get your juice

Amnesiac!Carter au this time, with a bit of inspiration for the crawling chaos's form taken from @jevdev-art 's version of Nyarl, hope that's okay (btw thank you for the tag comment on my last fic - I wouldn't have written this if it weren't for you!)

I'm not really happy with this. Eventually I'll probably write something longer, and better, with this concept. For now, enjoy!

---

His eyes, blue and green, looked between the page in his hand and the wall before him. Carter bit his lip, narrowed his eyes.

"Almost…"

With the charcoal, he drew the symbols, under his breath he mumbled the ancient tongue. As his words faded and he drew the final symbol, the image on the wall warmed, the black lines heating. He backed up, drawing in a breath. Black lines turned red, caught fire, the whole symbol burned, burned.

And the stone wall crumbled. The old, old rock walls around him didn't even budge. And before him, revealed to his astonished eyes, the ritual site, lost for over three hundred years.

He laughed, dropping his arm.

"I can't believe it…"

The charcoal tumbled from his fingers. The man stepped forward…

"Well done, Randolph."

His head snapped to look behind him. Too late. From the dirt below him, tendrils exploded around his feet. He cried out. The tendrils wrapped around his arms, his legs, dark ooze squeezing out from between their sections as they lifted him from the ground.

He struggled, a sudden cold sweat dragging down strands of his hair to his forehead. The more he fought, the tighter the tendrils gripped, until tears prickled in his eyes. Carter gave up, gasping. The tentacles eased their grip.

The familiar voice - the only voice that escaped from the locked box of his memories - laughed.

The stranger's footsteps created no sound. Despite that, he could sense the eldritch presence that approached like a chill on his skin, an ache in his chest. He did not look towards the man. He clenched his eyes shut.

A drop of sweat traced down his neck. A long, warm finger brushed it away.

"Randolph…" the voice called, sticky and sweet as honey.

He grit his teeth. He wasn't going to argue with this madman again.

"How did you find me?" Carter said instead.

"There is nowhere you can hide," the man said. "There's nowhere you can go, on this planet or another, where I will not find you."

"You're bluffing," he said. "Powerful as you might be, sorcerer, you can't do that. Even those like you have limits."

"Sorcerer?" The man spoke, amusement dripping from every word. "You've given me an upgrade. How sweet."

Carter opened his eyes. The rival occultist before him dressed as a modern pharaoh might, with Eye of Horus face paint by each eye and golden jewelry laced with forbidden enchantments. Over eight feet tall, his tendrils had lifted the younger man so far off the ground, they looked each other in the eye.

He didn't know either of their names. The people who found him nicknamed him Carter after some famous instructor at the university. He had no idea who Randolph, the real one, could be. This man must be truly as mad as he appeared to be, as he must be after using such dark magics, to mistake him for another.

"You know you can just ask my name," the Pharaoh said. "Just say the words I know you know. I will answer. I will confess."

But there was nothing to say. He didn't know the words. He didn't know anything. Whatever memories he had from before remained sealed in the abyss of his subconscious, likely never to be freed.

Amnesiac he may be, though, he knew a taunt when he heard one.

"Don't you lay a hand on that site!" Carter said instead. "All of the relics-"

"Need to be taken to the Miskatonic," the Pharaoh brushed his hand through the air, waving the words away. "You are dedicated even now, I admire you for that. But I'm not here for that."

The smile on the Pharaoh's face grew.

"I'm here for you."

Carter stiffened. His pulse jumped in his veins.

"E-Excuse me?"

"There's a lot you've forgotten, my rebellious pet." The Pharaoh pressed closer now, his armbands clicking together as they wrapped around the other's body. "I don't have time for a full lesson. Your friends are on the way. But the next time I find you…"

His wide eyes could not look away. The Pharaoh smiled. His breath caressed over Carter's lips.

"Yes… I know what I'll do with you… my precious Randolph Carter…"

Something sparked in the back of his mind. "W-wait-!"

The man's lips swallowed his cry.

No, it wasn't the first time he'd been kissed by this madman. No, it wasn't the first time he'd been trapped in the Pharaoh's arms. Warm hands traveling over his body. Incense, smoky and spicy, rubbing off on his clothes. A tongue like another tentacle in his mouth, his own noises echoing in his ears.

It wasn't the first time. How did he know it wasn't the first time?

Who was this man?

The tendrils dissolved, leaving only the Pharaoh's arms holding him up. Carter squeaked, squirmed, gripping onto the powerful limbs that held him up. The other man laughed, breaking the kiss. With far more care than Carter wanted to be given, the Pharaoh settled him down into the dirt. He towered over the other man. The Pharaoh's eyes narrowed. What was the magic that made them seem to glow yellow?

"I shouldn't," he mumbled. The glowing eyes closed, he sighed. The man straightened, and smiled.

"Until next time," he said.

The Pharaoh turned his back, and Carter did not stop him, watching as his silent steps carried him into the dark.

Carter shivered. He touched his lips with shaking fingers.

Randolph Carter. The man they'd named him after. He'd vanished, was assumed dead, in the 1920s, wasn't it? Did this madman believe he was…

But even with magic such things were impossible. Even the outer gods themselves couldn't… couldn't what? What were they incapable of? Would they even be capable of defying time and death itself?

How do I know you, Pharaoh?

Another voice called out in the darkness, a familiar voice, a friend. On shaking legs, Carter pulled himself upright. They could not know. None of them could ever know. Not until he did.

#rantep #randolph carter #nyarlathotep

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fallenasleepyetagain · 1 year

Text

Snow - Blue/Cross Fic

Prompt: Snow | First Kiss

Prompt from: @yearoftheotpevent

Media: UTMV/Undertale Multiverse

Genres: Fluff, everyone lives in Nightmare’s castle, human AU, light romance, friends to lovers (technically enemies to friends to lovers but they aren’t shown to be enemies in this fic)

Characters: Cross, Blue, Dream, Nightmare (mentioned), Killer (mentioned), Error (mentioned)

Pairing(s): Cross/Blue

CW/TW: None!

Word Count: 3743

Other Notes: This is 1/12 fics I’ll be doing this year! All of the pairings I will be writing about will be rarepairs because man I just like rarepairs what can I say? This was written on the laptop, so paragraphs are formatted to not be read on mobile! Apologies for this.

Reblogs >> Likes

Arm workouts had to be his favorite. Just him, the gym bench, and some heavy dumbbells. It was a great way to cool down while also working out one of the most important parts of his body. He wasn’t Cross without being able to wield his massive as fuck sword. Using arm exercises as post-workout workouts was also something he did frequently. It was a good way to work his muscles as well as winding down post-shower. Apart from having a very short and small breakfast and doing his physical training session, he hadn’t done much else today. He had done his normal morning workout which took around three hours to complete.

It was always a blur when he did it, like he was in this dazed state until Chara decided to wake him up via an ice cold shower or hell fire shower. He always hated it but man did it work. It always snapped him right out of his childhood conditioning and back into the real world. He had done his normal workout this morning, took a hell fire shower, and was now doing some arm workouts to chill out. Earbuds were in his ears, connected to his phone in his gym short pocket. It was playing a podcast about common tropes in anime, where they came from, and how they got popular. Honestly? It was really interesting.

Switching the dumbbell to the other arm, Cross adjusted his entire placement on the gym bench, making sure that he was comfortable. He did small arm circles with the arm that now felt extremely light, stretching it out to make sure the muscles stayed healthy and not strained. His body could take a lot - he was a massive hunk of a man - but he had to take care of his body too, just like everyone else.

Despite it being the middle of January, he was feeling warm and safe. And while Nightmare refused to get a proper heating system in the castle, preferring to heat the massive building via fireplace, working out in the colder months was really nice. The gym was located on the first basement floor of the castle. The castle had a lot of floors, both from the first floor going up, and the first floor going down. It actually wasn’t freezing down there, being more insulated due to the floors above and the ground around it. The temperature was nice and cool, which made it great for working out. It stayed cool all year round too.

After completing all of the arm workouts, he stood up and walked over to the weight-rack, gently setting down the eighty pound (~36kg) weight where it belonged. He stretched out his torso and arms, his back popping. Suddenly, before Cross could begin to think about what he would do next, Blue suddenly burst into the room, the double doors flying open.

“CROSS CROSS CROSS CROSS CROSS CROSS!” A flurry of shouts echoed throughout the room, with a significantly smaller figure running towards him. Cross turned in time to make sure he didn’t accidentally elbow Blue in the face. Sweat beads dripped from Blue’s forehead as he grabbed onto Cross’s forearm. Blue was vibrating, clearly very excited about something. Although what, Cross wasn’t sure. Blue could get excited about anything if he tried to.

“BWUH-” Cross sputtered as Blue grabbed onto his arm with a force much stronger than he was expecting. “H-Hi??? What’s up?”

“CROSS!” Blue squealed, rocking back and forth on his feet. “You need to come upstairs and into the main hall right now, it's super important! I want to show you something awesome!” He chirped before springing from Cross’s arm, practically teleporting from Cross back to the doors, “And put on some pants! You’ll need it!”

And with that, he was gone. Cross was still reeling from Blue’s excitement, a small, giddy grin appearing on his face. He knew what to do next, and had to move quickly; Blue was waiting for him. His mind wandered, wondering what Blue wanted from him. Knowing the little bastard, it could be just about anything. But Cross had a good feeling about it. Seeing the excitement and glee in Blue’s big, beautiful, dark-blue eyes was enough to tell Cross that whatever it was, it was going to be worth it. Changing into something that wasn’t his workout clothes was easy. His gym shorts became a black and white pair of pants and his muscle shirt became a tight yet soft black sweater. He, of course, finished off the monochromatic outfit by putting on the fluffy coat he always wore. It was a staple of his appearance, he couldn’t just leave it out! He exited his room, rubbing his eyes as he yawned. Sleep and him never really got along, and he hadn’t had a night in the past month that wasn’t restless or full of nightmares.

It was quiet in the castle, something it often wasn’t. The winter months had to have been the reason. The cold just made people chill, literally and figuratively. Heating wasn’t a thing in the castle either, and despite Dream’s attempt to fight Nightmare about this, he always lost. Nightmare, being the guardian of negativity and naturally colder than the average person, didn’t see the need in getting heating. So he left everyone else to suffer and figure out how to stay warm. This was mostly done through cuddle piles by fireplaces, something Cross didn’t mind participating in. It got down below freezing most nights! But his body was warm, and so was his clothing choices, he usually got along fine. The large doors to the main hall were right in front of him, and Cross had to wonder when and how he got there. He must’ve been on autopilot. A sigh left his lips before he had the chance to process it. He needed to wake up fully soon because this was getting ridiculous. Chara did a decent job of making sure he got in control of his own body, but it still took effort of his own to make himself ready for the day.

Cross shoved the doors to the main hall open with his shoulder, the large spruce door creaking as he did so. Cold air blasted at his face, blood rising into his cheeks and nose, being very apparent due to his albino skin. He blinked back a few tears as he entered the room. Blue was waiting for him, bouncing up and down on his feet. Which were in blue snow boots. Huh. Cross didn’t realize that Blue owned any other pair of shoes from the normal heeled boots he wore. The smaller man was very lightly dressed compared to Cross, although he usually was, but today it was odd. Since they were both feeling the strong gust of wind coming from the open doors, Blue should’ve been shivering. It was well below freezing outside and the wind was absolutely making it worse. He had snow boots, his scarf, and what appeared to be jeans and a simple black undershirt with blue gloves. Before Cross could even mention the mere fact that Blue was very underdressed for this type of weather and was possibly going to get himself sick, Blue had grabbed his hand and began pulling him towards the door.

“Oh my god Cross I’m so excited you’re here, look!” Cross’s eyes went from Blue towards the open doors. And what he saw was something straight out of a movie. The ground outside was covered in snow, every plant being coated with a thick layer of powdery snow. It was still falling from the clouds above, the wind sending the snowflakes whirling around. The last time he had seen snow like this must’ve been in his old universe. Snowdin often had snows like this, but he had yet to see a place match it. It had snowed outside the castle before, but it had been a long time since he last saw a place snow like this.

No wonder Blue wanted to show him this. It was incredible! “Isn’t it perfect, Cross?! It’s been so long since I’ve last seen it snow like this!”

“Haha yeah…it’s crazy.”

“Come on!”

“Come huh?”

Snow crunched under Blue’s feet as he ran from the doors and across the entryway. Right before he hit the stairs that led up to the castle, he leapt. Like an excited husky he jumped up and landed below in the snow, which had to have at least been two feet to catch him properly. Cross was stunned. He exited the castle, pulling to doors closed with relative ease despite the wind working against him. When he turned back around, Blue was beckoning him into the snow. He hesitated slightly, unsure of what to do. But Blue’s smile wavered any anxiety he had, his shoulders untensing. He walked down the steps, being careful to not slip and fall. Blue was resting against the snow, as if it was a mattress and not freezing cold. The snow crumbled as he patted the spot next to him. It was…oddly seductive.

Cross took a second to turn around and crouch into the snow. He allowed himself to lay down next to Blue and a wheeze exited his body as he sunk into the ground, the two feet of snow not being enough to keep him up. He was so goddamn muscley! No snow could trickle down his back luckily, due to his hood being pulled up over his head. Although severely limiting his vision. Blue shifted on his right and within a moment, the fluff of his hood was pulled back.

“Hehe, hi Cross.” Blue laughed, “You’re hidden away.”

“I guess. Hah.” Cross replied, his tone nervous. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous, Blue never did anything to make him anxious! Blue was always so sweet and awesome to him. And yet his heart was racing and his palms were sweaty. “Why did you want to show me the snow?”

Even though Blue’s vitiligo made his cheeks two very different shades, one pale and the other brown, Cross was still able to tell that he flushed slightly at the question. Blue sat up, and his face was buried slightly in his bright blue scarf. He shook his head, much like a dog would, to get the snow out of his hair. “For a few reasons, actually.” He made a smiley face in the snow, his face the opposite, “Some are more selfish than others, I’m afraid.”

“Hey hey,” Cross sat up and put a hand on Blue’s shoulder, “It’s ok. I want to know. ‘Sides, I don’t think you could be selfish, even if you tried.”

Blue chuckled softly before standing up and promptly sinking back into the snow. The snow was almost to his waist, and he shivered as snow entered into his snow boots. The wool socks that he had on should be enough to keep his feet from freezing over. Error had made them for him! What a sweet guy Error is! He grabbed Cross’s hand and helped him up.

“Well, the first reason is that I wanted to show you the snow! It’s been so long since I’ve seen a snow storm like this! And as a previous resident of Snowdin yourself, I figured that you would like to see it as well.”

“Aw.”

“Reason number two! And Cross before I say this I need you to know that this is out of love.”

Cross squinted at him. “Ok?”

“I wanted to bring you out here so we could play in the snow! Because you, my monochromatic friend, have the biggest stick up your ass I have ever seen.”

“Hey!”

“I mean that nicely! You are just on edge and worrying about everyone and everything all of the time! You work so hard, and I am afraid that you’ve forgotten how to have fun and relax. So I pulled you out here so we can frolic in the snow!”

“That’s…really sweet actually. And not selfish at all! Are you ok? Why would you think that either of those reasons are selfish?”

“I have three reasons, actually.” Blue twirled a small piece of his brown hair.

“Yeah? What’s the third?”

Despite the massive height difference between them, Blue still, somehow, managed to put a gloved hand on Cross’s cheek. Cross’s cheeks flushed again, becoming a deeper shade of red than his normal cold look.

“I wanted to spend time with you.”

“Really?”

“Yes! I know you internalize pretty much anything and you think that you’re terrible and horrible and that everyone hates you and that no one would ever want to spend time with you, but that isn’t true! I really like you Cross, and I want to spend time with you!” Cross bent down slightly, to allow Blue to grab his face with both hands. His eyes shut as Blue kissed his freezing nose. He allowed himself to take Blue’s compliment to heart, and a genuine, if a little dorky, smile tugged on his lips. And he felt a little bit at peace, a feeling he didn’t feel too often. Then his mind started whirling, per usual. What…just happened? Was this platonic or did Blue have some sort of subtext behind his words? Although Blue usually didn't, who knows? Was he supposed to react in a certain way, were they going to kiss???

Before his brain short-circuited, Blue snapped him back to reality. “Now come on! Let’s do something! We could have a snowball fight, or maybe eat icicles, ooh or build a snow fort! There are so many things we can- AUAH?!”

Blue was cut off as Cross picked him up like a cat, his hands almost fully wrapped around his chest. He tried not to think about the fact that Cross’s hand was practically the size of his chest. It flustered him! He always forgot how large and muscular Cross was until something like this happened.

“Aaguh- Cross? Why don’t you, um, put me down?”

“I will. But first we have to get you some proper snow clothing. You’re going to freeze and get sick if you spend any more time out here wearing such thin clothing. We are going inside so you can warm up and put on some more weather appropriate clothing.”

“What! No way! Cross I will be fine. I’ve been out longer in worse conditions!”

“That’s not comforting! Come on, we are getting you a jacket at least.”

“OI!”

Cross and Blue both paused. That was a new voice. It was awfully quiet in the wind, despite it sounding like a shout. But where did it come from? Cross shifted on his foot, squinting so he could see in the windy snow.

“UP HERE DOUCHEBAG!” Ooh, Cross recognized that voice and his teeth began to grind together as he made the connection. He turned on his heel and looked up onto the balcony above. And just as he guessed, Dream was standing there. Arms crossed, and the black fluff on his jacket shook in the wind, gathering snow. His golden eyes were pulled into a sharp glare, which was aimed at Cross.

“HE’S GOING TO GET SICK! BRING HIM INSIDE YOU INSECURE GOLLUMPUS!”

The two made eye contact, and it took all that Cross had in him to not fling his sword straight at Dream’s head. With a moment of silent contemplation, Cross made up his mind. He flung Blue into the snow with a gentle toss. He flipped Dream off as well as Blue shrieked and laughed as he landed gracefully into the snow.

“HEY!” “WE’RE GOING TO HAVE FUN THE SNOW, YOU AND YOUR STUPID ASS CAN SUCK IT UP!”

“Cross!” Blue chided at him before taking a bite out of a snowball he had made.

With a huff, Cross disengaged, even though Dream hurled a few more insults at him before giving up and going back inside. The smallest twinge of regret shot through Cross. He didn’t like Dream all that much, sure, but the guy was just looking out for Blue, much like how he had done a moment earlier. But Blue probably wouldn't have listened to Dream anyway. Though he would’ve been nicer about it.

“Sorry…?”

“No you’re not.”

With a heavy sigh, Cross responded. “No I’m not.”

Once again Cross was yanked down into the snow. This time he landed on his knees which made it easier to talk to Blue, who was still laying down in the snow. How he wasn’t freezing was a mystery. He had one arm over his chest, the other under his head. Blue laughed slightly at Cross’s response, smiling at him. Blue had a nice smile. And Cross was sure he wasn’t the only one to think that! Thinking that was a normal thing to think about friends! Right? Right! Exactly!

“Hehe, are you thinking about me Cross?”

“Wha-What? Why would you think that?!”

“Your face went all red when you were looking at me. Unless you were thinking about someone else?” Blue asked, his tone rather flat yet still engaged. He cocked his head to the side, waiting for Cross to respond.

“I was um-” He swallowed hard, “I was just thinking about how nice your smile is.”

“Aww!” Blue sat up and hid away in his scarf for a moment, cheeks a little flushed. Although not as much as Cross’s were, “Thanks.”

“Y-Yeah um! Sure. Of course.”

Blue cupped Cross’s face, the feeling of his gloves were nice against cold skin. He rubbed Cross’s cheek for a moment. His thumb ran over the scars that made an x-like shape on his face. Despite his gloves, he could still feel the difference between the coarse skin of the scars versus the non-scarred skin. He adored Cross’s scars, which was ironic considering he didn’t like his own. They were so badass and showed how strong he was! Cross was very strong, and yet so very gentle. Only when someone realizes their maximum strength can they be as careful as Cross is. Even a few moments ago, when Cross had scooped him up. He wasn’t aggressive about it, and neither was his grasp tight. His hands drifted down to Cross’s jaw, and he felt the other’s breath hitch.

“Can I kiss you?” Blue whispered, his voice barely heard over the wind.

“I-If you want to!” Cross stuttered, his hands finding themselves a nice spot on Blue’s hips. He had never been kissed before, was there something he was supposed to do or…?

There was no room for thoughts as Blue gently pressed their lips together for a moment. It was a simple peck on the lips, it could barely be considered a kiss. It lasted for a second, maybe too. But to Cross it felt like an eternity.

“Now come on! We have so many things that we can do in the snow, so let’s get going!: Blue chirped, jumping to his feet, shivering a little as he did so. He was faced away from Cross and when he heard no movement he turned around on his heel. “Cross?”

Cross was still kneeling in the snow, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. A shaky hand was lifted to his lips, the phantom feeling of the kiss still there. He looked so out of it, as if he didn’t even notice that Blue was talking to him. Blue smiled softly and walked a couple paces back over to Cross.

“Cross?” Blue asked, poking his nose. He jolted awake, blinking a few times. “Hehe, you dork. You okay?”

Cross nodded.

“Awesome! Let’s get going!”

“Ah! Wait!” Cross was yanked up by Blue with surprising strength. His knees felt like collapsing under him, but he managed to get control of himself relatively quickly. “Can we,” he paused to swallow, “Can we do that again?”

“What, kiss?”

“Mhm.”

With a shrug Blue responded, “Sure. But first we have snow activities to do! What do you want to do first, Cross?”

“We could…make a snow fort? Igloo? Something like that?”

“Yesss!” Blue’s eyes lit up as he grabbed Cross’s hand, and pulled him into the forest that surrounded Nightmare’s castle. Cross put on what had to be his tenth wobbly smile of the day. He just felt content around Blue. He didn’t feel like that around most people. His fingers wrapped around Blue’s, the feeling warm against the harsh cold of the winter. Was Blue still not cold? If he looked like he was shivering, Cross would be sure to take his jacket off and give it to him. It would absolutely smother the guy, but he’d be warm! Blue turned back to him, and smiled once again. There was a slight crease to his smile, the ends of his eyes tugging upward. Was Cross about to gush about his smile again? Probably.

The day had started with feelings of melancholy and the existential dread of figuring out what to do with himself. It was easier when someone just told him what he should do, whether it be Nightmare sending him on a mission, or Killer dragging him to do something. And even though Blue had dragged him out into the snow, he still asked what he wanted to do first. Blue was good at that. Listening and taking suggestions. Actually, Blue was just good! Good to be around, good to hang out with…good to kiss. He wasn’t perfect, Cross knew that, no one could be. But Blue came pretty damn close. Cross almost felt honored that Blue wanted to hang out with him. There were so many people in the world and in the castle, and he was the one who was actively sought out. It made him feel warm. Happy, even.

Blue let go of his hand to run ahead, scouting out a clearing. Cross followed him, eyes watching for any icicles or large patches of snow that could fall on Blue and hurt him. He hadn’t even noticed the fact that Blue had stopped moving until he almost bumped into him.

“Hey! Cross!” Cross looked down at Blue, who had snapped his fingers as he spoke. “You’ve gone all tense again. Relax for me man.”

“But that’s…hard.”

“Relaxing is hard? Jesus Christ, who hurt you?” Cross went to reply, but Blue held his hand up, “Rhetorical question. Sorry. Can you take a breath? Have a little fun with me Cross.”

How could Cross say no?

#fallen’s writing #Cross (utmv)#Blue (UTMV)#Cross/Blue #UTMV #cross sans #swap sans #crue #cross x blue #rarepair #utmv fanfic #undertale fic #blue x cross #xtale #underswap

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prolix-yuy · 1 year

Note

O, Q, and S for the ask game 😁🍷

Lovely Skye! Anything for you:

O. Do you believe in outlines? Show us one!

Haha. Hahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

I'm sorry to disappoint but I am SHIT at outlines. I used to have this issue writing original fiction - writing an outline triggers my brain to go "oh it's done!" and the story never happens. All I have are a list of fic ideas in my Google Drive that trigger my brain to write something. I sometimes write a sentence at the top of the page to remind me what the story is supposed to be about, but that's it! It's all stream of consciousness after that!

Q. Quote three bits of writing you read his year. Can be your writing, or not.

Yummmmmm there's been so much good stuff! Let me grab some of my favs:

Whiskey sat up, turning his body to face you. Your hand merely moved upwards as he did, and he sighed with his eyes rolled back when you placed a cool palm on his cheek. He all but burrowed into your touch.

Home. You offered to help him get home. You offered to help him.

@scribbledghost Heat two partner has me swooning at the most inappropriate times but I will always come back to it.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice quiet, husky. He can already feel himself stirring between his legs, blood rushing and his lack of underwear doing nothing to hide it. You’re staring at his mouth, and you shake your head ever. so. slowly, your movements dragging as your mouth moves under his grip.

“Kiss it better,” you whisper, and it’s so quiet that he’s not sure he heard you correctly.

“What?”

“Kiss it better, Dieter,” you say again, leaning forward slightly.

@pedrito-friskito Calculated Risks series because holy hell, it's so raw and real and beautiful and I LOVE this Dieter to the moon and back.

“If this were a polygraph, you’d fail.”

“I haven’t lied to you—” Javier interrupted.

“Your pupils,” you said, not missing a beat and he went quiet. “They’re already dilated. Your hands are warm. You keep licking your lips because your mouth has gone dry. Arousal is a strong emotion, strong enough to give you a false positive on any polygraph.”

His pulse fluttered rapidly under your fingers, and he swallowed around nothing.

“One last question,” you said, squinting in acute observation of him. “Did you come over here because you wanted to sleep with me?”

I mean, I gotta throw one of yours in because Lie to Me is such a masterclass in Javi I could cry. I'm three chapters behind and I HATE IT. I need to just sit and read and love these two forever. As much as I love YOU SKYE!

#lovely mutual!#iamskyereads #dash games

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dragon-riding · 2 years

Note

Congratulations for 100 followers ♥️

May i have an interaction with Leona (saw someone requested this & it's very AMAZING) with s/o who wears a bunny outfit? Umm should i write the dialogue or not?? I'll just add it in case your need it 😉

—How do you like my outfit, Leona-sama? I want to reward you for being not too lazy, lately you've been very active especially on your Magift Practice. As usual you're amazing on Magift, Leona-sama~

anything posted and written on this blog is fictional and should not be recreated and/or idolized in real life

kinks included: bunny outfit, breeding, degradation

“Fuck,” Leona pants out, only halfway in your warm, warm pussy. Your walls twitch and spasm, gushing another wave of slick around him. The wet sounds of his cock slapping against your ass, the pretty moans falling from your lips and you spreading your legs wider for him, offering yourself to him on a platter, served with an extra side of desperate sluttiness— it’s all filthy. Deliciously filthy.

He belatedly replies to your question. “Yea, yea, outfit’s great. Shit, you’re so fucking easy. All I did was play a few games and you’re giving yourself to me. Are you an idiot? You gonna give yourself to the first man who gives you some flowers? Hah! That’ll never happen. You’re mine.”

He’s defiled you, his poor sweet bunny girl that happened to drop at his feet.

“Fuck,” he repeats, laughing when your cute tail shakes with your ass. You’re impatient for his cock and his cum, a slut for it. It’s a wonder how he hasn’t completely ripped your outfit to pieces. “So fuckin’ impatient. You think you can tell me what to do? Pathetic bunny— satisfy my dick first before you go shaking your ass,” he slaps your ass, the tight leather stretching over your ass unable to keep it from jiggling.

“L- Leona, please!”, you squeal, bunny ears flopping, hanging on for dear life on your head. You tug on them, a habit that only made you seem like a real bunny girl. It had Leona’s dick throbbing to crudely pound into you until you were filled with his seed, an instinctive need to completely dominate his weaker other half. “N- Need more-”

Leona pushes your head into the pillows, muffling the rest of your words. “I heard ya loud and clear, bunny. Quit whining and start working your pussy. Gonna breed you till you’re fucking begging.”

“W- Wa-”

“Bunnies love that, yea?”, he licks his lips, pulling his cock out to the tip, “Getting bred over and over again. It’s your fault for wearing that stupid outfit so don’t blame me. Stupid girl,” he thrusts back in.

No longer pausing to think, Leona fucks you with only one thought in mind— to fill you up so much that it’s impossible you aren’t thoroughly bred by the end of it. “Fuck, my bunny’s gonna listen to me and take all my seed, yea? Gonna sit on my dick till you’re all full and bred and be a good mate- shit- don’t even need to bother leaving this room anymore, bunny.”

What have I done?, you think as another scream left you, as your embarrassing moans rang loud in your ears and Leona dumps his cum into your cunt, growling insults and praise and more insults mixed into one.

You don’t think bunny will have the same meaning for you anymore after Leona is done with you.

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babiexiao · 3 years

Text

late night lessons

pairing : fem!reader x mikey x draken x kazutora

includes : heavy oral (fem receiving), spitting, subby & inexperienced tora, dom!mikey & ken, ken's a lil mean at times hehe, some degrading but lots of praise, lots of smut (obviously) n fluff if you squint

word count : just over 4.5k...🧍🏽‍♀️

summary : an alternate timeline where mikey and ken teach their dear friend, kazutora, how to eat pussy. specifically, yours.

this is very very very self indulgent of me but idc i want all of them 🙄 i uhh, i can't write endings to save my life so let's ignore how bad it is, thank u. almost named this 'two and a half men' cause mikey's shorter but i decided to be nice to him lmfaoaofhd. please don't repost on other platforms. likes / reblogs are appreciated & feedback is always welcomed <3

!! minors & ageless blogs, dni !!

The events of the night were sort of a blur. What was meant to be an innocent movie night had suddenly turned into something, not so innocent. You faintly remember Kazutora mentioning he’d never touched a female intimately, and somehow the conversation led to more. The words “teach me… please?” fell from Kazutora’s lips, directed at Mikey and Ken while his eyes glanced over at you. You’re not too sure what happened after, but now you’ve ended up on the bed with three of your friends around your semi naked body.

Your back was against Ken’s chest, his large hands holding your legs apart by your knees as Mikey and Kazutora situated themselves in between them. Mikey’s hand gently tapped your thigh, smiling back up at you warmly. “Let us know if you want to stop at any time, alright?” You simply nodded, the room feeling a little too warm as you finally processed this was really happening.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t ever thought of your friends in that specific way. Countless nights you had gotten off to at least one, if not, all of them, countless fantasies and positions played out in your mind but for it to actually become real? The whole thing felt like a dream.

“Use your words, baby.” Ken spoke, his deeper voice resonating against your ear.

“I understand. I’ll let you know. P-Promise.”

“Good…” Mikey trailed off, looking down at your panties before looking at Kazutora. “You gotta tease them a little. Make them needy for something, yeah? It sorta sets the mood.” Kazutora’s eyes were wide, you could see him making notes mentally and hanging onto every word Mikey spoke.

“H-How– How can I do that?” He asked nervously, throat becoming dry. Rather than speaking, Mikey hummed to himself and pulled your leg a little closer to his face as he placed gentle kisses that continued up your thigh, inching closer and closer to your centre. His actions made you shiver in excitement, which didn’t go unnoticed by the blond between your legs, a small smirk overtaking his features while he continued. Kazutora focused on the two of you longingly, licking his lips that had gotten dry and awaited his turn.

“Just like that. You see how she shivered a little, Tora?”

“Y-Yeah…” The boy swallowed deeply, his eyes darting to meet yours. They were full of lust while equally being laced in nervousness. “Can I… Can I touch you, like ‘Jiro did?”

“Mhm, please. Touch me.”

Kazu inhaled, letting his lips press against your other thigh, his eyes locked onto your face to see your reactions and noticed how you bit your lower lip. Your skin was soft under his lips. When both their kisses eventually reached your upper thighs, you couldn’t help but let out a little whimper. They were both so close to where you needed them. You’ve never been more embarrassed, they’d barely done anything and you could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter with every passing minute.

“S-She’s wet, that’s good, right?” Kazu mumbled against your skin, sitting back as he noticed the slight wet spot in the middle of your panties which had your face burning up. He’d seen enough porn during his lifetime to know being wet was a good thing, at least that was the conclusion he had come to. “Yeah, that’s right Tora. Means she’s enjoying it.”

Kazu’s heart was pounding against his chest at the mere thought of you enjoying everything that was happening. You’d gotten so wet, so fast… All because of him and Mikey? Fuck. It was so hot to think about.

“Are you still good?” Mikey questioned, his fingers dancing around on the soft skin of your stomach teasingly as he waited for a verbal answer from you.

“I’m good, please... Please, continue.” It was almost too embarrassing to ask the two of them to continue with their actions, but alas, you’d be disappointed if they stopped now. You hated to admit it, but your friends had made you wet and needy with just their lips and you were sure they would continue to make you drip more as the night went on.

Mikey nodded at your answer, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulling at it a little but letting it snap back into place, ultimately giving you false hope of it being taken off. His fingers then slid down a little more as he pushed the pad of his thumb against your clit through the fabric of your underwear. The teasing action drew a soft whimper from you.

Kazutora’s eyes dilated a little, the small noise of pleasure from you was tempting to his ears. He wanted to draw noises out of you like that too, he wanted to feel you up like Mikey did. He just wanted to make you feel good, just thinking about making you moan from him made him flustered and he blushed.

“Kazu, c’mere.” Mikey waited for the boy to shuffle a little closer, sneaking his free hand into Kazutora’s hair ever so softly and pushing his head directly over your clothed pussy, letting Kazu have a clear view of how his thumb was continuing to rubbing circles against your clit.

“Y’know what this is?”

“That’s t-the clit, right?”

“Mmhm. Good boy.” Kazutora wasn’t expecting the praise. His eyes fluttered closed almost immediately as he bit back a noise of pure happiness while his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink than before. It almost felt like he was drunk off the two words. The blush overtaking his pretty face didn’t go unnoticed by Mikey, or Ken.

“You like that? Being called a good boy?” Ken smiled, letting go of your thigh for a couple of seconds as he used his thumb and pointer finger to hold the males chin, making Kazutora look up at him. His entire face was red at this point from embarrassment, unable to speak up, the words ‘good boy’ kept bouncing around in his head, over and over.

“Asked you a question y’know.” Ken’s voice was stern enough to have the shy male snap out of his drunk daze, eyes focused on Ken’s dark ones this time. “Gonna be a good boy and make her feel good. Isn’t that right, Kazutora?”

“Yes! Wanna be good. Wanna be a good boy!” It was like a light had flicked on inside Kazutora’s head all of a sudden, the shyness dissolving away for a split second as he eagerly replied. He was eager to please, eager to make you feel good, eager to listen and hopefully garner some praise once more from everyone.

The three of them conversing had you growing needier (if it was even possible), seeing Kazutora so excited and flustered had your stomach doing backflips, hips bucking into Mikey’s touch as he also observed his friends, smiling at how fucking cute Kazutora looked.

“You’re so obedient already.” Mikey spoke this time, offering Kazutora a warm smile while Ken’s hand fell back on your thigh once more, using his strength to hold your bucking hips down with ease.

The blond continued to play around with your middle, alternating between pressing his fingers against your clit and trailing his hands up and down your slit, still keeping your panties on. The barely there touches had you shaking above him, little mewls escaping your lips every time Mikey began to rub your nub again. Kazutora’s throat began to dry up again this time, heart almost beating out of his chest as he kept his eyes focused on how his friend was touching you up and making you moan.

“Shit baby, you’re so sensitive. Tell me, does that feel good princess?” Both of their eyes darted up to your face. Your throat felt dry as you tried to answer Mikey’s question. He even pressed down a little harder on your clit while waiting for a reply and making it even harder for you to say a coherent sentence.

“Feels… Feels good, Jiro, ‘s good.” Your hips chased more of his fingers, your bottom half rising off the bed little by little again to get more from him. It had you whimpering. The friction of your panties and Mikey’s fingers sent goosebumps all over your body.

A soft whine from Kazutora had Mikey turning his head to listen to the male. “I… Wanna touch too, Mikey…”

The blond smiled, letting his hand fall as he moved over to the side to allow for Kazutora to get comfortable between your legs. “Go ahead baby, touch her like I did.”

Kazutora nodded, his hand shaking slightly with nerves as he tried recalling Mikey’s movements in his mind. As his hand brushed over your clothed centre, you bit down on your lip in anticipation of what was coming next. A couple seconds later he finally pressed his thumb against your clit, like Mikey did a few moments before.

That was when Kazutora’s mind went blank. The action had you letting out a noise of pleasure. That was exactly what Kazutora had been wanting all night, and now that he had finally got it? He almost lost his sanity then and there, cock twitching in his jeans as the sound replayed in his head.

“Keep going Kazu… She liked it.” Mikey’s voice was soft, lips close to Kazutora’s ear. Gaining some confidence from the noise of pleasure from you and Mikey encouraging him, Kazu began to move his thumb in slight circles, copying what the male before him once more.

“Feels good ‘Tora, fuck.” Your head tipped back into Draken’s chest, eyes fluttering closed as waves of pleasure ran through you. But it was still not enough, you wanted to cum and the teasing touches from those two had been going on for far too long.

“Touch me properly. Please… Want more.” Your voice was quiet as you spoke, looking down at the boys between your legs with desperation.

“Hmm, hold on a sec Kazu,” Mikey began as he pulled Kazutora’s hand away from your clit – Kazutora, who had been so intent on touching you and making you feel good, whined at the loss of contact from your middle without even realising. The noise from him earned a chuckle from Mikey. “You’ll get to touch her cunt again, be patient for now. Thought you were a good boy, hm?”

“I am…” Reluctantly, Kazutora moved to the side, licking his lips as he patiently waited, hands in his lap, itching to start touching you again.

“Gonna take these off, ‘s that alright princess?” Mikey’s finger tugged at the band of your underwear as you whispered a hurried “yes” back at him. He didn’t hesitate in taking the fabric off this time though, thank god, sliding it down your legs and tossing it to the side, focusing on how your pussy was finally on display.

Kazutora’s heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest the second his eyes landed on your exposed centre, his voice quiet. “Oh fuck…”

“Fuck indeed. What a pretty little cunt you’ve got, baby.” Mikey began, his fingers playing around with the slick seeping out of your hole. “Are you as tight as you look, hmm? It looks like I can barely stuff a finger in you right now.” His voice was quiet, eyes glossed over with excitement as he took in the sporadic clenching of your yet untouched hole.

“‘M not sure… Dunno…”

“So ‘m gonna have to find out, huh? What a tease…” Gently, the tip of his finger teased your opening, pushing inside your hole just for a brief moment before he withdrew it. The male admired the way even with a small action like that, your cunt began clenching around nothing once more. “So fucking desperate to be filled…”

“More, Mikey please, need more.”

A soft chuckle fell from Mikey’s lips as his fingers stroked your folds a couple of times, avoiding your clit on purpose to tease you again – He was thriving seeing you so needy for him, so starved and desperate. This time, his finger dipped into your cunt with ease and a groan radiated from his chest as your walls kept his finger sheathed inside. He was right, you were tight. “Shit… You’ve got such a greedy cunt baby, sucking my finger right in.”

Every so gently, the male retracted his finger. It came out soaked, dripping with your slick – It also had Kazutora squirming in his place, seeing how wet Mikey’s finger had gotten was making him needy too.

Mikey bent over a little, hair falling over his face and tickling your thigh, thrusting his finger back inside you slowly as the tip of his tongue came out and flicked against your clit. You were unprepared for it, eyes already shut closed with pleasure when you had felt Mikey’s thick finger push into you. The movement made you shake above him, whimpering as your hand fisted into the bedsheets as his movements got a little faster.

Kazutora’s fingers pulled the strands of Mikey’s hair back to see his tongue licking your clit over and over. His cock twitched in his pants again as he watched how the tip of his tongue was touching your nub, the way your pussy had drenched Mikey’s knuckles and how there was a slight ring of cream around Mikey’s digit. Your hips moved on their own accord again, moving up into Mikey’s face, throbbing for more than just the tip of his tongue.

Eventually Mikey pulled back, pushing in another digit and watched you with a smug smile as your back arched off the bed at the intrusion. “Kazu, touch her for me. On the clit, like before yeah?”

Kazutora’s mind was racing, Mikey’s voice drawing him out of his daze as he lifted his hands from his lap. The pad of his thumb made contact with your now wet clit and earnt a gasp from you. His thumb pressed against your little nub a bit harder, rubbing circles against it while Mikey kept pumping two fingers into your heat. Sloppy sounds of your cunt being fucked by Mikey’s fingers and your moans filled the room.

Draken, who had been awfully silent behind you, spoke this time. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” You nodded quickly, head spinning as pleasure ran through your veins. “You’re doing so good for us, so fucking pretty and slutty for all your friends, princess.”

Your cunt clenched around Mikey’s digits with Ken’s praise and degradation, and it clenched down hard. A deep groan came from the blond, his spare hand prying your thigh open more and fucking into you harder than before. “Like being called a pretty slut?”

There was no way Mikey expected you to answer him, right? Not when your mind was already in a daze, Kazutora’s thumb rubbing your sensitive clit so deliciously while Mikey’s fingers were fucking you. Not able to say anything coherent, your mouth opened as moans fell from your lips.

“Dirty little cunt clenched around me so hard, fuck – Loosen up baby. Can barely fuckin’ move my hand.” He was right though, your pussy was holding his fingers in tightly. But it’s not like you could help it – It all just felt too good.

Kazutora bit his lip as his hand wrapped around Mikey’s wrist. The blond looked back at him, blinking silently before he groaned. A glob of spit fell from Kazutora’s mouth, landing right on Mikey’s digits before he slowly pushed the male’s fingers back into you till Mikey was knuckle deep in you. Kazu recalled seeing a porn video that did that… He wanted to try it out, hopefully the added wetness would help make your pussy a little looser for his friends fingers.

“Holy shit, Kazu–” Ken was stunned, eyes wide as he looked down at the two of them between your thighs.

“S-Saw it, in a video…”

“Fuck…” Even Mikey’s mind went blank, shocked but so ridiculously turned on, his own cock stirring in his sweats as he saw Kazutora flush a deeper shade of red and lick his lips at all the sudden attention.

Mikey withdrew his hand from your cunt, earning a disappointed whimper from you. But when you finally opened your eyes, you were faced with what had to be the hottest sight of the night. Mikey holding Kazutora’s jaw open. The fingers that had been inside you mere moments ago were stuffed deep inside the males mouth now. “How does she taste?”

“‘S g-good… Hnngh–” Ever so gently, Mikey had pushed both his digits even further down Kazutora’s throat. Little droplets of spit coated Mikey’s hand as Kazutora choked on them, eyes beginning to glisten with tears but no part of him wanted to pull away. You tasted so fucking good on Mikey’s fingers, and the dull pain of the two fingers against the back of his throat was addicting.

“G’nna let you taste our princess for real now, ‘kay? Been so obedient, you deserve it.” Mikey cooed, smiling as Kazutora nodded back as best he could and slid his fingers out of the males mouth. Mikey licked his fingers clean of your slick and Kazu’s spit. It had your walls clenching again and made Kazutora squirm, breathing deeply as he awaited instructions.

They both found their way between your thighs again, Kazutora’s heavy breaths blowing against your slick folds and causing goosebumps to rise on your skin from the sudden coldness. “Go on, taste her with your tongue.” Kazutora sat frozen for a couple of seconds, hesitant. Not because he was nervous (okay– maybe a bit of it was from nerves), but because he was so god damn close to your cunt now and seconds away from tasting you.

“Don’t tell me you’re shy now Kazu?” Ken spoke, raising an eyebrow at him. “You spat all over Mikey’s fingers like a whore, and now you’re shy? Surely you know how to eat pussy from all those pornos you’ve watched?”

“Now now, Kennie, don’t be so mean to our pretty boy, he’s just shy. First time seeing such a pretty cunt up close, bound to be a little starstruck.”

“I-I can do it– Saw it in videos, ‘m gonna do it… ‘s that okay?” Tenderness from choking on Mikey’s fingers made Kazutora’s voice sound a little croaky as he asked you for permission. There’s no chance you would ever deny him, not when his face was centimeters away from your sloppy cunt. Gently, you brought your hand to his head, pushing it closer to your centre with urgency.

“Please Kazu, wanna feel you.”

“Let’s not keep her waiting, hey?” Mikey hummed from beside him, using his thumb and index finger to spread your folds apart, letting Kazutora have a clearer view of how wet you had really become.

Ever so gently, Kazutora inched closer to your heat, flattening his tongue and licking a stripe from your hole to your clit and drawing a breathy inhale from you.

“That’s it, keep going Kazu, she’s shaking right now.” Ken spoke, strong hands spreading your thighs apart even more than before as he places a soft kiss to the top of your head.

Kazutora whimpered a little, praise going to his head once more. He kept licking up your folds a couple more times before tightening the tip of his tongue, deciding to do what Mikey had done before and focus on your clit. Mikey got even closer to the male, looking on closely and humming when he saw how needily Kazu was using his tongue on you.

Your head was spinning – How was he so good… Maybe he was just a fast learner. You were at a loss for words as Kazutora’s tongue swirled around your clit, slick seeping from your clenching hole only to be licked up by Kazutora. He wasn’t letting a single drop of yours go to waste.

“Looks like all those pornos did teach you something… Just needed a real cunt to practice on, didn’t you?” Mikey sat up on his knees, moving away from the boy who was so adamant on pleasing you.

“Kazu… You’re doing so good, fuck– Feels ‘s good!” Your back arched, clit that had been throbbing so hard before finally getting the attention it deserved and it had you shaking in Draken’s arms, one hand gripping Ken’s wrist for stability while the other went to grab your breast over your bra that was still left on.

Mikey began to move away from between your legs, Kazutora’s eyes wide as he looked at the male – Almost scared of him moving away. “You’re doing well, keep going, alright? Making her feel real good, take a look at her.” Mikey’s voice was soft, giving Kazutora a little pat on the head as he took a seat beside your shaking body.

Sure enough, as Kazutora flicked his eyes over to you, he was met with such a pretty sight. Your body was lined with a layer of sweat, but under the lights and with the flush over your body, you looked fucking stunning, chest heaving up and down as your hand clutched to Ken’s wrist with desperation. You were so beautiful.

Ken tapped Kazutora’s head softly, getting the male to look up and asking him to pull back for a little. He used his strength to lift you off his body, placing you down on the bed as Mikey and Ken got comfortable on either side of your body. “Go on pretty boy, gonna make our girl cum, aren’t you?” Ken asked, voice a little gentler this time.

“Mhmm! Gonna do a good job, gonna make you feel good, promise.” He chanted, causing you to smile at how excited he was to keep eating you out. Kazutora shuffled down a little and got comfortable on his stomach, groaning at the friction between his clothed cock and the bedsheets. Gulping deeply, he exhaled, spreading your cunt apart with his fingers and took a taste of your juices leaking out from your hole once more, letting out a moan at the taste, savouring it on his tongue before going back to eat you out properly.

Meanwhile, Mikey and Ken’s lips were both pressed against your neck from either side. Mikey’s hands made their way to your chest, moving aside your own hand that had been squeezing your breast. Filled with need himself, Mikey simply slid down your bra just enough to let your tits pop out, hand immediately groping the flesh.

You almost sobbed when you felt Ken’s hand touch your other breast, his fingertips brushing over the nipple teasingly. You pushed your chest towards his hand a little, wanting more. The action caused Mikey to let out a small chuckle. “Don’t tease her more Kennie.”

“Hmm, yeah yeah. Just wanted to hear her beg.” He mumbled in return, this time properly pinching your nipple and making it stand perky. Mikey couldn’t help himself though. Your tits and nipples looked so pretty, he had to have them encased in his mouth. So he did just that – Letting his tongue swirl around your nipple before humming and wrapping his pretty pink lips around the bud, sucking so harshly it had you crying out.

The poor boy between your legs couldn’t help himself once he saw what was happening above him, rutting his hips desperately against the bedsheets, cock straining against his jeans – It was painful to a certain degree. Seeing how your eyes flutter shut as his tongue swipes over your clit, how you kept moving your hips into his face to chase more of his tongue, tits out and being putty in both Mikey and Ken’s hands, paired with those sweet, sweet moans, it was all too much for Kazutora. His head was spinning at this point.

Ken brought his hand to the back of Kazutora’s head, gently but firmly shoving his face even deeper into your cunt if it was somehow possible. It was the grunt of surprise from Tora and how you felt his nose rub against your swollen nub that made you open your eyes to finally see what was going on.

“There you go, that’s better. Looking so pretty like that Kazu.” A hum of approval came from the male to your left as he kept Tora’s face pressed against your pussy.

“K-Ken! He needs to breath– Fuck...”

“I’m sure he doesn’t mind, do you, Kazu?”

“Mmfffph–” Kazutora in fact, did not mind – Not a single bit. Not when he was so drunk off your pleasure. He shook his head, nose brushing against your clit once again, drawing another cry of pleasure from the back of your throat while his tongue pressed into your clenching hole to gather some of your slick, groaning at the sweet taste before diving back to suckling on your clit.

“Gonna cum, ‘m close. Please, wanna cum...” Your hips had a mind of their own, bucking up into Tora’s face as you pleaded for permission to cum from the men latched onto your sides.

“Mmh, what d’you think Mikey?” Ken’s deep voice rang in your ears, a large hand still pulling and pinching at your swollen nipple meanwhile Mikey’s tongue circled around your other nub. “Guess she deserves it, don’t you?” Mikey spoke up, words slightly muffled against your tit.

“Yes! I-I do, please… Fuck, let me cum, please, been s’ good for everyone.”

Kazutora groans against your cunt at how fucking desperate you sound. It’s driving him insane, his cock is leaking, his face soaked with your slick, hair a mess from Ken’s grip on it. He’s losing it. Kazutora’s hands grip your thighs and he decides to throw them over his shoulders rather than holding them apart, face pushing deeper into your heat.

“Go ahead then, be good and cum for us, princess.” That’s all you needed to hear from Mikey. Immediately feeling the knot in your stomach burst while your toes curled. Your vision was blurred, God, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d cum that hard.

Kazutora’s eyes were locked onto your body, noting how you tossed your head back, not missing the way your body shivered as you reached your high and how you weakly tried to push his face away as overstimulation got the better of you. If that was how you looked every time you were being pleasured, fuck, he’d be eating you out every second of the day, Kazu was sure of it.

“Pretty…” You mumble, eyes droopy with sleep as your fingers thread through Kazutora’s coloured hair. He finally pulled back from your centre, bottom half of his face wet from your cunt but he didn’t seem to care. Especially when you called him pretty – It’s official. Kazu was a sucker for praise after tonight.

“Let’s get you two cleaned up, yeah?” Mikey spoke up, pulling your nipple one last time, earning a surprised gasp from you. You hum in response though, sitting up so you could ask for a glass of water to drink.

As you tried rubbing the sleepiness out of your eyes, only then did you notice just how hard Kazutora was… But not just him, Mikey and Draken too.

“You’re all… So hard…”

Maybe the events of the night weren’t finished just yet. Not when all of their cocks were straining against their pants right in front of you.

bye i was so h word while writing this kfkhsfh

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