having a stylized bookshelf is all fun and games until you get some new books and have to rearrange everything
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if you followed me over this longass weewoo hiatus expecting a casual multifandom blog run by someone who has their life together.... i am so sorry for what is about to happen. please feel free to leave now
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CH. 52: OUT OF THE CAULDRON
The thing about fibbing, Dorcas Walker knew, was that it had to be done with a delicate touch. As a rule, Mary Macdonald didn’t much believe in regrets. James Potter liked to think he was capable of quiet, noble suffering. It was an inescapable truth that Germaine King was of a nervous disposition. Sirius Black had resigned himself to the moral low ground.
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black album era james facefucking you in backstage ughhhh
i have only one word. yes.
You can hear the excitement through the walls, feel the crowd roar in anticipation through the floor underneath your knees. You'd been waiting for him, dolled up and leaning up against the wall. There isn't much time, James let you know that when he pulled you by the wrist into his dressing room, his lips attached to your neck so quickly that it made your head spin.
Your head is thrown back in a gasp, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of his hands groping at your hips and ass, feverishly trying to touch as much of you as he could before he had to go perform. Your hand finds the front of his jeans, palming the prominent bulge with a smirk. He hisses, grabbing the back of your hair to pull your face a few inches away from his to look at him.
"Are you gonna be a good girl?"
You nod instantly, lips parted.
"Then get on your knees."
And it's really sloppy when he does it. Knowing he doesn't have much time when he holds you by the hair with one hand, using his other hand to tap the tip against your lips, murmuring under his breath about how pretty you are, before you open your pretty mouth for him and stick out your tongue.
Your eyes water as he fucks your mouth, his grip on your hair stinging but it feels good, both of your hands pressed against both either side of his thighs for balance. The makeup that you'd spent so long doing to look pretty for him is streaming down your cheeks, black streaks and smudged lipstick.
"God, you look so fuckin' pretty like this," he says between grunts, pushing your head all the way down so that he touches the back of your throat, groaning when you gag around him, before pulling you away so that you can gasp a breath, "that's it, fuck."
You just want to please him, swallowing around his cock and humming whenever he praises you, locking eyes with him through your eyelashes. It's that image that sends him reeling, to see you so wrecked, drool dripping down your chin and hair and makeup completely dishevelled.
There's a knock on the door and he falters, but doesn't stop.
"James? You better get your ass out here!"
"I'm coming!" James yells back through clenched teeth, throwing his head back.
"Fuck. Fuck, I'm coming."
And he holds your head down with both of his hands when he does, groaning, and you dig your nails into the sides of his thighs as you take all he gives you down your throat.
When he finishes with a few more grunts, you pull off him with a pop and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still on your knees on the floor, gazing up at him starry-eyed.
He zips up his pants and lifts you up off your knees to kiss you, tasting himself on you, landing a few pats on your ass before he pulls away, "I'll see you after the show, sweetheart."
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