Evil Twin !
evil twin !
regulus black x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.2k
cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus!!, slytherin!reader, fluff, friends to lovers
summary: the potter twins, a marvelous duo split by the sorting hat. just like your brother you presence was addictive, drawing in the attentions of a particularly brooding black brother.
a/n: THIS IS THE FIRST OF HOPEFULLY MANY PARTS HEHEHE I HOPE YOU ENJOY MWAH!!! not proofread x
Dumbledore was convinced that both Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had carried out a divide and conquer tactic apon your arrival in the castle.
Individually, you and James were a force to be reckoned with—both incredibly charismatic, intelligent and hard-headed, with a knack for mischief. So together, Dumbledore’s head only spun at the thought of the havoc the pair of you would cause.
Luckily, on the fateful day of your arrival, you were placed in Slytherin and your beloved twin brother was placed in Gryffindor—separated for the first time ever. The moment still vivid in your mind, the second the sorting hat was on you, the way you flinched when it hummed, pondering—voice ringing loud in your ears as it announced—Slytherin.
James had frozen at the Gryffindor table, half out of his seat, hand still twitching against the bench where he’d been saving your spot—watching as your lip trembled, walking glossy-eyed to the Slytherin table.
That first night, the castle felt too big, dungeon walls suffocating, too many corridors between you and your brother.
Of course it was hard, for the both of you.
James had always been protective over you—infuriatingly so. Always reinforcing the fact that he needs to take care of his little sister. Like those three minutes made any difference at all.
It had been a slow shift—painful, even. You and James had always been a unit, bound by childhood games, matching jumpers, and the unspoken certainty that wherever one of you went, the other wasn’t far behind. But Hogwarts had changed that. The Sorting Hat had done more than divide you; it had distilled you. Pulled apart the blended pieces of your personalities and exposed them for what they truly were.
It gave you both room to grow.
Individually. Distinctively.
Earning names for yourselves outside of ‘the Potter twins’.
You’d both carved your names into the stone walls of Hogwarts in your own distinct ways—loud and clear, unmistakable.
James Potter was sunlight. A walking, talking explosion of brightness. He lit up corridors with that crooked grin and wind-mussed hair, bounding through the castle like he owned every inch of it. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, chaotic and loud and brilliant in all the ways that made people want to follow him into a duel or disaster.
He was the kind of boy who laughed with his whole chest, who spoke like everything he said mattered, arms slung around friends like they were lifelines. Always in motion. Always burning. A golden retriever in human form, all reckless energy and genuine joy.
And then there was you.
Cool where James was burning. Still water to his wildfire. But no less dangerous.
No less alluring.
They called you the evil twin—never to your face, and never with confidence. Not seriously. Not really. But the name clung to you like smoke. It suited you in the way all the best lies do: close enough to truth to be dangerous.
There was a calm to you, deliberate and composed, but it was the kind of calm that made people lean in too close, not noticing that they were slipping under the surface until it was far too late. You moved with the kind of grace that made people watch without realising they were watching, your smile soft, voice smoother still, and eyes always gleaming with something slightly wild.
They whispered about you long after you left a room.
Head Girl before your quill ever touched the application parchment. A perfect record—at least on paper.
Your charm was quieter than James’, more calculated, more disarming. Beautiful, brilliant, and just a little terrifying. You made people nervous, even when you were smiling. Especially when you were smiling.
There was a glint in your eyes that made hearts skip and stomachs drop, that whispered of games and secrets and consequences. A wicked sort of glimmer, like you knew every thought in their head and were already deciding what to do with it. Like the sea right before a storm.
Yin and yang, Dumbledore had once said, half in jest. Opposing forces in perfect balance.
You enter the Great Hall like a secret unfurling—quiet and unannounced, not so much walking as gliding between tables, untouched by the noise that fills the air.
Steps silent across the stone floor, a slip of motion through the chaos of breakfast—chatter and cutlery and laughter clanging off the walls. You pass the Gryffindor table without so much as a murmur trailing behind you, and still, not one person notices.
Not until your hand touches James’ shoulder.
He jerks so violently he nearly knocks his goblet over, a string of startled swears tumbling from his mouth as his fork clatters against the plate. Pumpkin mash splatters. Someone at the table yelped. Sirius choked on his toast, and Remus actually gasped as if someone’s just hexed him.
Every head turned.
And James was clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him.
“Bloody—! Merlin’s sake, you can’t just—!”
You tilt your head at him, ever so slightly, a small smirk twitching at the corners of your lips—eyes glinting with amusement. “Jamie,” you say in a sing-song lilt, sweet and syrupy, “You wouldn’t happen to still have the History of Magic textbook you borrowed from me, would you?”
A hush falls over the table—just long enough to make you notice.
“Er. About that,” he says, eyes darting like he’s working out whether to lie or apologise. “I might still have it. Might. Can’t say what condition it’s in, though.”
Your smile fades instantly, its replacing expressing shockly serious.
“James,” you say flatly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ruin my book?”
He winces. “Define ruin—”
“James.”
“It wasn’t on purpose!” he insists quickly, shoulders raising like you’re about to hex him in the middle of the Great Hall. “There was this—uh—Sirius spilled ink on the table and then Remus knocked it over and there was just a lot going on.”
You stayed silent, blinking at him, unimpressed.
“I’ll get you a new copy,” he says, guilt creeping into his voice. “Later today. You’ll have to stop by the common room, though.”
You sigh like it physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll try to come by around seven.”
He grins, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Poppet*.*”
You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches. Straightening, with a roll of your shoulders as you draw your hand away from him, letting it fall to your side. And when you glace up again, the stares hadn’t stopped.
Like they’d forgotten to look away, the silence hung in the air for barely a second, scanning the table momentarily—before offering a small smile—slow, sweet, almost smug.
The kind of smile that ruins people.
“M’kay, see you later, Jamie,” you murmur, then turn and slip back into motion.
Eyes follow you as you go—every turn of your heel, every soft shift of fabric, every second you exist within their line of sight. James barely registers it at first—too busy spearing his toast again, already halfway back into conversation. But then he pauses.
His eyes flick to Sirius. Then to Remus. Then to Marlene.
All three of them are still staring across the hall. Still tracking your path back to your table.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” James groans loudly, glaring. “Stop gawking at my sister.”
Marlene blinks, caught. “She’s terrifying,” she mutters, almost to herself.
“In a really…good way,” Remus adds, dazed.
Sirius only grins.
James lets out a strangled sound and buries his face in his hands.
The portrait swings open without hesitation, at exactly seven o’clock sharp, you’d been there enough times that even the Fat Lady doesn’t bother asking questions anymore.
James is already waiting on one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire, textbook in hand. You barely slowed as you approached. He tossed it up with a practiced flick of the wrist, and you caught it one-handed.
“New copy,” he says proudly. “Didn’t even steal it. Aren’t you proud?”
You hum in approval, flipping it open to scan the pages. “No ink stains. No food crumbs. No smell of dungbombs.” You close it with a satisfied snap. “Miracles do happen.”
Before he can retort, you’ve already turned toward the couch, where Lily is perched cross-legged with a steaming mug of something floral and her usual tower of parchment. She smiles when she sees you, shifting over to make space without being asked.
Tucking the textbook under your arm as you lower yourself beside her.
James raises a suspicious brow, but you and Lily are already whispering to each other, heads tilted close and expressions conspiratorial. It’s nothing terribly sinister—something to do with Hogsmeade, and getting Slughorn to move a test back a week—but it’s enough to draw curious glances from the far side of the room.
You feel them. The eyes.
But you don’t look. Don’t need to.
Sirius was pretending not to stare. Which is laughable, really, because his entire body was angled toward you, elbow propped on the back of the couch, fingers tangled in his hair in that careless way he probably thinks is charming.
And Remus was worse. He’s trying to read, bless him, book in his lap and everything—but his eyes haven’t moved from you since you sat down. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, chewing the inside of his cheek. You think you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.
You say nothing. Keep your voice low as you murmur something into Lily’s ear that makes her snort softly behind her hand.
After ten minutes of easy conversation, you rise without ceremony, slipping the textbook fully under your arm and smoothing your skirt.
“Well,” you say lightly, brushing a hand over your robes. “This was fun.”
Lily smirks. “We’ll finalise tomorrow?”
“Perfect” You glance to James. “Thanks for the book, Jamie.”
“No problem, Pop.”
You turn, finally acknowledging the two boys across the room with a glint of something wicked in your eye.
“Goodnight, boys,” you said sweetly—voice soft as silk, almost melodic. The slightest edge of a smile curves your lips as you roll your eyes, and then you’re already walking toward the exit, the hem of your robes trailing behind you like smoke.
You don’t look back.
But if you had, you would’ve seen Sirius run a hand through his hair and lean back with a low whistle.
“Merlin,” he mutters. “I’d swear she’s half siren if it weren’t for you, Prongs”
James, who’s still watching the portrait door swing shut, scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”
“What?” Sirius grins, unashamed. “It’s not my fault your sister is—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—whatever that is.”
Remus doesn’t say a word. His book is still open in his lap—he’s not reading it.
“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, “if she weren’t your sister…”
“But she is my sister.” James rebutted, slouching back in his seat—swiftly ending the conversation.
The corridor curved with quiet shadows, lit only by the flicker of distant torches. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone, a soft rhythm in the stillness of the dungeons. It was late, you’d spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than you’d realised—most of the castle already asleep, save for the odd prefect or wandering ghost.
You turned a corner near the potions classroom and nearly walked straight into Regulus Black.
He stopped short, posture already impeccable, as if even in surprise he couldn't be caught off guard. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, hesitation—and then he stepped slightly aside, giving you room without a word.
“Burning the midnight oil, Black?” you asked, voice soft with the sort of casual familiarity that made his name sound like something you owned.
He glanced at you, dark eyes catching in the torchlight. “Prefect rounds. Took longer than expected.”
You fell into step beside him as naturally as breathing, and he adjusted his pace to match yours without needing to be asked.
“What was it this time?” you mused. “More Gryffindors smuggling sweets from the kitchens?”
“Fourth-years,” he said with a small exhale—amusement undercutting his otherwise smooth tone. “Said they were practicing for a future in espionage.”
“Ambitious,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Almost enough to make me proud.”
Regulus didn’t respond, but you felt the brief flick of his eyes on your profile, like he was trying not to look too long. Like he was trying not to seem too interested.
You didn’t comment, but you noticed.
By the time you reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, barely mumbling the password before the metal hinges whined, door opening slowly. Inside, the green-glass lamps glowed low, casting dreamy reflections against the water-like ceiling. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, golden against the dark velvet furniture.
Dorcas sat half-curled on the rug, absently flipping through a magazine; Evan was draped across a couch like he owned it, cards floating above his face; Pandora leaned near him, humming as she threaded a strand of starlight-colored ribbon through her hair. It was a tableau of sleepy elegance.
Without hesitation, you crossed the room and lowered yourself to the center rug near the fire. Your hand stretched toward the flames without thought. A spark rose up, obedient and curious, dancing into your open palm.
Twirling it between your fingers like silk, the heat never burning you, the flame curling comfortably around your touch. Pandora’s fingers stilled in her braid, watching.
Wandless magic.
Dorcas tilted her head, eyes bright. “You really have to teach me how to do that one day.”
You didn’t look away from the fire. “Of course,” you said lightly. “But there’s a bit of a learning curve.”
“Like what kind of curve?” Evan asked, not looking up. “Burn-your-dormitory-down levels?”
“More like third-degree-if-you’re-clumsy,” you replied with a grin.
“I could do it,” a voice said behind you, full of loud confidence.
Barty stepped forward from where he’d been balanced on the arm of the sofa, his hair tousled, shirt rumpled, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.
You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “Could you now?”
“First try,” he goaded, brows arched in light challenge. “Swear on my father's boring haircut.”
Regulus snorted, not even looking up from his book. “You’ll burn yourself stupid.”
“I’ll be fine,” Barty said, already striding forward. “How hard can it be?”
He reached toward the fire, trying to mimic the smooth gesture you’d used, fingers tense with focus and impatience.
A small spark leapt up—and immediately sputtered, flaring far too quickly. The flame caught his skin with a sharp sizzle before he could react, and he yelped, flinging his hand back with a curse.
“Bloody hell!”
The room erupted with laughter.
Pandora’s hand clamped over her mouth as if to shove the laugh back in, both Evan and Dorcas threw their heads back in sync, barking out a laugh—sound mixing with yours, loud and delighted, as Barty glared at the fire like it had personally betrayed him.
“Under control, was it?” you teased.
He cradled his palm like it was a war wound. “Minor setback. I didn’t even flinch.”
“You flinched so hard you almost somersaulted.”
“Semantics,” Barty grumbled.
“Let me see,” you said, standing and stepping closer.
He hesitated only a beat before holding out his hand, palm-up. A faint red welt bloomed across his skin, angry and hot. Your fingers brushed against his as you took it, and you felt the brief hitch in his breath. You didn’t comment.
A whisper of magic curled from your palm, cool and quiet, threading over the burn like mist. The redness faded almost instantly, leaving only smooth skin and the faintest echo of heat.
Barty stared down at your work like it was a trick he couldn’t quite understand.
From the couch, Evan leaned forward, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to hold her hand.”
“Shove off,” Barty muttered, pulling his hand back quickly, though not too quickly.
You shook your head, half-exasperated half-amused, and turned toward the hall. “I’m going to wash up.”
As you stepped away from the firelight, you caught movement in the corner of your eye. Regulus was still in his usual spot—half reclined in the reading chair by the window, a book open but forgotten on his lap.
His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.
You held it for just a moment, a soft smirk just barely twitching at the corners of your lips, before disappearing down the hall.
Unsurpisingly, both you and Regulus had more in common than you’d care to admit.
Both the less outlandish sibling, the ‘quieter’ ones—not necessarily in sound, but in presence. While James and Sirius blazed like bonfires, reckless and radiant, you and Regulus were something else entirely.
Subtle, magnetic.
You didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d both entered a room and the air seemed to still slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do.
Both of you understood what it meant to watch. To study a room before deciding what piece you wanted to play in it. You weren’t loud, nor silent just quietly unnerving. Regal, even.
There was a stillness about Regulus, an almost surgical precision to his movements and his clipped tone, like everything he did was measured twice before execution. He was painfully composed, almost uptight, his dry wit tucked behind an unimpressed brow and unimpeachable posture.
And where you differed—you were made of wild starlight and strange tides, chaos in your blood even if it rarely cracked your veneer, eventhough you rarely indulged. And where Regulus pulled inward, you leaned out. You loved a little disorder, havoc—a challenge; your eyes shining when something didn’t go to plan, smirking like you were always in on a secret.
There was a certain wickedness in your stillness—one that made Regulus look twice. Then three times. Then constantly.
Each thing he learned about you surprised him more than the last.
So he decided, quietly and with a calm sort of resolve, that he’d had enough of watching you from afar. He wanted a closer look.
The first time was in the library.
You were tucked into the corner of a row, arms full of books, hair falling across your face as you read the spine of a heavy tome. You didn’t notice him at first—or maybe that’s just what he told himself, though he should’ve known better. Regulus moved with the silence of a shadow, but when he was only inches away and just about to speak, your voice floated out, lightly entertained:
“Planning to sneak up on me, Black?”
He blinked, lips parting in the barest hint of surprise. “I wasn’t—”
Without sparing him a glance you handed him the book at the top, and he took it instinctively—letting his fingers linger on yours just that bit longer than necessary. And you held in a quirk of your brows, the squint of your eyes—making a mental note.
Because Regulus was nothing if not purposeful.
He didn’t say anything else at first, only helped, taking the weight from you and beginning to shelve them wordlessly. There was a moment—just before he reached for the last one—where his fingers paused. The cover was worn, clearly read many times.
Icarus.
A Muggle myth. One of his favourites, though no one knew that.
His hand hovered just a little too long, thumb brushing over the faded title.
“What did you think of the ending?” you asked suddenly, your tone soft but cutting through the quiet like a quill to parchment.
He almost stammered, nearly asking how did you know? But caught himself, clearing his throat before replying. “Tragic. I liked it.”
You tilted your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip—scanning his face—something glinting behind your eyes that he couldn’t quiet put his finger on.
The way the corners of your lips threatening to curve into a smile, had him struggling to swallow, voice honeyed in his ears—“Of course you did.”
And you were gone, just like that, leaving him standing—ears hot, brain playing your voice, your smile on loop.
Regulus prided himself in his ability to read a person, and yet with you—every interaction left him more confused, more intrigued, more captivated. There was some sort of riddle about you, something flickering in the depths of your eyes that made him want to unravel it—you.
The next time he saw you, you’d agreed to meet after his Quidditch practice to finish a joint assignment for Potions. Waiting just outside the changing rooms, arms crossed loosely over your chest, leaning against the cool stone wall with your bag slung over one shoulder.
The first person out wasn’t Regulus, but Barty—lips splitting into a wide smirk like he’d been expecting to see you there.
“Well, well,” he drawled, striding over with no shame, his hair a windswept mess and his jersey clinging to his frame. Immediately he closed in on you, arm slinging lazily over your shoulders, a light scent of cigarettes and oak filling your nose.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty?”
Groaning, your nose crinkling at the contact, you didn’t push him off though—”You’re sweaty, Junior,”
He only leaned in closer, grin wolfish, letting his breath fan over your jaw. “You love it.”
“I love showers, actually. You should try one.”
Tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes flickered across you face, the corners of your lips fighting to stay down—eyes glimmering with that twinge of defiance that had him only smirk even wider—“Only if you come with.”
Your brow cocked up slightly, narrowing your eyes as your plucked his arm off of you, placing gently back by his side—palms still wrapped around his wrist. He watched your movement eagerly, the smirk that was already etched onto his lips, adopting a positively wolfish quality when you leaned up into him—lips almost brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered.
“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Junior,”
Pulling away just as quickly as you came in, leaning back against the wall leisurely, rolling your eyes at the way Barty scanned your figure—adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
Then the door opened again, still not Regulus.
“Evan,” you called sweetly, “come collect your lost dog before he starts shedding on me.”
“C’mon, Crouch” Evan replied with a snort, catching him by the collar and dragging him off. “Leave her alone before you melt her into the floor.”
Barty turned just before they were out of sight, voice loud despite the distance—playful, “Miss you already, Treasure!”
For a few more minutes you waited, the corridor quiet now except for the flickering of enchanted sconces and the distant echo of voices. When Regulus finally emerged, his tie half-undone and hair damp around the edges, cheeks still reddened from the bite of the air—adjusting his uniform.
“Did you wait long?”
He’d already began the walk out, following after him, you hummed a small no—slipping through the hallways in the East Wing to find an empty classroom. It wasn’t hard task at all, settling in with the low scrap of the stool against the stone floor and opening your textbooks.
As he flicked through the pages of the book, your gaze dropped instinctively to his hands—his knuckles bruised and bloodied, red blooming like petals across pale skin.
Without hesitation, you scooted forward in your seat and took his hand in yours.
“We could’ve stopped by Pomfrey,” you said, brows knitting slightly as you examined the scrapes.
He didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze fixed on your hand, the way you held his delicately, and your fingers, the way they moved so gently across his skin.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll heal.”
A frown had etched itself onto your lips as you continued to inspect his hand, if you weren’t so engrossed in your assessment, you would have noticed the faint flush of his ears, or how his eyes flickered back and forth between your face and your hand.
Your motions were slow and attentive, pressing your palm along the bumps of his knuckles—the heat of your skin ghosting over his—the simmer of magic was so soft he almost didn’t notice it.
There was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as the wounds healed, but he didn’t flinch away.
And as your palm crossed over the edge of his hand, the final gash closed before his eyes, the skin was almost perfectly anew, as if nothing had happened—the only indication being a fading pink hue.
You continued to trace over the now-faint marks, fingertips ghosting along the healed bone, the tenderness of your touch leaving him slightly breathless.
“Better,” you whispered, half to yourself.
Regulus just stared at his hand when you let go, still feeling the echo of your touch, the whisps of your warmth. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual, lips still parted—stretching and rolling his fingers, watching the bones move comfortably under the skin, free of the light burning sensation.
When he looked up, you were already watching him—head tilted, expression cool—neutral.
Sighing out a breath his lips were moving before he could stop them, “I—how?”
A quiet hum escaped your lips, hands crossing over your lap as you leaned into the wood of your chair, “Well, James and I were really clumsy—more James than me, obviously,”
Recollecting, your lips curled into a smile, shrugging slightly as you continued, “Our mum got tired of us walking around bruised and battered when she was busy, so she taught me how to heal without a wand,”
The ghost of a smile almost twitched at the corners of his lips. Almost.
A short silence veiled the room as you fell into a working rhythm, mindlessly highlighting and note taking before the clattering of Regulus’ quill against the table broke your concentration. Eyes immediately shifting up to him—his lips pursed into a tightline but the words were already out. Blurted abruptly, cracking the silence just as his quill did.
“Teach me,”
Your brows raised into a suprised arch, confusion flickering across your face for brief moment, lips parting to respond. When he shrunk into himself slightly, shocked by his own outburst, muttering a small, “…please?” under his breath.
The response fell heavy on your tongue, lips stretching into an amused smirk and huffed chuckle bubbled low in your chest.
The wood of the chair scrapped and screeched loud against the stone as you stood, wordlessly making your way around the table. His eyes tracked your movements, just barely becoming frantic in their flickering when you sat beside him—knees brushing, so close.
Regulus breath caught when your gazes met, heat prickling at the base of his neck, hands curling into half-fists on the table, and you kept your eyes on him. Even as you leaned over closing his books, making space on the desk—warmth of your body vaguely gracing him.
He couldn’t bring himself to look away, tear his gaze from yours—as much as it made his stomach flip from its quiet intensity—the confidence that swam in your eyes. It sucked him in, making his adam’s apple bob in his throat.
All-consuming.
At the sound of a single galleon, lazily spinning on the table, you broke your stare—letting your sights fall onto the coin as it clattered to a halt. “Have you done wandless magic before?”
He sucked in a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill completely—using that time to regulate his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest—before pushing all the air back out, forcibly rubbing his palms into the fabric of his robes.
“Once—accidentally,”
With a nod, you hummed at his words, waiting for him to continue, eyes back on him—boring into the side of his head. “I—uh, got the lights to turn on when i couldn’t find my wand,”
His eyes shift between you and the coin as you picked it up, rolling it between your fingers as your spoke, “Okay, lets start with something simple, shall we?” The way you watched him made his mouth painfully dry, he couldn’t even trust his voice to answer, silently nodding at you words.
“Try move the coin.”
When he whipped his head towards to, lips parted in slight disbelief, protests creeping up his throat—Regulus clamped his mouth shut at the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners swimming with mischief as you leaned in. Placing the coin back onto the table with a soft clink, instinctively he held his breath, short-circuiting at the sudden proximity—so close he could smell you, a light vanilla scent with a twinge of maple and freshly burnt fire-wood.
You made him so nervous, he found himself a bit pathetic.
And the honeyed cadance of your voice did nothing but make his heart race faster than it already was, “Just breathe, Regulus. Focus on the coin and where you want it to move—relax,”
Easier said than done.
Gods, even the way you said his name—he almost lost the rest of your sentence, letting it echo in his mind over and over again.
When you reclined, leaning back into your chair, he felt the urge to mourn the loss of warmth—rolling his shoulders back, focusing his gaze. Or at least, he tried to.
The coin sat quietly on the table, unmoved, unbothered by the sheer force of his will alone. His jaw tensed, brows pinched together, fingers twitching slightly as if the movement alone might spark the magic into life.
Nothing.
With a breath that was equal parts frustration and surrender, Regulus leaned back and exhaled sharply.
“Can you—” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, —can you not watch me?”
You blinked, caught off guard. Then a quiet chuckle slipped from your lips as you raised your hands in surrender, the teasing edge of your smile tugging at the corners. “Alright, alright,” you murmured, “Sorry.” Voice light and easy, but your eyes still sparkled with that same mischief that made his stomach clench. “Didn’t realise I was that distracting.”
“You are,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear.
Still, you didn’t comment on it. Instead, leaning in again—slowly, gently—and placed your hand on his shoulder, the heat of you palm instantly radiating through his robes, hairs raising down his spine. His eyes flicked to the contact, then to your face again. You were closer than before.
“You’re thinking too hard,” you murmured, your thumb brushing once over the fabric of his robes. “And you’re not breathing.”
“I am breathing,” he argued weakly.
“Barely.”
You didn’t move your hand as you spoke again, your voice quieter now, velvet-soft and steady. “Close your eyes. Envision it. Just you and the coin. No pressure.” Regulus hesitated for a beat, then followed your instruction, lids fluttering shut.
A few moments pass before your voice reaches his ears again, “Can you see it?” and he nodded slowly, jaw tightening in focus.
“Alright,” you continued, tone low almost hypnotic now, “imagine it moving. Just a bit. Like there’s an invisible string tugging it toward you.”
He sucked in another deep breath, picturing it. The cool glint of the galleon. The subtle shine under the tinted light of the classroom. The gentle tug, like a current.
And then—scrape.
The softest sound of metal shifting against wood reached both your ears. His eyes shot open. It had moved—just barely a few centimeters, but undeniably there. His breath caught, disbelief flashing across his face.
When he turned to you, a bright beam had already split across your face, the sort of proud, delighted smile that hit him harder than the adrenaline from the magic—your hand finally slipped from his shoulder, leaving a coldness in its wake—fingers grazing the fabric of his robes. “You did it!” you said, eyes bright. “See? Easy.”
He let out a stunned breath, caught between awe and the bloom of success, heartbeat still rapid beneath his ribs. The warmth of accomplishment mingling with the quiet thrum of your presence, you. He was still processing when you reset the coin with a smooth sweep of your hand.
“Again,” you urged, nudging it into place. “Try further this time.”
He nodded, more focused now—confident. When he closed his eyes again, he could still hear the echo of your voice in his head. Could still imagine your hand on his shoulder, steading—warm.
And this time, it slid farther—too far.
The coin zipped forward, clattered off the edge, and hit the floor with a metallic clink that echoed around the empty classroom. You let out a short burst of laughter, delighted, as his head dropped, a sheepish huff escaping him. But the tension had melted from his shoulders, replaced with slow blossoming of something lighter. Pride.
He bent down to retrieve it, fingers brushing the cool metal before placing it back on the table. You were already settling beside him again, the warmth of your presence sparking something just under his skin. “This is the next step,” you said, tapping the surface of the table.
Regulus was still watching you.
Then you extended your hand, with a single finger, you hovered just above the coin—twirling it in a slow, controlled motion—and like it had a will of its own, the coin lifted.
Spinning, following the gentle twirl of your finger. A slow spiral, then faster, gathering speed until it hovered in the air, dancing in place.
He was entranced, gaze stuck on the coin even as it settled down, coming to a graceful halt—landing perfectly in the center of the table. He’d known magic, of course he did—but it felt different, raw and effortless. The same way the flame had danced between your fingers in the common room the other night—mindlessly intuitive, captivating. The coin spun like it wanted to please you. Everything did, it seemed.
He was still staring at the coin, hesitating—doubt creeping in through the back of his mind, like an unwanted invasive parasite—it barely flickered across his face. An almost imperceivable break in his expression, but you saw it.
Taking the coin again, you reached for his hand—laying your palm flat under his, eyes flickering to his face for permission before continuing. When he didn’t pull away, you placed the coin in the center of his hand, the warmth of your skin on his made the sharp bite of the metal feel that bit colder against his hand.
It lifted and spun confidently against his skin, puppeteered by the twist of your finger.
“Feel that?” Voice just above a whisper.
And he could feel it, a steady thrumming faintly circling in his palm, the buzzing with your magic. Swallowing before he spoke, a small “Yeah,” passing into the air between you.
“Now,” you spoke quietly, catching his other hand and bringing it to hover above the coin. “Picture that same feeling at your fingertips. Like it’s moving from your hand into the air—let it flow through you.”
He concentrated. You stayed close. Hand still gently cradling his from below, a silent encouragement, he started mimicking the slow twirling motion in the space above the coin.
For a few long moment—nothing.
Then, it happened. The coin jerked, slightly. Then again, shakily dragging to a stand. A tremble, stuttering before a spin. Jerky at first, but then it righted itself—smoothly gaining speed, falling into step with the command of his finger.
And your laughter, it rung through the room—soft, radiant—spilling from your chest with that same pride from before. He was too stunned to say anything. Blinking down at the coin with wide eyes, then looking to you, breathless, like he wasn’t quite sure it had actually happened. A smile—an actual, full smile—slowly curved onto his lips.
Rare and quiet, it lingered like a secret only the two of you shared.
The low buzz still resonating in his palm, the echo of your magic mingled with his own. The feeling of your hands—warm, steady, coaxing power out of him with nothing more than your voice and a bit of stubborn charm.
And even as the coin fell suddenly into his hand, all he could do was look at you.
Relish in the way your eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement, how your hands curved around his, jogging them slightly in enthusiastic joy of his accomplishment.
The coin was stagnant in his palm, Regulus flipped your hands, surrendering the cold metal into yours—and yet his hands lingering in your hold. He knew he probably should have moved his hands, the second he resigned the coin back into your possession; that was his cue. But he felt stuck, frozen under your sights.
Bewitched.
Even as your lips moved before him, the words almost fell deaf on his ears—taking a few seconds to let them echo in his mind, how did it feel? He responded with a sighing breath, as if relinquishing all remaining tension in his body, “…Good,” nodding his head as his continued, “really good actually,”
His small confession has your lips stretching even further along your face, and acknowledging hum rumbling in your throat as your touch slowly slipped away from his. Quietly tucking the coin into your bag before you started to pack up.
Just when you closed your notebook Regulus’ voice glided across the air, just above a faint murmur—if the room had any other sounds than the quiet rustling of papers, you wouldn’t have heard it.
“You’re a really good teacher,”
A small huff of laugh passed through your nose, tucking your notebook under your arm as you stood and offered a small, warm smile. “It’s easy,” you said lightly, “when you have a good student.”
Regulus shook his head faintly, a huff of something like disbelief leaving his lips—but the curve of pride hadn’t quite left his mouth.
The two of you walked in comfortable silence through the halls, your steps in sync. His hands tucked in his pockets, your bag slung over your shoulder. The dungeons were dim, washed in the dull blue of lantern light, shadows stretching along the stone. He kept glancing sideways at you, like there was something still lingering on his tongue he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to say.
Just as you reached the bottom of the girls’ dorm staircase, your hand curling loosely around the bannister, Regulus spoke.
“Wait—” His voice was low, tentative. Pausing, you turned slightly. “Hm?”
He stood a few steps back, one hand curled around the strap of his satchel, the other still shoved in his pocket. “Would you…” he paused, gaze dipping before finding yours again, more certain now. “Will you show me more?”
There was a beat of silence.
You tilted your head, watching him closely, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Blinking once, twice, reading the sincerity in his face, the open want—not desperation, harmless interest. He could see the cogs turning in your head just for a moment, before you murmured with a shrug, “Yeah.”
Descending the stairs again, you fell into step beside him as he led the way up the other staircase. The boys’ dorm was quiet when you reached it, the door creaking softly open under his hand. The warm scent of parchment, cologne, and something distinctly him met you in the space.
You paused at the threshold.
It wasn’t unfamiliar—you’d lounged across Barty’s bed enough times, lazily flipping through books while he tore the room apart looking for a missing assignment. You’d perched at Evan’s desk, rifled through his scribbled notes, borrowed a quill Barty’s nightstand. But never while Regulus was there. You’d never stepped into his space, not when he was in it.
He didn’t seem to notice your stillness. He moved through the room with ease, like you weren’t watching—dropping his books in a stack by the desk, slipping his robe off one shoulder, then tugging his jumper over his head. His shirt was rumpled beneath, sleeves already rolled up, collar slightly askew. You caught yourself staring.
He looked over his shoulder.
“You coming in?” he asked, voice a little lower now, pitched in that way it sometimes got when it was just you.
Without a word, you stepped in, toeing the door shut behind you and dropping your bag just beside the frame. You mimicked his motions easily, slipping off your jumper and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, fingers brushing absently along the edge of his desk as you walked further in.
It was a clean room. Structured, but not stiff. His bed was neat, the desk organised, quills and books perfectly aligned. But there were touches—human ones. A framed photo of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, a green ribbon pinned to the wall—a burnished Slytherin scarf neatly folded at the end of his bed, and a single piece of parchment stuck to the wall above his workspace.
With a soft exhale, you flopped onto his bed, letting your arms stretch out as you gazed up at the canopy. The hangings were dark, almost velvet black, and they made the whole space feel smaller, quieter. Private.
Regulus glanced over, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He returned to his desk, potion book in hand, eyebrows arched in mild disbelief.
“You make yourself comfortable wherever you go, don’t you?” he said dryly, a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.
You didn’t reply—just smirked smugly, twisting your head into the sheets below, stretching your limbs out, still gazing up at the dark, heavy curtains draped above the bed. The movement made your shirt shift, riding up slightly—just a touch above your waistband, exposing a sliver of skin, soft and warm under the low lamplight—the stretch of your abdomen and the small indent of your navel.
He was staring.
He didn’t realise how long until you sat up, balancing your weight on one arm, eyes still wandering lazily over the ceiling.
“You’d think your parents taught you it’s rude to stare,” you said lightly. “But you and your brother are just the same.”
Regulus cleared his throat, heat blooming high on his cheekbones, but he said nothing.
Your attention drifted to the stack of books on his desk—and the singular piece of parchment, handwritten in a precise script, pinned above it.
“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward it.
He followed your gaze. “A line from a poem.”
You hummed, intrigued. “What’s it say?”
He crossed the room, settling a book on his night stand before he sat on the bed beside you.
You didn’t meet his gaze right away—still reclined, your hair spilling over the edge of the bed like ink, one hand absentmindedly twirling the galleon between your fingers.
Stretching out onto his stomach, bringing his chin on his forearm to look at you properly. He watched you for a moment. The way the gold shimmered in your grip, the way your mouth twitched with unspoken thought. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t mention it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—gentle and low as he recited the line, something breathy and melodic in French. His accent was quiet but careful.
The coin fell still in your lap as you turned your head toward him.
“It sounds pretty,” you murmured. Your eyes traced his face, steady and curious. “What does it mean?” His gaze didn’t leave yours, sucking in a breath through his nose, the mattress beside you dipped as he promped himself up onto his elbows, words slow and hypnotising in your ears.
“Let night come on bells end the day, the days go by me still I stay”
You blinked at him, for a long moment, just letting the words rest heavy in the air between you, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you spoke, voice barely above a whisper, more breath than words—as if anything louder would crack the air as it stilled around you.
“It sounds extra pretty in your voice.”
Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. You were too close. Not close enough. The lamp behind you casted golden shadows across your face and your lips were slightly parted, just barely.
Before he could stop himself, the words were already tumbling out.
“I think you’re pretty.”
You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him—blinks slowly as you took in each feature.
And then he was leaning in. Slowly, but not hesitantly—fingertips skimming along your jaw, guiding your face toward his with reverence more than boldness. He tilted your face toward him like he’d done it a thousand times before.
The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and as he got closer, you hummed, tone somewhere between amusement and a quiet gentleness, “Such high praise,” Gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips one last time before his mouth was on yours.
Regulus’ lips brushed yours with a delicate sort of caution, like he was afraid to startle the moment. His hand stayed warm at your jaw, thumb ghosting along the edge of your cheekbone, grounding himself in the quiet thrill of the contact.
When you kissed him back, slowly, deliberately, and it was like you lit a fuse under his skin. He moved closer, shoulders angling toward you, the hand on your jaw trailing down—fingers curling gently around your neck, not possessive, but fervored.
There was nothing rushed about it. Only the press of mouths and the occasional, breathless hitch of air as your noses brushed and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly—still cautious, still a little hesitant.
But then then he heard it—just barely there, a small breath of contentment through your nose as your fingers slid up the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.
That did it.
His lips moved with more intent now, more certainty, like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore. He tasted like peppermint and something you couldn’t quite place, and every time he pulled away even a fraction, he came right back—drawn to you like the pull of gravity.
Somewhere in the flurry of warmth and movement, the air around you shifted.
The curtains.
The ones above his bed rustled faintly, and then, slowly, they began to close—not all the way, but just enough to wrap the two of you in the hush of privacy. The dark velvet swept inward in a lazy draw, like someone had tugged gently at invisible strings. The air around you seemed to slow, thick with suspended magic and the soft scent of something like cedar and parchment.
Pulling back from the kiss, just barely, your lips brushing his as a breath of laughter escaped you. The kind of soft, genuine giggle that bloomed right in your chest and spilled out in surprise. Your forehead dropped back lightly against the pillow as you whispered, voice honeyed with delight, “Did you just—?”
He didn’t say anything at first. But there was the faintest flush at the tips of his ears, even as the corners of his lips twitched in a sheepish smile. You cupped his jaw gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek as you teased with a squint of your eye, voice low and fond, “Already showing off.”
He just huffed a laugh, dipping his head slightly—forehead pressing to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His hand found your waist again, sliding over your hip to pull you closer, until your bodies were all but tangled together in the middle of his bed.
Then he paused.
Looked at you.
Really looked at you—eyes searching your face, the softness of your features in the low dorm light, the flush on your cheeks, the swollen curve of your lips, still flushed lightly from his kiss. His thumb brushed your waist absently, reverently, like he was trying to memorise the moment through touch alone.
You blinked up at him, slightly breathless, lips curving into that small smile—that quiet, knowing one—that had his pulse quickening.
“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Voice just above a whisper.
A beat.
His answer was just as quiet.
“…Too long.”
You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.
Because then his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time—hungry but still careful, still delicate. Like he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth with his own. His hand slid to the small of your back, curling to bring you even closer, your chest brushing his with every inhale.
Dinner came and went. Neither of you moved.
Body sprawled across the bed, head in Regulus’ lap, legs stretched out and one arm flopped over your middle lazily. His hand drifted idly through your hair, almost absentminded in its rhythm, as he spoke—quiet and thoughtful, voice lilting into stories you never expected him to share.
He told you about how he hated summer, because his skin burned too easily—how the Black family manor always smelled like dust and old magic. How he and Barty used to sneak wine from the cellar and sit on the roof, trying to name constellations. How his favourite book growing up wasn’t even magical—it was a Muggle text he smuggled in and read by candlelight.
You blinked up at him with a soft smile, utterly content, not interrupting—just listening.
For a man you’d once believed was of few words, he sure had a lot to say.
Not that you weren’t complaining.
There was something soft about him now—looser. Less controlled. Like the tightly wound strings he kept knotted around himself had started to loosen just enough to let you in, like he’d been waiting for the the chance to bare himself. And Merlin, he was affectionate. Not in the loud, boisterous way others might’ve been. But with soft hands and stolen glances. A touch at your hip, the gentle brush of knuckles down your arm. Aching for contact in any form, so careful about how he was gave and received it, like it could be torn away at any given moement—still so foreign, even in his own mind.
Your thumb traced slow circles into his knee as you murmured, “Can you read the line again? From the poem?”
Regulus looked down at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead before turning toward the parchment pinned above his desk. He recited it again in that soft voice—low and smooth, almost like a lullaby.
You closed your eyes, humming in contentment.
When he finished, you whispered, “Lemme show you something.”
And before he could ask, your hand curled into a fist. You held it up between you both. His brows furrowed slightly, watching with interest.
Then, you slowly unfurled your fingers—and from the centre of your palm, a small bluebell flower sprouted, delicate and glowing faintly with the magic that coaxed it into being.
“This,” you whispered, eyes flickering with warmth and voice like a secret, “is what I think of when I hear your voice.”
For a long moment, Regulus didn’t speak.
Just stared.
The shock in his eyes wasn’t loud. It was quiet and still, like everything else about him. But it was there. Etched into the way he looked at you—not just at the flower, but at your face. Your expression, the tenderness written across it with no ulterior motive, no mischief behind your eyes. No teasing lilt in your tone.
Just you.
And he didn’t know what to do with it.
His fingers reached out gently, brushing the fragile petals like they might dissolve under his touch. And when he looked back at you, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“You really are something,” he said, with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.
Covering the sudden flutter of your chest with a scoff and biteless roll of your eyes. You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more, before you sat up abruptly, hair whipping slightly at your speed—movements fluid and unbothered as the mattress dipped under the concentrated weight of your knees.
Regulus frozen against the headboard, wide-eyed when your leg swung over his middle—settling on his lap in a straddle that was far too flippant. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to settle—eventually, they found your hips, fingers curling there hesitantly.
The small smirk on lips only widened—at his obvious flush, relishing in the way the blush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks.
“Relax,” you teased, brushing your fingers through his dark curls, tucking and retucking the strands behind his ear like you were sculpting something. And then, you nestled the bluebell flower in the space you’d created—right behind his ear.
“There,” you said with a proud grin, leaning back slightly to admire your work. Your hands slid down his neck, wrists resting lazily on his shoulders as you laced your fingers behind him, just barely hovering over his surely goosebump ridden skin. Tilting you head, you let your gaze rake over him like you were evaluating an art piece.
“I think blue might be your colour, Reg.”
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you subtly shifted in his lap—closer, pressing into him with purpose. Regulus huffed a small scoff, finally finding a bit of his footing again, though his voice was still slightly strained. “Must you always be this brazen?”
You shrugged innocently. “It’s fun having people on edge.”
He hummed lowly, eyes flickering with something darker now—his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “Really?”
You leaned forward with a smirk, lips brushing his as you replied in a hushed, mocking whisper, “Reaaaally.”
That was all the prompting he needed.
His mouth met yours with vigor, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been waiting to. Desperate, yet controlled. His hands squeezing at the flesh of your waist as he pulled you closer, chest pressing flush to his, heat blooming between you, smiling into the kiss.
Pulled back slightly, lips still grazing his, and whispered against his mouth, “You must like brazen then.”
And that made him grin.
Actually grin. Wide and rare and perfect.
His hands gripped your waist more firmly as he kissed you again, feverish now, all slow control forgotten in favour of something more frantic and yearning. The kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and made time slip sideways.
So engrossed in each other, you didn’t hear the door creak open.
Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of footsteps.
But the moment the familiar sound of Barty’s voice filled the room, everything stopped.
“I brought teacakes,” he called out lazily from the other side of the dorm, “because you missed supper. I figured you were sulking or something—”
You and Regulus froze mid-kiss.
Legs still straddled across his lap. His hands halfway up your back. The flower still behind his ear.
Regulus’ eyes flew open. Your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle a curse.
“I left extra lemon ones, since—wait.”
Barty’s voice was closer now. Suspicious—”…Why are your curtains closed?”
Regulus was already looking at you, panicked. You swatted his arm sharply when he didn’t say anything, eyes wide and insistent. “Was Potter here?” Barty asked, a little louder this time.
“She—uh—” Regulus stammered. “She was here. Earlier.”
Stammered.
You physically winced.
He never stammered. And now Barty definitely knew something was off. There was the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Then footsteps. Getting closer.
Barty’s voice was cool and skeptical. “So…she was here earlier…”
He paused just outside the curtain.
“…and just left her bag behind?”
Your eyes widened in horror. Your bag. You could envision where you’d left it—sitting in plain view.
A pained expression split across your face as Regulus turned to you with a look that screamed, what do we do??
But there was no time.
Because the curtain was already being drawn back.
Regulus didn't move. Neither did you.
Time seemed to stall between one breath and the next, and there was Barty—standing there with a half-eaten lemon teacake in one hand, his brows slowly climbing higher and higher as he took in the sight before him.
You, still straddling Regulus.
Regulus, pink-faced and looking about two seconds from imploding.
And the flower, still tucked delicately behind his ear.
A beat of silence.
He gasped—actually, audibly gasped, clutching his chest as if you'd physically wounded him. “Treasure,” he breathed, eyes wide and betrayed, “I cannot believe you traded me in for Black.”
You groaned. “Junior.”
“No—don’t you Junior me,” he said, stepping back like your words had scorched him, pressing a hand against the curtains pillar for support.
You slid off Regulus’ lap in a single, painful motion, trying to maintain any shred of dignity, which was difficult with your hair mussed and your shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had been clutching at the back of it.
Regulus didn’t even try to salvage anything. He just stared at the ceiling like he was mentally calculating how fast he could die and be buried—red down to the collar of his shirt.
“I thought we had something, Treasure,” Barty continued with a theatrical sniff, flopping onto his bed. “A shared love of mild chaos, midnight escapades, and morally ambiguous hexes.”
You just rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”
He stared at the ceiling, hand still on his chest. “I’m heartbroken.”
“You’re eating a teacake.”
“I’m grieving, let me be.”
And then, his voice softened a little, still dramatic but now with an edge of sincerity. “I mean… obviously everyone’s had a crush on you, but I didn’t think he’d be the one to do something about it.”
You blinked, head whipping to Regulus, eyes narrowing. “You’re not denying it.”
He just shrugged lightly, like he didn’t see the point.
Barty’s laughter was smug as hell. “See?” he said, sitting up.
Regulus groaned softly beside you. “Is this going to end soon?”
Barty glanced between you both, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me,” he said, casually now, propping himself up on one elbow, “is this a new study method? Because I must’ve missed this chapter in Advanced Charms.”
“Jun—”
“No, no—really, I’m curious,” he said, waving his teacake for emphasis. “Do you rate each other’s technique? Is snogging now a core requirement for N.E.W.T. preparation?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t help that Regulus looked like he was actively contemplating vanishing spells, dropping his head into his hands.
Then he softened again, leaning his chin into his palm as he watched the two of you. “For what it’s worth, Reg… you look good like this. Like an actual person instead of a walking anxiety spell.”
“I hate you,” he muttered, hands slipping from his face to reveal a withering look.
Barty beamed. “That’s more like it.”
With a smug little wave, Barty finally stood, sauntering backwards toward the door with his usual flair.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, to be fair, is a very short list. Night, lovebirds.”
More Posts from Lovelyletterssentatnight and Others
Diplomacy Be Damned
pairing: Kallias x Reader
word count: 1.2k
warnings: some fighting, burn injury, Kallias loses his temper to defend you, Beron being Beron
a/n: dipping my toes into writing about Kallias. i need to read up on some headcannons since we have so little canon info about him. dug this one out the drafts lmao
The halls of the Winter Court glistened with ethereal beauty. Walls carved from ice, crystalline chandeliers dripping with frozen jewels that caught and refracted the faint glow of faelight. The chill in the air was familiar, comforting even, though it did little to ease the tension rising in the room.
The High Lords had gathered again to discuss the threat of Koschei. And as always, it felt like sitting in the eye of a storm.
You sat quietly beside Kallias, your mate, the bond between you a steady hum under your skin, a thread of warmth woven through the cold. His hand brushed yours subtly, an anchor amidst the political currents swirling around the grand table.
Beron was speaking.
Of course, he was.
You had the displeasure of sitting near him, Kallias and one of his sons were all that was between you. On your right sat Thesan and Tarquin with their respective councils. The Inner Circle, Helion, and an empty spot for Tamlin across from you. The large circular table made of ice was designed with the much-needed space that was necessary for these tumultuous meetings in mind. Usually, Autumn would be positioned on the same side as Night, but with Lucien Vanserra’s new position as their emissary you convinced Kallias to rearrange the seating chart so the poor male did not have to sit near the male who caused him so much suffering, and instead next to his true father. You were reconsidering that moment of compassion now.
Arrogant and venomous, Beron’s words were dripping with condescension as he spoke of sacrifices and violence with the casual cruelty only the Autumn Court’s High Lord could master. You saw the way Kallias’ jaw tightened, the faint narrowing of his eyes, the only signs of his control slipping.
Across the room, Feyre Archeron sat beside High Lord Rhysand, her posture rigid, and nails tapping rhymically against the table as Beron’s smug remarks continued. You could see it in her eyes, she was losing her patience with him, as was everyone else in this room.
“If Koschei wants the Archeron witch so badly, I say let him have her,” Beron drawled with a flourish of his hands. “There’s no sense in going to war over one useless female.”
A burst of flames shot across the room, wild and uncontrolled. It was meant for Beron. You knew that. Everyone knew that.
But Feyre had still not yet mastered her aim, and you were sitting in its path.
The searing heat hit you before you could react, fire licking across your shoulder, burning through the layers of fabric, biting into flesh. A sharp, involuntary cry escaped you as pain erupted and you fell backward out of your chair.
The room exploded into chaos.
Kallias’ reaction was immediate, his power blowing an icy wind that extinguished the remaining flames. The chill of his power was a different kind of sting, but an improvement nonetheless. He helped you rise, his hands on your waist as he sat you down in his chair. You gazed up at him to tell him it was alright, to just adjourn the meeting for a moment until you saw his face.
Fury.
Uncontained, unrelenting fury.
His eyes blazed with a rage colder than the harshest winter as he turned on Rhysand and Feyre, his power crackling in the air like a blizzard ready to consume.
“What were you thinking?” His voice was a snarl, low and dangerous, ice creeping across the marble floor like the tide rising at a beach.
Rhysand rose, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, but there was a readiness in his stance. “It was an accident—”
“An accident?” Kallias roared, his magic lashing out, frost racing across the walls, shards of ice falling from the ceiling and crashing onto the table. “She burned my mate!”
You tried to stand, the pain sharp and unyielding, but Kallias was already at your side again, lowering you back down to the seat. His breath came fast, uneven, his fury battling with fear. The smell of your charred flesh permeated the room, even Lucien across the table wrinkled his nose at the all too familiar scent.
Beron, ever the viper, chuckled darkly from his seat. “Seems the High Lady still can’t control her temper. At least it wasn't my wife this time.”
That was all it took.
Kallias and Rhysand lunged.
Power collided—ice, darkness, and fire. Winter’s wrath and Night’s might against the burn of Autumn. Beron blocked Kallias’ strike with a shield of fire, but the sheer force sent shockwaves through the hall, cracks spiderwebbing across the floor. Rhysand’s darkness engulfed Beron, snuffing out his flames.
“Enough!” Helion shouted, stepping between them, his golden power radiating as he formed a shield around everyone else.
But Kallias wasn’t listening. He could only think to protect, avenge, defend. His magic surged again, colder than death itself, as he bared his teeth.
“Kallias,” you managed to rasp, your voice raw from both the pain and the rising fear of what he might do.
He froze.
Then he was in front of you, dropping to his knees, cradling your face in his hands. His fury didn’t vanish—it was there, sizzling beneath the surface—but his focus shifted entirely to you.
“Hold on,” he whispered, his voice ragged with emotion. “I’ve got you.”
With a burst of his power, he winnowed you both away, the freezing air swallowing the sound of shouts and curses from the meeting room.
He had taken you to your shared chambers, the familiar scent of fir trees and eucalyptus wrapped around you like a comforting cocoon.
Kallias didn’t waste a moment. He led you to the edge of the bed to sit and carefully peeled away the burnt fabric. The sight of the angry, blistered skin made his breath hitch. He strode into the washroom to retrieve healing supplies before returning to your side. His fingers hovered above the wound, trembling slightly.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered as if it were his fault. “I should’ve—”
“You couldn’t have stopped it,” you assured, wincing as he dabbed a cool cloth over the burn, the chill both soothing and sharp.
But Kallias didn’t respond. He clenched his jaw, his eyes shadowed with guilt as he worked. He was meticulous, his hands gentle, as if he feared hurting you more.
After delicately applying healing salves to the burns and wrapping them with a bandage, he sat beside you, his head in his hands.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No, it just tingles now. The salves are working.”
He released a sigh of relief. Then, softly, “When I saw you fall…” his voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath. “I’ve faced war and impending death, but nothing has ever terrified me like that.”
You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
His grip tightened, pulling you into his arms with a desperation that made your heart ache. He held you as if you might disappear, his face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
“I don’t ever want to feel that again,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
You pressed a kiss to his temple, feeling his tension slowly ease. “You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”
Forever
The Afterthought: Chapter 7 | series masterlist
Azriel x Archeron!Reader
chapter 6 | chapter 8 | ACOTAR x Reader Masterlist
Summary: The day after your first date is spent gossiping with Mor, being gently harassed by your coworkers over your new relationship, and with the male you want to spend your future with.
Warnings: slightly shitty Rhys mention, I honestly don't think there's anything else!
Words: ~5.5k
Author's Note: god DAMN did it take me forever to get this one out 😭 I'm glad I can finally deliver some good fackin food! (Not that I haven't loved working on all my other fics lol) Loooots of cute fluffiness in this chapter, I hope you guys like it!! 🫶 Title from the Chelsea Cutler song
18+ only pls
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You’d just taken off you makeup and cleansed your skin when a letter from Mor showed up with a soft pop on your kitchen table.
You managed to decipher it after a minute on your own, something that you were immensely proud of. Her perfect handwriting read:
How did the date go?? Where did you go for dinner? What did you talk about? Did he kiss you?? Tell me everything, write back on this paper and once you fold it, it will send itself back to me! - Love, Mor
Your nose wrinkled as you thought about writing her back, your own penmanship far more clumsy, even with how much you had been practicing. But you did anyways, not wanting to disappoint your friend.
It was perfect, we went to an Illyrian restaurant for dinner. HE KISSED ME!! Can you come over at 7 to talk? - Love you, Y/N
Your fingers carefully folded the paper along the crease once more, and watched with amazement as it vanished from your hands immediately.
Less than a minute later the paper returned, Mor having written: YES! I’ll bring breakfast and YOU can tell me everything!
You giggled to yourself, so unbelievably happy to have not only a friend who cared about your romantic life, but also having a romantic life! With Azriel no less!
At the sound of your laughter, M’aiq ran over and brushed against your leg, meowing loudly for food. You’d fed her dinner before you left for your date, but here she was, screaming at you like she was starved. “Silly girly, you have to wait until morning,” you said as you bent down to pick her up, her tiny claws catching slightly on your nightgown. She meowed at you with all her might as you cradled her in your arms, her tiny paws resting on your hand as you pet her tummy. “You’re very cute and very mighty, and I’m tempted to feed you more because of that. But you’ll be fine, I promise.” You nuzzled your nose against her cheek, listening to her purr. “Or are you asking me how the date was?” She purred louder at that suggestions, and you giggled again. “Okay, I’ll tell you about it,” You said as you sat in your armchair, letting the roaring fire keep you warm as you gushed to M’aiq about the date, petting her tiny head and tummy all the while.
Eventually, though, you forced yourself from the chair and into your bed, carefully setting a sleeping M’aiq onto the pillow next to yours that had become quickly become hers.
You fell asleep snuggled into the blankets, one hand still placed on M’aiq.
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“Wake UP!”
That was your only warning before Mor flung herself on top of you, forcing the air from your lungs in one go.
“Oh my gods, Mor!”
Mor’s maniacal giggling was the answer you got as Mor flopped to the other side of the bed and off of you, your eyes flying open in panic.
“Did you squish M’aiq?!” You asked frantically as you turned to see Mor inspecting her nails.
“No, I didn’t squish M’aiq,” she reassured you. “She bolted straight under the bed the moment I winnowed in, otherwise I wouldn’t have squished you like that.”
You shook your head, even as a smile crept onto your face. “Oh, you won’t squish M’aiq but you’ll squish me?” You asked, letting fake offence seep into your tone.
“Uh, yes, you would cry if I squished M’aiq, but you? You have information that I want! Tell me all about the date while we do our skincare, yeah?” Mor asked as she stood up from your bed, looking expectantly at you.
You nodded and flung the covers back, scrunching your nose at the cold air. Your slippers and dressing gown fixed that easily, and you followed Mor into your bathroom.
“So, how was it?” Mor asked excitedly as she patted her face dry.
“It was…” You sighed dreamily. “It was everything I could have hoped for, honestly. We went to this small Illyrian restaurant in the Palace of Thread and Jewels, the food was amazing, We talked a lot about when we were younger, he told me a few funny stories about Cassian and Rhysand,” you giggled. “And we realized that we both thought we had been extremely obvious with our affections, but neither of us noticed.”
“Well, I noticed,” Mor laughed. “I swear, when Azriel can’t see you at least once a week, he becomes the crankiest little Spymaster. And you get so blushy and shy around him, it’s so cute!”
Color dusted your cheeks at her words. “…Does he really get upset?”
Mor burst into laughter. “He does! He went off on Keir so many times, it was amazing! How was the rest of the date? Did you do anything else?” She asked as the two of you moved from the bathroom to the dining table, settling down in front of the pastries and tea that Mor had brought.
You couldn’t help but smile as you thought of how the date ended. “Well, he walked me home along the Sidra, but while we were I heard this lovely music, and in the dim lights and with the snow it was…” You let out a breath. “It was perfect. We danced to the music-”
“Azriel danced?” Mor asked incredulously, and you blinked at her, confused.
“Yes? Is that… Does he not normally dance?”
Mor shook her head. “He knows how to, he’s just… Always avoided it, whenever he could. I’m not sure exactly why, I think he might just be shy. Or… Maybe he just didn’t have the right partner!” Mor squealed, and you blushed again.
“Well either way, we danced for a bit, and then when we got to my door he kissed me,” You whispered. “It was… I’ve never been kissed before but I can’t imagine any other kiss ever measuring up.”
Mor was holding her hands to her cheeks, a huge grin splitting her face. “Oh mother, you are in love!” You smacked her lightly, your cheeks cherry red now.
“Shut up!”
“No, I can’t! My best friend is in love with my other best friend! Do you know how cute the two of you are together?”
You rolled your eyes at her and took a sip of your tea. “You haven’t even seen us together since we’ve been dating, Mor.”
“I don’t need to see you two together to know that you’re the cutest couple in Velaris! That is, until I finally get a chance to ask out the adorable Illyrian that Nesta is friends with,” Mor sighed. “Any other details about the night that you want to share with me?” She asked, waggling her brows at you suggestively.
"Mor. We kissed, and that’s all!” You insisted, placing the back of your hands on your cheeks in an attempt to cool them. “And that’s all that will happen, unless we get married.”
“See! You’re in looove, already thinking about getting married to Azriel,” Mor giggled.
You shot her a glare, but the smile that forced its way onto your face ruined the effect. “Mor,” you groaned.
Mor snickered at you, but relented. “Fine, fine. Do you know when you’re seeing him next?”
You nodded, your smile growing. “He’s picking me up after I get off work tonight.”
“Cute! I have a feeling it’s going to be tough keeping Azriel in the Hewn City through the elections.” Mor glanced to the clock, sighing when she saw the time. “I have to get going, I’ve got a meeting with Rhys in ten minutes and he’ll be pissed if I show up late again.”
“How many times have you been late?” You asked as you walked her to the door, Mor waving excitedly at M’aiq, whose head poking out from under the bed.
“I’ve lost track,” Mor laughed. “Especially recently, if he’s going to keep me in the Hewn City most of the time, I’m entitled to being late, I think.”
“I think you’re right, Mor. Will I be seeing you tomorrow?”
“Yes, I should be in town a bit after you usually get off of work. But…” Mor fished something out of her pockets: two blank pieces of paper. “I wanted you to have these! They’re both spelled to be sent after being folded like the letter I sent to you yesterday, and all messages are erased ten minutes after being opened. One of them is spelled to go to me, and the other is spelled to go to Azriel. I thought it would be nice for you to have a way to communicate with us, without needing magic.”
You grinned at the blonde standing in your doorway. “Thank you, Mor, this is amazing! And I’m sure you have no ulterior motives, like getting information on my and Azriel’s dates?”
“Oh, of course not, I just thought you might like to have someone to gush about him to,” Mor said with a wink. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N!”
“I’ll see you then, Mor. Have a good day!”
“You as well!” Mor called out from halfway down the staircase.
You shut your front door and giggled when M’aiq came trotting over, meowing insistently at you. “Yeah, you could have been fed earlier if you’d been a little braver, Eeky. Let’s get your breakfast started,” you said after setting the papers down on your kitchen table, trading them for your soft, fluffy child. “Do you want to watch me cook it today?”
Her loud meow was enough of an answer for you, so you set her on the counter next to the stove while you pulled a bit of beef out of the cold box. The rest of your morning passed by quickly, between cutting the meat and making sure M’aiq stayed out of the heating pan, and later keeping her from eating straight out of it. Soon enough, she was munching away after you’d set her and her food bowl on the ground.
You went about the rest of your routine, applying a light layer of pink eyeshadow and a bit of blush before getting dressed, choosing a pale purple dress, its sleeves reaching just past your elbow and the hem reaching your ankles. The matching sash around your waist was tied into a bow at your lower back, showing more of your figure than you usually did, especially at work.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t chose it knowing that Azriel would be picking you up from work later that day, your mind already stuck on how he might react to it. The whole walk to work you thought about it, nearly slipping on two separate patches of ice, you were so distracted. Somehow, you managed to safely make it to Sevenda’s on time, your outerwear hung up in the tiny breakroom just as the clock hit nine.
“Oh, someone looks nice today,” Josi remarked as you slid on your apron, her hands already chopping onions.
“Thank you, Josi,” you said with a smile, tying off your apron and moving to the sink to clean your hands.
“You have a hot date later, Y/N?” Torma asked, making heat rush to your cheeks. “Oh! You do! Who is it, tell us who it is!”
You laughed nervously as you finished drying your hands, facing your coworkers with your flushed cheeks. “It’s no one, really,” you said quietly, readying your workstation for the day. You would be handling the preparation of the meats today, a task you’d only just recently earned enough trust to do on your own.
“It’s not no one, just tell us who it is,” Josi begged from your left. “Please?”
You shook your head, pulling out a large piece of beef that you’d be carving up. “I don’t want to talk about it yet, we’ve only been on one date.”
“Ah, new love,” Torma sighed. “Whoever it is, they better treat you right, Y/N.”
You couldn’t fight the smile that slid onto your face. “He treats me perfectly,” you said softly.
Josi and Torma continued to ask questions about your mystery suitor, determined to guess who it is through your answers by the end of the day. The two of them never failed to make your day fly by, their cheery attitudes and kind words always making your day better.
As your shift drew to a close, though, your eyes kept flicking up to the clock, wishing for once that the minutes would pass by more quickly.
If Josi or Torma noticed, neither of them mentioned it. Either way, you were glad no one had pointed out how antsy you were, waiting to leave.
Five minutes before five o’clock, Sevenda popped her head into the kitchen, locking eyes with you. “Y/N, you have a guest out front when you’re done,” she said with a knowing smile and a wink before disappearing back into the front of house.
“Oh, would that guest happen to be your male?” Josi giggled, her and Torma’s eyes following you as you cleaned up your space and washed up quickly.
“I think it is, look at how fast she’s moving! Normally you never want to leave us, Y/N, is that going to change?” Torma asked with a pout.
“No, that won’t change,” you laughed as you dried your hands. “I just happen to be meeting him right after work today.” You went into the breakroom and put on your cloak and scarf, sliding your mittens on as you walked into the front of house, your eyes instantly drawn to the Illyrian lingering near the doorway.
He noticed you in the same moment, his hazel eyes softening when they landed on you. A few of his shadows slunk over to you, wrapping themselves around your legs and ankles, and judging by his expression he hadn’t asked them to do so. You walked up to him, your eyes finally registering that he was holding a lovely bouquet of red camellias and azaleas.
He had picked such romantic flowers for you, both today and last night, it was making your head spin.
“Good afternoon, Y/N,” he greeted, pressing a soft kiss to each of your cheeks, your face flaming when he pulled away. Azriel pressed the bouquet into your hands gently. “I brought you these, I thought you might like them.”
“I love them, thank you Az,” you said, a grin on your face as you smelled them. “Should we go?”
“Yes, I was think-”
“No way!” Josi squealed from behind you. “Torma, you owe me twenty marks!”
“Nice, Y/N, you got the Shadowsinger!” Torma cheered from the back of the restaurant. “You two are so cute together!”
You smiled apologetically up at Azriel, your cheeks now red from embarrassment. “Goodbye,” you said loudly to the two of them, noticing that even Wren was peeking out from the kitchen, shaking your head at their antics.
The two of you left the restaurant, the chill of winter sinking into your skin a bit. “You were saying something before my coworkers interrupted you?”
“Ah.” Azriel rubbed the back of his head, and in the remaining sunlight you could see his cheeks were lightly dusted with pink. “I thought that we could go to the markets to get ingredients for dinner, and I could cook for you at your apartment.”
You couldn’t help the smile that formed at his suggestion, and you quickly nodded in agreement. “That sounds lovely, Az. Though I’d like to insist on helping you cook.”
“And I would like to insist that you allow me to cook for you myself, just this once,” he requested softly. Azriel smiled down at you as he grabbed your hand, a few of his shadows floating over to your other and disappearing with your bouquet, presumably taking it to your apartment. He slowly led you to the Palace of Bone and Salt, his grip being the only thing keeping you upright on more than one occasion.
Shopping went by quickly with Azriel at your side, your heart racing and cheeks flushed at all times from his presence. When the streets grew crowded, Azriel guided you through the groups of people with a considerate hand on your lower back, his other arm managing to carry everything he’d purchased for dinner.
He still had yet to tell you what he was making, or agree that you could help.
By the time you returned to your apartment, the sun had thrown lovely oranges and pinks into the sky, matching the lovestruck mood you were in from Azriel’s mere presence. You led Azriel up to your apartment, opening your front door slowly to be certain that M’aiq was unable to make an escape - not that you expected her to, with how frightened she seemed to be of anything and anyone new.
“M’aiq, we’re home!” You called out into the room, spying her green eyes glinting in the light from under your bed, a smile gracing your lips. “You know him, cutie pie,” you giggled as you watched her eyes lock onto Azriel’s form, her body slinking just a bit further into the shadows. You rolled your eyes and turned your gaze to Azriel, who had taken off his boots and was already entering the kitchen with the groceries.
Your own winter gear came off quickly, shoes replaced with fuzzy slippers. It took you mere seconds to be by his side, curiously taking note of everything he’d bought - you could hardly remember what you’d stopped for, with your head and heart buzzing from getting to spend so much time with Azriel, even if it was only grocery shopping.
“So, what are we making?” You asked, letting your right hand brush against his left ever so slightly.
“I am making a chicken stir-fry for us,” Azriel responded, a gentle kiss placed to the crown of your head right after. “And you, my dear, will be sitting either at the table or on the couch.”
Your lips slid into a pout - that just wouldn’t do.
“But I want to help,” you whined, laying your head against his shoulder. “Please?”
Azriel sighed. “You can help next time, Y/N. But I would love if you would give me the chance to make you a meal, all on my own.”
Your heart soared at his offer - he would love to cook for you - and you couldn’t help but smile, especially when you saw his lips tilted a the corners, his eyes hopeful as he looked down at you.
“Fine,” you gave in. “Do you need help finding anything?”
“No, love, I’ve got it covered. You just go take a seat, and I’ll bring you a pot of tea in a moment.”
You took a seat, a playful pout on your lips. You appreciated the gesture, but you really would enjoy cooking with him again.
You’ll have as many times as you want to cook with him after this, you reminded yourself, a smile coming to your lips at the thought.
You could cook with him whenever youwantednow that you were dating, so long as he was in the city.
That train of thought had you so entangled that you only realized Azriel had brought you a pot of tea when he pressed a kiss to your forehead, a soft look in his eyes when he pulled away. “What are you thinking about, love?”
Your cheeks flamed from the nickname - how could something so simple be so perfect? “Just… How we can do this all the time, now,” you admitted shyly.
Azriel nodded. “Yes we can, Y/N. And we will, whenever we have the time,” he promised before bending down to kiss you gently, leaving you breathless.
“Good,” you managed to say, grinning up at him before watching him turn back to the stove. “How was your day?”
“Oh, not too bad,” Azriel replied as he began cutting the chicken, having already prepared all of the vegetables while you had been fantasizing about your future with him. “Most of my day will happen when I go back to the Hewn City, so I’m incredibly grateful to spend the beginning of it with you. You are much preferred company to any of the citizens I have to interact with there, love.”
Would your cheeks always be pink around him?
“I’m glad you get to spend it with me too,” you said as you took a sip of your tea, which his shadows had kindly poured out for you - one of your favorites, a pink rose green tea. “Do you know when you’ll stop having to be there as much?”
Azriel hummed thoughtfully as he transferred the chicken to the pan. “I believe in three weeks things will be a bit more settled, and I won’t have to spend every night there.”
Three weeks. You could handle that.
You stood from your chair and made your way over to him, watching as he moved the chicken around the pan. “Three weeks? That isn’t too bad.”
Azriel turned to look at you, a wing curling slightly around your back to touch your arm. “Three weeks will be torture, knowing that I could have been spending every day with you,” he admitted quietly, your heart fluttering at the sincerity of his tone, the truth in his hazel eyes. “You have no idea how many times I’ve almost caused a problem with Keir when he was holding me up from leaving,” Azriel sighed.
“I think only Keir would mind if he got hit in the face,” you giggled, knowing how awful he was, even to his own daughter. One of your hands was slowly creeping over to the spoon he was using to stir.
Azriel let out a soft snort. “That may be true, but I’d prefer to spend time with you over teaching him a lesson.” Hazel eyes darted down, catching you in the act and using a scarred hand to pick yours up and bring the back of it to his lips, pressing a sweet kiss there. “Now, go sit down and enjoy your tea love.”
You stuck your lips out into a pout. “But I want to help,” you whined.
“And you agreed that you wouldn’t help this time. So, will you sit down? Or do my shadows need to help you?” Azriel asked, and your cheeks flushed bright red.
“I can sit down,” you sighed before turning back to the table and reluctantly taking a seat. You took a deep sip of tea, aware of the shadows that had stretched away from Azriel slightly. You almost felt like they were staring at you, making sure you didn’t leave your seat.
It was likely, you supposed, since Azriel was able to spy on people with them. Then again, you weren’t really sure.
“How do the shadows work?” you blurted out, hoping it wasn’t a rude question.
Azriel turned around, a surprised look on his face. “You… You want to know about them?” he asked neutrally.
"I... Yes. They’re a part of you, right?”
His lips tilted up, just a tiny bit, at the corners. “Yes, and no. They’ve been with me so long that we feel like one, but they have minds of their own. That’s why one has been following you around secretly without my permission for over a year.” His eyes locked onto a place by your feet, where a small shadow slunk out from underneath the hem of your dress.
“I- What?” you asked, worried about what that meant.
Azriel shook his head quickly, and his words dispelled any notions your brain had been creating. “I have received absolutely no information from them, when they follow you, I swear. They just… Wanted to keep an eye on you,” he said sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his neck, turning quickly to the pan to keep the chicken from burning. “I hope that you aren’t offended by it, I truly did attempt to make them stop.”
You pursed your lips together, trying to keep a giggle in. “They can… They can disobey you?”
“I don’t normally let people know that, but yes,” Azriel sighed. “They’re very stubborn, when they think I’m wrong.” He began stirring in the vegetables he’d cut, pouring a delicious smelling sauce over them as he did.
“They thought you were wrong? About what?” You asked with a furrowed brow.
You just barely noticed the way Azriel’s wings stiffened at the question, barely heard the quiet answer he gave to your question.
“About me… Giving you space.”
Giving me space? Space from what?
“Rhys…” Azriel groaned, stepping away from the stove. “Mother, it’s so stupid! Rhys told me not to approach you romantically, after he told me off for having feelings for Elain-” he seemed to have noticed his mistake the moment he said it, turning to look at you with horror in his eyes. “Oh gods, Y/N, I never had feelings for your sister, Rhys just had it in his head that I did because I was helping her recover as he and Feyre had asked of me,” he rushed out quickly, your brain struggling to make sense of the sudden onslaught of information. “Truly, since I’ve met you, I’ve had no interest in anyone else romantically, Y/N, you have to believe me,” Azriel begged when you were silent for a moment, getting on his knees in front of you, his wings folded behind him.
You had never felt that Azriel cared for Elain, beyond that of a friend. But, knowing that someone else had thought he had…
“I believe you, Az. I do,” you said quietly. “But… What changed your mind? About giving me space, I mean.”
Azriel let out a relieved sigh, giving you a gentle, reassuring hug before returning to the stove reluctantly. “Well… You. I had thought you were adjusting well to life in Velaris, but on Bounty Day… I realized that your support system wasn’t giving you the proper support, and I could have been contributing all along.” The shadow that was still at the hem of your dress rushed up to his face, poking him on the ear, almost scoldingly before he let out an amused huff. “Yes, also you, little one,” he said with an affectionate eyeroll, smiling when the shadow brushed against his cheek before returning to you, this time settling around your wrist.
“Well… I’m glad that you had someone to talk some sense into you,” you giggled before standing from your chair and going behind him, placing your face between his wings and wrapping your arms as far around him as you could, almost getting your fingers to touch. He stiffened in your hold for a brief moment before relaxing, a hand coming to rest over yours.
“Me too,” he whispered.
He let you stand behind him, arms wrapped around him tightly the rest of the time he was cooking, his shadows happily encircling the two of you.
The meal he made you was perfect, made with just the right amount of spice for you and oh so filling. Az even insisted on washing up while you sat on the couch in front of a blazing fire, attempting to lure M’aiq out from under your bed.
“Will you come out for food?” you begged, grinning when her ears perked up, eyes locking onto yours instead of where Azriel was standing in the kitchen. “Please, little noodle?” She let out a tiny meow and took a few brave steps towards you, and you took the opportunity to stand and scoop her up. “Thank you, now let’s get you some food!”
A few of Azriel’s shadows darted over to you and M’aiq, hovering curiously around her before backing away after she hissed, making her displeasure very known. You set her on the counter before pulling some steak from the fridge for her - her newest favorite.
You set to preparing her dinner, hyper-aware of Azriel standing near you at the sink, the very edges of his wing brushing you every now and then, his shadows lazily floating between the two of you. You’d just gotten the meat in a pan when Azriel finished at the sink, stepping aside a bit to let you wash your hands. He still had your hand towel when you finished, wrapping your hands in it softly and drying them for you.
In a moment of bravery you stood on your tip-toes, pressing your lips to his briefly before pulling away, only for Az to pull you back, his mouth covering yours sweetly until you heard metal rattling.
You turned to see M’aiq, one paw on the steak in the pan as she tried, and failed, to grab a slice from the pan. “M’aiq!” you yelped, moving out of Azriel’s hold to pull her away from possible danger. “You impatient little girl! You can wait five more minutes,” you said as you held her up to your face, shaking your head at her behavior. She was set on the counter to your left, away from the hot pan and thankfully staying put, now that your eyes were on her again.
You had just started to stir the meat when Azriel came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before resting his chin on it. For the next four minutes, you were sure that you looked an idiot, smiling so widely at a mere hug.
But you didn’t care.
Because it was Azriel.
And if you could spend every moment with him? You were sure that you would.
For now, though, you could settle for any amount of time with the perfect, caring male behind you.
Once M’aiq was fed, you couldn’t help but feel your time with him drawing to a close for the night, your heart aching already at the prospect. But you let him lead you back over to the couch, sitting down first and pulling you down and into his side, a warm throw blanket pulled over you in the next moment. His wings draped over the side of the couch, an arm wrapped over your shoulders and his free hand holding one of yours. He swiped his thumb over the back of it rhythmically as you basked in each other’s presence.
“So,” Azriel started a while later, after M’aiq had joined you. “I won’t be able to come to town until Friday night next week, and I was wondering if you would be free for another date?”
You tilted your head to look up at him, meeting his softened hazel eyes. “I most definitely am,” you confirmed with a smile, it broadening when he placed a tender kiss to your lips. “Do I get a hint on what it is?”
Azriel grinned at you, his face looking so boyish and free that your heart skipped a beat. “Wear something you can move comfortably in.”
You furrowed your brow. “That’s not much of a hint…” you half-heartedly grumbled.
“The hint was meant to be vague, love,” Az chuckled. He leaned down to kiss you once more, still soft and tender, but you could sense the hunger lying deep underneath the calm façade he was wearing. “I should be going, as much as I would rather stay with you,” he groaned, pressing another kiss to your lips.
“Then stay…” you whispered against his lips, drawing another long kiss from him.
He sighed when he pulled away this time, a finality in his expression. “I wish I could,” he murmured before carefully moving the blanket on his lap in an effort to not disturb M’aiq. Once he was standing, he bent down for another kiss, your eyes fluttering closed until he pulled away, your cheeks pink. “I’ll see you on Friday?”
“On Friday,” you nodded. “Oh, wait! Mor gave me these papers that will let us write to each other,” you said. “So… Expect a letter from me, probably tomorrow,” you giggled.
Azriel beamed at you, a dimple showing on his left cheek when he did so, your heart absolutely melting at the sight. “I’ll look forward to it, Y/N. Have a good rest of your night,” he said before pressing one last, lingering kiss to your lips.
“You too, Az,” you said, watching as he left through your front, door, the shadow that apparently stays with you locking the door behind him before lazily floating back over to you.
What a night, you thought to yourself.
There had been a brief moment of panic, with the reveal of Rhysand not wanting Azriel to approach you, but… You knew that Azriel was telling you the truth, that he had never harbored feelings for your second eldest sister.
And that was all the reassurance that you needed.
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I can just imagine Sirius and Remus making out anywhere and everywhere and Remus is like 'sirius we are in a very populated hallway' and Siri is like 'i don't care let them look and see your mine'. And the best part is that one day Siri is I don't care and the next he is very self conscious and remmy is like I don't care.
stop singing, start (s)creaming - poly!marauders
bf!remus lupin, focus on james potter - 1 bf, 3 perverts au! summary: james hasn't stopped thinking about you since he watched you fuck sirius and peter in one night. but he finally gets his turn whilst you're getting ready to hit the pubs. wc: 1.6k+
Ever since the party a couple of days ago, James could not get you out of his head. It was already bad enough that you were one of his best friends’ girlfriend, but he kept on replaying the moment you arched your back with Sirius’s arms around you, moaning pornographically. And now, you were sat on the floor of their dorm, your makeup bag in front of you as you made yourself up to go to a pub with the boys.
You had put one of your records onto Remus’s player, the seductive music serenading the messy boys in the dorm, running around to find a clean shirt or too busy showering. It seemed you could feel a pair of eyes on you, so you turned your head around, smiling when you met James’s eye, pausing your singing. His face flushed, and you hummed in amusement, puckering your lips as you applied lip gloss onto them.
Standing up, you walked in front of the floor length mirror in their dorm, spinning around and posing in a way that accentuated your curves before leaning in closer to the mirror, analysing your makeup. James was caught staring at you in the reflection, but this time he didn’t dare look away. Giggling, you spun around in your heels, walking over to the boy and holding your hands out for him to take. He tugged you closer to him and you took the opportunity to bring your lips to his ear, whispering “Dance with me” as you swayed your hips to the song, beginning to sing along to the lyrics again.
James gasped when you spun around, pressing your back to his chest, curves swaying against him. He gripped your hips, dropping his head to kiss your shoulder softly, beginning to move his hips in rhythm with yours. You giggled, a hand coming up to gently cup James’s cheek, and he turned his face, pressing a kiss on the palm of your hand.
The steady hands on your waist forced you back around so you were facing the muscular boy again. You lazily slung both your arms over James’s shoulders, closing the distance between your faces until you were nose to nose, lips barely grazing each other. “Please.” James quietly begged, tilting his head up slightly to hint at you to connect your lips. Deciding against teasing him, you pressed your lips against his, and he sighed in satisfaction into the kiss, hands tightening on your body.
Eagerly, James tilted his head, parting his lips and licking at your bottom lip so he could deepen the kiss when you opened your mouth, gliding your tongue into his mouth. You gasped as James spun you around, walking you backwards until you hit a wall. One of his hands moved to cup your face as you messily kissed, his other hand trailing downward so he could grope your ass.
“Woah, no wonder y/n stopped singing.” Sirius chuckled as he walked out of the bathroom, wiping his own lips to hide the evidence of his kiss with Remus in the bathroom. “What’s going-oh.” Remus grinned widely as you moaned, hooking a leg over James’s hip so you could grind your pelvis against his, trying to pull him impossibly closer to you. James humped his clothed cock into your core, expelling a loud moan from your lips.
“There’s nothing like kissing against a wall. Right Rem?” Sirius teased, turning around to look at your boyfriend. You ignored the goading comments, one of your hands desperately tugging at James’s leather belt, hinting for him to take it off. James let go of your jaw, frantically attempting to undo his belt with one hand as he sloppily made out with you, tongue exploring as much of your mouth as he could. You gripped James’s hair, tugging it back to break the kiss, gasping for breath momentarily before pulling him back onto your lips.
James shimmied out of his jeans, and you took it upon you to push down his boxers, freeing his leaky cock from its confines. You reached down under the skirt of your short dress to push your thong to the side, giving James access to your cunt. He broke the kiss, panting heavily as he looked between you to push his cock into you. It was slow at first, but then James’s arm was wrapping around your waist, pushing you against the wall as his free hand grasped your second leg, pulling it around his waist, lifting you off the ground. Both your arms tightened over his shoulders as he adjusted his grip on you, bouncing you up so he could steady his hold on you, balancing your weight between his and the wall.
“Shit, you two might want to be quick, we’re supposed to leave soon.” Sirius mumbled, walking into the bathroom again to fix his already perfect hair.
“No, they have time. Pete just got in the shower, remember?” “Oh yeah.”
“Fuck James!” You cried, halting the short conversation between your boyfriend and Sirius.
You slammed your lips back onto James’s, and he whimpered into your mouth as he harshly thrusted into you, cock sliding in and out of you with ease. James swallowed up every single one of your moans, pleasure racking through your body at the feeling of his thick cock, nearly splitting you in half. You broke the kiss for a moment to catch a breath before James was pushing his mouth onto yours again in an open kiss, tongue meeting yours in the middle.
The fingers in James’s hair tightened around his soft locks, sending a sharp pain to James’s head that had him thrusting his hips up into you deliciously. James shifted your weight onto one of his arms as he snaked the other hand between your bodies, eagerly rubbing at your clit. You could feel the tears of pleasure forming in your closed eyes, and you suddenly tore apart from the kiss as you threw your head back, banging it onto the wall as you cried out James’s name loudly.
“Shit, Rem, look at that form.”
“Were you expecting any less from the athlete?”
Your ankles connected behind James’s back in your heeled leather boots, pushing James’ cock deeper inside you as you so the tip of his cock grazed the walls of your cervix. James gasped loudly, digging his head into the crook of your neck and biting roughly. You ground your hips down on James’s cock, eyes tightly shut in pleasure as he continued putting pressure on your clit. One of your hands snaked under the back of James’s collar, nails scratching at the sweaty skin of his upper back as you moaned, crying out “Fuck, I’m-fuck!”
You might have gone unconscious for a second, or maybe you were so deep in the pleasure that shot through your body, but all the sound in the room was suddenly put on mute as your orgasm rocked through your body. James’s knees buckled, and the hand that was on your clit slammed against the wall next to your head to steady himself, making sure he wouldn’t fall to his knees as he pressed you against the wall, putting all his weight against you to keep you up. “I’m gonna-need to pull out!” James cried, attempting to loosen your legs from around your torso as he thrusted into you a couple of times.
Remus’s eyes were suddenly trained on you, his possessive nature creeping on him to ensure James would pull out of you. Your legs unravelled from around James’s waist, falling flat on the ground, but James held one of your legs up to stay perched over his hips until he suddenly pulled out, aiming his cock away from your black dress. With his weight suddenly off you, you slowly sunk onto the floor, legs shaking as you recovered from your orgasm. James’s hand was pressed against the wall as he clutched his dick, spurting thick ropes of cum onto the wooden floor of their dorm.
When James finally recovered, Peter was making his way out of the dorm’s shared bathroom, a towel loosely wrapped around his hips. He chuckled, muttering “I knew something was up when I heard screaming.” “Shut the fuck up, Pete.” The blond’s chuckle turned into a full on laugh at James’s respond, slapping a hand on his back as he passed behind him.
“Can I get some help, please?” You asked from your spot on the floor, looking up at the two untouched boys. Remus strolled towards you, bending down to wrap his arms around your torso. Easily, he lifted you up to your feet, and you stumbled, forgetting about the heels you were wearing. You took a step back, but Remus tugged you closer towards him, extracting a squeal from you. “Need to go to the toilet and fix my makeup before we go.” You explained, but Remus only raised his eyebrows at you.
“Aren't you forgetting something?” Giggling, you pressed yourself against your boyfriend, kissing him softly. Jealous eyes watched you, because at the end of the day, no matter how much you and Remus fooled around his friends, you were only dating each other. Remus hummed in satisfaction and you pushed yourself off him, leaning in the doorway to the bathroom. Sticking your head into the dorm, you glanced at James, who was still panting.
“You okay, Jamie?” You asked, and the muscular boy nodded silently, putting his hands on his hips as he caught his breath. “Knees are shaky.” He mumbled, and Sirius strolled towards him. James stood still as Sirius pulled his boxers back up, carefully tucking James’s shirt into his jeans before buckling his belt again.
“Take a breather before we leave, mate.”
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aaahhh okay wait imagine Emily is away on a case longer than usual and comes home without telling r to surprise her and sees that reader has been like idk wearing her shirt or sleeping with her pillow or idk just like something to feel close to her
thank you for your request ♡ fem!reader
Emily knows you're in her bed before she's so much as opened her front door. She lives in a nice building across from Washington, DC, in an apartment that glows with the lights of the city. It takes time to get home after a case, but the view isn't one you'd find anywhere else.
She'd fly a hundred hour flight if it meant getting to ch ome home to you. It sounds silly and corny, like a fairytale she didn't believe in, but there's something about you that inspires cliches. Like, your beat up converse arranged neatly so as not to disrupt her tower of high heels and boots. Your coat on the rack with the arms and hood smoothed down, and the way you arrange Sergei's food and water bowls intricately every time you visit because you're aware of Emily's penchant for orderliness.
She knows you're here because of all of these things, but really, she has a freaky sixth sense when it comes to you, and seeing you curled up on her side of the bed cements it perfectly.
She locks her gun away in its safe and puts her shoes and jacket away. Quiet, she slinks to where you're sleeping with the sheets up to your nose and bends down to check you over. She knows nothing has happened since she saw you last, but it doesn't matter. She needs to look at you properly.
You're on your side, face angled down, arm a lump under the sheets. Emily smiles and, despite the singing urge to wipe away the day's faded makeup and brush out curls crunchy with hairspray, lingers, holding her hand up to your face, stroking a short line.
You won't wake from it. Maybe you're a heavy sleeper or maybe you know it's her, but she never wakes you up when she comes home.
Sergei snores little nosed snores from his fluffy bed. Emily laughs as you do the same, though she frets (and she'd deny it if anyone asked, but frets all the same) that you can't breathe with the blankets smushed to your nose as they are.
Gently, she pulls down the sheets.
Her lips fall from their fond smile. Tucked in your arms like a life jacket is a soft white camisole, the last shirt Emily slept in before she left.
She isn't excessively loud about loving you —she isn't quiet about wanting you, but that isn't the same— and you aren't overly forthcoming.
Which isn't to say she doesn't feel loved, Emily knows she's loved in the same way you must know it, with the burning, aching sort of desire that has you pinching her hips when she walks by, or begging her to share a shower with you even if it'll make her late for work. But Emily hadn't realised how much you loved her in this sense. The difference between missing her company and missing the intrinsic smell of her skin is unsaid and yet yawning; you love her enough to curl around a dirty t-shirt. This is the kind of love that grows old together.
Emily's particular about things, but not tonight. Fuck it, she hopes she gets mascara on the silk pillow case as she climbs into bed behind you. Let it be a monument to how she feels, any hint of fatigue replaced with silky soft wanting.
"'Mily?" you murmur, covering her arm where it curves over your waist.
"No," she whispers, "axe murderer. Sorry, babe, welcome to your nightmare."
"I had a good run." You push her back a touch as you roll onto your back, squinting at her through thick-knitted lashes.
"You can sleep. I'll still be here in the morning, I promise."
"Y'here now. Missed you, Emily," you murmur, turning more, vying to hold her waist as she holds yours. You sound a little upset, but that could be the sudden wake up call.
"I'm sorry," she says, smiling at you in hopes of getting one back. "But I'm home early. That's a good thing, right?"
"Can I put my face in your neck?" you ask.
Emily tries to say yes. All she can summon is a mute nod and a tight smile —she's happy, yeah, but she feels strangely like crying. It's a scary thing, finding out how loved you are. Suddenly she has to worry about it being taken away.
You wrap your arms around her, your skin hot with a furnace like heat. Mumbling, your face fits into the curve of her neck, your lips skipping against it as you say, "Love you… you okay?"
Her smile shocks back to life. She presses it to your forehead without hesitation. "I'm fine now. Love you. You can go back to sleep."
"I really really missed you."
Emily feels each word fan against her neck. It's a sensation she's sure she'll remember for years to come. "I missed you, too."
“ hidden bots ” a bot for all my shadow banned bots.
derek morgan
babygirl attitude — in which when he tells you good morning, and you don’t reply back with the usual, depraving him of his morning flirt comments. making him oh so bound and determined to dig into what was wrong, because the behavior had to be considered straight out bratty. what else would it classify as? not bratty? no.
real man — after a date stood you up at a bar, one of the worst places to be stood up at, swooped in derek to lift your mood. which if he said so himself, he was better than that other man. you knew each other better. therefore making it way more relaxing then meeting some man off of that shitty dating website.
sweet moments like these — when it came to cases like ones involving children, or any case in general, which you knew took a toll on him mentally because although you weren’t apart of the bau or any law involved system, you understand the depth of the cases. so when he had a particularly long three days in another city, all he wanted to do was to get home to his girl and his dog(clooney)
baby fever — you had this long desire of wanting to have a kid, but derek’s just not ready. the spiking period of wanting a baby usually happened between your ovulation period. except—this time, seeing you so disappointed you looked, he had to tell you something. that he would think about it.
spencer reid
chess — chess was your least favorite board game. but between that and card games, playing chess on a plain ride to and back to a city were one of the most comforting things ever. although spencer made it so miserable. if you thought you were a head, he would pull a move and you weren’t. you couldn’t outsmart him, even with thinking outside the box.
finnick odair
mutts — he could’ve swore the mutts got him. but it was like completely whiplash when he woke up in the infirmary. bandaged up. surrounded by machines he wasn’t sure what they were for, completely relieved when he saw your pretty familiar face
lovers quarrel — just your luck, after winning the games, your back in. which is a nightmare in it’s self. but now your stuck with your once unrequited, mutual pinning love? the one who gave you up to be the capitol’s golden boy. of course you would never be understand why he gave you up. but it never meant it hurt less. and the only reason you in the mess is because you didn’t wan mags getting hurt. because she meant everything to finnick.
eric coulter
stiff — of course you were bound to have a hard time. you came from abnegation, earning the infamous name of ‘stiff’ although eric seemed to have a personal vendetta against you for whatever reason. maybe it was more than that and you couldn’t see that. but that was definitely untrue with the way he nit picked at everything you did.
This is @prythianpages. You can find my writing here. I made this little slide blog for all the fics I read & love so I can go back to them ❤️
Heads up, I do reblog things from other fandoms from time to time. I also tag all my posts so if you're looking for something particular, click on the links below:
A C O T A R
Azriel | fluff | angst | smut | series | personal favs
Cassian | fluff | angst | smut | series | personal favs
Rhysand | fluff | angst | smut | personal favs
Eris | fluff | angst | smut | series| personal favs
Lucien | fluff | angst | smut | personal favs
Tamlin | fluff | smut
Helion | fluff | smut
Tarquin | fluff | smut
J J K
Kento Nanami | fluff | smut | angst | personal favs
Saturo Gojo
Toji Fushiguro
O T H E R S E R I E S
Aaron Warner
divider by @cafekitsune
Angels encounter
Percy jackson x reader
This is my first fic i write after ages not writing | Information about angelreader is in the tag to find | English isn't my first language<3
The infirmary was quiet, save for the soft rustle of a breeze through the open window and the gentle hum of cicadas in the distance. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, casting golden patterns on the bed where Percy Jackson lay, still and pale, recovering from his brutal encounter with the Minotaur.
He stirred.
A quiet voice gasped. “He’s waking up!”
Percy blinked, eyes adjusting slowly to the soft light. His body ached all over, but something warm and comforting brushed his lips. He blinked again. A spoon?“You’re okay,” you whispered, your voice laced with relief.
His vision focused just enough to make out a small figure perched beside him, holding the spoon with careful hands. your eyes were filled with concern and hair tied back with a white ribbon shaped into a bow. Your expression looked like you’d been holding your breath for hours.
Was he dead?
Because this definitely looked like a scene from heaven.
“You should eat something,” you said, voice so soft it barely carried. “It’ll help your strength come back.”
A blonde girl stood beside you with arms crossed, watching him closely. “Told you he was tough,” she muttered, but her tone was more impressed than annoyed.
“She means she didn’t think you’d make it,” you clarified sweetly, offering another spoonful.
Percy coughed a little, sitting up slowly. “Where... am I?” You smiled gently. “Camp Half-Blood. You’re safe now.” you reached out and adjusted the blanket around his shoulders with motherly care. “I’m [Y/N], and this is Annie. I mean-Annabeth.” Annabeth rolled her eyes but didn’t correct you. Percy, still dazed, glanced between them.
“Did... did an angel just feed me pudding?” You giggled-a quiet, airy sound and your cheeks pinked. “No wings, just ribbons,” you said, tugging lightly one end in your hair.
“She’s always like this,” Annabeth said, but there was warmth in her voice. “Everyone calls her Angel at camp. You’ll see why.” Percy tried to sit up again, but his arms gave a weak shake. You steadied him instantly, touch cool and soothing. “Don’t push it. You were really hurt. I’m going to get Grover, okay? He’ll want to see you.”
She stood and gently smoothed her skirt-white with little gold accents, because of course you looked celestial. Then you slipped out of the room, your ribbon trailing behind you like a comet tail.
Percy blinked at the door you left through, his mouth slightly open.
“You look like you’ve seen Aphrodite,” Annabeth teased.
“I think I saw an angel,” Percy muttered.
Annabeth snorted. “Told you.”
@shootingstargirl2001 (as promised)
○˳ P l a i n l i n e d i v i d e r s﹒﹒꒱
𓎟𓎟 n o r m a l ○˳
𓎟𓎟 p a s t e l ○˳
꒰ ﹒ made by me﹒like and reblog to use﹒𝒢𓍢
IF U WANT MY BABY—U KNOW IMMA DRIVE U MAD.ᐟ
꒰ა NANAMI KENTO X BIMBO!READER ໒꒱
꒰ა summary ໒꒱ : is it really baby-trapping if you both want a baby?
꒰ა cw ໒꒱ : heavy manipulation, heavy smut, edging, begging, breeding, baby trapping, slightly yandere Nanami, drugging kinda lol, cock drunk, pussy drunk, bunny/bimbo reader. ꒰ა a/n ໒꒱ : been getting alot of asks here and ao3 about p3 of the nursery. with everything going on, i dont have the focus to write it cause the next part is gonna be gaggy and theres alot of loose ends to be tied. but i've been thinking about baby trapping too much lately, actually non-stop and since i can't write toji baby trapping, nanami is the next best thing! ꒰ა wc ໒꒱ : 3073
Baby-trapping Nanami...so you don't care when he can't find the condoms that are usually in the bedside table—especially when your body is currently vibrating with the aftershocks of his skillful tongue from what seems like hours of tortuous foreplay.
Yet, ever the gentlemen, Nanami pauses, asking if you want him to stop and see if he left them downstairs.
Instantly, tears well in your eyes and you're sputtering, groping the air at him with grabby hands.
"J-Just forget 'em— n-need you b-bad K-Ken!”
Maybe a little too eagerly, you manage to sit up, hands reaching for the firm flesh of Nanami’s muscular hips—too broad to fully grasp in your small palms. Your sweat-slick fingers nearly slip off his skin as you weakly tug him closer, guiding him toward you with a soft, breathless urgency.
Fuck. The. Condoms.
To be honest, they weren't in the drawer anyway.
And you know that.
You know that because you're the one who tossed them outside earlier—into your neighbors trash bin two doors down of all places too, for good measure.
A fleeting thought occurs in this moment though, that you might have caused irreconcilable problems if either the husband or wife of the couple found them and accused the other of cheating.
But again, the thought truly is fleeting as holding a single thought is much too difficult when Nanami is tentatively dipping his swollen cockhead in and out of your pussy. Gathering up the syrupy nectar already flowing from your cunny, his thick bulbous tip swipes back up through your folds to forcefully push into your clit.
"H-Hurry n'put it in raw, K-Ken!"
Because that's exactly what you wanted.
TAP!
TAP!
TAP!
Yet the only answer you receive is the wet squelching slaps of Nanami continuously bullying your soaked puffy bud with his length. Each sharp, soggy tap making a random limb of yours twitch in pleasure, you stomach knots up in anticipation as you wither underneath the shadow of his hulking form over you.
Simply put: You're a mess.
Already teetering on the edge, your body thrums with need. You whimper, hips wiggling upward in a silent plea, hoping his slick, precum-slicked cock—already glistening with your juices—might catch on your fluttering entrance and slip inside. But to your dismay, one of his massive hands—easily strong enough to pin you down—holds you firmly in place, denying you even that.
"Aht-Aht... That's a bit reckless... don't you think, my sweet doll?"
The way your face immediately crumbs into a petulant pout causes rich, dark chuckles to spill from Nanami's lips which only deepens your dismay.
Fuck!
Your plan was to get him too turned on, too eager to sink into your open, wet, and willing hole that he wouldn't be the perfect-cautious-selfless boyfriend and just raw you. However, your plan spectacularly backfired—because now he’s just aching to take his time and ruin you thoroughly instead.
The sheets dampened dark with your arousal is proof enough. Instead, you're the one on your back, too wound up from his probing fingers causing your slick to overflow and pool on your thighs countless times already tonight.
You’re so lost in the pleasure-drenched stupor clouding your senses that you completely miss the sly glint buried beneath the stormy lust in Nanami’s eyes.
Nanami is well aware you are so desperate for his hard pulsing cock inside of you that protection is the furthest thing from your mind, even if he hadn't gotten you so spectacularly fucked out on foreplay alone.
Frankly, Nanami had known since last week that his deceitful, slutty little princess was trying to get pregnant. To his surprise, you’d been attempting it all on your own—sneaking extra prenatal vitamins behind his back like a brat.
Keyword: Extra.
Nanami who is also baby-trapping you...because he'd already been slipping you a daily dose of prenatals in your morning smoothie he makes you before you'd run out the door for work.
You hate breakfast so early in the morning, so Nanami makes you an extra caloric nutrient-dense smoothie in order to prepare your body for the baby. Breakfast, of course, is the most important meal of the day and what kind of responsible family figurehead would he be if he let you skip it?
However what frustrates Nanami is he'd truly have no idea how desperate you aref or his kids if he hadn't taken it upon himself to peek inside your weekly pill dispenser to make sure none of the vitamins you were already taking were harmful to pregnancy.
To Nanami's utter shock, you'd actually wanted his children.
You were sly, he'd give you that.
You never outright bought a prenatal vitamin.
But you had enough of the various individual supplements inside of one. Of course, it would simply look like you were just overly health-conscious to anyone who hadn't done extensive research on the nutrients and hormones needed to succeed in getting pregnant—which of course Nanami had done, going to the best pharmacist in the area for a special compound blend.
Nothing but the best for the future mother of his children.
Nevertheless, Nanami still relishes in this moment.
Drawing out agonizing cries from you with just his cock prodding in and out your twitching cunt that's desperate to be plugged and filled. Your fluttering muscles grip him eagerly, just short of being able to suck him in, thrills him just as your needy whimpers do.
"But K-Kennnnnn!"
"Shhh, now quiet, my love... you'll know I'll satisfy you even if its not with my cock."
Nanami's threats are empty of course, but you didn't know that.
You needed a taste of your own medicine.
Did you even know what you put him through?
This was your punishment.
How could you know badly he wanted to openly breed you?
How much he'd been fiending to throw you in to a mating press and repeatedly fuck his seed into you?
Nanami had always gritted his teeth to keep from growling the filth he truly wanted to say when your silky cunny gripped his cock just right, milking him like it was made for it. He wasn’t getting any younger—and the thought of how much seed he’d wasted in condoms over the last year gnawed at him. All that cum, when he could’ve been spilling it straight into your fertile little womb where it belonged.
But most importantly—did you know how much he'd beaten himself up for wanting to do it?
Nanami had debated for sometime now on broaching the subject of kids with you, but he couldn't be selfish when you are so excited for your new and already thriving career.
He was the older one.
The one whom by other's opinions probably should have already had a few kids running around by now.
Yet he'd never even wanted them—until he found you.
Nanami only wanted kids with you and he wanted them now.
He couldn't wait.
Now when his proverbial clock was so ticking loudly in his ears and the only therapy he needed to cease his fears of mortality was to fill your womb with his children. Now all Nanami can envision is how beautiful you would look, belly full, glowing even brighter than you do now—hot and needy under him.
Nanami's thoughts, which used to be filled with boardroom meetings and hedge funds, now race with how exactly to child-proof the 4 extra bedrooms in his home. For sometime now he's been building intricate plans on how to convert them into various children's rooms and a nursery.
He's been longing to do it together with you though, just itching to consult you on the wallpaper color schemes and wood types for the crib.
Sure he's being selfish.
But Nanami could provide—and isn't that what really mattered?
Nanami had already amassed a fortune from a very long and fruitful business. He'd gladly be a stay at home dad so you could resume your career, with zero pressures as to finances, as soon as you were on your feet again.
And you would be too, eventually—once you gave him at least 3 or 4 children to keep him young and on his toes while you were busy being a powerful career woman.
Yet now that Nanami knew his naughty bunny was purposefully trying to get knocked up—poking holes in the condoms for an accidental pregnancy simply wasn't doing enough anymore.
Not when his devious baby girl was already trying so hard to have his.
"Puhleaseeee K-Kento!"
Snapping him from his deranged daze, your smaller hand wraps around his wrist, sliding up his arm to scrape your kitten nails along his biceps. Nanami looks down at the well of tears now overflowing from your flushed cheeks. Your lip quivers as you're still begging, moaning pleas all the while for him to give you his cock. The very cock that is now drenched, dripping with your juices and his pre just from just a bit of mindless rubbing.
You're so close to falling to complete and utter pieces—and truly, that's Nanami's ultimate goal—to break you.
Nanami wants to push you beyond your limits until you're frantically confessing how much you wanted him to impregnate you all this time. Nanami could then keep you on your back, legs spread wide—forcibly chain to the bed, if necessary—until you were with his child.
Tease you until you begged him to dump inside of you over and over, however many times was needed, until his seed finally took.
You must think it's all your idea first after all.
It's the only way Nanami would be able to live with himself for wanting to trap you in the first place.
With not much warning besides a gruff grunt, Nanami swiftly thrusts forward—plunging his cock inside your suffocatingly slick warmth until he is hitting deep into the back of your cunt, fat tip squishing up against your cervix.
The very womb where his child would soon be growing.
You gasp out a breathless cry, the wind knocked from your lungs as your back arches off the bed, eyes rolling into your skull. Your legs coil around him tightly, clinging to him like you’re terrified he might pull away—still lost in that ecstasy-drunk haze that believes he might have second thoughts and pull out.
But little do you know Nanami can feel it—how your slick is thicker, richer, syrupy with ovulation. Your needy cunt practically melts around his cock, already creaming so much that it dribbles down his base to pool at his balls.
Clear signs that your body is ready to be bred.
The extra viscous drippings are stickier against both of your perspiring bodies that are slamming together at increasing frenzy as Nanami picks up speed.
He's usually one to talk you through it, gently build a pace so your body can adjust, but the feel of your ultra sensitive, quivering pussy along with the dense smell of sweet hormones in the air is driving Nanami into a wild frenzy.
You whine at the loss of body heat when Nanami pulls back slightly, but he has a primal need to see you impregnated in real time. The way your sweet pussy splits open so well on his girth, welcoming him and sucking him in deeper has Nanami groaning out nonsensical praises for you and your tight-soon-to-be-a-mommy pussy.
Nanami's big hands travel up your curves to press down on your belly causing you to keen sharply in pleasure. If you could pry your eyes from the back of your head, or register any other feeling than his massive length drilling into you—you may have noticed the way Nanami's hands are practically worshiping the flesh over your womb.
Cupping it, molding it and rubbing the soft chub of your stomach with his thumbs, watching your cute lil’ belly button dip and contract as he feels his own length through the walls of muscles plunging into you even deeper.
The room feels like a sauna now as hot sweat drips from Nanami's face onto yours and he's biting his lip in order to keep from drooling onto you and losing complete control.
The unintentional consequence of it all is that he’s riled himself up beyond reason—his grip on control slipping fast. He meant to fuck you into submission, but the moment he sheathed his cock in your fertile, gooey heat, he lost—completely pussy drunk.
So utterly obsessed with the way your body is already changing, softening, ripening to carry a child, he hasn’t even fucked a confession out of you yet and he just might cum any second now.
Yet Nanami can't stop to edge you now even if he wanted, it would be far more impossible for him—not when your womb is so ripe, so warm and fertile—is just begging to be impregnated.
You can feel Nanami's thick cock pulsing hard against your walls as he grinds deeper against your cervix, his hands finally leaving your stomach to grip your ass, angling your hips up off the bed in the most perfect way to directly shoot his seed into you.
Willing your eyes open, you catch a glimpse of just how pussy drunk Nanami is at the moment. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and using your pussy like a personal fleshlight. Squeezing down on him tighter you feel the blunt edges of his nails dig deeper into your ass cheeks.
Did your plan work after all?
He certainly didn't look like a man ready to pull out right now.
Wanting to seal the deal, you bite your lip, timing your finisher for the exact moment your orgasm crests—when your pussy clenches down around him, vice-tight and trembling with need.
Your hands hover instinctively over your womb, drawing his gaze as your squeaky moans grow needier, slurred with pleasure.
“S’ohhh g-good K-Kennn!”
One hand leaves the soaked bedsheets to trace a shaky finger down your sweat-slicked belly, circling right over where you want it most—right over your womb.
“C-Cum in me… right here D-Daddy, kay?”
And yeah. That did it.
Nanami growls as he cums hard—buckets spilling deep inside you, cock twitching violently with each pulse of white-hot fluids painting your walls and filling your belly.
You’d never called him Daddy before now.
Nanami suspected it sat on the tip of your tongue, but you’d always held back—too shy, too coy. Not anymore. Now, you’re debased, ruined, fucked down to your rawest instincts of procreation.
It’s not the full confession Nanami craved, but it’s close enough—for now.
Your own release detonates in pulsing waves from the pleasure of feeling him cum inside. Electric sparks shatter through you as stars bloom behind your eyelids. Heavily panting, your body is utterly spent beneath Nanami, still gushing around his cock—grasping his length so tight you nearly push him back out.
Yet Nanami’s cock still nestled deep in your swollen, oversensitive pussy that is greedy for more, spasming and milking every drop of his load, your womb refusing to let a drop go to waste. You’re so deliriously happy at the thought of being pregnant from this—so absolutely cock-drunk—that if you could catch your breath, you’d giggle.
Nanami watches you struggle to even move, your chest rising and falling in uneven pants, and fuck, he feels it again—that deep, gut-level need to keep you here, keep you stuffed, keep you full. He already knows one load isn’t enough, not when you’re still squeezing around him, like your pussy doesn’t want to let him go either.
Yet relcutantly Nanami presses a kiss to your damp forehead before pulling out with a wet, obscene squelch, groaning as his cum leaks out of your twitching hole, pooling between your folds like it belongs there. He admires it for a moment, pushing a little back in before going to the adjoining bathroom to get a warm cloth to wipe you down.
When Nanami returns, you whimper at the sensation of the terry cloth brushing over your still-hypersensitive skin. Nanami wipes you down gently, though a knowing smirk tugs at his lips when you squirm and swat his hand away the moment he dares to touch between your legs.
“No, m’too sensitive…”
You pout, squirming away from the damp cloth.
In truth, it’s not just the sensitivity—you just don’t want him wiping away any precious lil swimmers that might still be making their way to your womb.
“Just my legs and tummy are fine, Daddy…”
Nanami suppresses a smirk, already knowing why.
“No problem, my love.”
Humming softly, Nanami kisses your ankle as he finishes and folds the washcloth away.
You smile a sweet sheepish smile at him.
“Oh and um, m’kinda hungry too…”
God, you’re spoiled rotten.
Nanami knows it’s sill much too early, even after a good fuck for you to be hungry. You’re just trying to get rid of him. He knows exactly what you’ll do the moment he’s out of sight—he’s nearly walked in on you doing it before. Just like always, you’ll prop your legs up against the headboard, ever the superstitious little thing.
Nanami huffs a quiet laugh, already picturing it: you, still trembling, your pussy leaking and twitching, wearing that blissed-out, cumdrunk smile better than the finest couture gowns he’s bought you.
But you won’t do it until he leaves—you never do.
So with one last glance over at his shoulder at your beautifully fucked out form on the bed, he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and heads toward the kitchen.
Nanami’s determined to feed you regardless of if you're actually hungry. If you’re planning to raise his child, you’ll need your strength—and any chance to nourish you, he’ll take it.
And you need your supplement too, just to give nature a little extra push.
It’s Saturday, so this time he’ll mix it into the pancake batter. Nanami will bring you breakfast in bed, making sure you eat every last bite—none the wiser—while sipping the fresh juice he always makes just for you. All the while, he’ll be stretching out your sore, well-used limbs beneath the sheets.
Because Nanami isn’t actually going to let you leave the bed anytime soon.
He’s going to fuck at least three more loads into you before noon, after all.
Plenty of time to drag that confession out of you—make you admit you’ve been trying to get pregnant all along.
And if you don’t? Well.
Nanami smiles to himself, flipping the stove burner on.
You’re not leaving that bed until you do.
꒰ა a/n ໒꒱ : wanted to get this out before i left but it didn't work out. im actually on the plane rn. sorry if there are errors I will fix when i get some downtime. landing in amsterdam then 4hr layover until we get to portugal! follow me over on my main/personal @punanami if you want updates on that.
please reblog and leave me nice comments to look at while im on vaycay <3
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