#like the subtle not subtle unsettling things

[moodymisty]

Food for Thought: Death calling you a Good Girl and absolutely using it against you. Crusty sad old man relishing making you COMBUST on the spot

Author's note: Gee I wonder who sent this in. Anyways- Relationships: Death/Fem!Reader (because of 'good girl') Warnings: None really other that Death's attitude and some vague illusions to lewd things. This is very short and haphazard I apologize.

Death is not a man you get very much verbal or physical affection from.

He's curt, distant, and while he has opened up over time, he still feels burning cold to the average outsider. It's like taking a lock off of a door with a million of them; You're one step closer to an outcome that for all intents and purposes, might be very well impossible. But there's no harm in trying.

The few common things he does do however, you know quite well. And one of them never fails to light you on fire like country burn pile whenever he does it.

Death every now and again will praise you for various things, usually protected with a firm layer of sarcasm; He almost always uses the same phrase every time. Hearing good girl from him makes it feel like your body, particularly your face and lower half, have been set ablaze and then doused with kerosene for good measure.

He does it rarely enough that each one is a surprise that you can never fully prepare for, which is the most aggravating part.

Death drops a heavy hand onto your shoulder in a rare moment of physical affection. It makes you lean a bit into him from the weight, and you can feel the slight coolness of his hand against the skin just above the collar of your top. He's standing a decent distance away from you, but it's close enough that his gravely voice hits you like a sledgehammer to the gut while he plucked Redemption from you undersized hands.

"Not bad for the first time. Good girl."

He can feel you instantly stiffen underneath his hand. Your thighs unconsciously push together a bit to try and relive the achy feeling you know is coming, all the while attempting to seem as casual as possible.

This particular tree with a couple still burning holes in it is just fascinating, that's all.

Your attempts at remaining casual apparently end up being the exact opposite; Death lets out a hefty sigh, his hand still on your shoulder.

"You should really work on being less easily aroused."

The speed at which you turn to look up at him despite your heated face nearly gives yourself whiplash, and made Despair perk an ear in interest. The horse has been lingering close by pawing at the dirt and looking around, and occasionally throwing Dust into the air when the bird dared to perch on his head or neck.

"You knew!?"

Your face feels like it could cook an egg, half from frustration and half from frustration. Death however only seems disappointed at your genuine surprise.

"You're far from subtle."

You inhale a deep breath, looking away from him. You didn't even think to realize the decrepit bastard had been doing this on purpose, of all things. Even if he wasn't necessarily doing so, he was still aware enough to keep doing it and watch you simmer like a frog in a frying pan. You step away from him enough that his hand falls off your shoulder, and he sighs.

"What now."

You look at him angrily and cross your arms, and Death crosses his arms as well as he looked down on you with an almost parental frustration.

"You're mocking me! You were just doing it to make fun of me."

Despair lifts his head up and gives a curious snort in your direction as you move to skitter off. Before you have a chance to however, Death snatched your wrist.

"Quit it."

You attempt to tug your hand away but of course are unsuccessful. Death's grip is simply too strong. You let it go limp and blow a raspberry at him.

"What, want to make fun of me some more?"

The reaper hisses at you and for a moment, it is enough to unsettle you a bit. You love Death, but sometimes you forget how tall he is, and how unsettling his visage can be when he isn't being the grumpy nephilim you tend to see him as.

"You don't know what I'm thinking. Now get on the damn horse."

Letting go of your wrist, you attempt to get onto Despair before Death puts a hand under your foot and pushes you up and on the rest of the way. He can easily get onto the horse himself, and slots himself behind you. You don't say anything, and neither does he.

This ride is coated in a horrible silence, before Death eventually breaks it.

"Did you ever once consider that I might be doing it for any other reason?"

It takes you a moment to realize, before your face heats up like a furnace and Death lets out a disappointed sigh.

[onlygarden]

[i built my life around you] - yang jungwon

genre: angst

description: as jungwon grows more distant, you grow more desperate to tell him. after all, both of your lives were built around the other.

a/n: okay so. i know i closed my blog several months ago but is it too late to say sike. i've had so much inspiration and so many ideas that i NEED to work on so here we are. this one is heavy but everything else should be much more lighthearted hehe im so excited!!!!

of course, you were getting older. that much was blissfully apparent to you. it glared at you in many unnoticeable ways, though one stood tauntingly amongst the others; your carefully, cautiously woven relationship with jungwon was splitting, threatening to leave you lonely with each painful unwind. it’s hard to say whether you were ever prepared for a stage like this to approach the relationship you shared. the soul-binding, finger-intertwining relationship – the promise you built your life around, the bond which always extended an offer of foundation, assurance. the thought of jungwon was never accompanied by the thought of fragility or instability. thoughts of the future, for both of you, never fluttered without the company of the other. that’s the way it seemed, at least. both of you, hands intertwined, traversing each stage of life and quelling each other’s fears by mere presence. your soul laid bare to him, after all. both of your hearts were bared to the other, at all times. nothing he could hide from you, and nothing you could hide from him. as euphoric as it seems, his inability to hide himself from you offered you pain, as well.

you woke up before him this morning, much like most mornings, preparing a breakfast that the two of you will share. these moments were always precious to you – slow, easy, a private blanket of shared connections and natural conversation. 

you perk up as you hear jungwon descending the stairs, a gesture not well hidden by your demeanor. not that you would want to hide it anyway. at least, you never did before.

“good morning, won,” you tell him, so simple and unhurried, much like the smile you offer him. he yawns, perching himself at a stool in front of the counter to observe as you prepare breakfast. it’s a daily occurrence, albeit, his eyes are always bulging with the words ��i love you, i really do.’

“morning, baby,” he returns, offering a similar smile to you, but it lacks any of the familiar warmth you’ve gotten so accustomed to wrapping yourself in. it’s subtle, but you see it.

you see the way his attention is quickly absorbed by the notification arriving to his phone. the buzzing has become so prominently unsettling to you, sinking into every pore on every limb of your body, inviting itself without knocking, as a teasing reminder that you can’t keep his gaze anymore. you don’t just see it, you feel it.

“who’s that?” you ask, though you know the answer. it’s anyone or anything that will distract him from his life with you. his needy little thing – fond, exhausting, and fond. 

“just the guys. wanting to hangout this afternoon,” his answer is clipped, his words not rooting into a natural conversation at all. in fact, his tone conveys the desire to just end the conversation as quickly as your eager mouth would allow.

just ask him if he’s going, your mind echoes. just rip off the bandaid. the worst he could say is yes, i’m leaving you to be painfully aware of your loneliness all day. though all he would truly say is ‘yes’ and your dramatics will take care of the rest. not too soul crushing. 

“are you going?” you dare ask, but you’re not daring enough to look at him.

“yea,” he says, the syllable drifting easily off his tongue, simple in its creation. such a simple phrase, only three letters, brewing such destruction in your chest. it’s silly, almost, but it aids in solidifying your growing doubts; aids in your unwinding. 

you don’t argue, and you don’t allow your feelings to seep through and spill all over him. you don’t want to be selfish, after all. is it selfish to crave the connection which came so naturally before? you can’t help but contemplate, maybe it’s only selfish when it’s not mutual.

“oh, okay,” you respond. it’s short, but it doesn’t lack any of the sweetness or warmth you usually send to him. your fondness towards him was nearly visible, radiating off of you. 

his departure summons an ache that only his presence can soothe. everytime, you feel it, whether your mind thinks it’s pathetic or not. those thoughts are getting quieter, anyway – muted by the feelings threatening to overwhelm you. 

when he returns that night, you’re still awake, resting on the couch. for you, the time crawled, but you’re certain he was so immersed in his time away that he couldn’t feel the hours passing at all. your hopes come flooding upon his arrival, whether you want to tame them or not, still clutching onto the silly concept that ‘this time, he’ll be excited to see me.’ of course, you wouldn’t dare to miss an interaction with him, no matter how brief it might be. 

as he shuts the door behind him, he’s bright, rejuvenated, his body surrounded by peace. a contented sigh dances happily past his lips, proof of all the lovely traits he hasn’t been able to absorb in your presence lately. 

“hey, baby,” he says, his words not accompanied by much more than a glance as he heads towards the kitchen. well that’s nice.

this time, you follow behind him, motivated by the relentless thoughts you’ve cycled through during your relentless time alone, reaching a certain state of delirium only the pain of uncertainty can send you into. 

he’s setting down a few bags on the counter as you enter, seeming to revel in the bliss of disregarding you and your futile emotions.

“hey, i… i’ve been wondering,” you start, the lack of confidence, the fear making your tone flimsy. it doesn’t matter, so long as he will understand. 

“what have you been wondering?” he asks, his focus now directed towards your meek, almost resigned figure, his brown eyes glazed with a fondness, a worry that his words can never truly convey.  god, why do you have to squeeze his heart like this? especially when he’s agonizingly aware of where this conversation will go, and now he has no choice but to join it.

“why don’t you take me out anymore?” you ask, the well of emotion you’ve forced yourself to garner now threatening to overflow, akin to the tears shining against your eyes. of course, the tears are coming now, in the moment when all you desperately wish to do is tell him how you’ve been feeling.

each of your words cut into jungwon, bringing a heaviness to the atmosphere, but beginning to chip away at the boulder you’ve been carrying on your chest for months. he knew you would ask him this, he knew you noticed his distance – it was just something he’d grown content with disregarding. of course, it pains him, but of course, he needs to defend that contentedness. 

he sighs, turning his attention back to the bag in front of him, a hint of irritation shielding his worry. he can’t bring himself to focus on you, and the raw splatter of emotion you’re displaying for him, because of him. it’s so, so much, and it underlines so purely the heaviness of the relationship he knows he promised to withstand. 

“maybe i just wanted to spend time without you. do you always need to be around?” his eyes still stubbornly refuse to fall into yours, as he stubbornly removes items from the bag in front of him. you’re laying yourself bare for him, and he’s handing his irritation and dismissal to you in return. each of his words cut into you, the well of your vulnerability streaking freely across your face. you weren’t sure you trusted him with such vulnerability, anymore. 

“jungwon, i-i’m lonely, i… i feel like i don’t even have you at all—”

a particularly loud slam of his palm against the counter slices through any remnants of those words tumbling from your weary lips. now, he’s looking at you.

“of course you are! dammit, everything is always… something with you. this is why i’ve been gone so much! i need a fucking break and you never give me that. you’re so goddamn needy. i can’t take it,” he admits, with his voice raised, laying himself bare before you. his eyes bore into yours, now stubbornly refusing to look away as he watches the way his words sink into you.

your tears decorated your face, and the ache overwhelming each of your senses bled through every word you spoke. you always wore your vulnerability so loudly, and it was true, you always sought him. however, it always felt mutual. you never thought you’d feel the need to hide yourself from him. you never thought he’d use your trust against you. 

needy. through your tears, your voice raises too, begging to be heard and acknowledged.

“yea, maybe i am. maybe i am needy for wishing i didn’t have to be alone when i’m in a relationship!  when you have someone who’s always there for you, it’s easy to forget what it’s like to be alone. it hurts, jungwon! i just wish you would make me a priority!”

his irritation bubbles, transforming into genuine anger, his voice fiercely refusing to lower in volume as the tension built by several months of concealing the raw issue ascends to the surface. 

“a priority? i’ve done nothing but make you a fucking priority! it’s exhausting, i can’t spend a second away from you without you acting like a baby! do you realize how pathetic you are?!”

your features scrunch with hurt, the pain of every new admission, every insult weaving itself into your weary chest. 

“why do you have to talk to me like that jungwon? why?! i’m telling you how i feel. you’ve spent almost no time with me for months, and it doesn’t make any sense to me because i thought we were happy–”

again, your words are so incredulous to him, he cannot let you continue. 

“happy? you thought i was happy? you can’t make anyone happy,” he tells you, the anger arranging his words, his frustration, in a way that he knows will be painful for you, but he can’t soften for you yet. 

“what?” your voice reaches him in a manner that is marginally quieter than just moments ago, the motivation to just beg him to understand is now flooding your exhausted body rapidly, your frustration and pain now dissolving into utter devastation. he’s never made you feel so crushed. 

“you heard me. you can’t make anyone happy. you always need more, like a goddamn parasite. how do you not see it? i’ve been trying so hard to keep loving you, but i don’t even know if you’re worth all of this stress,” he tells you, each word blaring throughout every wrinkle of your mind, telling you that he’s finally being honest. these are jungwon’s genuine, unfiltered, unrepressed feelings for you, and you finally know.

with trembling legs, you turn your body around, muttering a pitiful “i’ll leave, then,” as your trembling hand struggles to clear your vision of the tears you could never seem to reign in.

“that’ll probably be for the best,” he voices, and he knows he doesn’t mean it before the words even escape his lips, but the anger consumes him. he can only hope that you know he could never mean that.

you force your legs to carry you to the door, wanting so violently to leave the home you poured so much love into, evidence of the love you shared with jungwon seeping from every crevice of every room. his beautiful connection with you woven into your soul, now snapping as each moment of doting, each moment of trust and security rewrites as cruel insincerity. you couldn’t bear to contemplate too long, knowing the memories would only engulf you. nor could you bear to turn around and fall into jungwon’s eyes. 

again, his heart constricts. he’s never found the ability to just endure, not when he can see your tears, your pain. after all, he truly does love you. the panic he feels as you reach for the doorknob jolts his body into action, and his legs are dragging him towards you without a single shred of reluctance. he needs to make you stay, with every fiber of his being. 

“baby! baby, wait, i shouldn’t have–”

even as he crosses the room to grab your wrist, with speed that can only be offered to him by pure desperation, you still find difficulty in shaking the doubt. you can’t trust that he’s being genuine, not after the honest frustration that flowed from him only moments ago, and certainly not after the months of avoiding you on purpose.

“no! no, jungwon, you don’t have to pretend. you told me how you feel,” you shout, the tears demanding you to speak past the tightness in your throat. 

god, he can’t let you believe that. he could never allow his anger to plant doubt within your mind. he pulls your body closer to his, feeling your fatigue in your gentle attempts to resist him, to tug away from him. his arms wrap around you, blanketing you, offering you the tight comfort and warmth you had been deprived of for so long.

“i love you, baby. i love you so much… i was just so angry, but i was so stupid. so, so stupid. you can’t leave, okay? i should’ve… i should’ve never been so angry with you. anything you want, baby… i’ll spend every second with you. i don’t want to hurt you. just please, don’t leave,” he tells you, his words desperate, gentle, scattered, his own neediness woven into every word. this time, his raw vulnerability mirrors your own, as he bares his soul before you.

through the doubt which you know, and he knows, will need patience to sweep away, he reminds you of the love he was so foolish to withhold. your body slowly, cautiously begins to relax against his embrace, the kind caress of his hand against your back, and the vulnerability in his words, rebinding each connection you began to unravel.��

“i love you, too,” you always remind him.

[anastasiareadsnwrites]

Hi hi! Can I request something with anthony bridgerton x top male reader? Things getting heated between him and reader and him being a little tiny bit scared/hesitant bc of reader's size (I mean in both height and u know what...)

Eat Your Young ( Anthony Bridgerton x Top! Male! Reader)

Author's note: Very McSteamy, honestly I'm so sorry for the delay. And everything I'm really trying to get my requests down and most certainly a good idea

Summary:Anthony Bridgerton finds himself drawn to a taller, more dominant male reader. What starts as tension turns into something deeper as they share an intimate night together—full of hesitation, trust, and slow-burning passion.

Warning(s):Explicit sexual content, size kink, light size difference anxiety, emotional vulnerability, consensual intimacy, male x male.

The MAIN Masterlist

The Bridgerton Masterlist

It started with a glance.

Not just any glance-one that lingered just a second too long, one that was laced with the unspoken. One that should have been forgotten, ignored, brushed off like the hundred others that passed between lords and ladies at any given ball. But this? This was different.

Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and head of his family, prided himself on control. Poise. Measured reactions. He was not one to be caught staring.

And yet, there he was-shoulders tight beneath his fine waistcoat, jaw subtly flexing, dark eyes trailing the towering figure across the room. You. Taller than most, confident in the way you carried yourself, and with a voice smooth enough to slip under skin and settle deep in the marrow.

You had noticed him, of course. Everyone did. But unlike everyone else, you didn't fawn. You didn't flirt. You didn't try to corner him with flattery or conversation. You simply looked at him.

Like you knew him. Like you knew what he needed.

And that unsettled him.

The tension build over weeks. Subtle touched, fleeting glances, the occasional brush of fingers at the card table, or a barely-there press of your palm at the small of his back during a passing moment. It was enough to drive anyone mad. Enough to drive him mad.

And one evening, after too many drinks and too little resistance, he found himself alone with you.

The drawing room door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in with the weight of everything unspoken. The air was heavy-thick with expectation. He stood near the fireplace, hands clasped tightly behind his back, trying desperately not to show the way his breath had quickened.

You approached slowly, your height casting a shadow across him as you stepped into his space. He looked up at you-eyes sharp but flickering, uncertain. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than you expected.

"You know this is... foolish," he said, though he didn't move away.

You didn't respond right away. You didn't need it. Your gaze alone was enough to make him shift-his fingers flexing at his sides, his breath hitching slightly as you stepped even closer.

"Is it?" you finally asked, voice low and calm, dipping into something darker.

Anthony's lips parted, but whatever retort he had planned died on his tongue as your hand lifted-slow, deliberate-and brushed along his jawline. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, then opened, wide and uncertain.

He could feel the difference in you. The strength behind your touch. The ease in which you loomed over him. There as no malice in it-only power. Confidence. It was intoxicating.

And terrifying.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, eyes darting between your mouth and your gaze. He hated how small he felt. How his body betrayed him with every breath, every beat of his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.

You noticed his hesitation.

You leaned in close, your voice a whisper against the shell of his ear.

"I'd never hurt you," you said. "Unless you wanted me to."

That made him shudder.

His breath came shakier now, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're so-...big."

The confession hung between you, thick and vulnerable. He hadn't meant to say it. Not like that. Not so honest.

You smiled.

"I know," you murmured.

And with that, your hands came to rest on his waist-not forceful, not demanding. Just present. Your touch grounded him. Held him in place when everything inside of him felt like it was spiraling out of control.

He looked up at you again. This time, there was heat behind the fear. A spark. Curiosity. Longing.

And then?

He nodded.

Just once.

The kind of permission that says: I'm scared. But I want this.

And you... you planned to give him everything.

You didn’t rush him.

You never did.

Your hands stayed steady on his waist, not tightening, not pushing. Just there. Grounding. Inviting. Like a silent promise: You lead. I follow.

But Anthony’s breath was ragged, and his eyes were still locked on yours—uncertain, hungry, terrified of that hunger. His hands trembled slightly at his sides until he finally moved one to rest on your chest. His palm was splayed over your heart, and he could feel the steady beat beneath—calm, patient, in sharp contrast to his own.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, half a breath, like a confession. “I think you know it.”

“I do,” you murmured, leaning in just enough that your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “But I’d never be dangerous to you, Anthony.”

The sound of his name, spoken so reverently—so intimately—sent something fluttering low in his stomach.

Then your hand slipped into his, fingers weaving together, warm and sure.

“Come with me,” you said, your tone gentle. “We don’t have to do anything. But I want you to feel safe with me. That’s all.”

He hesitated for only a heartbeat.

And then… he followed.

—

The bedroom was quiet. The kind of quiet that thickens the air and makes every breath feel like a weight.

Candles glowed softly, casting amber light over the plush furnishings. The bed was large, and the moment Anthony saw it, he tensed.

You noticed.

“I’m not expecting anything,” you said, voice calm. “We can sit. Talk. Or not.”

But he didn’t let go of your hand.

Instead, he walked to the edge of the bed with you, lowering himself slowly until he sat—his posture still guarded, but his eyes finding yours again. “I’ve never felt… like this before. Like I might come undone just from someone looking at me.”

You stepped in between his knees, gently brushing his hair back with your fingers. He leaned into it instinctively. “That’s not weakness,” you murmured. “That’s trust trying to be born.”

He looked up at you, cheeks flushed. “And if I’m… not ready for all of it?”

“Then I’ll kiss you,” you said softly. “And that’s all I’ll do. Until you ask for more.”

Anthony’s breath caught.

Your words were so simple. So easy. But they cracked something open in him.

“Please,” he whispered.

You leaned down slowly, your lips brushing his. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t ravenous. It was gentle. Soft enough to tremble against. And when he kissed you back, his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt like he was holding on for dear life.

You took your time. Let the kiss deepen gradually—letting him explore, letting him set the pace. Your hands rested on either side of his thighs, never straying, never rushing. And every time he gasped or tensed, you pulled back just slightly, grounding him with your touch and your voice.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered against his mouth.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath ragged.

“I want you,” he admitted, almost brokenly. “But I’m scared of how much I do.”

You lifted his chin and kissed him again—this time firmer, more possessive, just enough to make him whimper into your mouth. “Then we go slow. Until you’re not scared anymore. And even then, I’ll ask. Every time.”

He shivered.

And that night, in the warmth of your bed, with the world outside forgotten, Anthony Bridgerton didn’t need to be Viscount. Didn’t need to lead. He only needed to feel.

And you made sure he did—every tender stroke, every whispered reassurance, every press of your lips to his skin. You showed him that surrender wasn’t weakness.

It was freedom.

Anthony’s breath was hot against your throat, his hands now clinging to your shirt like a lifeline. The kiss had deepened, grown heavier with want, but there was still that hesitation—an edge of nervousness that lingered in the way he trembled beneath your touch.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Still okay?” you asked, voice husky but gentle.

Anthony nodded, then whispered, “Yes… I just—God, you make me feel so small.”

You smirked faintly and brushed your thumb across his cheek. “That’s not a bad thing. Not when you trust the one holding you.”

He swallowed thickly, eyes dipping downward, unable to meet your gaze for a moment. “It’s not just the height,” he admitted quietly. “It’s all of you. You’re—” he stopped himself, cheeks flushed.

But you understood. Every inch of him was betraying the truth.

“I’ll take my time,” you promised, voice low and commanding, “but I want you to feel it. Every second.”

Then you kissed him again, deeper this time—your tongue sliding into his mouth, claiming, tasting. His lips parted so willingly for you, and the noise he made—half-whimper, half-moan—sent a rush of heat straight through you.

You gently pushed him down onto the bed, watching as his arms gave in and his back met the plush sheets. He looked up at you, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling fast beneath his linen shirt.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured, fingers undoing the first few buttons.

Anthony flushed deeper. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” you cut him off firmly. “And I’m going to show you.”

You took your time undressing him, layer by layer. The way his body shifted under your touch—the soft gasp when your hands brushed along his ribs, the slight arch of his back when your mouth found the skin over his collarbone—made your own restraint waver.

When he was bare beneath you, skin flushed and breathless, you could see the tension in his limbs. The way his thighs tensed, the nervous clench in his hands as he fidgeted with the bedding.

You leaned down, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “Tell me what you want.”

He hesitated, but then, voice tight, he breathed out, “I want to feel you. All of you.”

You kissed the side of his neck, then murmured against his skin, “Then relax for me, sweetheart.”

You let your hand trail lower, slow and measured, down his chest, past his navel, until it ghosted over the hard heat between his thighs. He whimpered—God, that sound—and spread his legs a little wider without even realizing it.

You wrapped your hand around him, firm but teasing, stroking slow. His head tipped back into the pillows, lips parted in a silent cry, chest rising with sharp, shaky breaths.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Let me hear you.”

He did. Every touch, every stroke had him gasping. When you finally pushed his legs back, opening him up gently, you could see the mix of need and fear in his eyes.

“You’re big,” he whispered again, voice barely there.

You kissed his knee, soothing. “And I’ll go slow.”

You reached for the oil, slicked your fingers, and began with feather-light touches. Teasing first, then pressing just enough to make him moan. You watched his face the entire time—every twitch of his brows, every flutter of his lashes, every breathless gasp.

“You’re doing so well for me,” you said, curling your fingers just enough to have him sobbing your name.

He was already shaking when you pulled back, lined yourself up, and paused.

“I need you to tell me you’re ready,” you murmured, voice tight with restraint.

“I’m ready,” he whispered, gripping your wrists. “Please.”

You pressed in slowly—inch by inch, letting him feel the stretch, the weight, the way your body claimed him. His back arched, legs trembling, mouth falling open in a strangled moan.

“F-Fuck—” he gasped, eyes shut tight.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered again. “Breathe. You’re taking me so well.”

Once you were fully sheathed inside him, you stilled, letting him adjust. He was gripping the sheets now, knuckles white, breath stuttering. You leaned down and kissed his temple, then his mouth, deep and slow, until his breathing evened out again.

And when you moved—slow at first, shallow thrusts—his voice broke around your name.

The rhythm built gradually. He clung to you, wrapped his legs around your waist, moaning into your mouth, gasping with every slow, deep thrust. You could feel the way he trembled beneath you, overwhelmed, split open, undone.

“You feel so good,” you groaned against his neck. “Tight. Perfect. Mine.”

He cried out at that—mine—and it pushed him closer to the edge.

The pace increased, just a little, just enough to make him sob. His body writhed under yours, pleasure and pressure building with every thrust, every whispered word, every kiss you gave him between moans.

When he came, it was with a shattered cry of your name—eyes glassy, mouth open, body clenching so hard around you that it nearly undid you.

You chased your own release with a few more thrusts, burying your face into his neck as you groaned low and deep, letting go with a raw intensity you hadn’t expected.

Afterward, the silence was thick with breath and heat. You didn’t pull away. You stayed wrapped around him, still inside, holding him as his body trembled through the aftershocks.

“Still with me?” you asked, voice hoarse.

He nodded slowly, dazed and flushed, eyes barely open. “Yes. Still… here.”

You kissed his forehead. “That was everything.”

Anthony hummed, nuzzling into your shoulder, weak and boneless and blissfully ruined. “You weren’t lying.”

“About what?”

“You took your time. And made me feel everything.”

[bellflowermini]

land of cavities lmao

[gi-nathlam-hi]

Not awake enough to really cohesively explain this but I think the reason Annatar looked so fucking malicious and soulless and unsettling in s2 as opposed to how he looked in S1 in so many shots was actually due to a noticeable lack of catch lights when paired next to characters in the same scene & I think that has to be a deliberate set lighting choice send tweet

[deathofacupid]

꩜ CURSED ENERGY? NAH... CURSED DICK!

MY ANACONDA DON'T... — forget vanilla. with them, sex isn't just good, it's transcendent. it's not like there's room for improvement, but go big... or go home, right?

꩜ satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, choso kamo, toji fushiguro, ryomen sukuna.

warnings — áfab!reader. óverstimulatión, dégrading, dúmbification, sqúirting, breedíng. dóm!characters. bóndage (geto's). unprótected séx. blood (sukuna's). inappropriate use of cursed technique + jujutsu. lemme know if i missed anything! 3.2k+ words.

(呪術廻戦) : note — i think i've forgotten how to write fluff now </33 divider credits to @/cafekitsune !

꩜ SATORU GOJO

the way satoru finds that spot… it’s like he’s got a sixth sense for it, beyond even those eyes. the insistent grind of his hips, the precise angle his thick cock takes as it buries itself deeper. it’s a language your body understands entirely.

“satoru! fuck,” you gasp, head arching back against the worn headboard. it’s so good it borders on agony, a delicious overload that makes your vision swim.

“ah, shit, pretty,” he grunts, his voice roughened with lust. “you’re taking all of me. look at that, huh? so fucking tight.” each powerful thrust has the head of his cock slamming against that sensitive nub deep inside, a relentless pressure that steals the air from your lungs.

all that exists is him – the slick heat, the straining length, every vein and ridge a searing imprint against your slick, yielding flesh.

it’s unnerving, almost invasive, how intimately he seems to know your body, mapping its secrets with a casual expertise. and with those all-seeing eyes, it’s foolish to think he doesn’t.

a wave of dizziness washes over you, coherent thought dissolving into a haze of pure sensation. the faint throb of his teeth marks on your neck is a distant hum against the overwhelming now – the relentless pounding, the feeling of being stretched and filled beyond capacity with each savage push.

the bed-frame creaks in protest with every thrust, the small room thick with the wet, smacking sounds and the friction of skin against skin. the remnants of their last bout, his slick warmth, are still trapped inside, each subsequent invasion driving it further, staking a deeper claim.

he’s not just moaning; it’s the most pornographic thing you've yet to hear, the most obscenely beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. he's whining like a bitch in heat, really.

“no, d- don’t stop,” you plead, your inner muscles clenching instinctively, milking him with desperate urgency.

“mm, not gonna stop,” he bites out, leaning down to press a hard, possessive kiss to your swollen lips. “but you gotta try not to squeeze so damn hard, sweetheart. i might just lose it.”

a mumbled apology escapes your lips, barely intelligible. you’re right on the edge, that familiar release beckoning with dizzying speed. you never stood a chance against him.

never with the way he fucks you, zeroing in on that core of pleasure with an almost cruel precision.

a strangled cry tears from your throat, breath hitching in ragged gasps. “i’m—"

"—i know,” gojo grinds out, cutting you off, his own breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “fuck, me too.”

when he comes, it’s a violent shudder that consumes his entire body, thick ropes of his seed erupting deep inside you. he collapses against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, riding out the tremors of your own shattering climax.

then, he pulls back slightly, those piercing blue eyes locking onto yours, raw and unguarded. “you know,” he says, his voice still thick with the aftermath, a tenderness in his gaze, “i think we should get married.”

꩜ SUGURU GETO

veiny, thick tendrils of cursed energy snake around you, binding your wrists to the cold metal of the bedposts. they pulse with a subtle, unsettling warmth, a living restraint.

you don't even bother to struggle; experience has taught you the futility. instead, you brace yourself, a strange mix of resignation and fierce anticipation settling in your gut for whatever suguru is willing to give.

the cursed energy is as unyielding as any rope, maybe even tighter. you can already feel the pressure points, the faint burn that promises bruises blooming beneath your skin in the morning.

a small price, you think, a ridiculously small price to pay for the brain-scrambling, mind-numbing oblivion he can deliver.

a very, very small price indeed.

"what a good girl," he purrs, his breath ghosting across your face as he peppers light, almost clinical kisses across your forehead and cheeks. "thought for sure that little whimper earlier meant you were about to tap out."

you huff, the sound catching in your throat and breaking into a shaky whimper despite yourself. "i— i can handle it," you insist, squeezing your eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation already building. maybe focusing on your breathing will help. just a little.

geto clicks his tongue, a sound that vibrates with amusement. "i have no doubt." you can't decipher if it's genuine or laced with his usual condescension. he has a habit of that, a detached superiority that somehow only amplifies the raw intimacy of his fucking.

if your mind isn't already a hazy mess, you might ask him if he even realizes he's doing it. actually, no, you wouldn't. you like it.

"think you can even take some more?" he's baiting you, you know it. everything with suguru is a subtle power play, a quiet competition. it's the same for you, a bad coincidence, you'd said. him? he voiced it as "being made for each other."

"y— yes, fuck!" the word is a desperate gasp as his thick cock slams into you, a raw, visceral connection that steals your breath. his hand slides down, fingers grazing against your slick folds, teasing the swollen nub of your clit. always the deliberate tormentor.

you want to tangle your fingers in the silky length of his hair, to pull him closer, but the pulsing restraints hold you captive. a frustrating, exquisite helplessness.

"cute lil' pussy," he chuckles, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your ear. does he even realize how devastatingly beautiful he looks in moments like these?

his long, dark hair cascading around his face like a fallen angel, a sex-driven, lust-fueled angel bathed in the dim light.

he bucks his hips, a deep, guttural sound escaping his throat as he drives into you. your slick, aching hole does its desperate best to accommodate his size, that initial stretch always taking a painful, exquisite moment. by the time you adjust, he is already impatient, fucking you with a controlled ferocity that borders on brutal.

but you can never stay truly upset with him when it comes to this. he just… thrusts the discomfort away, slamming into your wet heat with a possessive intensity that drowns out everything else.

"sugu— 'm really close," you inhale, sharply, the words broken by a sharp intake of breath.

"yeah, princess?" he murmurs, his voice softening slightly, a flicker of something akin to tenderness in his dark eyes. "can feel you."

he finishes soon after, a series of deep, shuddering thrusts that wrack his body. but not before he ensures you follow, his fingers relentless on your clit until you cry out, your own release a messy, shuddering wave.

within a blink, the pulsing tendrils of cursed energy dissolve, leaving behind only the faint red marks on your wrists. he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the irritated skin, a smug wink flashing in his eyes.

꩜ KENTO NANAMI

nanami's great at sex. always has been. you didn't even think the guy could get better at it. and yet, here he is, showing you just how much more mind-numbingly good he can be.

with those long, surprisingly gentle fingers, he's got your jaw cupped, his thumb stroking your cheek as he murmurs, "can you feel me, darling?"

it's a stupid question, obviously you can feel him. every ridge and vein of his thick cock is pressed against your tight cunt, and you've never felt this stretched, you swear.

nanami just adores how your mouth falls open, your brows all scrunched up in that adorable little frown as his fat tip hits your sweet spot. his other hand slides down to your belly, pressing just lightly, like he's staking his claim. he's prideful, is what he is.

his thrusts are so controlled, so damn rhythmic it's almost hypnotic. every movement has a purpose, a precise intention. there's nothing sloppy or senseless about the way he's fucking you. it's like he's engineered your orgasm.

"oh, fuck," you gasp, your fingers digging into the solid muscle of his back, trying to hold on as the pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.

"feels good, no?" he asks, his intense gaze locked on your face. honestly, you wouldn't have pegged him as the type to need his ego stroked, but the look in his eyes says otherwise.

you want to answer him, but your eyes roll back in your head, and you're practically useless, just a whimpering mess under his ministrations.

nanami lets out this low chuckle, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss to your forehead. the bastard knows exactly what he's doing to you.

you can feel that 7:3 ratio thing he probably has going on in his head, even if he's not consciously counting. seven deliberate slides in, each one stretching you further, followed by three slightly shallower, teasing movements that keep you right on the edge.

your breath hitches in your throat, and you drag your nails down his solid back, leaving little trails of sensation. "i- i can't…" nanami just ignores your incoherent mumbles, because he knows you don't even know what you're trying to say. you're just strung out on the feel of him.

the slams of his hips against yours get a little less controlled, a little more urgent, but still with that underlying precision that's so distinctly him. you can feel the tension coiling in him, like a tightly wound spring about to snap.

"oh, love, i can feel – fuck – you clenching around me," he grunts, rutting his cock deeper into you. you're desperate for the release that's building, every muscle in your body contracting as you moan and whimper.

nanami lets out a low groan, his usual composed mask finally cracking as he follows you over the edge. his movements keep up, a little less methodical now, until he's shuddering against you, filling you with his hot, precise load.

he finally stills, resting his forehead against yours, his breathing a little ragged. "god, i love you," he murmurs, a rare hint of pure satisfaction in his voice.

seven minutes (and three seconds) in heaven.

꩜ CHOSO KAMO

choso's stamina isn't just a flex; it's a goddamn superpower. the kind that leaves you wondering if he has some extra hearts tucked away somewhere. "monster-like" feels polite; "relentless" is closer to the truth. you're pretty sure your boyfriend can fuck through the apocalypse and still ask for another round.

his face is buried deep between your tits, the wet heat of his mouth a brand against your skin. his moans are thick and muffled, vibrating against your chest as he rides you, each thrust a deep, insistent press.

hours blur into a sweaty, tangled mess of limbs and desperate gasps. the digital clock on your nightstand glows a mocking 2:47 a.m. you feel like you've been wrung out and hung to dry, utterly, deliciously drained. meanwhile, choso looks like he's just finished his warm-up.

"ngh, baby," he groans, his voice thick with need. "i'm… fuck, i'm gonna cum." you've lost count of his "gonna comes" hours ago, each one a lie that somehow still manages to feel good in the moment. your own orgasms have been a dizzying parade, each one pulling another ragged whimper from your throat.

"oh, choso…" you whimper, your back arching instinctively as he hits that sweet spot. your fingers tangle in his loose, messy hair – those ridiculous space-buns have long since surrendered to the friction. you're probably pulling too hard, but the only sound he makes is a deeper groan of pleasure.

a shaky sob escapes you. "i… god, i can't." your muscles are screaming, every nerve ending raw and overstimulated.

"s— sure you can," he breathes, his lips trailing wet kisses up your neck. "last… last one, i promise." his voice is husky, laced with a desperate edge that almost sounds believable.

except, choso is a liar when he's this deep inside you. the second his hot load pulses into you, you can feel him twitch, his cock hardening again with infuriating speed.

and yeah, you love his blood manipulation, you really do. knowing it keeps him safe out there, facing whatever cursed shit he has to deal with — that's everything.

but this? using it to recycle his blood, straight from his balls to his dick, so he doesn't "waste time" getting hard again? you want to argue that the downtime is the only thing keeping you from dissolving into a puddle of pure sensation. the break is essential.

you need it like you need air.

"choso, please," you hiccup, a pathetic little sound.

"please what, baby?" he mumbles, finally lifting his head to press soft, wet kisses to your tear-streaked face. "please, more?" his eyes are dark and hungry, pupils blown wide.

"no! no… not more," you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut against the fresh wave of sensation building in your core. you can feel another orgasm clawing its way closer, and the traitorous part of you, the part that is addicted to his touch, actually wants it.

he barely waits a breath after his last shuddering release before plunging back into you, his movements insistent and demanding. "oh, but you're doing so good," he insists, his words broken by ragged gasps.

"this is it, okay? j— just this last one, baby." he sounds like he's begging now, his voice thick with desperation, and in your hazy, pleasure-addled state, you almost believe him.

but then you are coming again, that familiar, overwhelming rush consuming you, and he is coming too, his body bucking against yours, and… he is a goddamn beautiful, stamina-blessed liar.

꩜ TOJI FUSHIGURO

yeah, toji doesn't have some fancy cursed technique to whip out in bed. so what? you think that ever stops him from getting exactly what he wants?

hell, no. the dude might be a deadbeat dad and a general pain in the ass, but when he commits to something – and he's definitely committed to you – he goes all the way. a real thorough bastard, that one.

right now, he has you locked in this brutal-as-hell mating press. your knees are practically glued to his sides, and his arms are like iron, squeezing you so tight you can feel his damn heartbeat against your own.

his fingers aren't just holding on; they're digging in, promising a nice little collection of bruises for you to discover later. a reminder, you figure.

his thick cock is stretching you open, filling you up in a way that makes your vision blur and your head spin. "you're a goddamn slut, you know that?" he grunts out between these rough, possessive kisses that leave your lips swollen.

"tell me," toji breathes, his hot breath ghosting over your ear, sending shivers down your spine despite the heat building between your legs. "you know what you are."

your head flops back, heavy and useless. all that matters is the feel of him buried so deep, the relentless back-and-forth stealing your breath and any semblance of thought.

you can taste blood where you're biting your lip, but the pain is just a background hum to the overwhelming pleasure.

"a… slut," you manage to choke out, the word sounding needy and desperate, already begging for the next brutal slide.

toji lets out this low groan that vibrates right through you, a sound that screams you're mine. his grip tightens even more, his thumbs now pressing hard into the slick, tender flesh of your inner thighs, spreading you wider, making him feel impossibly deep. it's almost violent, the way he handles you, but every rough touch sends these crazy sparks of sensation shooting through you.

he pulls back just enough to lock his dark, intense gaze on yours, and you can practically see the possessiveness burning in his eyes. "mine," he bites out, like it's the only truth in the universe. then, he slams back into you, and your nails dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, clinging on for dear life.

the air's thick with your ragged gasps, the wet, slapping sound of your bodies grinding together, and you just know he's getting off on how tight you are, how you clench and tremble with each savage thrust.

one calloused hand leaves your side to roughly cup your breast, his thumb teasing your nipple until it's hard and aching. the other hand stays glued to the wet heat of your thigh.

"beg for it," he mutters, his voice low and rough, a total taunt.

a shaky cry escapes you, right on the edge of a sob. "please, toji, p— please…"

he lets out this low chuckle, a rumble against your ear. "yeah, yeah." and even though he acts like he doesn't give a shit half the time, he's always a sucker for you. the heat low in your belly coils tighter and tighter. your back arches, and you writhe against him, desperate for that release.

and when you finally come, it hits him just a few brutal seconds later. his hot load pumps into you, coating your insides, and toji groans, a deep, animalistic sound as you squeeze every last drop out of him.

"damn, ma," he breathes, his forehead pressed against yours, shoulders relaxing.

relaxing; only for a moment, because then you know the cycle will repeat.

꩜ RYOMEN SUKUNA

it's no surprise sukuna is rough. he's sukuna. taunting, malevolent, deliciously so. a razor's edge of threat underlies everything he utters, a constant hum of danger that can be playful or genuinely menacing. except in this space, beneath him, it is always, undeniably, intentional.

you are splayed out, limbs heavy and unresponsive, reduced to a whimpering, slick mess under his gaze. his crimson eyes, sharp and predatory, burn into yours, pinning you down more effectively than any physical restraint.

he trails a long finger down the inside of your thigh, the touch surprisingly light, yet you still flinch, a tremor running through you. a faint, red line blooms in its wake, almost imperceptible.

"feel that, flower?" he rumbles, his voice a low purr that vibrates through your bones. "better listen close, wouldn't want you ending up in little pieces."

you know, somewhere in the haze of arousal and fear, that it's a hollow threat. he wouldn't destroy what he so possessively claims. yet, the fear still coils in your gut, sharp and thrilling.

terrifying, yes, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

his thick cock stretches you open, every inch a deliberate invasion. you can feel the head press against something deep inside, a hard knot pushing so far in it creates a visible bulge in your lower belly. the slick heat of him fills you completely.

then comes the unsettling, wet sensation of a tongue, not from his mouth, but from lower down, sliding between your slick folds.

"'kuna— can't..." you whine, which he whole-heartedly disregards. it traces a path of hot, insistent licks, right up to your swollen clit, leaving a shimmering trail of his spit.

"what a messy girl, huh?" he rasps, his voice thick with the effort, as if you aren't completely consumed by the feeling of him inside you. your only response is a helpless groan that vibrates against his skin.

your eyes squeeze tighter, the pressure building again, that familiar knot of another orgasm clawing its way up. your inner muscles clench around his shaft, slicking him even further as you squirt onto his thick length, milking him with each involuntary spasm.

it isn't long before his own ragged breaths fill the air, his hips bucking against yours as he empties himself inside, filling you to the brim with hot, pulsing pleasure.

"maybe," he says against your ear, a low murmur, "if you're lucky, next time i'll let you take both."

❛ all works belong to deathofacupid, do not steal/plagiarize/repost. ❜

tagging jazz (@jeonwiixard) + mia (@mia-can-yap-too) cus they wifey <33

[ilovolderman]

Game Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: It’s game night, and Sam is being extra suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, uno

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It was a Monday, and Sam Wilson was once again spiraling.

Not because he had a particularly bad day or because a rogue pigeon had decided his sandwich was a target. No, Sam’s mental breakdown was much more subtle, much more insidious.

It was because of the vibe.

The vibe was off.

At first, it was innocent. Steve had invited everyone over for "a quiet evening," which meant they were playing board games and pretending they weren't all secretly trying to outsmart each other with complex strategies and alliances.

But it wasn’t the games that were bothering Sam.

It was you and Bucky, like always.

You and Bucky entered the living room at the same time. He was holding a bag of fries like it was an offering, and you had a look on your face like you were trying to keep from laughing at a private joke. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Sam’s gut tightened. He'd been through this before.

He had a sixth sense for this kind of thing.

A totally normal looking Bucky waved at Sam, but there was something about the way he did it—too casual, too... loaded. You smiled as you sat down on the couch, and Bucky followed.

Then, the thing happened.

You both reached for the same side of the couch at the same time. And you didn’t immediately pull away like people usually do when they're not on the verge of launching into some kind of... well, whatever this was.

You just... stayed there.

Sam squinted, his eyes narrowing like he was a detective trying to crack an impossible case. This was the moment. The moment when his suspicions shifted from theory to solid fact.

Sam wasn’t sure who made the first move, but suddenly—without explanation—Bucky’s arm was draped over the back of the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A few moments passed.

Still no words.

Just an... unsettling silence as you both stared ahead at the game unfolding in front of you.

Sam looked from you, to Bucky, then back to you. His fingers twitched. The notepad was in his lap, but he hadn’t written a single thing down yet. How was he supposed to document what was happening?

It was... too subtle.

He turned to Steve. “Are they—?”

Steve, blissfully unaware, was deep into his Monopoly strategy. “Hmm?”

“Do you notice anything... off about them?” Sam asked, nodding toward the couch.

Steve glanced over and blinked. “What? They’re sitting next to each other?”

Sam clenched his jaw. “It’s the way they’re sitting. They’re... too comfortable. Like they’re already sharing the same DNA. You see that?”

Steve squinted for a moment, then shrugged. “I think you’re reading too much into it.”

Sam was about to respond when Tony strolled into the room, “What’s this about reading into things?” he asked casually, taking a seat next to Steve.

“They’re being weird,” Sam muttered, pointing to the couch.

Tony leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you mean how they’re subtly acting like they’ve been married for thirty years, without the commitment?”

Sam’s eye twitched.

Tony grinned at the chaos unfolding in Sam’s mind. “Don’t overthink it, Sammy. Some people just get comfortable with each other.” He took a sip from his glass.

Meanwhile, you and Bucky were still sitting there, but now you were exchanging an absurdly synchronized look.

You both looked at each other like you were reading a secret book written in a language only the two of you could understand. The silence was thick enough to slice with a knife.

Then—just as Sam felt his sanity slip away completely—you both laughed. At nothing.

A soft, almost eerie laugh, like you were in on some joke only the two of you got.

Tony, who was now practically snickering, leaned over and whispered to Steve, “We should’ve put money on it. Sam’s on the edge, and he’s about to combust.”

Sam stood up abruptly, looking at the pair on the couch, then back at Steve, his eyes wide with the fury of a thousand unanswered questions. “That’s it. I’m gonna ask them directly.”

“Oh, no,” Steve said, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “You really don’t want to.”

But Sam was too far gone. His mind was locked in a war with his instincts. He marched over to the couch, put his hands on his hips, and shot you and Bucky an unrelenting stare.

Bucky didn’t even look at Sam, he was handing you the fries, leaning toward you. You smiled at Bucky like he was the best thing since sliced bread, and Sam felt his soul physically leave his body.

This was it. This was the moment that proved it.

"You two are literally a walking romcom," Sam spat out in a low voice, too quietly for anyone to hear except you and Bucky. "I see it. The fries. The eye contact. It’s like... like... a plot."

You smirked. “What’s your deal, Sam? I’m just getting some fries. Everyone loves fries.”

Bucky nodded, biting his lip in an attempt to stifle his grin. “Yeah, Sam. What’s your deal?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You guys. Are you really gonna sit there and keep telling me you’re just friends?”

Both of you paused. The air felt like it shifted, like it thickened, as if the universe was waiting for the punchline. Sam’s pulse quickened.

And then, in perfect unison, both of you said:

“We’re friends.”

Sam stared at you both, utterly dumbfounded.

“Friends?” he whispered in horror. “With... this?”

You both blinked at him innocently.

“Of course,” you said.

“We’re just good pals,” Bucky added, just barely holding in a laugh.

 “I—I can’t,” Sam muttered, trying to make sense of the absolute absurdity unfolding before him.

Bucky slapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder, like the world’s least convincing therapist. “You’ll get there, Sam. You just have to let go and stop thinking so hard about it.”

Sam made a strangled noise that could’ve been a scream or the noise of a man who had just realized he was doomed. He glanced at Peter, who was giving him a look of pure, unfiltered sympathy.

“Is this some kind of test?” Sam asked, his voice rising. “Am I being pranked? Are you two secretly married? Or, like... I don’t know, are you... trying to get a rise out of me?”

Bucky leaned forward slightly. “No, Sam. We’re just casually enjoying life... together.”

“Together,” Sam repeated, clutching his head dramatically. “I’m going to be sick.”

And then, just to make sure he was completely defeated, you reached over, casually brushing your hand against Bucky’s arm before giving him a tiny, affectionate squeeze.

Sam blinked. His notebook hit the floor with a dramatic thud.

“I knew it.” he gasped, and then, as if the universe had somehow heard him, he heard Natasha’s voice from across the room, still half-asleep:

“Sam, you’re being ridiculous. Just let them enjoy the vibes.”

Sam’s soul left his body.

Meanwhile, you and Bucky exchanged yet another impossibly synchronized glance.

Tony, still grinning, patted Sam on the back. “Don’t worry. One day you’ll look back on this and laugh. Just not today.”

And with that, Sam grabbed his coat, shook his head, and walked out the door.

Meanwhile, Bucky reached over, snagged the last of the fries, and handed them to you. “You think he’s buying it?”

You shrugged. “Nah, I think we’ve got him exactly where we want him.”

Bucky smirked. “Good. Let’s mess with him some more tomorrow.”

The room was quiet now. The chaos had died down. Steve had gone to clean up the kitchen, Tony had retreated to a mysterious project involving lasers, and Natasha was now fully asleep, curled up with a blanket over her face on the armchair.

That left just you and Bucky, still curled on the couch — the battlefield of your dramatic emotional warfare against Sam.

You reached over to the coffee table and grabbed the deck of Uno cards you’d swiped earlier. You looked at Bucky with a mischievous little glint in your eye.

“Wanna play?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “I thought we already emotionally destroyed a man tonight. Isn’t that enough chaos for one evening?”

You started shuffling the deck, your fingers moving deftly. “Just one game. Come on. I promise not to make you cry.”

“Oh, please,” Bucky said, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at you. “You’re only confident because you’ve been cheating.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “I do not cheat! I win with style.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, lounging comfortably as he took the cards you dealt him. “Style, manipulation, same thing.”

The game started quietly, the soft rustle of cards filling the silence. You both sat cross-legged on the couch, knees bumping occasionally. The warm, low lamp cast a golden hue over everything, and the mood had shifted from chaos to... something soft. Comfortable.

Halfway through the game, you narrowed your eyes. “You’re letting me win.”

Bucky paused mid-draw. “What?”

You pointed at his hand. “You had a +4 and a Reverse like, four rounds ago. You haven’t played either.”

He blinked, all innocent puppy eyes. “What are you talking about? Maybe I just forgot.”

You squinted harder. “James Buchanan Barnes. Do not lie to me.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “Fine. Maybe I’m letting you win a little. You get this cute little proud look when you think you’ve cornered me. It’s adorable.”

Your face flushed, and you tossed your card at him. “That’s cheating in a different way.”

“It’s strategic emotional warfare,” Bucky replied smoothly, grinning as he finally laid down a card. “I’m adapting to modern combat.”

You crossed your arms, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Well, stop it. I want a fair game.”

He nodded solemnly, eyes twinkling. “Understood. No mercy.”

You resumed playing, and this time he was relentless—Reverse, Skip, Draw Two. You shrieked in betrayal as your carefully constructed hand crumbled.

“This is what happens when you ask for a fair game,” Bucky said, laughing.

“I take it back!” you shouted, laughing as you threw your hands up. “Bring back the gentle sabotage!”

Bucky leaned over, gathering the cards again, but this time he didn’t start a new game. He looked at you, expression softening.

“Hey,” he said, voice quieter now. “Being here with you… it just makes everything else fade out..”

You tilted your head, suddenly serious. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached over and brushed a piece of lint off your sleeve. “Feels like home. Like peace.”

Your heart melted a little, the kind of soft ache that came when you realized you were exactly where you were supposed to be. You shifted closer, your legs pressed gently against his, and rested your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t move for a moment—then his arm wrapped around you, pulling you just a little closer, like muscle memory.

“Uno?” you whispered.

“Only if I get to win this time,” he whispered back.

You smiled into his shoulder. “We’ll see.”

And in the warm, quiet room, surrounded by discarded fries and chaos-shaped memories, the two of you played on.

“Uno,” you announced, placing your second-to-last card down with a triumphant grin.

Bucky stared at you in betrayal. “You said we were being nice this round!”

You shrugged, biting back a laugh. “I was nice. I could’ve skipped you again. You should be thanking me.”

He shook his head in disbelief, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence as he picked up a card from the draw pile.

You squinted at him. “Say it again.”

He leaned in, his voice low and smooth like velvet. “You heard me.”

Your heart fluttered. Stupidly. Ridiculously. And yet, you couldn’t stop the shy smile that spread across your face. You rolled your eyes and tried to keep your cool, placing your final card down with a flourish.

“Game,” you declared smugly.

Bucky groaned and dropped his hand. “Unbelievable. First you destroy Sam’s psyche, now you destroy my winning streak.”

“I’m on fire tonight,” you said, laughing.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes softening as he looked at you. “You really are.”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel like something was shifting again. Not in a chaotic, Sam-spiral kind of way. In the way the air gets thicker when something good is about to happen.

He leaned forward, slow and certain.

You met him halfway.

The kiss was soft. Unhurried. His hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing along your skin like he’d been waiting forever for the right moment and wanted to savor it now that it was here. You melted into it, your fingers curling into the sleeve of his henley.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his, and you both just... stayed there.

No words. No teasing. Just you and him and the warm hum of everything unspoken.

You yawned a moment later, trying (and failing) to hide it behind your hand.

Bucky chuckled, pressing a tiny kiss to your temple. “Okay, game champ. Time for bed.”

“I’m not tired,” you said, already half-asleep against his shoulder.

“You just yawned into my clavicle.”

“Coincidence,” you mumbled, snuggling closer.

He smiled, shifting so you were tucked more comfortably into his side. He grabbed the discarded throw blanket and wrapped it around both of you.

“You’re staying right here,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

You made a sleepy little noise of agreement, already drifting.

And as the last of the game night chaos faded into silence, Bucky pressed one more kiss to your hair, rested his cheek against your head, and held you close.

Neither of you moved for a long, long time.

Hours later, the room was wrapped in a sleepy kind of silence, warm and golden under the dim light.

You and Bucky were curled up on the couch, tangled beneath a blanket, both long since surrendered to sleep. Your head was tucked against his chest, his arm securely around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon. His metal fingers rested gently against your side, thumb unconsciously tracing small, soothing circles.

It was peaceful.

Quiet.

Almost.

From the armchair in the corner, Natasha Romanoff slowly opened one eye.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just... observed.

Because of course she’d heard everything. The kiss. The whispers. The “you’re lucky you’re cute.” The affectionate laughter. The unmistakable sound of two people falling completely, irrevocably into something more.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.

She watched as Bucky instinctively pulled you closer in his sleep, like even unconscious, he wasn’t letting you drift far. You murmured something incoherent and nuzzled into him, and he murmured something back that sounded suspiciously like your name and definitely like trouble.

Natasha shook her head slightly, amusement flickering across her face.

“You two are the worst,” she whispered to herself, barely audible over the sound of the heater kicking on. “Hopeless.”

But her voice was warm. Fond.

She leaned back into her chair, pulled her blanket tighter around her, and closed her eyes again—smiling like she’d just watched the final twist in a very long-running, extremely satisfying spy mission.

She wasn’t going to tell.

Not yet.

After all, what fun would it be if she ruined the secret when she could just enjoy watching the rest of the team slowly unravel trying to figure it out?

She’d wait.

She could keep a secret.

For now.

next part

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2 @herejustforbuckybarnes @stormy-stardust @fallen-w1ngs @winchestert101 @f4d3d-st4rs @ultravioletter @xamapolax @theendofthematerialgworl @doilooklikeagiveafrack @fablehaven-rulez @theproblemisthatimnotfictional @winter107soldier@softpia @shakysif @lucyysthings @unadulteratedpastazonkpeach @surebutwhy @tmb510 @kaiari @totallynotabuckybarnessimp @quinquinquincy @tellybearryyyy @roxyym@starstruckfirecat @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction @oliviaohanessian1 @arignipanja574 @creat0r-cat @katheriner1999 @kaiari @authoressskr @antisocialfiore @f-1-girlies-blog @ifilwtmfc @darkrock3t @navs-bhat @ravenswritingroom @lunawitchbitchraven @elfypineapple

[just1cefor4ll]

—Darling you’re glowing

James Potter x f!reader

summary. you intrigued the James Potter. now he’s trying to get you out of your shell

warning. not proof read

Transfiguration, middle of the week, had started like any other class— the room buzzing with quiet chatter as McGonagall set up a demonstration on cross-species switching spells. You sat a few rows behind the usual Marauder formation, watching with mild interest as James Potter lounged sideways in his seat like he owned the room. He always acted like that—comfortable, cocky, clever enough to get away with all of it. But you noticed something different today. He wasn’t as loud. Not as sharp with his jokes. He kept glancing toward Remus, who looked paler than usual, shadows under his eyes like he hadn’t slept.

You knew what tomorrow was.

You always noticed the patterns others ignored.

McGonagall’s chalk scraped across the board as she launched into the complexities of Animagus transformations. And that’s when James opened his mouth—casual, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Turning Snape into a raccoon wouldn’t be a bad idea, no? He fits the description and might finally be of use.”

It was “normal” to see James or Sirius tormenting the poor slytherin boy, however no one made too much of an effort to stop it due to being scared or not caring.

But this time, you didn’t let it slide.

You leaned forward slightly, not loud, not sharp—just clear enough for him to hear.

“Useful, sure. Especially if you’re trying to keep a werewolf company at night.”

James froze.

Just for a second.

Then, slowly, he turned in his seat, eyebrows raised. He didn’t say anything, but the way he looked at you—really looked at you—was different than before. Like a switch had flipped.

Sirius leaned halfway out of his chair, blinking. “Wait, what?”

You tilted your head calmly. “You four aren’t as subtle as you think. Disappearing from the common rooms every full moon, and then Remus not returning for a few days afterward.. strange, don’t you think?”

Sirius’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

James just blinked at you, stunned—then finally, slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not his usual cocky grin. Something smaller. Curious. Almost impressed.

“You’ve been watching us.”

“Someone has to,” you said, eyes flicking between him and Sirius. “Merlin knows the professors aren’t.”

Remus, from beside them, looked like he might vanish under the desk. James noticed, and his smile faltered just slightly. He turned back to face forward, voice quieter now.

“You’re not going to tell anyone.”

It wasn’t a question.

You shrugged. “Why would I? Not my secret. Not my business.”

James didn’t respond right away. Then; “Most people would’ve run the second they figured that out.”

You met his gaze, steady. “Most people aren’t me.”

And that was the end of it. At least, for now.

After that day, James started to notice you. At first, it was just little things. You sat alone in every class, always in the back. You left the Great Hall early, books in hand, head down. You walked the castle corridors like a ghost—there, but never really with anyone. It was strange, and a bit unsettling. Hogwarts was loud and chaotic and full of chatter. You were none of those things.

James didn’t really know what to do with that.

You were outside walking along the Great Lake, the morning fog barely beginning to lift, adding to the mysterious atmosphere that always seemed to cling to the school grounds. The water was still, a sheet of silver glass stretching toward the horizon, disturbed only by the occasional ripple from something just beneath the surface.

As you made your way along the winding path, the silhouette of the castle loomed through the mist—familiar, yet distant in the haze. The chill in the air nipped at your fingers, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet out here, peaceful, the kind of quiet that let your thoughts wander.

You stiffened slightly as the sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence behind you. Turning your head, you saw him—James Potter strolling toward you with his usual group trailing behind: Sirius Black smirking, Remus Lupin looking vaguely amused, and Peter Pettigrew struggling to keep up.

“Didn’t expect to see anyone out here this early,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. You glanced at him, then quickly back at the lake. “I like the quiet.” He nodded, stepping beside you. “Yeah.. it’s nice before everyone’s up and shouting about homework and Quidditch.” He nudged a stone with his shoe. “You come out here a lot?” “Sometimes,” you replied softly, unsure why he was talking to you at all, especially with his friends watching. James didn’t seem put off by your short reply. “It’s kind of cool though, isn’t it? All the fog. Looks like something out of a ghost story.” You gave a small nod. “It does.”

Sirius whispered something to Remus that made both of them snicker, but James ignored it.

“I don’t think we’ve ever really talked,” he said, tilting his head. “You’re in my year, yeah?” You hesitated, then glanced at him. “Yes.” He smiled like that was a win. “Thought so. I’m James.” “I know.” That made him laugh. “Right, of course you do. Everyone knows. Sorry—stupid thing to say.”

“How’s Remus?”

James blinked, then turned to look at you more carefully. “He’s okay. Bit worn out, but he always bounces back.”

You nodded slowly. “Good.”

James looked at you properly now, brow furrowed. “How do you—? I mean.. I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“You haven’t.”

He smiled faintly, curious now. “Right. Mysterious.”

You didn’t return the smile. “You take care of him.”James sobered at that, nodding once, serious. “Always.”

You gave a small, almost invisible nod and turned slightly, ready to leave.

Then, like he was trying to keep you there just a little longer, he said, “I’ve got a match this weekend. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. Should be a good one.”

You stopped in your tracks, humming in response.

“You should come,” he said, bold now, easy with it. “It’s more fun when there’s someone interesting in the stands.”

You raised a brow again. “Is that your way of inviting me?”

“Is it working?”

A pause. Then, quietly: “Maybe.”

James smiled, a little softer this time. “I’ll look for you.” He turned to leave and waved. “See you there, ghost girl.” “Wait— Potter.” You raise your voice a bit, cheeks warming at the sudden attention all four boys put on you. “It’s Y/N.” James smiled, nodding before going off with his friends, Sirius shaking his form and smiling excitedly while the other two boys watched, amused.

You didn’t know why you decided to go. Maybe it was finally time to get out of the common rooms for the weekend instead of spending it rotting in bed, studying, or sleeping for hours on end.

The students and professors were in a competitive mood, filling the halls with a tension you hadn’t quite experienced before—this was your very first match, after all.

You tugged your scarf tighter around your neck as you stepped out onto the grounds, the wind catching at the edges of your cloak. The crowd ahead was already gathering, voices loud and buzzing with excitement, a sea of red and gold clashing against yellow and black. You kept your head down, threading your way through the throng with quiet determination, trying not to look like you didn’t belong.

The match played out like a storm—fast, chaotic, impossible to look away from. James flew like he’d been born with a broomstick in hand, weaving through bludgers and bodies with the kind of recklessness that made the crowd scream in delight or horror, depending on their colors. Hufflepuff held strong for the first half, but once the snitch was spotted, it was all over in a blur of motion and gold.

Gryffindor won.

You hadn’t planned on waiting, but somehow you found yourself lingering by the edge of the pitch after most of the crowd had cleared. The adrenaline was still in your veins, buzzing under your skin like static, and you didn’t want to go back just yet. Not when your heart was still thudding from something you couldn’t name. You weren’t there long before you heard footsteps pounding across the grass behind you. James, of course. Still in his Quidditch robes, hair a wild mess, cheeks pink from wind and glory.

“You stayed,” he said, half-surprised, half-relieved.

You turned to face him, arms crossed, but your face betrayed you—lit up with a kind of breathless energy you hadn’t felt in ages.

“I—” You hesitated. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

James blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

You nodded, and then it all started spilling out, quick and animated.

“It was so fast. One second you were up, then down, then—you nearly got taken out by that Bludger, by the way—and then you just dodged like it was nothing? I thought you were going to fall right off the broom, I genuinely stopped breathing. And the way you looped around the pitch when you saw the Snitch? That was—like—how did you even do that?”

He stared at you, absolutely floored. Not because of the words—though there were many—but because it was you. Talking. Really talking. More than the usual quiet, clever one-liners. Your eyes were shining, hands moving to match your words, like the match had flipped a switch in you.

“I mean, I knew Quidditch was big here, but I didn’t expect that. It was exciting, but also stressful, and I think I might actually have heart damage from watching it. Is that normal? Do people just live like that?”

James laughed, breathless and stunned. “Merlin, you’re adorable when you talk this much.”

You blinked, suddenly aware of yourself again. The words cut off mid-thought. He held up his hands, still grinning like you’d just handed him the moon. “No, don’t stop. I just—it’s nice. Hearing you.” You looked away, suddenly self-conscious, but the warmth didn’t fade. If anything, it spread. “I guess I just.. got caught up in it,” you murmured. “It was kind of incredible.” He stepped a little closer, eyes still on you like you were some rare thing he’d never seen before. “So does that mean you’ll come to the next one?”

You tilted your head, considering.

“Only if you don’t almost die again.”

“No promises,” he said, eyes glinting. “But I’ll try. If you’re watching.”

And this time, you didn’t hesitate.

“I will be.”

© just1cefor4all— I don’t consent to my writing being reposted to other platforms or fed into AI. Translating it is also strictly prohibited. 🚫

[morallysuperiorlips]

10 Ways to Ensure Your Villain's Evil Monologuing Dialogue is as Unsettling as Possible!

1.) Make sure you're mixing body language with the words themselves: You can have your villain saying the most twisted shit, but if they're just standing there like a cardboard cutout, their words probably aren't going to hit as hard. Have them touch your protag. Have them toy with a weapon as if they're going to use it. Have them pace. Have them put together the blood ritual they're ranting about. Keep them moving.

2.) Have them use personal knowledge as a tool: Does your villain have some deep dark dirt on your protag? Don't let that all go in one swoop. Let them hint at it in drops before they open the dam. Maybe they use that knowledge as a bargaining tool to get an upper hand, or use it to send the trapped protag into a frenzy because they love to watch them scream.

3.) When it comes to threats, certainty is key: A threat is a threat, but there's nothing like a threat being spoken as if the villain knows it's going to happen. Whether your villain has already caught your protag, or is in the process of doing so, everything they say they want to see happen to your protag needs to come with absolute certainty. Almost as if it's a certain warning, and not just something they’re saying to be scary.

4.) Contradictions are your friend: Nothing indicates a warped villainous mind more than some juicy contradictions. Your villain might be talking about how they're going to flay your protag's hide after catching them in their dungeon, only to throw in a subtle "but, you're probably safer here with me." Find ways to toss in twisted contradictions that also underline the crazy shit they might be saying.

5.) Mess with syntax: Unsettling dialogue calls for unsettling structure. Incomplete sentences, unforeseen pauses, longwinded explanations broken up by more unforeseen pauses. Whatever it is, keep the rhythm offbeat. Don't give your reader a chance to be able to tell what's coming.

6.) Expectations? Subvert those: Your protag and even your readers might be suspecting one thing from your villain, so throw them a curveball and hit them with the complete opposite. Perhaps you've reached a point in your story where it seems like the villain might kill your protag on sight. But no, have your villain mention exactly why they aren't going to do that, and why they want to wait it out.

7.) Mix quiet confidence and loud assertion: Some might say that the silent seether is scarier, while others might agree that the sudden explosive type takes the bigger unsettling prize. In my opinion, you can really capitalize on the eeriness of villain dialogue by tapping into both. A villain that speaks on with refined confidence before very suddenly exploding, without much warning, can really power up the dread behind their words.

8.) Sometimes, ambiguity is better than being straightforward: Whether it's obvious that your villain has a lot of tricks up their sleeves--or not--leaving things to the imaginations of your protag, and subsequently, your readers is great for building dread. You can use dialogue to make it clear that they're up to something, but never make them fully disclose what that is. They might show it instead of tell it, or it might just never happen. Either way, it'll likely have everyone looking over their shoulders.

9.) There might be times where silence says everything: You might be worried about penning the correct verbiage for your villain's big evil speech, but sometimes, silence speaks wonders. When used correctly, a long pause, or a bout of silence after your protag has said their piece can build a sense of uneasiness more than them actually speaking would have.

10.) Find ways for your villain to mirror the hero: A monologuing villain is better when they're throwing your hero's values and beliefs back in their face. A hero that believes in mercy? Well, have your villain talk about how they'll make them beg for it. A hero that believes in the greater good? Have your villain talk about their idea of a greater good.

As always, GO WRITE SOMETHING TODAY! <3

[yeyinde]

slowly being led into a very (bad and) codependent D/s relationship with Price is all I can think about right now.

It starts off small, too. Casual touches. It's what he's known for—tactile; a man of raw, untempered physicality, and you wonder if the absence of touch makes his palms itch sometimes—and you let it happen. Let it grow. Evolve. Shift from a breath to a kiss. Morphing from a ghost to something substantive. Corporeal.

His knuckles grazing your forearm when he stands beside you. His hand on your lower back. Correcting your form with both hands. Smothering his chest against your spine. Then—

His hand on your thigh. Slipping lower down your back until his pinky lifts over the curve of your ass. Possessive. It reeks of ownership. But you don't tell him to stop.

It's grounding. You're not sure why. It just is. Like counting to ten. Focusing on some distant object. One, two. His hand on your wrist. His thighs pressed tight to yours. Hands on you, always, until it feels as natural as breathing. Three, four.

These touches usually accompany his voice. The low grit of a command dragging over gravel. Nails against sandpaper. Whispered demands just for you. Only you.

Or, at least, that's how they start.

Optional. Suggestions. Things you can prise apart with your own will. Agency still glueing to your throat but—

Not for long.

His touch finds its way there, too.

Fingers against your neck. Your jaw. Cheek. It feels natural to let them slip between your lips. And as strange as it is (isn't), there's nothing really dirty about it. It's not sexual. Not yet. It's just—

(there's a hole in your throat aching for his fingers to fill)

Five, six.

He offers another suggestion, but when you go to answer (agency, autonomy), his fingers find their way inside your mouth, snuffing out the protests between thick, grizzled knuckles. Something inside of you shifts, a subtle subluxation, at the raw, heavy taste of him on your tongue.

He lowers your chin with a slight pressure against your jaw until you're staring at his throat. Submissive. He groans, fingers twitching. Calls you a good girl when you keep your gaze there. Always. Even with other people around. Alone. Supplicant.

It becomes a routine, much like everything else, to have his fingers inside your mouth; pacifying. Stealing the voice from between your teeth.

And choices—so many of them, too. You hadn't realised how many decisions you had to make in a day until it was muffled between the salty, geosmin tang of rough, calloused fingers stroking your tongue. Freeing in a way that you can define in simple words. Can't explain to your friends when they ask why you're acting like you're feening for a cigarette whenever he's away from you. Jaw gnashing. Pacing. Skin itching. Burning. Unsettled. Raw. Nothing makes sense without his hands on your body. His taste on your tongue.

You try to replicate the feeling on your own by shoving your knuckle between your teeth at work when the noise, the choices, scream too loud in your ears. Your head. In your bedroom—two fingers down your throat, two sliding between your folds. A lit cigar burning, untouched, in the ashtray you bought. Perched as close to the edge of your end table as you could get it. Musk, leather. Something strong. Something that smells like him drenching your sheets. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

It isn't him.

You edge around this perverse neediness like its an open, infectious sore. Something has to give. Something has to break—

It doesn't take long until your mouth falls open at the sight of him, eager. So eager. You need it, and nearly sob when he peels his fingers away from your needy mouth, and tells you he has to leave again. But his gaze slants towards the case of cigars with a little grunt that makes your mouth water. A quiet good girl uttered as soft a rustling sheet, stuffing the hole in your throat for a little while longer. Soothing the ache.

Seven, eight.

Somewhere along the way, it just makes sense to sit on his lap instead of a chair. To keep your tongue tucked between two fingers, swallowing down the taste of him as he goes about his own routine. As if you're not even there. A paperweight against his chest.

Maybe he needs this as much as you do, too.

And that's good, really. Because you can't focus without him. The world is too much, too loud; too big.

It makes it easier to give in. Cut your lease. Let him pack everything you own into the back of his car.

(He groans like you've gutted him when you tell him you've already handed in your resignation two weeks ago.)

In private, in his office (your home now, too), you kneel on a satin pillow (when you're good), head bowed against his thigh, breathing in the heady musk of him. Gasoline. Iodine. Agar. Smoke. His hand falling down every so often to stroke calloused fingers against your nape. Tobacco. Worn leather. Fresh ink.

Your head is empty in these moments, forehead pressed against the cotton of his trousers. Deliciously so. You hadn't realised how much you think, either, until he cupped his hand around the back of your head and pushed your nose into his thigh. Mind reeling. Looping. Crowded. Loud. Until—

The scratch of a pen on paper. Metal sliding against wood. The hollow thunk of his hand dropping against the surface. Breaths. The whine of his chair when he shifts. A grunt. Empty, empty—

And when the catch of a zipper fills the air, you let his hands guide you to where you need to be, lips already parting at the slightest brush of his knuckles on your cheek. Open, willing. Empty.

He feeds you his cock without a word because none needs to be said. You know what to do. He's been training you for this moment from the onset. And the realisation of it settles around you like a blanket; that thing inside of you shifts again, sliding into place.

This is where you belong.

His hand on your crown. His growling voice in your ear. "Look at me when you swallow my cock, sweetheart—mm, that's my good girl."

(Nine, ten.)

[kngrose]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐈'𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃...

imagine a situationship with sevika

WARNINGS: mentions of cheating, drinking, bi! reader but wlw, eventual smut, modern au

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : i have way too many thoughts about this— this will have multiple parts. see part two here. ^^

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You didn’t plan for it. But somewhere along the line, something changed. Your relationship had gotten too… comfortable. At first, the changes were subtle; He wasn’t saying anything outlandish, nothing to make you question your relationship.

But there were small instances, ones where he’d forget plans you made, or when he’d linger on his phone a little longer than usual in your company. You told yourself it was nothing; he might just be a little more stressed than usual– maybe there’s something personal he’s going through.

But as time passed, the pattern became clearer. Conversations that used to flow easily were now strained, almost forced, filled with half-hearted responses. He didn't pick up on the little things anymore; your new manicure or your haircut you had gotten to perfectly frame your face, in hopes that he would notice.

He wouldn’t be as passionate anymore, the fire he once held slowly dimming before your eyes. It was disheartening. The spark that once kept your relationship alive is fading, and you're left with a gnawing feeling of emptiness that you can’t quite explain.

And then there was her.

It wasn’t anything too large, the event. Just a kickback amongst some of your shared friends and some extras they’d invited. You’d tagged along with your boyfriend who’d long forgotten about you, chopping it up with a few of the guys on the couch. You felt a sour twinge in your gut as you sat beside him; this is the most enthusiasm he’s shown in weeks.

You’d noticed her in your solitude; shooting you glances across the room. Similar to you, she hadn’t said much of anything, just idly man-spread on the neighboring couch, red cup held loosely in her hand. You’ve never seen her before… you wonder whose friend she is.

You can't help but return the glances– look at her. Her broad shoulders, her thighs, her hands decorated with rings. The piercings that decorate her face. Those eyes, assessing you as she circles the rim of her cup with an index finger, a little smirk forming on her dark lips.

How could you help it– when she’s just radiating with unspoken confidence? It’s captivating, drawing you in like a deer in headlights. There’s a sharpness in her eyes that unsettles you, and yet, something about it excites you. She’s not like anyone you’ve ever seen.

You realized later that she was just waiting. Waiting for your boyfriend to excuse himself so she could move in. It’ll make you wonder later, how much of this she premeditated. It doesn’t take her long to approach you when he leaves, sliding into the spot next to you curtly, smirking as she meets your eyes. She’s beautiful up close.

She’s looking at you with that calculating gaze, making it clear she’s intrigued. She scans your face up and down, “Like your hair… suits you.”

Her voice was deep, commanding, like she had the power to bend the world to her will. You feel your cheeks warm under her gaze, touching your hair softly. “Thank you.” You manage to retort, embarrassingly glancing away. When you shot your eyes back to hers your breath got caught in your chest, her gaze is unwavering. A chuckle rumbles from her throat, “You’re cute.”

But it's not just the look—it’s the way she speaks to you. It’s amazing how easily she manages to fluster you, it’s effortless. Sevika, you learn that her name is, charms you with her dry humor and college stories, entertaining you the entirety of the night.

She tells you about all of the petty fights she’s been in, and all of her run ins with the police. Some of which are so descriptive you have to wonder if she’s being generous with the details. All the while she’s charming you up, placing a hand on your knee, then to your thigh, drawing small circles. You take note of the way she seems to fixate on your hair, constantly moving it from your face or twisting the strands between her fingers.

The flirtation feels different—darker. Her voice rumbles with a kind of quiet power, and when her hand brushes against yours, it lingers just a little too long. You want to pull away, but instead, you stay. The tension builds, and despite your better judgment, a part of you is drawn to it. To her.

You wish you could go back in time and slap yourself. You knew better than to get yourself alone with this girl, this freakishly charismatic, freakishly, randomly attractive girl. But you let her lead you away to a secluded hallway of the house, her excuse being the music was too loud.

And she continued conversing with you, leaning against the wall and swallowing down the rest of the cup. She huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh, “You a nanny or somethin’?” You shot her a confused look in response. She looked down, nodding her head towards the red cup in your hand. “You’re babysitting.” 

“Oh, this…” You mutter, swirling the drink around plainly. “Not much of a drinker.” You notice the roll of her eyes as she pushes herself off the wall and your breath hitches as she closes in on you. She pulls the cup from your hand, raising a large hand to your chin to tilt your head back. You barely manage to sputter, “What are you doing–!” before she orders you to, “Open,” nudging your chin softly.

You lock eyes with her for the umpteenth time, her eyes filled with something different this time around. You hesitantly part your lips, allowing her to pour the rest of the content into your mouth. There’s a soft groan leaving her mouth as she watches some of it spill from the corner of your lips down your chin.

The way her eyes lingered on your lips made your heart race. You were suddenly aware of how close you were, how her scent filled your senses, how her gaze felt like a slow burn.

You don’t say anything, but you can feel the heat between you both, the pull that’s been growing stronger with each passing second. Before you know it, she’s kissing you—rough and urgent, her hands gripping your hips with a hunger that matches the storm brewing inside you. Her kiss is overwhelming, like a fire that consumes you whole. You melt into it, into her, not thinking about the consequences, not thinking about him.

The moment ends just as quickly as it began, but the aftershocks are impossible to ignore. You stand there, breathless, disoriented, and yet, there’s a part of you that doesn’t regret it. It feels raw, real, and alive in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

You pull away from Sevika, your chest tight with confusion and shame. But Sevika just watches you, unfazed. There’s no sympathy in her gaze, in fact, all you could register was a sly smirk on her lips. Sevika moves to stand close to you, her presence overwhelming, wrapping a hand around your throat, "What's holding you back?" she mumbles against your lips.

And in that moment, you realize that nothing is holding you back. You’ve already made your choice without even knowing it.

There’s no turning back now.  

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[bartonomy]

RESTLESS SILENCE!

PAIRING Barty Crouch Jr. x quiet!fem!Ravenclaw!Reader

SYNOPSIS Barty Crouch Jr. hated silence. You thrived in it. Being paired together for a Potions project in the library should have been simple—but Barty refuses to let the quiet win.

CONTENT WARNING obsessive! barty, possessive! james, angst, fluff, the boys not asking yn abt her feelings LMFAO lmk if i missed something!

WORD COUNT 5k words

library.

Barty Crouch Jr. prided himself on many things—his sharp mind, his quick reflexes, his ability to get under people’s skin ( much to Regulus’ and Evans dismay) when he wanted to. But patience? That had never been one of them.

And yet, patience was exactly what was required when he found himself sitting across from you in the library, parchment spread between you, potions textbook propped open, the air between you thick with silence.

It wasn’t just any silence. It was a suffocating, calculated quiet, the kind that settled around the you like a second skin. You liked it. Humming in contentment as you flipped through the book to gather enough information for your assignment.

It drove him mental.

You had been partnered up in Slughorn’s class earlier that day, much to Barty’s irritation. You were everything he wasn’t—controlled, meticulous, the sort of person who took diligent notes and never spoke unless you had something of actual substance to say. The worst part? You were no outcast. Despite your quiet nature, you were as well-liked, hovering at the edges of the Marauders’ usual chaos, laughing softly at Pandora Lovegood’s dreamy theories, and using your smart mouth (Gideon insists) to get the Prewett brothers out of trouble from Mcgonnagall. You were… respected.

Barty was tolerated, at best.

Now, in the dim glow of the library’s enchanted lanterns, you sat across from him, quill in hand, completely ignoring him. Well, unintentionally, he had been fussing in his place since you both arrived an hour ago, trying to get you to do merlin knows with him.

Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in his chair. “You could at least pretend to be interested in conversation,” he muttered.

You didn’t look up. “I don’t find unnecessary conversations stimulating.”

He scoffed. “How very Ravenclaw of you.”

You merely hummed in acknowledgment but said nothing more, flipping to another page in his (you lended yours to Peter after he accidentally got soaked by the bucket of water from the black lake intended for Snape) textbook.

Barty’s fingers drummed against the table. He could handle a lot of things—detentions, duels, even his father’s unrelenting scrutiny, but this? This was insufferable.

So, naturally, he decided to make it his mission to ruin the silence.

It started small.

A flick of his wand, and your inkwell slid ever-so-slightly across the table. You caught it before it could spill, shot him a glance, and continued writing.

Next, he nudged your parchment just out of reach. You didn’t even blink, simply shifted your chair forward and carried on.

Fine. If you were going to be stubborn, he’d up the stakes.

With another subtle movement of his wand, your beloved muggle book „The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie“ the one you had tucked beside your Potions text, began to quiver. Slowly at first, then more violently, the pages ruffling as though caught in a windstorm.

you sighed, set your quill down rather roughly, and calmly muttered, “Finite Incantatem.”

The book stilled.

Barty whistled. “Impressive.”

You finally looked up at him, expression unreadable. “It‘s a First Year spell. Are you always this restless?”

He grinned. “Are you always this boring?”

There was no offense in your gaze, only quiet scrutiny. “No. But I also don’t feel the need to fill the silence just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

Barty opened his mouth, then shut it again.

No one had ever called him out so plainly before. Most people either avoided him, tolerated him, or challenged him outright. But you… you understood him in a way that unsettled him.

And worse, he had no idea what to do with that.

The pranks escalated.

By the end of the week, Barty had:

• Transfigured your quill into a small snake (you turned it back with no regard of his presence, only Trelwaney who shrieked in horror).

• Enchanted your book to read aloud in a dramatic voice (you merely bookmarked your page and waited for him to get bored).

• Jinxed your notes to rearrange themselves whenever you tried to read them (you rewrote them without complaint).

Each time, you met his antics with infuriating patience. No anger. No exasperation. Just quiet indifference, as if you knew exactly why he was doing it.

It wasn’t until he charmed your beloved novel to hover just out of reach that you finally had enough.

With a soft Expelliarmus, the book yanked itself free from his spell and slammed down onto the table between you. you met his gaze, eyes burning with guarded anger.

“Why?” you asked, voice level but firm.

Barty leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “Why what?”

You exhaled, slow and measured. Merlin, was he testing your already low patience “Why go to such lengths just to get a reaction?”

Barty opened his mouth to fire back something witty, but the words caught. He couldn’t answer.

Because the truth was something he didn’t want to admit. Because silence had never been kind to him. Because silence meant expectation, the weight of his father’s disapproval, the loneliness of never being enough. Because he didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t constantly react to him.

You watched as something shifted in his expression—something raw, something unguarded. And for the first time since you had been paired together, you didn’t seem like you were trying to solve him.

You just saw him.

The silence stretched between you once more. But this time, it didn’t feel suffocating. This time, it felt like something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.

The library had become a battlefield.

Barty didn’t lose. Not at duels, not at arguments, and certainly not at mind games. But after a week of relentless pestering, pranks, and jinxed books, but all he was met with was radio silence.

And Barty hated being ignored.

Tonight was no different.

You were back in your usual spot in the potions section near the back, candlelight flickering over parchment, and you were sure you could hear people snogging in the aisle next to you. Barty wasn’t writing. He was watching, and it pissed you off.

“Fascinating,” he drawled, chin resting on his palm.

You sighed, not even bothered to look up. “What is?”

“You,” he said simply.

At last, you glanced at him, one brow slightly raised. Not surprised, not flattered, only curious and slightly amused. As if he was some interesting tale from Trelawney‘s weekly horoscopes

Barty leaned forward, smirking. “You’re too patient for someone who spends time with the Marauders. They’re reckless. Loud. Gits.”

Your lips twitched in almost a smile. “And yet, I don’t find them insufferable.”

“Lucky them,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, studying him. “You don’t actually hate them, do you?”

Barty scoffed, leaning back. “Tell them that, and I’ll hex you.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “You could have joined them, you know. You’re clever enough. Quick-witted. You keep up with them in class.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I wanted to associate myself with obnoxious Griffins? I have a reputation to uphold ”

You only raised your eyebrow at that. “Oh yes, because being a maniacal, havoc wrecking wizard is soooooo important”

He roared into laughter, clutching his stomach like you have given him the funniest joke in Salazars sake. Tears were dripping out the corner of his eyes with his ropes falling messily over his shoulder.

After his sudden burst of emotions, there was silence, well, as much as you could say from Barty‘s loud wheezing trying to calm himself down and a group of second year Hufflepuffs discussing the use of Mandrakes, the space between you two was peaceful

Then, you shrugged, rolling your shoulders back to ease the growing pain (or the growing tension that is about to engulf you two) “or maybe, its because you’re lonely.”

Barty went still instantly.

For a moment, the pleasant quietness became oppressive, thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then,he laughed again. Though, now, it was short, sharp, utterly devoid of humor. “You think you know me?”

“I think,” you started, carefully trying to puck out the right words, “that you spend too much time trying to get people to notice you, y‘know?.”

His smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And yet, you’re the one paying attention.”

This time, you didn’t look away.

Checkmate.

Barty wasn’t sure when it started.

When you became the first person he looked for in a room. When silence with you stopped feeling suffocating and started feeling… different.

It was a slow, creeping thing, like poison slipping into his bloodstream.

You weren’t like the Marauders. You didn’t fill space with noise or demand attention. You simply were, an observer, someone who noticed things most people didn’t.

And Barty hated being noticed.

The Slytherin common room was quiet this late at night, with most students crammed at the Hufflepuff quidditch After-party after they had won against Ravenclaw earlier that day. Except for Barty and Regulus.

The younger Black sat in one of the loveseats by the fireplace, posture perfect as always with his messenger bag on his side while across from him, Barty sprawled lazily on the couch, legs stretched out, looking more reckless (or crazy according to Evan) than usual.

Regulus had been watching him for the past ten minutes. The tension in his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his Black-Green hair in agitation or the way his knee bounched when he thought no one was looking.

Finally, as if this thought gave him immense pain, he sighed. „You’re obsessed.“

Barty stilled. „What?“

„With her.“ Regulus arched an eyebrow knowingly

Junior scoffed, throwing his head back against the couch dramatically, flailing his arms „Oh, not you too!

Regulus ignored him. “It’s pathetic.” Barty turned his head, smirking. “Funny. Sirius said the same thing about you once.”

Regulus’ fingers twitched. “Sirius is an idiot.”

“And yet, here you are, acting just like him—concerned about my well-being, giving me the I know best speech.” Barty sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. “It’s sweet, really.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care what you do.” Barty grinned. “Liar.”

Regulus exhaled sharply. “What is this, Barty?”

Barty hummed, considering. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Reggie”

Regulus frowned. “You’re distracting me by talking about my idiotic brother. So spill, what are you afraid of? ”

Barty’s smirk faltered. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared into the flickering fire, expression unreadable. Then, with a slow breath out “Everything.”

Regulus didn’t press. Didn’t have to. He understood better than anyone what Barty really meant. The weight of expectations. The suffocating presence of a father who saw only duty.

Regulus studied him for a moment. “You don’t get attached to people. Especially not to someone like L/N. " Barty’s smirk returned, but it was weaker this time. “Maybe she’s just different.”

Regulus leaned back, unimpressed. “Or maybe you just don’t like that you can’t control her.” Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “And yet, I keep coming back.”

Regulus tilted his head. “That’s called liking someone, Barty.”

Barty scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Please. I don’t like people.”

“Then why does James Potter look like he wants to murder you?”

His expression darkened. “Because he knows.” the curly haired boy hummed thoughtfully. “Knows what?”

Barty looked him dead in the eyes.

“That she’s mine.”

Regulus sighed, standing up. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

But as he walked away, Barty didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, watching the fire, thinking about you.

It was , like Regulus said, James who noticed first.

Barty had expected it, really. The four eyed boy was too perceptive for his own good, especially when it came to people who operated in the gray spaces between morality.

One evening in the Gryffindor common room, James leaned against the couch where you were reading, arms crossed. “So,” he mused, “are you finally going to tell us why Crouch won’t leave you alone?”

You barely glanced up. “Because we’re Potions partners.”

Sirius, sprawled across an armchair, snorted. “Right. And I’m Minister for Magic.”

Remus, ever the voice of reason, tilted his head. “You do spend an awful lot of time with him.”

Peter nodded, mouth stuffed with fizzing whizzbees. “It’s weird.”

you sighed, closing your book without marking your spot first, which you internally curse. “He’s… frustrating.”

Sirius smirked. “But?”

You hesitated. Just for a moment. “But he’s not as easy to hate as people think.” That was all they needed to hear.

Sirius groaned dramatically. “Merlin help us, she’s sympathizing with the enemy.”

Remus grinned knowingly. “This is going to be fun.”

James Potter knew you better than anyone.

He had known you since you two were small—before Hogwarts, before the Marauders, before any of this. You had been his first real friend, little pigtails following him around, who always listened when he rambled about Quidditch, often times playing the referee and giving yellow cards to his imaginary opponents and someone who was there when he needed you.

And now? Now you were spending too much time with Barty bloody Crouch Junior.

James didn’t like it. Not one bit.

At first, he thought nothing of it. A Potions partnership was just that—a school assignment. But then he started noticing things.

The way you lingered in the library after hours.

The way Barty watched you fondly when he thought no one was looking.

The way you didn’t seem nearly as irritated with him as you should have been.

And that was unacceptable.

James wasn’t stupid. He knew who Barty Crouch Jr. was. The arrogant, sharp-tongued Slytherin who played by his own rules, who didn’t care about anyone but himself and his best friend‘s brother. And yet, somehow, he had wormed his way into your schedule, your attention—things James had always had without question.

He didn’t realize just how much it bothered him until he saw you two together.

It was a late evening in the library, and James had come to find you. Instead, he found your little pest stuck to your side.

Barty was leaning back in his chair, smirking, while you sat across from him, rolling your eyes but not actually telling him to leave you alone. There was something different in the air between them—an ease James didn’t like.

Not one bit.

“Oi.”

You looked up, blinking in surprise. “James?”

Barty groaned. “Oh, fantastic.”

James ignored him, focusing on her. “We were supposed to go over Transfiguration notes, remember? Minnie was bugging me to take lessons with you”

You frowned. “That’s not until—”

“Now,” James said firmly. Barty snorted. “Territorial, aren’t we, Potter?”

James’ jaw clenched. “Just making sure my best friend isn’t wasting her time.” He just grinned, all teeth. “Oh, trust me, she’s not.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples to ease the incoming headache. Is it from Barty‘s constant yapping, the oh so frustrating instructions of the Felix Felicis, or James bickering? Who knows. “James, we’re just working on Potions.”

“Right,” James muttered. “Because that explains why he won’t stop staring at you.”

Barty raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You jealous, Potter?” James hated how his stomach twisted at that. “Of you?” He scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Good,” Barty said smoothly, “because she’s free to spend time with whoever she wants.” The Gryffindor bristled. “And you’re free to bugger off.”

“James.” your voice was sharp now, cutting through the tension. you stood, gathering your books. “I’ll meet you in your common room later, okay?”

James hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Fine.” But his glare at Barty said this isn’t over.

As he left, Barty chuckled under his breath. “Protective, isn’t he?”

“You love making things worse, don’t you?” you simply glared at him. Barty grinned. “Admit it. You’d be bored otherwise.”

You only shook your head at that, exasperated. But this time, you didn’t argue.

And Barty? He liked that just a little too much.

James Potter wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what he told himself. But this—this infuriating, undeniable thing happening between his best friend and Barty bloody Crouch Jr.—was driving him mad.

It wasn’t just about Barty. It was about you.

You were his best friend. The one person who had always been there before Sirius, before Remus, before Peter. You had an unspoken understanding, a rhythm that no one else could touch.

And yet, somehow, you were slipping out of reach.

Because of that foul git.

Because wherever you were, Barty was not far behind.

Pandora Lovegood was an odd one. Everyone knew it.

She spoke in riddles, saw connections where others didn’t, and had a habit of appearing exactly where she was needed.

So James should have known better than to groan when she plopped down next to him on the bench in the transfiguration courtyard, humming thoughtfully.

“You’re sulking,” she observed. “I don’t sulk,” James muttered.

She smiled, entirely unconvinced. “It’s about her and him, isn’t it?” He scowled, borderline pouted. “There is no her and him.”

Pandora tilted her head. “Not yet.” at that, James sat up straighter. “Yet?”

Pandora just hummed again, her dreamy expression betraying nothing. “I think you’re afraid.”

“Of what? Crouch?” He snorted. “Please.”

“No,” Pandora mused. “Not him. You’re afraid because for the first time, she’s paying attention to someone else.” James didn’t respond. Because that would mean admitting she was right. The Rosier smiled knowingly. “You can’t stop it, you know.”

“Stop what?”

She simply shrugged, standing as if that answered everything. “The inevitable.”

James groaned. “Merlin, you’re worse than Moony.”

But as she walked away, her words lingered. And James hated that more than anything.

James found Barty alone that evening, leaning against the cobble stone wall just outside the Charms Classroom. He didn’t hesitate.

“Stay away from her.”

Barty turned, raising an eyebrow. “Potter,” he drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “This is getting predictable.” James stepped closer, jaw tight. “I’m serious.”

“Sirius is the loud one,” Barty quipped. “You’re the one with the tragic hero complex.” James hated that he had a point. “Whatever game you’re playing,” he said sharply, “she’s not a part of it.”

Barty’s smirk faltered. Just for a second. “Who says it’s a game?”

James scoffed. “Oh, please. You don’t care about her. You just like getting a rise out of people. And I won’t let you use her to do it.” Barty’s expression darkened.

“Use her?” he repeated, voice low, dangerous. “Funny, coming from you.”

James stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”

Barty leaned in slightly, voice smooth as silk. “It means you don’t like that she’s spending time with me—not because you think I’ll hurt her, but because you can’t stand the idea of not being the most important person in her life.” James clenched his fists. Barty’s smirk was sharp, knowing. “Hits a nerve, doesn’t it?” James took a slow breath. He would not hex him.Not yet, at least.

“She’s my best friend,” James said coldly. “And I trust her. But I don’t trust you.” Barty’s gaze flickered—just for a moment. Then, with an infuriating grin, he stepped back.

“Well then, Potter.” His voice was almost mocking. “Let’s see who she trusts more.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

James stayed there for a long time, breathing heavily, hands clenched at his sides. Because for the first time, he wasn’t entirely sure who would win.

You were avoided him.

Not subtly. Not carefully. Just completely ignoring his existence

It started the week following the small… confrontation in library. Barty walked into Potions, expecting you to be at their usual table at the back, books already open,quill tapping absently against parchment, asking about his usual trouble with filch and a soft smile gracing your lips. Instead, your lips never opened and gaze never left your paper.

No glance in his direction. No acknowledgment at all.

Barty stared. His fingers curled into fists beneath the desk.

Fine.

But then it kept happening. In the corridors, you veered away when you saw him approaching. In the library, you sat with James, Sirius, even Remus—anyone but him. When he did catch youe eye across the Great Hall, you looked away so quickly it felt like a slap.

It wasn’t anger. It was erasure, like he wasn’t even there.

Barty Crouch Jr. had never been ignored in his life. People watched him. They feared him. They respected him, hated him, wanted to be him. But you—you were acting as though he was nothing.

And he couldn’t stand it.

At first, he played it off. Shrugged, smirked, pretended not to care. But then a week passed. Then another. And with every second of silence, something inside him frayed. He found himself watching you too closely. Waiting for you to look at him. Wanting your attention, even if it was anger, frustration, anything but this emptiness.

And when James Potter threw an arm around your shoulders at the Slytherin party, whispering something that made you laugh—

Something in Barty snapped.

You didn’t know how it had come to this.

One moment, you had been talking with Evan about absolute nonsense, nursing a cup of firewhiskey mixed with something you didn’t want to know, trying to focus on anything other than the tension between James and Barty, the way they seemed to be circling each other like wolves.

And now…

Now you were backed against the cold stone wall of an abandoned corridor, heart pounding as Barty loomed in front of you, eyes blazing with something wild, something dangerous.

“You’re avoiding me.” His voice was low, accusing.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You flinched. Not because you were afraid of him, Merlin, no—Barty is lunatic at best—but because there was something desperate in his voice, something fraying at the edges.

“I just needed space,” you said carefully. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Space? From me?”

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought he might actually grab you, hold you there like he could force you to listen. “You belong with me.”

The words sent a chill down you spine. Not because of their meaning—but because of how much he believed them. “Barty,” you whispered, voice betrying you slightly, much to your annoyance “you don’t own me.”

His jaw clenched. “I never said I did.”

“But you act like it,” you shot back. “Like I’m something for you to win. Like James and I can’t be close, like I don’t have a choice in who I spend time with.”

Barty exhaled sharply, stepping closer, invading her space. “You do have a choice.” His voice was low now, almost a plea. “So why do you keep running from this?”

This. Whatever this was.

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse racing as he stared at you, expression laced with something desperate.

“This isn’t normal,” you whispered. Barty tilted his head, studying you. “Since when have I ever been normal?”

Your heart ached at that. Because he wasn’t. He was sharp edges and chaos, wildfire wrapped in silk. And you were intrigued.

“Tell me to leave,” Barty murmured, voice softer now, more dangerous. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I will.”

You opened your mouth, words mingling in your head, yet none of them escaped your lips.

Barty’s smirk returned, but it wasn’t triumphant. It was something else—something satisfied yet frustrated, as if he hated how much he needed you to not push him away.

The next day, you felt off-balance. Everything was the same, yet nothing was.

The Great Hall was as loud as ever, filled with students laughing, chattering, passing notes between bites of dinner. James sat beside you, talking animatedly with Sirius about the shenanigans they pulled at last night‘s party. Remus was reading. Pandora was off in her own world, stirring her tea with the wrong end of her spoon.

It was normal.

But you weren’t . Because he was there. Across the room, at the Slytherin table. And he wasn’t acting normal at all.

Barty Crouch Jr. was watching you. His elbow was propped on the table, chin resting against his knuckles, eyes fixed on you with that sharp, playful intensity. Like he was waiting for something. Like he could still feel last night as much as you could—the heat of his breath, the weight of his words, the way he had opened your eyes.

Your stomach twisted but not in the usual dread

You quickly looked down at her plate, poking at the food with the fork, suddenly very aware of every movement, every breath.

It was fine.

You could pretend it hadn’t happened. You could move on, act normal, be the person she had always been. You could-

“You okay?”

James’ voice cut through your thoughts.

You startled, nearly knocking over your pumpkin juice. James frowned, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.

“You’re jumpy,” he observed. “Weird day?”

Yes. Extremely weird.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

James didn’t look convinced.

Barty was still watching. You could feel it. Your pulse quickened. You needed to get out of here.

With a forced smile, you pushed back from the table. “I just remembered-I have to grab something from the library before class.” James raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

You turned before he could question you further, walking briskly out of the Great Hall, heart pounding.

You should have known he would find you.

It had been inevitable. Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t the kind of person who let things go. He didn’t believe in backing down, in walking away—especially not from you.

And so, a day after the Slytherin party, after you had spent the night pretending you weren’t looking over your shoulder for him, he found you.

The Astronomy Tower was, to your luck, empty. The moment you stepped onto the stone balcony, the cold air biting at your skin, you felt him before you saw him in your peripheral vision.

He was leaning against the railing, staring out over the darkened grounds, sleeves rolled up, hands tense against the stone. He looked different in the moonlight. Less sharp, less manic, less like the Barty Crouch Jr. the world expected him to be.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I hate my father.”

His voice was quiet. Hollow. You stiffened, startled by his sudden honesty, by the rawness in his tone.

Still, you didn’t leave. Didn’t move.

Barty exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmured. “To be expected to be perfect. To be a reflection of someone else, someone you loathe.”

Your chest ached at the exhaustion in his voice.

You stayed silent, waiting.

Barty let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. “He thinks he can mold me into whatever he wants. A loyal son. A future politician. A Crouch through and through.” He scoffed. “But I’m not. I never was.”

He turned to look at you then, and for the first time, there was no smirk, no amusement—just something raw and vulnerable, something you had never seen before.

“I think,” he said slowly, voice quieter now, “that’s why I wanted you so much.”

Your breath caught unexpectedly.

Barty’s eyes flickered over your face, unreadable. “You don’t try to make me be something.” His lips twisted. “Even when you hate me, at least it’s real.”

Something heavy settled between you, thick and undeniable.

“And”, he started, face twisting into something uncomfortable, trying to find the right words. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you—like he was fighting a battle you couldn’t see.

Then-

“I hate him too.”

The words were sharp, bitter, cutting through the silence like a blade. Your breath hitched. “Barty—”

“No.” He turned to face you fully, eyes burning. “I hate the way he hovers around you like he owns you. I hate the way he looks at me like I’m something filthy. I hate that no matter what I do, he’s always there.”

Your chest ached at the frustration in his voice, the way his fists clenched like he was barely keeping himself together.

“He’s my best friend,” you said softly. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No. He’s waiting.”

You frowned at that. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to wake up,” Barty muttered. “For you to realize that he’s the safer choice. The one who won’t make your life complicated. The one who fits neatly into your perfect little world.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You think this is about James?”

Barty scoffed. “It’s always about him.”

Frustration flared in your chest. “Barty, I chose to stay away.”

He stilled.

“I chose to keep my distance,” you continued, voice surprisingly steady despite the inner hurricane you felt. “Not because of James. Not because of anyone else. But because you—”a sharp exhale left your mouth. “You scare me.”

Something flickered in his expression. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s not what I meant.”

Because this, the fire between them, the way he looked at you like he was drowning and you were the only air left—

It was too much. Barty was too much. And you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to handle it.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, Barty stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel his warmth, enough that your breath caught in your throat.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured.

Your pulse raced. “Then stop—” “Stop what?” His voice was rough now, almost desperate. “Wanting you? Needing you?”

“Barty—”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to stop.”

And maybe that was the real problem. Because Barty Crouch Jr. had never been good at letting things go.

And neither had you.

So when he reached for you, fingers brushing against your wrist like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, you didn’t pull away.

And when he kissed you, desperate and reckless and full of something sharp and aching,

you kissed him back.

[lqveharrington]

hii, i would love for you to do ‘the prophecy’ with fred weasley and ravenclaw reader!! thank you so much 💓

The Prophecy | F.W.

summary: fred’s starting to feel insecure in your relationship, and trelawney’s reading doesn’t make it any better.

pairing: fred weasley x ravenclaw!reader

includes: use of Y/N, insecure fred, a lot of overthinking, angst, fluff at the end

a/n: for some reason, this prompt stumped me so bad. so sorry if it’s not up to the usual standards 😭

One, two. One, two, three, four.

You impatiently counted how many times the alarm on Trelawney’s stupid clock would go off until she realized it wasn’t a crystal ball predicting a Hufflepuff's future. All you wanted was class to be over and be in the arms of your loving boyfriend, but they changed the house pairings for electives. Instead of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, it was Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Luckily, you still had all your core classes with Gryffindor.

As you lazily blew on the small braid you gave yourself in your boredom, a crack of lightning struck right outside, causing Trelawney to jerk in surprise with horror etched into her face. It looked like she had just seen the grim itself.

She whipped her head around and looked directly at you, taking your hands in her shaky ones. She read your palm like the lines had magically changed since last class, muttering quietly to herself until cleared your throat in confusion.

“My dear, you will receive ill-advised news by the end of the week.” She whispered and pulled your hand closer to her buggy eyes, furrowing her brows when she saw your life line. “Expect your spirit to be broken and rebuilt by the one you trust the most.”

Your lips kissed you teeth in an unsettling manner. Was this your punishment for not listening to her and sometimes making fun of her? Did she want to make you feel bad about your life choices? Sure you bored out of your mind in class but that didn't mean you wanted a horrid reading.

Your eyes flickered toward the dark sky outside again, watching as the lightening struck louder than the last. Trelawney sighed and patted your hand shut, dismissing everyone with a quiet wave. Everyone looked at her in bewilderment before slowly leaving the tower, murmuring amongst themselves.

Furrowing your brows and flexing your hand, you took your things and hastily made your way down the ladder, narrowly avoiding your face splattering on the stone floor. You always believed in everything factual — Ravenclaw, through and through — and you weren't actually sure why you chose Divination as your elective. The crystal balls and tea leaf readings never seemed credible, always predicting the same things over and over again.

However, the Weasley Twins loved Divination. They often made up their readings and passed with Outstandings. George believed he had a natural aptitude for the class whilst Fred said he had unlocked his inner eye. But what they both heavily believed in was Trelawney's words — which you thought was utter rubbish.

When you had Divination with them in sixth year, she told them that they would encounter a horrible noise, sending someone they love plummeting. That same week, Harry retreived his golden egg from the first task and revealed it to be screeching merpeople in the common room, causing the twins to drop him from their shoulders to cover their ears. From that day onward, they clung onto her every word like it was the sacred truth.

Which it wasn't.

Shaking all thoughts of Divination out of your mind, you made your down to the Great Hall. It was your potions study hall with the rest of the sixth years, and you needed time to decompress after whatever stupid prophecy Trelawney read off you.

You scanned the hall and smiled when you saw the twins, Lee, Alicia, and Angelina already working on their forty-inch essay for potions. Well, the girls were working on their essays. The twins and Lee were playing Exploding Snap — although they weren't very subtle with it.

The look on your face meant nothing but trouble. You shook your head and messed with them, putting your hands on the twins' shoulders and holding back a laugh when you saw them jump and pretend to work on their essays. Lee looked up at you and shook his head in amusement, nudging the two Weasleys to look behind them.

George was the first to turn and rolled his eyes when he saw you, scooting over so you could sit in between him and Fred. He took your bag and put it beside his on the ground, still grumbling under his breath.

"Blimey, Y/N. I thought Snape was going to take points off and give us detention again." George nudged your side with his elbow, ruffling your hair in the process.

"Again? What did you lot do in the few minutes it took for me to get here?" You tease and tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, grabbing your own parchment out with only ten-inches left for your essay.

You quietly worked on your essay while ensuring the mischievous trio stayed on task, every so often glancing up to make sure they were doing anything stupid. As you wrapped up your essay, you looked up to your right and met Fred's eyes. You gave him a soft smile but only earned a half-hearted, tight-lipped nod back.

Parchment crinkled under your hold before you released a breath. You pursed your lips and went back to your essay, forcing back the tears of frustration from spilling out. For the past two weeks, Fred began to grow more and more distant from you. You weren't sure what exactly prompted him to do so, but he wouldn't give you an answer and the rest of your friends... Well, they didn't know if you wanted to know from them.

You felt like you were slowly sinking further away from him and you couldn't do anything. Biting your tongue to stop anymore thoughts, you turned in your essay to Snape and swiftly left the Great Hall with no spare glances toward the Gryffindors.

The states of pity from your friends only made you feel like you were crumbling into forever broken pieces.

You sat with your back against a great oak, throwing another stone into the Black Lake. The ripples echoed and repeated until they settled, the small bubbles diminished.

The rays of the sun hit your eyes, causing you to wince softly. You turned to the side and fully expected Fred to be sitting next to you, a small frown etching its way to your lips when you saw nothing but the Hogwarts castle.

Fred usually came with you whenever you needed to relax, but thinking about the past few weeks only hurt your heart.

As the whispers from the Forbidden forest grew stronger and the sun slowly descended behind the trees, you shut your eyes and leaned your head against the tree. You wished you didn’t have to leave your spot; you were only just beginning to clear your mind.

Frustratedly, you rub your closed eyes with the palms of your hands, freezing when someone spoke from behind you. That someone having an all too familiar voice.

"Love, you're going to irritate your eyes."

Your head whipped around to stare at the boy you fell deeply in love with last year at the Yule Ball. The glare you threw at him could’ve petrified him. "You have no right to call me love after ignoring me for two — almost three — weeks.”

Fred swallowed thickly and sat on a boulder beside you. He knew he was in the wrong for avoiding you for so long without telling you the truth. He believed that it was better for you not to know, but what good was it in the long run?

"I know, I'm sorry." He mumbled and bit his lip, looking down at his tattered shoes rather than meeting your eyes. "It's okay if you never want to see me ever again or choose to hate me, but I avoided you because — " He paused and squeezed his eyes shut. Godric, he was going to sound like such a stupid prick. "Because of a prophecy Trelawney gave me."

Your mouth parted ever so slightly before you threw a small rocks at his legs. Your voice rang out clear and loud, reminding him of his own mother. "Are you kidding me? Frederick Gideon Weasley! You've been avoiding me because of a stupid reading?”

"I'm sorry! But what she said about me made it seem like you needed someone better!" He let your rocks hit him and huffed, frustration bubbling within himself. He took in a breath before looking back over at you. "She told me that the something I love will succeed but only if a great weight of unstableness no longer burdened it."

You crease your brows in confusion and drop the rest of your rocks onto the ground, shaking your head as he clenched and unclenched his fist. "What are you talking about?"

"Love, you're bloody brilliant." Fred met your eyes for the first time in days. All he wanted to do was have you in his arms again and press kisses everywhere he could, but he still owed an explanation to you. "You've passed all your OWLs with flying colors and you've studied so hard for you NEWTs." He buried his face in his hands and sighed. "I'm the burden that will hold you back if you choose to stay with me."

Your initial annoyance and anger melted away at his words, eyes softening at the sight of his dejected state. "Freddie, you're not a burden to me or anyone — “

He let out a laugh that sounded more like a scoff. "I have no money. When you need support, you wouldn't get any from me. I'm not good enough for you."

Five seconds of utter silence took over. The fluttering of the owls delivering mail overhead and the sounds of the curfew bell were the only things that were heard.

Before Fred could even register what was happening, you flung yourself into his arms and rested your head on his. He froze before wrapping his arms around your midsection, burying himself into your chest. He breathed in your scent, body releasing all the tension he had stored inside.

This wasn’t the first time Fred has ever felt insecure about your relationship. There had been other times where he felt like he wasn’t good enough for you, but you were always there to reassure him whenever he voiced them to you. It was horrible to see him act like someone other than his usual self. You loved who he was and you wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Freddie…” You rub his back gently and feel him melt into you. “I don't need any money. Your words are enough support for me.”

He only nodded in response, missing your touch after days of avoidance. Fred felt your move around so you were sitting beside him, your hands moving to turn his head toward you.

You smiled at him and thumbed his cheeks. "And didn't I tell you not to believe everything Trelawney says? I doubt she was taking about our relationship." You pressed a light kiss to his lips before pulling him into another hug, "I love you, Freddie. Don't ever forget that."

When he didn’t say anything, you pulled away and looked over his features, brows furrowing as you saw his teary eyes.

"Fred —?”

"I love you so much, woman." He murmured before capturing your lips in a mind-searing manner, feeling you smile into the kiss. Fred pulled away for a breath before placing another tender kiss to your lips, thumbing the bottom lip when you pulled away in a daze. "You're my soulmate."

You grin shyly and lean your head on his shoulder, looking up at him. "No more overthinking, okay?" You watched as he nodded at you, his face flushing a deep shade of red when you began to pepper kisses on his neck. Each kiss meaning the same thing.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Fred took your hand in his and kissed your knuckles, chuckling when you got flustered over a simply gesture. "You might make me fall even deeper in love with you."

You hummed and pressed one last kiss to his lips, both of you grinning like idiots in love. "Have I changed the prophecy yet?"

"Hm, you'll have to let me check again." He said softly and gave you one final breathtaking kiss, squeezing your hip. "I think so."

"I love you, Fred Weasley." You sigh happily and kiss his cheek. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[skyahri]

Unplanned |Naruto Men X Reader| HC

Characters: Sasuke Uchiha, Naruto Uzumaki, Shikamaru Nara, and Kakashi Hatake

Summary: Pregnancy scenarios 'cause I can.

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy. Bad words. All fluff.

Masterlist Ko-fi

- - - - -

Sasuke Uchiha

He isn't the kind of guy to outwardly dote on you.

He's never been good with words or physical touch, more so preferring quality time together. You sleep in the same bed, eat meals together when it's convenient, and lounge around together when time allows.

When you come home from a last minute doctor's appointment with some big news, none of that really changes.

He assures you that he's happy, that he loves you, and this is all wonderful, but that's about all you're going to get out the emotionally constipated man.

However, while words may not be his strong suit, actions certainly are.

It's become painfully obvious that you are never allowed to go anywhere alone ever again.

He's like a shadow, following you everywhere and anywhere you decide to go. It doesn't matter that you're just running to the market- he's coming with. Ino invited the girls over for a dinner party? Cool, he'll walk you there, hang around in the shadows outside, then walk you home.

When questioned, Sasuke only says that he doesn't trust other people. Already knowing how he is, you don't push him any further. (Not that he'd entertain you if you did.)

People notice pretty quickly. He's not subtle and it's not exactly common for the Uchiha to be so openly clingy.

You wanted to keep the pregnancy a secret for a little while longer. You knew that his status would make the whole thing bigger than you'd like and it was still so early, only about eight weeks in. But people were becoming more and more insistent with their questions.

"Seriously, did something happen? He's been watching you like a Hawk for the past month."

"It was cute at first, but now it's straight up creepy."

Sakura and Ino dramatically shiver at the notion. You laugh, imagining how unsettling this all must look from the outside.

"It's fine, I promise. He's just been a little overprotective since he found out I was pregnant."

They don't register it at first. They just nod in understanding and move to sip their tea. You can almost see it click in their heads before they slam down their cups and start freaking out.

"Wait, WHAT?"

Naruto Uzumaki

"Congratulations! Based on the ultrasound, I'd say you're about five weeks along. It's still early, but you can see a tiny sac right here-"

Your mind is going a thousand miles a minute, thinking of everything and nothing as the doctor points out the tiny, centimeter-long blob in the picture.

Naruto had been bugging you for the past three weeks about a smell. He swears it's nothing bad, just that Kurama is insisting that your scent has changed and- blah, blah, blah. You never could get any more information out of him, which just left you to eventually cave and visit the doctor. Animals have instincts for a reason and who were you to ignore them?

Turns out, that damn fox was right.

After a half-hour lecture on what you can and can't do anymore, you were handed a goodie bag of essentials and sent on your way.

You barely remember the walk home. Your mind was completely blank as it tried to process the news. It wasn't until Naruto was standing in front of you in the doorway to your home that you finally snapped out of the trance.

You stared up at him. His eyebrows were knit together and he was asking if everything was alright. He pulled everything out of your hands and not-so-gently set them on the floor.

"I'm pregnant."

His eyes blew wide and not even a second later he was smiling, pulling you into him and spinning you around. It's over just as quickly as it started. He's setting you back down on your feet and looking you over, mumbling a few hollow apologies for manhandling you. He takes a deep breath, that lopsided grin on his face never leaving.

"You're pregnant."

Just those two words have all the fog clearing from your head. Reality is forced onto you in an instant. In any other situation, it might have made you dizzy, but right now you couldn't be happier.

"I'm pregnant."

Shikamaru Nara

He really should've seen this coming.

Honestly, with how careless he is with protection, it's a wonder how you hadn't gotten pregnant sooner. A year and some change of not bothering with condoms and lazy, half-assed pullouts had finally come to bite him in the ass.

Although he knows this is all going to be horrifically bothersome, he can't find it in himself to be all that bothered. No, not when you're standing in front of him so nervously, little tears gathering on your waterline as you hold out a slip of paper for him to take.

He pulls you into a hug- a very tight, very intimate hug. One of his hands is on your lower back, pressing you into him, and the other is in your hair to cup the back of your head. He can feel the stress start to melt from your body as you relax into him, your arms moving to loosely hold him back.

"I'm sorry. I know this wasn't exactly planned..."

It definitely wasn't planned. He didn't like to think about things too hard. The only talk about the future he'd engaged in was a brief confirmation that you were both interested in pursuing each other exclusively and that neither were against marriage and kids.

But even though this was sudden and unprompted and definitely not what he was expecting when you asked to talk with him privately, he just couldn't find it in himself to be anything other than pleased. Sure, he would've liked to wait a few years and it preferably be after he'd properly proposed and married you, but none of that is deterring him.

He loved you. He didn't say it as often as he probably should, but that didn't make it any less true. You were easygoing and passive and fit into his life with no resistance. His friends liked you, possibly more than they did him. You liked to cook and he never had to worry about you causing trouble.

This was fine.

Not troublesome in the least.

"No, this is... good."

Kakashi Hatake

He was positive he was sterile. He'd have to be after all the injuries and trauma he's sustained, right? Four years and not a single scare, yet here you were, apparently three months pregnant, handing him a report from the OB's office.

He couldn't even form a sentence. He just sighed and sat back onto the couch with his eyes closed. It's only eight in the morning, it's too early for this, not that there'd ever be a great time.

"I knew you weren't going to be thrilled, but now I'm starting to get nervous. Can you please say something?"

He held his arm up and gestured for you to come towards him. When he could feel you brush against him, he grabbed your wrist and carefully yanked you onto his lap. You let out a relieved, albeit hesitant, chuckle as he slowly wrapped himself around you, his head finding solace in the crook of your neck.

The two of you stayed like that for a little while until he let out the loudest, most dramatic groan you'd ever heard leave his mouth, followed by a mumbled 'are you sure?', to which you rolled your eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure. Here, you can see for yourself."

You unfold the paper and pulled out a few pictures. He shifts you around so you're at a better angle before he takes them into his hands. It's obvious that he has no idea what he's looking at- just that the blob is already baby-shaped and very, very intimidating.

You point out some of the obvious things, the head and feet and such, before moving down to the very last photo at the bottom.

"And that little spot right there means that we're having a boy."

"I thought they couldn't tell the gender until later."

"It is later, Kashi. Fourteen weeks."

He lets you take the pictures from him so he can set his hand on your stomach. You'd mentioned gaining a little weight recently, which he honestly hadn't noticed, but now he's wondering how he could've missed it as he brushes his fingers over the slightest most obvious bump in your usually flat stomach.

He must've been zoned out for too long, because you're calling his name and setting your hand over his. He hums, a slight acknowledgment that he's heard you, but you know he's not actually listening.

He's too busy thinking about diapers and bottles and late nights and early mornings. How his son is going to be in the same class as his student's kids. How Gai is going to be a hundred times more annoying in the coming years.

But then a single thought completely derails his spiraling. He wonders what your baby will look like. If he'll be a morning person like you or like to take naps like him. If they'll accel in genjutsu or not, because while he certainly does, you most certainly don't.

He's spent time with Kurenai and Mirai. While raising a person definitely seemed difficult, he couldn't deny that Kurenai was happy. Actually, despite Asuma's untimely death, she's the happiest he'd ever seen her.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just... thinking about how annoying it'll be to tell everyone we're expecting."

"Seemed more like panicking to me."

"... shut up."

[ghostlycamil4]

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜: 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝐷𝑎𝑚𝑛 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟 (𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦)

Masterlist

Bakugo always had something to say. That you were too loud, that you didn’t know how to stay still, that you were always all over him. And yet, what unsettled him the most—though he’d never admit it—was how easy it was for you to love.

And yet, that shameless and sincere way you showed your feelings was, ironically, one of the first things that broke down his walls.

“Move over a bit,” you said suddenly, standing in front of him.

“What? Why?” he grumbled without budging.

Without answering, you put one knee on the couch, then the other, and with smooth, confident movements, you climbed onto his lap like that was your rightful place. Bakugo tensed up, surprised. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air for a second, like they didn’t know what to do. You, on the other hand, just settled your weight, straddling him naturally.

“Woman, get off. I’m not a damn chair,” he growled, but his hands ended up on your waist, clumsy at first, like he was trying to convince himself it was to push you away… even though he made no real effort to do so.

“I don’t wanna, Katsuki,” you whispered, leaning in until your face was just inches from his.

“I need space…” he repeated, voice lower now, less firm, betrayed by the faint blush creeping up his neck.

You tilted your head with a small smile, and instead of answering with words, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his jawline. His body shivered beneath yours.

“Damn it, what are you—”

You didn’t let him finish. You brought your hands to his face, warm and gentle, cupping him tenderly as you started kissing him little by little, like you were tracing an invisible map across his skin.

First his cheeks, one by one, with soft kisses that left behind the subtle mark of your favorite lipstick. Then his forehead, right in the center. Bakugo closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath. His fingers now gripped your hips firmly.

When your lips touched the bridge of his nose, he opened his eyes again and muttered:

“You’re completely nuts…”

And then, finally, you kissed his lips. It was short, loud, one of those kisses meant just to let the other person know you care. The sound broke the silence between you. Bakugo held your gaze for a moment, and even though his brow was still furrowed, there was no threat left in it.

“I’m gonna kill you,” he muttered in a rough voice, without any conviction.

But you saw the smile. It slipped onto his face without permission. And the tips of his ears, red as a warning light, gave away what he still refused to admit.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

[cuzxai]

all i want is you - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: whys spence lowkey a creeeeeeep and why does the reader not care and stull fucc him afterrrrrrrrrr (i need him to be obsessed with me like this) also sorry this is long as hell for no reason

You don’t know when it started. At least, you don’t want to know. For months, Spencer Reid has been a part of your life—steadfast, dependable, steady in ways you never thought you’d rely on anyone. But somewhere in the quiet moments, the long nights spent working cases, something shifted. You were just part of the team. He was just Spencer—the quiet genius with the messy hair, the awkward charm that crept up on you in the form of shy smiles and brilliant insights. But then came the little things. It started with the way he always seemed to appear at the right moment. When you spilled coffee on your blouse, there he was, awkwardly offering his jacket to cover the stain, his fingers brushing your wrist as you accepted it. When you were tired, zoning out in the break room, Spencer would hand you an energy drink, not saying a word, just a soft glance of concern before he retreated again into his world.

The team had begun to notice it too, the way his attention lingered just a fraction longer when you spoke, how his gaze followed you across the room, how he always seemed to stand a little closer than necessary when you were huddled together around a case file. But it was subtle enough to pass as nothing—nothing but friendship, nothing but the professional camaraderie that comes with spending every waking moment together in the intense, fast-paced world of criminal profiling. You didn’t realize how often you caught him looking at you until you found yourself seeking it out. The quiet moments when he didn’t speak but his eyes would flicker over your face, as though memorizing the curve of your cheek or the way your lips pressed together when you were deep in thought.

It was unsettling at first. But you didn’t think much of it. Maybe it was just Spencer. He was always a little… off-kilter. Not like the rest of the team. Not like Morgan who was so effortlessly confident and always seemed to be the center of attention. Or like Hotch— preserved and quiet, in a scary way. But then it got worse. Or maybe it got better. You didn’t know which.

Spencer started showing up in places he didn’t need to be. You’d be sitting alone at your desk late at night, the office empty except for you and the hum of the fluorescent lights above and then suddenly, he’d be there—just standing, watching you with a look you couldn’t place. At first you’d smile and offer a light comment but his response was always quiet, as if his mind was somewhere else. His eyes would flicker to your face for a moment before he’d shake his head and start speaking, his voice low and urgent.

“I just thought you might need… someone.”

You didn’t question it. Then came the day you found yourself watching him too. It was a case, one of those long, brutal ones that never quite let you go. The team was scattered throughout the station, analyzing evidence, talking to witnesses. Spencer was in the corner, hunched over a pile of files, his brow furrowed in concentration. But his attention wasn’t really on the case. You noticed it then—his gaze was following you again. This time you were aware of it. You could feel it, like a pull at the center of your chest.

You pretended to be absorbed in your own work but your eyes kept flickering over to him, catching the way his head tilted just slightly, the way his fingers drummed absently against the table as he stared at you. The team noticed it too. You could tell by the way Morgan and JJ exchanged knowing glances, the way Hotch’s eyes narrowed when Spencer seemed to hang on your every word, even when it wasn’t his turn to speak. It wasn’t anything overt. There were no blatant looks of lust or longing. It wasn’t that obvious. But it was there. The tension, the energy that seemed to build every time he was near you. It wasn’t just friendship. It wasn’t even just protectiveness. It was something deeper. Something unspoken.

And then there were the moments you tried to push it away, to focus on the case, on the mission at hand. Spencer, ever the professional, never mentioned it. But he was always there. Watching. You caught him once, late in the evening, standing just outside your office door, watching you as you spoke to Derek. At first you were too caught up in the conversation—but when you looked up, his eyes were fixed on you. And the look he gave you… it wasn’t one of simple concern or curiosity. It was possessive, possessive in a way that made something stir in the pit of your stomach. It unsettled you.

The next time you walked through the bullpen, you caught him staring again. His head was tilted slightly, eyes dark, his lips parted just enough to show a hint of his thoughts. You had no idea what he was thinking but the way he looked at you made your skin crawl in the best possible way. It wasn’t until the case was over, until the files were packed away, the suspects apprehended that you realized just how much Spencer had gotten under your skin. And it wasn’t the things he said. It was the things he never said. The way his silence weighed on you like a thousand unspoken words.

The team left for the night but you stayed behind to finish up the last of your notes. Spencer as always, lingered. But tonight he didn’t retreat to the corner. He stayed just a few feet away from you, eyes never leaving your face. When you laughed, an easy sound shared with Morgan across the room, Spencer’s eyes darkened. You caught the way his jaw clenched, the way his hand tightened on the edge of the table. He looked as though the sound of your laughter had physically hurt him, but he didn’t say anything. Not then.

Instead, he stayed in his corner, watching you laugh, watching you with someone else. And in that moment, it shattered something inside him—something quiet and desperate, something he hadn’t yet been able to name. He wasn’t just watching you anymore. Spencer was obsessed. But you couldn’t see it yet. You don’t see it coming—how cold he goes.

It’s not just the way Spencer watches you—though that’s changed too. It’s the weight of his presence when he’s not speaking, the way his attention clings to you even when his hands are busy with case files or his mouth is full of facts. His stillness means more now. When you’re near, he holds himself tight, like if he relaxes for even a second, something might slip out. Something dangerous. Something real.

The others notice before you do. Maybe because you’ve grown used to him always being nearby. Always looking. Always ready. You don’t realize how unusual it is until Morgan teases him in the briefing room.

“You profiling her now, pretty boy?” he says, leaning back in his chair with that shit-eating grin he saves for moments like this.

Spencer’s head snaps up from the paperwork in his lap. “What?”

Morgan gestures with his chin, nodding in your direction. “You keep staring at her like she’s gonna disappear. You okay?”

You glance over in time to see Spencer’s cheeks flush. His hands twitch, eyes darting between you and Morgan like he’s trying to find a safe place to land. There isn’t one.

“I wasn’t—I was just—” He fumbles for a moment. “She had ink on her face.”

It’s a bad lie. Emily snorts into her coffee. Morgan just raises his eyebrows, clearly enjoying the show.

“Right,” Morgan drawls. “Ink. That’s what we’re going with?”

You blink at Spencer, who refuses to meet your gaze now. His ears are pink. His fingers are fidgeting with his pen. There is no ink on your face. You laugh it off. The room moves on. But something about the moment lingers. And then it keeps happening. The presence of him. Always him. Too many times to be coincidence. He’s always the first one at your side when the unsub’s behavior upsets you. Always the one offering water when your hands are shaking. Always the one stepping in to give your profile when you falter, even before you’ve said a word.

And when you look up—whether it’s from across the conference table, or from behind a two-way mirror, or at a crime scene where you’re trying not to cry—he’s already watching you. Eyes soft. Mouth parted. Like he’s waiting for something. You start to wonder if you’re imagining it.

Until Emily corners him in the hallway. You’re on your way to grab coffee when you pause outside the kitchenette and hear her voice—low, calm, careful in that way Emily gets when she knows something. “You need to get a handle on it, Reid.”

There’s a pause. Then Spencer, voice thin and tight, “Get a handle on what?”

“You know what.” A quiet sip of coffee. “It’s not just obvious—it’s loud. And if you’re not careful, it’s going to stop being cute.”

Your stomach flips. Finally, Spencer says softly, “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

Emily doesn’t answer. Her footsteps retreat down the hall. You wait a few more seconds, heart pounding then step away like you heard nothing at all.

It’s a few days later when you finally confront him. It’s late. The jet is quiet, humming softly in the air around you. The team is scattered—JJ asleep with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Morgan dozing with headphones in, Rossi flipping through a novel. You’re sitting near the back, feet curled under you, watching clouds streak by through the window. Spencer’s across from you, notebook in his lap, but he hasn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. He’s looking at you again. You don’t let him pretend.

“Why are you always around lately?”

His eyes snap up to meet yours. Wide, startled. Like you’ve struck him across the face. “I—what?” he stammers.

You tilt your head. Keep your voice light. “You’re always next to me. Always watching me. Always… there. It’s not bad. I just—” You pause. “I’m starting to wonder if I should be worried.”

He shakes his head too quickly. “No. No, it’s not—I didn’t mean—” He swallows hard. His hands are clenched tight around the edge of the notebook. “I just… I like talking to you,” he says eventually, barely above a whisper. “You’re easy to talk to.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You haven’t been talking to me much lately, Spencer. You’ve mostly just been watching.”

His lips part. He tries to say something and fails. You see it happen in real time—the way his throat bobs, the way his eyes dart away, how his fingers twitch and his breath catches and something in him fractures. “W-what, I just—” He breaks off again. Tries to recover. “You’re my friend.”

You don’t respond. You just watch him. He looks like he might crawl out of his own skin. You lean back slowly, watching the way he tenses when you move. The way his eyes follow your fingers when you adjust your jacket. How his jaw locks when your ankle brushes his leg. It all clicks, sharper now than ever before. You realize: he can’t look away. The silence stretches again, tighter than before.

“…I’m not trying to be weird,” he says softly, almost too soft to hear. “I just—I feel better when you’re nearby.”

You want to say something. You don’t know what. Your throat feels tight. You look at him. How his hands are trembling slightly, how his mouth is pulled tight at the corners. Like he’s holding something back with every part of his body. Like something inside him is screaming and he’s swallowing it down with sheer will. And then he looks up at you and for just a second you finally see it. Quiet, buried, simmering just beneath the surface. It’s been there for a long time.

You inhale once, deeply. Try to smile. “Okay.”

Spencer’s brows draw together. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you say again. “Just… don’t lie to me about it next time.”

You stand up and walk toward the front of the jet. Spencer stays frozen in place, notebook forgotten in his lap, eyes locked on the seat you just left—like he’s still trying to catch his breath. After that night on the jet, you expect something to shift. A conversation maybe. A moment where he pulls you aside to explain himself, to fill in the blanks. But it doesn’t come. Instead, Spencer pulls away.

At first it’s subtle. He starts sitting further from you at the round table. Stops bringing you coffee in the mornings. Doesn’t text you updates on cases unless it’s strictly necessary. You try not to notice. Maybe you’re overthinking. Maybe he’s busy. But it gets worse. He avoids eye contact. Leaves rooms when you walk in. Brushes past you in hallways like you’re not even there. You send him a meme one night—some stupid article about an antique book auction, the kind of thing he always loves and it stays on “read” for twelve hours before he likes it with a thumbs-up and nothing else.

You think back to the way he looked at you on the jet, like he’d broken something in himself just by being honest. Like telling you the truth had ruined whatever fragile tether he’d been clinging to. Maybe it did. Because now it’s like he’s trying to erase the version of himself you saw that night. And it’s making you crazy.

And of course the team notices too. It’s impossible not to, the way he closes off around you. Emily doesn’t say anything directly but you catch her watching you more than usual—curious, almost cautious. JJ asks if everything’s okay between you two. You lie. Hotch doesn’t say a word but when Spencer fumbles during a briefing—loses his train of thought, goes quiet—Hotch levels him with a look sharp enough to draw blood.

Morgan, though. Morgan calls him on it. You walk into the break room mid-conversation. Spencer is at the counter, nervously stirring his coffee even though it’s already mixed. Morgan’s leaning against the sink, arms crossed, expression tight. “You know I like you, man,” Morgan says. “But this thing with her? You’re acting like a goddamn ghost. Either talk to her or figure your shit out.”

Spencer’s voice is barely audible. “It’s not that simple.”

“Doesn’t have to be this complicated either. She’s not blind, Reid. You think she hasn’t noticed?”

You freeze. Spencer must see you out of the corner of his eye, because his shoulders go rigid. He doesn’t turn.

Morgan sighs. “Look, I’m just saying—don’t let something good rot just because you’re scared of it.”

You back out of the room before they realize you’ve heard. And a few days later, you give in. You go to his apartment. It’s impulsive, yeah—but you’re tired of waiting. Tired of pretending you don’t feel the shift between you, that it doesn’t matter. You need to hear it from him.

Spencer opens the door like he’s just been hit. He doesn’t ask why you’re there. Just stands in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth parted like he forgot how to speak. You look at him and realize he looks like shit. His hair’s a mess. His shirt is wrinkled. There are dark shadows under his eyes and the apartment behind him looks untouched, like he hasn’t been living in it so much as existing in it.

“Can I come in?” you ask softly.

He hesitates. Then steps aside. You sit on his couch as he paces. You wait and he doesn’t talk.Finally you speak, “Why are you avoiding me?”

He flinches. Like you stabbed him. “I’m not,” he lies, badly.

You stare. He rakes a hand through his hair, starts pacing faster. “I just—I thought maybe it would be easier. If I… created some space. After what I said. After how I’ve been acting.”

You tilt your head. “And how have you been acting?”

He stops to look at you and something in him breaks. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says.

The room goes silent. You just stare as he keeps going.

“I’ve tried to stop. God, I’ve tried. I’ve read studies on compulsive thought, on emotional fixation, on cognitive behavioral therapy and none of it—none of it works.”

His hands are shaking now. His voice is high and desperate and nothing like the quiet man you usually know. “I think about you all the time. When I wake up. When I go to sleep. When I’m supposed to be working. I find excuses to walk past your desk. I memorize the way you laugh. I—” He swallows. “I’ve replayed every conversation we’ve had more times than I can count. I know your coffee order, your favorite pen, the way you write your E’s with that little hook at the top. I—”

You blink hard— he’s unraveling in front of you, rambling.

“I didn’t mean to get like this. I just—at first, it was harmless. You were nice to me. You listened. You asked me questions about books no one else cared about. And then suddenly, you were important. Like… vital. Like if you weren’t there, the whole day felt wrong.” He laughs, but it’s hollow. “I started counting how many hours you spent with me versus the rest of the team. It didn’t feel like enough. It still doesn’t. I dream about you. I’ve imagined—God, I’ve imagined so many scenarios where I say something or you say something, or we just…”

He cuts off. Breathing hard. “I sound insane,” he whispers.

You’re still staring at him, your throat is tight, your fingers are cold.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t say any of this. I know it’s not fair to put it on you. I just—”

“Spence,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks at you like you’ve asked him to solve the riddle of the universe.“Because it’s too much. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve someone obsessing over you like—like a fucking stalker—”

“You’re not a stalker,” you say sharply.

He freezes. You run a hand through your hair, exhale shakily. “You’re just… overwhelmed. You care. Too much maybe but not in a bad way.”

He doesn’t move. You meet his eyes. “How long has it been like this?”

“Months.”

You exhale again. “Jesus.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t need you to say anything.”

“I—” You hesitate. Then laugh softly, disbelieving. “This is a lot. I’m honestly kind of shocked. You’ve been this close to me for months and I had no idea.”

Spencer lowers his head. “I tried to hide it.”

“Yeah, well. You’re not great at that anymore.” You sit with the silence for a moment. Then because you’re not sure how else to ground yourself, you say, “I didn’t think you felt that way. I thought you were just being… Spencer. You know. Thoughtful, sweet, quiet.”

He flinches. “I wasn’t being sweet. I was— am obsessed.”

“You can be both.” You tilt your head. “I don’t know how to feel about all of this,” you admit. “I’m overwhelmed. It’s crazy. But…”

Spencer holds his breath.

“…I do have a crush on you.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares like he’s not sure he heard you right. You nod, slowly. “I don’t know what to do with all this yet. But I wanted you to know that part. That it’s not just you.”

Spencer sinks onto the couch beside you like his legs gave out. You sit in silence. Both breathing like the wind just got knocked out of you. Nothing is solved. But something is very much beginning. Spencer’s still staring at you, his face flushed with disbelief. His lips move but no words come out and for a moment, it feels like you’ve broken him.

“I—” His voice cracks, and he starts pacing again. “I never thought—this isn’t something I can just… you don’t—God, you don’t understand how long I’ve—how much I’ve—”

He’s rambling, stumbling over his words like he’s trying to make sense of something he’s only just realized. And it’s a bit too much. You’re overwhelmed by the intensity of his reaction, the vulnerability in his voice, the way his eyes are burning with something dangerous. You never thought it would get to this point—this level of intensity.

“Spence—” you start, trying to find the words to calm him down.

But he keeps going, voice rising with every sentence, “I’ve tried—God, I’ve tried to hide it but it’s been too long. I—I don’t know what to do with this, with you, with how much I—”

You can’t take it. Not anymore. Before he can go any further, you move forward and pull him into a kiss. His lips are soft and surprised at first but he’s quick to respond. The kiss deepens almost immediately, his hands coming to your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you. You feel his desperation in the way his fingers dig into your skin. His mouth moves against yours, hungry and frantic as if he’s trying to swallow the confession, trying to make it real—make it something tangible.

You break the kiss just for a second, your breath coming in shallow pants. “Stop talking,” you say, your voice shaky.

Spencer’s eyes are wide, pupils blown, his breathing uneven. He’s standing there, frozen for a split second, before he surges forward again, crashing his lips to yours with all the intensity he’s been holding back. His hands roam up your back, pulling you close, and you let him, feeling the heat between you grow exponentially. Every movement is deliberate, possessive. He’s claiming you—marking you as his in a way that makes your heart race. The tension in the room is palpable, thick with everything that’s been unsaid.

He pushes you gently but firmly against the armrest of the couch, his body pressing against yours as he grinds down, a low growl escaping his throat when you gasp against him. His mouth leaves yours only to trace a path down your neck, the softness of his lips contrasting with the harshness of his grip.

“God, I’ve wanted this… wanted you,” Spencer murmurs against your skin. He pulls back for a moment, his gaze heavy, almost possessive, as if trying to make sure you’re still there, still his. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be like this. But I—”

You grab his face, forcing him to look at you again. “Spence,” you whisper, your hands trembling as you brush his hair back. “You’ve wanted me. You’ve wanted this. We want this.”

He exhales a shuddering breath, his eyes flickering with uncertainty but it’s quickly replaced by a surge of need. He presses his lips to yours again, kissing you harder this time, his hands moving feverishly to undress you. There’s no hesitation in him now—just urgency. You feel him against you, his hard chest pressing into yours as he pulls your shirt off in one swift motion. The hunger in his touch is intoxicating, and the way his hands move over your skin is almost worshipful, like he’s afraid to let go. His lips follow every inch of your exposed skin, leaving fire in their wake.

“Let me,” he whispers, his voice rough and low as he slides his hands down your sides, tugging at your jeans. “Please, let me take care of you.”

You nod, caught up in the intensity of it all. He’s not the Spencer you’re used to—the gentle, quiet genius. He’s someone else now, someone darker, and the way he’s looking at you now makes something inside you tremble. He pushes your jeans down your legs, throwing them somewhere behind him before his lips find yours again, insistent and hungry. His hands slide up your thighs, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin there, making you shiver.

“God, you’re perfect,” Spencer murmurs against your lips. “So perfect. I need you… so much.”

You can’t stop the way your body responds, aching for him. He kisses you again, deeper this time and the way his tongue slips against yours sends a shock of heat through your entire body. He leans back slightly, looking at you as if he’s memorizing every detail—your flushed skin, your half-lidded eyes, the way you’re trembling under his touch. “You want this too, don’t you?” he breathes.

You can’t form words. You only nod, your hands reaching for him desperately, tugging him back down to kiss you. And when his lips leave yours again, trailing kisses along your jaw and down your neck, you almost lose your mind. His hands finally move lower and you gasp when you feel his fingers slide beneath the waistband of your panties, teasing you. Spencer is careful but the possessiveness in his touch is undeniable. His fingers slip lower, brushing against you in a way that makes you moan before you even realize it. Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers slide inside, his movements slow, deliberate—making you ache for more. His lips are on yours again, kissing you deeply as he works you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. But just when you think you might break, he pulls away— leaving you gasping for air. He looks down at you, his expression one of tortured need, and his voice is raw when he speaks again.

“Say it,” he demands, his eyes boring into you. “Tell me you want me.”

You don’t hesitate. “I want you, Spence. I want you so much.”

And that’s all he needs. Spencer doesn’t even seem to register that you’ve said it. Not at first. His mouth is still open slightly, his breath stuttering as though you’ve knocked something loose in his chest. The moment stretches long—his hands twitching where they hold you, his eyes searching yours like he can’t quite believe what he heard. But then you kiss him again. You lean in and do it before he can speak, before he can unravel into one of his frantic, whispered spirals. You cut him off with your lips, slow and certain and the second your mouth meets his again, something in him snaps.

He groans softly, a sound he tries to swallow but can’t and then his hands are on you—palming your waist, sliding beneath your shirt, desperate to feel more. He pulls away for just a moment to tug your clothes off, muttering soft apologies as his fingers fumble with your waistband, his own breath catching when you help him, stripping him down with the same kind of frantic purpose. When you’re both finally bare, he still doesn’t rush. He just stares.

“God,” he breathes, touching your face. “You’re so…”

He doesn’t even finish the thought. His lips are back on yours. Hungry, open-mouthed and messy. He kisses like he thinks he might never get the chance again. Like he’s waited so long he forgot what it might feel like. You gasp as his hand finds its way between your legs, fingers slipping through slick heat. He groans against your mouth.

“Do you know what this does to me?” he whispers, fingers gliding through you slowly, purposefully. “You’re soaked and I haven’t even done anything.”

“You’re doing enough,” you manage, hips lifting into his touch. “Don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” he murmurs. “Not ever.”

And when he finally lines himself up, nudging into you with a slow, aching push, your body stretches around him, and both of you go still. He doesn’t move. Just stays there, fully inside you, trembling slightly as he braces himself on shaking arms.

“You feel…” His voice is barely a breath. “You feel unreal.”

Your fingers slide up his back, over the tension in his shoulders, pulling him down so your foreheads touch. “Then keep going,” you whisper. “Make it real.”

Spencer pulls out just a few inches and pushes back in, slow and steady, dragging his hips against yours like he’s savoring every inch. And he keeps that rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that never quite pick up speed. It’s not teasing. It’s not restraint. It’s something else entirely—devotion, maybe. Obsession. He watches your face with open desperation, like he’s trying to memorize every twitch of pleasure he causes. His hands move constantly. One cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he kisses you again. The other grips your thigh, pulling your leg around his waist so he can press even deeper, groaning softly as he does.

You moan against his mouth, fingers digging into his hair. “Spence—”

“I know,” he says, panting. “I know.”

He rocks into you over and over again, never faster, never harder—just more. More depth. More heat. More of his body against yours. You feel him everywhere, all of him, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours, his lips roaming down your neck, your shoulder, your chest.

He whispers everything he’s never said aloud, “I think about you constantly. I can’t sleep when I don’t know where you are. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

And it’s too much but you don’t want him to stop. You don’t want it to end. Your bodies roll together in waves, slow and molten, dragging pleasure out like a thread neither of you wants to cut. You feel the tension building in your core, slow and warm but never tipping. Spencer seems to sense it too—his pace remains steady but the way he holds you tightens, the way he kisses you turns messy and hungry. Still no urgency. Just need.

When your legs tremble around him, he slows even more, nearly stopping, breathing hard against your skin. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “I want to stay here. Like this. As long as you’ll let me.”

You kiss him again, open and soft and a little breathless. “Then don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t. Time slips sideways. You lose track of how long it’s been. His hips move in an unchanging rhythm, not quite gentle, not quite rough. It’s not about the destination anymore. It’s about the want. About never having to stop wanting. You’re not even sure if your body can come like this—so slowly, so achingly full but you don’t care. You just hold him tighter. You keep kissing his mouth and his neck and the part of his shoulder that tenses every time he rolls his hips. And you whisper back everything you’re finally ready to say. He doesn’t stop. Not even when his arms start to tremble from the effort. Not when his voice goes hoarse from the dirty things he whispers into your mouth, your neck, your chest. Not when your skin slicks with sweat and your lips are swollen from how many times he’s kissed you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

Time slips sideways—you’re not sure how long he’s been inside you, fucking you slow then fast then slow again like he’s chasing something. Something he can’t quite reach. But you feel it now. In the way his rhythm falters. In the heat rolling off his body. In the quiet, gasping noises he’s trying to smother into your shoulder.

“Spence,” you whisper, nails digging into his back. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

He lets out a broken sound. “Y-yeah. I’m—fuck, I’m so close. I didn’t want to yet. I wanted to wait.”

“For what?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

“For you,” he breathes. “Always you.”

You cup his face and pull him up to look at you. His eyes are wild—dilated and glazed and so, so tender. You’ve never seen him like this. You don’t think anyone has. And you don’t want him to hold back anymore.

“Come inside me.”

Spencer freezes. His eyes go wide, lips parting in a stuttered gasp. “W-what?”

You stroke his cheek, pull him even closer. “I want you to. Please.”

His whole body shudders, a sound slipping from his throat that’s somewhere between a moan and a whimper. He buries his face in your neck, groaning into your skin like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

“You don’t—you really want me to—” he’s panting, the last of his restraint splintering into nothing. “God, baby—fuck—you’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he lets go. His hips slam into you one last time, deep and hard and he spills inside you with a groan so guttural it sounds pulled from his spine. His whole body collapses over yours, trembling with the force of it—his arms locked around you, mouth pressed to your neck, saying your name over and over like a prayer. You wrap yourself around him and hold him through it—his weight, his shaking, the wet warmth of him inside you. Neither of you speaks for a long time.

Finally, he lifts his head—just enough to look down at you. His voice is quiet. Raw. “Was that okay?”

You nod, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead. “That was more than okay.”

He leans in and kisses you again—soft this time, slow. Almost reverent. “Thank you,” he whispers.

You laugh a little. “For what?”

“For letting me have you like this.”