#mari apparently writes things

[batsandbirdbrains]

Okay but say Dick did turn out to actually be Bruce’s biological son. Maybe when he was traveling the world learning to be Batman or whatever, he stumbles upon a circus in Europe. And he meets a young couple of acrobats, and they teach him acrobatics for a few weeks. And one thing leads to another, and they have a threesome maybe once or twice or thrice. It’s just fun. They’re all barely 20 and they’re just having a good time.

And then he gets a letter a year later with a picture of a black haired, blue eyed baby who, in Bruce’s opinion, looks just like every other baby he’s ever seen. And Mary and John let him know that they’re not really sure who the dad is, it’s either John or Bruce, but they love their little Robin (he was born on the first day of Spring! The thought makes Bruce smile) and they just wanted to let him know that it’s very possible he’s a father. They’re not asking for money, and they don’t want to send little Dickie to live with him or anything, they fully intend on raising him in the circus, but they thought it would be polite to let him know he’s maybe got a child out there.

Bruce falls in love the second he sees the first picture of Dickie. He writes back immediately saying he wants to meet the baby, he won’t take him away, but he wants to keep in touch and he wants to know him.

Bruce flies out to Sweden a few months later and meets the baby when he’s 7 months old. He thought he’d already been in love with sweet little thing, he has a whole album of pictures that Mary and John have sent him, but holding him for the first time is magical. He knows in his heart that Dick is his son, he has no doubts about it.

Bruce visits them regularly. Dick is 9 months old when Bruce swears he hears him say dada, when Bruce is meeting up with them in Spain. When Dick is 11 months old, Bruce is visiting them in France when Dick takes his first steps.

Bruce meets up with them every few months. John and Mary send pictures regularly. Dick calls him Daddy. Dick has a Mama and a Pa and a Daddy, and he knows his family is a little different, but he loves them all so much.

Then the first time the circus visits Gotham, Dick is eight years old. He hasn’t seen his Daddy in what feels like ages, and he’s so excited to be in Gotham, because after the first show, Mama and Pa are going to take him to Daddy’s house and they’re going to have dinner and they’re going to take six whole months off from the circus to stay with Daddy in Gotham. They’re going to spend the spring and the summer together. Dick’s eighth birthday was a couple weeks ago, but Daddy couldn’t be there because of a big Wayne Enterprises meeting, so he promised to make it up to him by giving them all the best vacation they could imagine.

But then the wires snap, and everything is a blur of screaming and flashing lights and blood, so much blood.

Dick ends up in juvie for a month before Bruce can get custody of him, Dick’s social worker claiming there are no available foster homes. He’s not allowed to visit Dick more than once a week, because there’s no formal documentation that Bruce is actually his father.

The first thing Bruce does once he gets custody of Dick is prove that Dick is his son. And even though Bruce never needed a DNA test before, they need it now to make everything official.

No one believes it at first. The media makes outrageous claims that Dick, the apparent eight year old evil mastermind, has somehow tricked Bruce Wayne into making him his heir.

Several news outlets get sent cease and desist orders. Bruce is livid.

Idk I just think it’s fun when Dick turns out to be Bruce’s actual biological kid.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hey. Hi. Hello. Today I learned about the existence of 15th century Welsh poet Gwerful Mechain and that she apparently has a surviving work of erotic poems.

Please. For Christmas. For Yule. Please tell me more because I can't read Welsh.

Heh heh. Oh, Gwerful Mechain is the absolute best.

(Quick housekeeping to keep the post manageable - I previously wrote about things like cynghanedd and cywydds and englyns and such here, so check that if you need an explanation.)

What's fun is that we don't know a ton about her, because not a lot got written down about people in her time. Her surviving work covers a 40ish year span at the end of the 1400s to just into the 1500s, but we don't know when she was born or died or anything like that. We know her parents' names? And that she was from Mechain, hence the bardic name. And that she married a guy and had a daughter, something which actually does mark out her body of work as different from her contemporaries; being a wife and mother, she couldn't do the usual bardic role of travelling the country to spread news and play at courts. This means she doesn't have any of the praise poetry that a lot of male bards produced about the lords that hosted them.

But, there's stuff we can piece together about her. For one thing, she was not just literate (not a universal skill for anyone at that point, but especially for women), but she was astonishingly well-read and had what appears to be a classical education, given her poetic references and traditional Welsh meters. For another, her work often had recurring themes of religion, sex, and women's rights, sometimes all at the same time.

At the point Gwerful was active, Welsh bardic culture heavily featured ymrysonau. An ymryson is like... well, I hesitate to say "sort of like a rap battle" after the way everyone and their dog now thinks that's what the Mari Lwyd does, but they were like a cross between a rap battle and the publication war between two rival academics. A bard would write an englyn and publish it in the local parish newsletter. Another bard would see this, and write their own englyn about how stupid the first bard's englyn was, and publish it in the same newsletter. The first bard would see this and retaliate. The second bard would retaliate to that. And on and on it would go, like a printed tennis match for all the parishioners to enjoy, until someone wrote a conclusive verse OR until someone went "Lol, you got me good there" and bowed out with dignity. Sometimes, these things were fucking vicious; but other times, they were just banter between two bards who knew each other and were enjoying the chance to keep their poetic skills in tip top condition.

Now, Gwerful was an active and enthusiastic participant in ymrysonau. We have many examples of her work from these. There are two of particular note that I'll list here, each against a different bard:

Dafydd Llwyd o Fathafarn. Mathafarn and Mechain are not so distant from one another, so no real surprise that these two locked horns a lot, but the impression I always got from their ymrysonau is that they were good mates, actually. These fell into the 'banter' category more often than not. Dafydd was a Welsh Nationalist who was hoping for a Welshman to rise up and throw off the yoke of English oppression, and most of his work is about that, but he turned up the filthy erotic shit for any ymryson with Gwerful because BOY HOWDY was that her specialty. IIRC she did occasionally poke fun at his Welsh Nash leanings, especially his obsession with Mab Darogan (OLD Welsh idea that translates to the Son of Prophesy - the Arthur-style figure that will one day drive out the English overlords), but mostly their ymrysonau were incredibly beautifully-written odes that could be summed up as "Dafydd, my man, my good friend, I mean this sincerely: suck my entire clit".

She often won.

Ieuan Dyfi. God, what a fucking asshole. This one was not banter. Gwerful played for blood with this prick.

We actually would know nothing about Ieuan Dyfi if not for Gwerful Mechain, because it was her poetic response to him that meant his only surviving poems made it to the modern day; that, and the record of him being brought before a church court where he admitted adultery with Anni Goch, a married woman. Oh, and the record of him being brought before the law courts at Liverpool, accused of domestic abuse and gambling? If I remember right?

Two things to know that set the scene for what came next:

One of Gwerful Mechain's surviving poems is an englyn considered to be possibly the oldest extant poem about domestic violence written by a woman: I’w gŵr am ei churo (To the husband who beats her)

Dager drwy goler dy galon - ar osgo I asgwrn dy ddwyfron; Dy lin a dyr, dy law’n don, A’th gleddau i’th goluddion.

There are a lot of translations for this one to try to keep its poeticness, but this one is pretty good:

Through your heart’s lining let there be pressed, slanting down, A dagger to the bone in your chest. Your knee smashed, your hand crushed, may the rest Be gutted by the sword you possessed.

She has others, too, that deal with sexual assault, and something scholars often note about Gwerful is her remarkable knowledge of the law as it pertained to women's issues. So she was not, you see, a woman with a high view of a man accused of domestic violence anyway.

But then Ieuan Dyfi wrote five poems about Anni Goch, the married woman he'd fucked, each more "Wow dude, she said no" than the last, culminating in I Anni Goch; a full cywydd of misogynistic Medieval-incel bullshit about how false and evil women are, which listed all the false and evil women of history including classical and mythological figures.

And. Well. Gwerful had some views.

Her responding cywydd - I ateb Ieuan Dyfi am gywydd Anni Goch - basically blasted the guy back into his own impact crater and disintegrated him. What she did with it, essentially, was to mirror his cywydd. Where he'd gone "Isn't it so true how great men throughout history have always been brought low by women, amirite lads? Here's examples", Gwerful went "Isn't it so true how 'great men' throughout history have behaved appallingly and fucked up through their own actions and then somehow managed to blame women, amirite lads? Here's examples." Where his examples had been historical figures, so were hers. Where his had been classical, so were hers. Where he went Biblical, so did she.

And what's so interesting about that last one is how pointed she was with it - for some reason, in his big list of evil women, Ieuan Dyfi did not go for the most obvious and low-hanging of fruit (no pun intended) - he doesn't cite Eve. In response, Gwerful also sidesteps the most obvious and low hanging of fruit - she doesn't cite Mary. In so doing, she makes it clear that she doesn't even need to.

There is no record of him responding to her. IIRC, there is a record of him doing three years in prison.

But! Outside of all of that, the big thing Gwerful was known for was her erotic poetry. You'll be unsurprised to hear that it wasn't written for shits and giggles - much like today, women of the time were told that most of their value was in their looks, and they had plentiful insecurities about their bodies. Gwerful wrote her erotic stuff to confront those insecurities and shine a light on the issue. There are so many examples of this, but far and away the most famous is definitely Cywydd y Cedor - roughly translated, 'Ode to the Vulva'. Though I have also seen it titled Cywydd y Gont - Ode to the Cunt. It's such a shame that the English language is literally, physically not capable of cynghanedd, because it means unless you learn Welsh you will never understand the beauty and the lyricism of the piece, and how it elevates and undercuts the content at the same time; but it's a joyful, masterful, irreverent work that uses the fancy language male poets were forever dedicating to the rest of a woman's body and applies it squarely to the vulva. In fact it basically opens with "Men are cowards, describe more cunts or gtfo" before launching into its main subject matter. The last line is pro-pubic hair, too, like I really must stress how much Gwerful Mechain would have to offer Tumblr if you could speak Welsh. This is probably her most widely translated piece, though, you can definitely find English versions. Although you can tell how blushing and reticent the translator is - and therefore how sanitised their translation is - by whether they've called it Ode to the Vulva/Cunt, or Ode to the Pubic Hair.

Needless to say, the original is not sanitised.

(Actually, I should also say - this one is also a response piece, probably, but in this case to a bard who lived a century earlier - Dafydd ap Gwilym, the absolutely legendary and uncontested king of Welsh romance poetry. He wrote a poem called Cywydd y Gal - Ode to the Penis. I have only just put two and two together on that.)

As a final note, I should say that my personal favourite Gwerful Mechain poem on this subject, mind, is actually I'w morwyn wrth gachu - to the maiden who is shitting. It's an englyn written in Gwerful's customary high poetic form, but it is what it says - it describes a woman taking a shit, and farting as she does. Beautiful and magical and disgusting and banal, all in one go:

Crwciodd lle dihangodd ei dŵr - ’n grychiast O grochan ei llawdwr; Ei deudwll oedd yn dadwr’, Baw a ddaeth, a bwa o ddŵr

Funnily enough, it's hard to find a good translation for this one lol.

My attempt:

She crouched where her water escaped - creased From the cauldron of her heat; Her two holes were arguing, Shit came, and a bow of water

Eh. It's so bland in English. Honestly, if you could read Welsh...

Anyway, if anyone reading this can read Welsh and wants to read some of Gwerful Mechain's stuff - including some of the pieces she was responding to in the ymrysonau - you can find a load here. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed!

[maddilynmuse]

Memory of Liar

Another fic for @mari-lair ‘s Siffrin? More like Sif’s Out AU based on this memory exclusive to it. This one got a lil long, as I think y’all can see. Also I enjoy writing Odile. Apologies for any formatting opposed, I wrote this on my computer but had to upload on my phone.

No major CW’s beyond just “Odile questioning Siffrin’s mental health.” Enjoy!

It hadn’t been too long since that one loop. That loop where they found out just how good Siffrin was at pretending to be fine. How convenient that not long after, Odile got a skill to deal with it. Memory of Liar. It allowed her to know when Siffrin was lying (albeit not by omission, but still). Ideally, it would be a niche skill at best, one to keep on for a loop or two and forget that she had-

“Hey Odile!”

Siffrin began his usual greetings. Seems Mirabelle reminded him about the clocktower “sleepover” this time. She must be feeling nostalgic; they’d all planned to meet up at the clocktower afterwards anyways, so there was no need to send Siffrin on a quest to go talk to them all, but given how low he got, how useless he felt, it made sense for her to give him a task. Would it be too cynical to say Mirabelle was establishing a baseline? Perhaps.

“So, what will you do after?” Siffrin asked her.

After. Gems, at this rate such a thing felt laughable, but she bit her tongue well enough. What had she planned to do after this? So much time had been spent on loops and the breaking of them that leaving Dormont was starting to feel like more of an impossibility than beating the King ever had been.

“I’ll probably go back to Ka Bue,” she said. It seemed like the next most logical step. She had a home there, after all. Besides, it might be nice to get far, far away from Dormont.

“And wrap up your research?”

“Research?” Oh, right. Her fake research.

“Your research into cultures-ology?”

Had he said that last time? When was the last time Mirabelle called for a sleepover? Gems, she didn’t like this.

“Cultures-ology isn’t a field of research, Siffrin.”

“But it is the field of research you spent your life trying to create…”

“No,” she said bluntly. He looked a little put off by that, so she changed the topic the most natural way she could. “What about you? What will you do after we beat the king?” If they ever get to leave Dormont, that is.

“Come up with my own field of research.”

… huh?

Something about what he said there, it sat oddly in her gut. It felt… wrong. But how could-

Right. Memory of Liar. He was lying. Of course he was, why wouldn’t he be? She knew from the start that was likely a joke, and a joke could count as a lie, she supposed. Maybe this ability wasn’t particularly discerning. She’d have to test that too, wouldn’t she? Would it activate at anything that wasn’t true? Or would it only activate if Siffrin was actively trying to deceive?

As Siffrin walked out again, only then did it occur to her… what did the rogue intend to do when he got out? Well, a question for the others, she supposed.

------

They were back at Dormont. It wasn’t of much use, asking the others. Bonnie and Mirabelle couldn’t remember off the top of their heads, but apparently Siffrin had told Isabeau they intended to start a comedy club… That sounded considerably more likely than them going into research, but she was still inclined to double check. It was nothing wasting a whole loop over, but they’d agreed that next time they looped back to Dormont, Mirabelle would tell Siffrin about the clocktower, and Isabeau and Odile would “switch places,” so to speak. She needed to be the one to hear him, so she had to come last.

As Siffrin got up sleepily, almost tauntingly laid back, he greeted Mirabelle saying the nap was a solid 9 out of ten… The thought that their rogue was rubbing in their lack of exhaustion was illogical, something she knew all too well, but maybe she wasn’t in a particularly giving mood as she squatted in the bushes against the protest of her knee. A few more pleasantries were shared and…

“Where will you go after?”

“Oh! You know… maybe a pilgrimage? I-I suppose this all kiiiiiinda already counted as a pilgrimage, but, um… does it?” Does it if she only half remembers some of it, so much time taken over by these last few days? Or was Odile projecting here?

It didn’t matter.

“What about you though Siffrin. What will you do after?” Mirabelle asked.

Odile watched him like a hawk as he had his little smile, looking up to the sky, and, “Go on a pilgrimage too, maybe.”

“Oh! That’d be lovely,” Mirabelle said.

If only it were true.

Odile waited for them to get to the store—the store she often started at but currently housed Isabeau—forcing herself up and stumbling like a drunk from the woods, knee seizing up all the way. Mirabelle rushed over, using a bit of healing craft on her.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine…” Odile said, though sighed in relief at the healing craft easing the pain.

“… so?” Mirabelle said.

“He was lying. He has no intention to go on a pilgrimage.”

Mirabelle sighed but nodded. Neither of them were surprised, really?

“Can you even go on a pilgrimage if all you do is travel anyways? What’s even the difference?” Odile muttered to herself. “Ah, no use now. I have to catch up before Isabeau runs out of ways to stall.” Thankfully it was a short walk. The door was open, she simply had to linger near it.

“What will you do after?” Siffrin asked Isabeau.

Seems she was right on time.

“Eh, I’ll probably just go back to Jouvente. Not sure about rejoining the Defenders, not after they left Mira, but maybe I’ll try some clothing design?”

“Oh? I didn’t know you were interested in that. That sounds great, Isa!”

“Heh, thanks Sif. But what about you? What will you do when we beat the King?”

Assuming Isabeau did a good enough job of recapping what he said before, presumably Siffrin’s answer would be the same…

“Start a comedy club!”

… that one wasn’t true either? She’d honestly thought it might be, or at least that it was fifty fifty, but no. Almost a shame, it fit all too well. Then again, it meant more people were spared his puns…

She tuned out the rest in favor of trying to get a head start on making it to the East side of town. Siffrin tended to dawdle when left to his own devices, but still would be nice to find a way to listen in that wouldn’t be physically painful this time…

Oh right. There’s a building here, right near Bonnie. She’d basically gone blind to it, considering it no more than any other house: pointless. Though she did know the open phrase, well, the only thing of value was the “Long Thingy Thing” (as Bonnie put it), and they didn’t really need to go through the trouble of crafting a bomb at this point. That said, she did know the open phrase, so she could probably get inside, and she could hear Bonnie, but could she hear Siffrin? Then again, once Siffrin was near Bonnie, she could sneak closer.

And so she did. It went off almost disappointingly easily. Gems alive, what she wouldn’t give for something to go awry in a way that would let her dig her teeth into something again. But no, no. This was more efficient. (Everything was efficiency these days, that’s how Siffrin got so bad).

She crept closer as the two talked. Siffrin was needling Bonnie, and Bonnie was rising to the bait. Was it genuine irritation and stress, or just their mimicry of it? She wasn’t sure, maybe both. Not too long in, the question came up.

“Well what about you, Frin? What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll go to space.”

… she didn’t even need the Memory equipped to know that that was a bald-faced lie, but she supposed that confirmation was nice? Well this one was a waste of time. Best to try to slip out towards the favor tree and play her own part.

Four different answers, none of them true. Why would he hide what he intended to do after? Maybe earlier in their adventure together she would’ve assumed that it was for nefarious purposes, but if he was an assassin on the behalf of the King or anything like that, he’d probably have done something to stop them on at least one of the occasions that they killed him. Whatever happened with Euphraise usually seemed centered on him, but he always looked shocked, so it was unlikely he expected it any more than the rest of them had the first time.

So if not foul play, then why? Some charitable part of her mind wanted to say his plans were just embarrassing, but…

As they’d recently learned the hard way, their little rogue wasn’t nearly as fine as he seemed. All it took was one day of them taking the lead a bit too much for him to consider himself a useless idiot. He rarely spoke of home. Never spoke of loved ones, at least not for more than a few sentences. He’d taken losing his eye almost too well. She wouldn’t say that he was at risk of becoming a Sadness or doing something willingly stupid, but the more she thought on it, the more things painted a picture she didn’t like the look of, but couldn’t afford to look away from either.

If she didn’t know better, she could mistake him for a ghost. A spirit. Maybe even some Expression. Nothing but a being floating through to help. But she’d seen him eat, seen his blood splatter on the floor, heard his gasps and screams at hard hits. She’d seen him lose an eye. Ghosts didn’t do that. He was flesh and blood yet missing so much he seemed almost insubstantial. Was he aware of this one some level? And what could do that to a person? Gems alive, she knew he had bad memory, but maybe she should’ve been delving deeper into it. Why hadn’t she? It wasn’t like her to see something so strange, to see someone start stories over and over that never reach an end, to see him speak of things and lose his train of thought halfway through, and she just…

Never questioned this?

Gems alive, her head was pounding along with the beat of her heart, but she screwed her eyes shut and blocked the world out, determined to follow this rabbit hole down. Something was wrong here, and maybe if she could puzzle out what, if she could find the missing piece, she could somehow make him whole again and, expressions willing, maybe that’d be the key to fixing this whole mess. Maybe it’d set them free. She just had to figure out why-

“Hey, Odile, are you okay?”

She jolted, whipping her head around to see, “Gems, Siffrin. You startled me…”

“Sorry,” he said. “Thinking on your wish?”

“Hah, no, I already made that,” she said. A stupid wish to win a coin flip that came to nothing in the end. And unimportant. She had to figure out… figure out…

Had to figure out what Siffrin intended to do with his life, right? Yes, that’s what she’d been doing.

“I was just… trying to figure out what to do afterwards,” she said. Maybe it was manipulative, but if she pretended she needed suggestions, maybe he’d offer something more tangible?

“Hmm? You don’t already know? I figured you’d wrap up your research.”

No, that’s right. He already had that idea in mind, didn’t he? She let out a bitter chuckle. “I’ll let you in on a secret. There is no research, Siffrin. It was just a convenient lie to explain why I’m here.”

He looked at her with a hard to read expression. “But… huh???”

They were off balance. Good. Maybe it’d trick him into saying something real.

“Yes, yes, sorry to give the game away, but I guess I realized that if I don’t admit it now, I might never. And I wouldn’t want to actually beat the King and then have to figure out what next. Plus I figure if I have a plan for after, if I have a goal, I might be more driven to reach it. Whatever helps, yes? So, any ideas?”

He was looking at her like she’d grown a second head, clearly thrown off. “You could… actually start researching something? Or, um… aren’t you writing a book?”

“My journal? That’s just personal notes. It’d be nonsense to anyone else.”

“Oh.”

She waited but, no, they weren’t offering anything up, were they. She’d have to take the offensive.

“What about you, Siffrin? What do you plan to do after?”

“Oh, uh…” he looked around and shrugged. “I haven’t really given it much thought.”

… not a lie. Interesting…

“Oh? Why not? I mean, you’re not even from Vaugaurde, you must have joined for some reason, right?” She could list theories, but that’d likely give him an out. She was wise to his game. At least half his answers, maybe more, were just mimicking what the other person intended to do. Otherwise it’s just what they’d most likely want to hear, save for perhaps telling Bonnie they’d go to space. An interesting outlier, that one. It seemed innocuous, but maybe it was important?

No, focus now. Theorize later.

Siffrin squirmed a little and finally chuckled awkwardly, offering an awkward shrug. “I didn’t really have anything better to do…”

And gems alive, he was not lying.

“I… see.”

Maybe she should let him go, but she needed to know one more thing first…

“And after we all go our own ways, you’ll be alright, right?”

“I guess I’ll go back to how I was before.”

Not a lie, but not an answer either. “And were you happy before?”

“Of course!”

She needed to talk to the others about this.

——————

I prefer tea, but buy me a Kofi?

[fushitoru]

chapter 3: the manor a bridgerton!au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺ dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, heir to a dukedom mr. satoru gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

warnings ⸺ nsfw, enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly

chapter summary ⸺ you and gojo have just uncovered your mothers' matchmaking scheme: a plan that sends you both to his extravagant countryside manor in kent, arriving a week earlier than the rest of the ton. the question remains—can you endure gojo's insufferable nature during this secluded stay? (8.3k)

prev. the aftermath | next. the game

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n krnfeknfkejrn i was so tired writing this chapter but used it to procrastinate on the reports and papers i have to write for internship/reports (wtf is quantum physics anyways). ty as always to @/sinn-clair for being the best beta reader <33333

Dear readers, 

Apparently, last week, there was an altercation in Lady Itadori’s drawing room involving Lord Gojo, Miss Itadori, and a dog. The dog was the victor. 

Furthermore, If one is to trust the betting books, then Lord Gojo shall be witness to wedding bells before the year is through.

As much as it pains This Author to agree with the betting books (they are written by men, and thus inherently flawed), This Author must concur in the prediction.

Duchess Gojo will soon have her daughter-in-law. But who she will be⸺ah, Gentle Reader, that is still anyone’s guess. 

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman⸺a work I have long heard whispers about but never fully encountered until now. Her words, as bold as they are revolutionary, have struck a chord deep within me. She speaks of the education and independence of women, of our capacity for reason and our right to be regarded as more than mere adornments to the lives of men. Her arguments are so meticulously crafted, so unwavering in their conviction, that they have compelled me to reflect on my own circumstances.

I confess, there is something intoxicating about the notion that women might be more than what society has so neatly confined us to be. Is it truly so outlandish to consider that we, too, possess minds capable of great thought and spirits yearning for freedom?

I cannot help but wonder if there will ever come a time when these two worlds might reconcile⸺the status quo and that of what the book articulates. When women might be both respected and fre

Before you could finish writing in your diary, you suddenly heard frantic footsteps down the hallway, leading closer and closer to your door. Nobara bursts into the room, and you look up at her in confusion and, partially, dread. Nobara wouldn’t be bursting into your room unless there was someone who absolutely couldn’t see what you were doing in your past time.

Before she could catch her breath, she wheezed out, “Your mother.”

You quickly hopped into action with practiced and routine movements. Lunging for the floorboard that had hollow space beneath it, you moved it so you could place the book and your diary underneath and quickly hide evidence of you reading scandalous and radical works.

Just in time, it seemed, as your mother walked into your room to see you on your bed.

She squinted her eyes in suspicion. “What were you doing?”

You averted her gaze. “Nothing, just daydreaming, Mama.”

Usually, she would prod further into the matter, but it seemed as if she was too excited for that. Clapping her hands, she exclaimed, “I have just got an exclusive invitation for you! One that could secure you a very good match.”

You gave her a quizzical look as she walked closer, sitting at the foot of your bed with an expression of barely contained glee. “We shall be visiting the Gojo estate in Kent!”

At the mention of his name, your left eye twitched, though your mother remained oblivious. “Indeed, Mama? As is every other lady in London, I presume.”

“No, no,” she replied, waving your quip away with a dismissive hand. “We are to arrive at the Gojo estate before the house party.”

Your heart sank, dread pooling in your stomach. Oh, no, no, no, no. A sudden pressure gripped your chest, and you found yourself clutching at the bodice of your dress as if to steady your racing heart. “Before the house party, Mama?” Your voice, despite your best efforts, came out higher-pitched than usual, though you tried to maintain a semblance of composure. “Whatever for?”

“To secure an advantage, of course!” she replied with a bright smile, as though the matter were the simplest thing in the world. “The Gojo family has extended a personal invitation for us to stay with them for a few days prior to the event. It is plain to see⸺he is quite taken with you. Even that dreadful Lady Whistledown has noted as much.” She smiled indulgently, reaching out to gently smooth a stray lock of your hair. “It is your natural grace and charm, my dear, that has made you the season’s diamond.”

As your mother continued to speak, the twisting in your stomach began to intensify, morphing from nausea into something sharper, something more akin to anger. You kept nodding, trying to maintain a slightly pained smile, but the thought of spending time at the Gojo manor, in such close quarters with him, became increasingly unbearable. The memories of your recent encounters⸺his biting remarks, his mocking gaze⸺were still fresh in your mind, and the idea that you were being pushed toward an engagement with him made your skin crawl. But you knew better than to express your true feelings to your mother.

“That is… unexpected,” you managed to say, choosing your words carefully. “Are you certain this is a good idea, Mama? Perhaps we might appear too eager and ward off other potential suitors, lest they mistake me as claimed by Gojo?”

“Nonsense!” she replied with a dismissive laugh. “If all goes well, you’ll be announcing your engagement at the house party itself!”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could hardly breathe as the full weight of what she was saying sank in. An engagement. To Gojo.

You almost felt faint, but as the initial shock wore off, it was replaced by a simmering anger. How dare he? How dare Gojo make a game of this, toying with you as if your future was nothing more than a sport to him? And how could your mother not see that she was playing right into his hands?

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure, but the anger was bubbling up, threatening to spill over. “But, Mama, what if he does not wish to marry? What if he simply enjoys… toying with people?”

Your mother’s expression softened as she reached out to pat your hand, oblivious to the storm brewing inside you. “My dear, you are overthinking this. Men like Lord Gojo may seem playful and insouciant, but they are ultimately driven by duty. A man in his position knows the importance of finding a suitable wife, and you⸺my darling⸺are just the woman for the role. You are intelligent, accomplished, and beautiful. He would be a fool not to see that.”

Each word only fueled the fire of your anger. Duty? Suitable wife? You bit your lip, feeling the weight of her expectations press down on you like a suffocating blanket. But beneath that weight was a growing resolve, a refusal to be treated like a pawn in some grand game of power and prestige. Gojo might enjoy playing with others' lives, but you would not be his plaything.

You gave her a pained smile. “If you say so, Mama…” you replied, the anger now evident in the tightness of your voice.

“Of course, I do!” she declared, rising from the bed with a self-satisfied smile. “Now, we must begin preparations immediately. There is much to be done before we depart.”

As your mother closed the door, you stormed over to the floorboard, whipped open your diary and prepped your quill to furiously write: 

Lord Gojo is a most intolerable wretch. Though his outward appearance might deceive many, there is an endless well of impurities within his character.

Indeed, God truly blesses the wrong soldiers with features such as his. However, I take pride in being one of His strongest for I possess the fortitude to resist the temptation of ending Gojo’s miserable existence myself.

Were Sukuna here, I daresay he would assist me in disposing of the body with great enthusiasm.

While the Gojo dinner table was stocked with the finest of meals⸺that deserving of a wealthy dukedom, of course⸺Satoru found himself eyeing one dish of all⸺the scones.

Observing his mother and father, who were engrossed in deep conversation, he realized he could make the move. As discreetly as he could, he stocked his plate with many of the treats. The cook, bless his soul, knew how to make scones exactly right: soft, yet hard around the edges that have Satoru drooling when he takes a bite in to get a burst of flavor. He discreetly tucked a few sweets into his pocket for tonight’s work session on some Gojo business, thinking himself subtle.

Satoru could continue writing endless love poems in his head towards his chef’s scones, But Lady Gojo, ever watchful, noticed his little scheme. She arched an eyebrow, her tone teasing as she remarked, "Satoru, darling, it astonishes me that you remain so fit with such a fondness for sweets."

Without missing a beat, Gojo flashed his usual charming smile and responded, “Perhaps it is because I am kept on my toes constantly by you, Mother.” His parents shared a laugh at this, clearly amused by his playful banter.

The Gojo dining fell into a comfortable lull once again, sounds of forks and knives scratching against porcelain plates. The silence was better, Satoru believed. Because he knew he was not going to be pleased at what his father had to say to him next, judged based on the thoughtful look he adopted while staring at Gojo. 

“And how fares the season, Satoru? Have you made any progress?”

Satoru wanted to groan so bad, but instead, he straightened in his seat, the smile on his face now simply a facade. “I am confident all will proceed as expected, Father,” he replied, though his tone lacked its usual certainty.

Duke Gojo narrowed his eyes slightly, sensing something amiss. “Are you sure about that?” he probed. “You know very well, Satoru, that your inheritance of the title is contingent upon securing a wife and producing an heir. This is not a matter to be taken lightly.”

The weight of his father’s words hung in the air, pressing down on Gojo with the full force of expectation.  Would it be eccentric if I decided to scream to the heavens right now?

Before Gojo could even formulate a response, his mother, ever the one to steer the conversation, interjected with a delighted exclamation. “Oh, it’s all handled, my dear! Did you not hear? The diamond of the season is arriving a week early to our manor in the countryside!”

All thoughts of screaming himself mute vanished as his mother’s words piqued his interest. Now, this was interesting. You? Spending time with him, under his roof, with no escape? The idea alone was enough to spark a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Satoru almost started cackling maniacally at the thought of pestering you until you broke that oh-so-perfect and uptight demeanor of yours, until you were reduced to exactly what you were: an unruly and highly emotional know-it-all.

One could say Satoru was very bitter about the losses he had bore for that horse race.

As a self-assured smirk started to creep up Satoru’s face, Duke Gojo blinked, surprised by the news. “A week early? That’s quite unusual,” he remarked, turning his gaze back to his son.

Satoru offered a sweet smile. “Yes, unusual indeed.” He knew his parents were well aware of the marital implications of such an arrangement, and he could feel their eyes on him, gauging his reaction.

But Duchess Gojo, satisfied with her announcement, continued with a gleeful smile. “I daresay, it’s all coming together perfectly. Even matchmakers could not have planned it better.”

Indeed, Mother! The prospect grew more delightful with each passing second, and the corners of his mouth curled into a sly grin. You were in for quite the week, and he would relish every moment of ruining your composure.

Yuji leaned in closer, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied your face. “Sister, did you perhaps neglect the chamber pot today?” he asked, his tone teasing but his gaze serious. “Your expression is quite telling.”

 The carriage, though spacious, felt suffocating with the tension hanging in the air. Your mother sat by the window, her eyes sparkling with what could only be described as gleeful scheming regarding your imminent week at the Gojo manor. You, on the other hand, simmered with barely contained fury, with a pinch of nausea, your thoughts consumed with how you would confront Gojo at the ball you were all headed to. Yuji’s scrutiny only added to your irritation, his amused yet concerned face a stark contrast to your stormy mood. Across from you, Choso couldn’t suppress a snicker at Yuji’s comment, clearly enjoying the exchange.

You snapped, unable to contain your frustration any longer. “Yuji, if you do not cease your incessant prying, I shall see to it that you regret ever opening your mouth!”

Yuji flinched, visibly startled by your outburst. His confidence wavered as he stammered, “I⸺I meant no harm, sister.” He quickly extended his elbow to you, his movements almost robotic in their sudden politeness. “Please, allow me to escort you inside.”

You ignored the offer, your focus already elsewhere. The moment the carriage came to a stop, you heaved yourself off, stepping into the entrance. Grand revelry was before you; many suitors and young ladies were present, necks glittering with diamonds and hands adorned with gloves. Roving your gaze around, you saw him.

The world around you seemed to blur as your gaze locked onto Gojo, everything else fading into the background. A sleazy and handsome grin on his face, definitely talking about some useless nonsense. 

Like a bull seeing red, you marched forward with determined fury, your sights set solely on him. He stood there, the picture of nonchalance, completely unaware of the storm heading his way. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your anger propelling you forward with each step. Yuji and Choso exchanged confused glances as they lingered by the entrance, unsure of what had just transpired.

As you closed the distance, Gojo finally noticed you, his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. But there was no time for his usual banter; you were ready to confront him head-on, no matter the consequences.

“What have you done?” you roared, striding towards Gojo. His head turned slowly, an amused and condescending smile creeping across his face. “I know this is⸺”

“Miss Itadori,” a voice hissed, dripping with offense. You turned to see Miss Yuki glaring at you. “Lord Gojo and I were in the midst of a very private conversation.”

You blinked, realizing that in your anger, you had entirely overlooked Miss Yuki’s presence. Though inwardly rolling your eyes, you knew it was best to maintain decorum. You curtsied in apology. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Yuki. I shall leave you both to continue your conversation.”

As you stepped back, giving them respectable space, Miss Yuki side-eyed you with a sharp “hmph!” before turning back to Gojo with a flirtatious smile.

“So, my lord,” Yuki began, her tone coy, “what type of woman would be to your liking?”

Gojo scratched his chin, feigning deep thought as he prepared his response. “Well, Miss Yuki, I would imagine she must be intelligent, accomplished, and⸺” He paused dramatically, taking her hand and kissing the back of it with a slow, deliberate drawl, “⸺and beautiful.”

You suppressed a sigh. Does he never tire of that tiresome gesture? It’s grown exceedingly dull.

Yuki’s pleased grin widened. “And what level of intellect do you find satisfactory, my lord?”

“Well,” Gojo mused, “I would prefer a lady well-versed in calculations. I often find myself making errors in my ledgers late at night, and a wife who could assist would be most valuable. Moreover, I would enjoy engaging in debates on scientific matters.”

Is he seeking a wife or an accountant?

The unusual nature of his request clearly left Yuki taken aback. She blinked, her smile tightening. “Indeed, Lord Gojo, these are rather...uncommon expectations for a wife.” Yuki then hesitated, glancing around as though searching for an escape. “Well, my lord, as intriguing as this conversation has been, I fear I must take my leave. My mother has been awaiting my return, and I would not wish to keep her waiting.”

She curtsied with a strained smile, clearly eager to extricate herself from the awkward situation Gojo’s peculiar standards had created. Without waiting for a reply, she swiftly turned and made her exit, leaving you alone to confront Gojo, who now had an amused look on his face, as if he had purposefully answered that way to ward Miss Yuki off.

You pointed your finger at him, wagging it accusingly as you hissed, “Gojo, I know this was one of your ploys.”

He let out an exaggerated groan, and he dropped all flirtatious pretenses he had adopted when conversing with the other lady. “Ah, yes. Please, by all means, heap more blame upon me for things entirely beyond my control. I derive immense pleasure from being the target of your needless and misdirected fury.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

With a strained smile, he sighed. “It seems our mothers have taken it upon themselves to orchestrate this entire charade.”

Your hands flew up in exasperation. “I cannot believe this! I would sooner perish than marry you, and heaven help me if I were ever to bear your children!”

“Spare me the theatrics,” Gojo replied, shaking his head as if amused by your outburst. He inclined his head slightly, gesturing toward something in the distance. “We are being observed.”

You followed his gaze and saw, across the dance floor, both of your mothers trying—albeit poorly—to appear inconspicuous as they exchanged furtive glances and whispered behind their fans.

You huffed in frustration, turning back to Gojo. “This is absurd.”

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in closer. “But would it be so terrible to bear my children?” he murmured, his tone teasing yet somehow serious.

Your pulse quickened at his words, but you refused to let it show. You straightened your posture, meeting his gaze with as much poise as you could muster. “I can’t think of far worse fates, my lord,” you replied, a touch of sarcasm lacing your words.

Gojo’s smile widened, clearly undeterred. His hand brushed lightly against your arm, the touch fleeting but enough to send a shiver down your spine.. You felt a slight tremor of awareness course through you, and despite your best efforts, a hint of warmth crept into your cheeks.

He leaned in even closer, his voice a low murmur. “You seem flustered, Miss Itadori,” he said, his breath warm against your skin. “I must admit, the idea of a future with you is… intriguing.”

Flustered and at a loss of witty remarks, you stammered, struggling to find your voice. “I⸺I hardly think that⸺”

Gojo’s smile widened, clearly enjoying your reaction. He gently took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. His eyes had this sultry expression to them, one that you didn’t need to ponder more than one second to know had no good intentions. 

With that, he released your hand, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding and your cheeks aflame.

Gojo ⸺ 1, You ⸺ 1. 

Choso crossed his arms, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Mother, why are we departing a week earlier than the rest of the ton?”

The carriage rocked gently, the luggage rattling with the motion. You slumped in your seat, weary from the long hours of travel, your thoughts drifting to the comfort of a soft, fluffy bed. Your mother, noticing the beads of sweat forming on your brow, handed you a handkerchief before turning to respond to Choso. “Well, my dear, your sister has caught the eye of Lord Gojo, and his mother has personally invited us to arrive early so that we may become better acquainted.”

Your eldest brother frowned, while Yuji stared vacantly out the carriage window, enraptured by the sheep present on the farm you were passing. “But why should we do so?” Choso pressed, his tone firm. “It is not as though Sister is lacking in suitors. Why should we entertain Lord Gojo’s interest above all others?”

Even in your heat-induced lightheadedness, your attention was drawn to Choso’s defense of you. A flicker of hope ignited in your chest; as the viscount, Choso held considerable authority over your mother, and he could potentially influence the matrimonial decisions made on your behalf.

“Lord Gojo is the most eligible bachelor of the season,” your mother insisted. “We would be foolish not to seize such an opportunity.”

Choso retorted quickly, “And Sister is the most eligible lady of the season. She is the diamond. If Lord Gojo’s eligibility rests on his title, would we not do better to pursue a match with Duke Nanami?”

You silently cheered Choso on, hoping he might sway your mother’s mind away from the ridiculous notion of a match between you and Gojo.

But your mother was not easily deterred. “I am quite set on Lord Gojo, Choso,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “Your sister seems to have formed a rapport with him, and this is about more than just titles. We must also consider her inclinations.”

Both your mother and Choso turned their expectant gazes upon you, awaiting your response. Flustered and unwilling to directly oppose your mother, you swallowed nervously and nodded. “Whatever you think best, Mother.”

The remainder of the ride was marked by the satisfied smile on Lady Itadori’s face and the glowers⸺yet paired with concerned glances⸺from Choso.

The slowing of the carriage and its turn onto a smooth pathway roused you from the gentle lull of travel. You blinked your eyes open and glanced outside. A magnificent flower bed greeted you, a sea of blues ranging from the palest sky hues to deep indigo. But what truly stole your breath was the manor itself⸺more a castle than a mere country home. Its grandiose structure rivaled Buckingham Palace in regality, with elegant blue spires and stately beige stone walls that seemed to stretch towards the heavens.

The carriage came to a complete halt at the base of a grand staircase, where Duchess Gojo stood waiting, surrounded by footmen and maids all dressed in coordinated baby blue livery. As the carriage door was opened, you, your mother, Choso, and Yuji stepped out into the warm afternoon air.

“Lady Itadori!” Duchess Gojo descended the stairs gracefully, her arms extended in greeting. Your mother met her with an equally warm embrace.

“Your Grace,” your mother replied fondly, her face lighting up with familiarity. The duchess then turned her gaze towards you, her smile gracious and welcoming.

“And this must be our diamond,” Duchess Gojo said warmly, her eyes twinkling.

You offered her a polite smile and curtsied. “Miss Itadori, Your Grace. I am deeply honored by your hospitality.”

She waved off your formality with a flick of her hand. “The pleasure is entirely ours, my dear. We are delighted to have you with us, and I do hope that you and my son will find ample time to get better acquainted before the house party.”

You returned her smile, though unease stirred within you. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Choso and Yuji introduced themselves with the same practiced politeness, and after the formalities were concluded, the duchess clapped her hands together. “Come now, let us take tea. You must be quite fatigued from your journey. I shall have the staff see to your rooms so you may rest after.” She directed the servants to unload the luggage from the carriages and then motioned for you all to follow her into the manor. “To the drawing room!”

As you crossed the threshold into the manor, you were struck by the sheer opulence surrounding you. The high ceilings were adorned with intricate gold and blue detailing, and the walls were lined with endless portraits of the Gojo family. Your gaze was momentarily drawn to a portrait of Lord Gojo himself. The artist had rendered his eyes in a cold, oceanic blue—quite unlike the electric blue intensity they held in person. The painting failed to capture the vitality, and perhaps the insufferable smugness, that characterized his gaze.

You quickly looked away before anyone could notice your lingering stare, hurrying to catch up with your family as you reached a grand set of double doors. Footmen stood at attention as Duchess Gojo led you into a drawing room, elegantly appointed with plush furnishings and laden with trays of sweets.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” the duchess urged, gesturing towards the seating. She and your mother settled at a small table near the door, while you and your siblings gravitated toward the couches in the center of the room, where a tempting array of desserts awaited. As you sat down, maids swiftly arranged teacups and began pouring the tea. Yuji and Choso took seats across from you, their expressions reflecting varying degrees of interest—or lack thereof—in the proceedings.

“So, Miss Itadori,” You looked across the room to look at the duchess, who was leaning further to grab at her teacup and take a sip. “How do you find this season?”

“I find the suitors of this season very pleasing and kind, Your Grace,” you sat up fully, placing the scone you were eating down to fully face the duchess. “It has been a very extravagant season; I hope to continue my search to find a suitable match for myself.” Duchess Gojo nodded. “An admirable pursuit, of course. Is a love match what you are searching for?”

Her question hung in the air, and in that instant, you felt the weight of every gaze in the room fall upon you. The most searing of them all, though, was your mother's. You could feel it like a prickling heat against your skin, a silent reminder of the expectations that had been laid out before you long ago.

A love match. The words echoed in your mind, each syllable twisting into a knot of uncertainty. The very idea of love seemed foreign to you—elusive, abstract, something that belonged in novels rather than in the practical world of arranged marriages and alliances. Love was not what you had been taught to seek. No, your upbringing had been grounded in duty, decorum, and the quiet understanding that marriage was a contract, a union of convenience rather than passion.

But how could you say that aloud? How could you tell the duchess—tell anyone—that your dreams did not include the fiery passion of a love match, but rather the comfort of a peaceful arrangement? Your throat tightened, and the words that had once seemed so simple lodged themselves in the back of your mouth, refusing to emerge.

Your mother’s eyes bore into you, filled with unspoken expectations. You knew what she wanted to hear: that you were pursuing love, that you were open to it, that you were the ideal picture of a hopeful young lady seeking her romantic equal. But that wasn’t your truth. Your truth was more complicated, filled with desires for stability, understanding, and a life unburdened by the chaos that love so often seemed to bring.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the beat almost deafening in the sudden silence of the room. What were you supposed to say? How could you balance the delicate line between honesty and propriety?

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, you swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat making it nearly impossible to find your voice. The tension swirled within you, an unrelenting force that made you wish you could simply disappear. What if they could see through you? What if, with one wrong word, they uncovered the truth of what you really wanted—a marriage that was practical, peaceful, and devoid of the complications that came with love?

But that wasn’t something you could admit. Not here. Not now.

You forced a polite smile, hoping it hid the whirlwind of thoughts racing through your mind.

Before the weight of the room could settle further, the heavy double doors swung open with a soft yet deliberate creak. Every head turned in unison, and the air seemed to shift as your savior, Satoru Gojo made his entrance.

His attire was impeccable—a finely tailored waistcoat of deep blue, embroidered with silver thread that caught the light just so, paired with polished boots that gleamed as if they had never touched the ground. Yet, despite the formal attire, there was an air of disarming casualness about him, a kind of effortless elegance that made the room's grandeur seem almost insignificant by comparison.

His damp hair, still tousled from what must have been a recent bath, added an edge to his otherwise polished appearance. Droplets of water shimmered at the tips of his white locks, catching the light as he ran a hand through them. The scent of his cologne, rich and intoxicating, seemed to announce his arrival to you even before he spoke.

He strolled in with an air of ease. “It seems that our guests are finally here!” He moved with an easy grace, crossing the room in a few long strides, bowing slightly to the duchess and your mother before turning his attention to you. His gaze lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary, a playful glint in his eyes as if he could sense the internal battle you had been fighting mere seconds ago.

“Miss Itadori,” he greeted you with a smile that could have melted the iciest of hearts, “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

Your mother’s eyes lit up at the sight of him. “Ah, Satoru! Come, sit with us.” She motioned to the spot next to you with enthusiasm. “Why don’t you and Miss Itadori sit together?”

Choso’s sharp gaze followed him with a hint of suspicion, but he made no objection as Gojo accepted the invitation, seating himself beside you with an infuriatingly confident smile. Yuji and Choso remained on the opposite couch, observing the scene with varying degrees of curiosity and caution.

“Well then,” Gojo began, grabbing an obscene amount of scones to heap on his plate, “I was just at the 

archery range earlier today. Quite the exhilarating sport. I find it sharpens the mind as much as the aim.”

Yuji, ever the admirer of feats of physical skill, leaned forward with interest. “Archery, my lord? That sounds remarkable! I must admit, I’ve always found it to be one of the noblest of pursuits.”

Gojo leaned back into the couch, resting one arm casually behind you on the backrest, his posture the very picture of relaxed confidence. He smiled at Yuji’s enthusiasm and continued, “Archery has long been a favored pastime of mine. It requires precision, patience, and an understanding of balance—qualities I find both necessary and rewarding. I've dedicated many years to perfecting my skill with the bow.”

He paused, allowing a slight, reflective smile to touch his lips. “In fact, just last month, I competed in the annual tournament at Her Majesty’s estate and managed to hit the bullseye in every round. Some of the other competitors remarked that it was almost unnatural, but I assure you, it is merely the result of countless hours spent at the range.”

Yuji’s eyes widened with admiration. “Every round? That’s incredible, Lord Gojo! Your dedication must be unparalleled.”

Gojo shrugged with mock humility, though his eyes glinted with pride. “It’s all in the discipline, really. Once you understand the rhythm of the draw and the release, it becomes second nature. Of course, the challenge is in maintaining that focus while under pressure. But I’ve found that to be the most exhilarating part—especially when the crowd is watching.”

Yuji nodded fervently, clearly enthralled. “I would love to see you in action, my lord! Perhaps you could give me a few pointers one day.”

Gojo chuckled, his gaze shifting to you for a moment before returning to Yuji. “Ah, I’m sure you’d take it quite well, Yuji. Perhaps we could all visit the range together during your stay here.”

 The nonchalant arrogance in his voice, paired with the image of him lording his skill over others, irritated you. You couldn’t resist a small quip, your tone light. “Oh, indeed, Lord Gojo. Your accomplishments are so profound that I fear I might believe you are telling tales. Of course, I wonder with all this focus on archery, do you leave any time for pursuits that require a bit more… finesse?”

Gojo’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as they met yours, his gaze sharp with understanding. Yet, rather than take offense, he allowed a playful smirk to curl on his lips, his voice laced with teasing intent. “Ah, Miss Itadori, archery indeed requires finesse, I assure you. But perhaps you’d care to test that claim yourself? I’d be more than happy to provide a demonstration.”

As he leaned in closer, you found yourself all too aware of his presence. The scent of his cologne, a warm and intoxicating blend of vanilla and tobacco, filled the air between you, making it difficult to maintain your composure. His face hovered just near enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke.

“In fact,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “I’d wager that with a little practice, you might find yourself hitting the mark with more than just words.”

His proximity made your heart skip a beat, and you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Despite your resolve to remain composed, the effect of his closeness and the quiet intensity in his voice left you momentarily at a loss for words.

Choso, sitting across from you, gave Gojo a sharp look. Meanwhile, Yuji was practically beaming at the prospect of an archery lesson from the lord himself.

You inhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself. “Perhaps,” you replied, your voice more controlled than you expected, though there was still a slight quiver in it. “But I’ve found that words can be just as powerful, if not more so.”

Gojo smirked, his gaze lingering on your face as if savoring the moment. The challenge in his eyes was unmistakable, and you could feel the weight of it, pressing against your own resolve. But you wouldn’t allow him to see just how much he affected you—at least, not yet. 

Despite the warmth in your cheeks and the flutter in your chest, you held his gaze, meeting his playful intensity with your own determined calm.

However, your mother’s voice broke through the spell. “Oh, Your Grace, might we have a tour of the manor sometime?”

Duchess Gojo, clearly delighted to show off her home, nodded eagerly. “Of course! There is a pavilion overlooking our garden where we can play pall-mall, and the library is quite extensive.” Your interest piqued at the mention of the library, and you made yourself a mental note to explore where it was.

Then she turned her gaze towards you, her expression growing more conspiratorial. “And as for Miss Itadori, Satoru has promised to give her a personal tour of the grounds tomorrow after she takes rest today.”

You stiffened at the suggestion, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw Gojo lean in slightly, his mischievous grin widening as he whispered, “I’ll be sure to make it… thorough.”

You couldn’t sleep.

Restless thoughts kept you tossing and turning, denying you any hope of finding solace in slumber. The events of the day had left you drained, and after the conversation in the drawing room, you had collapsed into the plush, inviting bed. Sleep had claimed you almost instantly. But now, in the dark silence of the night, you awoke with a start, your mind refusing to quiet. No matter how you tried, you couldn’t escape the whirlwind of thoughts that stirred within you.

The prospect of the coming days loomed over you, a storm of anxiety brewing. Spending time with Gojo, of all people? Your mother’s insistent push for this potential marriage was unbearable. How could you possibly tell her that you despised the man? The mere thought of being bound to him in matrimony was a nightmare⸺marriage itself was daunting enough, but to an arrogant, loquacious, and insufferably self-assured man like him? It would be nothing short of Hell on earth.

With a frustrated sigh, you rose from bed and rubbed your face, trying to dispel the fog of sleeplessness. Perhaps a visit to the manor’s library⸺the one mentioned during tea⸺would offer some distraction. Grabbing a lantern, you slipped out of your room, treading softly down the stairs and into the main hallway. You moved with the caution of a thief; your mother would surely not approve of your nocturnal wanderings. Her voice echoed in your mind, sharp and reprimanding: “Good things never happen in the dead of night!”

As you opened the library’s grand doors, a soothing fragrance enveloped you⸺the scent of aged paper mingled with a hint of vanilla, a fragrance unique to this room. But what truly took your breath away was the sheer size of the library.

Bookshelves lined the walls, rising two stories high, creating a space that could easily have served as a grand ballroom. Cozy nooks beckoned you to sit, while further exploration revealed tables and armchairs tucked away behind towering shelves. It was a bibliophile’s paradise.

Your eyes roved over the multitude of volumes: ancient ledgers, personal family records, scholarly works on politics, astronomy, and the sciences. Though you did not often indulge in scientific pursuits, you found them fascinating whenever the opportunity arose. One book in particular caught your eye:

Observations on the Planet Venus.

Drawn to the back of the library, you found a large window offering a stunning view of the garden and pavilion, bathed in starlight. You couldn’t resist the allure of the table beside it, where you settled in and began to read.

“The planet Venus is an object that has long engaged my particular attention. A series of observations upon it, which I began in April, 1777, has been continued down to the present time…”

Time slipped away as you became engrossed in the text, the lantern’s light flickering softly as you pored over the meticulous observations and calculations. Your hands were soon stained with ink, evidence of the notes you had been feverishly jotting down on scraps of parchment you had found in a supply cabinet. A good hour or two had passed before you finally leaned back, stretching your tired muscles. You rested your head on your arms, intending to close your eyes for just a moment. Soon, you found that your sleepy brain forced you to reflect and muse upon your life, as a mind often does at three.

What a pity it was that you couldn’t bear the thought of marrying Gojo. If only he were different, you might have lived in this manor, with its perfect library, forever. You could imagine it: waking in the mornings in your fluffy bed, sharing the latest discoveries in astronomy and medicine with your handsome husband…

Truly, what a pity. Your sleep-deprived mind began to conjure an image of this imagined husband—tall, nearly Gojo’s height, with kind eyes and lips that would kiss you gently awake each morning (unlike Gojo’s snark). You envisioned banter over breakfast, late-night rendezvous in the library, and tender embraces in bed…

Before you could delve deeper into your fantasy, the sound of footsteps jolted you back to reality. The tread was deliberate, too similar to your mother’s for comfort, and panic flared within you. Your mind, already muddled with exhaustion, conjured the worst possible scenario—your mother finding you here, in the library where you had no business being at this hour.

Memories of her discovering forbidden books in your childhood flashed before your eyes, and your breath quickened in fear. Rising as quietly as you could, you pressed your hands over your mouth to stifle any sound, creeping toward a bookshelf to hide. But the footsteps drew closer, relentless in their pursuit. You felt like prey, cornered and desperate.

Getting out of your chair as quietly as you could, you squeezed your eyes shut and put both of your hands over your mouth so you didn’t start making audible gasps that would let the person know where you were immediately. Softly⸺but panickedly⸺walking towards a bookshelf, you hid as you traced the footsteps getting closer and closer to you. You tried to walk away from the sound, but it seemed like the person was listening intently for your movements. You couldn’t help but think you were like prey, cornered and desperate.

However, it was all for naught; your heart sank as you realized you had ended up in an alley of bookshelves that were up against the wall, essentially creating a dead end for you. The steps got closer and closer, and you drew yourself closer and closer to the wall. Your eyes was still shut, but you could hear the steps around the corner, coming closer and closer. 

The footsteps were merely a few feet away from you, and in a moment of sheer panic, you blurted out, “I am sorry, Mother⸺”

“Excuse me,” came a voice that was decidedly not your mother’s. Your eyes flew open to find none other than Gojo, his blue eyes alight with offense. “Do I resemble your mother in any way?”

You blinked, struggling to process the sight before you. He was holding a quill, ink, and a stack of notebooks that resembled the ledgers you had seen earlier, along with a plate of scones that looked absurdly sugary.

“I—” you stammered, taking a sharp breath to compose yourself and paused, looking at Gojo⸺who was shooting you a petulant frown⸺take a big bite of his scone. “Your tread was uncannily similar.”

He paused, chewing on a scone with a sulky expression, while you averted your gaze in embarrassment.

When he finished chewing, he cleared his throat. “You must possess rather poor hearing to mistake a man of my stature for a lady.”

You shrugged, still flustered. “Perhaps you have an unusually light step.”

An awkward silence settled between you as Gojo took another loud bite of his scone. You hastened to break it. “It is quite late; I must take my leave. Good night, my lord.”

You bowed your head slightly and moved to leave, but before you could slip past him, he blocked your path, suspicion narrowing his gaze. “What business do you have in the Gojo library at this hour?”

“Nothing of import,” you squeaked.

At the not-very-innocuous tone in your voice, his eyes narrowed further. “Your tone suggests otherwise.” He leaned in, his gaze sweeping over you with exaggerated scrutiny. Noticing the ink stains on your hands, he quipped, “Were you tampering with important records?”

Your heart raced, knowing that he wouldn’t be entirely wrong to suspect you⸺what else would a lady be doing in a library at this hour? It was a no-win situation: confess to reading a book and risk your mother’s wrath, or be accused of something far more serious.

It was best to come clean. “I was merely reading a book,” you confessed. “I can show you precisely where I sat and what I was doing.”

Gojo’s expression softened, but he quickly continued his theatrical suspicion and hmmphed. “Of course. I must be certain that no mischief has been afoot.”

You led him back to the table where you had been reading. He sat across from you, depositing his supplies onto the table with a flourish and leaned back, crossing his arms. Ever the investigator, he watched as you retrieved the book. It bore no resemblance to the Gojo ledgers, which had the telltale blue cover and Gojo insignia, which consisted of six eyes. 

Upon seeing this, he nodded in acknowledgment. “You are exonerated.”

At that, you sighed and clutched your chest. For a moment, you contemplated pleading with Gojo to keep your late library visit secret from your mother but you shot the idea down for two reasons. First, you would never lower yourself to plead with Gojo, and second, Gojo⸺ever the insufferable man⸺would definitely make sure to mention it to your mother and further exacerbate the issue. 

As he began arranging his ink bottles and quills, preparing to work on his ledgers, you took a moment to observe him. He was dressed in casual attire, loose-fitting trousers and a white shirt with several buttons undone, revealing a hint of his chest. Slut.

It took you a moment to realize that he was settling in at your table. You frowned. “I beg your pardon, but this is my spot.”

Gojo looked up from his work, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “My dear, this is my library. Thus, it is my spot.”

You opened your mouth to retort, then closed it in frustration. He was right, after all. The entire manor was his. Your silence seemed to amuse him, as he returned to his ledgers with a smug smile.

Now, you didn’t really know what to do⸺should you go back to your room, or should you stay and continue reading the book? In your indecision, you continued to flip through the pages of the book, particularly because you wanted to finish the conclusion section before going to bed. But you soon felt his gaze upon you, the sound of his quill slowing down.

You didn’t look up. “Might I suggest you cease staring at me? It is quite improper.” “What? Why would I do so? To watch you peruse a tedious romance novel?”

“This is a book on the state of the art of astronomy.” 

“Indeed? I confess, I am surprised.”

Your irritation flared and you whipped your head up to glare at Gojo. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I was under the impression that young ladies’ interests lie solely in matters of the heart.”

“So, in addition to gossiping, you are also prone to narrow-minded assumptions?”

Gojo scoffed. “Narrow-minded? It is a simple observation. Both men and women often indulge in fanciful notions of love.”

You scoffed. “Ah, so you hold yourself above other men. What are you, God?”

Gojo ignored your remark. “Those who read such frivolities are seldom engaged in serious thought or the appreciation of true art.”

“Romance allows one to experience love and joy. Does the prospect of happiness through art truly horrify you?” You stood, glaring at him. “Unlike you, my lord, ladies such as myself cannot frequent dubious establishments such as brothels to seek out lovers. Our reputations and futures are at stake.” Gojo began to respond, but you cut him off. “To deny women the solace of love is cruel. It is our only refuge in a world that forces us into unwanted marriages!”

When you were done ranting to Gojo, you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in. Truly, this man could bother you like no other; only your siblings have caused this much heat on your face due to anger. The only sounds in the library was your rushed breathing, from anger.

Gojo scoffed. “You truly think too much.”

You offered a sharp scoff. "And you, far too little. Even Sukuna Jr. possesses more emotional intelligence than you."

"Do not compare me to that wretched creature," Gojo retorted.

You gasped in disbelief. "How dare you speak of Kuna in such a manner!"

"Then perhaps you should keep him from fouling the air around me!" he snapped.

A sly smile crept across your lips. "He merely knows whom to guard me against."

At reference of That Night, Gojo sighs exhaustedly. “Do you find trouble with the judgments I made that night? None of that was meant for you.”

“Are you quite serious?” You were in disbelief. Does he truly feel no remorse? Frustrated, you ran a hand over your face. “Your words may not have been intended for me, but they were no less cutting. I cannot abide such arrogance, my lord.”

Gojo leaned back, crossing his arms with an air of indifference. “Arrogance or simply honesty? I merely spoke the truth as I see it.”

“Your so-called truth is nothing more than disdain wrapped in wit,” you snapped, feeling your temper rise again. “You speak as though your opinions are infallible, as if you alone have the right to pass judgment on others.”

“I only say what others are too afraid to voice,” he retorted, his tone cool. “If that makes me arrogant, then so be it. But I will not apologize for it.”

“Of course not,” you said bitterly. “An apology would require some measure of humility, and that is something you clearly lack.”

Gojo’s eyes narrowed, his voice growing more clipped. “I fail to see why my opinions should trouble you so much. Perhaps you are simply too sensitive.”

Your anger flared at his dismissive tone. “Or perhaps you are too blind to see the harm your words cause. You claim to be honest, but what you truly are is cruel.”

“Cruel?” Gojo’s voice was sharp now, his composure slipping. “For speaking the truth? For refusing to coddle those who cannot handle it?”

“For refusing to consider the feelings of others!” you countered, your voice rising in frustration. “Not everything is a game or a joke, my lord. Your words have consequences, whether you acknowledge them or not.”

A tense silence fell between you, each of you locked in a stubborn glare, neither willing to yield. Finally, you shook your head, the weight of your frustration pressing down on you. “I cannot do this,” you muttered, turning away. “You are utterly impossible.”

You began to walk away, but Gojo’s voice cut through the silence. “Running away so soon?” There was a hint of something in his tone⸺something almost like disappointment⸺but you dismissed it.

You paused, glancing back at him with a hardened expression. “There is no point in continuing this conversation. You refuse to see reason, and I refuse to waste any more of my time on you.”

Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your heel and left the library, your heart pounding with irritation and anger. As the door closed behind you, you couldn’t shake the feeling of heaviness in your chest. 

prev. the aftermath | next. the game

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n gojo the type to hit ur g spot every ti---WHAT WHO SAID THAT?

anyways yes we r getting (sort of) freaky in the next chapter (gojo busts in his pants seeing reader's ankles /j)

gojo when reader thought he was her mama

also tysm for all the asks, and comments, and love you guys have shown me. super motivating that you guys are enjoying the story and propels me to write more <3

comment, reblog, and send in an ask to let me know ur thots :3 memes are also appreciated <3

TAGLIST

@ncitygreen @backstagepaige @serinatly100986 @nappingmoon @coochellati

@extremelyexh4usted @yoshisaurmuchakoopas @nixiepixee @generalstephkenobi @vernasce-blogs

@byhuenii @geniejunn @a-girl-with-thoughts @dazedin2d @chuuqxs

@megumiivs @anthastudios @arranacosmist @arishaxml @jingyuun

@undercooked-chaos-noodle @jaegersity @camzzn @bluelai @1sweetheart1

@hyori2 @babyblue0t7 @iwanttoberich420 @rosso-seta @ladytamayolover

@kalulakunundrum @r0ckst4rjk @mo0sin @angelina7890 @jaeminaur

@yamiyas @cherry-blossoms-in-red @r3inae @lagataprrr @sasfransisco

@fortunatelyfurrygiver @aurora-tiny @gojonegs @luna-v-roiya @xxemmarldxx

@soobssedwithyourex @manyno @samkysnks @stefnarda @bbqsauceonmytitties2

[impish-baby]

I've noticed you make alot of monster parent fics but what if it was switched :0

Monster reader being feared by others and yandere family just sees them as a baby

Mmm delicious!! This was fun to write, I think if I do another monster reader, they'll be a weird shape shifter thing >:>

Angel's Fables - Little red riding hood - 🐾🪓

"Oh, poor pup, you made such a mess.."

You barely register the cloth gently dabbing away at the blood around your mouth, too focused on the body laying on the floor a few feet away.

You were starving. Hunting is too hard most days, you're clumsy and startle the deer. Frail old humans at the end of their rope are easier picking, if only you hadn't been caught. Wolf fur is valuable, isn't it? A fearful whine leaves your lips as your ears pin back flat against your head.

The women only coos, dropping the hankercheif in favor of stroking your hair fondly. "You were just hungry, huh? It's ok, I'm not mad." She giggles, "We'll have to run you a bath though..I like red, but having blood all over my nice blankets is less appealing." You're still frozen stiff as she guides you to stand up and begins to lead you out of the hut, dread clawing at your chest.

You could bite her, shift, and make a run for it. There's a quiver strapped to her back though, you've seen just how fast an arrow can fly. Maybe if you just go along with her she'll make it painless.

The woman seems as happy as can be in comparison, humming merrily as she drags you along. It'll be so lame if your last moments are to a poor rendition of 'Mary had a little lamb'.

A cottage is apparently where you're headed. It's...quant. That's how you politely call something all word down, right? Rustic charm or whatever.

"See, I think I left some water boiling! You'll get a nice warm bath to clean you up." If you thought the house itself was small, the bathroom is tiny. The tub itself takes up half the room. "You stay right here, ok? Sissy will be right back!" She could just be crazy.

Looking around doesn't turn up anything interesting, you aren't given very long to search though before she busts through the door with a huge pot in tow. "Here we go.." It's at least enough water to fill the tub most of the way, hot too. "You be good and make sure you're not covered in all that dirt and grime." You're given a tiny smirk before she leaves, "I'll make dinner, it's good to know who was stealing all those rabbits from my traps." You hope wolf meat tastes terrible.

[elodieunderglass]

100% of my jockey knowledge comes from reading Dick Francis books, have you read any/do you have any Thoughts on them?

TBH despite knowing nothing about horse racing I love his writing and plots, they are my comfort read! I especially enjoy how all his protagonists are Stoic Deceptively Intelligent men with high pain tolerance who fall in love with the female love interest at first sight... Original self insert Mary Sue lol

I thought, this is extremely funny, I will write you a funny little pastiche to show my stylish skills in mimicry and make you laugh!

I did actually feel pain, and I didn't think I liked being shot, but it didn't seem to matter much. In the past two years since the racing injury that had destroyed my hand in an unbelievably horrific way, I had only been able to listlessly pick up the rudiments of the most useless things: a master's degree in forensic pathology, unrivalled proficiency in one-handed lockpicking, an entire secret identity as a hard-hitting financial investigator, a deeply informed background in turf maintenance, international one-handed chess-playing fame, a one-handed pilot's license not relevant to the narrative, a full career arc as a noir private detective, one-handed photography skills, a stint as an undercover basketweaving instructor and a working knowledge of ancient Etruscan.

None of them mattered, because they didn't have horse racing in. Nobody wanted me, because I didn't either.

I didn't have any horse racing at all in me any more.

But then I was up all night with the toddler, and pastiche comes really fast for me, and it stopped being a Bit and started being A Lot. Maybe too much.

So I also became, apparently, the first person to use this tag on ao3:

And wrote you this:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62461696

Which is of course a full parody of the whole 1965 Dick Francis thriller, “Odds Against,” and which I mostly wrote because the accordion joke struck me as shatteringly funny.

DOES THIS ANSWER YOUR QUESTION, I HOPE IT DOES.

[laurelsofhighever]

On Lucanis and ace representation

I have mixed feelings about it. Spoilers ahead, obviously.

On the one hand, I have been writing ace representation into Dragon Age fandom for at least five years by this point; I have made posts speculating which characters in the franchise could be read as aspec, I have critiqued the conflation between apparent aspec identities and brokenness that happens so often in mainstream media, and I have longed for a canonically aspec character in the stories I love. To me, however, this new declaration about Lucanis does not feel like a victory.

It feels convenient.

Mary Kirby tweeted six months ago that she specifically wrote Lucanis to be a disaster bisexual, not panromantic demisexual. In the real world, of course, people can discover new things about themselves and change their labels, and it’s fine. The problem is that Lucanis is not a people, he is a character with a static set of responses to a limited set of inputs from the player. In other words, he is what he is. That this change in Word of God about his sexuality comes directly on the heels of the very poorly received AMA from the devs is something I don’t view as a coincidence.

To be clear, this isn’t an attack on Mary Kirby, nor is it a tantrum about not getting a sexy Zevran 2.0. I am ace – I love slow burn emotional depth before physical intimacy, and I was drawn to Lucanis because of his struggles with alienation and the softer playfulness that’s there to see if you look for it. (And the voice, and the wings, but that’s not relevant here.) However, there is something severely lacking in the connective tissue of his romance. For the first two thirds of the game he is unresponsive to flirting to the point where the game feels like it’s bugged. Multiple people have pointed out that it’s almost impossible to tell when the romance is locked in without looking at the companion screen – I myself only realised when took him to Rivain with Taash and they started talking about him popping out the wings. The idea that this woodenness was a deliberate choice does a disservice to everyone who has pointed out a valid critique of the content – mechanically, rather than narratively – of the romance.

It is also immediately contradicted if you don’t romance Lucanis. Because instead he gets together with Neve in a relationship that not only lacks the emotional closeness that is required for Rook to lock in a romance, but also gets physical far more quickly, which is the exact opposite of how demisexuality works. For Rook, romancing Lucanis requires repeated declarations of support and care, and he will only fully reciprocate once they have battled through his inner demons to encourage him to start healing from his trauma. Even after that there is no physical touch between them until after Rook is pulled from the Fade prison. Neve, meanwhile, is one of the locks on his cage, but creates a ‘hats off’ rule for Spite. It's like watching Aveline run around finding marigolds for Donnic all over again. Not to say that all ace experiences are the same, but if someone described these two relationships to me, I would assume only one of them involved a demisexual character.

Truthfully, however, this isn’t really about the evidence for whether Lucanis is or is not demi. You could argue that back and forth all day because interpretation goes both ways. For example, he says he’s inexperienced in relationships, but then he’s arguably more competent than the other companions who ask you for romantic help, more lacking in confidence than skill – and analysis of that is a whole other post. But it’s not useful. There isn’t one way to be aspec, and I’m certainly not saying he can’t be read that way.

What this is about is the way representation feels like it has been retconned in as a response to the genuine critiques brought up in the AMA and elsewhere. Excusing the gaps in his romance by saying it’s because he’s demisexual feels like a cheap attempt to divert attention away from weak character writing. Perhaps I’m just being cynical, but after all the dodged questions and misrepresentations from the devs in almost every aspect of this game, if Lucanis had been planned as aspec from the beginning then the TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN game would have made a huge thing of it. I know this, because they did it already, they stated all the companions were pan (except for Lucanis who was bi).

And I don’t know what’s worse: it not being planned and only trotted out as a smokescreen to avoid engaging with the flaws in the writing; or it being there from the beginning without any care for how it might look to have the ostensibly aspec character be a literal abomination whose interpersonal issues stem from being imprisoned and tortured. Again.

A good slow burn would have addressed Lucanis’ relationship to attraction, though hopefully with more nuance than Taash was allowed. A good slow burn would have not made one character exchangeable for another in a romance regardless of the personal journey Lucanis can only take with one of them. A good slow burn would have at least had him reacting to the things the PC says to him. But this is not a good slow burn and the devs are using a token attempt at queer rep to cover for whatever went on behind the scenes to give us such a patchy final product.

[girlsworldillusion]

I'll fake it until you give up (or will it be me?)

Final part

Part one > here

Ravenclaw!Barty - Gryffindor!Reader

Summary: The five times Barty tried to hint at a relationship with you, being actively blocked in the process, and the one time you were the one who did it.

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Ella's Notes: This was originally a one shot, but since I have no self-control, I created a monster of more than 20k, so I divided this story into two parts. I strongly advise you to read the first part if you haven't already, or you won't understand anything here. (I had Maxence Danet-Fauvel in mind while writing Barty, but of course you can imagine him however you like)

Happy reading!

Word count: 15k

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

iv.

The Slytherins knew how to throw a good party.

Obviously they would need to tie you up and force a liter of veritaserum down your throat before you would admit that out loud. But you suppose it was safe to admit it to yourself.

The low beat of the music blasts into your ears in just the right way, a sensual, enveloping bass that has you subtly moving your hips before you even realize you're doing it. The green-hued floating candles and silver and black decor cast purposefully mysterious shadows across the sweaty bodies that excitedly crowded the dance floor. A near-suffocating amount of cigarette and whatever crap the students were smoking swirled through the air in almost hypnotic spirals - you don't know how, but they managed to make even this explicitly school-banned act (not to mention the fact that it's highly harmful to health) seem cool here.

There was a kind of absolute, yet elegant, chaos at Slytherin parties that you didn’t see in other houses. Definitely not in Gryffindor, where there was usually only the chaos part.

They made drinks stronger than any other house, true, but that wasn’t a bad thing - at least not tonight. After the absolutely awkward and intimate moment you’d shared with Crouch a few nights ago, drinking yourself into oblivion was exactly what you needed.

And so you were doing.

The thing was so strong that you were only on the second glass and already your body felt light and your mind relaxed, the happy confusion of drunkenness already taking over your thoughts. It didn’t help that the glasses were charm to refill as the drink dwindled.

You were tipsy enough to find the dramatic antics Sirius was pulling with James and Remus across the room quite amusing, finally pulling the wands out of their arses to enjoy themselves in a green and silver party.

Unfortunately, however, you weren't drunk enough to stand Lockhart's presence. Honestly, you were completely convinced that there was no level of drunkenness that reached such parameters.

"...and then I spotted the golden snitch right there, wandering restlessly through the pouring rain with its fragile little wings. Of course, without me, they would have lost that match. The seeker was so confused that you could say the poor boy had been hit by an errant bludger. Oh, if it hadn't been for me..."

The man was so self-centered and vain that it made you want to stick your nails in your own ear canals and rip them out so you wouldn't have to hear him anymore.

"That's very interesting, Lockhart, but -" You try, with a lame excuse on the tip of your tongue to disappear from that place. But of course it wouldn't be that easy.

"Gilderoy, my dear. I already told you that you can call me Gilderoy." He interrupts you with a grin that’s bright enough to light up the entire castle, winking at you as if he’s granting you a Order of Merlin by allowing you to use his name.

“Okay…Gilderoy,” you grin, “as I was saying, your stories are really interesting, but I promised Mary I’d find her and—”

“Oh, but why would you? Aren’t we having a good time here?” Apparently, interrupting is another one of his annoying quirks, because he’s doing it again. But this time in a rather direct manner.

“Huh—” you sigh as he forces you to flatten yourself against the wall to put some space between your bodies, advancing towards you with a catlike gaze and a big, stupid grin on his mouth.

“Do you know how many girls would beg to be in your place right now, honeybun? You must know by now how sought after I am…” His voice is something artificially friendly and seductive, so ridiculous that you want to laugh in response. But you're too frozen in place to do anything like that.

And it's not because Lockhart is someone who inspires any fear. Merlin knows the man doesn't have a single threatening bone in his body. It's just the sudden proximity, his considerable height shadowing yours, and his poor and unwanted flirting - and maybe the exorbitant and unnecessary amount of alcohol the slytherins put in those damn drinks is making you vulnerable after all.

The fact is that you feel cornered in a totally unpleasant and unexpected way. And that makes you freeze for a moment, not knowing how to react.

"Uh, what do you say? How about we have some fun?" He moves a little closer, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath wafting across your forehead, making your fingers press the glass until it feels like you could crush it.

"Lockhart."

A voice sounds behind the two of you, loud enough to be heard even over the low chords of the music, and you know who it is before you even see him, but Gilderoy still cranes his neck to find out who interrupted him at such an inopportune moment.

Inopportune for him, of course. For you it was a more than convenient moment.

"I'm surprised to find you here. I thought you were at the competition back there." Barty comments disinterestedly as raises the cigarette to his lips, looking at you over Gilderoy's shoulder with an appraising and intense look before turning back to the man.

"Competition?" Of course that's the key word to pique Lockhart's interest, making him take a few steps away from you as if you were nothing more than a background now, approaching Barty with a curious look while peering between the students with a raised eyebrow. "What kind of competition?"

"Something about who's the finest guy in our year or something stupid like that..." Barty smiles sharply and sarcastically, clearly disdaining the man's self-centered behavior, but Gilderoy doesn't even blink twice at his condescension. Honestly, you still have trouble understanding how someone as obtuse as Gilderoy Lockhart had been sorted into Ravenclaw. "The girls have already started voting."

The blond is already walking away from the two of you before the sentence is even complete, barely deigning to wave over his head as he shouts a 'talk to you later, honeybun.' A promise you hope will never come true.

Even when he disappears into the crowd of students, Barty still stands there; smoking his cigarette while staring at you with an irritating and very satisfied smile on the corner of his lip, winking gallantly at you with his left eye. He looks very proud of himself; with his stupid black jeans and boots, a gray shirt and a brown coat over it. His amber-toned hair is, as always, a total disaster, wisps of soft, unruly hair sticking out in every direction, as if he didn't even know there was such a thing as a hairbrush.

“You’re ridiculous, Crouch.” You roll your eyes, finally relaxing enough to go back to sipping your firewhiskey.

He grins wider.

“What? It was either that or hex that weasel face until he realizes he’s not to approach you like that ever again, princess. I assumed you’d prefer a more peaceful path. You know, because of all this gryffindor honor nonsense and stuff. Was I wrong?”

You pause.

He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing. But the words lodge deep, nestling somewhere warm in your gut, and you don’t know what to do with them. So you do what you do best: push them away, hide them behind walls, blindfolds to keep yourself blind to what is already obvious, separated from words that could answer the only question that matters.

“I don’t need you to protect me.” You grumble sourly over the rim of your glass—though you feel undeniably relieved now that he’s shooed the inconvenient man away. But your faithful commitment to keeping Barty away and your absolute embarrassment over the last encounter still weigh on your mind, making you defensive. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

“I know.” He winks, but makes no move to leave.

Neither of you says anything else after that, and the only relief you have left comes from the fact that you’re both apparently willing to pretend the incident from the other night never happened. But in the absence of a conversation, since you certainly won't be the one to bring up any subject, you find yourself with no other choice but to keep staring at him with narrowed eyes that basically scream at him to get some sense and get the hell out of your sight. And of course he remains blissfully unfazed by such obvious signs of hostility, smoking his cigarette as if he doesn't owe you anything, as if he's not the cause of your nerves being frayed lately.

Merlin, he irritates you so much. The white flag you had raised that night is definitely down once again.

And it's in the midst of these silent thoughts of hatred, and since you vehemently refuse to be the first to look away, that you find yourself observing with a certain and very unwanted level of interest the way he smokes. Which, logically and once again, he absolutely shouldn't be doing - your Head Girl vein is throbbing in your forehead. But even you can't deny the kind of hypnotic allure in the way he blows the cloud of smoke through his lips, the soft, hazy curtain that escapes through his nostrils - like a dragon lazily exhaling its smoke through its nose.

Barty, like the inconvenient watcher that he's, has already noticed your reluctant interest and decides to put on a little show now that he has an audience.

You blink suspiciously as he parts his lips in a curious little 'o', a perfectly flawless circle of smoke blowing into the air with the movement. The smoky circle spins on its axis, expanding into a larger and larger quivering ring as it moves away from his lips, until it naturally dissolves into a blurry cloud that dissipates into the air.

The whole thing holds your attention to the point that you barely remember he's still there, eyes blinking rapidly as you finally focus on the boy once more. He smiles, proud and satisfied, and you feel your cheeks burning with the sheer heat of embarrassment as realize there's absolutely nothing you can say right now to save yourself from the very obvious stare you're giving him.

So of course you go ahead and do the next stupidest thing you can. Damn slytherins and their abnormally strong firewhiskeys.

"Show me what it's like."

He arches his thick eyebrows at you, blue gaze shining with something you can barely decipher against the dim green of the room.

"What's it like...?"

"Smoking, obviously." You wave a hand at the cigarette in his fingers, adopting a nonchalant attitude to try to cover up your own embarrassment. Not that Barty is buying it, anyway. "There must be something extraordinary about it, since every time we meet you have one of those in your mouth. So come on, show me what I've been missing all this time."

It's a half-truth, you suppose. Although your request was only made for lack of something better and more intelligent to say, you had indeed caught yourself once or twice ruminating about the man's harmful habits. You had noticed that he would alternate between smoking regular cigarettes and roll a joint with his friends - there was no doubt that his lungs must be screaming for help by now. And there was a certain curiosity in you to know what made someone as young and apparently healthy as him give in to such vices. What demons did he face to resort to such a thing as an escape?

Of course, Barty Crouch Jr would never be the sensible person who would try to use logic and common sense to stop someone from diving headfirst into a vice that could very well ruin their good habits - and lungs, in this case. So, with a mischievous smile and a level of ease that should be at least worrying in fulfilling your request, he is approaching you.

He's much taller than Lockhart, you think immediately, with your cheeks heating up when he positions himself right in front of you, making you lean against the wall instinctively, your head tilting back so you can maintain eye contact. This is the first sign of the huge mistake you had made in making this request.

Even in the common room as crowded as it is, smelling of sweat, weed, sex and alcohol - you can still smell him, as close as you are. A rich, woody scent of some expensive cologne, the same one you smelled that night. The distant, soft notes of something refreshing and clean, like eucalyptus or mint leaves. And smoke, of course, embedded in every bit of him.

He blinks slowly at your open-mouthed expression, his teasing little smug softening into a gentler, less cheeky one.

"Are you sure?"

You huff, rolling your eyes as answer him.

"Of course I am, Crouch. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't."

Your voice is more breathless than you'd like, heart beating fast in your chest at the man's proximity. Which only gets worse when he rests his forearm on the wall, just above your head, leaning his body even further towards you as he makes you look at him once more.

"Okay." He says slowly, rolling the word around on his tongue like a caramel. He’s so close now that you can see how long and dark his eyelashes are, the green lighting around him shadowing and casting an enigmatic tone in his pale blue eyes, unsettlingly locked on yours. He certainly doesn’t need to be this close to do what you’ve asked, and to be honest, you can’t say why you haven’t pushed him away yet. His presence overwhelms you and makes you tense, though definitely not in the same way that Lockhart did. Barty makes you feel hyperaware of yourself, of every inch of your body; makes you notice the erratic pattern of your breathing and the rapid beating of your heart, makes you feel the heat creeping across your skin with embarrassment and something else. Something else…

He holds your gaze as he lifts the cigarette to your half-open mouth, resting the tip on your bottom lip like you’re a damn ashtray.

"Close your lips around it gently, doe," he whispers, close enough to you that you can hear him even over the beat of the music around you rattling the walls. You do as he says, round eyes locked with his as you delicately seal your lips around the cigarette. "That's it, just like that." He compliments you with a lazy, satisfied lift of the left corner of his lip, his blue gaze glistening with something sweet and sticky, like molasses. "Now suck a gentle breath around it, real slow so you don't choke - hey, hey, slow, sweetie, no rush." ​​He interrupts you with a low chuckle as you inflate your lungs like you're about to dive into the Black Lake, bracing yourself to inhale with far more eagerness than you should, absolutely distraught at what's happening. What these instructions, in that damned husky, low tone he's using, remind you of.

You’re sure there’s no need for such an intimately detailed tutorial when he could just tell you to put the damn cigarette in your mouth and inhale. But the way he’s doing it, your head is spinning and spinning with unwanted thoughts and you find yourself bitterly regretting asking for this in the first place, wanting nothing more than to get it over with so you can hide from him – preferably for the rest of your life.

You nod to let him know you understand, relaxing your body as best you can given the bizarre situation, sucking in a careful breath around the tip of the cigarette.

Even with his gentle and slow guidance, when the bitter, acrid taste of tobacco first slides down your throat, you find yourself unable to hold back the sudden wave of coughing that brings it on. Your eyes immediately widen and water and your throat closes up, body leaning forward as you feel like you might actually choke on it if you don’t start coughing right now.

"Shhh, it's okay..." Barty cups the back of your head in his broad palm, fingers stroking your hair as you bury your face in his coat, body shaking with the violent coughing fit that rips from your throat. "You did good, princess."

You feel like you could hex him.

"I-I did good?! Are you crazy, Crouch? Can't you see that - uh, fuck - I'm almost dying here?" You agonize against his chest, your voice rough with the hellish burning in your throat and lungs, eyes red and swimming with tears, a mess of smoke escaping from your nostrils and mouth as you speak, as if it don't quite know where to go.

You feel him smile widely as he rests his lips on the top of your head. And if you weren't completely focused on holding back the violent tremors of coughing and trying to stop yourself from crying like a little baby, you would have noticed the similarity of this contact with what had happened the other night. You would also have noticed how intimate you both are for anyone to see. Your smaller body curled up against his, his mouth in your hair as he murmurs reassuring words and smiles, one of his hands holding the cigarette away while the other slides down your back in comforting movements.

You pull away enough to lift your head to him, ready to give him a long and very rude lecture about how harmful it certainly was to anyone's lungs and that, now that you had tried it, you could state with complete certainty how insane he's for enjoying such a thing. But you don't.

Because instead of doing exactly that, you are suddenly too busy staring at the green lights flashing against his honey-colored hair, the blue depths of his eyes narrowed with sincere joy, the blatant softness in the wide smile he flashes at you.

Your lips part as you realize, with absolute shock, that you want to wrap your arms around his shoulders once more, to cling to him and feel the beat of his heart against your chest so that you know that you are both alive, together. You want to thread your fingers through that messy hair and feel if the strands are as soft as its look, you want it, you want it...

Merlin-

You want to kiss him.

And worst of all, you are so sure that Barty can see it, as if it is seeping out of you like red ink on white parchment.

You stumble back silently from the force of your own thoughts, giving him one last stunned look before stumbling through the sweaty crowd of dancing students towards the exit.

As soon as you are outside the Slytherin common room, you take a deep, shuddering breath. The knowledge that the world looks different now settles on your shoulders like a heavy, unbearable cloak.

You feel different now.

Because for the first time, it’s not just that Barty is attractive and annoyingly persistent.

It’s that you care about him.

And you don’t know what to do about it.

v.

The weather was lovely.

Hogwarts, in general, offered the best backdrops and visual aesthetics, in yout opinion. No matter the season and whatever mood you was in, there was always something enchanting about the weather around the school. But even by Hogwarts standards, the scene that had unfolded was stunning.

The afternoon was sunny just right; enough so that, although the sun was shyly hiding behind some gray, fluffy clouds, it still sent its rays through them in an almost ethereal manner - casting fragments of golden light into the air and onto the ground beneath your feet that were absolutely mesmerizing. And, in an unusual and breathtaking fusion, the icy drops of a rain that had begun without any prior warning fell endlessly from the sky, glistening against the golden background like countless ice crystals.

The scene was beautiful. Breathtaking, like something out of the pages of an adventure tale.

That's why you didn't understand why there was only you out there, with your arms wide open in the air and body spinning around and around as you smiled like an idiot in the rain.

The students were running from the gardens as soon as the first cold drops started falling from the sky, entering the castle so quickly that you could say they were made of sugar if you didn't know better. But it would be their loss, in the end. Only someone very sad about life or indifferent to true beauty wouldn't enjoy this moment for what it really is. A gift.

Your laughing and joyful spin is slowly interrupted when you notice a figure standing under a tree. You don't need more than a single glance to know who it is.

Barty has his hands in the pocket of his uniform pants, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up at the elbows, a blue tie sloppily around his neck. His hair is as chaotic as ever. He's smiling, although not his usual crooked and teasing smile. He smiles softly, like someone who truly appreciates what he sees.

Your brows furrow softly when you realize he’s just standing there, staring at you from a far corner of the gardens. It confuses you for a moment, since he’s never had a problem approaching you before, certainly. But this time there’s something almost hesitant in the anxious swaying of his body as he clearly struggles to stay still, in the measured gleam in his blue gaze. As if he’s afraid of interrupting something, ruining a perfect moment.

You gaze contemplatively at the golden sky once more, lips parted in a long sigh.

When you turn your attention back to the man, you do so accompanied by a nod of your chin, subtly indicating that it’s okay to approach.

Barty doesn’t need a second prompt. Before you can even follow, he’s already in front of you: one moment his unruly hair is dry and protected from the rain, the next the light brown strands cling to his forehead, darkening a few shades, the icy drops running down its length until trail down the curved bridge of his nose. You blink at him, at his sudden proximity. And despite your heart racing in your chest, you don’t try to pull away this time.

It’s with butterflies in your stomach and strangely shaky hands that you realize you don’t want to pull away this time.

“What are you doing?” He smiles, looking a little pathetic all wet like that, like a scalded cat. A joint rolled methodically and tucked in the crook of his left ear (also soaked from the rain now), a jagged, swollen cut on his lower lip from some recent fight he got into and didn’t bother to heal with magic. It’s annoying how he’s still absolutely charming to the eye like this.

“I’m dancing in the rain,” you sigh, even though you’re no longer moving a single muscle in your body, with bright eyes and a smile so vulnerable that it pushes you straight onto the list of the most silly people you’ve ever met.

And the worst part is that you can’t even care much about it now.

He smiles wider at you, coming so close that you have to look up to maintain eye contact. And what a beautiful smile he has - so cheerful and open that little dimples form on his cheeks. Around you the rain continues to fall without stopping, crystal clear drops against a golden background that reflects directly in the clear blue of Barty's eyes, in the enviable length of his eyelashes...

Neither of you say anything else after that. There's no need. The whole scenario, straight out of a cheesy cliché that would make you vomit under any other circumstances, contributes to this moment moving in one direction. It's truly inevitable that your bodies will come closer, that the smile will diminish to something more intense and raw on both your lips, that your eyes will shine with unspoken whispers.

Barty lifts a hand to tuck a strand of your soaked hair behind your ear. You blink up at him as you feel the rain weighing your uniform. Feel it dripping down your hair and down your back. Feel it pooling in your socks and shoes. The rain is everywhere, covering you completely, and it should be uncomfortable, but it’s dulling all your senses. The rain and Barty Crouch Junior.

Tension blooms between the two of you in the silence that follows, his eyes actively searching yours before slowly dropping to your mouth. Both of you remembering what happened at that Slytherin party - what almost happened. He breathes and you move with him, letting one hand palm his soaked chest with a shaky exhale as his head dips lower, your wet, cold noses gently touching, a prelude that makes you yearn as if you can already taste him on your tongue.

“Please don’t push me away this time,” he murmurs and you gasp at the almost desperate plea in his voice, heart fluttering in your chest like the wings of a golden snitch. And within seconds, his mouth is pressed against yours.

It’s initially cold and slippery from the rainwater when his lips finally meet yours. A soft, gentle kiss on your parted, ever-indecisive lips. His fingers slide across your wet cheeks and you cling to his shoulders, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt.

Barty tilts his head then, deepening the kiss, his mouth sliding so easily against yours that it’s as if he’s done it before. And though still wet, the inside of his mouth molding to yours is so warm and soft, and it’s making the dull ache in your chest dissipate.

Barty is a very good kisser, with the practice he’s obviously had, but you’re also good at following through, despite the lack of it. His kiss tastes like saliva and mint and the lingering weed from his joint and it’s so, so good, good enough that you think you could get high from it alone. You don’t hesitate before kissing him back, gripping his shirt tighter as you balance on your tiptoes, struggling to find purchase where the fabric is clinging to his skin. But Barty helps you, even as he’s kissing you like he’s been craving it for ages. His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer as he supports you with his tall, lean body, deepening the kiss with a confidence that makes your knees weak.

Your hands fist tightly in his shirt as his thumb continues to stroke your cheek, and you can’t help the shy sound that escapes you when he gently catches your bottom lip between his teeth with a playful tug before sucking it into his mouth again. Your tongue languidly slides across the bloody cut on his lip, soothing the wound, and it’s his turn to groan into your mouth, a vibrant rumble that starts straight in his throat and dies on your lips.

Another thick cloud of rain approaches, cold drops hitting your back, sticking your clothes to your skin even more. Neither of you cares about it, the rumble of thunder is distant to the east, the rays of the sun still bright above the horizon. The rain runs down your cheeks and between the panting gaps of your lips as you kiss, a different taste on Barty’s minty tongue.

With your hands tangled in his soaked shirt and neck, you kiss for what feels like hours. Any doubts about whether or not the two of you were compatible are completely trampled by now - considering the natural way you both fit together as you kiss. Dizzy from the smell of wet earth around the castle and the hints of Barty’s woody cologne, you sigh as you let the kisses naturally fade to something softer.

With a slow brush against your parted lips, Barty pulls his mouth away from yours, both of you breathing hard, your foreheads resting together. He’s still holding you, one arm around your waist and the other hand on your cheek, his body leaning over you, and your hands still firmly anchored on his broad shoulders. You try to speak a few times, your lips trembling where they’re brushing over his, and Barty can’t help but smile softly, stealing another kiss as if he can’t resist your cute nonsense.

The warm feeling in your chest makes you smile back, a weak one, trying to hold back the tears that have come without you even realizing it. And you look at him, at those eyes bluer than the blue of the sky, at the satisfied and hopeful smile on his lips. Lips soft and swollen with the kisses he gave you. And your heart calls to him, screaming silently and meaninglessly, in ecstasy and confusion.

The feeling of that irregular call in your chest, combined with the awe of seeing someone look more charming than anyone would consider fair... it was akin to falling in love. And it should have been obvious all along, it should have been. But you've spent so long pretending, so long building walls and barricades to keep yourself protected behind them, that now you don't know how to let them down.

You don't know how to let yourself feel, no matter how much you want to. And Merlin, you do.

It's obvious that you don't want to leave this silent sanctuary any time soon, but you remove your hands from his shoulders anyway. Press your lips against his cold, wet cheek one last time as let the fire die down with a breath of reality.

"No..." he whispers wetly when he notices your pull away, his smile dying and his gaze darkening to something so open and raw, almost betrayed, as he watches you stumble back.

You feel yourself breaking a little at this, because you know you did what he asked you not to do. But the truth is, you don't know how to do it differently. How not to ruin everything. Because that's what you do, always. Ruin everything. And you did it again; you masterfully ruined what was a beautiful afternoon at Hogwarts. All because you don't know how to feel anything good without panicking.

But maybe it was better this way. If you acted like it never happened, then you wouldn't have to think about it anymore. Barty was someone so special, so open with his feelings. He certainly deserved better than a constipated emotional person like you. He would realize that soon enough. And soon, to him, you would be nothing more than a forgotten memory. Everything would be okay. Yeah, right.

(And the fact that you couldn't even believe your own lie at that moment doesn't surprise you as much as it should.)

v + i

It's like you're promptly short-circuiting, not believing you're actually doing this. You can't believe you're actually going to do this. Maybe after this humiliation, you can run away to a faraway place and hide, preferably on the other side of the world.

"We need to talk, Crouch."

You burst through the dorm door with the strength of a hurricane, the determination of a warrior and the red cheeks of a sinner. In your silent desperation the door is pushed open and thrown with such force that it bounces off the opposite wall with a dramatic thud and almost hits you in the face again, making you wince and want to sink into the floor as you hold it.

Barty, as you learned through top secret sources, was right there, lounging in his dorm; leaning against the headboard, with one leg folded over the other. In his hands an open and empty box of Chocolate Frogs. His eyes widen at your bombastic entrance, freezing with the candy rolling on his tongue as if he’s been caught committing a serious infraction, sending you the most ridiculous and cute grimace you’ve ever seen on a man.

It’s out of sheer embarrassment at your own theatrical eagerness that you look away, staring at the blue curtains dotted with endless constellations of stars surrounding the beds and windows, the shelves crammed with books. And since there’s no such thing as the rest of the just, as your gaze wanders you realize that you’re not the only ones in the room—as the top secret sources had assuredly claimed.

Evan fucking Rosier of all people is lounging on the bed across the room, so naturally you’d think it was his. His eyebrows are raised, obviously surprised by your entrance as well, but he recovers much faster than Barty.

Just to wipe the smirk off his face, you almost threaten to give him detention for simply being there; well past curfew and in a dormitory that isn't even his own house to begin with. And you almost do. Until you remember that you absolutely shouldn't be in Ravenclaw Tower either, Head Girl or not - especially when it's not even your patrol night.

Rosier looks away from yours at his friend with an outrageous dose of mischief in his eyes, a cheeky smile that doesn't hide any of his thoughts. Which makes you remember that you only put up with the guy and his horrible behavior because he's Pandora's brother, whom you loved with all your heart. Merlin knows you would have punched the slytherin in the face already if that weren't the case.

You send him your most piercing look as gather what's left of your dignity into a fragile (but proud) bundle.

"Alone."

Evan folds his hands behind his head and sprawls comfortably against the pillow (which isn't his), showing that he was more than comfortable there, with no apparent reason to leave.

"Are you sure about that, beautiful? I think it would be much more fun if I stayed right where I am." He winks mischievously at you, a smile too big on his lips, teasing you and your obvious embarrassment as if he were earning a few good galleons with it. "Maybe you'll find out that you like a threesome..."

These men and their attitudes. You were already fed up with all of them!

With the blood boiling in your veins and an insatiable desire to frustrate him in the best way possible, you take a deep breath before looking at him with as much feigned innocence as you can muster at the moment.

"Oh, how did you guess?" The question is punctuated with a sigh of theatrical exaggeration, letting your eyes shine as you walk over to the bed and extend your hand to him in invitation.

The abrupt change in your mood would be comical and taken very lightly by anyone, but Evan accepts it much more easily than you could have imagined - albeit with a wavering smile, trying to understand what exactly was happening. You let him hold your hand as he stand up, his tall body towering over yours.

As you hold his gaze, you take a few delicate steps back, guiding him towards the exit without him even noticing. Men.

You lean into him a little as you whisper:

"Actually, that would be my dream come true."

"R-really?" He stammers, his cheeks flushing slightly, his electric blue eyes sparkling with excitement. Despite your frazzled nerves, you bite your lip to hold back your laughter as realize how easy it could be to fool him, but you still nod, batting your eyelashes at him slowly. At that, his eyes widen to their maximum size, and this reaction, coupled with the blush on his cheeks and the mess of blond curls on his head, lends him an air of almost innocence - despite his nefarious ways. "Merlin, then we could just-"

“Oh yeah, sure, but maybe another time, hm?” You cut him off with a roll of your eyes as you reach the open door, palming the slytherin’s chest. He smiles at that for about two seconds before sucking in a stuttered breath as he finally realizes where he is and what you’ve been planning all this time. You grin and blink at his daze, throwing him out with a single, hard shove before he can say anything else, locking the door quickly.

For a moment all you hear is silence, until there’s a loud thud on the wood that makes you jump a little in fright.

And you can only assume that’s his forehead hitting the door.

“Wait, so you’re saying it’s possible, yes?” His voice sounds muffled and hopeful through the door.

You almost growl. “Go away, Rosier!”

You stay there just long enough to hear a disappointed, almost sullen grunt before his purposefully hard footsteps sound across the floor as he reluctantly walks away.

"You know, he's not going to shut up about this from now on."

Your body turns to face the ravenclaw, who has recovered from the shock at some point and is now sporting his characteristic sly smile, his hands folded in his lap. His young, handsome features are highlighted both by the amber lighting of the stove located in the corner of the room and by the pale moonlight that enters through the stained glass window behind his bed. And, even from a distance, you notice that there is no longer any trace of the swollen, ugly cut on his lower lip. Which means that either this time the two of you hadn't seen each other in longer than you realized, or Barty had finally received the blessing of a modicum of common sense to use a healing spell on his own wounds.

You snort, feeling almost sick to your stomach from how nervous you are. "Like he'd shut up about anything."

He laughs and nods, but you feel too anxious to smile back. Your gaze darts back and forth between the floor and his eyes, hands clasped in front of you, unsure of what to do with your own presence now that silence reigns.

Barty doesn't look hurt, which is somehow even worse. That betrayed shadow in his gaze from last time, a memory that's haunted you ever since, is definitely gone. He looks almost... okay? That only makes you even more uncomfortable. Because you know he can't be okay, not after the colossal mess you've made of things. You know you've hurt him.

You're both silent for a moment, and when you summon the courage to look at him again, you see him staring at a blank spot behind your head for a moment, almost as if he's seeing through you, his eyes fixed and his jaw clenched. The whole thing happens in less than two seconds, and when he notices you watching him again, his face relaxes so quickly and artificially that it’s almost comical, and he gives you a wide smile, confident that he’s doing a good job of hiding what he’s really feeling.

But you see it, of course you see it, because Barty Crouch isn’t subtle about his emotions and reactions—he wears them on his face and in his body language without any suspense, an open book for anyone to see.

But now he’s trying to hide it, pretending that everything’s okay so as not to hurt you. Willing to play this hot and cold game all over again, just because he thinks that’s what you want. For some reason it makes you want to scream at him, shake him by the shoulders and tell him that he can’t do things like that—he can’t make you feel so humiliatingly attracted to him with gestures like that.

Because he should just be Barty Crouch Jr, the troublemaker of Hogwarts. He should just be Barty who is as spectacular inside the classroom as he is an absolute disaster outside it. Loud, arrogant, with no respect for rules or good behavior.

He shouldn’t be anything more than that, and you certainly shouldn’t have the slightest interest in him, being his complete opposite. You’re like water and wine. His audacity to disrupt the status quo of things makes you irrationally angry with yourself and with him.

But no matter how much you kick your feet and throw a tantrum and pretend it’s not happening, the situation is this:

a) you didn’t loathe his presence, as you sometimes pretended.

b) to be honest, you even missed his irritating looks when its weren’t there.

c) the irritation with your own inability to allow yourself to feel what he was so obviously willing to offer only grew with each encounter.

Of course, you still trying to persuade yourself—in a stupid and frankly pathetic effort—that you weren’t slowly falling in love with the man: the idea of ​​love still gave you the creeps sometimes.

But the cold hard truth was that you couldn’t ignore those moments when you found yourself practically vibrating out of your skin, your breath coming in short gasps and your cheeks red as steam almost came out of your ears like a kettle boiling, with just the thought of him. And the more you thought about it, the more it seemed pointless to try so hard to resist, and it was really scaring the hell out of you.

And that’s why you were here. For clarification.

Coming tonight was entirely your idea. Well, almost entirely yours - Pandora had some part in it, and Merlin help you so she doesn't find out about it.

You could still remember the blonde’s reaction when you reluctantly opened up about the recent events involving you and Barty. "You can't keep doing this," she said, clucking incessantly like a mommy hen scolding her chick, "please decide on your feelings. I know it's hard for you to understand them and come to terms with them, but Barty is crazy about you. And I'm sure that's evident by now. You'd be a fool to let him go, especially over something as simple as pride or stubbornness."

You'd pouted at the time, indignant and offended that Pandora was giving you a moral lesson when you were already so emotionally fragile. But after pondering her words for a few days, arguing with yourself as you stirred your potions in the cauldron with a sour frown, and as you patrolled the empty corridors with heavy, sullen steps (scaring a few portraits in the process) - you realized there was a lot of truth in those words.

It turns out that knowing what to do and confronting your feelings head-on are two entirely different things. And though you know you should be the one to go to him this time, you realize you don’t really know what to say now that you have his attention. And that’s scary in itself, because words have always been everything to you; your defense, your offense, and your negotiation with the world. But when it comes to Barty, you always feel completely bereft of them.

“You—,” you begin, unsure and out of place, licking your lips when realize how suddenly dry they are. “Are you… really mad at me?”

“No,” he answers without even blinking, so quickly and with such conviction that it immediately convinces you of his sincerity. “I’m just confused. Confused and a little insecure, I guess.”

You can’t help but be puzzled, after all, insecure and Barty definitely couldn’t possibly be related.

“I don’t think that’s possible for you.” You huff out a low laugh, thinking this is just another one of his ill-timed jokes.

Barty sighs, shaking his head and tugging at a loose thread on the bedsheet. The corner of his mouth lifts in a tired smile before he confides,

"—It may not seem like it, but you can bet I never feel sure of anything when it comes to you, little lion." It's impossible not to notice the sudden intensity in his voice. "You seem to be changing your mind so often, I never know if I'm right or not."

The room is so quiet you could almost hear a pin drop, the atmosphere filled with tension and something more. The deep blue of Barty's eyes stare into your soul after his words, and you feel yourself trembling as realize your own feelings, which come crashing down on you all at once. The stab of the accusation, even said in a gentle tone, still hurts something in your chest and heats your cheeks with embarrassment and the compulsion to look away is strong, but you don't. You owe him that, at least.

You nod. "You're right," your voice is low and guilty, not even trying to deny the truth. "Sometimes it's just hard to believe that this is really happening to me... you know... most of the time I don't know what to do with it. What to do with you. But you're right and-"

You are interrupted, not by words, but by Barty's next actions. He suddenly abandons his place on the bed, standing up to invade your personal space with impressive speed. You have a few seconds to admire how comfortable and cozy he looks in his simple gray pajama pants and white cotton shirt before he’s on you. For a second, you almost think he might be considering kissing you again, since the closeness is so similar to last time.

Except there’s no kiss. Barty doesn’t even touch you. All he does is stand in front of you, too close for comfort, close enough that you have to clear your throat or look away, overwhelmed by his intense presence. You choose the first option.

“I don’t want to be right about this,” he answers then, so close that you have to crane your neck to look at him, heart racing in your chest. “I want you to be sure.”

You shake your head, unsure of how to respond, unable to understand what he wants to hear.

Barty narrows his eyes, his voice dropping several octaves as he asks, 

“What does it take for you to be sure?"

"I - I..." You stammer, trying to find words that stubbornly refuse to find their way into your mouth.

Barty watches you for another awkward moment, then exhales and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more in the process. "Look, I get it, you have a hard time believing all this, right? But you're acting like this is a silly thing, something that's going to go away soon. As if I just woke up one day and decided to like you, but I'll soon realize that's not quite the case." He lets out a breathy but humorless laugh, his blue eyes almost desperately while search yours. "Do you know how long I've been stuck with you? How disheartening it was to realize that no matter how much attention I got from other people, the one person I wanted it was too busy treating me like a hindrance? Like an inconvenience?"

You hold your breath.

"I tried everything to get your attention," he continues, his voice rougher now. "Watching you discreetly, watching you not at all discreetly, beating you in exams to get a reaction, reading the same books as you to get a chance to talk about it - I even tried to sneak into the Gryffindor common room to talk to you one night, but that idiot Potter got to me before I could." He rolls his eyes at this part, making his disdain for James clear - as if it wasn't already obvious after all these years. "You obviously had a lot more brains than me on this, seeing as you're here now and everything..." he continues to mutter under his breath, now almost surpresed by your apparent ease to invade other houses' dormitories at will.

"You do know you're describing a stalking, right?" You sigh with a disbelieving laugh, though your entire body is practically shaking with anxiety.

Barty shrugs, unfazed by the accusation. "But it didn't matter what I did or how, because you..." He trails off, shaking his head, eyes shining into yours. "You always got away, always left."

Your skin turns dark red, chest tightening at the memory of how many times you had made him sad with this - even though your reasons were real and they were valid, it was still uncomfortable knowing that you had affected him so much in the process of understanding your own feelings.

Barty, sensing your inner conflict and wanting to offer some comfort (even when he was obviously the one who needed comforting at that moment) reaches up to grab your chin, his thumb stroking the delicate line of your jaw.

“This is scaring you, I get it. It’s not nonsense,” he says solemnly.

“Hngh,” you reply, very articulately.

Normally you pride yourself on being able to keep your cool. You can divert, change the subject and escape from one conversation to another when you want to. But—much to your increasing unhappiness, and because when it comes to Barty Crouch Jr nothing is as you thought—that’s not what happens.

You’re completely speechless.

It’s as if nothing is happening in your brain. You just look at him, feel his long fingers on your skin, his fresh, clean scent surrounding you, and your mouth tries to move, really tries, but nothing coherent comes out. Even the smoke notes that seem permanently embedded in him, though much softer tonight, feel appealing and captivating to you.

“If it’s proof you need, I can give it to you.” He murmurs at your inability to express himself, close enough that you can count each individual eyelash in his stupid blue eyes. “I can make you believe, little lion, I swear. Let me make you believe.”

The way he says it, hopeful and husky and so close to your lips, the impact of his request, makes you shift your weight to the other foot, uneasy. You feel a pressure in your belly, heat rising up the back of your neck. You burn with shame, guilt, but most of all, with excitement, because he looks a little silly like this, begging. But there’s fire in his eyes too, determined and intense, like a intense fire raging through the forest—destroying to rebuild, stronger, more resilient, burning you from the inside out, and…and you can’t take it.

"I know I'm loud, stupid, and a fucking mess at all, I know. I also know I'm far from the guy you envisioned as your boyfriend, but let me make you understand that this is real, that you can trust me with your heart. I won't mess it up this time, I promise. Please, just let me-"

Your hand comes up before you can think better of it, sliding through his soft, messy locks, and just as quickly as he'd come closer before, you bring his mouth to yours to cut off his babbling - partly because his words were making you tremble and blush in a particularly annoying way, and partly because he was right there, moving those soft lips without a damn pause for breath and it didn't feel very healthy.

You feel a little stupid when he immediately tenses, letting out a surprised 'hmmpf', muffled by your mouth on his. Before you can pull away, however, he recovers from the shock, wrapping his arm around your waist and tangling his other hand in your hair, pulling you towards him as he lowers his mouth to yours to deepen the kiss.

Your throat hums a soft sound, because kissing Barty is just as good as you remembered, absolutely exquisite, just like the first one had been. He’s methodical and careful as he licks your soft mouth, his arm tightening around your waist, keeping your bodies pressed together. You’re heated now, cheeks flushed with contentment as much as shyness.

Your head turns in the sweetest way when he parts your lips, applying more pressure to your tongue, and it’s dizzying, intoxicating, the way both your heads tilt and your lips fit together, the taste of Barty on your tongue; mint, chocolate and that annoying, inconvenient tang of smoke. He’s all slick heat and languid tongue, licking and stroking with a slow, lazy grace, as if he has all the time in the world.

The whole thing becomes too much and not enough at the same time.

You push your hand under his shirt to touch his bare skin, needing to feel him closer, better, your fingertips sliding over the hard muscles of his stomach, feeling the heat of him, the way they instantly contract under your touch; Barty makes a low, broken noise against your mouth and digs his fingers deeper into your hair, pulling your head back with that grip — and fuck — presses the entire length of his body against yours, letting you feel the effect you had on him with that touch.

“Oh merlin,” you sigh, breaking the kiss to gasp, keeping your eyes closed tightly for a few more seconds, head spinning as you realize that Barty is hard — like, really hard, against your belly right now. “Merlin,” you say over and over, oh. “Barty, that feels…”

With one hand still clenched in your hair, the other desperately gripping your body by the waist to keeping you close, he breathes as heavily as you do.

Barty murmurs your name, lips moist and already swollen from the kisses. He seems to be trying to say something as he touches his forehead to yours, but he’s also struggling to find the words—and it’s almost comforting to see that, to know that you’re not the only one who seems unable to express yourself right now. He hugs you tighter and leans down to rest his lips on your neck, gently brushing his mouth against the warm thrum of your pulse, making your magic sing beneath your skin, reacting intensely to that gentle touch.

Your name is whispered once more as he pulls away from your skin, almost reverentially, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger to tilt your head up and make you look at him again. You do so with half-lidded eyes and crimson tinted cheeks, and you know in that moment that you’ve never seen anything as blue as Barty’s eyes.

"Can I... can I touch you? I just want... I just want to make you feel good. I promise to make you feel so good, little lion," he murmurs, his voice husky, body seeming to vibrate with barely contained energy, right where your palm is still flat on his belly - trembling with the need to do exactly as he said, pulsing with the desire to explore and worship every inch of you.

How could you deny that? How could you want anything other than exactly that?

You nod sloppily, but it seems that's not enough for Barty. He tilts his head, leaving a soft, wet kiss on the delicate line of your jaw, warm breath fanning across your cheek. He nudges your flushed skin with the tip of his nose, trailing a little further until he reaches the curve of your neck.

"None of that, pretty. I need words."

You let out a sigh - It's a little hard to form words when he seems determined to torment you with his touches.

Your jaw works as he sucks on a spot on your neck, heat growing in your chest the longer he continues.

“Y-yes,” you breathe as his tongue slowly undulates across your skin, his fingers, still deeply tangled in your scalp, squeezing pleasantly until you shiver. “Can you touch me, Barty...please, I want it—”

Barty pulls away from your neck and brings you face to face with him again, noses touching. “You’re finally being honest with how you feel, damn it.” He murmurs against your lips, fingers combing through your hair to cradle the side of your head, thumbs pressing against your jaw to tilt you back. He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, exhaling a slow, warm sigh against your lips. Every hair on your body stands on end in anticipation, your nerves on edge.

“I’m going to kiss you again, okay?” He warns in a ragged whisper, as if giving you another chance to stop him if you wanted to. When you obviously don’t make any argument against it, his lips are on yours once more.

And if you whimper into his mouth, well, that was your problem.

You pant, hands fisted in his cotton shirt, head stutters as you feel his lips fit better between yours, sucking gently on your bottom lip. It feels so good, soft and languid, it makes your heart beat faster in your chest, heat creeping into your belly - warm and pulsing, like a star is shining inside it. It’s almost sinful the way he kisses you, so slow and deliberate - someone who knows what he’s doing. Sliding his tongue along yours without any rush, sucking and nibbling on your trembling bottom lip with a sensual and gentle pressure. He pushes you in the direction he wants, keeping you warm and needy with his expert touches.

The extent of your own intimate experience with the opposite sex, lack thereof to be more precise, is limited to a single, awkward encounter with a gryffindor boy after a won quidditch match - certainly not enough to prepare you for something like this. He was a virgin then, like you, and there’s no need to tell that the whole thing was a blur of awkward kisses, bumping limbs and inexperienced touches, lots of awkward giggles and apologies. It was over as soon as it began, and you fled his dorm like someone fleeing the plague—you’re not proud to say that you still try hard to avoid the poor guy, which is a decidedly challenging task at times, since he’s in the same house as you.

Barty, on the other hand, exudes confidence and ease in every touch—a confidence that can only come from true experience. Every movement, every kiss, every brush of his fingers is done with purpose and intent, a means to lead you down the path he desires.

It’s enough to make you feel something strangely akin to jealousy—the knowledge that he’s done this before, often enough to be quite good at it. It’s irrational, of course, and you certainly have no right to feel that way.

But you try not to focus too much on that, choosing instead to focus on the indisputable evidence that his prowess is your gain at this moment. Your body is certainly more than satisfied with his ability to read you, to know exactly where and how to touch you.

When your back touches his mattress, you are already completely and disastrously kissed. Your mind is so clouded and drunk on his mouth that you didn't even notice when he guided you towards the bed.

As you settle your head more comfortably on the pillow, Barty unties the curtains to hide the bed from any unwanted presence that might invade the dorm, murmuring a silencing charm around the two of you. Your face heats up and your heart skips a beat at what this represents, the flush on your skin evidenced by the pale glow of the moonlight that shines through the stained glass window next to the bed.

"Comfortable?" he asks with a small, affectionate smile on his lips, smoothing the heat on your cheek with his thumb. The smile widens in amusement when you mumble some random response, round eyes, blinking at him like an owl.

He kneels slowly between your parted legs, reaching behind him to grab the collar of his shirt, pulling it up over his neck—and it’s strange how the gesture makes your stomach churn. You can only admire the creamy planes and defined lines of his chest and abs for a moment before he’s above you again.

“I’ve been waiting so long for this,” he confides as he slides one hand under the oversized shirt you wear to bed, leaning on his other arm to press his mouth against yours again. Your hands roam all over his upper body—and it feels incredible under your hands, muscles taut and defined from years of quidditch, skin warm and soft—and it feels even more incredible when pressed against yours.

His fingers are amazing too when they touch a strip of skin on your belly and you sigh at it, opening your lips to accept the slippery slide of his tongue, melting in how his mouth conquers you with hunger and evasion, alternating mind-blowing kisses with teasing caresses of his tongue that leave you breathless and trembling.

You let him take what he needs, tilting your neck towards him and moving your lips in time with his. There’s no reason to fight it anymore. Not when this is all that’s left.

The thought tightens your throat, so you focus your attention on the grip of his fingers on your hip and the slide of his mouth. On the thrill that runs through you when he breaks the kiss, his forehead touching yours. He gasps sharply into your mouth, his eyes still searching yours under the shy rays of moonlight, and you wonder if intimacy should scare you. It doesn’t.

He stares at you as his fingers continue to tug at the hem of your shirt, and before long, his warm hands are running up your waist, slowly caressing the shape of your ribs, all the way up to just below your breasts.

And when he gets a little closer, you blurt out, “I-I’ve only done this once before.”

You don’t know why you say it, your mouth running before you can stop it.

He looks deeper into your eyes, searching for something. “Okay…” He nods carefully, and you think he’s about to end it all. “We don’t have to do anything other than kiss tonight. It’s okay if-”

You shake your head immediately. “No. I want to keep going. I just…you know…” You stutter, unsure about exposing your insecurities. “I just don’t want to disappoint you or anything.”

Barty chuckles softly as he shakes his head, leaning down to kiss your forehead for just a second before whispering, "That would be impossible, little lion. You're too perfect for something like that. Too perfect for me too...but I'm a selfish fucker, you know."

His hand feels huge and warm against your ribs and you swallow hard as a wave of heat washes over you at his words.

"Is it okay if I touch you here?" He keeps those gorgeous blue eyes on yours as he asks, carefully moving his fingers an inch higher, towards your breasts.

Heart racing, but without any hesitation, you answer, "Yes, please-"

His hand finally moves, reaching for your chest. You dig your fingers into his broad shoulders as he finds your breast. Pressing his lips to yours lazily, he runs his thumb over your hardened nipple, making gentle circles over your bra. It feels good. Amazing in true. Even better than when you touched yourself.

"What can I do?" he whispers into your mouth, and then lets his lips trail over the warm, flushed area of ​​your cheek. "With you. Tell me what can I do?"

“Everything,” you sigh at him, feeling in that moment that you really mean it. He can have all of you.

He grunts against your skin, his thumb still teasing the hardened bud of your nipple. “You shouldn’t say things like that, little lion, it might make me greedy.”

You blush, but you also almost yell at him for being so stupidly slow with his teasing. Barty is always so assertive, hyperactive and eager - it feels like a punishment that he’s decided to be patient tonight, simmering you like this.

Deciding that you won’t leave any more unnecessary delay, you can’t squirm to get your shirt off fast enough, nearly elbowing Barty in the face in the process. He chuckles softly and dodges your flailing limbs, and you flop panting back onto the bed when you’re done, this time in just your bra and sleep pants. You hope he gets the message, but you’re fully prepared to take your bra off yourself if need be.

"Someone's in a hurry." Of course he's annoying about it too, smirking all too smugly at your eagerness.

"Barty, I swear to Merlin if you don't shut up and start doing something I'm going to... I'm going to... I-"

The words trail off as you feel him slip a finger under the strap of your bra on your shoulder, slowly lowering it, leaning down to trail kisses along your shoulder and collarbone. You shiver. His soft lips brushing against your skin, along with his warm breath, makes you shiver and your nipples harden. Meanwhile, his other hand slides the strap off your other shoulder.

"Are you going to...?" He teases, his eyebrows raised in curiosity and amusement, but he continues to kiss your neck and shoulders as his hands slowly slide down your back to unclasp your bra.

"Fuck you." You curse, but still help him remove it and let it fall to the floor. His hands are gentle as they cup your breasts and brush his thumbs over the sensitive peaks of your nipples. Each stroke of his thumb sends little jolts of pleasure down your spine. When he leans forward and takes one into his mouth, you moan and grip his shoulders tighter. He sucks slowly, sweeping the soft peak with his undulating tongue and you squeeze your eyes shut, small stuttering sounds falling from your lips.

“What about there, baby?” His hand leaves one breast alone and drops to your knee. Your stomach twists at the warm touch. He slides his hand up your thigh and whispers over your drooling nipple, brushing the sensitive peak with his lips until you squirm and mewl, “Can I touch you there?”

You nod eagerly, the easiest decision of your life, really.

Moving slowly up your thigh, his hand finally wraps around the waistband of your sleep pants, pulling the elastic down your legs—you can’t kick the thing off fast enough.

His waist is between your legs, his mouth on your breast, and the first brush of his knuckles against the crotch of your panties has you gasping. He does the same to your nipple, murmuring, “Fuck.”

You feel his fingers moving against you further to the side, his thumb massaging your nipple now that he’s stopped lathering it with his tongue. You tangle your hands in the soft mess of his hair and hold his mouth against yours as he leans down to kiss you once more, hungrily and deeply, grunting into your mouth between gasps of breath. He runs his fingers along the flimsy (and embarrassingly wet) fabric of your panties, slowly moving up to the spot that throbs and begs for attention, then back down again. Over and over.

"Barty, please don't be so slow," you finally break the kiss, breathing heavily, your eyebrows furrowed, and cheeks flaming - a sullen pout on your lips.

"Fuck, I always knew you'd be a brat, little lion." He sighs almost happily, catching your bottom lip between his teeth with a slight tug before releasing it. "When that pussy is nice and slick and ready for my cock, you'll thank me for being so 'slow'."

You gasp at the dirty words that suddenly pour from his mouth like a damn faucet turned on - words that heat up not only your face, but your pussy as well.

"I'll thank you when you stop being such a teasing bastard and make me come."

Your words show a lot more courage and sass than you actually feel, but you're glad you can get them out.

He chuckles slowly, blue eyes darkening right before you.

“Spread your legs wider for me then, pretty.” He commands softly, and if you weren’t so hot and throbbing you would have denied it on instinct alone, but as it is, you just send him a very poor scolding look before doing as he says. He shifts, tilting his body so he’s on your side on the bed, getting a better view of your legs parting for him. You want to tell him the bed is too small for the two of you to be like this, but somehow it works - he’s on his side on the mattress now, balanced on his forearm but still leaning almost on top of you, his forehead resting on the side of your face as he looks down. He groans softly, right next to your ear, as curls his fingers into the crotch of your panties and pulls it to the side.

“Fuck, you made a mess here, love…” is the first thing he points out - and yes, it’s true. The fabric of your panties is soaked where it pools at your crotch, and even though you don’t have the courage to look down and confirm it, you know you’re glistening in the moonlight with all the sticky mess leaking out of you. “So fucking beautiful.”

He slowly runs his finger along the outside of your folds, seemingly mesmerized by what he sees. You shiver, sighing impatiently at the light touches that seem to have the sole purpose of driving you wild. He pauses and looks up at your face, letting your cheeks heat under the weight of his hungry, analyzing gaze. With a wry smile, he moves his forearm to the inside of your knee, lifting and spreading your leg so that it rests above his hip. You’re spread wide now, shamefully wide—and this time he doesn’t hesitate as slides his hand down to your sticky center, rocking in your wetness and spreading it with his fingers.

“Still want me to make you come, hm?” His voice was husky and dark.

You mumble a drunken agreement against his mouth, and then his fingers slide against your clit. You gasp loudly, and his tongue immediately dives into your mouth.

You have serious trouble keeping up with the hungry pace of the kiss, moaning softly as Barty runs his thumb back and forth over the tip of your clit, gliding easily with all the wet mess there. He offers some mercy when he pulls his mouth away from yours so you can breathe heavily, one hand gripping the bed sheet in a tight fist, the other instinctively coming up to cup a breast.

“That’s it princess, squeeze that pretty tit while I make you come on my fingers.” He whispers hotly in your ear, getting to work in earnest, still holding your thigh open by his forearm as you writhe enthusiastically under his ministrations.

You moan as your hips lift off the bed to try get closer. It’s impossible to keep your eyes open as your body begins to tremble. He alternates between rubbing your clit with his thumb and running his fingers up and down your folds, circling your opening teasingly, and starting again.

“Fuck, you make the cutest little noises.” He tilts his hips to rub against your inner thigh, his erection hard and heat against your flesh, even through the barrier of his pajama pants. “Merlin, this has to be a dream.”

“Barty—”

“Shh, I know, love, I know, I have to focus—” He chuckles softly, breathlessly, letting his sweaty forehead fall against your shoulder, making you shiver as he continues to slide his fingers over the warm, swollen folds that sing beautifully under his attention. “But it’s hard to believe this is happening. That you’re here, letting me touch you like this…”

You’re not sure if you’re even forming coherent words at this point. His touches, his voice in your ear, saying things that make you want to run and sink into him at the same time, it’s all too much and you vaguely remember yourself gasping “yes” and “more”, or occasionally moaning his name in response.

Suddenly his fingers are stroking you with purpose and he’s somehow better than before. One long finger slides inside you and you’re sure this must feel like heaven. 

“Like this?” He whispers the question against your skin.

“Oh, yes!”

His lips nibbling and licking your earlobe leave you in a lustful smack as he focuses his attention on his finger, slowly moving in and out of you. A high-pitched cry rips from your throat as you feel a second finger being added. The coiled feeling inside you tightens and tightens.

"Feel's good baby?" he asks in a feverish groan, as if your pleasure reverberated through his body.

You feel the sway of his hips as he snuggles into the mattress and against your body, his back and ass flexing and relaxing in alternating motions, thrusting his clothed cock into your thigh. The sensation alone is almost enough to make you pass out.

How does he expect you to respond in this state? All you can do is buck your hips to his rhythm, masturbating yourself carnally with his fingers. And fuck, his fingers. So long that when he curls them, you go rigid.

“Ah, ah,” you moan breathlessly, sweat breaking out at your hairline, skin heat and flushed. His fingertips brush over and over that spongy spot inside you, and as he slowly pulls them out, brushing against it, you think you might cry.

He pulls away for a moment to speak, his fingers still pulsing inside you. “You have no fucking idea how much you’re driving me crazy, princess.” His voice sounds as broken as you feel. He attacks your clit and picks up the pace with not only his fingers, but also his wet, skilled thumb on that mound of nerves. He moves it back and forth against the nub as he slides a third finger inside you and push his fingers in and out rapidly. The stretch is maddening—almost more than you can handle, but not quite. “It’s like you were created with the deliberate intention of destroying every shred of common sense in me. Not that I have much to begin with,” he half-laughs, half-sighs against your cheek, breathing heavily on your damp skin—“and that’s why this is so dangerous, you know? You’re fucking dangerous, little lion.”

He curls his fingers again, hitting that spot inside you without mercy, and your back arches off the mattress. He’s going to make you come.

“Barty,” you moan. "So close, I'm so close, please-"

Still with his forearm extended under your head for support, he uses his hand to cup your jaw, forcing your face to the side so that you have a clear view of his gaze on yours. Blue eyes, now dark and bright, the pupil so wide that it takes up almost the entire space of the iris. His skin is also flushed, sweat making a few strands of brown hair stick close to his temple. Soft, parted lips, a little swollen and red from the kisses you exchanged. His naturally well-shaped eyebrows are furrowed in concentration - in feverish desire.

He is beautiful. So beautiful.

"Does my princess want to come?" The cute nickname rolls on his tongue the same way velvet rolls on your skin, and you let out a shamefully desperate moan. With breathing starts to become irregular and the tremors in your thighs increase in intensity, your little fingers kneading the soft flesh of your breast, teasing your nipple without taking your eyes off his for even a second.

"So good. That's it...that's my pretty, sweet girl."

"Please, please," you moan, fist on the sheet clenched so tightly you could rip it between your nails.

"Please what, love?"

"Make me..." a long moan coming from your mouth interrupts you - and you sob before continuing, "...make me come. Please. I need...I need to come."

Barty groans softly, his eyes leaving yours for just a moment to watch where his fingers slide in and out of your pussy, his thumb flicking your clit back and forth over and over. “Fuck, fuck, you’re going to kill me. Look at that, baby—”

You force your eyes to stay open as he lifts his head again, tilting his chin to indicate where you should be looking. And when you let your gaze slide down, your cheeks turn impossibly redder. You watch the muscles in your stomach tighten as you writhe, the center between your legs so wet that your inner thighs glisten visibly in the moonlight, making sinful noises with each movement of his fingers. Long fingers belonging to a broad hand, glistening with your own arousal. In and out. In and out. His wrist, slender but defined like his entire body, marked with high veins along its length and a thin leather bracelet around it, moves rhythmically as he fucks you and the sight of it is almost enough to send you straight underground.

You can’t take it anymore. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, legs trembling as a devastating rush of electrification pulses on every nerve in your skin.

“Come on, baby,” Barty groans, his fingers speeding up even more. “That’s it, come for me. Come for me, my good girl.”

Your head falls back against the pillows, locking your drunken, hooded gaze with his as he pushes his forehead against yours, both of your breaths puffing against each other’s lips. You’re going crazy, writhing and shaking, and then it all culminates in the slow fall, the stellar heat of it all between your thighs; suddenly, the pleasure reaches its peak, and your entire body shudders from the inside out as wave after wave of your orgasm washes over you.

A fucking powerful orgasm, gripping you tightly, and your legs immediately try to close, but Barty holds you open with his forearm hooked on the inside of your knee. You try really hard to stifle your screams as best you can, but most still escape - high-pitched, whimpering ones that sound like need personified. You moan and thrash beneath Barty, who continues to roll your clit in languid circles and push his long fingers as deep as he can, prolonging your release until you sink limp and boneless against the mattress.

You breathe like you’ve been running through the Highlands for hours on end, shaking on the pillows as you come down from the euphoric high. There’s barely any awareness of your surroundings as your ears ring and your tear-stained vision struggles to clear.

It’s with snail-like slowness that you notice Barty above you, the feeling of abandon between your legs as he pauses for a few moments, looking up at your face with dark eyes and ragged breathing. His lips are parted as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t, and you watch as his tongue runs over them almost nervously.

And then he lifts the three fingers that were inside you moments ago, staring at them as if he’s caught in a hypnotic trance before bringing them up to his mouth to clean them, moaning softly as he does so, his body shuddering for a moment. You catch a glimpse of his pink tongue as it licks the sticky strand between them, and despite the orgasm that hit you just a few minutes ago, you know you’re ready to go again.

“I-I…” Barty stutters as he slowly pulls his fingers from his mouth, looking very dazed as he looks down at you—blue eyes almost confused, as if not even he knows exactly what’s happening. “That was... I never thought I’d see something like that, much less feel it-”

You frown, confused by his abrupt stutter.

“Barty...?”

“I need you,” he confesses suddenly, his broad, defined chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, his fingers trembling as they sink into the soft mess of his hair, “I need, fuck... I swear I’m usually more patient than this, fuck. But right now I don’t- I can’t think-”

“I-I don’t want you to do this now,” you sigh as you understand, leaning forward to support yourself on forearms as he shifts on the bed until he’s kneeling between your legs again, restless, “please-”

“I want,” he groans, “fuck, y/n-”

“Barty,” you cut him off, pleasure shooting up your spine, holding his gaze so he understands - “I want it too. I want you. It’s okay.”

He lets out a long, relieved sigh, watching you the whole time as his still-shaking hands reach down to grip the elastic of his sleep pants. You sit up straighter, eyes fixed on the hand pushing the waistband down, your breath coming in short gasps of nervous anticipation. There’s a wet spot on the fabric and you feel yourself swallow and shiver at it.

His eyes are on you as you watch him push his pants down enough to release his straining cock.

You barely contain a weak squeak as he springs free of the pants. It’s not intentional, but when you see him—long and thick, red and glistening with the ridiculous amount of moisture leaking from the tip—it’s an impossible reaction to hold back.

Again, you didn’t have much to compare him to, but he was far more impressive than your only previous partner—a fact you instantly decided you’d never share with Barty, Merlin knows he’d just be insufferable about it.

And he would have reason to be because, heavens, all you can think about is that his dick looks just plain adorable.

But dicks aren't supposed to be adorable, are they? They could be a lot of things, but adorable wasn't one of them.

So you just stare, feeling that moan escape your throat because - because, fuck, honestly, you don't know why... it's a penis, that's all - it shouldn't be able to instigate any physical reaction in you just by looking at it. A penis is a penis, a means to an end. A part of the male body that, more often than not, can't even be described as pleasing to the eye. It's just a penis.

A really nice penis-

A penis that you immediately want to drag your tongue along to taste, feel the weight, clean off all that sticky wetness and -

Fuck, isn't just a penis.

When you look up at him again, face blazing with flames and bottom lip caught between your teeth, he's wearing that stupid, smug little grin - knowing full well what kind of unholy thought was going through your head at that very moment. As if he wasn't literally stuttering and shaking with the urge to fuck you just moments ago, like an silly virgin -

Of course he just needed a good dick appreciation to get back to his confident self.

Right.

You narrow your eyes dangerously at him. "Don't you dare say a word."

He pretends to zip his lips, very precariously containing a smirk.

Deciding to be merciful and not extend this any further because, well, he deserves to show some smugness; after all, the man gave you the best orgasm you've ever had using just his fingers. And you really feel the need to focus on more interesting things right now, anyway - like reaching out to touch him, for example.

The proud smile dies as your little fingers brush against his cock for the first time, muscles all over his body tensing in response, creamy skin glistening subtly with sweat. His eyelashes flutter prettily and he sucks in a breath as you reach around him to give him a slow stroke along his erection, far from being able to wrap it entirely, thumb twirling the soft, flushed, pulsing head to spread the wet mess along the rest of his length. Your cheeks heat, but you still smile shyly, blinking up at him from beneath your lashes. He’s firm and smooth beneath your grip, like tempered steel wrapped in the softest velvet—the most enchanting contradiction you’ve ever feel.

It’s incredible. Thick and dripping, a silky, wet trickle running from the reddened tip to the drenched base. Definitely an insanely dirty scene, a wet dream come true. Panting, you have your hand completely wet in an instant, completely falling in love with the way his cock pulses between your fingers in response to each messy, wet sound, the veins straining against your palm as another thick pulse of liquid releases and slides over your fingers.

“You- you’re so hard-”

“Mmf--” Barty’s hips buck, his handsome face scrunching up in something that can only be described as pain as his hands ball into tight fists at his sides. “Don’t say things like that now-”

"No, seriously." You sigh innocently, trying to give him a harder stroke, blinking owlishly as Barty moans loudly and hoarsely at it. "Does...does it hurt? Does it feel good, a-am I doing this right?"

You can't help but feel a little insecure, especially knowing how experienced he is - how many handjobs has he receive, in total? Fuck, you don't want to think.

"Stop talking, please..." he groans through his teeth, throwing his head back, his adam's apple bobbing in the slender column of his throat. "I'm gonna fucking cum if you don't stop talking right now, little lion."

You shiver. The thought that he could do something like that with just the sound of your voice and light touches makes your stomach churn, heat coursing through your veins like a whisper of the flames' kiss. But you don't want it that way - not this time. You want to feel him more, you need to feel him inside you, and you’re not even ashamed to admit it at this point. You really want him inside you. And don’t want to wait any longer for it.

Your eyes are bright and your face is warm as you gasp, looking up to look at him, “Barty…can you…can you fuck me now, please?”

His head tilts toward you so fast you swear you hear something snap somewhere. He stares at you with his mouth open and his eyes glazed over, his body shuddering with each wet pull on his cock. His face contorts, gasps escaping his mouth as he continues to stare, and, Godric, it might be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

Your pussy clench as your eyes roam over his body, sculpted and slender, as if every inch of it has been meticulously arranged by the skilled hands of an artist. His broad, toned chest rises and falls with each quick thrust of your fist, his breathing shallow. He’s biting back every moan, clinging to that last thread of control that you just want to snap.

You’re frighteningly hot again, ready for more, “I need more, Barty, please…”

“Damn it, what did I tell you about that pretty mouth, baby?” He groans through his teeth as throws himself on top of you, pushing you until your head is back on the pillow. “You don’t fucking listen to anything I say, do you?”

Desperation spreads across his face. Your mouth is met with a passionate kiss, sharp and rude. His tongue dominates yours, and you melt blissfully under his control. You’re breathless when he finally pulls away.

His grip tightens as he tears his lips from yours, “tell me, baby.”

“I, I,” you stutter, your legs spreading so he can fit between them.

“Come on,” are the words that come out of his stupid mouth, spread across a stupid grin in that stupid voice of his, framed as a demand when really he’s just begging, “tell me what you need, baby, I’m right here…”

A strained sound leaves your mouth as his hand slides down your side, lips sliding over your breast until a tongue lathers saliva over one hard nipple. Arousal drips down your thighs and stains the sheets, a reminder of how much you want him. The corner of Barty’s mouth lifts, his eyes glinting with something akin to mischief as he looks at you, your nipple still being tortured by his tongue…

“Please,” you push yourself against him, “I need you now,” 

“Fuck,” his hands are warm on your body, searching, “is that it, baby?”

“Inside me,” Your shaking hands fumble as you try to grab him, one on his shoulder and the other in the soft strands of his hair. “Please...” 

The words die in your throat as you shiver under his touch as he rubs himself between your folds.

The tip of his cock brushes against your clit, pre-cum dripping down your skin and mixing with your arousal. You can feel him move slowly – so painfully slow – against your core until his tip presses against you lightly.

“B-Barty, don’t be mean. Don’t tease me,” you manage, your mewls sounding almost whiny. “Please. I need this so bad, please– ah.”

This was fucking torture. He wasn’t inside you—just sliding wetly between your legs. One hand forcing your head closer to his mouth, gripping the back of your hair, tugging. Your scalp tingles with adorable pinpricks of pain, lips parted against each other.

Your voice just above a whisper that should sound so angry—but it just comes out breathless and shaky: “W-what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you manage to ask, using the last of your sanity to scold him.

He’s put you on the edge of reason, your boundaries broken.

“Sliding into, baby,” he says, thrusting his hips into yours, his gaze mischievous on yours, a husky moan playing across his lips as you dig your nails into his scalp.

"Not yet," you huff, body shaking as he hits your clit once more with the soft tip of his cock. "I'm starting to think you never will. I-I thought you wanted this, Crouch."

"I bet you complain even in your sleep, little lion," he says with a certain affection, taking your leg under your knee and bending it against your chest to expose your wet, throbbing, open hole. He groans at the sight of you like this; your cheeks, chest, and the tips of your ears painted with a deep blush - drunken, half-lidded gaze, a sullen pout on your lips.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" Barty groans as he squeezes the base of his cock, avoiding something embarrassing like cumming before he even enters you. "You act so innocent, a good girl running away from me all this damn time...and now you're like this, all brat and crying because I'm taking so long to fuck you." 

The blood roars through your ears. His dirty mouth only turns you on more, even though you feel embarrassed for finding it so inappropriately sexy. He kisses you again, sliding his tongue into your mouth with a husky sound, tasting every inch of you.

The kiss ends, and you stare at each other as he mutters a charm with his hand flat on your stomach, which glows subtly and briefly before returning to normal - making your eyes widen and cheeks burst into flames of embarrassment. Contraceptive charm. Of course he would know one of those.

You don’t have time to think about it too much, though, because soon he’s finally sliding his cock against your soft folds with the right aim. Slowly, he pushes forward, and your mouth opens as your walls stretches around the head of his member. Every inch that’s pressed into you increases the mix of burning excitement coursing through you. You hear a groan escape his lips at the same time you feel his hips press against the curve of your ass, but you’re not sure if the high-pitched mewl that spills into the lust-filled air is yours or Barty’s.

He’s a bit of an animal now, whispering breathlessly in your ear that it’s going to be okay, and to just breathe, and try to relax, and you’re desperate and shaking and a little helpless, considering it’s not like this is your first time. But it seems. And then Barty’s biting your neck and pressing in harder, harder, slick and hard, pushing his cock as deep as you can handle—and you just take it, and take it, and let yourself be filled.

“Barty,” you gasp, gripping his bicep with all your strength when he’s finally all the way in. His cock throbs against your walls, and you feel your poor pussy straining to accommodate him. He kisses you sloppily before you can say anything else, both of you moaning into each other’s mouths. 

“Tell me I can move, please-” he begs after kissing you breathlessly. You’ve never heard anyone sound so broken before, and nod before you can even process the question. Barty pulls his hips back until only the head of his cock is inside you, and then pushes forward until he’s fully seated again. 

Slowly, fucking you slowly, he starts to establish a rhythm, you feeling so full as his hips roll forward against yours, pressing deeper and only eliciting stimulation against your pussy. He pulls back, once again leaving nothing but the tip of his cock trapped inside you—before thrusting back in, harder.

A desperate moan escapes you, your body arching into his, the pleasure building so fast it’s almost unbearable.

“Barty—ah—”

He groans. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

His pace quickens, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your body clenches around him, pulling him in deeper, tighter.

“Fuck, you’re taking me so well, holy shit,” he hisses through his teeth. You can’t help but hum a tentative agreement, each breath wrenching from your chest with the force of his hips slamming into yours.

He grips your hips with one hand and thrusts deeper, faster, until the wet slap of skin against skin begins to sound embarrassingly loud in the room. When you look down and see the length of his cock emerging from between your legs, glistening with your wetness, you can’t help but moan and blush even more, the head hitting the pillow hard. Barty takes a deep breath, chuckling softly in your ear.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” his voice is strained. “Do you hear that? Yeah, every time I thrust like this... Oh, just listen to yourself, little lion, listen to the beautiful sounds you make for me -”

You clench instinctively at his words. It makes his hips buck and pulls a broken moan from his throat.

“A-ahh…” Your head is rolling from side to side on the pillow as you writhe, tilting your hips even higher, trying to align yourself so that he rubs against your clit with each thrust.

“More, more…” you cry out, almost not realizing you’re begging.

But he hears you.

He pulls back and adjusts himself so that the next thrust comes at an angle, aimed at your entrance. And when his tip brushes the rim— “Yes, please, Barty, please, please, I want this so bad—”

“Merlin, so tight for me, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, strain evident in his words, “it’s going so fucking good.”

For me.

“Oh, you’re so good for me, princess; I promise I’ll make it good for you too,” he continues, panting as he pushes his forehead against yours. “Fuck, I need…” he breathes, “I need you so bad, I need you…” he sighs, chuckling breathlessly, blue gaze burning into yours. “It feels so good. You. Close to me. Right now.” He swallows hard. “Please don’t pull away. Please, Y/N.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, your eyes bright with tears—of pleasure, of horny, of sadness, of hope. “I won’t. I promise, Barty, I— oh.”

And he keeps going, moving hard and fast, whispering your name as he pulls back before nuzzling in. You’ve never heard him say your name like that before—all tremble and sweaty and breathy and needy. Like a reverent song. You do your best to respond, calling his name out loud as you move with him, one hand tangled deep in his messy hair while the other traces the familiar features of his sweaty face in the moments when your lips don’t touch. Your breasts are pressed against his chest, sweaty bodies swaying against each other endlessly, your legs trembling where they wrap around his waist, hips lifting to meet his as he rocks against you until you’re both sliding together toward the edge. Falling into each other’s arms from a cliff you’ve been dancing on for too long.

It’s all so intimate, so immensely intimate.

…And you fall once more. With a pathetic moan, you arch and twist your upper body, seeking his mouth while cums. He dips his tongue in, swirling it around yours, nipping at your lip, sucking air into your lungs along with a torrent of words:

“In all my shitty life nothing has ever been important enough for me to seek, to keep—but you—” and it’s more than you can process; you’re still shaking uncontrollably, clenching around him, tears streaming down the sides of your face, you think you might pass out. “You I want to keep, little lion. I need to keep. Care for. It’s only you that matters, only you and—oh, shit, I’m going to…! Fuck—”

He bends over, covering you with his entire body, nipping at your shoulder. Deliriously, you beg. "Barty, please, please - come for me, please-"

“Ugh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” is all you hear as he buries his nose in your neck. You have just enough time to register his lips on your skin, kissing you repeatedly, before your world shrinks to the space between your legs.

He pushes in as hard as can; his tip nudges the deepest spot inside you, pushing you closer and closer to overstimulation. But you hold on, for him, for this almost painful pleasure that’s the only thing keeping you trapped as he expands inside you.

Barty grunts in his throat and pushes forward, as if there’s more of him to fit inside you. He holds you tight, pressing you against him as his broad body trembles above yours, his hips thrusting one last time before he groans in a long, raspy sound before comes.

One of his arms wraps around your waist, holding you steady, while the other reaches between your bodies to play with your clit. You startle at the unexpected touch, the extra stimulation making you see stars; you think you’re going to scream, but you can’t hear yourself over the ecstasy coursing through your body.

The overstimulation turns, to your complete and utter surprise and shock, into a new orgasm.

You convulse around him, his fingers pushing you to the edge you didn’t even know was there. Your belly, tight with his cum inside, contracts rhythmically as you spasm and he thrusts gently, sighing shakily in your throat.

You shiver and finally find relief in his increasingly slow thrusts, in the way he lifts himself up on his forearm, his breathing ragged and cheeks bright red, sweat trickling down his hairline and temple.

Slowly, he stops, panting heavily, and when he’s almost stopped shaking, he slowly withdraws. The feeling of being empty is strange, but you don’t have the energy to think about it when you can barely form a sentence. You gasp, wiping away the tears that roll down your face and you can’t stop the small tremors that run through your body even after the euphoria has passed.

“Are you okay there, little lion?” he whispers next, leaning down to give you a soft kiss on the lips. You nod, but stay silent and have to hold yourself back a little to be able to respond fully. He seems to understand this and rolls onto his side so he can hug you affectionately.

“That was...merlin,” you murmur, and bury your head in his damp chest, the scent of oak and sweat. “I can’t feel my body from the waist down…” The thought of standing up seems impossible, your brain is in a strange and pleasant fog and you can barely concentrate.

“Is that a good thing?” His laugh is light and husky, lips resting on your forehead.

“It just to much,” you reply, fingers trailing down his bicep, sighing gratefully when he uses a simple charm to cleanse your bodies of all the wet mess. “It’s hard to think now, but…” you hum and adjust your buzzing limbs to get a little more comfortable. “It was…really good, yeah.”

He hums happily and you snuggle into his chest, one leg thrown lazily over his waist, reveling in the warmth he exudes, skin against skin, warming you like a nice campfire on this cozy cold night.

“You’re staying here tonight, right?” His breath glides over your hair, nose brushing your forehead. You swallow a sleepy sound, the warmth of his closeness spreading like molasses through your bones. His question is asked softly and almost hesitantly, but also hopefully, and you bite your lip before blinking up at him.

"I-I want to, but I don't know if its a good ideia. What if they see me before I can get back to Gryffindor Tower tomorrow?"

"No one here is going to say anything, princess. And it's not like you're the first person to wake up in a bed in a dorm that isn't yours." He rolls his eyes with a smirk, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear before freezing, thinking. "Wait a minute, you're Head Girl. That means you have your own dorm separate from the other students, doesn't it?"

You're quick to pick up on where his thoughts are going.

"We're not going to fuck in my personal dorm, Barty."

"Oh baby, we're going to fuck in every corner of this castle if I can have a say in it..." he teases playfully, grabbing you by the waist to bury his nose in your neck.

"Don't be so rude, idiot." You scold him with red cheeks as pull yourself away, adjusting your body better on that bed that is too small for two people, pulling the sheet to cover yourself. Barty smiles even more at this, realizing that you are, in fact, snuggling up to spend the night with him.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, trying your best to contain your own smile.

Hair disheveled as always, but with a radiant air of exultant satisfaction. Bright eyes, warm cheeks. He was so gorgeous it made you sick.

A gorgeous man who wouldn't shut up for a moment. He breaks the silence after a few minutes.

"Does that mean when they see us together in the Great Hall or in the hallways tomorrow, I can tell them that you're my girlfriend?"

You yawn loudly, nonchalantly adjusting the blanket over your body, as if his question hadn't made your heart stutter and heat up in your chest.

"And who said I want them to see us together?"

His jaw drops comically, blue eyes round and pouting like a kicked Puffskein pup's.

"You didn't—but I thought...what?"

You can't help but laugh, covering your face with the sheet to hide yourself.

Barty lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Wait, is this a joke? Damn princess, this is so much fun for you, isn't it?" He pulls the sheet off your face, stretching his fingers to tickle along your belly, laughing along with you when you start to squirm and giggle.

By the time he's finished torturing you, your face is red and streaked with tears from laughing so hard, struggling to catch your breath.

"Barty?"

You call out to him when you finally calm down, running your fingers over his thin chest, feeling the muscles relax before all the laughing, his heart starting to beat at a steady pace. Comforting.

He tilts his face towards you, a soft, lazy smile on his lips. "Hmm?"

"You can tell them I'm your girlfriend."

He smiles, wide and happy, pulling your face up to place a quick, smacking kiss on your lips, followed by countless pecks on your cheeks and forehead.

He’s practically vibrating when asks the next question:

“Does that also mean you’ll be wearing a blue scarf to the next Ravenclaw match, right?”

“No!”

“...”

You snort when he pouts dramatically.

“Maybe.”

He blinks those same round eyes again.

You roll yours.

“Yes.”

Another long, blissful moment of silence that you know he’s going to break.

“...even if it’s against Gryffindor?”

“Limits, Crouch. Limits!!”

[strawberryraviegutz]

Part of me starting to have second thoughts about sinners. Not the movie itself but more or so the fandom…

From ppl completely disregarding and ignoring the movie’s themes about racism, to ppl watering down Remmick through a black and white lens either comparing him to the Klan(even tho the Klan hated Irish ppl back then)or saying that he did nothing wrong and uplifting him more than the black cast(apparently it was confirmed by someone who worked on the movie that Remmick isn’t racist. I forgot his name tho), along with ppl going after others for…finding a VAMPIRE VILLAIN hot??(and or anyone talking about Remmick in a positive light in general.)

I literally just saw the film yesterday and I’m already being put off by the way a lot of yall are acting.

While what Remmick did was certainly by no means any better than what the very oppressors he hates are doing(cuz at the same time he did sorta use his whiteness to his advantage when tricking those 2 klan members into letting him in), I think it’s just disingenuous to ignore what exactly LED HIM to that mindset which was the Catholics colonizing his home along with forcing Ireland’s ppl into famine.

Like I just dont get it…For as long as vampires and villains have been super popular and beloved in media for decades and even centuries , how are yall gonna act super surprised when ppl find a hot villain vampire character attractive/appealing??

Plus I thought it was common sense then ppl can like villains but not agree with their actions. No one here thinks that Remmick was in the right by forcing other black ppl against their will into assimilation into vampires(at least I hope not).

And again assuming it’s only white ppl who find him hot(which isn’t even inherently a bad thing. It depends on the context) and writing smut of him while completely ignoring/erasing all the black women/afabs and or black ppl in general who are thirsting for Remmick in the tags along with telling ppl to die over shipping Remmick with ppl…and also thinking that there’s only Remmick x reader fics when…no?? There’s A LOT of other x reader fics with the twins(smoke especially), Bo Chow, Annie, the twins, Sammie, and Mary within the tags.(also can we NOT call Remmick’s actor ugly please? That’s just flat out mean.). Speaking of which the way yall are treating Mary and Annie is just deplorable..

I literally had someone comment on my last post related to the shipping of Remmick and Sammie and I couldn’t even respond to them cuz they blocked me??(idk how to feel about the ship but I’m not gonna get onto other ppl for liking it since they’re both adults from what I can tell and as long as they aren’t erasing or ignoring the themes/message of the movie)

How are u gonna comment on my post and then block me when I was just trying to further explain my opinion that you had no intention of listening to in the first place??

According to these ppl I guess I must hate my own race now for thinking that Remmick is hot/sar

Way to make ur own ppl feel isolated from their own community as if that doesn’t also go against the message of Sinners at all../sar

Edit: meant to say the British not Catholics, my mistake

[jingyichickenwings]

This is less of a Deep Cut and more of a case of schadenfreude, but I love when various members of a creative team are messy in public about their high budget group project. Reality TV for nerds. It speaks to a profound lack of media training or fucks given. You guys realize that future employers can Google you, right? Unintentionally hilarious.

Linke and Yee were told in no uncertain terms that their season 1 storyboard was shit, so they hired Overton, who hired half a dozen actual writers, and they did basically a full overhaul. The script was objectively much better. But this was Linke's baby, and several years later you still see signs that he is Big Mad that he didn't get his way, and that he doesn't know or care about what actually became season 1 canon. I'm sorry that your Jewish stereotype villain didn't get to be a pedophile, I guess? Idk. Yes, yes, I am sure your version of Svengali is really innovative. Maybe someday, buddy.

Meanwhile they start writing season 2 in early 2020, while the season 1 air date isn't until November of 2021. So, they don't have public feedback on the script yet, just, yanno, actual writing professionals. Anyway, according to Overton, they needed to fire the non-management part of the writing team because of the pandemic?! Lmao babygirl you do your best and I respect commitment to the official PR excuse but nobody sensible believes this. Netflix writers average 110k/year, and you needed six or so from season 1. That is not a big part of the overall budget. Also, y'all could have saved money with Zoom meetings.

So the very thing that saved the season 1 script got line-itemed "because of the pandemic". That sounds like an extremely convenient excuse for Linke to be like, no, fuck you all, we are going back to Plan A, the rough draft of season 2 based on his shitty version of season 1. Honey. That ship has sailed. You already lost this argument.

So presumably some combination of Linke/Yee/Riot/Netflix was like, it's important that we have at least one actual grown adult writer on staff. So Overton gets to keep her job.

Now, I want to preface this by saying that season 2 would have been even worse without Overton. That being said, there is a reason they needed a deeper bench of writing staff. Overton and Linke over-connect with the characters Caitlyn and Jayce respectively, to a degree that they frequently forgot to evaluate how other characters would likely behave in certain situations. It led to contrivances, plot holes, etc. There is a lot I could add here but tbh go read any of the meta already out there.

In addition to the Mary Sue type behavior, Overton thought it would be Neat to make the writing more like Avengers, like multiverse time travel fuckery is a shiny beach pebble and not narrative napalm. What in the ADHD was she thinking? Even if they had the run time to world build enough for this, there was nothing in season 1 to even suggest this as an option. And let's be fucking honest, multiverse a lot of why Marvel is on a downward spiral. If Viktor can go to Build-A-Bear Workshop and 3-D print a million Jayces, why should I give a shit about his kill count? He can just be kind, rewind, and try again. Actions are decoupled from consequences.

Anyway, moving back to the topic at hand of the Arcane team. Apparently, Overton, Linke and Yee only half-wrote season 2?! Linke said something about how they "extensively collaborated with Fortiche on the story"? Which, it's not inherently a bad idea to get creative feedback from your art team, but ummm, maybe the writers and Fortiche should have worked to a point of agreement on basic story beats. Based on a lot of what Fortiche has said, the art for season 2 passive aggressively advances what they wanted the writing to be against Linke's wishes. They literally have just been straight up disagreeing with Linke and getting paid for it. Which, to be fair, I respect the sheer pettiness! Linke can't write his own damn show but wants to slow down the very expensive art team? When the actual writers that got fired "because of the pandemic" would have caught a lot of the season 2 issues?

So post airing of season 2, Overton is all about that girlboss copaganda, Linke is having multiple public meltdowns and getting fired by Riot(?), and multiple voice actors and artists at Fortiche are being like "yeah, we actually wanted something else so there are now multiple competing narratives for season 2". Which is hilarious. The way in which the show is messy is the same way in which the creators are messy. These bitches are a cautionary tale about hubris and the need to engage in team-building.

(EDIT MARCH 11: the fired rumors seem to be old/inaccurate, see comments for details)

[stagtorccio]

in case you write for shauna……i have a thought hmm

okok so basically she actually ends up going to brown and meets reader there - who’s practically jackie taylor reincarnated!! like very outgoing, similar style, kinda snarky but also very nice, you get the drift

they end up dating and sharing an apartment and living their cute life but our girl shauna is STRUGGLING

maybe maybe she even has r meet tai or smth and tai calls her the fuck out for it

i just wonder what thoughts you have about it

OH THIS IS WILDDDD i love shauna being crazy as hell... shauna getting out and having to go to boring-ass college because what the fuck else is she gonna do, and meeting alternate universe jackie taylor... fuck

HELP ALSO MY BAD MINORS DNI I SAID SOME FREAKY SHIT IN THIS

shauna hates college. really hates college. it's funny how the one thing she wanted more than anything before the plane crash almost feels like a punishment now. she was a queen, and now she has to write essays? what a bunch of bullshit

she meets you in ENGL 100D. matters of romance. go figure

well, she doesn't meet you, exactly. not until she's over her period of staring at you like she wants you to explode

because you're just. like. her. down to the mannerisms. the laugh. the stupid bunny rabbit twitch of your nose. the snark. even the slightest gesture of your hand reminds her of jackie and it makes her want to crawl out of her own skin

you're convinced she hates you, because what the fuck?? why is this scary brunette death glaring me in our poetry seminar??? send help?? but she's just half yearning half resenting and fullyyyyy unchecked and mentally ill

you get paired for a reading. the lais of marie de france, bisclavret. story about a werewolf and his lover. doesn't matter to shauna- because firstly she thinks you're typical popular girl ditzy and secondly she doesn't want to talk to you

but then fuck, you bounce up to her with a notebook and bunch of glittery gel pens, talking about how excited you are to work with her, and she can't keep holding a grudge against you for just sort of being her dead best friend come back from the grave to haunt her

so she works with you. and okay maybe she stares at you sort of awestruck as you read bisclavret like you're genuinely invested... waxing on in a dramatic voice trying to make her laugh

until you get to That Part

"It's true, more than all the world I love you. You should hide nothing from me, nor ever doubt I'm loyal in any affair. That would not seem like true friendship."

and fuck you remind her so much of jackie it makes her SICK ethel cain style

but also she's shauna. she can't help herself. girl's got zero impulse control. so she asks if you'd like to start hanging out more than just for school because that's such a great idea

and apparently, the one difference you and jackie have? you can actually admit you're gay

because "hanging out" turns to making out turns to you and shauna getting an apartment together a short drive away from uni so you can still make it to your morning classes

shauna feels actually deranged for it. doesn't stop obviously. just writes in her fuckass journal. countless entries about how you look just like her. talk just like her. are just like her.

it always comes back to that first assignment you got paired for— because bisclavret is a tragedy. the lady swore she would love the werewolf but when she found out what he really was, she ran away in fright and wouldn't see him anymore

which, fucking mood for shauna. so things start to spiral

she's obsessive. always trying to protect you, never letting you leave by yourself, and AB SO FUCKING LUTELY never letting you be cold. if you even slightly shiver she whips off her jacket and every other layer and bundles you up until you look like a penguin

she sees you as a second chance, but also as a bitter reminder

you call her "shipman" once and it sparks the only real fight you've ever had— like screaming yelling lashing out fight

you cry obviously because what the fuck shauna???

shauna also cries. apologizes and kisses it all better (doesn't admit that she kinda likes kissing it better.. that's freak for thought)

doesn't usually slip up— but just once she mumbles 'jax' during sex

you don't hear it and thank fucking god for that because imagine trying to explain it

she takes you to meet tai eventually because tai is the only one who's consistently kept contact with her and is still one of her best friends

and boy does tai clock that shit IMMEDIATELY. the first word out of your mouth is "hiya" and she just looks at shauna like 'what the actual fuck.'

"You can't be serious." Shauna's jaw ticks. She crosses her arms, looks anywhere but Tai's face— which is currently stone-set like the world's most disappointed, judgemental statue. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Tai practically balks. "Shauna," she says. Then, with the continued silent treatment from the typically ever-mouthy, ever-opinionated Shipman— "Shauna!" "Fuck, just— it's not like that, Tai," Shauna hisses, trying to be quiet, lest you hear their spat from where you've gone to the bathroom. "Then what's it like?" Tai prods, poking more holes in an already sinking, flimsy defense. "Because it looks like pretty fucked up to me." "I love her," Shauna replies, like it's that easy. It isn't. Tai's lips pull taut as a bowstring. "No, you're obsessed with her because she's practically a carbon fucking copy, Shauna—" She doesn't get to finish her argument, because the flush of the toilet and the door creaking, signaling your return, silence her. Good. Shauna figures she'll need the bathroom soon anyways. She doesn't think her lunch will stay down for much longer.

it's safe to say shauna doesn't take you around tai much after that. tai is always silently judging though

my bad i yapped a whole lot for this one BUT THIS IDEA IS SO INTERESTING... I LOVE IT

[ak319]

Haii!, I really like your Arthur Morgan series and I've also read it several times and it's not boring at all!🫶🏻

Can I make a request? If so, can you make the reader jealous because Arthur is close to Mary Beth?🫶🏻 (Arthur and the reader's relationship is not platonic!)

(AN: Tsym! Remind me why we making Y/n suffer again? PS: I'm terrible at writing jealousy shit ngl and I legit dunno why. AND THATS LIT WHAT YALL KEPT ASKING FOR-😭☠) Hope yall enjoy reading lol)

Warnings/MDNI: None, just angst and then fluff to soothe your asses-

You were by the lake, lazily washing clothes. The day had you feeling sluggish, and the pleasant weather didn’t exactly help motivate you. The water was just the right temperature, cool enough to refresh but warm enough to keep you rooted in place. You should really pick up the pace, finish up, and grab some tea--or coffee--or a well-deserved break.

The faint hum of camp activity behind you was oddly comforting, a soothing backdrop to your thoughts. That is until you heard footsteps crunching on the gravel, quick and impatient, followed by a sharp curse.

“Dammit! I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you, girl.”

You glanced over your shoulder, grinning as Molly stormed up to you, her face a mix of exasperation and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“For God’s sake, Molly, you know my Tuesday routine by now,” you teased, tossing a wet shirt into the basket beside you. “It’s not like this camp is big enough to lose someone. Honestly, I think you’re just bad at looking.”

She didn’t laugh. Not even a crack of a smile. Instead, she stood there, arms crossed, her expression tight with barely-contained frustration. You paused mid-scrub, a curious eyebrow raised.

“What’s gotten into you? You look ready to murder someone.”

“Oh, sure,” she snapped, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Leave it to ever-so-clueless (Y/N) to not notice a damn thing going on around her.” She gestured wildly toward the camp as though you were missing some grand spectacle.

You blinked, thoroughly confused. “What the hell are you on about?”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she hesitated as if debating whether you were even worth the explanation. Then, with a dramatic huff, she took a step closer, glaring down at you like you’d personally wronged her.

“Let me spell it out for you. Do I even bother tellin’ you what’s happening? Or should I just assume it won’t make a difference because your ‘dearest cold heart’ won’t care? Or worse, you’ll just laugh it off like you always do!”

Your hands stilled in the water, the soap slipping through your fingers. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

"Y’know, what I just heard and saw?” Molly huffed, throwing her hands in the air for emphasis. “Mr. Arthur Morgan, having a chat with Mary-Beth. Mary-Beth! That same snake who’s all over Dutch, and now, apparently, your man, (Y/N)!”

Her voice rose with each word, and you blinked, caught completely off guard. She leaned in, her eyes narrowing as if trying to gauge your reaction. “I swear to God, she was asking him to buy her another one of those silly romance books for her lovesick brain. I mean, why Arthur, huh? Why doesn’t she go pester Kieran’s ass instead?”

Hearing her rant, you stood up, gripping the damp shirt in your hands as you processed her words. “Wh--sounds like a friendly chat to me, Molly,” you said, trying to brush it off with a shrug. “I mean, Arthur brings stuff for everyone. He goes out the most, doesn’t he? And, well, Kieran… he’s not exactly allowed far from camp neither he can afford anything right now. They still don’t trust him, y’know. And Arthur, he’s like a brother to Mary-Beth-"

“Don’t even start with that ‘brother’ shit, (Y/N),” Molly snapped, cutting you off. “It's just a facade.”

Your mouth fell open, heat rushing to your face at the implication. Uncertainty clawed at your chest as you tried to stammer a response, but she wasn’t done. Molly’s jealousy toward Mary Beth only seemed to fuel her fire, her words coming quicker now, sharp and biting.

“And don’t act like it couldn’t happen. You think she doesn’t see how kind he is to you? How he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching? Oh, she sees it. And she’d snatch him up the moment she gets the chance.”

You clenched your jaw, her words making you shift uncomfortably. Sure, you trusted Arthur, but the venom in Molly’s tone, the way her words seemed to twist around your insecurities, left you feeling just the slightest bit unsteady.

"Did he even say goodbye to you before he sprang into action?” Molly pressed, her voice softer now, almost pitying. “And the other day, weren’t you telling me you needed some cream for your hands? You even told him, and look, just look at your hands.”

Her gaze dropped to your chapped and reddened fingers, and you instinctively tried to wipe them dry on your skirt, as if that would somehow make them better. Her words were digging deeper now, clawing at something vulnerable in you. Did he forget to bring it? Or worse, did he not care enough to remember? Had your wishes, his woman’s wishes, stopped mattering to him altogether?

“This is bullshit, you should have run away with that pen pal of yours, to be honest when you had the chance,” Molly muttered, crossing her arms. “You didn’t listen to me when I told you she’s after Dutch. And now she’s after both! I swear, those books she reads must be teaching her these tactics. Manipulative little-"

“I--y’know what?” you cut her off, your voice suddenly firm as your gaze drifted to the camp, your eyes narrowing.

“What?” Molly asked, surprised by your sudden shift in tone.

“Let’s just go,” you said, your voice laced with resolve.

“Go where?”

“Town.”

Without waiting for her to argue, you kicked the bucket of soapy water, sending it tumbling into the river, the suds spilling out and disappearing downstream. The laundry lay abandoned on the grass as you turned and marched toward the stables, Molly following close behind.

Damn everyone, then.

❀˖°

Arthur returned to camp, expecting to find you in his tent as usual. But when he stepped inside, the familiar space felt oddly empty. A frown tugged at his lips.

"Hey... um, Sadie?" he called out, spotting her near the campfire. "You seen (Y/N)?"

Sadie glanced up from sharpening her knife. "Oh, yeah. She and Molly went to town."

"What?!" The word escaped him before he could stop it, his voice louder than he intended. Clearing his throat, he muttered a quick, “Thanks,” and walked back to his tent, feeling heat rise to his face. He slumped down onto his cot with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair.

You know how he felt about you going far from camp without him, even if you were with one of the girls. It wasn’t a matter of trust, it was fear.

And still you did.

There were too many dangers out there, too many things that could go wrong, and the thought of you out there without him stirred a storm in his chest.

It was 5 p.m., the time when you two usually sat together to talk about your day over supper. The time he looked forward to most whenever he was at camp. And now? He sat there, staring at the flap of his tent, the minutes ticking by painfully slow.

But what bothered him more was why you’d gone. And with Molly, of all people. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, he didn’t have a problem with her, not really. But something about the way you two were together always set him on edge.

He’d told you how he felt about it once. About how Molly seemed to lean on you a little too much, how her sadness and drama sometimes seemed to pull you down with her. But of course, you’d defended her, saying you couldn’t just turn your back on your best friend. That Molly found her only comfort in your company.

And you were right. He knew you were. But that didn’t make it any easier to sit here, waiting, imagining where you were and what could happen.

Arthur let out a frustrated sigh, his appetite gone. Instead of heading to the campfire for supper, he threw himself onto his cot, pulling his hat over his face in an attempt to block out the growing worry gnawing at his chest.

But even with his eyes closed, he couldn’t shake the unease. Images of you and Molly wandering through town, far from the safety of camp, flickered in his mind. He trusted you, of course, but the world out there? That was another story entirely.

“Damn woman never listens to me,” he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with equal parts frustration and concern.

Sleep didn’t come easily, and even as he tried to rest, he knew one thing for certain, when you came back, this was a conversation he wasn’t going to let slide.

❀˖°

Arthur woke with a start, roused by Bill’s loud guffaw somewhere in the camp. With a groan, he rubbed his face, taking a moment to shake off the haze of sleep and piece together his scattered thoughts. Then it hit him, the memory of you leaving with Molly, and the worry twisted sharply in his chest again.

He pushed himself up with a sigh, his body stiff from the restless nap. Moving through camp, he glanced around, hoping, praying, to catch sight of you. But there was nothing. No sign of you or Molly.

He considered asking Dutch, but dismissed the thought just as quickly. Dutch would likely know even less than he did, and Arthur wasn’t in the mood for meaningless chatter.

Back at his tent, he sat on the edge of his cot, pulling out his journal in an attempt to distract himself. The flap of the tent was open, giving him a clear view of camp, but his eyes kept flickering toward it, waiting for you to appear.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He wasn’t going to eat, not until you came back, served the meal, and sat down beside him. That was how it went. That was how it had to go.

He was about to get up and go to find both of you himself when-

"Um, Arthur?" Abigail’s voice broke through his brooding. She appeared by the flap of his tent, holding a coffee pot. "There’s some coffee left, and I’ve got to wash the pot, would you like a cup?"

He shook his head, barely sparing her a glance. "Why’d they go to town?"

"Molly and (Y/N)?" Abigail tilted her head, her tone casual. "Oh, they’ve been back. Got back about half an hour ago. They’re in my tent, just hanging out."

Arthur blinked, first in shock, then confusion, which quickly morphed into anger. Half an hour? You’d been back for that long and hadn’t even bothered to come see him? Not even a word after being gone all day?

He shut his journal with a snap, the sound echoing his rising temper, and stood. The muffled chatter coming from Abigail’s tent grated on his nerves as he stalked toward it, each step heavier than the last.

What the hell was going on with you?

He cleared his throat outside the tent before pushing the flap open, only to find you and Molly sitting cross-legged, enjoying supper.

"Where were you? I was waiting for you."

You swallowed your bite, not bothering to look up at him. "Needed a few important things from town, actually, so I had to go."

Arthur’s jaw tightened. "Can you come with me? I want to talk."

"I’m already talking to Molly," you replied, your tone curt, still avoiding his gaze.

Damn it. Why the hell weren’t you even looking at him? That gnawing frustration in his chest boiled over. He had enough of this.

"I said, Come. With. Me." he demanded, his voice low but firm, the tone sharper than he intended.

Your head snapped up, eyes glaring at him with such intensity that, for a moment, he regretted using that tone. Hell, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t scare him just a little.

"Oh, excuse me, Mister. Don’t you dare order me around like a maid, alright? I sit, talk, and walk when I want to. And right now? I don’t want to. Now go away, we’re busy."

Arthur ignored Molly’s taunting scoff, still fixated on you. Something about this--about you--just didn’t sit right.

"I’m sorry, okay? I’m just hungry. I was waiting for you... Can we eat now?" Arthur’s chest tightened, guilt creeping in. He rubbed the back of his neck, his anger softening. "...I was just worried as hell."

Hell, I still am.

But you didn’t let it go. "I’ve already eaten, and I didn’t ask you to wait for me. There are plenty of people around here you can share your meal with, Arthur. Plenty."

You turned your attention back to Molly, flashing her a rueful grin with your hair covering your face but he definitely caught it.

The Irishwoman gave you a knowing smile, her voice full of mischief. "Oh, girl, there’s always someone around."

This is how it's gonna be huh?

His first instinct was to walk away, but no. Arthur wasn’t the type to run from problems. With one swift movement, he grabbed your arm and dragged you out and behind the tent, just past the tree line. He stared down at you, his expression a mix of annoyance and desperation.

"What the hell is that all about?! And you know I hate it when you go out alone-"

"I don’t care! I don’t care anymore!" you snapped, your voice shaking with anger. "I hate going out for some petty stuff too, which, by the way, I clearly asked you to get, and you forgot! I guess books are more important than me, huh?."

Arthur’s chest tightened. He rarely saw this side of you ever since you both got together, the frustration, the hurt, the coldness. "See, this is the problem," you continued, your voice rising. "When men find someone vulnerable enough to control, to fix, they get bored. Then they move on, find someone else to repeat the same damn cycle. Am I right?"

His mouth went dry. The words cut deep. But what hurt him the most was the thought that maybe... maybe you believed that.

He wasn’t asking for much, was he? Three meals with you, a cup of coffee, that was it. Simple things that made him feel like you cared. That made him feel loved. But you didn’t... or did you?

The silence between you two was deafening as he tried to process what you said.

"What are you talking about?" Arthur started, his frustration mounting. "See, this is why I don’t like when you and Molly-"

"Oh, no, no, no. Shush. Don’t you dare," you interrupted, your voice sharp, but there was a deep hurt behind it. "She’s always been right, Arthur. I was the dumb one. I’ve been working my ass off for you, and you didn’t even bother to say goodbye this morning, huh?"

Arthur froze, guilt beginning to gnaw at him. He wasn’t ready for this. "You know, I had a chance to leave this life, you know exactly who I’m talking about. But I didn’t. I chose you. But if I’m just gonna be sidelined like this? Nuh-uh. My ego doesn’t allow it. Nobody gets to disrespect me like that."

You took a deep breath, eyes blazing. "If you don’t want me anymore, then say it. Don’t play these stupid-ass games with me. I’m not Molly, not when it comes to this."

Arthur’s stomach dropped as the weight of your words settled in. He could feel the hurt radiating off of you, the betrayal that had built up. And now it made sense. Molly had probably warned you, just like she always did. He could almost hear her saying it a dozen times in the morning,

'Don’t let him treat you like that, they are all shit.'

"There is NOTHING like that, woman!" Arthur snapped, his voice rising in frustration. "Is that what this is about? You’re ready to just forget, hell, even think like this over a misunderstanding?"

"Call it whatever you want," you replied coldly, not backing down. "But not gonna lie, the pattern makes sense now, Arthur."

He took a step back, trying to steady his breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Don’t say that... c’mon. You know it’s not true! She’s like a sister to me! For God’s sake, how can you even think--"

Without another word, you grabbed his satchel, the leather creaking in your grip, and flipped it upside down. A book slid out and thudded onto the ground.

Arthur froze, his eyes darting to the book, then to the scattered contents of his bag. He watched, his heart sinking, as you threw the satchel aside in disgust. "Bravo," you muttered, the bitterness in your voice sharper than a knife.

"Don't even bother explaining. I’m tired." You began to walk away, but before you could get far, Arthur grabbed your wrist.

"Don't you dare, no way you’re... sleeping away from me." His voice started strong, then faltered into a desperate plea, but you didn’t turn around. With a sharp jerk, you freed your hand from his grasp and continued walking.

Arthur stood there for a moment, his breath heavy as he watched you leave. With a defeated sigh, he bent down to gather the scattered contents of his satchel. Tilly approached, offering to help, but he shrugged her off with a tired wave and handed the book over to Mary-Beth, who was standing a few feet away, her face filled with guilt and sadness. His hand lingered in his pocket for a moment, pulling out the cream he had meant to bring you, adding it to the pile with a sharp scoff.

His posture was slumped, his movements slow and burdened. He didn’t need to say anything, his body language alone was enough to tell Tilly, Mary-Beth, and anyone else watching that this sulking would last for days, and you... you weren’t someone who accepted apologies easily.

❀˖°

And that’s exactly what happened. Arthur waited every day, hoping you would just come, sit with him, and listen. He longed for you to let him explain, to sort things out, so he could hold you in his arms again. Dammit. He missed you at night like a child misses their favorite doll.

But you weren’t just any doll.

You were his doll.

And when it came to you, he was nothing but a man-child.

Everybody knew his routine, the gang enforcer's routine. Simple, predictable. Come back, chat a little, handle his business, talk and eat with you, then the tent flaps closed, just the two of you, a world away from the chaos of the camp.

But now?

Come back, brood in one corner, pace to another, sleep with the flaps wide open.

Arthur’s mood soured every time he saw you doing something that wasn’t just being with him. Chores, errands, anything that took you away, even for a moment, made him restless, agitated. He needed you with him, in the tent, with the flaps closed, where he could hold you, even if it was just in the silence of the night.

Every night, he asked you to come with him. But you ignored him. Yet, he kept asking, unable to stop the desperate hope that you’d return, that you’d see it the way he did.

"Damnit. Damn stubborn ass woman." He grumbled for what? The millionth time? Sighing he petted his horse as it trotted at a leisurely pace, just a few meters from camp. How the hell had it all gone so bad? What was even the point anymore? Are you happy now?

His horse huffed as if sensing his despair, nudging him gently, but Arthur barely acknowledged it. The familiar sound of the camp in the distance only served to remind him that nothing was the same anymore, not the meals, not the quiet talks, and certainly not the comfort of his cot. That's it. This ends tonight.

He is going to carry you over his shoulder if that takes you to talk to him. To hell with your protests and stubbornness.

You were crouched down, sorting through vegetables with Abigail, your hands busy with the task at hand.

It wasn’t long before you saw Molly moving quietly, eyes darting back and forth, heading toward the girls' area.

You knew Molly. You had spent enough time with her to understand that when her instincts kicked in, she often acted before she thought. There was an impulsive streak in her, a tendency to let her emotions guide her steps, and that could be dangerous. Especially now, when tensions were already high.

Without much thought, you excused yourself from Abigail, your voice quick and unsteady. “I’ll be right back.”

You left her with the vegetables and slipped away from the campfire, your steps light as you tried to stay out of sight. Moving quietly, you found a small, hidden spot behind a tent, where you could just make out the faint sounds of voices, though you couldn’t yet hear clearly what was being said. Your heart pounded in your chest.

"(Y/N) and I were so close, in fact, like sisters, but you ruined that too! I don’t know what you told her-" Mary-Beth’s voice cracked, and for the first time, it wasn’t the usual calm, polite tone she carried. There was raw emotion, maybe even a hint of fear, but more than that, it sounded like heartbreak.

"You did it! Just like you're trying to ruin my relationship with Dutch."

"Are you in your senses, Ms. Molly?!" Mary-Beth gasped, trying to defend herself. "How can you even think that?!"

The past few days, you couldn’t help but notice her glances at you, brief but meaningful. It was as if she was caught between wanting to reach out and not knowing if you’d welcome her presence. Her eyes would meet yours across the camp, filled with a mixture of concern and hesitation, as if she longed to approach, to console you, but the fear of intruding, of making things worse, kept her frozen in place.

You understood her hesitation. She was a kind soul, someone who cared deeply for those she loved, and in these tense moments, you knew she wasn’t sure how to navigate the space between you both. And neither did you try to clear the air.

"You and your pretty face are going to be your downfa-"

"Molly, enough." You stepped in, your voice firm. Molly turned to you, arms crossed over her chest, her face filled with frustration.

"(Y/N), don’t tell me you’re under her spell too, for God’s sake. She needs to get a reality check-"

"Molly," you interjected, stepping forward and gently taking hold of her arms. You guided her a few steps away from Mary-Beth, the tension between them thick. "Let me handle it, alright?"

"Don’t pity her, let me make that clear. Otherwise, you’ll be the one regretting it." Molly threw one last angry glance at Mary-Beth, shaking her head before storming off, muttering under her breath.

You stood there, a heavy sigh escaping you as you rubbed your forehead, watching Molly retreat. Turning back to Mary-Beth, who sat on the ground, you softened your expression. "I apologize on her behalf..." You couldn’t help but feel the weight of the situation. You knew you’d have to work hard to get Molly to let go of her anger, but that's for later.

"It's... alright, (Y/N)." Her voice croaked, and you didn’t miss the tremble in it, nor the quiet tears she tried to hide. Your gaze shifted to the book resting on the makeshift table in the corner. The one she had requested. You swallowed hard, a knot forming in your throat.

"You’re not reading it?" you asked, your voice gentle.

She looked up at you, shaking her head slowly. You could see the weight of her emotions pressing down on her, and it hurt to see her like this.

You walked over, picked up the book, and sat beside her. "Why not?" you asked softly. It caught her off guard, and for a moment, her eyes softened. She hesitated before returning the smile, albeit faintly, her sadness still lingering behind it.

"I am sorry... (Y/N), if you... if you misunderstood my actions, but I swear it’s nothing. There’s nobody else, except Mr. Morgan that we feel comfortable enough to ask for things... but if you mind it, then we won’t--"

"No. No. You can ask without hesitation, and I am sorry. I was quick to jump to... conclusions," you interrupted, your voice soft with regret. You hugged her, and she gladly returned the embrace. The warmth of her arms around you soothed the tension in your chest.

You placed the book gently in her lap and shifted your body closer, not wanting to break the moment. "I just... y'know... when I love someone, I do it fully. And I don’t tolerate when that gets disrespected, y'know? That’s one thing I will never forgive." Your voice trembled slightly, the depth of your feelings evident. "But anyway, do read it, and then we’ll have a chat about it. You know I love hearing you yap about your books more than reading them myself."

She chuckled softly, her eyes lighting up with a glimmer of her old self, and you watched her face brighten as she held the book. You stood up, feeling a sense of relief, but also a lingering desire to stay.

"Definitely. But for now, I must go work too, don’t want Susan to bury me alive."

"You better." As you were making your way back to the kitchen wagon, a figure stepped in your way.

"Am I forgiven too?" His voice was teasing, but his expression was genuine. You deadpanned, folding your arms.

"Ummmm... let me think about it," you replied with a mock thoughtful expression, your gaze narrowing slightly.

He mirrored your posture, folding his arms with a smirk. "Not fair, woman. Not fair."

"I never said I was." You gave him a pointed look before turning to walk past him.

As you continued your walk back to the kitchen wagon, you felt a lightness in the air, a shift that felt... right. Arthur, still a few steps behind you, watched you quietly with an almost childish pout. There was something about the way his gaze lingered on you that told you he was waiting, waiting for you to acknowledge it all, to say what neither of you had dared to say yet.

You stopped for a moment, as you placed the cutting board, and turned to face him. The sunlight caught the edges of his hair, giving him a softer, not to mention the dark circles, giving him a more vulnerable look than you’d seen before. There was no teasing now, no masks, just Arthur, looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time again.

"I’m sorry, too," you said softly, your voice almost a whisper. "For the things I said."

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "I don’t like it either. I swear, I’d rather fight a hundred men than have you angry at me. But..." His hand reached out hesitantly, as though unsure whether he had the right to touch you, to pull you close. "I don’t know what I’d do without you. And I apologize too...for making you feel that way. But I swear it wasn't in my intention."

A warmth spread through your chest at his words. It wasn’t the grand gestures or flowery promises that touched you. It was the simplicity of it, the honesty in his voice, the vulnerability he rarely let show. "Well then let me tell you that," you whispered back, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "I’m not going anywhere."

With a relieved exhale, Arthur stepped forward, his arms wrapping around you firmly, pulling you into his chest. It was as though all the tension from before melted away, and in its place, there was just the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat against yours. "I love you," he murmured into your hair, the words so familiar now, but somehow more precious each time.

You nestled into his embrace, letting your worries fade for the moment, feeling a sense of peace settle over you. "I love you, too," you replied, your voice barely above a breath, but you meant it with everything you had.

"Y'know darlin'...I was very close to shootin' myself if I had to sleep on the cold bed any longer. It took strength to control myself and not drag you out-" You rolled your eyes and pulled away.

"Right, now go away, I have work to do."

"Absolutely not. To hell with these damn chores. You are coming with me."

You shot him a skeptical glance, hands on your hips as you paused in your tracks. "Really?" you said, raising an eyebrow.

A grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he stepped closer, his broad frame encroaching on your space. "What do you think, darlin'?" he teased, his hands coming up to cradle your face, nearly squishing it with playful force. He gave your head a gentle shake, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "It’s been too damn long. You’ve had me sleeping like a corpse for days. You cruel woman."

You tried to hold back the laugh that bubbled up in your chest, but his determination was infectious "Fine," you muttered, giving in more to his presence than anything else. He grinned, his hands reaching for you, pulling you effortlessly toward the flap of his tent.

"Atta girl." His voice held a triumphant edge, but it was softened with affection.

And finally, after days, the enforcer's tent flaps were closed at night--and so was the distance between you two.

(AN: Req/asks closed for now, guys :/ do keep in mind ur ideas and send once I'll announce them open)

[corroded-hellfire]

Hiii!! I had an idea for the As You Wish Series, what if Eddie and R are invited to their daughters kindergarten/elementary talent show. And she’s supposedly singing, and she comes on stage and starts belting out Twist by Korn!

I wonder what their reactions would be!

+ (Your writing is really really good ☺️)

Thank you so much 🥺

Apparently there are arguments that there are real lyrics to this song or if it’s just scatting. The proposed lyrics would not be child appropriate so I went with scatting, containing phonetic spellings that I found on Reddit lol

Words: 1.2k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Did she tell you what she’s going to sing?”

You take your seat in the hard plastic chair next to your husband. The cafeteria of Hawkins Elementary School is full of kindergarteners’ parents, milling about and having soft conversations as they await the talent show to begin. It’s a small room, and the stage is a single step up that might be able to hold one class at a time.

Both you and Eddie cleared your entire Friday to see your daughter perform and then take her out to lunch. Luke and Ryan grumbled about how they still have to go to school the whole day but your husband was quick to remind them that he did the same thing for each of them when they had their respective kindergarten talent shows. Wayne is back at the house, watching the twins for a few hours. The older man assured you he was able to handle the newly one-year-olds at the same time. Of course, you trust him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t miss your babies and hope everything is going well.

“She wouldn’t tell me,” Eddie answers you with a sigh. “I tried everything. Since when can Eliza not be bribed?”

You turn your head and cock an eyebrow at your husband.

“You tried to bribe our five-year-old?”

“Oh, don’t act like you’ve never done that.” Eddie’s cocky smile dares you to lie to him.

“What did you try to give her?” you ask, skirting around his response altogether.

Eddie heaves a deep sigh and drapes his arm along the back of your chair.

“Ice cream. Apparently, vanilla was a no-go, though.”

“Ah,” you muse, snuggling up to his side. “That was your mistake. She’s in her cookie dough period right now.”

Eddie lets out a soft groan and says softly so that only you can hear, “It’s going to be a princess song, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But she has an eclectic taste just like her parents.”

“She gets the good taste from me,” Eddie says.

“Sure, honey.”

A young woman in a gray argyle sweater and a calf-length cranberry skirt steps up on the stage and your attention turns towards her. The famed Ms. Berry you hear about almost every day after school smiles out at the audience and rubs her hands together before speaking.

“Hello! Welcome to our Hawkins Kindergarten Talent Show!” There’s a soft polite applause from the crowd before she continues. “First, we will start with my class. So, please welcome our first student from Ms. Berry’s class, Andy Arvano.”

The only downside of having a last name that starts with an “M” is always having to wait, being stuck in the middle of the pack alphabetically. The first eleven students perform a variety of “talents”: juggling, dancing, singing, jump rope, magic tricks, and even ventriloquism.

By the time it’s Eliza’s turn, Eddie’s about ready to fall asleep. But the moment he hears his little girl’s name announced, he’s wide awake and sitting up straight in his rigid seat.

The indigo curtain partitioning off the cramped backstage space is tugged to the side by a small hand with perfectly pink polished nails. Out pops your daughter’s beautiful face, her bright smile shining out at everyone as she steps out and makes her way to the middle of the stage, her magenta dress with white polka dots swaying with her movements. She looks down at her black Mary Jane shoes, before looking back up at the crowd. It’s impossible to keep a smile off your face as you watch her gently toss her head to make sure her ringlet curls fall just right against her cheeks. Without raising her hand higher than her waist, Eliza throws you and Eddie a quick wave. Giddily, the two of you wave back to her.

Eliza’s chest lifts as she takes a deep breath and you feel like you’re on the edge of your seat. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Eddie beaming as he looks up at her. You reach over and slip your hand into his. He gives yours a gentle squeeze in anticipation.

“Twist!”

The belted-out word takes you aback. Without music accompanying her, you’re initially confused as to what song she’s singing.

After the first word, Eliza begins to jump up and down on the spot, thrashing her head from side to side. Her curls whip around, smacking her in the face with every turn. Her motions don’t stop as she opens her mouth and continues.

“You not ooh rah dah en dahp ooh rah daht endaht en dik ah poo ra ta teek a poo rah doo rah do dik oh mumblio dah dah dosa pa errah sa dey definitely ha to think about pa errah so ma et it heh uh uh rah nada no ob rah da sa oh rak ah you ma heh to bro rah de de eh ah is ah ra ray nah hear aned darayeah woo who rah eh pay pa do rah not to errraah.”

The approximation of words, which could hardly be called scatting in this instance, clues you and Eddie into where she got her choice of song.

You hear Eddie let out an irritated sigh under his breath. He leans in and whispers in your ear the one word conclusion that you’ve also come to.

“Ryan.”

Silently, you nod. Your eyes don’t leave Eliza as her jumping becomes even more frantic and her arms start pumping up and down with the action.

“Twist!”

Someone a few rows behind you lets out a soft snicker and it breaks your own resolve as well. You smile, pressing your lips together to contain laughter as you watch your five-year-old shout out a Korn song. Eddie chuckles next to you as well and the two of you share an amused glance before looking back at the performance.

“ooh e ooh rah daht endaht endaht endaht ooh rah sadah eh mah rah day huh pah tay who uh mah nah who nah peek a boo nah eh na ooh rah eh essimple he neh head a nerah.”

Coming up on the final word, Eliza ceases her bouncing. She poses with her feet spread, her arms reaching out, resembling a starfish as she throws her head back.

“Twist!”

Her little chest is heaving as she finishes. Both you and Eddie immediately break into applause, the crowd around you doing the same. It’s by far the most entertaining performance of the afternoon.

The proud look that graces your daughter’s face at the clapping warms your heart. She grabs the sides of her skirt and tucks one leg behind the other, dropping into a curtsy. Once she stands back up, she searches for you and Eddie in the crowd. You immediately blow her kisses and Eddie waves at her. She giggles and gives a quick wave back before skipping off the stage.

After she’s out of sight, your laughter comes bubbling out. You tuck your face into Eddie’s neck and he slings his arm around you, chuckling himself.

“Oh boy,” he huffs with a laugh. “Well…it could’ve been a worse Korn song.”

You pick your head up and press a kiss to his cheek.

“At least it wasn’t a princess song, huh?”

[stellar-solar-flare]

What Makes A Home

ex-soldier!Ari Levinson x neighbor!Reader | 2,385 words.

Themes: friends to lovers, idiots in love, competency kink if you squint, neighbors, cozy community.

Reader is female, no Y/N, no description of appearance. Nicknames 'dear' and 'honeybun' are used by Ari for Reader.

My blog is for people 18+ only, minors DNI.

Story Content Warnings: implied smut, Ari being a soldier mentioned, Ari having guilt over his past, some very minor hurt/comfort (the love is requited, they're both just idiots).

Notes: This is a made-to-order fic for the amazing @bigtreefest - I hope it brings you joy and fulfilled your prompt! Full disclosure; I wasn't able to get my hands on the movie, so I had to piece Ari's character together from his scenes on YouTube. My utmost gratitude to @steviebbboi for character consult and helping me be confident about the decisions I made in the planning stages of this fic (all mishaps mine, of course). It is also my first time writing Ari. I hope you enjoy, and all feedback is very welcome!

I do not own anything The Red Sea Diving Resort related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

The house that you inherited from your great-grandaunt — who apparently despised you less than her other relatives —is definitely what a realtor would describe as ‘having plenty of potential’. But it really does have good bones, so to speak, and with the current housing market, you definitely aren’t complaining.

And the neighborhood isn’t half-bad, either. The community is close-knit, if a little nosy, helpful to the point of overbearing.

And so, they didn’t miss it when a new moving truck arrived at the house next to yours. The gossip has gone wild — the names of different special services are thrown around in the whispers like candy, even though no one can reasonably know anything about his history. Especially if he has a history as some overseas covert operator, like Mary at the end of the street keeps claiming, he certainly will keep that information to himself.

You are yet to run to him, and so you’re operating on second-hand information about him — which is mostly focusing on the fact that he’s tall and bearded and looks like he could bench press a school bus.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but you reason that a simple welcome visit isn’t going to end with your untimely demise. You pick a nice Saturday afternoon, check that his truck is on the driveway, and make your favorite snickerdoodle recipe. With a plate of still-warm cookies under aluminum foil, you go ring his doorbell, not entirely sure why your heart is beating so hard. It’s just a decent thing to do.

It takes a few moments for him to open the door, and when he does, you are proud that your poker face holds.

“Hi,” you say to the giant at the door. “You must be Ari. I live in the house next to yours, and I thought I’d come to welcome you to the neighborhood; they did it to me too, when I moved in a few months ago. I brought snickerdoodles.”

You extend the plate to him, and he takes it. He leans one shoulder on the doorframe, and you do not swallow when you see the muscles of his arms move. His hair reaches behind his ears, and he has a nicely trimmed beard. Even in a simple — tight — white shirt and jeans, he does look like a soldier. Not violent but like there is an alertness to him, despite the amusement in his eyes.

“Hi,” he says. “Yes. I’m Ari. And you are?”

You give him your name, chuckling at the fact that you left it out in the first place.

“Nice to meet you. And thank you for the baked goods. Would you like to stay for a cup of coffee?”

He moves aside, gesturing for you to step over the threshold.

And you do.

There were a lot of things you had learned about Ari over the six months since your first meeting, that cup of coffee that somehow hadn’t felt awkward at all. He had a talent for filling moments like that with idle chatter that didn’t feel like it was just there to cover something.

It was just so Ari, how his charm was always on display and yet so inseparably a part of his very being that it didn’t feel like an act. It was just who he was. Of course, he could be a playboy — at least when it came to the charming part, since as far as you knew, there hadn’t been anyone visiting his house besides you.

You were more than certain that a fair number of ladies in the neighborhood harbored a crush. And why wouldn’t they, when Ari was the first to volunteer to any project, cracking easy jokes while he worked and being all charismatic smiles and wide shoulders ready to tackle anything.

It was that restless energy that had drawn him to your house, too. Just like you had turned up to his door that one Saturday, the next week he had turned up at yours, dressed in a flannel and jeans and carrying what looked like a heavy, well-equipped toolbox, pristinely new.

“Those gutters are going to fall off the clips soon. I could attach them better if that’s alright with you?”

Stunned, you had nodded. Sure, there was an endless list of things to attend to, and the gutters had been on your mind but then winter had come and you’d been so focused on other things. You had no idea how he noticed, and when you’d asked, he shrugged it off, mentioning something about how he had to learn how to build and maintain things out there, so you’d left the topic at that.

It was the first thing he fixed at your house, but not the last. He gravitated here, looking to do something of meaning, and he refused to hear your suggestions about paying him for the work he was doing — despite the fact that every project he poured himself into was done with the meticulousness rivaling not only someone not in the profession but with a passion to it.

Like the patio you were now sitting on your knees on, holding the plank in place for him so he could screw it onto the beam underneath from the opposite side. You’d made the mistake of mentioning over a shared dinner that you had contacted a contractor to see how much it would be to replace the deck, and he had turned up the next morning with all the necessary materials, in the exact shade of wood that you’d envisioned.

You weren’t certain that you wanted to know what strings he’d pulled to get all that so fast.

“Ari, seriously, you didn’t need to do this.”

“Nope,” he said. “But I wanted to.”

“At least let me pay for the wood,” you said. “You know, I’m a strong independent woman and I do have my own paycheck.”

“And I’m very proud of you, dear,” he said with perfect nonchalance, and you tried to ignore something twisting in your chest at that. “Just let me pick the next five movies for our movie nights and we’re even.”

You huffed, knowing that you’d be in for some underground art movies no one but Ari had ever even heard of but nodded regardless. It was literally the least you could do.

He finished screwing the plank down and reached for more screws from the box on the side — you’d begun earlier today by laying down all the planks to have an even platform to work with, and now it was just the matter of evening out the cracks in between and attaching them to the support structure. His arms moved, and his t-shirt lifted slightly as he bent to the side, revealing a slice of tanned, warm skin at his waist. You forced yourself not to stare.

The thing with Ari was that he flirted with anyone and everyone — except with you. He made the grannies laugh by asking them at the community nights if they were old enough to drink; he had the cashiers at the local grocery store sighing dreamily after him when he departed with one of his famous smiles. Everyone seemed to understand it was all fun and games, and yet you were certain you weren’t the only one here with hopes when it came to him.

But it wouldn’t be you — his complete and total lack of that kind of behavior around you was the clearest sign you could’ve asked for. He saw you in an entirely platonic light, and so you didn’t want to endanger what was a beautiful and genuinely enjoyable friendship with him by asking him if you could be more than that.

Even if sometimes the question, the why not me, burned your tongue and tried to sneak out of your throat. At least then you’d know the reason why he saw you so differently than others.

“Honeybun?” he said, yanking you out of your thoughts.

You swallowed, hoping that the question would go down too, and met his expectant gaze. He’d said something, and it had flown right past you, and now he was staring. God, you could drown in the blue of his eyes.

You were lucky to have him. He was a good friend, caring, attentive. He made you laugh at the worst of days; he was good at coming up with solutions, especially unconventional ones. You had no reason at all to feel wistful at all the nicknames, derived from different baked goods you’d made for him over the past months.

“Nothing, nothing,” you said, lowering your gaze. “Sorry. What did you need me to do?”

You heard a thump as he set the screwdriver down. He reached his hand, two fingers under your jaw tilting your face back up so that you’d look at him. There was that little wrinkle of worry between his brows and you felt a pang of guilt even as the warmth of his fingers was making your skin tingle.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he said. “We can take a break if you need a few. You’ve been somewhere far away for half the day.”

You quickly shook your head, knowing that you’d already ventured too far close to the line you didn’t want to end up crossing.

“Just a little tired, that’s all,” you said, hearing the flimsiness of the excuse even in your own ears.

He tilted his head and raised his brow; his hand was still there, under your jaw, lingering where it absolutely shouldn’t.

“I know it when you’re lying, honeybun,” he said, one corner of his mouth rising into a smirk. “Spill the beans. Do I need to kick someone’s ass? I’ll do it, you know.”

You swallowed so loud that it seemed to echo in your head like the creaking sound of thin ice.

“No, there’s no need for that. I was just wondering what’s so different about me?”

A flash of something in his eyes, gone so quickly that you could hardly tell it was there to begin with.

“Different how?” he said, strain in his voice, like he was going for some sort of normalcy and failing to grasp it.

Oh no. You had opened some floodgate and now things would be awkward from here to eternity. The only way to save this was to get it all out, and now that the water was flowing freely, there was no stopping the words from flowing out of your mouth:

“Well, it’s not a big deal, but sometimes I wonder why it is that you have this flirt going on with everyone except for me, and I mean, it’s absolutely and totally fine, you just see me thoroughly like a friend and that’s that but with what we have and all the nicknames and all that, sometimes I wish there could be more and I’m just wondering –“

And then you were wondering about nothing at all.

Ari was on you like a shot, his hands framing your face and pulling your lips on his even as he leaned towards you, and it didn’t matter that you didn’t understand. His kiss was a claim laid, one hand cupping the nape of your neck and the other wrapping around your waist even as his mouth devoured yours. He pulled back with his lips still on yours, bringing you to his lap and he was everything, everywhere, his scent and warmth and the softness of his shirt smelling like spring sun and laundry detergent, the taste of him on your tongue, the feeling of his hands mapping your body. It was just him all around you, and you fell into that just as easily as you’d once fallen into a comfortable, shared routine of friendship.

When he finally let your mouth go, you were both out of breath, and you were straddling his lap, suddenly very aware of how his feelings towards you weren’t entirely platonic at all. There was a hint of pink on his cheeks, and his hands came to cup your jaw, thumbs caressing your skin.

“You were too precious for that, honeybun,” he murmured, eyes fixed on yours. “I didn’t… When you waltzed into my house that day, it was the first time it felt like a home. You were the first time I felt at home. And putting on that face… it felt too cheap for you. And I didn’t… I couldn’t lose you. Not you. So I thought I’d be there for you. Take care of you, make you happy, and find my joy from that. When I was out there… I don’t know if I did enough, if I made a difference. I wasn’t sure I even deserved the kind of peace I felt with you.”

“Ari,” you breathed out, tears prickling in your eyes, unsure what you would’ve said even if there wasn’t a lump blocking your throat. “Ari, I…”

His thumb brushed over your kiss-swollen lips, and he shook his head ever so slightly, his gaze aflame with something that could never ever be just friendship.

“But now that I’ve had a taste of you, honey, I’m not selfless enough to give that up. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. I can’t let you go.”

“Then don’t.”

And just like that, his mouth was back, his hands diving down from your face to map the shape of your body, and the tiny moan he breathed right onto your lips sent a shiver down your back. He was holding you by the hips and you tangled both of your hands into his hair, making sure he wasn’t going anywhere without you.

“I think,” he managed in between pushes of his lips. “I think the patio can wait.”

You nodded eagerly, and he stood up with ease that sent a swooping feel of desire into your core, his hands slipping under your thighs so he could carry you. Your legs wrapped around his waist as your arms clung to him, and he made a beeline for the door that led inside.

It was a good thing that after all the work he’d done at the house, he knew exactly where the bedroom was.

Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving a comment, if you can spare the time and energy.

[remlionheart]

Can you do a Chuuya x fem reader where her bra can be shown from her white shirt?

pov: you request a simple spicy lil fic from me, but my manic brain is physically incapable of not giving it an entire backstory and plot and making it at least 4k+ words (thank you so much for this idea tho, it was super fun to write! ღ)

* ˚ ✦ MDNI ✦˚ *

Sex, Money, Feelings, Die

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ My first attempt at Chuuya smut (and goddamn, do I love that angry lil man ★~(◡‿◡✿). New to the city, you're coerced into working for the PM after a drunken night out. Scared and now in the heart of one of Japan's most notorious criminal organization's headquarters, you decide to reclaim some of your power by ~*teasing the absolute fuck out of Chuuya Nakahara~*. 4.8k words. Porn with a plot. I can't even lie, this shit had me giggling and kicking my feet while writing, lemme know whatcha think. luv u ღ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

When you'd first moved to Yokohama 2 months ago, you had promised your parents that you'd be safe. That you'd find yourself a decent office job to afford you a lofty apartment and that you'd be settled in relatively quickly. You'd pictured yourself walking amongst tall buildings on your days off. Exploring the city with your coworkers on the weekends. Living instead of just existing in your small hometown.

You thought you had your future all mapped out and maybe you did, but those dreams of normalcy were all but destroyed the night you crossed paths with Koyo Ozaki.

She had noticed you from across the bar, quietly observing the way you'd been drinking by yourself all night. It was odd to see a girl with your beauty and lack of abilities so confidently roaming downtown alone. She wasn't sure if you were brave or naive, but the moment you took a seat next to her to thank her for the whiskey and coke she had ordered you, she realized you were the perfect blend of both.

She'd spent the next hour chatting you up, effortlessly coaxing information out of you without you realizing it. She'd offered you an administrative assistant role for the group she worked for, describing it as a "lucrative" and "underground" organization. You were in no position to say no, especially after spending the last month relentlessly applying to jobs with little to no luck.

You woke up the next day musing about silly things like fate and serendipity as you raided your closet for the perfect first day outfit. You felt like this was your big break. The first stop on the roadmap of adulthood that you'd created for yourself. You ironed a pair all black slacks, pairing it with a white-button up quarter-sleeve shirt, and your favorite suede Mary-Janes. Optimism swirled through your head as you eyed yourself in your bedroom mirror that night. You were determined to be so good at this job.

You showed up freshly showered and prepared when you arrived at the sleek, high-rise building. Ozaki waited for you out front with a rather intimidating dark-haired man who introduced himself as Mori, head of the fucking Port Mafia.

Your anxiety rose with each step you took behind them, quickly realizing that this was not the run-of-the-mill clerical job you had envisioned while hazily chatting with Ozaki over whiskey-neats. This was an underground criminal organization full of some of the strongest ability users in the world. You had absolutely no idea why you were here. Why you'd been selected, let alone trusted, to work alongside these people.

You were given your own small office, equipped with a bare desk and landline phone. Mori told you to stay put, explaining that you were to stay out of sight until further notice. You were essentially there as a cover-up.

Apparently, they'd been scouting for girls like you. New to town and completely clueless. They wanted to bring in a handful of these 'administrative assistants' to help keep up the illusion that this was just another ordinary building in the business district of Yokohama and nothing more.

Mori left you with a curt warning about the temperament of the other Mafia members and a haunting, "Welcome to the team." as he closed the door to your office and disappeared down the long corridor. Your heart was slamming into your chest, your anxiety growing the longer you sat. You were angry. Disappointed in yourself for being such an easy target.

You sat for at least an hour staring at the wall in existential dread, wondering what you'd done to end up here. Wondering what you were going to have to do to get out now that you were here. Even if it wasn't necessarily a "job", it still didn't seem like something you could just casually walk away from.

You were in the middle of the Port Mafia's headquarters and you were rightfully, terrified.

The sound of two muffled voices pulled you away from your thoughts while you froze in your chair, realizing that they were right outside your door.

"You're fuckin' with me, right?"

"No, that's really where they're keeping her. She's going to be a fulltime member."

"A member?" it was the first man again, his voice full of shameless snark and volume as he laughed at the idea. "A Mafia member with no ability? C'mon, Akutagawa. Even Mori isn't that stupid."

"There's going to be more, she's just the first to show up."

Tension crept along your spine when both voices came to a curious stop, one quietly scolding the other before the heavy wooden door began to creak open.

A pair of azure eyes stared back at you, disheveled shoulder-length red hair draping off of one shoulder as he mumbled, "Holy shit."

The taller of the two, draped in a long black coat, tried to pry him away, but he shrugged him off with an irritated. "Chill out, I just wanna introduce myself to her."

The dark-haired man scoffed and continued down the hallway while his ginger companion closed the door behind him, leaving just the two of you looking back at each other skeptically.

Despite his height, he had a powerful demeanor. A blend of apathy and cockiness that exuded off of him as he carefully made his way towards you. "So, you're the new girl, huh?"

Your eyebrows furrowed when you looked back at him, your words suddenly stuck in your throat as his foot made contact with your desk.

You managed a nod, remembering the way Mori had advised you not to engage with the other Mafia members, but what were you supposed to do when you were suddenly locked in a room with one?

"God, we really can't just have one normal day around here, can we?" He sighed, almost seeming embarrassed as his shoulders dropped and he leaned against your desk in the spot next to you. "Stealin' girls out of bars? Tch, the hell are they thinkin'?"

His opposition to his boss' plan made you relax a bit. It was the first time all day that you thought you might make it out of here okay.

He picked up on your apprehension rather quickly, taking his hat off and setting it down before extending a gloved hand out to you. "Chuuya." He said simply.

You stared at him for another moment or two before introducing yourself, trying but failing to mimic his nonchalant tone.

"Hey," He said, lightly nudging your foot with his, "You're gonna be alright. I'm sure this gig will only last for a couple of weeks until they move on to their next big, idiotic idea."

"You think so?" It was the first time all day that you felt like you could breathe.

"Trust me, Mori's plans are always changing. He'll probably cut you a fat check for hush money and then send you on your way sooner than later. Just lay low in the meantime, yeah?"

Your eyes were still locked as you nodded at him again, giving him a feeble, "Okay... Yeah, I can do that."

"Good." He smirked, pulling himself away from your desk.

You watched him pause just before exiting the room. He turned around to face you again, his gaze landing a bit lower than your eyes this time.

"And maybe uh -" If you didn't know any better, you'd swear that you saw a flash of red flare across his cheeks. "Maybe don't wear that bra with a white shirt next time."

Out of all of the anxiety and fear that you'd been drowning in over the last few hours, your choice of outfit had been the very last thing you'd considered worrying about until just now.

You looked down, noticing what he meant as you saw the dark, lacy fabric of your Victoria's not-so-secret peeking through the white of your blouse. Your tits were pushed perfectly together, nearly on full display through the sheerness of your shirt.

He flashed you another faint smirk before clicking the door shut, once again leaving you to your own crippling thoughts as your head dropped into your hands.

What an absolutely mortifying first day.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The next few shifts were a blur.

You'd clock in. Sit for what felt like an eternity in your bleak little office. Leave mid-day to grab lunch at a cafe across the street. And then head home 9 hours later despite the fact that you’d hardly done anything.

You'd learned to bring in books and cross-stich patterns to keep yourself busy throughout the day instead of rotting away at your desk. It wasn't an ideal situation, but if Chuuya was right and there really was a big check waiting for you around the corner, you'd decided that it was worth it to see this through. Because no matter how nervous you got each morning, the painful truth was that you couldn’t afford to turn down easy money.

By the end of the week, you found yourself doing more than just sneaking in romance mangas to make the job more bearable though. You were doing everything you could to gain back even a semblance of power.

If you had to be here, you had decided that you were going to make it everyone's problem.

With the ginger's words still fresh in your mind, you made it a point to wear darker bras. Tighter blouses. Shorter skirts that barely covered your ass. It had almost become an inside joke with yourself at what a distraction you'd become to the Port Mafia. Maybe couldn’t make these men fear you, but you could certainly make them trip all over themselves any time you entered the building.

You'd hardly been able to keep a straight face yesterday afternoon when Akutagawa's coffee fell from his hands and cascaded around him after he saw you walking down the hall in black knee-high stockings. You'd finally managed to make everyone here as uncomfortable as they'd made you and it felt good.

You were half-way through the iced matcha you'd picked up on lunch, sitting with your feet propped up on your desk as you continued to embroider the word "fuck" in pretty, cursive letters next to a pink and yellow flower when a knock arrived at your door.

You quickly stashed the circular cross-stitch pad in one of the desk drawers and straightened your back as Tachihara poked his head into your office. "Yo, new girl. Nakahara wants to see you."

Your brows knitted together as you looked back at him in quiet confusion.

No one had ever requested to see you in the time that you'd been here. Even in your attempts to disrupt their daily tasks, they'd still not bothered to learn your name. But now... you were expected to go see Chuuya... in his office?

"Why?" It was the only question you could think to ask.

"Dunno," Tachihara shrugged. "but I wouldn't keep him waiting. He's kind of an asshole." And with that, you were once again left alone and anxious.

You took a breath, standing up to smooth down the fabric of your skirt before venturing down the hallway.

You did your best to push Tachihara's warning out of your head, reminding yourself of the kindness Chuuya had shown you on your first day while your heels clicked across the marbled floor.

Maybe he wanted to tell you that he'd talked to Mori and that your time with Port Mafia was finally up. Maybe he wanted to hand deliver the check you'd so desperately been waiting for. Maybe he just wanted to see how you were doing. Whatever it was, you were holding onto hope that there wouldn't be any more bad news.

You let out a sharp exhale as you rounded the corner and found yourself standing in front of his office. You gave the door a light tap, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve when he finally appeared.

His eyes traced over you slowly, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he counted not one, not two, but three undone buttons along your blouse that revealed the deep-purple push-up bra decorating your chest.

"Get in here."

His tone was clipped, dripping with what felt like vexation as he closed the door behind you.

His office was much bigger than yours, adorned with high-rise windows that overlooked the city and pristine black marble flooring that matched his leather furniture. The room was dark, just barely lit by a lamp on his desk. You wondered how it was possible for him to get any paperwork done in here but then promptly realized that with his ranking, paperwork was probably far beneath his paygrade.

Still not entirely sure how to approach the situation, you hesitantly took a seat on the over-sized armchair across from his desk.

"Quick question," he said, standing in front of you with his arms folded over his chest, his voice still riddled with irritation. "What does the phrase 'lay low' mean to you? Because I can tell you right now, this ain't fuckin' it."

Your pupils widened, his words hanging heavily in the space between you.

Your mouth opened and then closed again, too focused on the way he was staring at you to form a proper response.

"Is it -" you wavered, mustering up all the courage you had to try and play this off as innocent confusion rather than what it actually was: sarcasm. "Is it my outfit?"

If looks could kill, you would've been 6 feet under.

Chuuya's eyes darkened, a flustered hand rubbing feverishly over his face as he struggled to keep his composure. He wasn't sure if you were trying to piss him off or if you were just genuinely the dumbest girl he'd ever come in contact with.

"Yes," He said with all the restraint he could possibly manage, his teeth nearly grinding together with each syllable. “The outfits are getting out of hand. You've gotta stop."

You were playing a dangerous game, but you were slowly starting to realize that you were... winning.

"What's wrong with them?" you asked, pretending to cover your chest in embarrassment.

You wanted to hear him explain it. Hear him tell you in his own words that you couldn't wear short skirts anymore because it was causing too many unexpected erections around headquarters.

"I -" The poor redhead looked as though he was going to have an aneurysm if you kept this up much longer.

He snapped his eyes shut and let out a frustrated exhale, his hand now bawled into a fist at his side. "Listen, a lot of the guys around here have... noticed you, okay? And I can't take one more day of hearin' those fuckin' assholes talk about how they caught a glimpse of your ass in the break room. Got it? I'll buy you some new clothes if I have to. Just please, no more shirts like this, alright?"

He was actually bargaining with you. Entering the third stage of grief as he tried so hard to keep his cool. To keep his eyes locked with yours and nowhere else. To explain all of this in the nicest way he could.

It was in that moment that you realized where the real source of his trepidation was coming from.

Hearing his coworkers ogle over you was probably annoying for sure, but the more damning, infuriating fact of the matter was that he was ogling over you too. And he was fucking tired of not being able to get any work done when he knew that you were right down the hall. He was pissed that he had to come into his office every morning and lock the door just so he could jerk himself off to the idea of you.

He was in so many words begging you to stop because he wasn't sure how much longer he could take seeing so much of your body without being able bend you over his desk like he did in his mid-morning daydreams.

He was losing - both his resolve and this game at an alarming rate.

"Hmm," you hummed, toying with a pen you'd found wedged between the cushion of his chair. "Well, I'm sorry. I just like feeling pretty before I come in. I didn't know it was creating such a problem for everyone."

The wheels in Chuuya's head were spinning.

Emotions weren't his strong suit and doing these mental gymnastics with you was making him need a cigarette.

"It's -" he sighed, groaning as he forced himself to backpedal. "It's not your fault. I mean, you do look pretty, y'know. It's just... distracting, is all."

It was hard to hide your smirk.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't think he was a bit distracting himself, but he didn't need to know that. Not yet anyway.

"Okay, well," you conceded as you began to stand up. "I’ll wear a turtleneck or something tomorrow then.” You shot him a small smile as you got to your feet, "Promise."

He looked marginally relieved by your understanding. "Sounds good." He huffed, rubbing at the back of his neck while following behind you as you made your way out of his office.

But just before you reached the door, you accidentally dropped the pen you'd been fidgeting with. Bending over without warning so that your ass was right in front of him, peaking out of your skirt as he walked straight into you, his hips suddenly meeting yours.

You thought he might actually kill you this time with the guttural noise of frustration that escaped him.

He grabbed you by your shoulders the second you were upright again, spinning you around so that you were forced to face him.

“Okay, seriously." He said between gritted teeth. "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath hitching in your throat as you watched the unfettered anger flicker through his blue eyes.

It was a stupid move, you knew that before you did it, but you didn't expect it to draw this much of reaction out of him. His restraint was lost. Composure long gone while he waited for you to say something with his face mere inches away from yours.

"Sorry," You lied, "It slipped out of my hand so I -"

"Bullshit." He snarled. "Enough with this innocent act. What do you want out of this, huh? For every guy in Port Mafia to want to fuck you? Is that what you're gettin' at here?"

"No." Your head shook before you even had time to think about what you were about to say. "Not everyone..." Your eyes were still glued to his. "Just you."

You didn't know what you were doing anymore or where all of this recent shamelessness had come from, but there was something about being here that made you feel like you could do anything. Be anyone. You weren't sure if it was the power or the crime or the ungodly amount of money that Port Mafia was raking in, but the collective feeling of chaos that these walls housed was finally latching onto you too.

You didn't even flinch when you said it, instead continued to stare at him unapologetically, noting the way his grip had tightened around your shoulder the longer he looked back at you.

"What?"

If the wheels in his head had been spinning before, they were now fully off the ground, exploding into the air as his gaze drifted along your face. Searching intently to make sure you were actually being serious this time before he went any further.

"You really want me to fuck you that bad?" he asked, the warmth of his mouth now ghosting yours.

The question went straight to your center, wetness seeping between your legs as you nodded back at him.

Truth be told, your midmorning fantasies while cross-stitching the last few days hadn't been much different than his.

The gravity manipulator's fingers were suddenly tangled into your hair, his body forcing your back against the door while his lips collided with yours.

"Y'know you could've just asked instead of doin' all this bratty shit, right?"

His mouth was warm, his movements somehow urgent and careful at the same time as his hands wandered along your curves.

You smiled against his lips, letting out a breathy, "I'm sorry." as his palm began to graze the inside of your thigh.

"No, you're not." He smirked, sucking your bottom lip in between his teeth before biting down with just the right amount of pressure. "But you will be."

You let out a small whimper as he placed his free hand under your chin, moving your head to the side so that he could continue his descendent down your neck.

His leg wedged itself between yours, brushing against your clit while his mouth worked along your collarbone.

You were too lost in the feeling of it all to realize that he'd been leaving a trail of meticulously placed bites down the nape of your neck. Bruises in the shape of his mouth that he knew everyone would see.

"Chuuya -" you tried to protest, but it was more of a moan than an objection. "You - fuck, you can't -" You grinded helplessly against the firmness of his leg. Hips rocking back and forth, desperately trying to gain friction while he kept on nipping away at you.

"What's wrong, babe?" he purred against your sensitive skin. "You're wearin' a turtleneck tomorrow anyway, remember?" his breath fanned across your chest as he ripped the remaining buttons off of your shirt. A gloved hand palming at your chest, sliding your bra down so that your tits were fully exposed for him before you felt his tongue glide across your nipple.

Tachihara was right, he was kind of an asshole. But for some terrible reason, you were living for it. Almost embarrassed by how bad you wanted him. Wriggling against him and riding his leg. Whining while you let him leave visible marks on you and destroy the only clothing you had.

"C'mere." He pulled his head away from your chest, swiftly grabbing you by the arm and leading you back to his desk. He picked you up with ease, shoving a binder aside to sit you down in front of him.

"Spread your legs for me." His voice was heady, eyes glossed over with lust as you complied with his demands.

He held his hand up to his mouth, removing his black glove with his teeth before pushing your skirt up and sliding your underwear to the side. He bent over slightly, running two rough fingers along your clit as he watched your nails dig into the edge of his desk.

"Fuck," he groaned, still not taking his eyes off of you. He'd barely done anything and you were already soaked, your pussy practically throbbing for him. “You really do want me that bad, huh?"

“T - told you.” You whimpered, your head tilting back as he drew slow, blissful circles around you.

He kept up the same pace, basking in the way you were so easily falling apart for him.

“Chuuya, please.”

A smirk tugged viciously at the corner of his mouth, slipping a finger into you this time as your walls swallowed him. "Please what, baby?"

You may have had him in the first half, but you were now on the losing end of this game. Forgetting how to speak altogether as you watched him part your legs even further, bending all the way down to rest his head between your thighs.

You moaned at the feeling of his tongue pressing against you. The heavenly lines he was drawing uppp and downnn your center with his middle finger still sliding in and out of you. He was generous in the way he handled you, making sure he didn't miss a single spot. Lapping and slurping up every bit of cum he could as he added in another finger. Groaning against you the louder you got for him.

The only word you seemed to be able to remember was his name, repeating it over and over while your nails lodged deeper into his mahogany desk and your body shamelessly grinded against the warmth of his mouth.

You were in a delirious daze, losing yourself completely to the way he was devouring you.

He could feel you getting close too, noting the frantic rhythm of your hips. The gorgeous, fucked-out noises you were making for him. The death grip your walls suddenly had on him. He knew you were right there, right where he wanted you.

"Chuuya, 'm - I -"

Your legs were locking around his head, shaking uncontrollably as your hand ran through his hair.

He'd never admit it, but he almost could've came at the sounds you were making alone. The pouty way that you called out his name each time his fingers plunged into you was almost enough to drive him over the edge. You were so pathetic and adorable and he was determined to make everyone in Port Mafia hear just how needy you were for him.

As much as he wanted to edge you for what you'd done to him, as much as he wanted to make you beg and plead for him to let you cum, he couldn't fucking pull himself away from you. He was just as lost as you were, drowning in your cunt and not at all wanting to be saved.

His tongue didn’t leave you until he was absolutely sure that you'd ridden out every last wave of your orgasm, still pumping his digits in and out of you until you couldn’t take it anymore.

He came up for air with an exhausted smile, wordlessly coaxing your lips apart with his thumb before bringing the two fingers he had fucked you with into your mouth. Letting you clean off the blend of slick and salvia the two of you had created together.

"See how fucking good you taste?" he panted. "I think this is gonna be a real problem for both of us."

An enamored shade of pink brushed across your cheeks as he dropped down onto the chair across from you, running a tired hand through his hair.

"At least I won't be here much longer, right?" You said, playfully kicking his leg with your foot.

"Oh yeah," he smirked. "That actually reminds me..." Your eyes widened as he shifted around to dig an envelope out of his pocket. "Mori wanted me to give this to you."

Your hands trembled, opening it as delicately as you could to make sure you didn't rip anything when a check for 1,490,200 yen fell into your lap.

"Think that'll be enough to buy yourself a shirt that fits?"

Your eyes snapped towards him in disbelief, your pulse ringing through your ears as you tried to process that you'd somehow made this amount of money in a little over a week.

"Is this -" You stammered, thinking back to what he had told you when you first met. "Is this like a severance check then? ...Hush money or whatever?"

"Tragically, no. Mori wants you to stay."

Your hand instinctively flew up to your neck, covering the love-bites that the redhead had left you with, horrified at the realization that everyone was going to see them. Even more horrified at the fact that they had probably heard how you’d gotten them.

"What?"

"Yeah, he said somethin' about you how you've been 'boosting the morale' around here."

Your head felt like it was going to explode.

You had not only been marked by Chuuya Nakahara, but you were now being asked to stay in Port Mafia.

You couldn't decide which was worse.

"So... that means..."

"Yep. We'll be seein' a lot more of each other." He confirmed while checking his watch. "But hey, you better get outta here, Rando and I have a meeting in 10 minutes."

You looked down at your lack of clothing, the spit and cum that was still stuck to your skirt, the obscenely noticeable bruises that he'd so proudly gifted you with.

"Give me your shirt." you demanded.

"Nah."

The grin he shot you was so cocky, so vile, so... hot.

"Chuuya." You whisper-shouted, biting back your own stupid smile. "Be so fucking for real right now, I can’t go out there like this.”

“Shoulda thought about that before you put on that skimpy-ass outfit I guess.” He shrugged.

You hopped off his desk, straddling him in his chair as you forcefully began to undo the buttons along his collar.

The room filled with suppressed laughter, neither one of you able to contain it anymore as he finally conceded, wrestling you off of him. "Alright, alright, chill. I have extras in here, hang on."

You both stood up, your eyes locked on him while he walked over to an expensive looking armoire in the corner of the room.

He pulled a white shirt that resembled the one you were wearing earlier off of a hanger and brought it over to you, guiding your arms up so that he could put it on.

His movements were calculated, almost thoughtful as he dressed you, adjusting it so that it covered up most of the damage he'd done.

"There." He said, double-checking his work. "Now get out of here before I decide to rip that one off of you too.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Part 2! ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

[pinksugarscrub]

Rivalry

Hobie Brown x fem! reader (modern au)

Scenario: Listen, I really want a guitar and I've been seeing a lot of garage bands on tiktok

word count: 1,772

warning(s): cursing

~

“I think I need new strings…” you murmur. Plucking each string expertly before focusing entirely on the G string.

“It does sound kind of dull.” Gwen notes while chewing. Far away from her drum set but still settled on the stool kept together by duct tape and dreams.

You hum before continuing to scrutinize the string. Adjusting the peg forward then back. No amount of tuning seems to bring back the low chord you’re accustomed to hearing. 

“Want me to check your bag?” 

“Yeah, thanks Felicia.” 

“Barf you know I hate it when you use my government name.”

Gwen snorts,“what do you want us to call you?” Biting into her sandwich again and waving the contents around. “That ridiculous stage name?”

“And what? You think Ghost-Spider is any better?”

Gwen’s cheeks heat up as she throws the remaining wrapper of her lunch. “It’s a work in progress.”

“More like a dumpster fire- god, do we really need (y/n) for everything.”

They both shift their attention to you, hunched over your bass and mumbling incoherently. 

“Yeah…” Gwen starts,“she’s not listening. Besides, the Mary Janes is a cool band name and so are the song titles. You can’t complain.”

“I wasn’t.” Felicia rolls her eyes. She’s found crumpled up flyers, math homework, and a gum wrapper in your case. “We just lack creativity. It’s sad really.”

“So you admit Black Cat is a dumb name.”

“I think it’s good,” you insert. “I’m still coming up with mine.”

“Which is hard to believe!” 

Felicia nods in agreement before sifting through another pocket in your bag. “This is filthy. How do you even work with this?”

“I write all of our songs on my phone.”

“That still doesn’t excuse the state this is in.” Felcia cringes as she pulls out a tissue.

“It was to clean my fretboard.” 

“Still,” Gwen winces. “Not even I’m so disorganized.”

“Finally!”  Felicia sighs in relief as she finds a packet hidden in a small pocket. Torn open but definitely not lacking the string you needed. “Here.”

“Thanks.” You answer. The brand logo is faded. You can’t recall buying these and can only assume someone gave them to you. Likely MJ.

“Guys!”

Right on cue

‘Hey’ you all simultaneously answer. Felicia taking a seat beside her piano and drinking from the canned coffee she bought from the drugstore.

“You’ll never believe what’s happened.” 

“You’ve got me stumped- ow!”

“Anyway, we were reposted then mentioned by another band!”

“Oh you mean that one- you know with the-” Gwen struggles while reaching for her phone. “And the-”

You huff, uninterested. “You mean the one they keep comparing us to?” 

MJ’s face drops. “Hey, chin up. It’s not their fault y’know.” She places a hand on your shoulder, in reassurance you guess. And of course you’re easily swayed. 

“Vocalist was cool.” You offer up like a bone. MJ takes it.

“His name’s Ned. They live in Camden, isn’t that crazy? Middle of the greatest punk movement.”

“Camden?” Gwen asks. Feeling her beanie slip she tugs it forward and fixes the pieces of pink hair that frame her face. Giving up on finding the above-mentioned band Gwen’s phone sits dangerously on the edge of the snare.

“It’s a city in England.” MJ nods enthusiastically. Tapping on her phone then turning the screen. 

The three of you lean forward to get a better look. It’s a page already filled with more than a dozen videos. The profile picture is the band’s logo, a spider with the letters ‘F’, ‘N’, ‘S’, and ‘M’ in the center.

“So what was the mention about?” 

Felicia combs through her hair. It’s ridiculous how not subtle she can be as she’s staring straight at a video with the lead singer as the cover. She has a thing for brunettes apparently but you’d like to avoid opening that can of worms by mentioning it.

“Well actually-it was for you.”

It doesn’t register in your brain her phone has been thrusted in your direction.

“(y/n)?” Gwen mumbles. Face pinched together in confusion. “Did you rage bait them or something?”

“What?” You blink.

“She is the type to create a fake account to comment ‘anonymously’.” Felica laughs while making air quotes with her fingers. 

“Huh?”

“Just watch,” MJ sighs. She’s lost all hope in her friends.

Gwen scurries to come closer but Felicia stays seated. Somewhat amused by the turn of events. “He’s cute.”

“Yeah, he’s alright.”

Felicia deadpans. “You have no taste.”

You turn to rebuttal but MJ’s quick to redirect your attention back to the screen. 

He is handsome. The boy who’s introduced himself as the guitarist. Piercings galore and wicks tied back. In all honesty his guitar matches his personality.

He screams confidence and it brings a smile to your face. A small one but one nonetheless.

“He wants to challenge you?” Gwen asks incredulously.

“He already did,” Felicia corrects. Grinning like the Cheshire cat. “I say give him a taste of his own medicine. He’ll regret asking.”

“It’s all in good fun,” MJ scolds. Letting go of your head now that the video has played through.

“I don’t see why he would.” Gwen grumbles and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why just (y/n)? Why not the whole band? He’s singling her out and isn’t that I don’t know- a bad sign?”

“I get where you’re coming from but it isn’t like that. I wouldn’t have even mentioned it if I had gotten a hint that they wanted to slander her name for content.” 

“Who knows,” MJ continues,“this could be the start of a really good thing. Having a challenge will make us a better band.”

“As if,” Felica laughs. Looking totally unfazed. “(y/n)’s going to wipe the floor with him. What do you say girly?”

There’s a stretch of silence before you answer. “I’ll do it.”

“See.” Felicia grins while motioning with her hand. “Poor guy, really won’t know what hit him.”

MJ practically beams and sets down her phone. “Great! Next practice, bring your guitar and we’ll shoot the video.”

You nod with your nose pressed against the body of your bass. You can’t help the excitement you feel in your chest and to calm Gwen’s worries you add in. “If they do try to use it for views, they’ll only look bad themselves.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“No!”

-

“...what’s Hobie doing?”

“Shit if I know,” Yuri mumbles. Too focused on tuning her guitar to really care. 

“We’re just going to ignore…that?” James cringes as he points in Hobie’s direction. “He looks sickly.”

“Sickly how?” Kamala pops in. Twirling a drumstick in between her fingers. “Oh, you mean that. He’s fine.”

James nearly chokes, gesturing more frantically as Kamala walks away and Yuri continues to ignore him. “But-”

Hobie meanwhile, sighs as he stares into his phone. Ned’s joked that his pupils practically turn into hearts and honestly, he can’t find it in himself not to believe him.

‘Never have I ever…played the two most dogged on instruments in my life’ Gwen grins. Sat in the middle of the Mary Janes.

‘What the fuck bro!?’ Throwing your hands up you stomp out of frame before coming back. ‘The viola is fucking cool and you know it!’ 

Hobie laughs under his breath. Your voice syncing to his brain directly through the most marvelous invention, earphones. He scrolls to the next video then the next. He thinks your laugh is the cutest and you’re so…ugh. If he could keyboard smash in real time he would.

“Dude.” 

Hobie jumps as he feels an earbud being pulled out. Ned only grins. “Man you are whipped.”

“What, what did I miss?”

“Uh, practice.” Yuri answers sarcastically. Strumming her guitar for effect. 

“You ok over there Hobs?” Hobie swears Kamala has flowers above her head. Or maybe stars? 

He nods, apologizing with a sheepish grin before sliding off the armrest of Ned’s old couch. “Sorry yeah, all good.” 

Ned snickers and hits his shoulder. “Yeah, he’s had his daily dose of (y/n) for one day.”

“Fuck off,” Hobie laughs. Ignoring the way his face feels hot by grabbing his guitar from its case.

“You mean that girl from that band? What were they called…”

“The Mary Janes!” Kamala informed.

“Yeah them. Thanks.” James ruffled Kamala’s hair. 

“He loves her.” Kamala puckers her lips and kisses the air. “They’re soulmates.”

“Soulmates aren’t real, Mala.” 

“Not with that attitude.”

Yuri sighs and drags a hand down her face. “Whatever.”

“I don’t love her-” Hobie gaped, “I don’t even know her.”

“Uh huh, keep telling yourself that buddy.” Ned knew firsthand how delusional his best friend was. Well, romantic if you wanted to put it nicely. 

“I don’t!”

“It’s kind of pathetic Hobart.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Really,” Yuri continued, “you can’t just pine over someone in another country. At least have the-”

A loud bang resounded in the room. “Oops, my bad,” Kamala chuckles. Picking up her fallen drumsticks. 

“-to ask her out. It’s not like you’ll see each other.”

“Yuri might have a point.”

Hobie glared as he not so subtly threw up both hands. 

“As cute as this is Hobs it can’t be healthy. Maybe in the face of rejection you can move on.” Ned muses while patting him on the back. “I mean just last week you totally ignored that girl who was flirting with you.”

“Wait, you think I don’t have a chance with her?”

“That’s what he focuses on,” Yuri sighs again. Shaking her head she swipes her phone from the rickety music stand.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ned defends. Hands raised as he frantically waves a white flag in his mind. “I’m just saying- you’ve never been this interested in someone. I don’t want you getting your feelings hurt mate.”

“Here.” Yuri interrupts before Hobie can come up with something smart to say. 

The charm on her phone dangles beside her pinky. The flash was quite obviously on as it was dark in Ned’s basement. Especially with the stormy weather. 

“You send her a video. Dedication—I don't care. Just get her attention so we can finally practice again.”

Hobie’s heart skips a beat at the prospect. 

Speak with you. What would he even say? ‘I adore you’? That was creepy as fuck even he could admit that. ‘I’ve been watching you’ ? That was even worse.

“You should challenge her to a song. She plays guitar too, not just bass right? It’ll show you pay attention to her craft as a musician.”

The room goes silent.

“Kamala, have I ever told you you’re my favorite?”

“You have told me on occasion.”