#when I started doing this back in October I was thinking

[orellazalonia]

His Soft Spot

Summary: You’re a sunshine-hearted barista in a dangerous city, all smiles and soft edges. Unaware that the quiet, brooding man at your café table is the most feared name in the local mafia. But when Bucky Barnes starts carving gentle moments into his brutal world just to be near you, even he begins to wonder if someone like you could ever love someone like him. (Mob Boss!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: Been wanting to do a mob AU with this pair for a while now. I finally got to it, and they’re so cute! (Imo lol.) Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist

The corner coffee shop was nothing special. Chipped counters, secondhand mugs, and a bell above the door that only worked when it wanted to. But you loved it. The soft clink of ceramic, the low hum of conversation, the smell of roasted beans.

You’d worked there for a little over a year now, always opening at 6 a.m. sharp, rain or shine. Most of your regulars were kind, or at least kind enough. Grumpy people in suits needing caffeine, half-asleep artists sketching in the window, moms with strollers and tired eyes. And then… there was him.

He wasn’t a regular in the traditional sense. He never came at the same time, never stayed too long. But you noticed him. Of course you did. Broad shoulders under expensive coats, a deep-set frown carved onto his face, and stormy blue eyes that rarely met anyone else’s. He always sat in the corner booth, never used his name, and always ordered a plain black coffee with two sugars.

You’d started calling him Quiet Guy in your head.

And he was. Quiet. Still. Intense. He didn’t smile, not once. But he tipped well, never complained, and never forgot to say thank you even if it came out in a low, quiet murmur that barely reached above the hiss of the espresso machine.

You didn’t think he noticed you much, not really. Especially not the way you always added a little extra whipped cream to his coffee, even if he didn’t ask for it. Not the way you smiled at him even when he didn’t smile back.

To you, he was like one of those paintings you stare at in a museum. Sharp, beautiful, and just a little sad.

Meanwhile, you were just the girl behind the counter. Apron stained with chocolate syrup, hair tied in a messy bun, a bandaid on your knuckle from an unfortunate knife-vs-avocado incident. Too smiley, too soft, too… naive, according to your friends.

But Quiet Guy never looked at you like you were silly. Never talked down to you and never flinched when you ended up rambling about your new cookie recipe or your dream of maybe, someday, opening a bakery with pastel tiles and big sunny windows.

If anything, he listened.

Really listened.

But it wasn’t until the third week of October that he spoke more than a sentence.

Rain was pouring that day. It was real ugly rain that soaked your shoes and stuck your hair to your face. You were closing up, locking the front door and tugging your jacket tight, when you saw him outside. No umbrella. No coat. Just standing there, rain dripping down his face, his shoulders hunched like a man carrying something heavier than water.

You hesitated. Then, without thinking, you held out your umbrella. “You’ll catch your death out here,” You said, half-joking, half-worried.

He looked down at it, then at you. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he spoke, voice gravelly, “You always this kind to strangers?”

You smiled, sheepish and soft. “Only the ones who don’t complain about the coffee.”

A ghost of something flickered at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile as he took the umbrella, his fingers brushing yours.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” He said, eyes lingering for just a second longer than they should have.

You watched him walk away, the umbrella bright yellow against the gray street.

You didn’t know you’d just handed protection to the most dangerous man in Brooklyn. And he didn’t know he’d just started falling for someone who wore bandaids with cartoon fruit on them.

You didn’t see him for a week after the umbrella incident.

The streets were rougher than usual that week. There were more police on the corner, more closed signs on family-owned businesses, and more whispered rumors behind half-lowered blinds. You heard someone mention the O’Rourke deal and someone else murmur about a warehouse fire that wasn’t an accident. A few people joked nervously about the mob running wild lately– Who’s in charge now, anyway?

You didn’t pay too much attention to that kind of talk honestly. Not because you weren’t curious, you were. But you’d grown up in this city. Danger was background noise like sirens or subway screeches. You learned to stay in your lane, smile when it was smart to, and never ask too many questions.

Besides, you had your own problems: the espresso machine started leaking, your paycheck bounced for the second time this month, and you accidentally burned your fingers on a pan of fresh croissants.

You were wiping the counter, cursing under your breath and cradling your wrapped-up hand, when the bell above the door jingled.

He was back.

And this time, he looked different. More tired like he hadn’t slept. His coat was darker than usual, collar turned up high. There was also something stiff in the way he moved, like something hurt under the surface.

“Hey,” You said, immediately smiling despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “Rough week?”

He looked at your bandaged fingers first.

“What happened to you?”

You blinked. “Oh. Just being clumsy again, it was the pastry tray versus my hand. The tray won.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he didn’t find that answer as harmless or humorous as you did. He stepped forward, slow and quiet, placing a twenty on the counter.

“Black. Two sugars.”

“Same old?”

“Some things don’t need changing.”

You bit your lip to hide the smile that tugged at your mouth. He was… oddly comforting, even with the way he made your stomach flutter and your thoughts skip.

You turned to prep the coffee, carefully working around your bandaged hand, when he spoke again.

“This neighborhood isn’t safe lately.”

Your back stiffened slightly. “I mean… it’s never really been safe, has it?”

“Worse now,” He huffed. “Too many people trying to prove they belong at the top. They’re reckless.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “You sound like you know something.”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “You always walk home alone?”

“Sometimes,” You admitted. “I usually take the back route past the laundromat. It’s better lit.”

He looked genuinely displeased by that. “Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t… what? Walk home?”

“Don’t go through that alley again.” His voice was low and serious, like it wasn’t a suggestion. Like it was law.

You nodded slowly. “Okay. I won’t.”

You set his cup in front of him. He didn’t take it right away. He simply looked at you and for the first time, it didn’t seem as guarded as usual.

“You ever wonder why no one messes with this place?” He asked.

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, two blocks down, there’s a diner with bullet holes in the glass. There’s a liquor store that got torched. But your little coffee shop? Untouched.”

You looked around like you were noticing it for the first time and he wasn’t wrong.

“I guess we’re lucky,” You said, quieter this time.

He finally took the cup.

“Not luck,” He murmured. “Some places are off-limits.”

Your stomach did a slow flip. Before you could ask what he meant, he slid a small piece of paper across the counter. His handwriting was sharp and deliberate. There lied a number.

“If you ever feel unsafe,” He said, “Call. Don’t hesitate, just call.”

You looked up at him. “What should I save it under?”

He met your eyes, and for the first time, he smiled. Small, crooked, but real.

“James,” He said. “But you can keep calling me ‘Quiet Guy’ if you want.”

And then he was gone, the door jingling behind him, a gust of cold air in his wake.

You flushed, knowing he must’ve overheard you talking about him to your colleague. You stared down at the paper in your hand now and thought, James. Huh.

You didn’t know that name came with weight. You didn’t know that in certain circles, that name made grown men flinch. And you definitely didn’t know you’d just become the softest secret in James Buchanan Barnes’s world of blood, power, and control.

You never really called the number.

Not that day, not the next. You stared at it for a while. Once during your lunch break, once before bed, but you never dialed. You didn’t need to since nothing had happened. The streets were loud, the rumors kept circling, but your world stayed small, safe, and ordinary.

But something changed after that.

The Quiet Guy – James – started coming in more often.

Sometimes in the early morning, when the city was just beginning. Sometimes in the quiet lull between lunch and dinner. He never stayed long though, but he started talking more. Asking questions and not the kind people ask just to be polite; it was the kind that meant he was actually listening.

He’d ask about your recipes, about the books you liked, whether you preferred cats or dogs. One time he even noticed the way you hummed to yourself one of your favorite songs when you were focused, and he asked what the song was.

You told him it was nothing.

But the next day, he left a little radio on the counter when he left. It was old, scratched, but with the exact song loaded onto a USB inside.

You didn’t ask how he got it. And he didn’t ask what you thought of it. But you smiled a little bigger the next time he walked in, and that was enough.

Then, one afternoon, he came in without a coat. No shadows under his eyes. Just him. Solid, real, and standing in front of you with a calm you hadn’t seen before.

“Are you free Friday night?” He asked, like it wasn’t a question that made your heart trip over itself.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. You.”

You smiled. “I mean– yes. Yeah, I’m free.”

He nodded, like he’d already planned everything. “Wear something warm.”

You didn’t know what to expect.

He picked you up just after dark in a sleek black car you didn’t recognize the brand of. His jacket was pressed. His shirt was ironed. And when he offered his hand to help you inside, you hesitated just long enough for your cheeks to flush.

He noticed but he didn’t tease.

Instead, he said, “You look beautiful,” like it was the only truth he knew how to say.

You didn’t know that three hours earlier, he’d been standing in a warehouse near the docks, quietly threatening a man with a broken nose not to let a whisper of trouble near your neighborhood tonight. You didn’t know that Bucky had postponed a weapons shipment and moved a backroom poker game three blocks east just to clear the air around you.

All you knew was that the rooftop he brought you to had a string of soft, glowing lights, a space heater, a tiny table with mismatched chairs, and two steaming paper bowls of your favorite takeout.

You gasped when you saw it. “Is this…?”

“I remembered you said you liked the dumplings from Ling’s.”

“I didn’t think you were listening.”

“I’m always listening.”

You sat, half-nervous and half-stunned, watching as he poured you a cup of tea from a little thermos he brought himself. It was clumsy, imperfect, but somehow… it made the gesture sweeter.

“Why up here?” You asked curiously.

He shrugged. “I don’t like crowds and it’s quiet.”

“Do you always go to this much trouble for dinner?”

He hesitated. “No.”

You looked up at him and found he was already looking back.

There was something different in his eyes now though. It wasn’t cold or guarded. It was more like a storm had passed and left something warm in its wake.

You ate slowly, talking about everything and nothing: your favorite cartoons as a kid, the weirdest thing you’ve ever baked, your theory that the city pigeons are evolving to become smarter than humans.

He laughed at that one. Actually laughed. It was rough and low, a rare sound that made your chest ache in a good way.

Later, when the wind picked up, he moved closer. His arm barely brushed yours.

“Cold?” He asked.

“A little.”

He draped his jacket over your shoulders like it was instinct and maybe it was.

You glanced down at your tea, heart pounding, and asked softly, “James?”

“Yeah?”

“Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away. You thought maybe he wouldn’t but you’d asked anyways.

But then he said in voice low and almost vulnerable, “Because you're the only good thing I don’t want to ruin.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you reached for his hand and to your surprise, he let you hold it like he didn’t want to let go. It all felt like the beginning of something neither of you could name just yet.

[twola]

Firewater - Chapter 11

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader. explicit.

You’d rehearsed it. A dozen times. A hundred. You’d tried gentler ways to start. Tried to imagine how a reasonable person might say it. But nothing ever sounded right in your head. Nothing made it easier.

taglist: @v3lv3tf0x, @stottlemorgan, @mrsarthurmorgan7, @appalachiancowboy99, @pinescent-and-gingerbread, @blueskies664, @arthurstinmug, @ultraporcelainpig, @emerald-ranch @thedilfdiaries, @heron-feathers,@nalitali, @whiskeyskin, @globetrotter28, @arthurmorganist

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

SILENT STEAD, NEW AUSTIN, OCTOBER 1897

-

It was official.

Two months late, and no amount of desert heat, denial, or whiskey could explain it away anymore.

The truth sat heavy in your gut as you rode beside Arthur across the ridge, the wind catching the edge of your shirt, your heart beating louder than the horse’s hooves. You didn’t say a word for miles.

You’d rehearsed it. A dozen times. A hundred. You’d tried gentler ways to start. Tried to imagine how a reasonable person might say it. But nothing ever sounded right in your head. Nothing made it easier.

And Arthur Morgan wasn’t exactly a man you could ease into things with.

So, eventually, you just... said it.

Blunt and bitter. Like ripping a bullet out of a fresh wound.

“You got me pregnant, dumbass.”

Arthur reined in his horse so hard the poor thing jolted, snorted, and kicked up dust.

He turned his head slowly toward you, jaw slack. “What?”

You stared him down, arms crossed over your saddle horn. “You heard me.”

He blinked, looked you up and down, mouth working like he’d forgotten how to form a sentence. Then finally—

“Well... shit.”

You arched a brow. “That’s all you got to say?”

He scratched his beard like the answer might be hiding in there somewhere. “I mean, you sure?”

“Two months late. Tired all the damn time. Getting sick after breakfast, even when Javier cooked the other day. I’d say yeah, I’m pretty damn sure.”

Arthur let out a long, stunned breath and glanced out at the empty desert, like maybe the cactus and coyotes might have advice for him. “Well... damn.”

He looked back at you, lips twitching. “You sure I’m the only fella you been rollin’ in the dirt with lately?”

You shot him a glare that could kill. “Try that again and I’ll shove your hat so far up your ass, it’ll come out with a kiss on it.”

He held up both hands, palms out, laughing despite himself. 

But the silence that followed wasn’t easy. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes searching your face, trying to read what came next.

“You mad at me?” he asked.

You sighed, looking down at your reins. “No. Just... overwhelmed. Terrified. Queasy. My life flashing before my eyes. You know, normal womanly stuff.”

Arthur nodded slowly, lips pressed together like he was chewing on something real big. Then he said, “Well... guess I really did put my back into it, huh?”

You let out a snort, despite yourself. “Congratulations. You’ve won the worst timing and worst pullout in history.”

He grinned, sheepish. “You ain't wrong.”

Another pause. A longer one.

He looked serious now. “You thinkin’ of... keeping it?”

Your eyes met his. You hadn’t let yourself really answer that question. Not out loud. You hadn’t gotten that far in all of your fretting.

“I don’t know,” you said softly. “I think I could. If I wasn’t doing it alone.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered with something—surprise, then resolve. He reached over and laid his big, gloved hand over yours on the reins.

“You ain’t gonna be alone,” he said, voice low. “Not if you don’t wanna be.”

Your throat tightened.

He cleared his throat, like his own emotions were rising faster than he could get ahold of. “Hell, I don’t know nothin’ about babies. But—I’ll do you right.”

-

Tumbleweed shimmered in the heat like a mirage by the time you reached it—just dust and dry wind and the lazy creak of the gallows swaying on their ropes next to the Sheriff’s office.

Arthur dismounted first, eyes sweeping the street like he didn’t trust the place one bit. He offered you a hand to help down, and you took it, even though you didn’t need it. He held on a second longer than he had to.

“You sure you wanna go in alone?” he asked, voice low.

You looked up at him, heart beating somewhere too high in your chest. “You planning to come in and hold my hair if I puke on the floor?”

He chuckled, scratching at the back of his neck. “Fair point.”

Still, he walked you to the doctor’s door.

The little clapboard building creaked under its own weight. The bell on the door rang when you stepped inside, loud and shrill in the stale desert air.

The doctor was older, sun-worn, with thick glasses and tobacco-stained fingers. He looked you up and down and didn’t ask unnecessary questions. Just motioned you to the back room, told Arthur he could wait on the porch or by the hitching post.

Arthur nodded, but you saw the tension in his jaw as he let the door close behind you.

The exam was short. Blunt. Nothing tender about it—but not cruel, either. Just factual. You’d met men like that before. Practical, used to pulling bullets from thighs and stitching up bar fights. He didn't blink when you told him your symptoms. Just nodded once and checked a few things.

“Well,” he said, looking you over, “ain’t no doubt. You’re pregnant. I’d wager about eight, maybe ten weeks along. Could be a little more.”

You stared at the wall, at a water stain vaguely shaped like a cloud. That was definitely around the night in the hotel in Phoenix.

“Healthy?” you asked.

“So far as I can tell,” he said. “You’re young, strong. You keep eating and stay clear of heavy riding or gettin’ shot, you oughta do just fine.”

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t say thank you.

You just nodded, throat thick, and got dressed again with slow, shaking fingers.

-

Arthur was leaning against the porch post when you came out, arms crossed tight across his chest, hat tilted low.

He straightened when he saw your face.

“Well?”

You nodded. “It’s real.”

He let out a long breath, looked up at the sky like maybe he was hoping for lightning. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Alright.”

You stood beside him for a moment, both of you staring out at the horses tied off in the heat.

“Doc said I’m eight or ten weeks,” you murmured. “Could be more. But that lines up with that night in Phoenix.”

Arthur nodded, then shifted his weight like he wasn’t sure whether to hug you or just go buy a bottle of whiskey and ride into the hills. God, if he did that you don’t know what you would do.

Instead, he reached for your hand again. Rough fingers, warm and solid.

You let him hold it.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Then Arthur cleared his throat. “You hungry?”

You blinked, obviously not prepared for a response like that. “What?”

He nodded toward the little saloon down the street. “Ain’t much, but they got beans and biscuits. Might be somethin’ passable on the stove.”

You gave him a strange look. “You asking me to dinner?”

He glanced at you, one brow raised. “You did ask me to take you out.”

A laugh cracked out of your chest, sudden and bright. It caught even you off guard.

Arthur’s grin spread, boyish and crooked, like he was proud of himself for dragging that sound out of you.

“Fine,” you said, brushing the dust off your shirt and shaking your head. “But if I throw up on your plate, I ain’t apologizing.”

The saloon in Tumbleweed smelled like smoke, spilled whiskey, and a hundred old regrets. The tables were scratched. The floor creaked under every step. The bartender didn’t say a word when you walked in—just nodded and went back to wiping out dusty glasses with a dirtier rag.

You and Arthur sat in a booth near the back, near a broken window where a breeze stirred the fabric masquerading as curtains every so often. The wind kicked in grit, and the lamp above the table flickered, half-starved for oil.

But somehow, it felt… easier here. Quieter. Certainly quieter than inside your own head.

He ordered for both of you—beans, dry cornbread, and a side of something that might’ve once been pork. You didn’t eat much, stomach still knotted with nerves and morning sickness that wasn’t limited to mornings, but you picked at the bread. Arthur didn’t say anything when you pushed your plate away halfway through. Just slid the rest of it over and finished it himself.

You caught him glancing at you a few times. Not staring—just checking. Like he was waiting to see if you’d break apart.

But you didn’t.

When he leaned back in the creaky booth and took a slow pull of his drink, his voice came quiet. “We can ride back tonight, if you want. Camp’s only a few hours out.”

You hesitated, watching him over the rim of your water glass. Then you said it, soft and small.

“We could stay.”

His brow lifted. “You sure?”

You nodded, fingers twisting the edge of your napkin. “Just for the night. Might be nice to not wake up to Pearson yelling about eggs.”

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh, but his gaze stayed on you. He set his glass down slowly.

“Alright.”

-

The room upstairs wasn’t much. One bed, one cracked mirror, a half-empty oil lamp that sputtered when Arthur lit it. The wallpaper peeled in every corner. The mattress creaked like it might collapse if either of you breathed too hard.

But it had a door that locked. And it was yours for the night.

You stood near the bed, arms wrapped around yourself, suddenly aware of how quiet it was. Arthur busied himself with taking off his gunbelt, setting it on the little table near the washbasin. His movements were slow. Careful.

Like he didn’t want to spook you. Like you were a damn horse.

You sat on the edge of the bed and finally said it—voice barely above a whisper.

“Just because I’m pregnant... doesn’t mean whatever this is has to stop.”

Arthur turned to face you.

There was a beat of silence, and then he crossed the room in two strides and crouched in front of you, eyes searching yours.

“Good,” he said, voice low, rough. “Because I still wanna do all kinds of terrible things with you.”

That pulled a smile from your lips before you could stop it. You shook your head, laughing quietly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re trouble,” he murmured, rising to his feet, leaning in slow.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

His mouth met yours, gentle at first—like he was asking. Like he was waiting for you to pull back.

But you didn’t.

You kissed him like you meant it, fingers tangling in his shirt, legs parting just enough to pull him closer between your knees.

His hands were on your thighs, sliding upward, strong and familiar. Yours were already tugging at his suspenders, hungry in the way you always were for him, even now—with the world turned sideways and new life quietly growing inside you.

It was slower this time. Not rushed. Not hidden behind a rock or stolen behind the wagons.

It was need.

It was reassurance.

It was yes, over and over again in the way only your bodies knew how to speak. 

Maybe someday the two of you would learn to use your words.

-

The sun had just barely risen outside, its orange beams painting the floor of the ratty old hotel room.

You sat upright, your stomach’s queasiness somewhat quelled by the change in position. It's already hot, the sheet that had covered the two of you kicked away in the night. Your hand landed over your stomach almost unconsciously, knowing strangely that something was happening underneath it. That you would swell and grow and your breasts would get heavy. 

You looked over at your bedmate, sleeping on his stomach, softly snoring. His skin littered with scars - bullet wounds and slash marks and a hard life lived. But asleep, somehow the lines in his face disappear, the weight of the world lifted, if only for a moment.

Your heart ached as you looked at him. Rough around the edges, sunburned and dusty and not at all the man you ever imagined raising a child with.

But... maybe that was the point.

[boopiemadz]

Hi madz!!! I think I sent this ask in already BUT tumblr has been tweaking tf out and giving me error messages every time I send an ask :(

Please don’t take this as me pressuring you to do my request, I just don’t know if it went through. If you’ve seen this ask already, IGNORE THIS!!

anyway— travis x popular!reader (not saying loser!travis because that’s basically just. canon travis.) in which reader is the first one to stand up to his dad for him. just need to see trav staring all wide eyed on the verge of tears while his partner yells at his dad and shoots down every negative thing he says about him

we hate Mr Martinez here and yes it’s partially because of travtism’s fics

anyway!! no pressure. I’m loving the OC content too <3

Yours truly,

- 🧸🍓

"Leave him alone." (blurb)

(collection masterlist)

warning: suggestive content, domestic violence

You hadn’t meant to come inside. You were just there to drop something off.

His hoodie - it had been in your locker all week. He’d let you borrow it the night you two walked home in the rain after that stupid party, and it still smelled faintly like his cologne and pine needles and cold October air. You hadn’t wanted to give it back, if you were honest. But it was his favorite.

So you walked the two blocks to his place just as the sun started to sink behind the trees. You climbed the steps, hoodie folded in your arms, ready to knock - until you heard it.

Muffled yelling through the door.

Something about Javi. Something about “useless,” “ungrateful,” "just like your mother.”

The door was unlocked. So you walked in.

The hallway smelled like old beer and grease. You followed the shouting around the corner into the living room, where Travis was standing stiff near the far wall, eyes low to the ground. His dad stood in front of him - taller, red-eyed, unshaven, and swaying.

“You think you’re something now? Walking around like you don’t stink of failure? You think that girl makes you a man?”

“Dad, stop.”

“She’s not gonna stay. Girls like that don’t stay with you. They take what they want, and then they leave. Just like your goddamn-”

For a second, no one noticed you. Until you dropped the hoodie on the back of the couch and said:

“Don’t you dare talk to him like that.”

Both heads turned. Travis’s eyes locked onto yours, stunned. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak. His dad blinked at you, like you’d wandered in from another planet. “Who the hell are-”

“I’m returning his hoodie,” you said calmly, “And you’re lucky that’s the only thing I came here to do.”

He snorted, bitter and tired. “Great. Another brat come to lecture me.” Travis stepped forward. “Just - leave her alone, okay?”

You held up a hand gently, stopping him. “No. He can’t talk to you like that. Not while I’m standing here.”

His father rolled his eyes. “He’s soft. Lazy. Just mopes around and screws everything up, Im just doing my duty as his father and toughening him up-”

“Say it again,” you cut in, venom in your voice. “Say one more bad thing about him and I will make sure every parent, teacher, and coach in this town knows exactly what goes on in this house. You think anyone would be surprised?”

He blinked. You stepped closer.

“You’re angry at your own life, so you take it out on the one person here who still tries. Travis has held your whole damn family together. He makes everything easier for Javi. He goes to school, and goes when you drag him to practice, he keeps his mouth shut, and he takes care of things you were supposed to take care of.”

You felt Travis shift behind you, like he wanted to stop you, but didn’t have it in him.

“You want to talk about failure? Look in the mirror.”

And then, for good measure, you added: “Touch him again, and I’ll bury you. And I’ll look good doing it.”

His dad huffed and stumbled off, muttering something, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

You turned around slowly. And Travis-

He hadn’t moved.

Still standing in place. Eyes glassy. Mouth slightly open. Breath shallow. You stepped closer.

“Hey,” you said gently.

And then he moved quickly. Pulled you in and kissed you like it physically hurt to hold it in any longer. Like something inside him finally snapped the right way.

There was no slow build. Just need.

Hands on your face. Mouth on yours. Your back hit the hallway wall and he chased your lips like he didn’t care who was still in the house. Like kissing you was the only thing keeping him upright.

He finally pulled back, just a little, breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes still wide with disbelief. He stared at you like you were something holy. “You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered, voice rough. You shrugged, smiling softly. “Yeah. I did.”

Travis swallowed hard. His voice dipped - low, serious, and nervous all at once.

“I wanna go down on you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean it,” he said, eyes locked on yours like it was the only truth he had left. “Not now. Just - sometime. Because you… you stood up for me. No one’s ever done that before. Not like that. I just - I want to make you feel good. Like you made me feel. I - I want to take care of you.”

You were silent for a second. And then smiled.

“You will,” you said. “You do.”

He kissed you again, this time slower. Sweeter. Still trembling slightly.

And when he buried his face in your neck and whispered your name like it meant something, you held him like he was finally, finally safe.

A/N-

Just a short blurb! But thx sm for the req, had to make it a little suggestive at the end, lowk ovulating...

[mikewheelerdefender2]

byler proof post because i’ve been on my byler hyperfixation here lately (i’m slowly turning my page into a byler page but i’m still very obsessed with percy jackson)

number 1.

personally i think that Mike is queer. the only issue he has is the internalized homophobia. Will has been confirmed gay. Noah Schnapp himself said it. Two(possibly)queer characters that have been friends since childhood? definitely seems like something that could be romantic.

number 2.

Noah Schnapp almost single handedly confirmed byler during an interview in october 2024. He said that lucas and dustin were kind of a duo and mike and will were kind of a duo. he also said that YOU COULD NEVER TELL IF IT WAS SOMETHING ROMANTIC. mileven shippers will look you dead in the eyes and say “oh well that doesn’t mean anything” which is SUCH bs.

number 3.

Finn and Noah are such byler shippers. if you haven’t seen the casts reaction to the mileven scene in season 4 where el is in the upside down and mike is talking to her, i suggest you watch it. finn looks disgusted. now i will not say that this means he dislikes mileven. it could be him criticizing his acting (which personally i thought was amazing), but the rest of the cast there wasn’t also super ecstatic about it either. but any time you hear noah and finn talk about byler, they get all giggly and shi. like do you guys know something we don’t? /j cause they obviously do but yk.

number 4.

david harbour said that byler wouldn’t happen. this is the same guy that back after season 3 said that hopper was “100% dead.” episode 2 of season 4. incase you guys missed it, HOPPER WAS ALIVE. so based on the past, that is one of my biggest byler proofs.

number 5.

this one could be wrong, but i’m going off of details in the show. in season 1, everyone called joyce delusional for thinking that will was still alive out there. all the anti-bylers and other milevens say that byler shippers are delusional. I CALL BS. WE ARENT DELUSIONAL.

number 6.

the van scene. THE FUCKING VAN SCENE. oh where do i even begin. the painting lets start there. Will gave mike the painting, and Mike was OVER THE GOSH DAMN MOON. “El commissioned it.” face drops. SO BECAUSE YOUR LITERAL GIRLFRIEND “COMMISSIONED” THE PAINTING, YOU SUDDENLY ARENT AS EXCITED? i call bullshiat. Mike constantly staring at will’s lips? GAY🫵. thats not even something exclusive to the van scene. that has happened so many other times. which leads me to

number 7.

the movie theatre in season 3. “you okay?” IN HIS FACE BLUSHING STARING AT HIS LIPS. THATS NOT CASUAL.

number 8.

in season 2, i don’t remember the exact episode, but mike grabs will’s hand when he’s freaking out. later on when he’s doing the morse code telling them to close the gate, if you pay VERY close attention, the only part of his body that isn’t possessed is the hand that mike grabbed. (also completely unrelated but s1 and 2 byler is called miwi and s3 and 4 byler is byler there’s no argument.)

number 9.

i have talked about this before. the fruit metaphor. i have reblogged the original post and have went into small detail on my page. just scroll a bit.

number 10.

the fight/breakup scenes. when el dumps mike, he makes the most disgusted face and literally goes home and just starts talking shit basically. when mike and will have their fight in the rain, mike immediately goes running after will. coincidence i think not.

there is so much more but its late and i have to clean tomorrow because my bsf is coming over friday so i may continue this at another time. BYLER IS ENDGAME IDGAF

[fameandfiction]

IMAGINE PART I: “Don’t Let Go” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— Restrained Intimacy.

The sun is brutal for October.

Not in temperature—no, the breeze makes sure of that—but in color. The sky is too blue, too clean. Like someone wiped the clouds away for clarity. As if grief needed contrast.

You’ve been standing beside Reneé for twenty minutes.

Her posture is straight. Chin high, arms folded neatly in front of her waist like she's bracing against a performance she didn't audition for. You know she didn’t know this relative well—some cousin-of-a-cousin from her mom’s side—but her parents asked her to come. Show face. Pay respect.

You came because she asked you to.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she’d told you in the car, eyes hidden behind sunglasses too big for her face. “Just… be there.”

You’re there.

You just wish your body would calm down about it.

The gunshots start just after the second eulogy.

Sharp. Sudden. Three pops into the sky like thunder made by man.

You flinch.

Not visibly, not quite, but enough for your whole body to tense. Muscles pull tight across your shoulders. Your jaw clicks shut. Your breath stalls.

You’re fine. You are. But the sound ricocheted somewhere in your chest and you can’t quite pull the pieces back into place.

It happens again, another round of ceremonial shots.

Your hands twitch at your sides. You cross them over your stomach. Then let them drop. Then dig your nails into your palm like that might anchor you. It doesn’t.

You didn’t mean to take Reneé’s hand.

Not consciously.

It’s like your body reached for her before your mind could protest.

Her fingers stiffen at first—pure reflex. Then, slowly, they loosen, folding around yours.

Her thumb brushes across the top of your hand. Just once.

Not enough for anyone to notice.

But enough for you to breathe again.

You don’t look at her. You can’t. You’re afraid of what her eyes might say—concern? confusion? That impossible mix of love and “is this really the time?”

Instead, you focus on the casket being lowered.

The priest's voice blends into the wind.

You count breaths.

1... 2... 3...

Your grip tightens on hers.

She lets it.

She doesn't let go.

Even after the final “amen.”

Even as the family moves forward to lay roses on the coffin.

Even when someone behind you coughs loud enough to startle you again.

Reneé just squeezes your hand and steps slightly closer.

Her arm brushes yours. Her perfume is faint but grounding—vanilla and something almost bitter beneath, like old citrus.

“You’re okay,” she whispers, so low it could be mistaken for a breeze.

You nod.

You lie.

Afterwards, as the guests disperse and the sound of dirt hitting the coffin fades into chatter and rustling coats, you start to pull your hand back.

She doesn’t let it go.

“Don’t,” she says softly. “You don’t have to.”

You pause.

Then curl your fingers around hers again.

“Sorry,” you murmur, throat tight. “This isn’t about me.”

“You think I care?”

“It’s your family’s funeral.”

“It’s barely my family. And it’s our afternoon. If you need me, I’m here.”

You want to cry. Not because you’re sad but because she means it.

Because you’re not used to people meaning it when they say “I’m here.”

Back in the car, silence sits between you, warm and non-judgmental.

She drives.

You stare out the window, feeling the way your body begins to settle now that the noise is gone.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks at the third stoplight.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Okay.”

She doesn’t push.

Instead, she turns up the volume on her playlist. Something acoustic. Something with a female voice that sounds like heartbreak. Her thumb traces slow circles against your wrist.

You don’t speak until you’re halfway home.

“It’s the shots,” you admit finally. “They just… they make my bones jump.”

“I know,” she says, not looking away from the road.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” she whispers. “You didn’t flinch on purpose.”

Later that night, she’s brushing her teeth in your bathroom while you’re curled up under a blanket that smells like detergent and cedar. She reemerges in one of your sweatshirts—no makeup, eyes rimmed in pink from tiredness.

She doesn’t ask if she can sleep over. You don’t ask if you want her to.

You both already know the answers.

You settle into bed side by side. Not touching, but touch-adjacent.

She doesn’t reach for your hand again.

But she does lay hers between you on the blanket. Palm-up. Open.

A silent offer.

You take it.

Hold it.

And this time, you don’t flinch.

[nocofamilyau]

TRIVIA OFF!!!! (10(1)/11)

(the whole part ended up being too long for a post, oh well, more food for you guys I guess...)

[simplyghosting]

I’ll be honest, for as many years at I’ve seen October art/writing challenges (and art challenges the rest of the weeks/months of the year), I’ve only attempted a few and never finished any.

That being said, I think what I’m going to do for my umpteenth attempt this new October is to just.. do. Just do something every day. Any challenge, any prompt, any event, even if it’s mixed and mismatched. Doesn’t matter if it’s finished, though I will try for it. A few well-typed sentences, a sketched drawing, an unfinished study, I’ll still label them a success. I want my goal for this month to be to make improvements in my art and passions and to make an effort. Not bogged down by perfectionism or despair or lack of motivation or whatever else may stop me. I want to make the challenge of this month for me to live my life thoughtfully and love and respect what I bring into it again.

[ambrosykim]

what if i replayed bg3........

[jensonsbuttons]

pov you're me buying tickets to austin this year

[miodiodavinci]

good news: we have water again ! ! ! a pipe had burst somewhere up the street so the city came out and fixed it today (we still need to run the tap to get rid of the air and muddy water but. it's something.)

bad news: i had to go to my partner's to do laundry and shower so i missed out on work time today (bad) (anxiety inducing) (i don't need this right now)

worst news: i have a killer headache and my throat is suspiciously stiff 👁 👁

[luckyashes-art]

Getting spooky for October :)

[pencildragons]

okkk finally figured out the structure for this piece YIPPEE!!!!!!!! maybe it's never over and this will be entirely done by monday and ready to perform by next saturday. trust and believe

[doctorwillsolace]

in a crappy mood and being super blunt with my boss bc of it

[deepfriedseagullfeet]

thinking about. doing a "fill a sketchbook in a month" challenge

[skyrigel]

Fuckboy! Simon loves getting a reaction out of his shy, nerdy roommate.

He likes the way your eyes go molten whenever he invites over birds who won't stop groping at him, going crazy with their seductive Simon, Simon, Simon, who are easy and free to open up his shirt and flirt shamelessly — loves how you excuse jealousy as nerdy talks of not being able to study with his whole loud crowd.

Simon goes crazy when his eyes meet yours over the head of some--nameless--only--for--the--night hot chick he's making out with. Oh, he can cum alone at your warm face, so bothered, playing with the hem of your cardigan, licking your lips and blinking away.

He loves, loves, loves seeing you giveaway even the slightest of tremor, smallest of signs that you care, that when altogether his restraint would break down, and there would be no other way except pinning you under him all the while kissing you senseless, so he knows it's not a one way dance.

Which is exactly why he tugs his smirk back before asking in a voice he has mindlessly reserved for you, low in his throat, coated with sugar.

“Ya’ reckon you can get out da’ flat today, huh ?”

You look up at him; eyes glazed with a natural softness, one fingertip aligned to where you stopped reading.

How much he wants to kiss your eyelid—

“Why ?”

“Got a date.” Simon grins, “Big tits Jessica.”

“Jessica from chemistry ?” you hum softly.

His gaze slides along your exposed neck to shoulders, from where your sweater had dragged down. Simon has to take a moment to recover from the cadence his heart just experienced all at once.

“Wha— dunno. Bigs tits…blon.. brunette.”

Maybe blonde.

He can only see your tinted face, and the way you sit with your knees up, your sweater sleeves going down knuckles.

Simon doesn't know why he gets so anxious when you stop looking at him, and continue reading the black thursday of October, 1929. He starts to recognise that the way his heart tugs might be incoming heart stroke because you won't see him.

Until you break the silent torture. “Okay.”

He almost doesn't hear you from the storming inside him — to somehow shovel this topic forever, and to keep you accompany in any other way, to make you laugh with that amoeba joke you always chuckled despite saying it's not funny.

To kiss this small sad smile away from your lips.

“Wot ?” he shudders.

“Alright, I actually had a library date so—”

“Date ?!” Simon jerks up so fast, with his palm planted flat on the small dining table.

You flutter your lashes, barely concealed smirk at the way your empty tea cup rattles on the table.

Good.

“Yeah. Isn't he your mate—” you scan his waning face, he thinks only he can do this but two can play a game, “Johnny.”

“Mactavish ?!” he blurts urgently, the nerve on his neck feels like it would explode. Honestly, he'd explode whole before he sends you off with Johnny on what ? Library date his ass. It foul play on his innocent roommate, he ain't letting anyone take you away.

“Are you alright, Simon ?” You ask him, dripping with innocence.

Simon slowly sits back down, trying to form sentences that aren't ‘I am in love with you,’ and ‘Don't go with that dog. Stay with me forever.’

“I…I don't feel like…hey, um, reckon we should stay in and revise.” Simon quips, hopefully glancing at your open book.

“Exams are so close.” he presses on at your raised brow.

“Exams are nine weeks away.” you counter, Simon doesn't take it that way.

“See ?! There's no time.” he jumps out and snatches away your empty cup while scanning at the open page, “I really need to study bout this whole great... depression.”

You scoff under your breath, he takes that as a win with his silly-relieved smile.

“Gonna make tea for us, and tell Johnny ya’ won't be able to make it today, alright ?”

“Alright.” you whisper, grinning in the sleeve of your sweater.

Got him all riled up this time, aye.

⚝ Masterlist ⚝

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 8th. tom — somno / free use kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom riddle is a god at many things. you’ve never felt more alive than when you’ve reduced him to something lesser.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, free use, sleeping kink, a lot of reverence for more biblical tom riddle that i genuinely need to choke me unconscious, PIV, fingering, multiorgasm, overstim, slight bondage, dubcon but not really i mean this fic speaks for itself. tom is kinda soft here???? what happened to me??

Tom Riddle, you'd determined, was obsessive before he was anything else. You saw it long before you knew him—intimately, at least—his compulsions, the meticulous way in which he carved out his time, handpicking what fit his ambitions best before pouring himself into them until he was empty.

Tom never moved with half-measures, a man that brilliant does nothing halfhearted.

You didn't expect to become his fixation—didn't know what it meant to be seen by someone who never stopped searching—never stopped dissecting—until the moment when his eyes lingered just a second too long and his hands followed suit—the moment he taught you the meaning in the only way he knew how.

Benevolently.

Tom Riddles need is tempered but there's always something burning underneath, something that flickers to life when his breath catches against your neck—when his fingers trace delicate lines along your skin—something that feels a lot like a thank you. The magical world gave him power—dominion—but in you, he found control. The kind you give freely, without even knowing it, the kind that he takes with the same reverence in his hands he applies to everything he touches.

There’s always been a mutal give and take between you—one formed without words and you solemnize this unspoken vow because he leaves you no other choice.

And it's not by force, not by demand, but by the sheer intensity of his regard, that sacred hunger in the way he looks at you, like you were made for this. For him. To be unmade, piece by piece, worshipped in the ruins of what you once were and stitched back together by his grace alone. When he kneels at your feet after a day that's worn him thin, his eyes sharp with exhaustion— when he spreads you open as though you're a book of scripture, when his hands steady you and his mouth finds its way between your thighs—there's nothing left for you to do but hold onto him. Your fingers in his hair, letting him take—letting him consume you in ways only he can.

He is both salvation and sin. Saviour and ruin. You're not sure how it's possible but he ensures you believe it.

And it started with secret moments—stolen glances, brushes of fingers, impromptu study sessions. But it grew into something more, and then something more still, until one day he's slipping into your flat as though it's his own, finding you before you even realize he's there.

You'll be cooking dinner and without a word, he'll flick off the stove with a twitch of his fingers—a breath of magic—his appetite insatiable but not for any caloric substance. You pretend, for his sake, to be surprised by his power, the way he moves without moving, but he knows better now—knows that nothing he does surprises you anymore, not after the way he loosens the strings of your corset with just a blink, how his teeth scrape your ear in a smile as he works a spell between your thighs. Not after he waits until you're thoroughly ruined by his magic—malleable just the way he likes you before he's merciful, allowing you the honour of his touch—allowing himself the honour of breaking you further.

There's no shock left in it because you've already accepted that whatever you think he's capable of—there's more.

There will always be more with Tom—a knowledge that is a sweet, endless ache. He is reasoning made lucid. You could never define all that he is capable of.

And foolishly you thought after all these years you'd have come to understand him, but Tom Riddle is not easily deciphered—he's a mystery even to himself, a disposition of contradictions. He doesn't need to be understood; he only needs to feel as if he is, to which you do your best. But when you're finally asleep after a long day and feel the bed dipping behind you in the quiet hours—a large, rough hand grazing timidly up your thigh, comprehension of Tom Riddle becomes even more of a distant accomplishment.

There is no logic in him when it comes to you, just instinct. No explanations, just need.

Tom has always had his compulsions, but you are his favourite fixation, and so you give. There's hunger, and there's devotion. There's desire, and then there's worship. You let him choose which ones he wants from you.

On this night you stir, half-conscious yet not quite aware of what's happening as his fingers move slowly, finding the heat between your legs and spreading you gently. There's never any urgency in his movements, though the fervour is palpable—a kind of feverish desperation thrumming beneath the surface, a pulse you can feel in his flesh, in the way his breath catches as if this is the only way he knows how to breathe.

Perhaps the only certainty about Tom is that you know he wouldn't be here if it weren't a necessity.

And he does this often, though sometimes it's more—the plush of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue—but this time, he chooses to wake you to the steady push of his fingers inside you, two of them stretching you, deliberate in their rhythm, curling deep, coaxing you open. It's his mercy, his crafted version of tenderness—you know he could easily just cast a lubing charm and press right in—but he doesn’t. He paces, he savours.

It’s a patience he continually allows himself which you know he doesn't have to give.

And some nights, when you wake to his touch—he whispers for you to sleep, to let him have you quietly, other times he'll make it clear that's the last thing he wants.

Tonight—

You shift against him, instinct guiding your body, but he hushes you, gentle, soft—a tut of warning, a shushing breath against your ear. You don't know how long he's been inside you, how long his need has burned quietly beside you, but by the time you realize, it's the wet sounds, obscene, that draw you from the haze of sleep, drowning out the sharpness of his breath. You're half-gone, face pressed into the pillow, drooling— and your lips part on a moan that never fully forms.

When your hand reaches instinctively for his wrist, his growl curls low in your ear—

"Sleep," if the command was a weapon it'd be a feather—he casts a binding spell on your wrists, drawing them above your head. "I've got you."

You swallow another moan, throat dry, choking on air as you fight to rip free from whatever remnants of slumber you're clinging to. His fingers are slow, pumping in and out of you, dragging you deeper into his need—and you're shaking in a way that is as involuntary as it is habitual. You know from experience just how much he loves this— the way he reduces you to fragments, the way he breaks you apart until there's nothing left but the shattered pieces of your pleasure—the mess he can make of you in minutes, even absentmindedly.

He slips an arm under your head, pulling you closer, impossibly close. The room is dark, and though you can't see him, you imagine his face—the hunger in his eyes as his skin sticks to yours, the hard evidence of his need against your ass.

"T-Tom—" your voice stumbles, a choked whisper of his name. His hand curls over your mouth, silencing you.

"Quiet," he mutters. "It's just a dream."

His breath ghosts over your neck, and your back arches in response. Wherever he was earlier, he came back starving, and this is part of it—sometimes he wants you silent, sometimes he wants you loud. Tonight, he wants you like this.

"Stay still," he murmurs again, and you shudder, your climax pulled from the edges of sleep by the slow drag of his fingers inside you. "Just a dream..."

A dream, he says—somewhere inside you, buried under a fog of grog you know it isn't, and he knows you know, he's not trying to trick you but it's all part of the game—coaxing—the way he devours you a little more each time, not just physically but mentally too.

With your lips muffled by his hand and his fingers buried deep, you do what you always do—you let him.

"T-Tom—" you whimper through the cracks in his digits. Your body is soft, boneless, melting into his touch, aching for more. "Please—"

As much as he wants you quiet he wants his name broken in your mouth all the same. He rewards you with a bitten-off moan, a crack in his control, a slight hitch in his breath—you clench around his fingers and his palm tightens over your mouth just a little too hard before he realizes and eases up.

You did say Tom's need was tempered—but sometimes, there are exceptions.

"I said quiet." His hips rut against your ass, fingers slow dragging at your walls, scissoring in your slick. "Let me give you this."

You push back into him, desperate, needy. "But—"

"Take it." His fingers on your mouth slide past your lips and over your tongue, reaching toward the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you gag, the sound smothered by the moan you make as a spell, swirling and tightening, pulses against your clit. "With the way I'm going to fuck you, you need this...you'll thank me later for it..."

Tom doesn't waste words. His tone may be soft but it's also sharp, which tells you everything you need to know—that he's had a wretched day and you're the only thing that can make it better. That he's going to fuck out his frustrations on you.

You moan around his fingers at the thought.

"You'll want to be nice and stretched for me, won't you?" A statement, not a question. "You don't want it to hurt. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Though he'll deny it, he's not as emotionless or as lacking in empathy as he'd like to believe. It's one of the many things you've come to know about him—or should you say, one of the many things you've struggled to understand about him—but the way he says it, like he's reminding himself not to be cruel—it's all very Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to hurt you.." he repeats in a murmur, as if he's trying to convince himself. You can't speak, though you're not sure you could find the words even if you could; the only indication you give him that you understand—that you hear him—is the quiet whimper that slips past his fingers. "Just need you."

The spell on your clit is as overwhelming as the drag of his fingers against your walls and it's only moments until you're cumming hard around him and he's groaning hard in return—you know his eyes are closed and you know he's inhaling every single sound you make as though he could house them in his lungs. The darkness clings to you like a second skin but Tom clings to you worse—not relenting even as you're twitching and whimpering with aftershocks.

"There we go." You're squirming and Tom fucking loves it. "Good girl."

Overstimulation is charging in—you have no where to run from it. You bite down on his digits in your mouth and he punishes you by intensifying the spell on your clit. "T-Tom—Tom—"

All he offers is a shush. His fingers curl deep.

"I need...I need you...need this.." he's mumbling, mantra-like, almost like a prayer and perhaps that's the closest he's come to one. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've heard him say it but you know there's no one else he'd be saying it to—no one else he'd want to. "You know, I thought of this all day...having you, like this..."

You sob around his fingers in your mouth as he rips another climax from you—you think you're seeing stars and you know if you are, they were hung there by him.

"Couldn't focus.." his teeth find your jaw, just under your ear, biting just a little harder than he usually does. "No matter what I did, I just kept thinking of this...of you...of you like this for me.."

Tom Riddle is a greedy man—in all ways—but he's not only greedy in the way he takes from you, he's greedy in the way he gives to you too, and though he would never admit it—he'd rather die first—this moment feels as close to worship as he'll ever come.

As you said, there's reverence in everything he fucking touches—you know you're lucky you get to experience it.

"You have this effect." He swallows hard, you feel it against your shoulder. "You have this effect on me...I—I can't stop wanting you-“

—and he's just a man, after all. No matter how well versed in dark spells and manipulation, no matter how cold and calculating he's able to be, beneath it all he's so very mortal. He tells you he was never made for love but when he buries his face in your neck and talks this talk it sure feels like maybe he was.

And all it does is make you want him that much more—knowing that you do this to him—you make him weak. You make him want and need and yearn.

"I don't even know what you've done to me," his voice is destroyed—his thoughts cut off by the evidence of your desperation for him, the lewd sounds coming from your pussy as you suck on the fingers in your mouth. "Fuck, you're so wet."

You groan, helpless and needy as a whore. Tom digs his teeth into your shoulder. It's all too much. There are many ways to come apart and this is Tom's only true undoing—in the aftermath of the destruction he causes, and you are—his collateral.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—" you're garbling, the words don't sound like words. "T-Tom—"

You're not sure how long you've been awake or how many times you've cum—how much oxygen you've inhaled since this all started but the one certainty is that you know Tom has very little patience left—if any.

"Fuck." He shifts, grinding against you. "Can you take me? Can you take me right now?"

All you can do is nod—your eagerness evident in the pace of it—drool dribbling down your chin and instantly the spell fades from your clit, his fingers pull out of your cunt and he's lifting your thigh up toward your head, fingers still hooked in your mouth. There's a moment of movement—trousers and boxers pulled down and then he's there—thick and heavy and warm between your thighs. You tense.

You'll never get used to the size of him. His ego made flesh. Though perhaps the greatest pleasure is in knowing he'll never get used to you, either.

"Gonna—gonna fuck you." He mutters against your neck as he glides along your slit—you're soaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets and him but it never matters much because it always stings when he takes you. Especially like this. "It won't be soft."

You moan and he finally pulls his fingers free from your mouth, dragging them down to your throat, nails against your skin that feel more like claws because for all the human Tom Riddle is he's just as much animal.

He's never known soft—only with you—but you wouldn't have him if not for all his jagged lines and sharp edges. You let him take.

"Please, Tom-" words fail you, they always do when he's like this. "Please, gods—fuck me-"

Tom growls and it vibrates up your spine. You rarely curse when you can help it—so when you do, when you can't do anything to stop the pathetic vulgarities—he likes it too goddamn much and you know he's going to give you what you want because you give him what he needs.

A mutual give and take, as all the best things are.

"No god could compare to me." He doesn't say it with arrogance, just with certainty, like a letter he's written a thousand times. Then, he's flipping you onto your stomach, wrists still bound above your head as he lines up and presses inside you—all at once, deep and full and breathtaking. "Oh, yes—"

You cry out but it's muffled by the pillow, your cunt trying hard to adjust to the stretch—Tom is never cruel, but he is brutal, and perhaps the two get confused. There is a difference, though you know he would prefer to remain ambivalent on his own harshness, it’s the only way he's managed to survive this long—but here, with you, he thinks he can allow for a bit of mercy.

And he gives it, in his own way, only because you gave it first. It's as close as he'll come to offering himself without asking anything in return. To you, it's still a pretty close second.

"I'm going to make you feel this," he murmurs, lips against your shoulder, teeth against skin and if you had any tears left, this would be when they fell. "You'll think of this all day tomorrow. You'll think of me all day tomorrow."

He pauses inside you—he's taking it slow and the implications of that fact are far out of reach right now.

"I'll think of you anyway, Tom," you grit through your teeth, voice cracking on his name as he pulls out—only halfway—ensuring you feel that emptiness before he presses back in. "I'm—ohh—a-always thinking of you."

He makes a sound, a broken sort of sound, the same one you've heard him make only a handful of times—a raw, vulnerable, almost pathetic sound and all it does is make you want him that much more. He's still moving too slow, too methodically, drawing pleasure out from deep under your skin.

You clench around him because you know he doesn't want you to—he warns you against it with a cervix-piercing thrust.

"You're always thinking of me." His hand snakes around your throat, his lips to your ear—"and are you proud of that?"

You know that's a loaded question, the answer to which he doesn't truly care to know. But it's one you'll answer truthfully, regardless—because you know it'll affect him either way.

You nod, just once—and the grip on your neck tightens, cutting off an almost sob. His hips piston faster now, as though you've chipped off another piece of his control.

"Proud enough, then," he growls, his pace unforgiving, and that's enough to tear another broken sound from you—from the both of you. His fingers twist painfully around your throat, digging into your skin like a man possessed, and you know that means he's done holding back. His mouth is next to your ear, you can feel his smirk. "M'sorry—I'm—sorry—"

He says he's sorry but you know he's not. Not with the way he's groaning into your ear, not with the way he's driving his cock fast and deep. He is a manmade monster and a self-made god trapped inside a mortal man who needs so much to feel human. He knows to be nothing but intense. It's a wonder how the three can exist in him all at once.

"T-tom-" your voice fractures around his name, the only word you know now. "F-fuck—s'deep—ohh-"

His teeth sink into your neck as he cranks your head back with a pull of your hair, bared teeth on preyish flesh and you hardly have time to worry how deep he might devour because you feel his magic on your clit and you see those stars again—distant yet creeping closer, drawn down to your orbit by his power alone.

"M'sorry—" he mutters again, as though he was saying it to your cervix. "Fuck—"

You scream out again as the spell on your clit swirls faster—the sensation unfathomable each and every time—he's fucking you so hard you're burning underneath him and though the pleasure is as white hot as the flames that now cover every inch of you, you don't fear burning as much as you fear it's passing.

He's a fire in your veins, in your blood, and if he stops now you'll die of the cold.

"So good for me," he says, as soft as he can muster for being so lustdrunk— "so—perfect. You're perfect."

Perfect. You whinge and squeeze your eyes shut—choking on your breath. The words are more painful than his thrusts because time and time again you’ve failed to decipher their meaning—you know he doesn't believe in perfection, the concept too weak and foolish for his sake—but he's said it before, always in times like this—you are perfect.

You're perfect under his hands. You're perfect when you shatter apart for him, in the darkness, under the light of those stars he dragged down for you. 

"Ohh—fuck—Tom—" another climax wracks you, splitting you at the seams. "I'm—I'm—"

It feels like an earthquake and you're the epicenter, all the power and destruction Tom thrusts into you radiating from within you outward. His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you, messily, open-mouthed and with teeth. But it's still a kiss. Something he rarely does.

"Yeah, yeah. Good—" he grunts into your mouth. "Mmfff—fuck—tight—“

A second later, he's cumming, a broken string of profanity tumbling from his chest into your mouth, release spilling deep inside you, warm and thick and he holds you tighter for it as you whimper and throb around him. Tom has always had his reservations. Always had his long list of fixations—and like you said, he pours himself empty into the ones he's chosen. It's in moments like these where you feel it more than ever—as his hips slow and his cock stops twitching inside you—the way that he's made you part of that list.

And when he's done moving through you—when he's done taking what he needs—he pulls away, yet he's still there. Freeing your wrists and rubbing them gently, curling you against him as you both descend.

"Thank you." He murmurs, face in your hair.

You tell him he doesn't need to thank you but you know it makes no difference. After all, he's still a man. A man with something to prove, even under a sky full of stars he dragged down for you.

Tom is a god at many things. You've never felt more alive than when you've reduced him to something lesser.