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girlsworldillusion · 2 months ago

Text

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.

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!!”

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