#the way the light is directly above him making the shadows on his face look like a skull in the second gif

[reformhim]

My Friend Earl

Friendship & Fantasy 

We met during our senior year of college and became good friends. Earl was a few years younger than me and kind of an awkward geek sometimes, but I loved that about him. We grew pretty close as I took him under my wing and always stood up for him. In a way, I think he kind of looked up to me. 

Sexuality wise, he was straight and I was in the closet, constantly trying to hide my true feelings for him. I guess you could say I have a type and he was certainly that. 

Earl was skinny and light-skinned, had medium-blonde hair that he always kept neatly trimmed and parted, and always wore the most adorable glasses that suited him well. He liked wearing the same kind of outfit everyday - a stylish tank, gray plaid shorts, and clean sneakers. 

Standing at 5 '9, he was a few inches shorter than me. He was kind of twink-like with his youthful complexion and inability to grow any real facial, arm, or chest hair. However, his legs and thighs were coated in a nice layer of hair and he had one hell of a hairy ass - traits I secretly admired with my wandering eye whenever he stepped out of the campus showers to towel off. All that hair on his lower body was such a compelling and desirable contrast to his upper half. 

I’d be lying if I said I never fantasized about squeezing that hairy ass of his while on my knees sucking him off, eager to swallow his load, or surrendering beneath him, my ankles raised in his firm grasp, our eyes meeting as he moved inside me with purpose ready to spill his seed deep within me… I thought about that a lot. There was just something irresistible about a geeky guy who looked like a perfect mix of twink and hairy otter. 

Making a Move 

A couple years later, Earl had gotten engaged to a girl from the same college he and I went to. He asked me to be one of his groomsmen which I agreed to. 

To celebrate, we went out for a few rounds of golf then headed back to his place to chill and watch a movie or two.

The living room was dim, the glow from the TV flickering lazily against the walls. We each sat slouched into the oversized couch, a half-eaten bag of popcorn sitting on the coffee table. Earl  stretched out beside me, one leg lazily thrown over the cushions, the other tapping lightly to the beat of the movie's background music.

Without a word, Earl yanked off his sneakers, tossing them aside with a careless flick, stretched, then laid down placing his feet directly over my lap. He grinned wide, that familiar goofy smile lighting up his face but this time with a hint of something carnal. 

I immediately froze, with my heart beating harder than the action sequence on screen. I began to get a hard-on. 

Earl’s calves, dusted with thick dark hair, were so close, so casually thrown into my space. I swallowed hard. I had always been obsessed with Earl's hairy legs, the carefree boyishness of him, the way stubble never really shadowed his jawline — but I never dared to act on it. Not until now.

At first, I hesitated, my hand trembling slightly above Earl's ankle. Then, slowly, almost in a trance, I gave into impulse. My fingers slowly brushed then gripped his calf — soft, warm, and surprisingly firm underneath the playful hair. Earl didn’t flinch away. If anything, he stretched out even more, sighing contentedly.

I rubbed his calves more boldly, feeling the texture of his skin, the slight curl of the hairs, the raw, natural masculinity of it. My fingers worked their way up, massaging the muscle under the plaid shorts, feeling the rough and tender reality of my friend.

Then, slowly, I moved my hands down to take off his socks — one, then the other. They were damp with sweat, clinging to his ankles before slipping free. Instinct took over. I brought them to my nose and inhaled deeply. The heat, the salt, the musk — it was overwhelming, intoxicating. I groaned softly, already half-hard.

I then lifted his foot and kissed it slowly—long, deep, reverent—like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Earl looked at me with unnerving calm, his seriousness unshaken, as if everything was unfolding exactly as he intended.

He looked at me, eyes steady and dark with intent.

“You want to taste me, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate.

I nodded, my throat tightening as I breathed out, “Yeah… I do.”

The words felt surreal, like I was outside myself, watching this happen, heart racing with disbelief and hunger.

A faint smirk curled on his lips.

“Then beg for it.”

Something in his tone—calm, confident, unshakable—cut through me. I dropped lower, heat pooling in my chest as I looked up at him.

“Please,” I whispered first, then louder, firmer. “Please… let me taste you. I need it. I need you.”

He didn’t move at first. Just let the silence stretch, watching me squirm in it. Then, with maddening slowness, he brought his fingers to my chin, tilting my face up.

“Good,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Now keep going. Show me how badly you want it.”

At this point, he was sitting upright but completely at ease, arms draped over the back of the couch, like he had all the time in the world. He widened his stance—subtle, deliberate, giving me access without a word.

My hands moved slowly, reverently, to the button of his shorts. I unfastened it with care, then slid the zipper down, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet between us. His breath didn’t change. He just watched me.

I hooked my fingers into the waistband, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath, and eased both his shorts and briefs down in one motion. His cock sprang free—thin but long, hard, already pulsing with the tension in the air. I pulled the fabric all the way off, leaving him bare from the waist down, open, waiting, in awe of the forest of thick curls that engulfed his groin. 

And still, he didn’t move—just kept his arms resting behind him, his legs apart, eyes locked on me like he was daring me to earn the next step.

I wrapped my hand firmly around his cock, feeling the weight and heat of it pulse in my palm. I began stroking him slowly, deliberately, dragging my hand up and down the length. He flinched—just slightly—but it was enough to let me know I had his full attention.

I kept the motion steady for a few moments, watching him grow harder in my grip. Then, driven by hunger I couldn’t hold back, I leaned in and took him into my mouth.

My tongue explored first—long, slow licks along the shaft, tracing the veins, savoring the taste of his skin. Then I took him deeper, letting my lips seal around him as I began to suck, gradually building rhythm.

He was so long that his tip hit the back of my throat again and again, each time stealing my breath, making my eyes water in the most intoxicating way. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The sensation was overwhelming, but it only pushed me further—spurred me on.

I reached a hand up and gently cupped his balls, rolling them in my palm as I worked his cock with my mouth. His body tensed. He groaned low—deep and guttural—and just as I felt him near the edge, his hand gripped the back of my head.

With one swift motion, he pulled me down hard, burying himself deep as he came. Hot, thick spurts filled my mouth—salty, warm, and so much I had to swallow again and again to keep up. I didn’t let go until he did.

Finally, he released his grip, and I leaned back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, breathless and dazed. He looked down at me, a wide, satisfied grin spreading across his face.

“You liked that, didn’t you?”

I nodded, still catching my breath, then slowly lay myself across his lap, my body melting into him. He ran his fingers through my hair, gentle now, stroking.

“You’re such a good boy,” he murmured.

And in that moment, I felt like I’d just been claimed.

To be continued…

[gf2bellamy]

Hi there!! Could you write about the moment Spencer realized reader was his everything? I think this sort of thing happens during a really mundane part of the day and it HITS him. Then shes staring at him, like, dude are you okay? I realize this is prob a bit vague but I trust you with this!! 

everything — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship, ( emotional ) fluff fluff fluff <3 a/n: hi hi ! i hope this is what you asked for :)

Spencer was sprawled across the couch, his long limbs draped carelessly over the cushions, his head resting against the armrest as his eyes scanned the lines of his book.

You watched him for a moment, your arms crossed as you leaned against the doorway, an amused smile tugging at your lips. It wasn’t unusual for Spencer to lose himself in a book, but even you had your limits when it came to late-night reading marathons.

“Spencer,” you dragged out his name. “Are you done reading ? ”

He didn’t look up immediately, too engrossed in his book. You stepped closer, now standing directly above him, your shadow falling over the pages of his book.

Finally, he blinked, tilting his head back to look at you, upside down from his position, and his lips curled into that familiar, boyish smile that never failed to make your stomach flutter.

“Why?” he asked, though the teasing lilt in his voice told you he already knew the answer.

You pointed pointedly at the clock on the wall, its hands unmoved by his obliviousness to the late hour. “Because it’s 2 a.m., and I’m sleepy,” you said, punctuating your words with a gentle boop to the tip of his nose.

Spencer’s nose scrunched slightly at the contact, but his smile only widened.

Rounding the couch, you finally saw him the right way up, his hair slightly mussed from how he’d been lying. Without hesitation, you plucked the book from his hands, ignoring his half-hearted, protesting noise as you slipped the handmade bookmark, the one you’d gifted him after your second date, between the pages to save his place.

The memory of that day flashed in your mind, his surprised, delighted grin when you’d handed it to him, the way his fingers had traced the stitching. Even now, the sight of it nestled between the pages sent a warm rush through your chest.

Spencer had pushed himself upright, his long fingers flexing slightly in the absence of his book, but the moment you turned back to him, his feigned annoyance melted away.

Your fingers brushed against his, and he let you pull him up from the couch with ease.

“Let’s just go to bed, pleaseee,” you whined, pressing yourself against him in a brief, clinging hug, your face buried in the soft fabric of his sweater.

His arms wrapped around you instinctively, one hand smoothing over your back in a slow, comforting motion.

“Okay, okay,” he relented, his voice a low murmur against your hair.

With a reluctant sigh, he pulled away just enough to guide you down the hallway, his fingers still intertwined with yours, his thumb tracing absent circles over your knuckles.

The apartment was quiet, the only sound the soft shuffle of socks against hardwood as the two of you made your way to the bathroom.

Spencer flicked the light on with his free hand, the sudden brightness making you squint for a moment before your eyes adjusted.

“What were you reading, by the way?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe as he stepped inside.

Spencer’s lips quirked up at the question, not because it was unexpected, but because he loved that you always asked. Even when he rambled about obscure historical facts or complex scientific theories, you listened.

“Just rereading War and Peace,” he admitted as he reached for your toothbrush.

You snorted. “Pretty sure you say that at least ten times a week.”

He chuckled, squeezing the toothpaste onto the bristles before handing it over. “Twelve, actually,” he corrected lightly, though his eyes sparkled with humor.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips as you began brushing your teeth, leaning into Spencer’s side for balance as exhaustion crept back in. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep, and you swayed slightly, your shoulder pressing against his arm.

Spencer watched you in the mirror, his gaze soft as he brushed his own teeth at a slower pace. A loose strand of your hair had fallen forward, dangerously close to catching a glob of toothpaste, and he reached over, gently tucking it behind your ear with careful fingers.

You caught his movement in the reflection and turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. With a mouth full of foam, you gave him the best toothpaste-grin you could muster, lopsided and ridiculous, and Spencer’s nose crinkled as he laughed around his own toothbrush.

And that’s when it hit him.

Crash was a better word.

His movements, those careful, precise motions he always made, stopped. Completely.

You barely noticed at first, too busy spitting out your toothpaste and rinsing your brush before leaning against him, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. But Spencer hadn’t moved. His toothbrush hung limply in his hand, foam still in his mouth, his wide, honey-brown eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

The love, raw and overwhelming, spread through him like wildfire, burning away every coherent thought. It settled in his chest, made his heart ache in a way that was almost painful. It wasn’t just affection. It wasn’t just comfort. It was the kind of love that terrified him, not because he feared it, but because it was so big, so all-consuming, that he didn’t know how to contain it.

You had practically closed your eyes by now, swaying slightly on your feet as you rested against him, but even in your half-asleep state, you noticed. Spencer always took longer to brush his teeth, meticulous even in the smallest routines, but this was different.

“Spence?”

Your voice pulled him from his trance. His gaze flickered to yours in the mirror.

Finally, he spit out the toothpaste, rinsed his mouth, and set his toothbrush down with deliberate slowness. Then he turned to you fully, his hands hovering at your waist like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or memorize every detail of this moment.

“You—” His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again.

Your eyebrows furrowed. “I what?” You reached up absently to straighten the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing against his warm skin, but your eyes never left his.

Spencer exhaled, shaky and soft, as if the breath had been punched out of him. His hands finally settled on your hips, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of your sleep shirt.

There was a long silence. You didn’t rush him. You just rested your palms against his chest,.

And then, after a minute that stretched into eternity, he spoke.

“I love you.”

A smile tugged at your lips immediately, automatic, because this wasn’t new. This was a phrase woven into the fabric of your lives, whispered against skin and murmured in the dark, a truth as constant as the stars.

You opened your mouth to say it back, but Spencer wasn’t finished.

“Like so much,” he continued, voice rough with something raw. His hand slipped from your hip, trembling slightly as it cradled your face instead, his thumb brushing over the curve of your cheekbone with a reverence that made your breath catch.

“More than I’ll ever be able to put into words.”

His eyes, wide, earnest and devoted, searched yours, as if begging you to understand the depth of what he couldn’t articulate.

"Statistically, the human language has approximately 170,000 words in active use, but none of them—none of them—come close to..." His words trailed off as his brow furrowed in that particular way it did when his brilliant mind was racing faster than his mouth could follow.

His fingertips continued their delicate exploration of your face - tracing the curve of your eyebrow, the slope of your nose, the bow of your lip - as if trying to memorize you through touch alone.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more vulnerable.

"The human heart beats approximately 100,000 times per day." His thumb brushed over your cheekbone. "Mine...mine stutters every time you smile at me. And there are also roughly 37.2 trillion cells in the human body," his fingers ghosted along your jawline, "and I'm certain every single one of mine is wired to recognize you."

When he finished his small speech, he booped your nose gently, mirroring your earlier gesture.

But where your touch had been playful, his was trembling slightly.

You stared at him, any lingering sleepiness instantly burned away.

Just two minutes ago you'd been swaying on your feet with exhaustion; now you were wide awake.

"Spencer, what—" Your voice broke as you bit your lip, suddenly overwhelmed. The tears that had been threatening at the corners of your sleepy eyes now spilled over, tracing warm paths down your cheeks that his thumbs immediately moved to catch.

"I didn't mean to make you cry," he mumbled softly, a slight pout forming on his lips even as his own eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"Spencer Reid," you breathed between watery laughs, "you just made the most romantic declaration on earth and you expect me not to cry?" Your voice cracked as another tear escaped, this one catching on your smile.

His fingers followed its path, brushing against the curve of your lip where it had landed.

Your hands found their way to his wrists. "You literally calculated your love for me in cellular biology and cardiology."

"I was just stating facts," he murmured, that small, private smile playing at his lips - the one reserved for quiet moments and secret jokes between just the two of you. His thumbs continued their gentle sweeping motions across your cheeks, catching each new tear as it fell.

You brought his knuckles to your lips, pressing a kiss there.

"I'm not a genius like you," you admitted after a long pause, still trying to reconcile the enormity of what he'd confessed in your bathroom at 2 AM. "But I do love you so much it feels like..."

Your free hand came up to rest over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your palm. "Like every time you walk into a room, my whole body sighs in relief. Like my lungs remember how to breathe when you're near. Like..." You hesitated, searching his face. "Like if someone asked me to define home, I'd just say your name."

Spencer's breath caught audibly, his fingers tightening around yours almost imperceptibly. In the golden bathroom light, you watched as his Adam's apple bobbed. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with feeling:

"That's...remarkably precise for someone who claims not to be a genius."

The quiet joke broke the tension, and you both laughed - shaky, tearful laughter that filled the small space between you.

"We should..." He gestured vaguely toward the bedroom, his usual eloquence failing him for once.

You nodded, squeezing his hand. "Yeah. Let's go to bed, genius."

And when he followed without hesitation, his fingers lacing through yours , you realized some truths didn’t need equations or calculations to be undeniable.

Love wasn’t measured in heartbeats or cells.

It was measured in this: in the way he reached for you, after baring his soul. In the way his shoulders relaxed the moment your head settled against his chest. In the quiet certainty that no matter how many late nights or early mornings awaited you both, he’d always be there—book in hand, heart in his eyes—waiting for you to pull him back to where he belonged.

[yoonjoongles]

Staying Awake with You

-> Pairing: Song Mingi x Y/n

-> Summary: On a sleepless night, Y/n finds herself sharing a quiet, intimate moment with Mingi, who shows up unannounced and in need of comfort. Y/n reminds Mingi that he won’t ever be a burden and that she’ll always be there for him—no matter the hour.

-> Word count: 1251

The soft hum of the overhead fan filled the quiet living room. The warm glow of fairy lights draped across the wall above the television gave the space a cozy vibe. Y/n sat cross-legged on the sofa with a steaming cup of tea cradled in her hands. She had always loved this time of the night—when the world seemed to calm down, the chaos of the day being left behind.

But tonight wasn’t like most nights. Tonight, Mingi was here.

He was sat on the floor in front of her, leaning against the sofa with a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders like a cape. He somehow managed to make himself appear much smaller than he was as he huddled closer to the blanket’s warmth. The glow from the lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the pout of his lips and the tiredness in his eyes.

“Y/n/n,” he murmured, tilting his head so he’d be able to look at her. “You should go to bed. It’s late.”

She chuckled softly, taking a sip of her tea. “You’re one to talk. Aren’t you the one who came over unannounced at midnight saying you couldn’t sleep?”

Mingi’s lips twitched into a sheepish smile. “Okay, that’s fair. But you shouldn’t have to stay up and lose sleep just because I’m restless.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, before placing her mug on the coffee table. “I want to stay up with you.”

His eyes widened slightly, and a soft blush could be seen creeping up his cheeks. “You don’t have to, you know? I’ll feel bad if you don’t get enough sleep and end up being tired tomorrow.”

Y/n reached down, gently tugging on the edge of his blanket. “Mingi, I’m doing this because I want to. Besides, it’s not every day I get to hang out with you like this. You’re always busy being an idol.”

The slight teasing tone in Y/n’s voice seemed to make him relax, and he gave her a lopsided grin before turning back to the television, where a random nature documentary was playing. The narrator’s voice filled the room as footage of small penguins waddling across an icy landscape appeared on the screen. Mingi pointed at a particularly clumsy baby penguin while laughing softly.

“Look at that one,” he said, voice warm and amused. “That’s me whenever our dance practices run late.”

Y/n burst out laughing, the sound echoing around the room. “You’re not that bad! If anything, you’re more like the penguin up front, the one leading the group.”

He looked up at her, his eyes sparkling with playful disbelief. “Do you mean to say I’m a natural-born leader?”

“Obviously,” she teased him again, nudging his shoulder with her foot. “The penguin king of the K-pop world.”

Mingi threw his head back, laughing in that unrestrained way that never failed to make her heart feel like it was wrapped in the warmest of hugs. His laugh was definitely one of her favourite things about him—it was loud, and it was contagious, and so uniquely Mingi.

As his laughter faded, Mingi leaned his head back against the couch, gazing up at her sweetly. His expression softened, the playfulness giving way to something quieter. “Thanks for putting up with me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n frowned, leaning forward so she’d be able to meet his gaze more directly. “What are you on about?”

“Just…” He shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “I’m aware, you know? That I can be a lot sometimes. Showing up at the weirdest hours, rambling about something random most of the time, always taking up your time when you probably have better things to do…” He trailed off, looking embarrassed.

Y/n’s heart squeezed at the vulnerability she heard in his voice. She reached out, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “Mingi, I don’t ‘put up’ with you. I enjoy spending time with you. It doesn’t matter if it’s in the middle of the day or the middle of the night, you’re always welcome here.”

He blinked up at her, lips parting slightly as if he wanted to say something more but no words would come out. After a moment, he smiled—the softest, most genuine smile she’d ever seen from him and one that made her chest feel light.

“You’re too good to me, Y/n/n,” he said, his voice tinged with awe.

She shook her head, a grin tugging at her lips. “Nah, I think you might just have really bad taste in friends.”

Mingi laughed again, the tension in his shoulders easing bit by bit as he relaxed against the couch. “If that’s the case, then I’m glad I have terrible taste.”

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, the documentary long forgotten as they simply basked in each other’s presence. Y/n reached for her mug again, the warmth seeping into her palms as she took a sip. Mingi, still sitting on the floor, leaned his head back, his eyes slowly fluttering shut.

For a moment, she thought he might have fallen asleep, but then she heard his soft and drowsy voice. “Y/n?”

“Hmm?” she hummed, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the sofa’s armrest.

“Do you think the penguins ever feel lonely out there? On the ice.”

She cocked an eyebrow, caught off guard by his question. “I don’t know,” she replied thoughtfully. “But they’ve got their group, right? Their friends and family? They stick together, even when it’s cold and hard.”

Mingi nodded slowly, his eyes still closed. “I think that’s nice. Having people who’ll always stick with you, no matter what.”

Y/n smiled, reaching down to ruffle his hair gently. “You’ve got that too, you know. Your members, your fans…me.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he stared at her. There was something different in his gaze—something tender and unspoken. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know that.”

The warmth in his voice made Y/n’s heart skip a beat, and she quickly looked away, pretending to be engrossed in the penguins on the documentary. But out of the corner of her eye, she could see the small, happy smile that lingered on his lips.

As the night wore on, Mingi eventually climbed up onto the couch, sprawling out like a giant cat and causing Y/n to laugh at how much space he took up, but she didn’t complain when he decided to rest his head on her lap, the blanket still comfortably wrapped around him.

“Are you comfy?” she asked, her tone lightly teasing.

“Very,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric of her pyjama trousers. “Don’t move. You’re a good pillow.”

Y/n simply rolled her eyes not really protesting, her hand instinctively coming down to run through his hair. The strands soft beneath her fingers, and she could feel him relax even more against her.

The documentary eventually came to an end, the television screen going dark except for the faint glow of the paused menu. Y/n glanced down at Mingi, only to realise that his breathing had evened out, his face peaceful as he finally managed to drift off to sleep.

She smiled to herself, leaning her head back against the couch. “Don’t be silly, Mingi,” she whispered, echoing her words from their earlier conversation. “I’ll always stay up with you.”

And as the first light of dawn began to creep through the living room’s curtains, Y/n closed her eyes, the warmth of Mingi’s comforting presence lulling her into a peaceful sleep.

All Rights Reserved © yoonjoongles // do not copy or modify my work in any way.

[emchante]

storytime seduction | m. verstappen

request: Mmm thinking about a storytelling stream w Max 🤭 he reads poetry or a smutty excerpt from a novel in that insanely hot Dutch accent, making flirty remarks here n there with those obscene low moans on purpose

softcore porn streamer! max

warnings: 18+/suggestive — minors dni.

request was sent by di!! can’t answer it as it isn’t in my inbox anymore, so the original ask is written above. so glad you guys are loving this au, because i love writing it! don’t forget to drop your thoughts in my inbox<3

you join the stream when you’re finally in bed for the night, and met with the usual display. max has a lazy grin on his face, the one that makes you both excited and terrified of what he has planned. the title had teased ‘story time with max’, which honestly left it quite vague.

you’re not entirely sure what to expect, but as soon as he leans back in his chair, holding a book up with an annoyingly suggestive smirk— your stomach twists.

max adjusts his mic slightly, leaning in as his deep, accented voice comes through like a warm caress. “alright, alright,” he says, opening the book up. he flips to the section he had bookmarked, and his other hand casually grips the hem of his tight tank top, lifting it slightly to scratch at his stomach. it’s a subtle move— but the flash of soft skin, the peak of his light happy trail— but it’s enough to send the chat spiralling.

“oh, this?” he asks, catching on and pulling the tank top higher, revealing his soft stomach with his large hand now splayed entirely across it. he watches the messages come in even faster as he exposes himself more, and he chuckles deeply before pulling it back down. “now, let’s set the mood.”

the lighting in his room is dim, soft and golden, casting just enough shadow to make the atmosphere feel.. intimate. he begins to read an excerpt from whatever erotica is in front of him, and it’s obscene how good he sounds. the words roll off his tongue like they were made to be spoken in that voice— low and rich with just enough gravel to send a rush of heat throughout your body.

“‘her breath hitched,” he reads, tone dipping lower as his lips quirk up into a slight smirk. “his touch—barely a graze— sent heat racing down her spine’,” he pauses, looking to the chat before pulling an innocent expression. “oh, too much? or should i keep going?”

that chat of course explodes, begging max to continue, spamming about how he knows what he’s doing— and the smirk on his face only grows as the chat begins to flood with pleas.

he laughs softly, the sound vibrating throughout your headphones and into your very soul. “okay, okay, you all asked for it.”

and then he’s back to reading the filth that he holds in his hands, drawing out the words like he knows exactly what he’s doing to everyone listening. his voice is velvet, dark and teasing, his dutch accent thickening around certain phrases— especially the more explicit dialogue.

you’re hyper-aware of every pause he takes, every low chuckle that escapes him when he sees chat losing its mind. when the writing starts to get more heated, he leans closer into the mic, and your skin prickles as if he’s speaking directly into your way.

“‘you like that?’” he reads, and then he turns his gaze towards his camera. he licks his lips slowly, tilting his head as he continues to stare for a few moments, before he turns to his chat. “hmm, i think i’ve heard that one before,” he teases, his grin downright sinful.

max shifts in his seat, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his waistband like he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. “‘her legs trembled as his hands slid lower, his fingers brushing the bare skin where her thighs met—’”

he breaks off again, this time with an obscene, low groan escaping his throat. “this is downright filth, isn’t it?” he asks, his hand moving from his waistband up to the back of his neck to scratch it, muscles flexing with the motion.

“‘her breath came in short gasps as his lips found her ear, whispering promises of what he’d do to her,’” he mimics it, leaning close to the mic and lowering his voice even further, eyes peering into the camera. “i could whisper to you too, you know. tell you exactly what i’d do if you were here.”

your breath hitches, heat flushing through you once more as his words seem to sink directly into your skin.

his hands trails back down his body again, thumb dragging itself across his chest and falling lower before brushing the line of his waistband again. “‘her body arched into him, begging silently for more— hmm, i should make you all beg for more, shouldn’t i? horny fuckers here to listen to me read you an erotic bedtime story,” he interrupts himself to tease the chat, licking his lips at the eager response.

“good girls,” he mutters, a deep heat flourishing from your core as the words do something to you— and evidently everyone else in the chat. “one last line. just for you.”

his voice dips even lower, barely above a growl now. “‘his hands slid under her thighs, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. his mouth hovered over hers, his breath hot and heavy as he finally gave her what she had been waiting for.’”

max shuts the book with a snap, tossing it aside like it’s nothing. “well,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. “i think that’s enough for tonight. don’t want to ruin you completely, yeah?”

the chat is still spiralling— as are you— but max only winks, stretching in his chair as a sliver of stomach shows again. “sweet dreams, everyone,” he purrs, “try not to think of me too much.”

and then the stream cuts off.

⋆˙⟡ enjoy this? i hope you did! please come chat to me about it in my ask box! publicly or on anon— i’ll answer everything <3

[somegirlyoumetx]

Where the Game Ends

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Word Count: ~4.3k

Summary: You stayed up too late replaying Hogwarts Legacy. Just one more run. One more goodbye to the boy with too much to handle and no one left in his corner. You hit 100% completion.

Everything done. Everything perfect.

And then you fell asleep.

But you wake up in the Undercroft.

Sebastian Sallow-real, alive, and seconds from hexing you-is standing over you with his wand drawn. The story hasn't ended. It's still happening. But now, you're inside it. No wand. No plan. No way back. And nothing to explain your existence.

Content & Trigger Warnings (18+): Explicit sexual content (NSFW), raw intimacy, oral (f. receiving), penetrative sex, light pain kink, overstimulation, time-slip/self-insert themes, consent emphasized but emotionally charged.

A/N: This is a standalone one-shot. Emotional development would unfold more gradually in a full-length fic.

This is part of a fanfiction concept that may eventually become a full-length book-but for now, I just wanted to explore it as a single, self-contained scene.

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You set the controller down and sigh. The cutscene plays out—same as always. You’ve seen it five times now. OWLs complete. House Cup secured. This time, you even hit 100%. Every side quest, every hidden chest, every Merlin Trial. It’s all finished. Finally.

And still, something’s missing.

Sebastian Sallow.

He should be here. He deserves to be standing with everyone else, part of the celebration. But for whatever reason, he never is. You never sent him to Azkaban—you couldn’t. No matter how many times you replay the game, you always choose to let him go.

The credits begin to roll, and your eyes are already heavy. It’s late—past 3 a.m.—and you’ve been playing for hours. The soft music wraps around you, familiar and final. You sink back into your blankets, eyes slipping shut, heartbeat slowing.

And then… you drift off.

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You wake slowly.

Your head feels heavy, like you’ve been asleep for years. For a second, you assume you’re still in bed—maybe you passed out with the TV on again. But you smell something different, something heavy: dust. Musty air. A weird hum beneath it all.

You blink.

You’re not at home.

You’re lying on stone flooring, the surface cool beneath your bare thighs. Torch light flickers across the walls. Boxes are scattered around the room. You recognize the architecture immediately—the Undercroft. From the game.

What the hell kind of dream is this?

You slowly sit up and glance down at yourself. You’re still in the clothes you fell asleep in: your oversized frog-print T-shirt and a pair of black underwear. Your cow slippers—lopsided and slightly scuffed—are still somehow on your feet. The sight of them against the stone is so ridiculous it almost makes you laugh.

“On your feet. Now.”

Your stomach drops as you recognize the voice.

Sebastian.

He stands just ahead, half-obscured by the shadows curling around the Undercroft’s columns. His wand is raised—aimed directly at you—and there’s no trace of the familiar smirk you’ve seen a hundred times in cutscenes. He’s taller in person. Broader. Tousled brown hair falls just above his brow. His robes hang open, his vest wrinkled, tie loose, and collar undone like he dressed in a hurry.

His face is freckled—faint, scattered across his nose and cheekbones, especially vivid in the flickering light. And his brown eyes pin you in place with suspicion.

He looks real. He feels real.

And he is seconds away from hexing you.

His gaze drops.

“That’s… quite the outfit to wear sneaking into a place like this.”

You follow his stare and freeze.

He looks completely floored. Not just confused—stunned. Like he’s never seen so much bare leg in his life and can’t decide if you’re cursed or criminal.

This has to be a dream.

But the cold is real. The silence is too loud. The feeling of his gaze on your skin makes you hyper-aware of every breath you take. And the way he’s watching you feels far too precise to be imagined.

You scramble to your feet and throw your hands up in surrender.

“I—I don’t know how I got here,” you say quickly. “My name is Y/N. I woke up here!”

“How did you find this place?”

“I told you—I don’t know!”

“Liar,” his voice snaps. “Try again.”

“I was in my room!” you blurt. “It was late. I fell asleep and then—I woke up here. I was playing a game!”

“A game?” His eyes narrow. There’s a flicker of disbelief. The wand stays up. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Not really,” you say, lifting your hands higher. “But it was worth a shot.”

You shift your weight, and glance around the room—searching for something to anchor you. “I really can’t tell if I’m dreaming or not.”

Sebastian moves suddenly—just one quick step forward, wand lifting higher, and the movement is so real, so close, that you flinch.

“Sebastian!” The name leaves your mouth instinctively.

He freezes.

“You know my name?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I know you because of the game. I know this place is called the Undercroft. I know your best friend—Ominis Gaunt—was the one who found it first.”

He doesn’t move, but something shifts in his expression. Something unsettled.

“Impossible,” he says tightly. “Tell me who you are.”

“Look,” you say quietly. “I’m from the year 2025. This place—Hogwarts, this world—it’s not supposed to be real where I’m from. It’s fictional. It’s… a story.”

He stares at you like you’ve gone mad.

“It’s a game,” you continue. “You’re in it. I played it. I watched your story unfold through a character with ancient magic.”

“Explain,” he says, voice barely audible. But the wand stays up. The tension doesn’t leave the room.

So, you try.

You tell him about screens, about controllers, about pixels and code and decision-based dialogue trees. You try to explain what a video game is, what Hogwarts Legacy is, how you explored every part of this world—from the Highlands to Hogsmeade—and how he was always your favorite part of it.

The whole time, he says nothing.

But his grip on the wand loosens. Just a little.

“Ancient magic…” he hums after you finish explaining. His tone is thoughtful, but there’s something brittle under it. “You’re talking about Milton Shagworthy.”

You blink. “Sorry—what?”

“Milton Shagworthy,” he repeats, completely serious. “He’s the new fifth-year. Helped me with the Scriptorium. With Anne. All of it.”

You choke on a laugh. “Milton Shagworthy? Who—who named their character that?”

He shrugs, unfazed. “I don’t know. But that’s who you just described.”

You’re still laughing. “You’re telling me someone made a custom character, named him Milton Shagworthy, and played through your life like it’s a joke—and you’re just fine with that?”

He raises a brow. “I’m not fine with it, I’m just telling you what’s real. Apparently.”

“And I’m telling you… it was a game. You were in it. That story? It’s something we play. Make choices in. Milton Shagworthy is the result of someone’s really unfortunate imagination.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

“Then you know what I did.”

“I do,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at you, but you see it—how his shoulders tighten, how his grip on the wand slackens just slightly. Like something cracked open inside him and hasn’t been sealed since.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I didn’t mean—”

“You already did.”

It’s not harsh. Just… hollow.

You hesitate, then take a cautious step forward.

“Let me help you.”

That gets a reaction. He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Help me? How could you help me?”

You meet his gaze and hold it.

“Because I’ve seen what comes next. In the game, your story ends—or fades into the background—but here? It’s still happening. You’re still in it. And maybe that means I’m not just here by accident. Maybe I’m here to help you get through it.”

He doesn’t respond. Just watches you for a moment—long enough to make your heart stutter. His wand lowers an inch, then two, until it’s finally at his side.

That alone feels like a truce.

He sighs, like he’s weighing his options. Then, without a word, he steps back and gestures—barely—with a tilt of his head.

You settle onto one of the wooden boxes, the edge creaking softly beneath you. He doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t stop you either. You’re not close, but you’re not far anymore.

“So,” he says, finally breaking the silence. “You said you were playing the game before you ended up here?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone can play it?”

You nod. “Pretty much.”

“And it just… ends like that? My story never finishes?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Not really. You just kind of disappear. It’s vague. Unresolved.”

He frowns. “That’s absurd.”

“Yeah. A lot of people think so. Which is why they write about what they think happens after.”

“Write?” His brow furrows. “Stories?”

“They call it fan fiction.”

He repeats the words slowly, like he’s tasting them. “And what—these stories… are they good? Do they give me better endings?”

You smile faintly. “Most of them do. Some don’t. Some are completely unhinged.”

“What do you mean?”

You clear your throat. “Some people write… other things.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Other things?”

“…Intimate things.”

A beat.

“Intimate,” he echoes, cautious.

“They write about you. About you doing… things.”

He stares. “With who?”

You hesitate. “Usually themselves. Or their own characters.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

He looks at you. Really looks. “And have you…?”

You raise a hand quickly. “I plead the fifth.”

“The fifth what?”

“Never mind.”

He watches you for a long moment after that—like he’s still trying to figure you out, still deciding whether you’re real or just a cruel trick played by magic and grief.

You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

But the silence that follows isn’t as tense as before. It settles between you, strange but not unwelcome.

Eventually, he sits beside you.

Not close at first. But then his shoulder brushes yours as he shifts, and when your thighs touch—briefly—he doesn’t move away.

He glances at you sideways, guarded. Searching.

“You really don’t belong here.”

“I know,” you say with a small shrug. “But I’m here.”

“You’d really help me?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

You meet his eyes without flinching. “Without a doubt.”

He looks away fast, jaw tight. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you understand.”

“I do.”

“You couldn’t possibly—” His voice catches. “You couldn’t understand what it was like for me.”

“I do.”

You hold his gaze as the words spill from you.

“Sebastian, I watched you suffer. Alone. I saw the pain. The desperation. The way you love your sister so fiercely it tore pieces out of you. I know.”

He’s breathing hard now. Not from anger. From something else.

“You never deserved to be alone,” you say gently. “And you’re not a monster. Not the one you think you are. You’re not.”

Your voice softens.

“How could you be a monster for trying to save the people you love?”

He goes still.

Then he moves so fast you don’t even register that his lips are on yours until you’re already kissing him back.

The kiss starts like a detonation—hot, fast, fueled by everything neither of you have said.

But then… it shifts.

Less rushed. Slower. Less like a spark and more like collapse. Like he’s been holding back for so long that now, with your mouth on his, he’s finally unraveling. His hand curls behind your neck, anchoring you in place. The other slips to your thigh, then higher. His palm burns through the fabric of your shirt like it’s nothing.

You breathe against his lips, voice trembling. “Sebastian—”

He doesn’t pull back. Just leans his forehead to yours, panting, brows furrowed like he’s trying not to fall apart.

“You say my name like it means something.”

“It does,” you whisper.

His eyes search yours. 

“This doesn’t make sense,” he says, voice cracking. “You. Here. Wanting me like this.”

“None of it makes any sense,” you say. “But it’s happening.”

You’re still sitting on the wooden crate, knees touching, breath tangled. Your shirt’s falling off one shoulder. His tie is hanging even looser and useless around his neck.

His gaze drops to your lips. “Tell me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you say, breathless. “But… I’ve never done this before.”

He freezes.

You can almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. “Never?”

“Not with anyone.”

His eyes flash—not with lust, but with concern. “And you want this to be with me?”

“I already chose you,” you say. “Every time I played. Every time I watched the story—I chose you.”

He stares at you like you’ve cracked him wide open.

Then he kisses you again. Harder.

And that’s when you feel it—his restraint breaking. His tongue slides along yours, and his fingers tighten on your thigh. He groans into your mouth when you whimper, when you dig your nails into his shirt.

He yanks his vest down his arms, then shrugs out of the shirt underneath, breath shaking. You run your hands over his firm, freckled chest. His body is hot beneath your palms, and you want more.

He pulls your shirt up—pauses just beneath your chest. “Can I see you?”

You nod, and raise your arms.

The shirt comes off.

Your breasts rise and fall with your breath. He’s looking at you like you’re something special—like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes. “You’re unreal.”

Your mouth tilts. “You can touch.”

He does.

One hand, gentle but desperate, cups your breast. His thumb brushes your nipple until it stiffens under his touch. You moan, and that’s all it takes—his mouth is on your throat, then your collarbone, then down to your chest. His tongue flicks over your nipple. He sucks, just once, and you move into him.

“I want you on your back,” he growls.

“Then take me there.”

He stands, grabs you by the hips, and lifts you off the crate like you weigh nothing. The stone floor is cold against your back, but the heat from his body makes up for it. He kneels between your legs, eyes drinking you in.

You reach for his belt. “Take this off.”

He unbuckles it fast, shoving his trousers down to his thighs. His cock presses against the fabric of his boxers—thick, long, hard, and already leaking.

But he doesn’t touch himself. He’s focused entirely on you.

He crouches over you, fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear. “These too?”

“Yes.”

He pulls them down slowly. The air hits your soaked core and your thighs twitch.

“Y/N,” he breathes.

He spreads your legs and settles between them. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping and massaging like he can’t believe you’re real.

You prop yourself up on your elbows just in time to watch his head lower.

Then his mouth is on you.

You cry out.

His tongue licks a long, slow stripe through your folds. Then another. His mouth wraps around your clit and sucks, gentle at first, then firmer, and your hips buck.

He grabs them. “Stay still.”

“Can’t,” you gasp. “I—Sebastian—”

He looks up at you.

And the sight knocks the breath from your lungs.

His face is buried between your thighs, freckles flushed, mouth glistening, eyes locked on yours. Hungry. Possessive.

“Keep talking,” he murmurs, voice rough, lips brushing your clit. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

“You’re—you’re going to kill me,” you pant.

“I haven’t even started.”

He dives back in.

His tongue flicks, laps, then flattens and drags in slow circles. He switches rhythms—teasing one second, focused the next. You can’t keep your legs still. One of your hands fists in his hair and tugs, hard. He groans, and the vibration makes you see stars.

“Oh yes—please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He devours you like it’s the only way he’ll survive. He kisses your pussy like it’s holy. Like he’s worshipping you with his mouth. Like your pleasure is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your thighs start to shake. Your hands try to grip the floor.

“I’m going to—fuck—Sebastian—”

He moans, “Come on my tongue.”

And you do.

It crashes through you like wildfire. Your body locks, your back arches, and you scream his name.

But he doesn’t stop.

He licks you through it, softer now, slower, coaxing every wave of aftershock until your legs are trembling and your voice breaks.

You collapse. Boneless. Gasping.

He kisses up your thigh, your stomach, your chest, until he’s over you again.

“You alright?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You ruined me.”

He grins. “Good.”

Then you reach for him.

“Now,” you whisper. “It’s your turn.”

You reach down into his boxes and wrap your hand around him. 

His cock twitches against your grip. His breath quickens, eyes slamming shut as your thumb swipes across the head. When he opens them again, they’re darker than you’ve ever seen.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “you’re going to undo me.”

He kisses you hard, biting your bottom lip, hips stuttering forward like he can’t stop himself from grinding into your hand. You stroke him once, twice—just to feel him, the way he pulses against your skin.

Then your voice goes soft. “I want you inside me.”

His forehead presses to yours. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been surer of anything.”

Sebastian pulls back just enough to strip the rest of his clothes off—tossing his boxers to the side—and kneels between your legs again, completely bare.

You look down at him. Really look.

He’s beautiful.

Not just his body—but the way he looks at you. He keeps looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in his fucked up world.

He strokes himself once, spreading your pussy along his length, then presses the head of his cock to your entrance. He’s slow, like he’s bracing himself for the moment everything changes.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs.

You nod, barely breathing. “I want to feel all of it.”

And then he pushes in.

You gasp. The stretch is violent, unfamiliar, and so, so full.

“Y/N—” he growls, jaw clenched. “You’re so tight. So fucking warm—”

You whimper, your walls pulsing. “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he breathes.

He inches in deeper, watching your face for any hint of discomfort. You feel every inch of him until he’s fully inside you. When his hips finally meet yours, you moan—long and low.

“Ah—Sebastian,” you gasp. “You feel so deep.”

“Because I’m not holding back,” he murmurs. “You’re going to remember this. Every time you close your eyes.”

He stays still for a moment. Breathing. Letting you adjust.

Then he pulls out—just enough to tease your entrance—and thrusts back in. Your breath catches again. The burn is already fading, replaced with unbearable pressure and dizzying heat.

He fucks you slowly at first, hips rolling, grinding his pelvis into your clit with every stroke.

“I—I can’t believe this,” you pant.

He lowers his forehead to yours. “Believe it.”

His pace quickens. The slap of skin-on-skin echoes in the chamber. His hands grip your hips. Your moans turn to gasps. Then to curses.

“Fuck—Sebastian—”

“You take me so well,” he pants. 

He leans back, grabs your thighs, and lifts your hips slightly—just enough to tilt your pelvis toward him. The change is subtle, but when he thrusts again—

Oh.

It’s like lightning.

The air punches out of your lungs.

His cock drags against something inside you that makes your entire body lock up.

Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out at first—just a strangled inhale as white heat rushes through your spine. Every nerve in your body lights up. That spot—that spot—he hits it again, and your legs jerk in response. Reflexive.

“Right there,” you moan. “Fuck—right there—don’t stop—”

You feel helpless under it. Like he’s got his hands wrapped around the base of your soul and he’s pulling pleasure out of you one grind at a time. Every deep stroke forces your body open wider. Every motion drags a desperate sound from your throat.

It’s not just penetration—it’s precision. Pressure. The perfect collision of want and anatomy and the kind of slow, focused rhythm that drives people mad.

Your thighs tremble. Your vision pulses. You can feel another orgasm building and you’re not even sure how long you’ll last.

He sees it in your face. Smirks like sin and does it again.

“Oh my God—”

He’s relentless now. Slamming into you. His brow furrows, his mouth hanging open. Sweat beads at his temples, rolls down his chest. You cling to his forearms while your nails dig into his skin.

Then he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

You whimper.

“Oh, you like that,” he smirks.

���Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

He thrusts even harder. Merciless.

And then he lets go of one wrist to reach down and rub your clit in tight circles.

“You’re so close,” he grunts out. “I can feel you—tightening up—fuck—come for me. Want to feel you lose it on my cock.”

Your mouth falls open. A high, broken whine slips out.

You’re already right there—so close you’re throbbing. Your body’s coiled tight, burning, clenching around him like you’re trying to drag him deeper. He keeps hitting that spot, over and over, every thrust stealing more of your breath.

“I—I can’t—” you cry out, voice wrecked. “Please, Sebastian—don’t stop—please—fuck—I’m going to—”

“That’s it,” he groans. “Give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

“Please—please—want you to feel it—want you to feel how much I need you—”

And then you come.

Your entire body tenses around him. You scramble to grip anything to keep your body from losing control. Your thighs shake violently around his waist. Your pussy clenches down hard—dragging a groan out of him.

“Fucking—hell—

You can barely speak, barely breathe. You cling to him, whimpering, still trembling through the aftershocks.

“Inside,” you gasp. “Sebastian—please—want it—want you to come in me—I need to feel it—need you.”

He loses it.

He slams into you one last time—deep, deep—like he’s trying to put something permanent inside you.

“Fuck—yes—I’m coming—”

You feel the first hot pulse of his cum, then another—thick, filling you completely. He moans your name into your neck, over and over, hips grinding through it, desperate to push every drop into you.

You’re still fluttering around him, soaked and full.

The Undercroft is finally quiet.

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, echoing louder than the torches crackling along the walls. Sebastian lies half on top of you, still buried deep. His breath ghosts across your shoulder.

For a minute, neither of you speak.

“Are you… alright?” His voice is shaky. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head. “No. You ruined me, sure. But in the best way.”

He lets out a soft, relieved sound—half laugh, half exhale—and kisses the hollow of your throat. His lips linger there like he doesn’t want to leave.

You shift, and both of you hiss—his cock twitching inside you, your thighs sticky with sweat.

“We made a mess,” you mumble.

“We did,” he agrees, smirking against your skin. “I’m proud of it.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but your body trembles when you feel him slowly pull out. You whine at the sudden emptiness. His cum leaks out of you immediately.

Sebastian watches. Then mutters, “Fuck, that’s obscene.”

He runs two fingers along your core—just to spread it wider, watch it drip out of you. You squirm.

“Stop,” you whimper, hips twitching.

“Oh no,” he murmurs. “I’m not done looking at you.”

He leans down and kisses your hip, then trails his mouth to the inside of your thigh. His tongue flicks out, tasting what he left there.

You flinch. “Sebastian—”

“You taste like sex,” he groans. “Like mine.”

Your legs nearly close around his head, but he pins them open. “Hold still.”

“You’re insane.”

“And you let me fuck you on the floor of a cursed hideout,” he says. “What does that make you?”

“Very, very lucky,” you whisper.

He kisses your clit—just a soft brush of lips. You flinch again, oversensitive. He hums.

“You’re still so swollen.”

You glare. “That’s your fault.”

He grins. “You’re welcome.”

Sebastian crawls back up over your body, settling between your thighs again, his now-soft cock brushing against your sensitive core. You gasp—still sensitive.

“I can’t,” you say, voice shaking.

“I know.” He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You wrap your arms around him, tuck your face into his neck. You feel safe there—tucked under his weight, surrounded by his warmth.

“You were incredible,” he whispers. “The sounds you made—the way you looked at me—”

You lift your head and kiss him. A different kind of hunger is there now—slower, sweeter.

“I meant what I said,” you whisper. “You’re not a monster. You never were.”

His eyes shutter. He leans his forehead to yours again. “You’re the first person to ever say that and mean it.”

“I watched everything you went through. I know what you did. But I also know why.”

“I wanted to save her. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“I know.” Your thumb strokes the line of his cheekbone. “And you deserved someone in your corner. Even if I had to fall out of the sky to do it.”

He gives a broken, hoarse laugh. “You really are mad.”

“Maybe” you whisper. “But you’re here—wrapped around me like you never want to let go.”

“Because I don’t.”

That silences you both.

He eventually rolls to the side, gathering you into his arms, pulling your body against his chest. Your leg hooks over his hip. His hand drifts up and down your spine, barely touching. Just enough to feel like you’re real.

You whisper, “What now?”

He thinks for a moment.

“Now…” he says, brushing hair from your face, “I memorize every inch of you. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case this isn’t real. Or in case it is, and I wake up without you.”

You pull him closer, leg tightening around him. “I’m not leaving.”

He holds you tighter. “You promise?”

You nod against his chest. “Promise.”

[sweetheartsofpanem]

What’s Waiting Inside - Soft Thing Survive

Previous Part

warnings: this chapter is where the non-consensual sexual experiences are mentioned, they are more so vaguely insinuated but it is still an EXTREMELY heavy chapter. if needed, please take care of yourselves after reading.

i said the last chapter made me cry because i’ve put so much of my own feelings and experiences into Y/N but this chapter fucked me up beyond words. i had this chapter done a little while ago but took the time to write a fluffy fic to post directly after so i can link it to hopefully help with the pain from this😭

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 2.33k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The laughter, warm and easy, still lingers in the air after the sun sets, but your smile feels stretched too thin now. Your tea has long since gone cold, cradled loosely in your hands, and the lights in the living room are too bright, too much for your overworked brain to handle.

You’re only half-listening to whatever Peeta’s saying about the summer crops. Katniss has drifted to the window, talking softly over her shoulder. Haymitch is leaned back into the couch beside you, arms crossed, a smirk ghosting his face at something Peeta just said. It should feel safe. It is safe.

But you can’t shake it.

That voice—her voice—is still rattling around inside your head, mean and sure and right, in the way that only things said to you in childhood can feel.

The only people stupid enough to love you are already dead.

You try to breathe around it, to will it quiet, but it festers. Your chest feels tight, your skin itchy with the weight of it. It makes you feel like you’re shrinking in your seat, folding smaller with every laugh that doesn’t quite reach you.

Haymitch glances over at you.

You look away too quickly, pretending to sip your tea, heart thudding like you’ve been caught doing something wrong.

You need to leave. Not in a storm-out kind of way—just… quietly. Before this feeling hollows you out more than it already has.

Katniss yawns from across the room, stretching her arms above her head. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” Peeta says gently. “We should call it.”

They start gathering the last of the mugs and plates, and you stand on autopilot, thanking them in a voice that sounds almost like your own. Katniss studies you for a second, expression unreadable, when she hands you the balm you almost forgot.

Haymitch opens the door, letting you step out first into the evening air. It’s cooled just enough to carry the scent of damp earth. You pause on the steps, your house just across the way—so close—but your feet don’t move.

He steps down beside you, flask tucked into his pocket now, for once untouched.

You don’t look at him. “Do you mind if I…?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just waits. Then, softer than usual, “What?”

Your hands are stuffed into the sleeves of your sweater. You force yourself to finish the thought. “If I came over. Just for a little while.”

A beat. Then, not unkind, “You scared of your own house, honey?”

You huff something like a laugh, but it doesn’t quite come out. “More like what’s waiting inside.”

He nods like that makes perfect sense.

Then he jerks his head toward his porch. “Come on, then.”

And you follow.

His front door creaks open, familiar in the way all worn things are. You’ve been here before—more times than you can count now—but tonight it feels heavier, like you’re stepping into something fragile.

The lights are low, casting soft shadows over the uneven floorboards and crooked shelves. The blanket you always end up wrapped in is draped over the arm of the couch again, like it’s been waiting.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything as you step inside. He just follows, kicking the door shut behind him with a quiet thud, and crosses the room to set his flask down on the side table.

You hover near the doorway for a second too long before finally sitting down at the far end of the couch. You pull the blanket over your lap and set the balm on his coffee table before shifting, lifting your legs to your chest.

He settles in the other corner, exhaling as he sinks into the cushions like they’ve betrayed him one too many times but he keeps coming back anyway.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” you say after a minute, quieter than usual.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You’re better company than my thoughts.”

You smirk faintly. “High praise.”

He glances at you sidelong. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You fall into a quiet that isn’t uncomfortable—just tired. The kind that creeps in after a long day when your body is still humming with too much, and your mind is trying to make sense of it all.

Eventually, he asks, “You want to talk about it?”

Your voice is quiet when you answer. “I just… I hate when it sneaks up like that. One second I’m fine, the next—” You make a vague, helpless motion. “Not.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just scratches at the back of his neck, then says, “That’s how it works, honey. Hits you sideways. Doesn’t mean you’re back at the start.”

You nod, swallowing hard.

He leans his head back, eyes on the ceiling. “You ever notice how the quiet feels louder when it’s in your own house?”

You nod. “All the time.”

He lets that settle, then says, “This one’s not so bad. The quiet here.”

You glance at him, then at the room around you. And strangely, you agree.

It isn’t.

Haymitch shifts, the couch creaking beneath him. “You ever miss it?” he asks suddenly.

You don’t have to ask what he means.

You look down at your knees. “Yeah,” you say. “Every day.”

“But…” you add, your voice softer now, “I miss it the way you miss something that hurt you. Like—yeah, it was familiar. But it only made everything worse. I don’t miss it enough to go back.”

He makes a sound low in his throat—agreement or understanding, maybe both. Then, more curious than accusatory: “How’d you quit? After five years?”

You take a breath, trying to ease the tightness that rises in your chest at the question. You haven’t said this out loud in a long time.

“Fiza’s mom,” you say. “She gave me my first drink when I was fourteen.”

He nods slowly, remembering. You’d told him that part once, under a sky full of stars and silence.

You swallow hard. “She died. Liver failure, or something close to it. I found her—barely breathing. She was in and out for a while, but nothing was enough to keep her alive.”

You trace the seam of the blanket in your lap with your thumb, grounding yourself.

“It scared me,” you say. “Not all at once, not like some dramatic wake-up call. But enough that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I kept drinking after, for a few more months, because I didn’t know how not to. But every time I did, it felt like I was walking toward her death.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You ever think about drinking again? Like—really think about it?”

You nod. “More than I want to admit. But every time I do, I remember how hard it was to stop.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just picks up his flask, turns it over in his hand, and sets it back down again.

“I think,” you say slowly, “the worst part is that I still miss it even though it caused so many bad things. That it ever felt like comfort.”

Haymitch doesn’t look at you right away. Just leans back and taps his fingers once against his knee before asking, voice low, “What kind of bad things?”

You don’t answer at first. Your eyes blur as you stare down at the blanket, the seams warping under your gaze.

Your throat tightens. You press your lips together, trying to breathe through the sudden rush behind your ribs. His question isn’t harsh. Isn’t pushing. But it lands like a stone in your chest anyway.

You sigh, shaky and uneven.

“I…” You trail off. A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.

You swipe it away, but more follow, slow and silent.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.

Your voice, when it comes, is barely there. “I don’t think I ever said no.”

Another tear slides down.

“Not really. Not out loud. Not when I was that drunk.”

The weight of it fills the room.

Your hands tremble in your lap. You hate the way your voice shakes, the way your body betrays you when it’s spent so long staying calm. But the truth breaks loose anyway.

“I think they knew that,” you whisper.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, Haymitch doesn’t reach for sarcasm or a bitter joke to soften the moment.

He just stays there beside you. Quiet. Still.

And doesn’t look away.

The words hang there, too heavy to take back. And once they’re out, something inside you cracks—small at first, then all at once.

“I’ve never told anyone,” you say, voice trembling. “Not Peeta, not Katniss, not—”

Your throat closes. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes like that might stop the tears, but it doesn’t. They come harder now, shaky and silent, your shoulders curling inward as you try to hold yourself together.

“I let it happen,” you choke out. “I was too drunk to stop it, and I—I told myself it didn’t count. That it wasn’t bad enough to matter. That it was just my fault for drinking.”

Your whole body shakes, like the years of holding it in are finally catching up to you. You curl tighter beneath the blanket, arms around your legs like maybe you can disappear into yourself.

“It just kept happening. And I thought—I thought if I stayed drunk, I wouldn’t care. And if I got sober, I’d have to admit it. That they knew. That they didn’t care.”

You can’t look at him. Can’t bear the thought of what might be on his face.

But Haymitch doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. His flask stays untouched on the table.

“I don’t know how to stop carrying it,” you whisper. “It’s like it’s sewn into me.”

A beat of silence stretches. Then you hear the soft shift of fabric as Haymitch leans forward. Not close, not crowding—just enough that you feel it.

“You didn’t let it happen,” he says quietly. “You survived it.”

Your breath catches on a sob you can’t swallow. You press your forehead to your knees, letting it out this time—really letting it out.

And still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

He just stays there.

Letting you fall apart without turning away.

You stay curled in on yourself, breath catching in uneven stutters as the tears keep coming, slower now but no less sharp.

For a long moment, you don’t say anything.

You’ve always handled it alone. Always bitten down on the pain and buried it somewhere deep where no one could see. But right now, your chest aches with the weight of it, and for once, you don’t want to carry it by yourself.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, raw and cracked. “Can I…?”

You can’t finish the question. Can’t say the word out loud.

But Haymitch doesn’t need you to.

He shifts, the couch creaking as he moves closer. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make it a big moment—he just lets his arm rest gently against yours, solid and warm.

And when you don’t pull away, he opens the space between you without pressure.

You lean slowly, carefully, until your shoulder presses into his side, and then your head lowers against his chest—so tentative it hardly counts as a touch at first.

Haymitch doesn’t say a word. Just wraps his arm around your shoulders in one slow, careful motion, his hand settling lightly on your upper arm.

His thumb moves in soft, steady circles—barely there, but grounding.

You don’t even realize how tightly you’ve been holding yourself until that moment. Until the contact sinks in.

You melt into him before you can think twice, like your body’s been waiting for this—like some part of you still remembers what it’s like to be held, even if the rest forgot long ago.

You press your face into his shirt, breath hitching, and it’s like something inside you unclenches. Like all the years of holding it together without help, without comfort, without anyone’s arms around you—start to slip, piece by piece.

You were fourteen the last time someone held you like this. Really held you. And back then, it was your father’s arms, the smell of coal dust and pine, the way he whispered, “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” while you sobbed into his chest because the world had already taken too much before it took him too.

You didn’t think you’d ever feel that again.

But Haymitch holds you steady now—silent, solid, sure—and the years between then and now fall away for just a minute. Long enough to remember what it’s like to not be alone inside your grief.

Long enough to feel safe.

Your breathing evens out eventually, though your face is still pressed against his shirt and your eyes feel swollen from the crying. The sobs have quieted, but the weight of them still lingers in your chest—raw and tired.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His thumb keeps tracing lazy circles into your arm, like he’s not in any rush to stop. Like you don’t have to move just because the tears have stopped.

“Sorry,” you mumble after a while, your voice rough. “Didn’t mean to cry all over you.”

“Could’ve warned me,” Haymitch grunts. “I’d have worn the raincoat.”

You huff a weak laugh.

But still—you don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

“Seriously though,” you say after a beat, quieter now, “I don’t usually… do that.”

He nods. “Yeah. I figured.”

You shift slightly, unconsciously curling into him more. “I just—usually handle it on my own.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just lets the quiet sit between you again before murmuring, “Doesn’t mean you have to.”

Your throat tightens again, but you manage to hold it steady this time. His arm is still around you, warm and sure.

And for once, you don’t feel like running away from this feeling of safety. Like maybe Haymitch won’t run away now that he’s really seen you.

Next Part

[yuanology]

this is what being gojo satoru's weakness feels like—

the door to your apartment creaks open at precisely three in the morning; the witching hour. it's terribly fitting, you'd like to think, with how satoru has a tendency to flit in and out of your life with minimal warning, sporting new bruises and scars every time he comes back. it has become something you learn to expect, so you always leave the door open for him.

he says nothing when he approaches you, footsteps light against the hardwood floor, but he knows you are awake. you know that he knows this because the bedroom door soon slowly gets pried open as well and there is an added weight on the mattress next to you. satoru still says nothing, and you still pretend to be asleep.

after this, comes the following routine:

one, satoru will turn you slowly on your back (if you are not already on your back), and then he will;

two, sling his leg over your waist, moving to straddle you. his ass is flushed against your pelvis. after this, he will either do the following;

three, he will rest there, his hands either framing both sides of your face and pressed against your pulse over your throat and over the beating heart over your ribs. or, he will be impatient, desperate to wash away the thoughts of today's sins and he will directly move to;

four, grind his hips slowly, rolling it in a way that he knows you would enjoy if your eyes were open to watch him. here, he is always languid no matter what tension builds underneath his skin. oftentimes, you're already awake for this part, but you always allow him this moment of false privacy. after this, he will;

five, he will lean close, his mouth pressing open mouthed kisses over your throat and collarbone where the skin is visible from above the fabric of your shirt. here, is the part where he slowly lets himself get caught in the rush—all wandering hands and panted breaths and a kind of vulnerable boldness that he will never allow anywhere else.

this is where the routine ends. this is where you decide what you wish to do with the god begging for a glimpse of his own humanity in your hands.

your eyes will flutter open slowly, drinking in the sight of the moon's rays casting pale shadows all over satoru's skin. there is a halo borne around his head— creased and warped and ruined by the touches of the people who is supposed to take care of him. it is in this moment you will always realise the sheer gravity of your situation, the implicit trust pushed into your hands, the explicit faith he instills in your kindness.

"satoru," you murmur, soft and slow. your hands move to rest on his waist, never quite guiding him to move faster or to stop, merely ever grounding him into the moment. "what do you need?"

because this arrangement is never about what you want, only ever about what he needs. because you only ever want him to feel safe, and he only ever needs you to make him human.

for a moment, you are almost certain that satoru will say nothing. this has happened before in the past, when satoru will climb into your bed wreathed in the shadows of the early morning and he will say nothing as he allows you to guide him through his own thoughts. during these moments, you must always treat him with utmost care; fine porcelain and delicate china designing the bones and structures that crafts the body of the god the shaman world reveres so cruelly.

but tonight is not one of those nights.

he blinks at you slowly, like a cat, like a ghoul, like a boy reawakening from a day filled with haze. he whispers your name, his voice hoarse as if unused. your hand inches higher, moving up to rest on his sides, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs accompanying each of his breath.

"satoru," you try again, because you are relentless when it comes to satoru. because for a man who saves so many people so many times, people rarely ever come around to save him. "look at me, sweetheart. what do you need?"

his breath shudders, his eyes falling shut. he leans forward, his face finding itself a home where it is buried in the crook of your neck. his response is soft, quiet, nearly inaudible if you are not listening to him. but you are always listening, because satoru always has something worth saying and no one else will listen to him.

"please," he murmurs, and you can feel him falling apart in your arms in real time. "just take it all away."

and your heart breaks a bit for this man, because you know what this entails. because you know what it means when he wants the world to be stolen clean from his hands.

"alright," you say in response, your nails digging into to scratch at his back. welts immediately begin to bloom all over his skin, but satoru is shuddering in your embrace and you already know that it is the right thing to do. "get on your knees. i want to fuck your face."

satoru scrambles quickly to comply. he slides off of you like oil off ice, even when infinity is nowhere to be found, and he gets off the bed. he moves to kneel on the floor instead, over the soft carpet that you had installed after you realised how much satoru liked simply staying on his knees, simply lazily sucking you off as he allows himself to drift off and away from all of his own thoughts. you shuffle to the edge of the bed, sitting with your legs parted so that satoru can move to settle in between them.

his hand moves to your thigh, a visible swallow tracking a long line along the column of his throat. "may i?" he whispers, his tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip. satoru blinks up at you with wide eyes, pleading at you as if he is afraid of being pushed away, and there is a part of you that wants to cry for him.

but you don't. instead, your hand finds purchase in his hair, running through the soft strands, and you tell him, "go ahead, baby." because there is nothing better than you can do for him than this.

he smiles at you; none of that bright as the sun grins that he would give to the rest of the world. no, this one is more muted, desaturated, but no less genuine. this is gojo satoru at his softest moments, at his most honest. you follow his guidance as he gently manoeuvres you so that he can pull off your pants and boxers.

when you are once again situated on the bed, the both of you finally comfortable and pleased by the situation, does satoru begin to lean in. it starts slow, at first; kitten licks on your tip as his head begins to bob. he takes in your length slowly, bit by bit with all the hesitance of a virgin.

you both know better, though; all of this is part of a show, the one where satoru acts all innocent and boyish and oblivious so that you can take him by his hair and teach him how to take you properly. it's the same game you have been playing with him since the day you first took his virginity.

"is that all you've got?" you murmur, your voice mocking in that now familiar lilt that always spurs satoru on. this time is no different as he keens around your cock in his mouth, pulling off so that he can pout at you with pretty pink, spit-slick lips.

"i don't—" he cuts himself off with a soft whine, his knees shuffling forward so that he can get closer to you. you cup the back of his head in appreciation, twisting a strand of his hair between your fingers in a subtle act of approval. satoru immediately goes lax, all of the tension accumulating on his shoulders finally bleeding out as he simply looks up at you with wide, lost eyes.

"you're too big," he tells you, a familiar script. the corners of your lips twitch; into a frown or a smile, you could no longer tell. "i don't know if i can take it."

"shh, baby." this one is a little different, but the glaze in satoru's eyes at the sound of your falsely-comforting words is all the same. "don't you want to be my good boy?"

"yeah," he breathes out. he shifts closer, always so eager. "wanna be your good boy."

you hum, tapping the head of your cock on his lips. "then open your mouth, and take what i give you like a good boy, alright?"

it's easy, after that. satoru no longer plays any games. instead, he lets his jaw drop open easily, his lips parting to take in your cock. you slide yourself into the velvety warmth of his mouth inch by inch, watching his face swiftly acquire that dazed, fucked out look as you stuff him full on your cock. pretty, you think to yourself as you stroke his hair gently.

"see," you whisper, bending over so that your mouth was hovering over the shell of his ear. "you can take it. good boy."

satoru whimpers around your cock, nearly choking on it as he does, but his eyes are rolled back to the back of his skull already, and you know he's most pliant like this. you straighten as you push yourself off the bed to stand properly. the change in angle has the tip of your cock meeting the back of his throat, and you both let out a choked moan at the feeling.

you look down at satoru, your hand tightening its grip in his hair in warning. "i'm gonna fuck your throat," you tell him again, a second warning, and you begin to thrust into his mouth shallowly. "and you are going to take it, yeah? you're gonna be so good for me, won't you, baby?"

if this isn't what he wants, satoru knows that this is the time to push you off. just three repeated taps on your outer thigh and you will pull off immediately. you don't want to hurt him, not when he is already hurt so often.

but satoru's eyes meet yours, summer seas filled with determination, and his hands only move to cross behind his back, wrist caught in his hand. like this, he looks like the perfect image of subservience. no longer gojo satoru, the god, but rather simply satoru, a boy eager to please.

you roll your hips once, twice, experimentally to gauge out satoru's reactions. when he lets out a low moan, a muffled consent, your hand temporarily leaves his hair to thumb at his slick lips, drool slipping out of the corners of his mouth, leaving a mess all over his face.

"keep your eyes on me, pretty boy," you tell him, your voice low and heated. "i want you to watch me as i make a mess out of you."

satoru makes an aborted motion, the familiar buffered movements of a nod interrupted, and you smile. your precious satoru is always so damn eager to be good for you, to be good to you, that you can't help but wonder if perhaps this is your greatest blessing or a premonition for something worse.

your hips rear back, and you fuck into his mouth in earnest.

satoru's eyes immediately widen at the feeling of your cock filling up his mouth at rapid speed, the head bumping the ridges of the back of his throat. a high whine slipped out of satoru, the sound watery as it was muffled by your girth.

your hand once again finds purchase in the soft strands of his hair, but you no longer card at it gently. rather, you gripped at it; holding him upright by only his hair as you use it as leverage to make his head meet your every thrust.

choked, garbled sounds escaped satoru's throat, and you kept the sound of your own groans and moans to a minimum so you could enjoy the sound of satoru's aborted attempts at telling you how good you felt. satoru has never been quiet, not when you are involved, and even as you fuck his face, he will always, always try to tell you how good you're being to him.

"you look so pretty like this, baby," you coo, your voice breathless. "so goddamn gorgeous."

and satoru is. he's so beautiful, even out of bed, casted by rays of sunlight, untouchable in the daylight, but there is something almost otherworldly in the beauty he emits when he is yours. because here, on his knees, satoru is a different sort of gorgeous—he is stripped of his godhood, of his title, of his crown, and he is reduced to being just your good boy, your pretty, pretty satoru, your satoru. no matter how briefly, no matter how ephemeral.

but that isn't the most important factor in what makes him look so ethereal. no, it's the fact that for a man forced to be on his knees, satoru never once looks out of place. he looks up at you, long lashes revealing summer blue, and there is a dazed smile on his lips even where it is being wrapped around your cock prettily. it's the fact that gojo satoru, for all his pride and arrogance, will always willingly get down on his knees for you and he will enjoy having your presence be lorded over him. because satoru, your satoru, knows that you are his just as much as he is yours.

even on his knees, even when he is relinquishing all power into your hands, he still conquers.

fucking beautiful.

satoru constricts around you when you shift the angle ever so slightly to reach deeper into his throat. for a moment, you almost falter as you watch his hands closely. but they don't move, remaining where they are positioned behind his back, and you take that as your cue to keep things going at that steady pace.

tears begin to cloud satoru's beautiful eyes, clouds dotting at warm, clear skies, and you have to stop yourself from fucking him deeper, fucking him rougher, because even satoru has his limits and your job is to bring him to those limits, but never beyond those limits.

the sight, however, admittedly brings you close to your high. you feel warmth beginning to pool in your gut, steadily building as you guide his mouth to take you in further, deeper, until there is a bulge forming in his throat, matching the shape of your cock.

satoru keeps his eyes on you the entire time, the good boy that he is, and you know that he can see that you're close, because he starts doubling his effort. no longer does he simply take you, he begins to hum around your cock as well; the vibrations sending electric thrills running up his spine. low pants begin to escape your lips as you tug at his hair.

he whines.

"i'm gonna cum in your mouth," you tell him, feeling yourself getting closer and closer. "and you're gonna swallow it all like a good boy, is that right?"

satoru's eyes glaze over, and he moans around your cock. you feel your composure breaking, your movements growing erratic. with the purchase you have in his hair, you bring his face close to your hips until his nose is buried in your pelvis, nestled amongst your happy trail, and you're spilling down his throat.

satoru fucking swallows it all like a goddamn champ. he doesn't even struggle, choking on it at first but quickly finding rhythm like the damn prodigy that he is. he keeps his eyes trained on you the whole time, you know he does because you can feel the burn of his gaze on your skin even as you tip your head back, a guttural moan escaping your lips.

you make him stay like that for a moment longer, choking on your cock and your cum, before you finally pull out. his lips were shiny with spit and dribbles of cum, his eyes still glazed over by pleasure and tears, his face looking like a fucking mess and his hair sticking up in every direction.

"come here," you say as you fall back onto the bed, and he scrambles to follow.

he climbs into your lap and his lips are on you immediately, his hands scrambling to pull you closer to him. satoru's actions are filled with anxious energy, one that you recognise immediately. this is beyond just his desperation to feel you close to him after you've fucked his throat, this is satoru seeking repentance.

"what," you start, your head still feeling light. "what'd you do?"

"i'm sorry," satoru rasps out quickly, sounding so guilty that you can't help the frown that creases your expression. it's the wrong thing to do because the anxious energy increases and satoru is scrambling closer to you, hands grabbing onto your shirt. "i'm sorry, i didn't—"

"satoru," you say, not reprimanding, simply grounding, as you force him to still by grabbing his hips. "what happened?"

satoru swallows, looking at you with lost eyes. "i didn't mean to cum," he whispers. "i'm sorry."

for a moment, your head is entirely empty. satoru is still gnawing his lower lip nervously as he looks at you, watching you, anticipating your next move. but you honest to god can barely even think because you were watching satoru the entire time. his hands were behind his back and he barely even grinded against the floor, so how could he have—?

your hand moves to cup him, your thumb brushing over the wet spot. satoru stiffens, even as a weak whimper escapes him. "i'm sorry," he tells you again. "i didn't mean to."

fuck.

"it's okay, baby," you tell him hurriedly. your hands move to cup his face, feeling your brain come back to life. you wipe the tears out of his eyes, the clouds once again clearing to reveal cerulean blue. "i never told you that you couldn't cum. it's alright, baby. you did a good job."

he sniffles. "i'm still your good boy?" he asks, his voice so quiet that your heart breaks for him.

"yeah." you press a kiss to the top of his head, wrapping your arms around him to hold him close. "you're still my good boy."

and satoru is looking at you now with wide, guileless eyes, looking so much like a lost boy that you feel something splinter within your ribs. how terrifying it is, how something so seemingly simple can destroy satoru in an instance.

you tilt your head back, gently slotting your lips over his in a delicate kiss. there is none of that earlier hunger in the way you kiss him now, merely a softness that makes satoru loosen even if he does not melt yet in your arms.

just as he always is after an orgasm, satoru is pliant as you guide him onto your bed. you kiss him slowly as you take his clothes off, cleaning him of his sweat and drool and cum, before you redress him in a loose t-shirt and a pair of well-loved sweatpants that you had tucked away in your closet just for him.

once the both of you are clean, you situate yourself in bed next to him. your arms come to wrap around satoru where his face is tucked into the crook of your neck, your legs tangled as you hold him close to you. with this proximity, you can feel the way your heartbeat aligns with one another; beating the same rhythm, slow and steady and alive.

he mumbles your name into the silence, looking hesitant and shy all at once. "i'm still your good boy, right?" he asks you, his voice quiet as if he's afraid of the answer.

you swallow past the lump in your throat, distracting the momentary silence by leaning your faces close to each other; foreheads pressed together, noses brushing against each other. "always," you tell him, because it's true. "i'm glad you enjoyed yourself, baby."

and then, and only then, does satoru allow himself to go lax as if he finally believes you. he sinks into the warmth of your embrace, his eyes sliding shut at long last when you press a kiss to the side of his head and tuck him close to you.

because—

because there's a delicate line you have to toe when you're dealing with one gojo satoru; too much of something and you will crush him entirely in your hands, too little of something and he will believe that you do not want him anymore. satoru is a delicate game to play, a fragile person beneath all of his strength and glamour who simply yearns for a person to see him and hold him.

this is what it's like to be gojo satoru's weakness; in your hand resides to power to make and break a god, a boy, a lover.

[rainychaoloveshack]

Shadow x Fem Reader and it’s their first date❤️

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫. 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐠.

it’s you and shadows first date. are you ready?

⋆°•☁︎ content . shadow x gn!reader, fluff, mentions of light friends/acquaintances to lovers, shadows a lil nervous huehehe and so is reader

☂︎ wc. 1.2k ☂︎ a/n. THANK YOU FOR YOUR REQUEST! this was so cute to write murhehehe i still feel like i could’ve done a lil better but i hope you like it regardless ^^’

likes, reblogs, and especially comments are extremely appreciated!!! (i like chatting to you guys!)

Soft jazz music from the restaurant already rings out from outside, mingling with the hustle and bustle of the street, a bell chiming above your head as you push open the glass door with your palm. Luckily, your date seems to stand out compared to everyone else here; or is it just the light that’s making him look so charming?

Ah, look at you. Smitten. It’s already too late to try to shake off any nerves; he’s already seen you from afar. You hope he hasn’t been waiting too long; you did get here on time after all. Would it have been better if you two met before the reservation? Dates are so hard.

“You…” Shadow trails off as you trot up to him, brushing some imaginary dirt off your outfit as you try not to look him directly in the eyes. First impressions were never your strong suit, especially with someone as stern as Shadow. Well, not that it’s your first time meeting him, but in such a romantic setting like this; butterflies are rising and fluttering around your stomach. “You look lovely.”

You could’ve sworn a butterfly made its way out of your stomach and into your mouth as you uttered a small ‘thank you’, your voice almost trembling at the last syllable. Being this nervous in front of someone you’ve known for a while now is an odd feeling.

“Come on, sit.” He gestures to the seat across from him, strangely fidgeting with his gloves. “I… I hope the place isn’t too much.”

Fancy for a first date, sure. It’s not your first time hearing of this place either; Rouge must’ve recommended it to him.

So she’s playing both sides? She was the one who recommended you to ask him out anyhow, so she must’ve known that he would’ve said yes. That sly bat. But it still shocks you even now that he did say yes to your little proposal…

Breaking out of your thoughts, you glance away from the seemingly entrancing patterns in the rug, eyes flickering back up to Shadow, who's looking down at his clasped hands. He notices your gaze rather fast and clears his throat. “Is something wrong?”

Shadow’s been strangely silent. More so than he usually would be around you. Not that you two talked very often, but every time you met there was always at least some light chatter and banter between you two, sometimes a heartfelt moment and long conversation. Maybe you two are closer than you thought. 

“It’s just that I’ve never been on a date before.” Shadow scoffs. “It’s nothing special.” But it looks like he’s more than eager to change the topic.

He can’t handle a simple date? The Ultimate Lifeform, ready to fall over and fold? You cup your cheek, rubbing the tips of your fingers over your cheekbone. It’s a struggle to kill the cheeky smile on your face; joking around with Shadow has always been fun, and your nerves decided it was time to spill out a joke anyway. But maybe it was wrong to let one fly in this situation?

Shadow growls, baring his teeth briefly before he tries his best to defend myself. “Shut your-” He catches himself mid-threat, clearing his throat as he rips his gaze away from you. “Nothing. Nevermind.” He mutters, his shoulder stiffening under your curious gaze. It looks like he’s scared of offending you, but it’s not like you two haven’t joked around like that before. Is it the restaurant? The way you look?

“It’s not you,” Shadow says sternly, firm in his answer. “It’s me; I just feel strange talking to you like this; in this setting.” He mutters, staring down in his gloved hands. “I’m not used to this; this feeling. I don't-” A grimace forms on his lips as he meets your eyes again. “-date around. With anyone. I don’t mess around with feelings like that, so…” Shadow trails off, worried he might’ve said something wrong once your head cocks to the side slightly. “Not that I’m opposed to, I just don’t have experience with those… Things.” He finishes, attempting to hide his embarrassment by clearing his throat, but his ears tell another story. The way they’re twitching here and there as you shuffle in your seat, noticing every small movement as you fidget with the neckline of your outfit.

“...After dinner, do you want to walk around Station Square? If you’d like, we could take a train down to the nearby plaza.” He mutters quietly, his ear flicking in your direction as he waits for your answer to his proposal this time.

…You’d like that a lot.

Crickets chirp along the flowerbeds and bushes as your shoes click against the pavement, trailing behind Shadow’s own steps in an attempt to catch up to his stride. It was already so late, but you two caught one of the last trains here. Now the problem present is on how you’ll get home, but you’re with Shadow. Something’ll come up.

Plus, to see Shadow so relaxed after his tenseness at the restaurant makes your mood lighten to match his. Not much conversation has happened with you two for the past hour, but it’s peaceful. It’s sweet.

He’s so sweet. Like candy… No, not quite candy. It's more like a dessert. What dessert would fit him?

“Is there something on my face?” Shadow points to himself with his thumb, cocking his head at your gaze constantly on him. To hide the embarrassment, you shake your head and come up with some lie about you zoning out; not that it’s fully a lie, but the bigger reason that you were staring at him is just to admire him. But that’s weird to say, right?

Right…

“Tch.” He grumbles, his body straightening out once he realizes he’s being too harsh. “... You know, if-” Shadow cuts off his own voice, noticing a small blink of light near your head, around the same time that you notice it yourself.

Oh.

“It’s just some fireflies.” Shadow’s lips part softly, watching the firefly buzz and flutter around your shoulder. You cup it into your hands, brushing your hip against Shadow so he can see the insect clearly within your palm, blinking its light up at the two of you. How cute. Little lightning bugs…

“I didn’t mean to mess this up.” Your eyes rip away from the bug, instead grazing over to his figure, his arms crossed with his finger tapping repeatedly on his arm. “I had fun.” His head’s turned to the side to not meet your gaze, somewhat ashamed of his behavior. You don’t blame him for it; it’s not like you weren’t nervous too. But not a single thing was ruined about it; he didn’t have to apologize at all.

���If you’d like,” he murmurs, clutching your hands within his own as your little lightning flies away to join the others fluttering around you both. His thumb brushes across your fingers and palm, feeling every groove and digit. “I’d like to do this with you again. I think I’ll be better at handling it next time.”

You’d like that too. A lot. Maybe those butterflies in your stomach won’t be as bad next time, but their wings are still brushing against the edges of it, threatening to spill out from your mouth even now. 

[writingpandagoth]

Hiii!!!! Can you do one sev×fem reader in wich again she is James' little sister, but he truly loves her sis.

So when she arrives to Hogwarts, Severus see her as an opportunity to get revenge over James for being his bully, so he and yn start a secret relationship but he treats her so bad and James doesn't know what is happening with her sis; eventually severus realize that he indeed loves her and it's up to you if it ends up good or bad, pleaseeee

I think that I requested something like this, but I can't remember if I asked it or not. Either way, I love love LOOOVE ur writing

So yeah you did requested it already but no worries!

I had quite mixed feelings about this if I am honest.

I was struggling to see just where this could lead and I couldn't quite get close to Severus being abusive. Even if its not physically. Also I felt like if Severus would have been bad to Reader it would later make the bullying worse.

So I thought about it and suddenly I had this thought:

What if he actually does the opposite?

Well here it is and warning: It's a lot.

I hope you still Like it even if I kind of twisted it around a little.❤️

Safety Net

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual breakfast chaos. Owls swooped overhead, plates clattered, and somewhere down the table, Sirius was hexing Remus's pumpkin juice to leap from his goblet.

You sat beside James, buttering toast with sleepy precision. He watched you struggle for a moment, then laughed and stole the knife from your hand.

“Hopeless,” he said, spreading the marmalade smoothly.

“Bossy,” you shot back.

He grinned and shoved the finished toast back at you. “You’re welcome.”

From across the hall, unseen by either of you, Severus Snape watched.

He sat alone at the Slytherin table, untouched porridge congealing in front of him. His black eyes flicked between you and James—the effortless closeness, the unguarded smiles. Bitterness twisted inside him, familiar and sharp.

James Potter. Always the hero. Always the adored.

Severus’ gaze lingered a moment longer before he forced himself to look away.

Later that day, in the shadowed corridors near the dungeons, Severus found himself face-to-face with the Marauders. Like it had been the past years.

James and Sirius, laughing about some prank, spotted him rounding the corner. Their expressions shifted—wolfish, sharp.

“Morning, Snivellus,” James drawled, stepping directly into his path.

Severus stiffened, grip tightening on the books in his arms.

“Off to another thrilling day of potion-brewing and sulking?” Sirius added, smirking.

James flicked his wand lazily. Severus’ books flew from his grasp, pages scattering across the stone floor. Another flick—his satchel tore open, ink spilling in a dark pool.

Laughter echoed down the hall.

Severus bent down quickly, gathering his things with shaking hands. His face burned—not just from humiliation, but from the sheer helpless rage twisting inside him.

James ruffled his already-messy hair, as if Severus were some misbehaving pet.

“Careful there,” he said cheerfully. “Wouldn’t want you slipping in your own slime.”

They walked away without a second thought, leaving Severus kneeling amidst the wreckage.

He remained there for a long moment, ink staining his fingers, heart hammering against his ribs.

--

That evening, you accompanied James down to the Quidditch pitch. He was gearing up for practice, broom slung over his shoulder.

“You’re not staying,” he warned, eyeing the storm clouds gathering above.

“I’ll watch a little,” you insisted, stubborn.

He sighed but smiled, ruffling your hair affectionately before jogging onto the field.

You found a spot near the stands, scarf wrapped tight around your neck. A few other students lingered, including a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely knew from Charms.

He struck up a conversation—light, harmless. You laughed politely at something he said no longer focused on the practice going on. 

High above, James spotted you. His broom dipped sharply as he veered toward the ground.

Moments later, he landed with a thud and crossed the grass toward you, chest heaving.

“Hey,” he said, too casual. “Ready to head back?”

You blinked. “I was waiting for you to finish.”

James wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulling you to his side while pointedly glaring at the Ravenclaw boy. "I am done now."

The boy made himself small and proceeded to make a polite excuse and wandered off. You narrowed your eyes at James.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said.

“Better safe than sorry,” he replied, grinning sheepishly.

Despite your exasperation, you fell into step beside him, the argument forgotten before it even began.

From the far edge of the stands, Severus watched, a plan forming in his head.

If he could make you his—if you chose him—James would never dare touch him again.

And thats how it all started.

--

The library was nearly empty by the time Severus spotted you, alone at a back table, a halo of afternoon sun catching in your hair as you flipped through a worn potions text.

He’d been watching, studying you, for days now just observing. Learning your patterns. What you liked and what you didn’t. 

You liked to study in the back corner when the tower light got too warm. You hummed when you concentrated. You sometimes chewed your quill.

 You weren’t like James — loud, smug, always needing attention. You weren’t like the rest of the school who only saw what they were told to see. You were... still. And honest.

You noticed people and that was what made this whole plan dangerous.

If he played this wrong now and you sense something off, everything falls apart. So he didn’t storm in. He waited, breathed, composed.

“That edition’s missing the revised belladonna compound,” he said, calm and even, gesturing to the page you were annotating.

You looked up, startled for only a second not having noticed him walk up to you. Then you blinked, glanced at the book, and back at him. “Really?”

He nodded once. “Page two-thirty-seven. It misstates the interaction with dittany. If you write that on Slughorn’s exam, he’ll dock you.”

You eyed him, not hostile, not flustered.

“You’re Snape, right?” you asked, voice casual.

He didn’t smile — not fully — but there was something in his face that softened.

“Severus.”

You tilted your head. “Severus,” you repeated. Not mocking. Just saying it properly.

He studied you.

“Most people don’t bother,” he said.

“With?”

“Saying my name right.”

You shrugged. “Well most people are idiots.”

He paused. That was new.

She was warmer than he expected.

Good.

This would be easier than he thought.

“You’re James’ sister.” he said. Not accusatory — just observant.

You rolled your eyes. “That obvious?”

He arched a brow. “Not if you ignore the confidence and inability to leave a sentence unsaid.”

You grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Severus hesitated

“Do you mind?” he asked motioning to the empty seats.

You shook your head, intrigued more than anything. “Not at all.”

 He nodded before he sat besides you, just enough distance to seem respectful, just close enough to say: I chose this seat.

The two of you read in silence for a while. Occasionally, he offered a correction. Once, you passed him your notes to compare formulas.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough.

The space between you wasn’t wide, but it felt... safe. He didn’t crowd you. He didn’t stare. After some time of silent studying, he turned slightly toward you, taking’ you in, his posture more open, as if he wanted to be close but wasn’t sure if he could be.

“Rough day?” he asked, noticing the slump of your shoulders.

You exhaled, giving a tired smile. “Charms today was...hard. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He nodded. “Understood.” A pause. “I’m terrible at Charms too.”

You turned, surprised. “Really?”

He gave a half-shrug. “I can do them. But I don’t like people watching me. Or expecting something impressive.”

That landed heavier than expected. Not in a dark way — just honest. Vulnerable.

You offered a soft smile. “I get that.”

He looked down at his parchment, then back at you. “You’re easy to be around.”

That made you blink. “That’s a... weird compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” he said. “I just meant... you don’t send me away like most people do.”

He offered a small, almost bashful smile — the first you’d really seen from him.

“I’m not very good at this,” he added. “People. But I like being here. With you.”

It hit something soft in your chest.

You nodded slowly. “You are not so bad. It has been quite nice having you here.“

And just like that, the silence between you changed — not heavy, not awkward. Just full of something new. Something careful. Warm.

Severus leaned in slightly, voice low. “If you ever need someone... to study with. Or not talk to. Or just... sit with... I’d be here.”

That, more than anything else, made your throat tighten. You smiled. Genuinely. “Okay.”

And for the next hour, you went back to your books and parchments side by side in quiet. Every so often, your elbows brushed. And he never once pulled away.

--

The courtyard was unusually still.

You clutched your books tighter as you crossed the stone path, the chill of the autumn air biting at your fingertips. 

You were on your way to the library when voices caught your ear — sharp, mocking, too familiar.

You slowed your steps, your stomach sinking.

There, by the fountain, Remus stood on the side looking somewhat guilty at the scene but not doing anything to stop it.

James and Sirius stood half-circled around a figure you instantly recognized — Severus Snape. His posture was rigid, arms crossed defensively, jaw tight. James twirled Severus' wand between two fingers, a lazy smirk playing on his lips.

"Come on, Snivellus, grow a pair and get it back." Sirius was laughing while James kept taunting Severus "Or maybe if you ask nicely on your knees I might have mercy."

Severus said nothing. His silence was heavy, more defiant than fearful.

Your chest twisted.

You had been talking with Severus for a few weeks now. You’d seen the way he listened when you spoke, how his voice softened when it was just you. He wasn’t the villain your brother painted him to be. Not to you.

Without thinking, you marched forward.

"James Potter," you snapped.

The laughter died instantly.

James turned, startled. "Hey, little one—"

"Give it back," you said, your voice sharp as the autumn air.

„But…“

„No but. Give it back this instant or I will not talk to you for a whole week.“

James hesitated, his face shifting between guilt and bravado. Slowly, he threw Severus’ wand back. It hit the ground at Severus’ feet with a dull clatter.

"You’re supposed to be better than this," you said, fixing James with a look that made him shift on his feet. "I am quite disappointed with you. Now apologize and let’s go."

James flushed a deep red. He opened his mouth, closed it again. With a muttered apology under his breath, he turned on his heel.

"Come on," he barked at Sirius and Remus.

They followed without a word. After a couple steps they stopped and looked back at you, expecting to follow them as well.

You stayed behind a little longer checking Severus with your gaze.

He bent to pick up his wand, tucking it carefully into his robes. When he straightened, his dark eyes found yours.

You gave him a small, soft smile.

Then you turned and walked away towards where James was still waiting for you. When you reach him he puts an arm around you, leading you away.

Completely unaware of the smug look that crossed Severus‘s face watching you leave.

It was late when you finally were leaving the library. Severus was leaning against the far wall, half in shadow, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets seemingly waiting.

He straightened the second he spotted you, that familiar guarded expression flickering into something softer.

"Fancy meeting you here," you teased lightly, slowing your steps until you stood before him.

"I was hoping to see you actually," he said quietly.

You smiled — a real one, no hesitation.

For a second, he looked like he might bolt. Then, with a sharp breath, he pulled something from his robes — a small, neatly wrapped bundle — and extended it toward you.

"I wanted to... thank you," he said.

You blinked. "Severus, you didn’t have to—"

"I wanted to," he interrupted, his voice more certain this time. "You didn’t have to step in. But you did. You didn’t just watch."

Curious, you unwrapped the package carefully.

Inside was a slender piece of parchment — not just any parchment, but a rare brewing chart you recognized immediately: a highly detailed, annotated diagram for advanced potion work. The kind of thing even sixth-years would kill to have.

You looked up at him, stunned.

"I thought you might like it," Severus said, shrugging awkwardly. "You're good at Potions. You deserve better resources than the junk Slughorn hands out."

You swallowed around the sudden tightness in your throat.

"Severus," you said softly, "this is... incredible. Thank you."

He didn’t quite meet your eyes. "It’s nothing."

You folded the chart carefully, tucking it into your satchel like something precious.

"I was just heading back to the common room," you said, a little breathless.

"I’ll walk you," Severus offered immediately.

This time, you didn’t hesitate.

You fell into step together, the castle's ancient stones echoing under your feet. Your conversation was softer now, quieter. Little smiles. Glances. A warmth growing between you.

Halfway up the marble staircase when your scarf slipped from your shoulders.

Before you could grab it, Severus’ hand was there, careful, deliberate, catching the edge and gently looping it back around your neck.

His fingers brushed your collarbone, lingering just a second too long.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He was looking at you closely, his hand still lightly against you.

"We wouldn’t want you catch cold," he murmured, so quietly you barely heard him.

You tilted your face up to his, heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

"Thank you," you whispered.

For a moment, you just stood there — suspended in something delicate, fragile.

Then Severus pulled away, so carefully it almost hurt.

Neither of you said anything more as you walked the rest of the way. But when you slipped into the common room, scarf clutched tight, you realized:

You hadn’t wanted him to pull away at all.

--

The next day, you found yourself drifting through the library earlier than usual.

Not because you needed to study but because a part of you wondered — hoped — he’d be there.

And he was.

Severus sat tucked against the far wall near the restricted section, one leg crossed over the other, a book on his knee and a quiet intensity in his expression.

You hovered a few feet away, unsure if you should approach. But he looked up the moment you shifted your weight, his expression softening when he saw you.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to find me,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “I wasn’t looking.”

He arched one brow, then glanced at the empty seat beside him. “You sure?”

You stared at him for a second — then, without answering, walked over and sat down.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, it hasn’t been for weeks.

You let it stretch, the sound of pages turning and distant footsteps filling the space.

He didn’t speak again until he noticed you eyeing the page he was reading.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “It’s hopelessly dry.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “That your subtle way of saying you’d rather talk?”

“No,” he said. “That was my not-so-subtle way of saying I’d rather hear you talk.”

Your lips twitched, caught off guard.

“You’re not nearly as slick as you think you are.”

“I’m not trying to be slick.”

“Oh? Then what exactly are you trying to be?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, quiet:

“Interesting to you.”

You turned to look at him fully — and found that he was already watching you closely.

“You are.”

He blinked — like that was the last thing he expected you to say.

You dropped your eyes back to your open book, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest.

—

Something has changed between you and Severus after that but even if you could feel it, you told yourself it meant nothing.

It meant nothing the way your stomach flipped when you caught Severus looking at you across the Potions classroom. The way he lowered his eyes a second too late, like he'd been caught.

It meant nothing the way his eyes softened slightly when you passed each other in the hallway between classesand his hand brushed yours.

He wasn’t flirting.

At least… you didn’t think so.

It was after dinner when you saw him, in the corridor outside the Charms classrooms, where the candles floated lower and the shadows moved like they were listening.

You hadn’t been looking for him.

Or maybe you had. You weren’t sure anymore.

He was standing with one shoulder against the stone wall, arms loosely crossed, eyes scanning the few students that passed — until they landed on you.

You stopped, breath catching just slightly in your throat.

“Twice in one day,” you said, voice lighter than it felt.

“Lucky me,” Severus murmured.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward you slowly — not with swagger, not trying to impress — just moving like someone who already knew he had your attention.

Because he did.

You didn’t even pretend to hide it.

“You always lurk in dark corridors?”

“Only for a certain Girl.”

That made you huff a laugh. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

He stepped close enough for your pulse to trip.

“I don’t hand those out often,” he said, voice lower now. “You should keep it safe.”

You tilted your head, caught off guard by the heat under his tone.

“You’re being bold tonight.”

“Maybe you bring it out of me.”

Your heart was hammering now — not from surprise, but from how calm he was. How intentional.

“You’re really different when no one’s around,” you said, quieter now.

“And how is that?”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked up at him instead — really looked.

Closer than he should’ve been.

Eyes sharp, but soft at the edges.

Mouth relaxed. Breath steady.

Like you were the only thing he saw.

“You’re warm and soft” you said, barely audible.

He didn’t move. But something in his eyes darkened, like he was absorbing the word and filing it away.

Only then did he take another step — enough to close the space.

Not touching you.

Just standing close enough that you could feel it — that gravity he carried when he looked at you like this.

Then, slowly — carefully — he reached up and brushed your hair behind your ear.

Just his fingers.

Just a whisper of skin on skin.

And that was all it took.

Your breath hitched.

“You have no idea just how beautiful you look right now.”

You froze.

Not because it was too much — but because you wanted him to say it again.

And he knew that.

He stepped back before you could answer.

“Walk with me?”

Your throat was dry. “Where to?”

“Anywhere.”

You did.

And by the time you got back to your common room that night, you knew it wasn’t nothing.

Severus was definitely flirting 

And you were already falling.

Hard.

--

It was later that week, you were walking down the corridor after class when you heard his voice behind you.

“Wait up.”

You turned, surprised — and there he was, slinging his satchel over one shoulder, catching up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you voluntarily speed up for anyone,” you said.

“Consider it a limited exception,” he replied. “I only do it for you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the soft blush creeping up your cheeks “how very charming.”

He didn’t answer right away. But then he looked at you, soft and quiet.

“I’m trying.”

Something flickered in your chest.

You slowed your pace, and he matched it without hesitation.

As you reached the stairwell, the two of you stopped — the space between you thick with something you didn’t quite wanted to say out loud.

“I have free time tomorrow,” he said suddenly. “After dinner.”

You tilted your head. “And?”

“And I think we should use it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “To study?”

“If you want.”

“And if I don’t?”

He shrugged lightly. “Then we’ll do something else.”

You considered him — this strange, sharp, brilliant boy who had gone from a mystery to something more… something magnetic.

Something dangerous, maybe. But not in the way that frightened you.

“All right,” you said finally. “Tomorrow.”

His eyes lit in that way they rarely did.

“Tomorrow, meet me at the Potions Classroom” he said warmly.

And when he walked away this time, it was slower.

Like he didn’t want to leave too much distance behind.

You didn’t know why he asked you to meet him here.

The Potions classroom was quiet this late — all the cauldrons scrubbed clean, the windows still fogged from the day’s heat. The stone floor echoed under your steps as you pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He was already there, standing behind one of the front benches, sleeves rolled to his elbows, two vials resting near his hand and a small, half-used page of parchment at his side.

You paused in the doorway.

“So this is ‘something else,’” you said, your voice echoing slightly.

He looked up — and there it was again. That soft flicker behind his eyes. That look he only gave you.

“Well It isn’t studying,” he said. “Not technically.”

You raised a brow. “So what is it, then?”

He stepped aside, gesturing to the bench.

“A demonstration.”

You eyed the setup warily, but curiosity tugged stronger.

You stepped closer.

“What are we making?”

“Nothing explosive,” he said. “Just… watch.”

You did — settling beside him, watching the practiced way he uncorked a vial and poured a thin, silver liquid into the pewter basin in front of you both.

“I remember you mentioned you wanted to see how to brew a Revealing Draught.”

You blinked. “I didn’t think you were actually listening when I said that.”

“I was.”

He said it like it was obvious — like of course he’d remember something small you let slip between conversations.

You glanced away to hide the way your heart tripped.

His hands moved with precision — deliberate and smooth. He showed you how the ingredients were measured. What the best way was to brew it to perfection.

And you listened, taking every word in and watching every single of his movements.

“Here you try” he said. “You have to stir counterclockwise.”

You reached for the ladle, your fingers brushing his.

He stepped back to let you have the space, observing you as you stirred the potion. His gaze made you heart speed up and you stirred a little faster.

The color shifted — faint blue to soft green.

“Too fast,” he murmured. “Like this.”

He stepped up behind you slowly, his hand sliding over yours, not forceful just guiding you with care. 

Your breath hitched as you tilted your head back to look at him over your shoulder.

“Better,” he said, voice low near your ear.

You could feel the warmth of him behind you, the steady pressure of his hand over yours. It wasn’t rushed.

When he finally let go, you missed his touch immediately.

He moved around to the other side of the bench and dropped a powdered herb into the mix. The potion shimmered and turned clear, then began to pulse — slow, steady, like a heartbeat.

You stared.

“That’s…”

“A perfectly balanced brew,” he said, not looking at it.

He was watching you.

You flushed, biting the inside of your cheek.

“You’re dangerous when you’re showing off.”

He tilted his head. “Am I showing off?”

“You planned this.”

“Yes.”

You blinked at the honesty.

“But not because I wanted to show off” he added.

“Then why?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“Because I wanted to be near you.”

It knocked the breath out of you.

The honesty. The calmness of it. The way it felt real.

You stepped back slightly, suddenly fully aware of the way your heart was close to jumping out of your chest.

He didn’t press forward. Didn’t touch you again. He just watched you, steady and patient.

You gathered your voice.

“I want to be near you too,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “That’s good to hear.”

He reached for a cloth and wiped the edge of the bench, then looked back up at you.

“I’m going to ask you something tomorrow,” he said, casual but direct.

You stared at him.

“And I hope you won’t run away screaming.”

Your throat tightened.

“Why tomorrow?”

“Because I want tonight to be just this.”

When you left the classroom a few minutes later — your hand still tingling, your chest too full — you didn’t look back.

But you knew he was still standing there.

Watching you go.

--

You weren’t surprised to find him waiting outside the library for you again.

Not this time.

He stood near the arched window, backlit by soft torchlight, his arms folded loosely. He looked calm, like he hadn’t been standing there thinking about this moment all day.

But you knew he had.

He looked up the moment he saw you, something quiet but sure passing through his eyes.

“Hey,” you said, smiling.

He stepped forward — not awkward, not shy — and stopped just in front of you.

“You remember what I said last night,” he said.

You blinked. “About what?”

“That I was going to ask you something.”

A slow flutter stirred in your chest.

“And?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Go out with me? Saturday.”

You smiled — wide, open, already nodding.

“I’d love to.”

Something almost like relief softened his expression, but it passed quickly.

“I’ll meet you after lunch,” he said. “Clock tower.”

You nodded, your stomach light and full of heat all at once.

As he turned to go, you stood there for a moment longer, still feeling the ghost of his voice in your chest.

On Saturday you found him where he said he’d be.

The clock tower courtyard was still warming in the early afternoon sun, light streaking the stone floor in golden shafts. Severus stood in the center, hands clasped behind his back.

His robes were neater than usual, pressed, clean, dark fabric draping sharply over his shoulders. His boots polished. His hair soft, falling more gently across his face.

He looked…

Beautiful.

“You look nice,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He smiled, a full one, at you.

“So do you but then again, you always do,” he said — easy, quiet, like it was just a fact.

It knocked the breath right out of you.

You walked together down toward the Black Lake, the trees shedding the last of their autumn color. The path was mostly empty. Just you and him and the hush of wind through gold-leafed branches.

Near the shore, he conjured a blanket — elegant and fast, not showy and laid out a small spread: warm cider, pumpkin pasties, and chocolate frogs tucked in a paper bag.

Simple. Perfect.

You sat close.

You told each other things that felt small and strange and real, favorite books, strange dreams, old memories you hadn’t touched in years.

He listened to every word you said. Really listened. When you laughed, his smile was soft and warm. When you looked down, he waited for you to look back.

At some point, the breeze picked up and you shivered without meaning to.

Severus didn’t say anything. He just slipped out of his outer robe and draped it over your shoulders like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was the kind of gesture you didn’t expect from him but now, couldn’t imagine from anyone else.

Your hands brushed when you reached for a cup of cider. At first, he didn’t move.

Then his fingers turned under yours, slow and careful.

You laced your fingers into his, your heart doing something wild in your chest.

He glanced at your joined hands. Then, without a word, he lifted yours and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

Soft. Slow. Intentional.

His eyes searching yours, giving you space to stop him as he slowly leaned in, you didn’t hesitate.

You met him halfway.

His lips were warm. Gentle. Just the right amount of unsure.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting.Like you were already his. 

His hand touched your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like you were made of glass.

You melted into it — the kiss, the moment, the quiet between you.

Deep inside, Severus was celebrating.

But on the outside?

He was flawless. The perfect boy.

And you — You never stood a chance.

--

Something about you had changed.

James noticed it almost immediately — the way you floated down the halls, the way your eyes sparkled when you thought no one was watching. The way you couldn’t stop smiling at nothing at all. He knew it

He teased you for it, of course — he was your brother, after all — ruffling your hair when you laughed too easily, bumping his shoulder into yours when you daydreamed through breakfast.

"You’ve got that stupid, love sick look on your face again," he said one morning in the Great Hall, grinning.

You rolled your eyes, biting into your toast. "I’m allowed to be happy, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," James said, nudging you. "Just don’t let it rot your brain."

But inside, he was happy too. You deserved someone good. Someone who made you feel like this.

He just hadn’t realized yet who that someone was. Until he saw you.

James was just heading toward the library, laughing with Sirius about the prank they'd pulled on Filch when he caught sight of you — and stopped cold. His laughter dying in his throat.

You were standing close — too close — to Severus Snape.

You tilted your head back at something Severus said, brushing his arm with yours, The way Severus looked at you angled slightly down, eyes soft, mouth relaxed. 

And when Severus leaned in — not touching, but near enough to kiss if either of you tilted your heads an inch, James swore his heart stopped. 

He watched, frozen, as Severus reached up to tuck your hair behind your ear. while you — his little sister — beamed up at him like he had hung the bloody moon and stars himself. The way he did is so casually, fingers grazing your temple with such calculated softness, like he had done it a thousand times before, made James' fists clench.

Beside James, Sirius noticing how his friend had gone quiet, turned to follow his gaze and immediately swore under his breath.

"Bloody hell," Sirius muttered. "That has to be a joke."

And just as you slowly leaned up to press a soft kiss to Severus lips

 “Oi!” 

James didn’t waste another second and was already moving. You startled at his voice, turning quickly as he stormed up. Sirius trailed behind him, tense and silent, clearly knowing not to get in between what’s gonna happen next.

Severus tensed slightly behind you, but when you turned to look at him, concern flashing across your face, Severus ducked his head — quiet, gentle, even bashful.

James wanted to hex the look right off him.

"What do you think you are doing?" James demanded, voice sharp.

"What do you mean? I just wanted to kiss him" you said, your voice laced with confusion. 

"Are you mental? Why would you kiss that ugly git?" James blurted, immediately regretting it when your face hardened.

"James," you said warningly, "I will not stand here while you insult my boyfriend."

James stared at you like you had grown a second head. "You’re dating Snivellus?"

You crossed your arms. "His name is Severus. I would appreciate if you would call him that and not by that insult. And yes, I am dating him.“

Severus, standing behind you, tilted his head slightly — a barely-there motion — and smirked at James over your shoulder.

"You—he—" James spluttered, jabbing a finger at Severus.

“He’s not who you think he is,” James tried again, lowering his voice. “He’s—”

“I’m happy,” you said, more softly now. „He makes me happy. Isn't that what you should want?“

And just like that, James was undone because that was all it took. He let out a slow breath and stepped back and nodded once.

You turned then, fussing with Severus’ scarf like it was the most natural thing in the world, smoothing it down, murmuring something too low for James to catch. Severus cheeks flushed his gaze dropping like he was embarrassed by the attention.

James could see the truth, though. He could see something like triumph glittering in Severus’ eyes.

It made his stomach churn but he bit his tongue. Because no matter how much he hated it, he knew one thing:

If he pushed too hard, if he hurt Severus now — he’d hurt you.

And he would never, never do that.

James watched Severus look over your shoulder one more time. The smirk was gone but the message was clear.

Checkmate.

From that day on, Severus was always there.

Wherever you were, he wasn’t far behind — your shadow in the best way. You’d gotten used to the feel of his hand finding yours in passing, the low rumble of his voice at your ear, the warmth of him brushing against you when you sat together too close.

And he was always close.

He walked with you between classes. He waited outside the library. He joined you for breakfast when the Great Hall was quiet, slipping into the seat beside you like he belonged there.

You didn’t question it.

He carried your books. He kissed your cheek when you handed him his tea. He brushed his fingers through your hair when you weren’t paying attention, soft and slow, like it was second nature.

It was.

You were sitting on the stone ledge outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower, your legs draped over his lap, your hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve while you talked about nothing in particular.

Severus wasn’t really listening.

He was looking past you — across the courtyard where James stood with Sirius and Remus, pretending not to notice.

But he did notice.

He always did.

So Severus leaned in and pressed a kiss to your jaw — slow, warm, deliberate.

You blinked and smiled, tilting your head to meet him. “What was that for?”

“Felt like it,” he murmured, brushing another kiss to your collarbone, just below the line of your scarf.

You laughed, a little breathless. “You’re being sweet today.”

His eyes flicked up, past you.

Straight to James.

And then he smiled.

Just a little.

That night at dinner, you tugged Severus down into the seat beside you at the end of the Gryffindor table — the spot everyone politely pretended not to see anymore.

James watched from further down — quiet, tight-lipped.

You were too busy slipping a Chocolate Frog into Severus’s hand and leaning your head against his shoulder to notice.

He kissed your hair once. Then again.

And then once more — this time brushing his lips lower, to the side of your neck.

You giggled and pulled him closer, murmuring something about how he always got more affectionate when he was tired.

Severus didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Because he could feel James’s stare boring through the side of his head.

He reached under the table, laced his fingers with yours, and pulled your joined hands into his lap.

You smiled against his neck.

James got up and left without finishing his meal.

--

You were sitting together on the low stone wall near the Charms corridor, the last sun of the day casting long shadows behind you. Your legs were tucked to the side, your shoulder against Severus’s chest, his arm around your waist.

You were laughing at something — one of those little observations you made that no one else ever seemed to notice.

Severus wasn’t really listening.

Not at first.

He was watching across the courtyard, where James leaned against the far wall with Sirius, arms crossed, eyes locked on the two of you like it physically pained him.

Severus turned toward you, brushing your hair back behind your ear — soft, deliberate.

“Hold still,” he said.

You blinked, confused, and then laughed when he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Sev—what are you doing?” you giggled.

“Kissing you.”

Your smile widened. “Well, carry on, then.”

And he did.

He kissed you again — your cheek, your jaw, the curve just beneath your ear — until you were warm and breathless and burying your face in the crook of his neck, trying not to squeal.

Severus glanced up one more time.

James was gone.

but he didn’t stop.

Later, back in your little hidden classroom, the lamps glowed low, casting golden shadows on the walls. You had Severus’s robes balled up under your head and your legs draped across his lap, twirling his hair between your fingers while you talked softly about absolutely nothing.

He watched you — head tilted, eyes steady — like you were something distant and glowing, like you might vanish if he blinked too hard.

He didn’t mean to reach for you.

But he did.

His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward him — not sharply, not with intent.

Just… need.

You quieted.

His mouth brushed yours — slow, slow, and again. And again.

It wasn’t sharp this time. Not strategic.

It was aching. Sincere.

Your fingers slid into his hair. You kissed him back like he was everything.

And Severus forgot, just for a second, that he wasn’t.

--

The castle was mostly quiet when you stepped into the old classroom.

It had become yours over the past few months — yours and Severus’s. No one else came here. You doubted anyone even remembered it existed.

The lamps flickered low, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The air was warm, and the blanket you’d brought last week still lay folded on the windowsill bench.

Severus was already there.

He didn’t look up at first — just sat at the edge of the desk, his hands resting loosely in his lap, his posture tight in a way you recognized too well.

You dropped your bag without a word and crossed the room.

When you reached him, you touched his sleeve lightly. “Rough day?”

He nodded once.

You didn’t press. You never had to.

You just stepped between his knees and gently peeled his robe from his shoulders, folding it neatly beside him before brushing his hair back from his face.

“You haven’t eaten, have you?”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

You huffed softly and reached into your bag, pulling out the small bundle you’d stashed from dinner — a roll, an apple, a bit of chocolate.

You handed it to him and raised your eyebrows.

He didn’t argue.

You sat beside him on the desk, thigh pressed to his, and leaned your head on his shoulder while he took slow bites of the food you’d brought.

“Better,” you said quietly.

He didn’t respond, but you felt the way his shoulder softened beneath you.

You reached for his hand — fingers cold, a little ink-stained — and held it between yours, brushing your thumb over his knuckles.

“You work too hard,” you murmured. “You don’t sleep enough. You forget to eat. Honestly, sometimes I think I’m dating a ghost.”

His lips quirked just barely.

“I mean it,” you said, looking up. “Someone’s got to take care of you.”

He looked at you then — really looked.

And whatever he meant to say never came out.

Because you leaned up and kissed his cheek, then his temple, then the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, you know,” you said.

So casually. So easily. Like it was just true.

Because it was.

Severus didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just sat still, your warmth pressed against him, your fingers gently brushing through his hair like you didn’t realize you were touching something fragile.

He pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist — not out of panic, but something quieter.

Need.

In a move so smooth it made your breath hitch, he pulled you into his lap.

"You can't just—" you began, laughing quietly.

He silenced you with a kiss.

It was deeper than usual — slower, heavier — his hand splaying across the small of your back, holding you firmly against him.

You melted into him without thinking, one hand finding the nape of his neck, fingers curling into his hair.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far — resting his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

"You always spoil me," he whispered.

You grinned, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. "You deserve it."

You meant it. With everything you had.

It hit him deeply and all at once:

If you found out…

He wouldn’t just lose the plan. He’d lose this. The quiet. The comfort. The way you looked at him like he mattered.

He didn’t want to be without you.

And the fear of that — of losing you — settled deeper than he liked.

Later, at dinner, you made sure to sit with him in the Great Hall — ignoring the way Sirius arched an eyebrow and Remus coughed awkwardly into his pumpkin juice.

James watched the two of you from across the table, silent, chewing mechanically through his food like it might break in his mouth.

You barely noticed.

You were too busy fussing with Severus — pushing his hair back from his face, slipping a Chocolate Frog into his pocket, murmuring little things only he could hear.

Severus let you.

He basked in it.

He kissed you, slow, lingering kisses that left you dizzy and smiling and clutching at his robes like you couldn’t stand not touching him.

Sometimes, his hand would slide to your waist, pulling you closer. Sometimes it would skim up your back under your robes, fingers splaying against your spine — possessive, sure.

Each time you leaned into it without hesitation, letting yourself drown in him.

Each time James watched with gritted teeth, fists clenched beneath the table.

--

James had lasted longer than anyone expected.

He’d watched you throw your arms around Severus in the corridors. Watched you giggle when Severus whispered something only you could hear. Watched you sit in his lap, touch his hair, press your lips to his like there was no one else in the world.

And James said nothing.

For weeks, he held it in — every instinct screaming at him to drag you away, to hex Snape where he stood — but he didn’t.

Because you were happy.

And James Potter would rather choke on his anger than wipe the smile off your face.

But there were limits.

And tonight — they shattered.

The library was nearly empty. The lamps burned low, casting long shadows between the shelves.

James waited by the main arch — arms crossed, jaw clenched, heart pounding too loud in his ears.

Severus stepped out from a side aisle, his usual smooth precision in every step. Calm. Composed.

James moved into his path.

They stood facing each other in silence — neither blinking.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” James asked, voice quietly, dangerously calm.

Severus gave a slow, deliberate blink. "No idea what you mean," he said, voice dripping with false innocence.

"You’re not subtle," James said. "You’re using her. Touching her, parading her around in front of me like some twisted game.“

Severus tilted his head slightly eyes turning harder for a fraction.

"Maybe if you hadn’t spent years making my life miserable, Potter," he said softly, "I wouldn’t have needed a shield."

“So that’s what she is to you? A solution to me?”  James laughed out, humorless.

“She gave me peace,” Severus muttered. “That’s more than you ever did.”

"You’re lying to her," James snapped at him his voice dangerous. “She thinks you love her.”

Severus hesitated, the word catching on his tongue. 

“She was—She made it easy to stop all of it. I didn’t plan for it to go this far.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then — so quiet it barely landed:

“She was just… convenient.”

The words hung in the air like a curse.

And from behind them, a soft sound — a book hitting the floor.

Both boys turned.

You stood frozen in the aisle your fingers trembling.

Your eyes — wide and stunned — locked onto Severus.

"Convenient," you repeated, barely audible.

You swayed slightly where you stood. James moved immediately, crossing to you without hesitation.

You didn't pull away.

You let him catch you, his arms wrapping around you tightly, grounding you.

Severus took a small step forward.

"Y/N—" he said, voice rougher now, almost panicked.

You shook your head fiercely, pressing your face into James’ shoulder.

Severus kept talking, desperate now. "I didn’t mean—"

You lifted your head, tears streaking silently down your cheeks, and cut him off.

“Stop,” you said, voice sharp now. “Just… stop.”

He froze.

“I believed you,” you said, voice soft and wrecked. “Every word. Every look. I believed it all.”

Severus stepped forward again.

“Y/N—wait, I didn’t—”

“Don’t” you said — not loud, but it cut clean. “Don’t come near me.”

He faltered. “You don’t understand—”

"Stay away from me," you said, voice shaking but strong. "You got what you wanted. I hope you are happy now.“

The words hit Severus harder than he thought they ever could.

James tightened his grip around you protectively.

„Stay away from us,“ James said, voice low and sharp. „And we will stay away from you.“

Severus opened his mouth — but no words came out.

James turned, guiding you away gently but firmly, one hand between your shoulder blades, keeping you steady.

You didn't look back.

And Severus — Severus stood there, watching you go, the crushing weight of guilt settling heavy in his chest.

--

It was worse than he had expected.

Severus thought he had prepared for it — thought he could stomach the cost of losing you. After all, it had been a game. A plan.

A way to get James to stop tormenting him.

It wasn’t supposed to hurt.

And yet —

Every time you passed him in the corridors, your arm looped through your brother’s, eyes sliding right past him like he’d never existed — it felt like a blade twisting in his ribs.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t acknowledge him at all.

You made yourself deaf to the way he sometimes stumbled in your wake, as if drawn after you like a ghost.

You were colder than any hex. And it destroyed him.

The Great Hall was louder now — every scrape of cutlery, every shout, every burst of laughter like a hammer to the skull.

Without you beside him, it was unbearable.

Severus picked at his meals in silence, alone at the end of the Slytherin table, eyes drawn helplessly to the cluster of Gryffindors halfway down the hall.

You sat between James and Lily, laughing at something Sirius said, your smile strained but brave.

James kept a protective arm draped casually across the back of your chair, his eyes always scanning, always watching — daring Severus to come closer.

Severus didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not because of James.

Because of you.

Because every time you smiled through the ache, something inside him cracked — slow, quiet, and bleeding.

You still carried yourself with pride — back straight, chin up but Severus could see the cracks if he looked hard enough.

The moments when you went quiet, staring off into nothing. The way your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your robes when you thought no one was watching.

The way you blinked fast sometimes, like you were forcing the tears down before they could escape.

He had done that. He had taken your trust — your love — and shattered it.

And he hadn't even realized what he had until it was gone.

One night, he found himself standing outside the Gryffindor Tower entrance — stupid, pathetic, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of you through the open portrait hole.

He didn’t see you.

But he heard your laugh — soft, tired, real — floating down from somewhere inside.

Not for him.

Never for him again.

Severus turned away, his hands shaking in his pockets, guilt rotting inside him like poison.

He’d won.

But it didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like he’d set fire to the only thing that had ever made him feel whole.

Severus hadn’t meant to stop.

He was just passing through, head down, hands shoved deep in his pockets, thoughts tangled with you — like they always were.

And then — there you were.

Sitting on the stone bench by the fountain, the late afternoon sun catching in your hair, laughing — actually laughing — at something the boy beside you said.

Some Ravenclaw — all clean lines and easy charm, the kind of boy who never had to fight to be liked.

You leaned in closer when you laughed, touching the boy’s arm lightly, your smile bright and open and full of something Severus hadn’t seen in weeks.

He froze, the world narrowing to a single, unbearable point.

You looked... happy.

Happy like he had made you in all those weeks of kisses and whispered lies.

Happy in the way you had only ever looked at him.

The Dull ache in his chest got stronger with every heartbeat. 

He missed the way you fussed over him. The warmth of your hands, the soft murmurs, the way you sat pressed against him like you were proud to be his.

He missed all of it.

He missed you.

And in that moment — watching you laugh for someone else — he realized what he’d done. It hadn’t been a game. Not for a long time.

He had loved you. Not with flowers or poetry. But in the way you made him feel human. In the way you saw him — wanted him — before he even wanted himself.

And he had destroyed it.

Because he hadn’t realized until now — until he saw you moving on without him — that what he had with you wasn’t just a shield.

It had been real.

And he had thrown it away for something that didn’t even feel peaceful anymore.

Severus leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, his legs suddenly weak.

He watched you laugh again, tilting your head back, and something inside him cracked so loudly he was sure the whole world could hear it.

It was over.

You weren’t his to love anymore.

--

Severus heard the rumor before he saw it. A whisper over pumpkin juice. A scribbled note passed under the Ravenclaw table.

You’d been asked out. You’d said yes. You were moving on.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. He’d used you.

But somehow — stupidly — part of him had still believed there might be time. Time to fix it. Time to deserve you.

He hoped that he had still time to find a way to make it up to you but that part of him died that morning.

Something hollowed out inside him, sharp and aching.

When he saw James laughing with Sirius outside Defense class, something in him snapped.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t speak.

Just swung — hard — and hit James square in the jaw.

James stumbled back, shocked — then snarled.

“You’re dead.”

The punch came fast. James’s fist cracked against Severus’s jaw, snapping his head to the side.

Severus didn’t move. Didn’t lift a hand. Just stood there, arms loose at his sides, as James hit him again — harder this time — and sent him sprawling.

The corridor filled fast — students pouring in, eager for blood. Some gasped. Some laughed. A few even cheered.

Severus didn’t hear them. Not really.

James didn’t stop. He leaned down and hit him again. And again.

Severus didn’t move. Somewhere in the roaring in his ears, he caught Sirius’s voice — then a kick to the ribs. Pain burst behind his eyes. The floor tilted.

Another fist. Another kick. He took it all. Not because he was numb 

but because this was what he deserved. For lying. For realizing too late that he’d loved you, and that he’d destroyed the one good thing he’d ever had. Let them hurt him. Let it leave a mark.

He wanted it to hurt.

He didn’t notice at all but something shifted — the noise cut off, laughter stilled, tension thickened. Then—

“James!”

Your voice. Raw. Horrified. Real.

You didn’t hesitate.

You ran straight to James, grabbing his arm, yanking him back.

His fist froze mid-swing.

He was panting, wild-eyed, hands still shaking.

The silence was thick — heavy and watching.

Severus stayed down, vision swimming, ears ringing, blood warm on his face.

Then you were there. Dropping to your knees. Reaching for him.

“Oh my…”

He flinched before your fingers touched him.

“We need to get you to the infirmary,” you said, your voice breaking. You reached for him — gentle, steady — but he jerked away like your touch burned.

“No.” His voice was raw, wrecked. “Don’t.”

You froze, hand suspended in the air. Hurt flickered across your face, but still — you tried again.

“You’re bleeding. You need—”

“I don’t want your help,” he snapped, sharper this time, bitter and afraid.

The words cut deeper than any bruise.

“Severus—”

“Just go.”

The crowd thinned fast. Laughter faded to uneasy whispers. Eyes darted away. No one wanted to be the last one watching.

James stood off to the side now, fists loose, chest heaving — guilt already setting in like bruises under the skin.

You stayed.

Still on your knees, still reaching for Severus, even after everything.

“I’m not leaving you here,” you said, voice shaking but firm.

He shut his eyes. Your hands touched his arm — soft, insistent — and it nearly broke him.

He didn’t deserve this. Not from you. Not after everything.

And that — that — hurt more than every punch James had thrown.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to stand. Didn’t want you to see him like this — bloody, weak, ruined.

But you were still there.

So he turned his face away, jaw tight, and forced himself upright with a sharp groan — pain lighting up behind his eyes.

You reached for him — not thinking, just moving — your hand slipping under his arm, steadying him as he tried to sit up.

“Let me help—”

He pulled away. Not rough. Not angry. Just... empty.

You froze, watching as he braced one hand against the cold stone floor, struggling to push himself upright. His ribs clearly screamed with pain. His lip was bleeding. His breath came shallow and uneven.

Still, he shoved himself to his feet.

He swayed.

You moved forward again, instinctively, hand outstretched—

“I said don’t.”

His voice was hoarse. Low. Final.

You stopped.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t say anything else.

Just turned — slow, stiff — and limped down the corridor, one arm wrapped around his middle, blood dripping down his jaw.

You stood there.

Watching.

Waiting for him to turn back.

He didn’t.

You’d seen people fall apart before.

Friends crying over exams. Students cracking under pressure.

But this wasn’t stress.

This wasn’t fear.

This was Severus quietly erasing himself.

You noticed it first in Potions.

He stopped arriving on time. Stopped wearing his robes properly. His shirt always wrinkled, his hair unbrushed, hanging in his eyes.

He stopped raising his hand. Stopped taking notes.

He barely seemed to breathe.

And you hated it. Hated that you still noticed. Hated that you still cared. Because you were supposed to hate him. Because he deserved it.

But the ache in your chest kept growing — steady, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Then he stopped showing up at all. One day. Two. Three. Four. No one knew where he’d gone.

The Slytherins stayed silent. The professors frowned, but didn’t say anything about it.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself to stop thinking about him. You tried.

Then you heard it.

Two Hufflepuffs outside Charms — whispering, grinning.

“Did you hear? Snape got into it with Mulciber yesterday. Nearly got knocked out.” “Yeah, and someone said he picked a fight with three Ravenclaws. Because of that rumor — one of them dating (Y/N) Potter.” “Slughorn told McGonagall he’ll get expelled if it keeps up.”

You froze. The blood drained from your face.

Expulsion. Fights. Severus — who had once clung to ambition like a lifeline, who just wanted quiet, who only ever wanted peace — was throwing it all away.

No. You didn’t want to believe it. But the fear clawed up your throat anyway.

You searched the whole castle. The library. Empty classrooms. Dark corners where you used to meet in.

Nothing.

It was like he’d vanished. Like he didn't exist anymore.

And for the first time since he broke your heart— You were scared. Really, truly scared.

It was nearly midnight when a soft tap on your shoulder pulled you out of your thoughts.

You turned.

Lily stood there — red hair loose, eyes tired, holding something close to her chest.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

In her hands was a small box.

“This is for you,” Lily said. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were full of something that looked like regret. “From Severus.”

Your stomach knotted. You couldn’t speak.

She gently pressed the box into your hands. “He asked me to deliver it. That’s all.”

You nodded, wordless.

She lingered for a moment — like there was more she wanted to say. But instead, she stepped back and sank quietly into one of the armchairs across the room.

Not leaving. Just staying close. Respecting a grief she couldn’t name, and couldn’t fix.

You sank into the nearest chair by the fire, the box like a weight in your lap. It was plain. Unmarked. Small.

Inside, wrapped in soft brown paper, was a book. A rare potions text — the one you’d mentioned months ago in passing. You hadn’t even thought he’d heard you.

You didn’t even realize you were crying — not until a tear hit the cover.

You wiped it away fast, almost frustrated.

Your hands were shaking as you opened the first page.

At the bottom of the first page — small, careful, like he didn’t dare write it any bigger:

I love you.

You blinked — once. Twice.

Then turned the page.

There it was again. Just beneath a potion diagram, tucked between the inked lines:

I love you.

Another page. Scribbled faintly in the margin beside a brewing chart:

I love you.

They were everywhere.

Tiny. Hidden. Buried in corners and curves. Like he didn’t know if you’d ever see them. Like he had to say it anyway. Over and over. Because he couldn’t say it out loud.

Each one tore at you.

Each one made it harder to breathe.

By the time you reached the last page, your hands were trembling.

At the bottom of the inside cover, the writing changed — rougher now, uneven. The ink was smudged in one place, like something wet had struck the page and dried there.

A single tear, maybe.

I wasn’t brave enough to say this to your face. Not after everything. Not when I know you don’t want to hear it.

I know you’ve moved on. I know this won’t change anything. Maybe you won’t even read this. But I had to say it somewhere. At least once.

Be happy. That’s what I want for you. That’s all that matters now.

I will be gone soon, I will make sure this is the last time you’ll hear from me. I promise.

I won’t bother you again. I won’t let myself.

just know I never meant to hurt you.

I love you.

You pressed your forehead to the book, holding it to your chest like it could keep you from falling apart.

Your heart broke in quiet, shuddering pieces.

You were still sitting by the fire when James stepped into the common room.

Lily had been watching from the armchair. When she caught James’s eye, she gave the smallest shake of her head — subtle, quick. A silent message only someone who knew her well would understand.

It’s not good.

James didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in a few long strides and lowered himself beside you, voice soft.

“Hey, little one. What’s going on?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him. Just clung to the book like it was the only thing left keeping you together.

James leaned in, eyes narrowing as he took in the frayed cover and trembling in your grip.

He reached for the book — slow, gentle — and you let him take it.

He opened it. His eyes landed on the first scrawled I love you.

Then another. And another. Written between diagrams, slipped into margins like secrets.

And finally — The last page.

James’s stomach dropped.

You broke.

A sob ripped out of you — low, raw, uncontrollable — and you crumpled into James’s chest like you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore.

He caught you immediately, arms locking tight around you — solid, steady, safe. You buried your face into his shoulder, fingers clutching at his sleeve.

“He said he will be gone soon,” you whispered. “I think… I think he meant it. They said he’s going to be expelled if he keeps fighting.”

James closed his eyes, burying his chin in your hair.

„It will be alright…“

“I don’t want him gone,” you choked out. “I love him. So much.”

Another sob tore through you, louder this time — broken, desperate — as you clung to James like he was the last solid thing in the world.

“I don’t want to lose him like this…”

For all the anger James had ever felt toward Severus Snape — all the hate, all the history — nothing had ever cut deeper than this.

Watching you cry like that. And knowing he couldn’t undo any of it.

But he could do what he’d always done.

He held you close. One arm around you.

The other gripping the book — the one thing Severus had left behind that still held the pieces of your heart.

He couldn't undo it but he sure as hell can fix it.

(Part 2 will be up later)

[writeriguess]

Omggggg that Katsuki in a lake with you and professing his love at a campfire was sooooo cute!! Could you write a scenario for Kirishima?

Katsuki fic this comment mentions

Under the Moonlight

The crackling campfire casts flickering shadows across the trees as the Bakusquad laughs, passing around drinks and sharing exaggerated stories. You’re curled up on a log, the warmth of the fire kissing your skin while Kirishima sits across from you, his eyes constantly darting to you when he thinks no one’s looking. He’s been like this all trip—stealing glances, fidgeting, acting a little too eager to help whenever you need something.

You’re not oblivious. You’ve known him long enough to notice when something’s up. But tonight, you decide to push the limits a little.

Stretching your arms above your head, you announce, “I think I’m gonna go for a swim.”

Mina perks up immediately. “Ooooh, nighttime swim? Count me in!”

“Nah, it’s gonna be a solo swim,” you reply with a smirk, standing up and dusting off your shorts. “Just need to cool off.”

There’s a round of teasing comments, mostly from Kaminari and Sero, but you wave them off as you make your way down the dirt path leading to the lake. You hear someone shifting behind you, but when you glance over your shoulder, everyone seems to be in their usual spots—except for Kirishima, who suddenly won’t meet your eyes.

The lake is calm, reflecting the silver glow of the full moon. You tug off your clothes, letting the night air nip at your skin before stepping into the cool water. A shiver runs through you, but it’s refreshing, washing away the lingering heat from the fire. You wade deeper, the water rising past your waist, up to your shoulders, until you’re fully submerged, floating under the stars.

A soft rustle from the trees makes your ears perk.

You tilt your head, barely making out a figure crouching behind some bushes near the pier. The moonlight is just bright enough to catch a flash of red—Kirishima’s hair.

Your lips curve into a knowing smile.

“Kiri,” you call out, your voice cutting through the stillness of the night. “You planning on just watching, or are you gonna join me?”

A sharp intake of breath. Then, a loud thud.

“Shit!” Kirishima stumbles forward, crashing through the brush like a startled animal. He barely catches himself on the wooden railing of the pier, looking completely busted. His face is burning, even in the dim light.

“I—I wasn’t spying!” he blurts out, hands flailing in panic. “I just—uh—I was checking to see if you were okay! You know, since it’s dark and all, and—”

You laugh, the sound soft and teasing. “Kiri, relax. I don’t mind.”

He blinks, stunned. “You… don’t?”

“Nope.” You tilt your head toward the water. “Why don’t you come in?”

“I—uh—” His throat bobs as he swallows hard. He’s looking anywhere but directly at you, eyes darting from the lake to the pier, to the trees, back to the pier. You can practically see the war waging in his head.

“I mean, it’s only fair,” you continue, watching him squirm. “You already got an eyeful, right?”

His face somehow gets redder. “That’s not—! I wasn’t—!”

You laugh again, wading closer to the pier. “Come on, Kiri. Live a little.”

Something in your voice snaps whatever self-control he had left. With a deep breath, he tugs off his shirt, revealing his sculpted chest, then hesitates. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters before unbuttoning his shorts and letting them drop.

You smirk as he steps onto the ladder leading down into the water, gripping the metal bars with a tense, white-knuckled grip. His movements are hesitant, but as soon as the water touches his skin, he exhales a shuddering breath.

“Damn, it’s cold,” he murmurs, wading toward you.

“You’ll get used to it,” you assure him.

The air between you is thick with something unspoken, something electric. The moon casts a soft glow on his face, highlighting the nervous yet hungry look in his eyes as he stares at you. Your bodies are close—closer than they should be, considering you’re both completely bare beneath the water.

And then, he moves.

It’s subtle at first, just the brush of his fingers against your waist. But when you don’t pull away, he lets his hand settle, gripping you gently, testing the waters—literally and figuratively.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs, voice husky.

Instead of answering, you press against him, chest to chest, feeling the heat of his body despite the cool water surrounding you.

“Yeah,” you breathe, tilting your head up.

That’s all the invitation he needs.

His lips crash into yours, eager and desperate, like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him as the water ripples around you. His tongue sweeps against yours, and you moan softly, threading your fingers through his damp hair.

He presses you back against the pier’s ladder, the metal cold against your skin, but his body is warm—so warm. His hands roam, mapping every inch of you, and soon, all that exists is him. The water splashes softly as he lifts you, positioning you just right.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your throat. “You’re so perfect…”

You bite your lip, arching into him as he pushes inside, slow but deep. The sensation makes your breath hitch, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He groans, forehead pressing against yours as he starts moving, each thrust sending waves rippling across the lake.

It’s frantic and messy, all pent-up emotions and unspoken feelings spilling out between gasps and moans. He grips the ladder behind you for leverage, his other hand cupping the back of your neck as he kisses you like he never wants to stop.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he confesses in a breathless whisper.

You whimper in response, rolling your hips against him. “Me too, Kiri…”

That seems to undo him completely.

His pace quickens, his breathing ragged as he chases his release, pulling you along with him. The pier creaks slightly with the movement, the night filled with nothing but the sound of water lapping against the wood and your shared moans.

And when you both finally unravel, tangled in each other, the world feels still—like it’s just the two of you, floating under the stars.

—

Later that night, back at the campfire, Kirishima is slumped against the log, cheeks flushed from alcohol and lingering post-bliss haze. You’re sitting beside him, barely able to keep a straight face as he suddenly claps a heavy hand on your shoulder.

“I love you,” he declares loudly, voice slurred but undeniably sincere.

The entire group goes dead silent.

Bakugo chokes on his drink.

Mina’s jaw drops.

Sero and Kaminari immediately start howling with laughter.

“You what?!” Mina shrieks.

Kirishima blinks slowly, as if just realizing what he said. Then, he groans, burying his face in his hands. “Shit.”

You laugh, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I love you too, dumbass.”

The group erupts into chaos, but all you can focus on is Kirishima’s dopey, lovestruck grin as he leans into you.

Maybe this camping trip wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

[xiiithhazard]

Chaos Control

Knuckles tracks down a chaos source that could threaten his home. (Movie Verse)

Word Prompt – Begrudging

@year-of-the-echidna

(Warnings at the end)

…

Knuckles opened his eyes when something seemed to pull at him, something from inside his own body. A sensation he hadn’t felt since finding The Master Emerald, signifying the end of his journey. However, as he sat up in his bed and focused, he realized that kind, yet demanding touch had returned.

Turning around he checked on his brothers, both of whom were still fast asleep, neither one of them even aware of the strange energy in the air. Not even Sonic, who had been the last to hold possession of the Emerald, before it had been lost to the void, upon the destruction of the eclipse cannon.

Another tug against his soul and Knuckles slowly got up, making his way toward the window and looked out at the stars. However, the pull did not originate from there. It was instead much closer. Coming from the surface of the planet he currently stood upon.

Again, it pulled on him and he could no longer ignore it. And so, taking one last moment to make sure that his clan would be safe while he was gone, he silently leapt to the circular window in the ceiling and made his way out onto the roof. Keeping his steps light upon the tiles as he oriented himself, finally focusing on the direction in which he was being called.

…

It took him a couple of hours to finally pinpoint the exact location of the energy source. Though the closer he got to it, the less he was sure of what it was. The sensation of pure chaos was that of the emeralds, yet it was only one.

He’d been afraid of that.

Without him present to restore it, the seven Chaos Emeralds were now let loose upon the world. Separated and scattered to who knew where, doing who knew what, just waiting for some unlucky sap to pick one up and go mad with power. That was why, even if the sensation of its energy felt worryingly - off, he had to secure it before something happened.

However, his quest was cut short, when the pull led him straight into the solid stone face of a cliff. Grumbling to himself, the echidna turned his eyes to the top of the wall, trying to focus on the pull and its point of origin. But it wasn’t coming from above, so he walked alongside the wall for a bit, only to snap back when the energy signal moved.

He only just managed to get his arm up to defend himself, as a mass of Chaos power crashed into him, and he had to swallow a scream of pain when his already broken wrist cracked under the pressure. With his vision going white for a second, he couldn’t see what was attacking him, before it suddenly snapped out of existence, only to reappear on his undefended side. However, this time he’d sensed it coming and reached out to wrap his fist around the attacking figure’s neck.

Twisting his whole body into the throw, he leveled the creature directly into the cliff face. The force of the impact sending a crack charging up the wall and creating a massive hole where a familiar shape rested at the center, clearly shocked by the sudden turn of events. And, for a horrifying second, Knuckles thought it was Sonic. But when his vision cleared of the pain, he realized it was another hedgehog.

“Shadow?” He asked, honestly shocked. They had all believed him to be dead. But before he could determine anything else, the hedgehog lifted his head, eye’s sparking with orange chaos energy, as he vanished again.

Still able to sense the lingering power of the Master Emerald within his attacker, Knuckles was able to pinpoint his returning location and prepared his defenses for the impact. However, he was still sent flying back into the forest from the pure strength behind the strike.

Branches and leaves snapped under him, as he rolled into the fall, eventually coming to a harsh stop at the base of a large tree, where he found himself gasping for air, his ribs protesting with each breath. But yet, he couldn’t help but smile. It had been so long since he’d had a worthy opponent, and while he truly loved his new home, there was really nothing there that could challenge him.

However, he kept his excitement in check, as he could still sense the vortex of energies inside his opponent. Now that he was close enough, he realized it was not a chaos emerald at all, but instead an intense built up of pure power that was likely equivalent to one, yet this was darker, fueled by fear and rage.

It was so intense that he was actually surprised Shadow was keeping it under control at all. Of course, that was before he looked up to find that the hedgehog had stopped his attack and was instead meandering about, clutching his head in pain. Clearly fighting to stay in command. However, the more he pushed it back down, the more pressure was built.

Even he wouldn’t be able to contain it forever.

Understanding now what he was looking at, Knuckles carefully got back to his feet, causing the hedgehog to freeze up for a split second, before turning to lock his eyes on the echidna. An action that honestly made him look more like a cornered and frightened animal, than the power chaos warrior he really was. But it didn’t take long for that unnatural vulnerability to fade again, replaced by a more familiar rage.

“What do you want?” He growled. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Realizing that his intentions had been misunderstood, Knuckles opened his mouth to explain. But didn’t get the chance, before the hedgehog was attacking him again. And, again, this was not a normal reaction.

Though they had met just a few times and fought only once, Knuckles had gotten a good read on his opponent. Shadow wasn’t the type to strike first, he was more patient than that, he waited for the opportunity, when his enemy had dropped their guard in the initial, overconfident moments of their attack. The fact that he had given up on the strategy that had won him so many battles was proof of just how panicked he truly was.

However, Knuckles couldn’t afford to show him sympathy. Shadow was not someone he could simply hesitate against. If he didn’t fight back, the hedgehog would go right through him.

Sensing the incoming attack, he dodged, just as Shadow reappeared to crush the tree he’d been leaning against. The force of the blow, sending the thing tumbling into the forest, but having missed his original opponent, the attack also left him slightly off kilter.

Taking advantage of this, Knuckles rushed in for a hit of his own and managed to just make contact, before the hedgehog snapped away. He didn’t get far, as he reappeared only a few feet to the right. But the force of Knuckles’ attack had not been negated, so he was left to slide and tumble across the forest floor, until he finally came to rest in a pile.

Keeping his guard up, the echidna carefully approached the unmoving form, hoping he hadn’t gone too far. But he pulled up again, when Shadow finally moved, slowly getting to his hands and knees, struggling for the breath that had been knocked out of him.

Eventually, his shock led him to look up and, for a moment, he looked like Shadow again, not afraid, just confident, maybe even impressed. But then the moment was shattered, as his body suddenly erupted with energy and he screamed, clutching at his head again, his chaotic presence moving erratically, as if torn between worlds. The power within him ready to rip itself free of his body and consume everything around it.

Feeling the buildup of energy, Knuckles’ attention was momentarily called toward the Wachowski home and the surrounding town. If the hedgehog’s power were to detonate, everything within miles would be leveled. Including his clan.

Immediately, he disregarded his own safety and rushed forward to take hold of Shadow’s arm, noticing that one of his gold rings was missing. But he didn’t get much of a chance to consider this fact, as the second he made contact with the hedgehog, the unfiltered chaos energy surged through his body, and he was flung backward again.

Thankfully, he didn’t get too far before he crashed into a boulder, but the impact left him momentarily dazed, and he felt a trickle of blood run down his face. However, before he could get up to try again, Shadow appeared to regain some form of control. But unfortunately, it was directed at him.

Shadow had always walked a fine line between light and darkness, but now he seemed to be teetering dangerously close to the abyss. His eyes were wild, unfocused, a storm of agony and rage, as the chaos energy threatened to consume him. And Knuckles knew that he had to act. Not just to protect everyone else from the disastrous fallout, but to protect his own life.

Summoning his strength, he pushed himself off the boulder, launching himself at Shadow and barely ducking under a wild energy blast that scorched the air above him. And, in a desperate and awkward reach, he finally got a hold on Shadow's arm.

Immediately he felt the searing heat of chaos raging through his body once more, but this time, he held on, trying desperately to ground the erratic energy. Of course, Shadow was not going to make it easy. As he quickly struck out with his other hand, hitting the echidna straight in the head and opening the already bleeding wound there, before changing his tactic and snapped them both to another location.

Somehow, despite all odds, Knuckles managed to keep his hold on the hedgehog, as they fell through the forest canopy, hitting the ground hard as they fought for control of the situation. Chaos sparking around them, turning leaves and twigs straight to ash and leaving scorch marks on anything it touched.

At some point, Knuckles realized that the screaming in his ears wasn’t just Shadow’s anymore, but also his own. The pain was so intense his body had simply stopped registering it. However, his mind was still reacting, trying to get him to let go. But he couldn’t, he had to hold on, he had to keep it under control – even if it killed him.

…

 “I’m – sure he’s fine.” Sonic said, though he wasn’t even able to convince himself let alone Maddie, who’d been waiting by the window for the last two hours. “It’s not like he hasn’t disappeared before.”

This was true, of course, that had been in the early days following Knuckles’ acceptance to the family. It had taken him a number of months to grow accustomed to the idea that he was now accountable to other people. People that worried about him when he disappeared for days on end. But he had slowly come to understand that, if he planned to be gone, he had to, at the very least, leave a note.

It hadn’t even been a full day since the family had woken up to discover their resident warrior was missing. But they’d just assumed he was training or patrolling. So, they had started their day like any other, expecting him to be back in time to eat. But breakfast had come and gone without him, leaving Maddie particularly irritated, but it was what it was. Then lunch had passed them by and still no sign of Knuckles, that was when she had started her pacing. It was almost dinner time now and the sun had almost completely set. Now they were all starting to worry.

“It’s not like him.” Maddie insisted for the hundredth time, as Tom walked up beside her to check the window as well.

“Alright boys.” He said softly but firmly causing Sonic and Tails to perk up, as the man turned to them. “Time to start the search.”

“Tom.” Maddie proclaimed sternly, reaching out to stop him from opening the door. “You just got out of the hospital. You’re not going anywhere.”

“But –”

“We will be searching.” She indicated the boys and herself, before poking the man in the chest, being careful of his broken collarbone. “You will be staying here; in case he comes home.”

The poor guy looked like he wanted to argue, it was almost painful to watch him give up on the idea of looking for one of his kids, but he knew she was right and complaining about it would only waste precious minutes of daylight.

Giving Tails a minute to get his bag of gadgets, they each took a flashlight and stepped out into the encroaching night, only to pause when something slowly emerged from the forest.

“Knuckles?” Sonic asked the too large form, stepping up to put himself between it and his family, in case it was something else. However, he just ended up staring, like a deer in headlights, when Maddie flipped on her flashlight to show them what it was.

It was Knuckles, but he was covered in blood and burns and looked to only be barely conscious. Despite that, he was still moving forward, carrying something on his back.

“Oh my god.” Maddie breathed in horror, being the first to respond, as she raced down the steps to him. Eventually everyone else followed, only to be pulled up again, when they got closer look at what Knuckles was carrying.

“Shadow?” Sonic whispered in both shock and anger, unable to really decide which was more appropriate for the moment. On the one hand, this was the hedgehog that had nearly killed his father and had seemingly just tried to kill his older brother too. But on the other, they’d also worked together to save the world just a few weeks before.

Needless to say, he was a tad conflicted when Knuckles locked onto his eyes, breathing harshly, and seemingly only able to open one eye, as the other was caked in blood. But he remained focused as he spoke. “Containment.” He forced out, but it seemed to use all the breath he had collected, as he had to lower his head to get more, prompting Sonic to finally snap out of his stupor and rush forward.

“What?” He asked, getting as close to his brother as possible, so he could hear what he had to say.

“His energy – it requires – containment.” He finally explained, before finally losing the battle with consciousness and collapsed. But Sonic was there to catch him, slowly lowering his brother to the ground, before lifting Shadow away, so Maddie could check him over.

By the time the two of them managed to carry Knuckles into the house, Tom and Tails had set up a makeshift hospital, clearing the living room for a mattress to take up space, and every single medical or veterinary object in the house was now placed somewhere nearby.

 Trusting Maddie to help his brother, Sonic forced himself to leave and return to the yard. Thankfully, the other hedgehog was still out cold and exactly where he’d left him. Though he wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it.

Eventually Tails followed him, having left to find something that could fulfill Knuckles’ request to contain Shadow’s energy. Though the only thing he’d come up with were the titanium handcuffs, which he had designed to hold creatures with massive amounts of energy like Sonic or Knuckles, so they could only hope it would be enough. In the end, they opted for two sets, one for his hands, the other for his feet. Just so the hedgehog couldn’t wake up in a bad mood and go on another rampage. After a couple of minutes, they also decided to bring him inside, if for no other reason, then he would be easier to keep an eye on there.

“How – is he?” Tails asked in a tiny, worried voice. Finding a place where he wouldn’t be in the way but also close enough that he could hold Knuckles’ hand, as Maddie cleaned and dressed his wounds.

“Thankfully, it’s not as bad as it looks.” She explained, obviously distressed, but was holding it together as their most experienced doctor. “But – he’s burning up and I don’t know why?”

Sonic came over as well, watching as Tails pulled out his little handheld computer to scan the echidna. However, before he could do so, Knuckles suddenly shifted, as if he were waking up and they all quickly rushed in, wanting to be there when he did. However, it seemed that Maddie had noticed something they hadn’t as she suddenly rushed to put her arms around his head, just before his body convulsed again.

“What’s happening?” Sonic demanded, only for Tom to pick up on the problem as well and pulled him and Tails back, as their brother began to shake and jerk, his back jackknifing so sharply that their feared it was about to break. But Maddie was able to roll him onto his side, still holding his head protectively, somehow able to keep his neck straight.

Eventually everyone else joined in, doing what they could to keep him still, as the full effects of the seizure took over, and his unnatural strength was suddenly turned against him. It took everything they had and maybe a little divine intervention, but they were able to keep him safe, as red chaos energy sparked to life, around the room.

It seemed to go on forever, but thankfully, at some point, everything slowly began to calm down again, and Knuckles started to breathe a little easier.

“Shhhh.” Maddie whispered, gently holding his hand when he mumbled something in his sleep. “It’s okay. We’re here. You’re safe.” She promised. Tears running down her checks, as she pressed their foreheads together.

“Tails.” Tom spoke up, turning to the fox and softly rubbed the kid’s back as he stood staring at his injured brother in complete horror. But the contact quickly brought him out of it and Tom handed him back his computer, knowing the best thing for the fox to do, in that moment, was distract himself. However, when he finally got the opportunity to run a scan and check over his findings, he seemed even more alarmed by what he’d discovered.

“What is it?” Sonic demanded worriedly, and the fox shook himself out of his shock once again.

“He – his body is full of chaos energy.” Everyone looked understandably confused by that.

“Isn’t that – normal, for him?” Tom asked, but Tails shook his head.

“Yes, but not like this.” He insisted, tapping at his computer, like he wasn’t sure if it was working properly. “His energy is usually neutral. But – now it’s got a negative charge. I – I don’t understand. That shouldn’t be possible. Unless –” He paused for a second, clearly coming up with an idea and lifted his eyes to look at Shadow. “Unless he absorbed someone else’s.”

“He can do that?” Sonic asked, but even Tails didn’t look convinced by his own hypothesis.

“I don’t know – in theory, he should be able to channel chaos energy, the same way you do with the Emeralds. But – normally someone with an innate chaos of their own can only handle one type at a time.” He looked up at Sonic, as if needing eye contact to calm himself down. “For example, your chaos charge is positive, if you were to take negative energy into your body, it would make you really, really sick, maybe – maybe even kill you.”

Sonic felt his heart skip a beat, as he looked back at Knuckles, who was thankfully still breathing. But – he’d never before been so badly hurt that he’d lost consciousness, and he’d certainly never had a seizure. “He – he’s gonna be okay – right?” He finally asked, looking back at the fox, who again looked unsure.

“I don’t even know how he managed to absorb this much energy, let alone survive the charge distortion.” He insisted, making everyone wince at his distracted word choice. “But, maybe –” He filtered off again, once more speculating the nature of this strange event. “It could be that his connection to the Master Emerald has given him a stronger advantage, maybe even an innate ability to channel and – possibly purify chaos energy.”

He suggested this as more of a question than a statement. As he clearly had no idea and just wanted to come up with something, anything but the presumption that his brother was simply dying.

“Hey.” Tom cut in, kneeling down to bring both Tails and Sonic into a one-armed hug. “Don’t you guys worry about him. You know Knuckles is more stubborn than that.”

Well, that was true.

Of course, they didn’t get the chance to discuss it further, before another moan had them all turning to look at the couch, as this one had instead come from Shadow. Immediately, Sonic was on his feet, putting himself between the hedgehog and his family, as the guy slowly opened his eyes and became aware of the fact that he was handcuffed.

This obviously woke him up, as he quickly tested his strength against the titanium. But, as promised, Tails had built them to withstand just about anything. Eventually his attention was instead drawn to Sonic, leaving them to just stare each other down for nearly a full minute, before Tom stood up to address the heavy atmosphere.

The effect was almost instant, as Shadow turned to look at him, his eyes widened in shock and all he could do was stare at the man, who he clearly believed to be dead.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Tom insisted when Sonic moved again to stand directly in front of his father, his fear and anger causing blue energy to radiate from his body. But the man was able to get ahold of his shoulder and gently bring him back to earth. “We’re all friends here. Isn’t that right Shadow?”

The hedgehog blinked as these words seemed to pull him from his stupor. However, he was clearly unable to respond, so Sonic did it for him. “Friends!?” He proclaimed in horror. “Are you kidding me? He nearly –”

“It was just an accident.” Tom insisted kindly, still not taking his eyes off of Shadow. “Just a simple case of mistaken identity – right?” He asked, and Shadow jumped as if his spirit had just slammed back into his body.

“I –” He tried, forcing himself to finally look away from the man he’d nearly killed, only to notice Knuckles instead and he tensed up again, causing Sonic to get right in his face this time. However, his rage soon dissipated, when Shadow looked up to meet his eyes and he remembered the moment, on the moon, when they’d been in nearly the same position. He’d been unable to act on his anger then – and couldn’t do it now.

Eventually Sonic managed to pull his eyes away and stood with his fists clenched and his breathing heavy, as he fought down the surge of chaos energy in his body, until it was finally gone.

“How?” Shadow spoke up again and Sonic twitched, but didn’t move, as the other hedgehog looked down at his cuffed wrists, not even trying to escape them anymore. “How did I get here?”

The room was quiet for a moment, but it was Tails that eventually broke the tension. “Knuckles carried you here.” He explained, his voice was a little jittery, but he was staying strong. Even when Shadow looked up at him, clearly shocked by this information and he turned to study the echidna once again. Only to quickly look away, when Sonic tensed up, prepared to jump in and defend his brother, if the black hedgehog so much as breathed the wrong way. However, Tails somehow found the courage to step forward and continue their conversation. “He – has a large amount of negative chaos energy in his body. Is – it yours?”

“What?” Shadow asked, clearly confused. Only to seemingly remember something and he looked down at his hands again, specifically focusing on his right wrist, which was missing an inhibitor ring. “He –” He proclaimed in shock, looking back at Knuckles, despite Sonic’s warning, only this time he looked almost flabbergasted, maybe even somewhat humbled. “He helped me? But – why?”

This got everyone’s attention, as it was pretty clear that Shadow was far too traumatized to lie. “What do you mean he helped you? What did he do?” Tails insisted, trying to collect as much data as possible, in order to help his brother. But, for a moment, the hedgehog just looked back at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists, before finally answering the fox’s question.

“Without my ring – my power was unstable. I couldn’t control it anymore. I was – I was going to – die.” He admitted simply, looking back at Knuckles once again. “He must have syphoned it off. That’s the only way I could still be alive right now.”

“Okay.” Tails muttered shakily, running his thoughts through his brain analyzer. “Can – you syphon it back?” He asked, but Shadow only shook his head.

“I don’t have that ability. I’m honestly surprised that he does.”

Tails made a noise of deep concern and bit his finger in consideration. Desperately trying to find a way to help his brother, before finally focusing on Shadow’s inhibitor rings, and reached over to poke one, barely even noticing anymore that he was in the presence of their most dangerous enemy to date. “Would these be able to help him?” He asked, but again Shadow shook his head.

“They are designed to contain my power, not remove it.”

The fox was about to ask another question, when Maddie called them back and they all turned to find that Knuckles was actually waking up. Though he was still groggy and not all there yet.

“Knuckles.” Maddie whispered, gently rubbing her thumb along the bridge of his muzzle. “Hey honey. Talk to me.”

“Mo – ther.” He mumbled and everyone kind of started a little, having never heard him call her that before. However, it wasn’t exactly clear whether he was aware of this fact or if it was a case of mistaken identity, and Maddie looked as if she might melt into a puddle of happy tears, so no one had the heart to either confirm or deny it.

Eventually, with a little more coxing, the echidna opened his eyes. Though they were dull and unfocused at first, he started to slowly come around. Leading Tails to pull out his computer again and scan him.

“What?” Sonic asked, when the little fox looked at his screen in shock.

“It’s – going down.” Tails proclaimed in a tone of voice that suggested that this simply should not be possible.

“What?” Shadow demanded and they turned back to him. “Where is it going?” He asked, clearly aware that that would be the only reason for the fox’s explanation. But Tails only shrugged, looking back at his computer again and smiled a nervous little grin, clearly happy that his brother was okay, even if there was no explanation for it.

“Contain?” Knuckles told the ceiling groggily, as he tried to get his arms to work and push himself up, but he didn’t accomplish much more than getting Maddie irritated with him.

“Don’t worry, big guy.” Sonic told him, kneeling down to place his hand on the echidna’s shoulder, to help keep him from moving, and smiled when their eyes met. “We got it under control. Now the only thing you need to do is get better.”

This finally helped the warrior to relax, in fact, they’d never seem him look so relieved. It made them wonder just what kind of serious situation they had truly missed in the subtests. Either way, he was able to focus on other things now, as he slowly turned to look at Maddie again, his expression a little drunkenly sheepish.

“I’m – sorry.” He offered, looking like he was afraid he was about to be grounded. “I’m – late for breakfast.”

…

They tried moving Knuckles to the spare room, or Shadow to the garage, but the echidna was having none of it. Despite not even being able to sit up yet, he insisted on keeping an eye on the hedgehog. Which meant that Sonic was pretty much permanently rooted to a nearby chair. And Tails had moved everything he’d need into the dining room, so he could work on something to help contain Shadow’s energy while still being close by.

Tom seemed to magically appear anytime there was even a hint of animosity. Maddie was usually checking on Knuckles’ or Shadow’s recovery or making sure that her husband didn’t do anything he wasn’t supposed to. An endless task, considering the man’s worst enemy was boredom.

Then there was good old Ozzy, who was always whenever someone needed a snuggle or a pet. He even managed to get through to Shadow a few times. Of course, Shadow hadn’t moved from the couch once since he’d gotten there. And thankfully seemed content to keep it that way, at least until Tails was finished with his new inhibitor ring.

“Why did you help me?” Sonic opened his eyes, when Shadow said this and slowly shifted until he could see the other two occupants of the room. It was night and everyone was supposed to be asleep. However, Knuckles casually opened his eyes as if he’d just been waiting for the black hedgehog to speak.

“Because I had to.” He whispered back. “Your energy was unstable. If I had done nothing, it would have destroyed my home.” He clenched his fists, before turning to glare at Shadow. “I have lost everything once. I will not allow it to happen again.”

Shadow looked shocked by this reviolation and slowly looked away from the echidna’s intense stare. “Still, you could have achieved the same goal – by just killing me.” He pointed out, only for Knuckles to suddenly sit bolt upright, despite clearly feeling some discomfort from the action.

“Do not tell me how to achieve my goals, hedgehog.” He snarled angrily, somehow able to keep his voice down, so as not to wake anyone else. “For years others have tried to make me kill for them. I would not do it then; I will not do it now.”

Sonic twitched at this sudden revelation, realizing that his brother was talking about things that he’d never brought up before. He had always claimed that his past was just that ‘the past’ and he had no need for it anymore. However, it seemed that something about his interaction with Shadow had opened the flood gates.

And it appeared that Shadow was picking up on this as well, as he slowly turned to look at him again. “If those people were truly so evil, then killing them would have been a blessing.” He insisted, clearly convinced of that, as he met Knuckles gaze firmly and without fear. However, the echidna didn’t waver either.

“Perhaps.” He admitted.

“Then why not just kill them? You have the power.”

It was Knuckles who looked away this time and lifted his hands as if to check them for something. “I nearly did.” He said and Sonic started to feel uncomfortable. He didn’t want to spy on his brother, but at the same time, he couldn’t make himself speak up. “I faced that monster you refer to as revenge.” Knuckles spoke again and looked back at Shadow, more determined than he had been before. “And it nearly consumed me.”

Shadow blinked and honestly looked a bit taken aback. “So?” He finally asked. “At least you would have had –”

“I would have had nothing.” Knuckles corrected him sternly. “Killing him would not have taken my pain away or returned the years that he took from me. All I would have achieved was becoming that which I hated.” It was clear that Shadow had never actually considered this in his own quest for revenge, as he suddenly looked far away in his thoughts, which made Knuckles soften his words as well. “It took everything I had to get back even a small piece of myself, when all was said and done.” He revealed quietly and Shadow looked back at him again. “If I had turned against my own beliefs, turned against everything I knew to be right. I would not have been able to find even that. I would never be able to face my father again.”

Shadow considered this for well over a minute, before finally speaking up, though there was something else in his voice now. Like he was in physical pain, upon realizing just how close he had come to doing the same thing, to turning against everything Maria had stood for and never being able to face her memory.

“You said – you lost everything once?” He asked, almost like he hadn’t meant the words to actually be said aloud. However, he still looked back at the echidna, prepared to finish the question anyway. “What is – everything?”

Knuckles just continued to stare at his hands for another moment, lost in his own thoughts. “Everything.” He answered simply. “My clan, my father, my home, my freedom, even my own memories were slowly stripped away. The person I once was – died, and I have never been able to get it back.” He finally looked up at Shadow again, an odd softness to his eyes now. “But – I have found a new life now. I have a family here, friends, brothers. And I have slowly come to find the person that I want to be. It is not the same, but that doesn’t matter. This is my island to protect. This is my home.”

Shadow slowly looked up again and he too seemed to soften a little, to the point where he almost smiled. “How did you do it?” He whispered and Knuckles smiled back, before turning to look over his shoulder and Sonic jumped, as he met his eyes.

Realizing he’d been caught, or maybe they’d known all along that he was listening, he smiled back and slowly untangled himself from his blanket. Then he sighed and looked at Shadow, finally feeling all of his anger and fear fading away. If Knuckles could do it, after losing so much more than anyone should ever have to, then how could he, the one who’d actually managed to pull him back from the edge, do any less.

“It’s not easy, Shadow.” He spoke up at last, the other hedgehog seemingly coming alive for the first time since they had met. As the three of them found connection in their shared losses and their shared love. “But you don’t do it for yourself.” Sonic continued, feeling tears in his eyes. “You do it for them. The ones we had to leave behind. Because – if we don’t live for them, no one else will.”

…

Chapter 2

(Warnings: Blood, seizures, death, trauma, loss, mentions of slavery)

[zealousllamawolf]

Lost in the Woods (Alastor x Reader) Part 2

!!Minors Please DNI!!

Pairing- Alastor x Reader

Summary- After having a heated moment before someone interrupts Alastor eagerly comes back to show you what you had missed.

Word Count- 1.7K

Warnings- none I think

Tags- SMUT, blood sharing, rough sex, p in v, oral (Alastor receiving) OOC Alastor if you blink.

Part 1

~Alastor’s POV~

  Alastor scuffs as he pulls Nifty out of the ice machine behind that bar sitting her down, wiping the ice flakes off her nose. “There you go dear’ he wipes his hands on his coat, turning to look at Charlie. “Now, was all you need darling,’ a hint of annoyance bubbled over, eager to return to your disheveled body in the bayou.

  “Yes, sorry about that,” Charlie shuffles awkwardly at his impatience.

  ‘’You know how Nifty is, who knows what bug she went after.” Alastor chuckles patting Nifty on the head, lighting up his tone. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I have business to attend to” he smiles mischievously as he disappears back into the shadows moving through them to his room.

  Desire once returning to his crotch stretching the fabric tautly, clearing his throat once he remembers the feeling of your cunt under in fingers, wondering if you were wet below the thin barrier of clothes. Alastor decision to leave his shadow to watch over you paid off; there you were stripping off your clothes down to just your undergarments as he watched though his shadow’s eyes. You make your way over the pond’s dock before sticking your foot in the water seemly to evaluate the temperature.

  Once Alastor reaches his room, he teleported to the edge of the pond near the dock behind you. Taking in your figure though half-lidded eyes his stare trails up and down your body stopping around your plump backside before noticing a large thin scar that trailed around your waist following the curve of your hip before stopping above your lower back. You were perfect, he thought to himself grinning lustfully.

  “My, my dear, it seems you have made yourself quite comfortable” his voice dropping lowly, you jump and lose your balance tipping backwards into the water. Alastor rushes forward, dropping to his knees he peers over the edge waiting for you to break the surface for air, when you didn’t come back up after a long thirty seconds the duckweed blocking his view under the water Alastor quickly stands up and throw off his coat off, kicking off his shoes unbuttoning his shirt before scanning the water’s surface again. He leans down again over the dock’s edge as your faces pops up under a lily pad hiding underneath staring up at Alastor grinning.

“Oh, you checky girl.” Alastor says breathlessly hanging his head lowly in relief, the tension leaving his shoulders. Why did he feel such a need to dive in the water after you? He wanted to protect you, keeping you all to himself, wanted to mark you and show everyone you were his and his only. Anger starter to rise unable to catch his breath, he pants out “Never do that again,’ wincing at his sharp tone he adds, “Please,’ softly.

He watches you swim up to him resting your arms on the dock you grab his arm reassuringly, “Okay, I won’t if you come in here with me” you say pushing yourself up enough out of the water and plant a soft kiss on his cheek before trailing kisses down his jawline, Alastor growls in response hastily shedding his shirt and pants. A night swim is a bad idea anyways, Alastor indulges.

 He sits down with his feet over the edge before slipping in the lukewarm water completely submerging himself even though he can touch the bottom. He feels his shoulder being yanked up by your hands, so he abides rising himself up out the water, directly in front of you. You wrap your hands around his shoulders and link your legs around his waist. Alastor groans at the sudden pressure pressing against his crotch and bring his hands to your hips noticing your panties were no longer on your bottom as well as your bare chest pressing against his, in the distance he sees your undergarments floating at the surface.

 “Ha, ha so eager little doe.” Alastor says as he runs his hands to your ass cheeks gripping them tightly. You throw back your head grinding against his hardening cock. “But patience is a virtue,’ he says teasing.

  Alastor twists around with you still connected at the hips. He pushes further into the water on his back, the movement sliding his length down your uncovered core making you moan at the friction. Resting your hands on his chest you arch your back allowing him to see your breasts peeking up out of the water duckweed sticking to your upper half.

  “But Alastor, I need you,’ you say pleadingly.

  “Oh, forgive me but I thought we were taking a nice night swim?” he cocks an eyebrow at you, making you frown in desperation, Alastor gins enjoying teasing you knowing he will not be able to hold out much longer as his cock twitches with desire.

  You lean down and plant a feverish kiss directly on his, sliding your tongue on his bottom lip tasting a hint a blood from his fresh cut lip. The heat from your kiss snaps something in Alastor and in an instant, he teleports both of you to the closest tree, pushing you against the trunk. He deepens the kiss exploring your mouth feeling one of your sharp canines nick his bottom lip making you kiss him more intensity. Alastor pulls back with a low groan.

  “You know idea what you are doing to me my dear,” Alastor says breathless shuddering when you run your fingers through his hair gripping at the root making him suck in a breath.

  “S-show me, Al” you beg grinding on his cock.

  “It hurts that you assume I would give in that quickly silly girl.” Alastor lies slickly through his teeth, chuckling when you pout at him although it does not last too long before you unwrap your legs from his waist and start to get on your knees running your hands down his chest as you meet the ground stopping when you reach his hips. “So perfect,’ he whispers when you start to pull down his briefs.

  You look up with pleading eyes “May I sir?” his cock twitched at being called ‘sir,’ he runs his thumb on your cheekbone glowing down at you and nods.

  He used his spare arm and rest it against the tree letting out a moan as you free his throbbing cock, the cool air cooling his precum that started to gather at his aching red tip. He watches as you stare hungrily at his length groaning as your mouth encases his tip, sliding down taking him inch by inch till your mouth takes all of him.

  “So sweet of you taking my cock like a good girl.” Alastor gasps as you pull him out of your mouth twirling your tongue around his tip before diving back down again picking up speed, moaning sends vibrations all around his cock, resulting in him thrusting into to your mouth going past the curve of your throat. “Mmh, you make me feel so good darling,” you look up at him unable to say anything as he gently thrusts into your mouth tears forming in your eyes. You slide him out of your mouth with a pop.

 “Are you going to show me now how much I make you feel good now?” you ask cheekily, Alastor respond by picking you back up like you weighed nothing, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist again, teasing you with his tip lined up with your dripping entrance. Aching your back made his tip slip in making you moan at the sensation; you try to lower yourself further on to his cock but his firm hands stops you. You look at him with a crazed face, but he just stares at you grinning maliciously before thrusting into you with such force making you release all the air from your lungs. You gasp unable to catch your breath as he does not stop before pulling out of you, slamming back into your gummy walls. “O-oh God,” you shudder.

  “No dear its only me here and me only making you feel this way.” Alastor starts roughing fucking you into the tree. He does not stop there, forcing your legs higher pressing them against your chest, all that was holding you up now was your back firmly pressed against the tree and the pace he thrusted into you. Every time he pulls out, his tip pressed against your g-spot making waves of pleasure course though your body, he feels your walls clamp around his cock. Alastor changes his angle until he hits the right spot making you moan his name, hearing his name come out of your swollen lip makes him go feral, the coil in his stomach tightens further, he knows your close too when your legs start to push against his hands.

  “Just like that Alastor, please” you beg tears falling down your face, your whole body tightens, and he hears you scream his name as your release floods your body, your walls spasming around his cock.

  “Almost there little doe.” He growls picking up his pace to unnatural pace chasing his own high.

  “C-can I bite you?” you say fixed gaze at his neck.

  “Yes, dear take your fill” you don’t wait till be finished speaking as your bit down hard at the curve of this throat, making his groan in pain, the sensation spread though his body right down to his cock, with one last trust he finishes inside of you panting. You do not stop your assault running your tongue against the wound you created until the blood stopped flowing freely.

  Pulling back both of you panting with his cock still buried deep in your cunt. He pulls out, his seed pouring out of your elevated cunt. You close your eyes as he carries you to his bedroom, he whispers pressing his mouth to your ear, “You did so well, but now it time for you to rest. You have a very busy night ahead of you.” He says softly.

  That was the last thing you hear before falling asleep in his arms. Alastor sighs contently with you sleeping on his chest, he slowly traced your faded scar wondering what happened.

~~~

A/N

I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

____________________________________________________

Tag List

@cutesytwt @opulentshits @elegant-face-tree @walnutnut @lustylita

[nglgfics]

High score - part 2

(Based on several anonymous requests for a sequel, and a few requests for various details)

(18+)

Masterlist

You weren’t looking for Noel.

You really weren’t. You’d just ducked into the shop to kill ten minutes while waiting for your friend—browsing without purpose, flipping through rows of sleeves out of habit more than anything. You ran your fingers along spines, half-focused on nothing in particular, just glad to be in a place where the music was loud enough to make you think slower.

And then—

That shift. The one you hadn’t felt since that night.

You looked up and there he was.

Two aisles down. Head tilted slightly as he listened to something his mate was saying, but not really listening. His eyes were already drifting.

And when they landed on you, it was like the air changed temperature.

He didn’t smile. You didn’t either.

But everything in you locked up, for half a second, like your body had gone still before your mind caught up.

You hadn’t seen each other since that night.

No calls. No run-ins. Just silence. The kind that felt less like a decision and more like something too fragile to touch.

And yet—

Now, in this stupid little shop, surrounded by records and old posters and that familiar smell of cardboard and dust, there he was.

You dropped your eyes, kept flipping. Pretending to browse. But your breath had already shortened. You could feel the skin at the back of your neck tingling, your hands just slightly too precise in the way they moved.

He said something to his friend—low, short—and stepped away.

Toward you.

And you hated how much of you wanted him to.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice casual, almost like it didn’t matter.

You glanced up, slow. Let your eyes meet his.

“Were you looking?”

That hit something. You saw it behind his eyes.

He didn’t answer. Not directly.

Just tilted his head. Took you in for a beat longer than necessary.

And when he spoke again, it was quieter. Closer.

“Don’t usually forget things that felt that good.”

You blinked. Not thrown, but… hit. The honesty of it. The way he didn’t dress it up.

He looked the same. Tired in that lived-in way. Hair slightly longer. Jacket too worn to be accidental. But something in his face had shifted. A crack, maybe. A softness that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had—you just hadn’t earned it yet.

He glanced down at the record in your hand. His voice changed.

“You actually buying that?”

You looked at the sleeve. You hadn’t even read the title.

“Maybe.”

A pause.

He didn’t press. Just nodded once. Then leaned in a little closer.

“I’ll be on my own later,” he said. “If you feel like… picking up where we left off.”

And then he stepped away. Like he hadn’t just unraveled something inside you in under twenty seconds.

You let your eyes follow him this time.

He didn’t look back.

But you knew he was waiting.

You didn’t hesitate.

You didn’t circle the idea. The walk was quiet, dark, not yet late enough for the streets to empty entirely, but past the point of casual traffic. A few taxis moved slow along the edges. Windows above glowed low and domestic. You kept your head down. Your pace was steady. There was no rush—but you were going.

The house looked still from the outside. No porch light. Just a thin glow from inside, warm against the dark brick. One guitar leaned against the window, silhouetted. There was no sound leaking out. No sign of movement.

But it felt alive.

You knocked twice. Short, light.

It only took a few seconds before the door opened.

Noel stood just inside—barefoot, sleeves pushed up. He looked like he hadn’t moved far from the door in the last ten minutes. Like he hadn’t told himself he wasn’t waiting. The light from the hallway framed his face, shadowing the sharp lines of his jaw, the soft mess of his hair.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you.

Not surprised. But not quite composed, either.

Like something in him had dropped, quietly, the second he saw you.

“You said you would,” he said, voice low, almost flat.

You held his gaze. “And here I am.”

You stepped in without waiting for him to move. You brushed past his shoulder, your coat catching his jumper, the heat of his body grazing yours for half a second. He didn’t stop you. He just turned and closed the door slowly behind you, pressing it until it clicked.

The space around you settled. Thickened.

The flat was warm in that lived-in way. Not hot. Just held. The kind of warmth that doesn’t try to perform comfort, it just exists. Familiar mess. Ashtray on the low table, one stubbed out cigarette still faintly fragrant. Open records stacked near the player. A guitar on its side like it had been dropped and forgotten. You noticed the soft hum of something spinning—maybe the end of a record, still turning in silence. The light was low and uneven, cast from one lamp behind the sofa.

You took it all in without comment. He didn’t offer an explanation. Didn’t try to tidy anything with words.

You turned to face him. He hadn’t moved far from the door.

“You alone?”

“Yeah.”

You nodded once. Like that was the right answer. The only answer.

He stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other half-tensed at his side. Still as ever, but not distant. He was watching you like he didn’t trust what he’d say if he opened his mouth again.

You let your fingers find the collar of your coat. Slipped it off slowly. Shrugged it down your arms and laid it over the nearest chair. His eyes followed the movement. Not overtly. But you felt it. Felt the weight of his attention catch at your shoulders, your hands, your waist.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward.

It was just full.

You moved a little closer. Enough to feel the tension between you stretch taut.

“You sure about this?” you asked, not softly, not hard. Just there.

He exhaled. Shallow. Pressed his lips together once like he was swallowing something.

“No,” he said, voice flat.

Then, without pause: “But you’ve been in my head like a fucking ghost.”

That landed.

You watched his face—still. But not blank. The heat was in the stillness, not the movement. The kind of restraint that made you want to press harder, just to see what would give.

He stepped forward now, slow.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Haven’t since that night. Not even for a minute.”

Another step.

“And I’m sick of pretending I don’t want to put my hands on you.”

You stood your ground. Let the ache in your chest bloom full.

You stepped into him the rest of the way, your body answering before your mind caught up.

You placed your palm on his chest, flat over his jumper, and felt his breath catch.

The heat of him. The speed of his heart. The way his body leaned toward yours without permission.

“You don’t look sure,” you said.

He tilted his head slightly. Eyes darker now. A small twitch at the corner of his mouth—dry humour, barely there.

“I’m not.”

He reached up, fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to. Then he looked at you again.

“But you’re here. And I haven’t wanted anything this badly in… fuck knows how long.”

Then he kissed you.

And it was everything you’d expected it to be.

His mouth was warm, open, hungry. His hands slid over your waist like he needed to hold you still or lose his grip on the whole night. You kissed him back with heat, with hunger, with the kind of slow press that made your knees soften and your chest tighten.

He tasted like quiet adrenaline and everything you hadn’t let yourself miss.

Your hands went under his jumper, and he inhaled sharply when your fingers touched skin. His body was tense—like he was holding himself back from something even deeper.

He broke the kiss, barely. Forehead resting against yours. Breath shaky. Hands still firm at your sides.

“You need me,” you whispered.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t smirk.

Just said, rough:

“Yeah. Clearly.”

Then a pause. His voice dropped even lower.

“And it’s a fucking problem.”

You smiled into him.

One beat of tension. One flicker of something almost like joy. And then you kissed him again—longer this time, deeper—like the problem could wait.

Like there was no going back.

You didn’t remember moving. One minute, your hands were under his jumper. The next, the two of you were pressed back against the wall by the door, the heat between your bodies deepening by the second.

Noel kissed like he’d been starving for it—like every inch of contact only made him hungrier. His hands were firm at your hips, but they kept moving, like he couldn’t settle. Palming your waist, tracing up your sides, gripping your back through your shirt like he needed it to keep from breaking something open.

You kissed him like you’d been waiting for him to crack. And now that he had, you weren’t going to let him hold back.

When your fingers brushed over the skin just above his waistband, his breath caught hard against your mouth. You pulled his jumper up slowly, deliberately, feeling the heat of him grow underneath, the way his muscles tensed under your hands.

“Off,” you said simply, not asking.

He leaned back half a breath, eyes locked on yours, then pulled it over his head and let it drop behind him without looking. You glanced at his chest just once—broad, lean, lightly freckled, a soft mess of dark hair spreading down from his collarbone—and you liked what you saw. You liked the way he watched your reaction even more.

Your hands moved over him like they had every right to. And his found the hem of your shirt, his touch firmer now, confidence climbing with every second your bodies stayed close.

“This too,” he murmured, more a thought than a command.

You lifted your arms and let him peel the fabric away, slow at first, then rougher when your skin touched his.

He exhaled through his nose when your chest pressed to his—bare now, flush, warm. His mouth was at your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. Every place he kissed, his hands followed. And every inch he touched, you pressed harder into him.

“You’ve been in my head every night,” he muttered against your skin. “Every fucking night.”

You dragged your nails lightly down his side. He hissed. His grip tightened at your waist.

“Yeah?” you whispered. “And now?”

He didn’t answer right away. His breath shook against your throat. Then:

“Your hand on the back of my neck,” he said. “That fucking touch at the party. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t get the feel of your fingers out of my head. The way they went into my hair—like you already knew what it’d do to me.”

You smiled against his mouth. He wasn’t finished.

“That look you gave me, when you turned back—” his voice dropped lower “—it was filthy. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

You kissed him harder. His hand was on your back now, slipping lower.

“I wanted your mouth,” he said. “I wanted it on mine. On my cock. I’ve been imagining that since you walked away.”

Your breath caught.

“Every night,” he said. “I’ve had to stop myself from thinking about how you’d sound with my fingers inside you. My tongue on you.”

You were breathing hard now. His hands gripping the back of your thighs. Your lips at his jaw.

“Bedroom,” you whispered, voice rough.

He nodded. No words this time.

Just took your hand.

And led you down the hallway like he’d been waiting days to do.

He stepped in close, mouth finding the base of your throat, then your collarbone. Kisses that stayed a little too long. Heat building, quiet and sure. His hands moved over your ribs, thumbs sliding under the edge of your bra.

He unclasped it with one hand, no hesitation. You let the straps fall, and he stepped back half a beat to look at you. Really look.

His expression didn’t shift. Just his breath.

He cupped your breasts in his hands, thumbs circling over your nipples slowly, watching the way your body responded. Then his mouth followed—lips, tongue, a slight graze of teeth. He sucked gently on your nipple, then a little harder, until you arched toward him.

You moaned—low, involuntary—and he groaned in answer, the sound pressed into your skin.

Then he knelt.

His mouth moved down your stomach, each kiss slower than the last. His hands undid your jeans, tugging them down your hips, watching as more of you was revealed. He pressed a kiss to the skin just above your waistband before tugging your underwear down too.

His hands were firm, patient. The fabric slid past your knees and pooled at your ankles.

You stood there, bare. Breath high. Thighs still closed.

And he just looked at you.

Still kneeling.

Then, quietly:

“Sit.”

You backed up until the backs of your legs hit the bed. Sat. He followed you, hands at your knees, spreading you gently as you leaned back on your elbows. The mattress dipped under your weight. The room seemed to still around you.

You let him see everything. The curve of your hips, the swell of your thighs, the soft, slick heat of your folds between them.

His eyes never left yours.

And he said, barely above a breath:

“Stay with me. I want to see you.”

Then he leaned in.

His mouth met you with slow, certain pressure. A long, warm stroke of his tongue over your clit. You gasped. His hands gripped your thighs, steady, holding you open. He kept going—flicking, circling, sucking. No pattern. Just precision.

His tongue moved lower, licking between your folds, tasting everything. His nose pressed against your pelvis, his jaw flexing. The scratch of stubble, the wet heat of his mouth, the intensity of his gaze when he looked up at you mid-movement—it all crashed into one blur of sensation.

You moaned again, louder this time.

One of his hands slipped lower, thumb resting just above your entrance. Then two fingers dipped inside—slow, careful, deep. You cried out and your back arched.

And still—he watched you.

His eyes never wavered. Even as you shook. Even as your mouth fell open, and your legs trembled around his shoulders. You tried to keep your gaze locked to his, but it was impossible to hold.

“Eyes on me,” he murmured against your skin.

You looked down. Found him there. Eyes dark. Mouth wet. Lips red.

And it broke.

The orgasm surged—hard and fast. Your thighs clenched, your abdomen locked, your head fell back as a cry tore from your throat. Your elbows buckled. You collapsed fully onto the bed.

But he didn’t stop right away.

He kissed you again—gently now, soothing, tongue soft, reverent. Until your breath slowed. Until your hands let go of the sheets.

Only then did he pull back.

“You should see yourself,” he said, voice hoarse. “Fucking unreal.”

You lifted your head slowly. Met his eyes.

You sat up, breath still catching in your chest, thighs slack, body warm from the wave he’d just dragged from you. Noel was still kneeling, face damp, lips flushed, watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done to you.

“Stand up,” you said softly.

He obeyed—slower now, careful—like his body was buzzing too hard beneath his skin.

He stood tall in front of you, chest rising, jeans still low on his hips. His cock strained visibly against the fabric, hard and pulsing, the outline sharp beneath denim.

You looked up at him, quiet and sure.

Then you reached for his belt. Undid it. Button. Zip.

You tugged his jeans down with his briefs, and they dropped past his hips, pooling at his feet.

And there he was.

Thick, flushed, full—his cock standing away from his body, heavy and leaking slightly at the tip.

You didn’t touch him yet.

You just looked.

His breath shuddered once. His hands twitched at his sides. He was trying to stay still.

You leaned in—eyes on his—and slowly stuck out your tongue.

Your tongue met the tip of him, soft and warm, barely brushing the sensitive skin there. He twitched in response, and you felt the way it jolted through his thighs.

You licked again—just the head, slow and teasing.

Then, without anchoring him with your hand, you leaned in and brought your mouth to him—lips parting to gently wrap around the crown. He stood upright, untouched but fully exposed, and you took just the head between your lips.

No pressure. Just the wet heat of your mouth brushing along him—slow passes across the tip, your tongue flicking beneath, then pressing softly to the side, tracing the ridge with intent but restraint.

He exhaled hard through his nose, the sound sharp.

“Fuck—”

His voice was tight, caught low in his throat, more instinct than speech.

Then you drew him in a little deeper—just the tip, enough to feel the weight of him resting heavy against your tongue. You held him there, suction light, heat surrounding him, tongue cradling the underside.

You stayed like that for a beat. Just enough to let him feel the tension build.

Then you let him slip free, pulling back with a soft, wet pop—deliberate, unhurried, your eyes never leaving his.

He swore again under his breath.

You looked up at him through your lashes, then leaned in and kissed the tip.

He groaned again—this time louder.

His hand reached out and hovered near your shoulder again. He didn’t touch. But his knuckles brushed your skin like he didn’t know what else to do.

Only then did you wrap your hand around him—fully now, from base to tip. He was hot and thick in your grip, pulsing with every heartbeat. You stroked him once. Then again. Watching his face as you did it.

His jaw was tight. His thighs tense. He was trying so hard to hold it in.

You leaned in, pressed a soft kiss just under the head. Then looked up and said, voice low:

“Lie back.”

And this time, he didn’t even try to hold back a sound.

He turned and sank onto the bed, cock still hard and wet and twitching against his stomach.

Waiting.

He lay back, skin flushed, chest rising fast, his cock hard and slick against his stomach. His whole body looked tight with need—but his eyes were still locked on you. Quiet. Waiting. Open.

You climbed over him, one knee at a time, your body still sensitive, legs warm and shaky from what he’d done to you.

When you straddled him, he let his hands come up. One on each thigh. Holding. Not leading. Just feeling.

You didn’t speak.

You reached down, wrapped your fingers around him, and lined him up.

Then you sank down.

The stretch knocked the air from your lungs—deep, wide, full, like your body had been waiting for him. His breath caught too, sharp in his throat. His fingers flexed around your thighs.

“Jesus,” he murmured, eyes closing for half a second. “You alright?”

You nodded, settling in, letting your hips adjust to the depth. You rolled once—slow—and felt his whole body react under you.

He groaned low and long, one hand sliding to your hip.

You moved again. Then again. Long strokes. Controlled. Letting your body chase what it wanted. Letting him feel every pull, every fall.

And he met you—perfectly.

Noel’s rhythm was instinctive. He didn’t push ahead. Didn’t pull you back. He just moved with you, gave you what you asked for—pace for pace, breath for breath.

Your hands slid up his chest. You traced the lines of muscle there, slow and steady, until your fingers reached his nipples. You circled lightly first. Then pinched—just enough.

His breath hitched. His hips bucked up.

Your smile broke through your focus. You did it again, a little firmer.

He groaned. Let his head tip back. Eyes still half-open, watching you.

“You like that?” you asked, breathless.

“Clearly.”

Your rhythm quickened. The wet sound of you riding him filled the space between your bodies. His cock dragged perfectly against every nerve you needed. The friction, the stretch, the angle—it was all right. Too right.

His eyes trailed over you like he was memorising every second.

“You’re fucking beautiful like this,” he said, voice rough. “Not holding back.”

“Neither are you,” you whispered, grinding down harder.

He propped himself up slightly, his left hand bracing behind him. Then his right slid between your bodies.

You knew what was coming. Your hips shifted just enough to let him in.

His fingers found your clit.

The contact was perfect. Immediate. Confident.

You gasped—hips jolting, your body so open already that the sensation felt like fire and lightning all at once. He circled slowly. Then tighter. Pressed harder. Your thighs quivered, and your hands gripped his chest.

“I want you to come on me,” he said, not demanding. Just wanting. “I want to feel it.”

You chased it. Full force. Not out of control, but with purpose.

You rode him like you were built for this—for him. Every drop of your hips met with a thrust. Every grind answered with his hand, with his mouth, with his breath.

“Fuck—” you moaned. “Don’t stop—”

“Not going anywhere.”

His hand didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t leave your face.

And when it hit—when your stomach clenched, and your legs locked, and that wave slammed through your body—you gave yourself over to it. No filter. No shame. Just release.

You came hard. Gasping. Shaking. Pressed down onto him so deep it felt like you’d never come apart again.

He felt it. Every pulse.

And it broke him.

Noel cursed, thrust up once—twice—and then stilled.

Deep inside. Full. Raw. Real.

His face was twisted in something close to disbelief. His hands clutched at your hips. His body shuddered once. Then again. Then stilled under yours.

You stayed there.

Breathing into each other.

His arms wrapped around your waist. Your forehead dropped to his chest. Both of you covered in sweat and heat and whatever had just passed between you.

You stayed there.

Your chest pressed to his. Your thighs still open, his hands resting low on your back, thumbs brushing softly along your waistline like he hadn’t realized he was doing it.

Neither of you spoke.

You just breathed into the quiet. Let the room settle around you again. Let your bodies cool.

Your heart was still hammering. His too—you could feel it against your cheek, that deep thud just beneath his ribs.

After a while, you shifted. Just enough to look up.

His eyes were already on you.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile. More a look of someone who’d just lived through something and wasn’t sure how to name it yet.

“That was…” you started, then trailed off.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

You sat up slowly, still straddling him, and rolled off to lie at his side. His arm stayed around you, your leg brushing his. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to.

A few more minutes passed like that. Quiet. Still. Just catching your breath.

Then:

“I could shower,” you murmured, voice low, scratchy from the breathlessness.

He turned his head toward you.

“So could I.”

Neither of you moved right away. And then—without a word—you slipped off the bed and padded barefoot toward the hall. You didn’t check if he was following.

You didn’t need to.

You flicked on the light and stepped into the tiled bathroom. You turned the tap, let the water heat, steam starting to curl around the mirror.

You felt him behind you before you saw him in the glass.

Noel stepped in close, his body warm against your back, his chest brushing your shoulder blade. He didn’t speak. Just kissed your shoulder. Soft. Open-mouthed.

Then he stepped past you and into the shower.

You followed.

He braced a hand to the wall and let the heat hit him, head bowed slightly under the stream.

Then he glanced over his shoulder, caught your eye for half a second. Gave the smallest kind of smile—half-wry, half… uncertain.

“You alright?” you asked, softly.

He nodded once. “Think so.”

Then he rubbed the back of his neck. Looked away.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said after a moment. His voice was quiet, not distant—but there was something underneath it. Like he was trying to sound easy about it. Like he wasn’t already bracing for no.

“I know.”

You stepped in behind him, close, letting your hands glide slowly up his back. His skin was hot from the water, but the tension there had started to ease—melting under your touch, bit by bit.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you said. Light, almost teasing.

He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me either.”

But neither of you moved.

And the water kept falling.

When he turned to face you, his eyes were softer. He looked at you like he hadn’t quite figured you out yet, and maybe didn’t want to—not if it meant losing this.

You ran your hands across his chest, slower now. He let you.

“You look like you’ve got something to say.”

He shifted, adjusting his stance like his body wasn’t quite sure what to do with itself. His eyes flicked to yours, then away, then back again.

“I don’t,” he said finally. “Not anything smooth, anyway.”

“No lines left?”

That pulled a dry sound from him—half a breath, half a laugh.

“Think I burned through all of ‘em just trying to keep my head straight in there.”

You smiled. Not because it was funny. Because it was honest.

And it settled low in your chest, something warm and steady.

“You’re different now.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

His gaze held yours then, slower this time. Like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. Like maybe he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“That’s just because you’re looking at me like you already know what I’m feeling.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

You stepped in, closed the space, and kissed his shoulder—slow, purposeful. Let your mouth linger there just long enough to feel his breath hitch.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t tense.

Just stood there, letting you in.

And then his hand came to rest on your hip—not pulling, not leading. Just… touch, warm and present, like he needed the contact to make sure this was real.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he said, low, voice gone rough at the edges.

There was no posturing in it. No seduction. Just fact.

Maybe it surprised him how much he meant it. Maybe it didn’t.

You kissed him again—slower, deeper, your lips parting against his. Letting it be soft. Letting it say what neither of you could name.

Then you murmured against his mouth:

“Good. Then don’t be.”

He exhaled, leaned his forehead into yours.

You stayed like that for a beat—wet skin to wet skin, water trailing down your bodies, the steam around you thick and humming.

But then you moved first.

You didn’t speak. Just slipped your hand down between your bodies. Found him already half-hard again. Warm and growing under your palm.

His breath hitched. “What’re you—”

You shushed him with a kiss to his chest. Then to his stomach. Then lower.

Noel stood still, back braced to the tile as you slowly lowered yourself to your knees on the wet floor of his shower.

His hands caught your arms—not to stop you, just to steady himself.

“You don’t have to—” he started.

But you looked up at him, water dripping from your lashes, your voice calm.

“I want to.”

And that was that.

Your mouth found him slowly. You licked the tip, soft and slow, let your tongue circle once—just to watch him react. His hand hit the wall behind him, jaw tight. You took him in, deeper, steady. One hand at the base, the other bracing the back of his thigh.

He groaned. “Fuck. You’re gonna wreck me.”

You smiled around him. Kept going.

Water streamed down your back as you sucked him in and let him fill your mouth, pace unhurried, every flick of your tongue done with intent. You loved the way his thighs tensed. The way his fingers twitched, trying not to grab you too hard.

“No games, yeah?” he said, voice cracking. “Not if you want me to last.”

You hummed in answer, and the vibration made him swear under his breath.

He looked down at you—eyes blown, mouth parted. His other hand found your hair, holding tight now. You could feel how close he was already. The weight of it. The strain.

You had him deep in your mouth, slow and steady, your hand stroking the base of him with care. He was already breathless, hips twitching, his body strung tight between the tile wall and your touch.

Your free hand slid down to cup his balls, feeling the weight of him gently in your palm. He moaned—low, unguarded. His fingers slid into your wet hair, his grip not controlling, just holding on.

And then, your fingers drifted further.

Still careful. Still slow.

He widened his stance—just a little. A shift in his hips, subtle but deliberate. Like he already knew what you were reaching for, and wanted to help you get there.

You found the soft skin behind his balls and let your fingers explore. First a light caress. Then a little lower. And when your fingertip pressed—gently, directly—against his entrance, you felt the way his whole body reacted.

Not a flinch. Not resistance.

Just a groan.

Long. From deep in his chest.

He bucked forward slightly into your mouth, not meaning to, and his grip on your hair tightened—not to pull, but to stay grounded.

You stayed right there.

Your fingertip just resting with pressure. Not pushing further. Just holding.

And he let you.

His breath went ragged, his thighs trembled, his head tipped back.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “That—fuck—don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You kept your mouth moving slow over the tip of him, tongue working in steady, wet circles. Your hand stroked in rhythm. And your finger? Still resting, still pressing—enough to undo him completely.

“You like that?” you asked, pulling back slightly to kiss the underside of him.

He looked down at you, flushed and shaking, eyes dark with something heavier now.

“I like you,” he said, rough. “And I like whatever the fuck you’re doing.”

You didn’t move at first. Just held steady—your fingertip pressed with purpose, light but anchored, like a fuse waiting to be lit. And it was.

You felt it happen in him: a ripple, a jolt, then the unmistakable melt of shock into sensation, sensation into something closer to craving.

He groaned again, deeper now. One of those sounds you knew he wouldn’t be able to hide if he tried. The hand in your hair gripped tighter, not out of panic—just need.

So you let your fingertip move.

Just a slow, gentle rub. Barely a motion. But measured, intimate, the kind of pressure you’d give only if you knew someone trusted you to do it right.

He buckled. Hips jolting forward once, mouth dropping open in a soundless exhale.

“Fuck—” he hissed. “Jesus—what the—”

His voice cut off again, like he couldn’t decide if he was swearing or surrendering.

You kept your mouth soft around the tip of him, tongue working in careful rhythm. The combined sensation—your lips, your hand, your fingertip still rubbing that secret place behind—was too much and just right, all at once.

He was breathing like he’d just run for it. His whole body pulled tight under your hands, legs trembling, eyes squeezed shut like he didn’t trust them not to roll back.

You smiled around him, just a little.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, pulling back for a breath. “Let it happen.”

He opened his eyes, barely.

And nodded.

His thighs tensed. His hand slipped down to your shoulder, gripping tight—not to stop you, just to stay tethered.

You felt him twitch in your mouth.

Felt the deep pulse on your tongue.

He was right there.

Another second, another stroke, and he’d lose it—completely.

But you didn’t give it to him.

Instead, you pulled back.

Let his cock fall from your lips with a soft, wet sound.

Kissed the tip once, slow and deliberate, just to feel him jolt under your mouth.

Then looked up.

Watched him shudder. Watched his hands flex at his sides like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or just hold on to the edge of the sink.

His eyes opened slowly—glazed, blinking, not quite believing you’d stopped.

Still bracing. Still trembling.

He looked down at you like he was waiting for the rest. Like he hadn’t realized he was going to be left like this.

But you just stayed there. Still. Calm.

Let him feel it.

That need. That denial. That sudden, sharp ache in the absence of touch.

“You liked that,” you murmured, soft and certain.

His breath hitched. His voice came out ragged.

“Didn’t know I would,” he managed. “But—fuck, yeah.”

You smiled. Kissed the crease of his thigh.

Then slowly stood, skin slick with water, your hand trailing up the center of his stomach—slow enough to make him flinch again.

And just as you passed his chest, his hand shot out and caught your wrist.

Not to stop you. Not to pull you closer.

Just to feel you.

To remind himself you were real.

He looked at you then—really looked.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You were gonna finish me.”

You didn’t blink. Just looked him straight in the eye.

“I was.”

His grip tightened slightly—instinctual, like he thought he might still convince you.

But your smile deepened, and he knew.

This was deliberate. Not teasing. Not punishment. A decision.

“Why didn’t you?” he asked, not accusing—genuinely wrecked with want.

Your eyes stayed on his.

“Because I wanted you to feel it,” you said. “All of it. Every second. And I didn’t want you floating off from it before we were even in the bed.”

He stared at you, jaw flexing.

You leaned in and kissed his mouth—once, firm and hot, just enough to make him groan again.

“I want to finish you properly,” you added against his lips. “Where I can see everything.”

That undid him more than any stroke would’ve.

His breath shuddered out. His head dropped to your shoulder.

“You’re going to destroy me,” he said into your neck. Voice rough. Almost a plea.

You brushed your fingers through his damp hair.

“I know.”

Then pulled back, letting his hands fall away from your body as you stepped toward the door.

“But not yet,” you said, casting one last glance over your shoulder.

“I’m saving that for the bed.”

You passed him a towel, but he didn’t move. Just stared at it like he’d forgotten what it was for.

So you stepped in.

“I’ve got you,” you said softly.

You pressed the towel to his chest, slow and firm. Dragged it down the center of him, watching how his breath stayed shallow, how his jaw worked tight like he was trying not to react.

Your hand followed after the towel—fingertips grazing where the fabric had been. Not soft. Just precise. Every stroke of cotton followed by the heat of your touch, skin to skin.

“You know what got me?” you murmured, your voice just under his collarbone. “You didn’t pretend.”

His breath hitched.

“You didn’t fight it. Didn’t try to act like it wasn’t happening. You just gave in. Even if it was new to you.”

You moved the towel over his stomach, lower, trailing slow. Your hand slipped down the side of his waist. Your thumb traced just under his hipbone.

“I’ve had men try to make it seem like they’re still in charge. Like they’re doing me a favour letting go.”

You crouched slightly. Dried the inside of his thigh. Your fingertips came so close to where he was still thick and flushed for you—but didn’t touch. Didn’t graze.

He flinched—just a little. Not from discomfort. From how badly he wanted you to finish it.

“But you didn’t hold anything back,” you said. “And it was so fucking beautiful.”

You stood again, slow. Let your hand brush the line of his ribs as you rose.

“Hotter than anything else I’ve done.”

He was barely breathing now. His eyes were glassy with it. His lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispered.

You smiled. “You’ll survive.”

But you didn’t step away.

You held his gaze, let him sit in it.

And after a beat—he spoke again. Not a joke. Not a deflection.

“I didn’t think I’d give it up that easy,” he said, voice low and real. “Didn’t think I could.”

His thumb brushed your hip. Barely there.

“But the second you touched me like that—” His breath hitched. “I would’ve let you do anything.”

That landed. Deep. Hot.

You stared at him for a moment, surprised at how much it lit you up. How true it felt in your own chest, too.

You kissed him once—slow, full, meant.

Then handed him the towel.

He blinked down at it like you’d handed him something ceremonial. Then he took it, stepped closer—so close the steam from your skin met his.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just set the towel to your shoulder, slow. The fabric dragged across your collarbone, and his hand followed behind, bare and steady. No hesitation. No rush. Just pressure—warm, thoughtful, like he wanted to learn the shape of you through his palms.

“You alright?” you asked, soft.

His mouth twitched. “Still vertical. That’s something.”

He didn’t look up, but you saw the flush spread across his cheeks. Saw how carefully his hand followed the edge of the towel down between your breasts, how his knuckles lingered just a breath too long.

“You wrecked me in there,” he muttered. “Still not sure my legs work.”

“I know,” you said, steady.

He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “Not sorry, though.”

The towel moved lower—down your stomach, your hip. His fingers spread a little more now, tracing the contour of your waist, slipping behind your back for a second. Anchoring you there.

Then he crouched.

His hand smoothed the towel along your shin, then up your calf. Slow. Focused. Then higher.

And higher.

You felt his hand slide along the inside of your thigh. Warm. Certain. And then—closer still.

He wasn’t drying you anymore.

He was touching you.

He let his fingertips graze your folds—light, exploratory—never parting, never reaching for more. Just feeling the heat of you there, the way you responded.

Your breath caught, just once.

He paused.

“You feel that?” he asked, low.

You nodded.

His fingers moved again, this time gliding gently along your outer lips. He brought them together slightly, pressed them in his palm, and rubbed in a slow, shallow motion—not enough, just close enough to matter.

The pressure sent heat flickering through your hips. Direct but indirect, maddening in its restraint.

You gripped the edge of the sink behind you.

He looked up.

“You’re not gonna ask me to stop, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you said, breath tight.

Then—you heard it. A quiet click.

He reached behind him, grabbed a small bottle from the shelf. Something slick. Whatever was nearby.

He rubbed it between his fingers first. Warmed it.

Then returned.

This time, his fingers slid easier—smoother, hotter, moving across the same outer lines of your body with maddening precision. He pressed your folds together again and moved in slow, deliberate strokes, just enough friction to make you ache without tipping into relief.

Your thighs twitched. Your breath faltered.

“Better?” he asked.

“Worse,” you whispered. “So much worse.”

He smiled, crooked. Wrecked.

“Good.”

Another stroke. Another breath stolen.

You braced against the counter behind you, every nerve in your body tuned to where his fingers moved—not where you wanted him, but so close it didn’t matter.

Then, finally, he pulled away.

Kissed the inside of your thigh once. Lingering.

And stood.

His hands trailed up your hips. His chest pressed to yours. His breath hot against your neck.

“I could’ve made you come right there.”

“I know.”

“But I didn’t.”

“I know.”

“You’re okay with that?”

You looked at him, flush in your chest, jaw set.

“Not even a little.”

He grinned.

Then you turned for the door. Still dripping. Still burning.

And he followed.

You lay back first.

Not sprawled. Not posed. Just open. Relaxed. Watching him. Letting the moment settle heavy in the room.

Noel stood for a second longer, the bottle still in his hand, like he wasn’t sure where to put it down. Then he climbed in beside you, half on his side, one arm braced under his head. The bottle stayed between you.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at you.

You didn’t move either.

Your shoulders brushed. Your hips didn’t. Not yet. But the space between your bodies felt loud.

He popped the cap with a quiet click. Poured a bit into his palm. Rubbed his hands together once. His fingers glistened in the low light.

“Still warm,” he said quietly.

You held out your hand. He passed the bottle without a word. You added a little to your fingers. Let it glide between your hands. Let him watch.

And then—

You both moved.

His hand slid across your waist, over your hip, fingers gliding across your skin like he was mapping it. You mirrored him—your palm trailing down the line of his stomach, lower. The muscles beneath your hand tensed. He made a sound low in his throat.

You didn’t close your hand yet. You just touched.

He did the same—fingers drifting down your inner thigh, slick and slow as thought.

Then finally, your hand wrapped around him. And his fingers moved between your legs.

You felt him twitch in your grip, hot and heavy. He let his fingers stroke over you, finding the softness, the wet already waiting. His thumb traced gently. His breath shifted.

Yours did too.

You moved against his hand without thinking.

He groaned. You tightened your grip.

Still, neither of you spoke.

Just breath and heat and pressure.

You moved together in near-silence, save for the soft, rhythmic sounds your bodies made—flesh gliding against flesh, breath mingling, slick hands moving with steady intent. The bed beneath you shifted with each small motion, but the rest of the room might as well have disappeared.

Your fingers wrapped around him, warm and slick, gliding from base to tip in a slow, steady rhythm. You felt every pulse, every twitch. His length throbbed in your hand, thick and heavy, the skin hot and responsive beneath your palm. His hips gave the smallest shifts forward—reflex, not demand—and each time, you adjusted your stroke to match. Measured. Cruel. Focused.

His breath hitched again.

He groaned low in his throat and let his forehead drop to your shoulder for a moment, teeth grazing the curve where your neck met your collarbone. You could feel him holding himself back—not from you, but from the edge he was already dangerously close to.

Your other hand drifted lower.

Careful. Curious.

You traced the inside of his thigh with feather-light touches, your fingers gliding slowly over heat and muscle. He didn’t speak, but his breath hitched slightly against your skin, and you felt the way his body reacted—subtle twitches under your palm, the way he held himself still, like he didn’t want to interrupt the moment.

You let your hand slide further, slick and warm. When you cupped his balls again, he exhaled—long and quiet. Shoulders loosening. Jaw softening.

Then your fingers moved behind him, exploring the softer skin there—slow, steady, unhurried.

He shifted.

Not away.

If anything, he opened for you. One knee angled slightly outward, just enough to give you space. A silent yes.

You repositioned yourself gently, settling between his legs.

Your touch moved lower, behind the soft weight of him, and you found that tender place again—warm, smooth, vulnerable. You brushed your fingertips along it, carefully. Learning it. Learning him.

When you reached his entrance, the resistance was there—tight, unfamiliar—but not closed off. Not shut down. You stayed light with your touch, just resting there.

Waiting for him to tell you no.

He didn’t.

He moaned—low and broken—his breath catching like his body had just registered what you were doing and wasn’t sure how to handle it. His grip on the back of your neck tightened, not to stop you, just to keep himself grounded.

So you kept going.

Your other hand stroked him slowly, base to tip, your rhythm steady. Purposeful. The contrast of sensations made him twitch in your palm.

Then you pressed again.

Slightly firmer now.

Not pushing through—just resting against that edge, testing his body’s answer.

And it came instantly.

He buckled toward you, hips rocking forward into your hand, a choked sound tearing loose from his throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hoarse and shaken. “You’re trying to break me.”

“I’m not trying,” you whispered. “You’re just letting me.”

His breath hitched—his whole body pulling taut, like he was caught between giving in and being completely undone.

You circled again, your touch coaxing him open without force. One slow, deliberate tease of pressure. Not past the threshold—just poised there, slick and precise.

He gasped from the surprise of wanting more.

The tightness gave just slightly under the pressure and slickness, your touch still gentle, still asking. His hand slid to your waist now, holding on—not guiding, not controlling—just there. Steady.

You leaned in, lips brushing his throat. “Still good?”

He nodded without opening his eyes.

And you felt him melt.

His hips rocked between your hands now—one pace meeting your stroke, the other responding to that hidden, aching edge behind him. You weren’t in a rush. You weren’t trying to finish him.

You were giving him this.

He groaned again—deeper now. Sounding less like pleasure and more like surrender.

“You like that?” you whispered.

His hand flexed at your hip. His head tipped back, exposing his throat to the warm air between you.

“I—yeah. Fuck, I—don’t stop.”

So you didn’t.

You moved your hand slower along his cock now, dragging every stroke out with cruel precision. Letting your fingertip ease and press and tease again, until his whole body felt like it was vibrating under your hands.

You had him. And he let you.

Not because you took it.

You held him there for a few moments longer—fingertip resting with pressure, hand still moving over his cock in that slow, devastating rhythm. His body trembled under you, undone but holding on.

But you felt the shift in him. That edge getting close.

And you knew it wasn’t time.

Not yet.

So you slowed your hand.

Eased your finger back.

Careful. Gentle. Like it mattered—because it did.

He exhaled shakily, head tipping forward as the sensation ebbed. Not in disappointment. Just… wrecked.

His hand slid from your shoulder to your hip, holding you there as he caught his breath.

“You alright?” you murmured, brushing your lips against his jaw.

He nodded once. Didn’t speak right away. Just turned his face into your neck.

Then, low:

“Yeah. I just… fuck. That was—so fucking good.”

You kissed his temple. “I know.”

And you moved from the space between his legs and returning to his side, shoulder to shoulder, skin brushing skin. The heat still radiated off both of you, charged and humming.

Reaching for his hand, you guided it to your stomach—right where the tension still curled deep and low. No words were needed. His fingers slipped down instinctively, finding you with the same attentive care you’d just offered him.

At the same time, your hand slid back around him, slick and sure. He groaned the moment you touched him—not because he needed more, but because you were still there, grounding him with the same slow, deliberate rhythm as before. This wasn’t retreat—it was a shift. A continuation.

You turned your head toward him.

He was already looking at you.

And that was enough.

You both kept moving—mirroring, connected, responsive.

He knew your rhythm by now. He’d learned it through touch, through breath, through the way your hips angled toward him when he pressed just right. The pressure that made your spine arc. The slow drag that made your knee tighten against his thigh.

His fingers glided over your folds—slick with heat and oil and want—teasing along the seam of you, not quite reaching where you needed, but so close it made you ache. Every near-touch landed like a promise. Every miss was intentional.

Your grip on him matched it—slow, focused, every stroke a steady pull that kept him just inside the edge of control.

You breathed together, not speaking, not rushing, letting it build again—this shared tension, this unbearable closeness, right at the line of surrender.

Your whole body arched into him.

You could feel it—the way your stomach tightened, the way your legs pulled taut, the weight of the need low and heavy and building with no place to go. He circled your clit again, firmer this time. Not hard. Just right.

And still, not enough.

“Fuck,” you whispered, voice gone smaller.

He lifted his head. Met your eyes.

“You’re shaking.”

“So are you.”

His fingers circled again, slower. Your own hand stroked him tighter, once, twice, watching the way his abs tensed, the way his jaw clenched.

His cock jerked in your hand—a sharp twitch that made you smirk even as your thighs trembled.

He let out a laugh—short, ragged.

“I’m close.”

“Good.”

But still you didn’t give in.

You kept your rhythm, kept him in your hand, kept your leg tight around his hip, your bodies open and pressed and aching, side by side, foreheads nearly touching.

He brushed his mouth to yours, soft and slow but not quite a kiss. A shared breath. A shared ache.

“I want to be inside you,” he said, voice rough and wrecked and careful.

“I know.”

But neither of you moved.

Because it felt too good—this balance. This sharp edge.

This heat with no relief.

You saw the restraint in his face. Saw it in the tension in his body. Saw how much it cost him not to push, not to roll you beneath him, not to end this right now. And you wanted him more for it.

He dragged his fingers lower again, along your entrance—just there—and held.

And you felt yourself clench in answer.

Your hand stilled on him. His breath caught.

“Now,” you whispered.

And he didn’t ask twice.

He shifted—smooth, grounded, sure—moving over you, between your legs, the warmth of his skin sliding against yours. You opened for him without thinking, hips tilting, knees drawing back. No hesitation. No guarding. Just want. Need.

He braced one hand beside your head, the other steadying himself at your hip, fingers digging gently into your skin like he needed the anchor. His eyes locked to yours.

And then—

He pushed in.

In one long, deliberate stroke.

No teasing. No pause.

Just inside you, all at once—thick, deep, filling.

Your whole body arched beneath him.

He groaned—a real sound, torn from the middle of his chest, raw and overwhelmed.

You gasped.

Your hands caught at his back, fingertips digging in, needing something to hold.

He stayed like that for a moment—deep inside, unmoving—just breathing. Just feeling the way you gripped him. The way your body opened around him like you’d been made for it.

And then—

He pulled all the way out.

Slow.

Controlled.

Lined up again.

And pushed back in.

Deeper. Slower.

You cried out—quiet, high in your throat—head tipping back against the pillow, spine bowing. He swallowed the sound like it fed him.

His rhythm stayed steady.

Out.

In.

Each thrust a full retreat, then a return.

Measured. Purposeful. Devastating.

Your hands dragged down his back, over the flex of his shoulders, the heat of his spine, the curve of his waist. You needed to feel every part of him. Needed to keep him right there.

“Fuck,” he rasped, forehead nearly pressed to yours. “You feel…”

But he couldn’t finish the sentence.

He just kept moving. Every time deeper. Every time slower. Every time more.

And you took it.

Met him, matched him, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, mouth finding his jaw, his shoulder, his throat.

Both of you wrecked.

Both of you open.

Neither of you able—or willing—to stop.

He stayed deep for a beat longer, holding there like he didn’t trust himself to move just yet. His chest was pressed to yours, skin to skin, the warmth of him bleeding into you like fire. You felt the tremble in his arms, the way his breath caught against your cheek. His eyes were half-lidded, fixed on your face, and for a second everything went still—the space between thrusts a living thing, heavy with what you both knew was coming.

Then he moved.

He pulled out in one slow drag that left you aching, empty—then slammed back in, harder this time, hips meeting yours with a deep, thick rhythm that made your spine bow off the bed. You gasped, soundless at first, your mouth falling open with the sudden stretch of him all over again.

And he did it again. And again.

Each stroke was a full, deliberate pull—then a deep, claiming return. No rush, but no holding back either. His pace built with purpose, hips snapping into yours with a clean, focused force that said everything his voice couldn’t.

And you met him.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. You rose into him with every thrust, your legs bracketing his waist, arms tight around his back. Your body moved like it had been waiting for this rhythm all night—a pace that wasn’t just taking you, but answering you.

The air between you grew heavier, hotter. His skin slid against yours, damp now, his breath turning uneven, his weight pressing you into the mattress in all the right ways.

He groaned into your neck—low, real, guttural. The kind of sound that wasn’t meant to be heard, just happened, like his body couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Fucking hell,” he rasped, his voice rough at your ear. “You’re—Christ—don’t stop. Don’t—”

You didn’t.

Your hips kept meeting his, your hands clutching at his back, his shoulders, his hair—anywhere you could hold onto him. He was everywhere. Inside you, around you, breath and skin and pressure, all of it now, all of it needed.

The rhythm blurred at the edges. The bed creaked beneath you. His hand found the back of your thigh and pulled you tighter, deeper, and you cried out—louder now, unable to help it.

The edge was right there. You felt it coiling, low and tight and insistent, the pull in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat.

And he felt it too.

His mouth found yours again—not neat, not gentle. Just there, breathing into you, swallowing the sounds you made as he kept moving, hard and steady and right, the slap of skin and the shared breath between you louder than any words could be.

You clung to him. He held on like you were both about to fall.

You felt it break first—not all at once, but in a slow, unstoppable rush building in your spine. The pressure coiled tight at the base of your belly, then climbed fast, wave after wave until your body couldn’t hold it anymore. Your breath turned ragged, your whole body locking against his.

Your legs pulled tighter around him. Your nails bit into his back.

And then—

It hit.

White-hot. Deep. Full-body.

Your hips jerked. Your mouth fell open. A sound left you you didn’t recognize—half cry, half gasp, everything breaking loose.

He felt it.

He groaned against your mouth, then slammed deeper, harder, driving into your release, his rhythm falling apart, his breath ragged.

“Fuck—” he choked out. “That—God—”

His whole body bucked once, twice—and then he was there too.

He came with a low, broken sound, forehead pressed to yours, hand clenched tight at your hip. His rhythm stuttered, hips pressing flush to yours as he buried himself to the hilt, riding the last surge of it through clenched teeth and trembling arms.

You both stayed like that—locked, breathless, flooded—for a long second.

He didn’t move at first.

Just breathed.

His weight stayed heavy above you, arms braced to either side, chest flush against yours, skin warm and slick where you touched. His head rested in the crook of your neck, and you could feel the slow, unsteady drag of his breath against your collarbone.

He was still inside you.

Softening now—but still there.

The fullness lingered, that deep pulse of connection, not movement but presence. The aftershocks in your body hadn’t stopped either, little flickers of sensation echoing out from your core. And with him still inside, you could feel every one of them reverberate between you.

His hips twitched now and then—small, involuntary jolts. You weren’t sure if they came from the remnants of his orgasm or from the effort of staying still.

Probably both.

But neither of you moved.

Not yet.

Your arms stayed wrapped around his back, one hand sliding slowly up the damp line of his spine, the other curled at his shoulder. His mouth brushed against your skin—your throat, the curve of your jaw, the corner of your mouth—soft kisses, unfocused, like he wasn’t ready to stop being part of you.

“Alright?” he murmured, voice rough at your ear.

You nodded, your fingers still tracing his skin. “You?”

He laughed—low, breathless, still wrecked. “Don’t think I’ve got bones left.”

You smiled against the side of his head. He shifted slightly above you, just enough to press his hips closer again, and you felt him twitch—not with arousal, not anymore, but something deeper. A muscle memory. A beat still echoing between you.

“I could stay like this,” he said softly, “if you don’t mind getting crushed.”

You huffed out a laugh, but you didn’t let go.

“Crushed is fine,” you murmured. “I like the weight of you.”

He went still for a moment. Then shifted just enough to kiss you—slow and full, mouth moving with yours like it was the only language left. No push, no hunger. Just heat without urgency. Just connection without performance.

Your body softened around him, and still, he stayed inside. Like neither of you were ready to draw that line between before and after.

“I’ve never…” he started, voice a little hesitant, a little quieter than before.

You smoothed your fingers along his shoulder blade, waited.

“What?”

He didn’t lift his head to look at you. Just stayed where he was, his breath moving through your hair.

“I dunno,” he said. “That felt… different.”

You kissed his temple, slow.

“Yeah,” you said. “It did.”

Another pause.

Then, gradually, he pulled back. Careful. Gentle in a way that made your chest ache. You felt him slip from your body with a slow drag, warmth giving way to emptiness, and even that felt intimate.

He sat back on his heels, brushed a hand over his face.

“I’ll get you something. Warm.”

He got up—bare, flushed, marked by you—and padded out of the room, one hand dragging through his hair, the other steadying himself lightly on the wall.

You lay there, skin still tingling, legs parted where he’d been, still feeling the echo of him between your thighs.

He came back a minute later, warm towel folded in his hands. His hair was still a mess, but his eyes were steadier now—like the weight of what just passed between you was only now beginning to settle in.

He knelt on the bed beside you, careful not to jostle you too much. You stayed where you were, sprawled soft and loose across the sheets, watching him.

He didn’t speak.

Just leaned over and began to clean you—slow, deliberate, gentle. The towel was damp and warm against your thighs, and you felt your breath catch for a second when he pressed it low between your legs. Not from discomfort—just the intimacy of it. The care in his touch. The way he moved like he didn’t want to miss a thing.

He glanced up briefly, checking your face. “Still alright?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be.

He took his time. Not out of necessity—just to stay close. His fingers worked carefully, respectful but unflinching, wiping away the evidence of what you’d done to each other with that same quiet concentration he’d had while undressing you. Focused. Thoughtful.

When he was done, he tossed the towel to the floor without looking.

Then he climbed in beside you, the mattress shifting under his weight.

You turned toward him automatically, your body finding his again without thought. He pulled the covers over you both, tucking them around your legs. Then he slid in behind you, his arm draped around your waist, chest warm against your back.

His breath was steady now. Slower.

He kissed your shoulder, once. Then rested his head against the curve of your neck and let go—all tension bleeding out of him in one slow exhale.

His hand settled at your stomach. Not possessive. Just there.

“Still here,” he murmured.

You reached up to cover his hand with yours.

“Good.”

Neither of you spoke after that.

You felt the weight of his body soften, his breathing level out against your spine. The rise and fall of his chest slowed. His grip didn’t loosen—he held you even in sleep.

You lay there in the dark, eyes open, your body still buzzing faintly from everything he’d given you.

You listened to the sound of his breath.

Felt the warmth of his arm. The quiet pull of your heartbeat beginning to settle.

And still, sleep didn’t come.

Not because you were restless.

Because you were full. Quietly alive.

You turned slowly, carefully, just enough to look at him.

He hadn’t moved.

One arm still stretched where it had wrapped around your waist. His chest rose and fell with a slow, even rhythm, face slack in sleep. Mouth parted slightly. Brows relaxed. The tension always curled in his jaw had finally dropped away.

And something about that undid you a little.

You hadn’t expected this part—the stillness of it, the gentleness. The way his whole body looked unprotected now, like nothing was being held back. Not from you. Not from anyone. Just… real.

There was no bravado in sleep. No posing.

Just the man who had held you like he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.

You lay there, watching the way his hand twitched once against the sheets, the way his lips curved slightly, like whatever dream he’d slipped into wasn’t cruel. Something stirred in your chest—quiet but heavy, like the shape of a thought you didn’t want to unfold yet.

Maybe you were just overtired. Spent.

But the softness of him like this—the way he let you see him, even without meaning to—hit deeper than you meant it to.

And you weren’t sure how to sit with it.

Not just yet.

So you slipped out from under the covers, slow and soundless. His arm didn’t resist. He barely stirred.

You crossed the room, pulled on his T-shirt from the chair. It hung low on your thighs, sleeves too big, shoulders wide.

Still smelled like him.

You glanced back once from the doorway.

He was still there. Still soft in the light. Still sleeping like he meant it.

And you left the room—not to escape him, but to let the weight of what was settling in find a place to land.

The hallway was quiet.

Bare floorboards cool under your feet, his T-shirt brushing the tops of your thighs as you walked. The house had a lived-in hush to it now, the kind that only comes after the music’s died and the energy’s spent.

You didn’t need to turn on a light.

The machines were glowing before you even reached the room—soft pulses of color sliding over the doorframe and onto the walls. Defender hummed low. Pac-Man blinked in slow cycles. The glass of each cabinet glowed like a warm body at rest.

You stepped inside and let the door fall closed behind you.

The quiet was complete, except for the whir and crackle of waiting electronics.

You didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

Just walked straight to the machine you’d played before—fingers finding the button on instinct, hip nudging against the corner in that same familiar lean. You placed your palms lightly on the sides of the cabinet, let the hum run through your bones.

Your heart still hadn’t slowed all the way down.

Your limbs still felt warm.

But it wasn’t leftover adrenaline anymore. It was something else. Residual want, maybe. Or contentment. Or that weird, floating weightlessness that happens after you’ve given your whole self to something—and you still feel full.

The high score still blinked.

Still yours.

You weren’t trying to beat it.

You just wanted to play.

Your fingers reached for the plunger, pulled it back. Released.

The ball shot into motion, and with it, so did you—eyes tracking its movement, hands loose at the flippers, your body falling into rhythm. Not thinking, not planning. Just responding.

It was soothing in a way you hadn’t expected.

This room.

This hum.

This strange ritual.

Everything stripped away—makeup, noise, pressure. Nothing to impress. Nothing to win. Just your body in his shirt, your legs bare, your breath steady, and the machine under your hands, all light and sound and reflex.

It felt like a kind of reset.

The bed felt cooler on one side.

Noel blinked, groggy at first. The room was dim. No footsteps. No voices. But her warmth was missing—the shape of her still carved into the mattress beside him. The sheets still smelled like her skin and something he couldn’t name, and his body registered the absence before his head had even caught up.

He didn’t panic.

He just knew.

Where she’d gone.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The sweat at the back of his neck had cooled. His limbs were loose, muscles worn out in that clean, satisfying way that only came after something real.

He found his jeans, pulled them on without much thought. Moved barefoot down the hall, no lights on. He didn’t need them. The house had gone quiet, but one room still pulsed with life—that low mechanical hum like the buzz of electricity under the skin.

The pinball room.

Of course.

He paused at the doorway.

And there she was.

Back to him. His shirt on—bare-legged, sleeves loose, the hem just brushing the tops of her thighs. The glow of the machine lit her in soft flickers, yellow, blue, red. She leaned into the cabinet without thinking, hips shifting with each ball, focused, calm. Her fingers moved fast at the flippers, hair messy down her back, completely lost in it.

And he didn’t move.

Just stood there and watched.

Something pulled tight in his chest—not like lust, not even like need. Something quieter. Fuller. Like he was seeing something he shouldn’t have seen but didn’t want to look away from.

She was just… being.

Not putting on a show. Not trying. Just there. Real. Glowing in the light of his ridiculous machines, bare legs braced, jaw set in concentration.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had felt that present in a space he called his.

It floored him.

He crossed the room without thinking—slow, quiet steps.

Didn’t speak.

Just slipped his arms around her from behind. Low at her waist. Bare chest pressed to her back. His face tucked into her shoulder, his nose into her hair, drawing her in with each breath.

Not with heat.

Not this time.

Just to feel her again.

To be near whatever this was—whatever had happened tonight.

Whatever was still happening.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t ask.

She just leaned into him—soft, easy—her rhythm at the machine never breaking.

He closed his eyes and held her tighter.

There was nothing to say.

Not yet.

And he didn’t need her to say anything either.

She kept playing.

The soft clack of the ball, the whir of the machine, the light movement of her hands—it filled the quiet between them. Steady. Intimate.

He stayed close, arms wrapped around her, face pressed into the warm curve of her neck.

And they just breathed there, together.

Then her voice broke through, quiet but clear.

“Didn’t think you’d follow.”

He smiled against her shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d leave.”

Her hips shifted slightly as she caught a rebound. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded, not moving. “Yeah. Felt that.”

The machine flashed. She lost the ball. His shirt shifted slightly on her as she leaned back into him.

“Couldn’t stop thinking,” she said.

“’Bout what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers hovered over the button. The next ball dropped into place.

Then, lightly:

“About how good that felt.”

He exhaled softly, arms tightening around her waist.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

The next few seconds stretched out in silence again, just the buzz of the machine and the soft press of her body against his.

She tilted her head slightly, enough to brush her cheek against his. “You gonna watch me beat my own score?”

He kissed just below her ear. “Reckon I’ve got the best seat in the house.”

She smiled, he felt it. A quiet shift in her posture. Like that was all she needed.

Noel didn’t say anything else.

Just stayed right there—holding her, pressed in close, heartbeat slowing into hers, eyes half-closed as the machine lit up again in front of them.

Still full. Still wrecked. Still wide awake.

[anathemaspeaks]

dandelion wishes

character(s): shoto todoroki synopsis: always the bridesmaid, never the bride - isn't that how the saying goes? my name is momo yaoyorozu, and in my case, it's true. word count: 1.3k warning(s): none a/n: not my best work, but here you go anon :) likes, follows, and reblogs are appreciated <3 this is all from momo's point of view.

it happened at my birthday party, a day after i turned 16.

kaminari managed to somehow smuggle booze into the house. still teenagers and drunk off the excitement more than the liquor, someone suggested we play 7 minutes in heaven. everyone cheered in agreement - except bakugou, of course. he opted to stay sober and make sure we don't have too much fun.

after a few uneventful rounds, it was finally my turn to spin the bottle. i wished it would land on shoto. this was my chance to tell him how i feel about him. maybe he'd say something back? well, a girl can dream...right?

my heart hammered in my chest as i gripped the bottle, spinning it on the polished wooden floor. every spin felt like an eternity until it finally landed with a decisive click. i traced the path of the neck, breath catching in my throat as i saw it pointed directly at todoroki. this was it. this was my chance.

we awkwardly shuffled towards the closet, the door creaking shut behind us, the dim light casting shadows on the wall. before i could calm my nerves and speak, todoroki blurted

"listen, about the spin…" his voice was uncharacteristically soft, almost hesitant.

"yeah?" i forced a nonchalant reply, inhaling to try and calm my nerves. he ran a hand through his dual-colored hair, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

"actually, there's someone i... well, someone i kind of like." a sheepish grin tugged at the corner of his lips. it felt like the wind got knocked out of my lungs. my eyes darted around the cramped space, landing on a crumpled magazine lying forgotten on the floor. this was happening. finally.

"oh, cool," i choked out, my voice barely above a whisper, "who is it?" i asked nervously, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

a beat of silence.

"y/n" he mumbled, a shy smile on his lips. the name rang in my ears, shattering my dreams of a chance with shoto. i forced a smile, "oh."

maybe this was for the best.

maybe y/n would make him happy in a way i couldn't, maybe she was what he had wanted all along.

maybe y/n wouldn't have walked out of this closet with a broken heart hidden behind a painted grin.

of course it was her. it made perfect sense. her smile could light up a whole room, kindness radiating from her like sunshine. she was effortlessly beautiful. she was everything i couldn't be. everything i wanted to be. pretty, smart, funny, strong and kind.

how could i ever compete with that? a pang of jealousy, sharp and unwanted, twisted in my gut. i should be happy for them.

and yet the feeling wouldn't leave.

my gaze flickered up to shoto's shy smile, and the way his eyes seemed to light up just at the mere mention of her. a hollow ache settled in my chest, envy so deep it felt like a barbed wire wrapped around my heart.

shoto's turn.

i held my breath, the unsettling feeling in my gut worsening each second. when the bottle stopped spinning, it landed on y/n.

of course it did.

as if tonight could've gotten any worse.

they emerged from the closet looking like a tornado had hit them. clothes askew, hair a mess, and faces flushed with a kind of unspoken ecstasy that left little to guess.

the next day, they walked into class hand-in-hand. it was official.

today marks 2 years since that day.

over this period, they became the textbook definition of the perfect couple. they were disgustingly cute. sneaky, affectionate, glances in the middle of lectures, whispered jokes that erupted in shared laughter, their hands seemingly glued together.

shoto 'resting bitch face' todoroki, weak, a complete loverboy for y/n. he'd wrap his arm casually around her waist, brush stray hairs from her face with a lingering touch, and steal kisses during training breaks. it was a side of him no one had ever seen - a shoto who wore his heart on his sleeve. for her.

here i was, stuck watching their picture-perfect love story unfold, a constant reminder of the confession that will forever remain trapped on my tongue.

we were sprawled across mina's living room floor, empty pizza boxes scattered around like confetti, and a half-eaten bag of chips resting precariously on a mountain of rom-com CDs. the topic, just like a normal beginning to a girls' night, was boys.

"boys are the worst!" mina declared, prompting a chorus of agreement from everyone.

"mine just left his gym socks under the bed again. seriously, how hard is it to use a laundry basket?" uraraka chimed in.

just then, y/n came in from the kitchen with a bag of marshmallows and sat down next to us. well, she wouldn't be participating in the complaining.

"look who finally decided to grace us with her presence," i teased, nudging her playfully.

"so, how are things going with the ice king, anyways?" asked jirou.

she blushed a bit. "oh, the usual. he's amazing, and he's surprisingly..." she trailed off, a sly smile on her face.

"surprisingly...?" mina prompted.

"let's just say his quirk isn't the only thing that's hot and cold."

the room erupted in laughter and whoops for her. i forced a laugh, feeling an all too familiar pang in my stomach.

the conversation continued, everyone chiming in with their recent stories about boys. including y/n. every detail felt like a knife to my heart. 'that should've been me' i thought. i pushed it away. i wouldn't let my jealousy get the best of me.

they all seemed so happy, while i was stuck on the sidelines, yearning to feel their joy. we all fell asleep in that room while watching movies and gossiping, a smile on everyone's tired faces. i still couldn't help but feel a little bitter. but i couldn't let it get the best of me.

now we all have finally graduated. we decided to still meet up every saturday for dinner, and this week, it was at todoroki's. the familiar buzz of anticipation and excitement filled the house as we all talked about our first week after graduating.

then, shoto and y/n walked in hand-in-hand.

"hi everyone!" greeted y/n, smile so bright it was contagious.

"sit wherever you're comfortable, dinner will be ready soon" announced shoto.

"but before that, there's something we have to tell you." she was practically shaking in eagerness.

todoroki cleared his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "we, uh, well…" he fumbled for words, a rare sight for the usually composed half-and-half hero. she squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"we're engaged!" she blurted out, a wide grin on her face.

the air crackled with shock. wide eyes, dropped jaws, and a silence followed the announcement.

"wait, married?!" kaminari finally found his voice, his eyes wide with surprise. "but you guys are only eighteen!"

todoroki chuckled, a sound rarely heard before y/n. "we know," he admitted, a hint of shyness lingering in his voice. "but we knew what we wanted, and well, here we are," he added, a hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

and then, as if a dam had broken, the group erupted. mina squealed, launching herself at y/n in a bone-crushing hug. kirishima gave todoroki a hearty back slap, nearly knocking him over. uraraka, tears welling in her eyes, showered them both with congratulations.

"dumb brats, you're gonna regret this!" yelled bakugou. but i saw him turn away and wipe away a falling tear. both y/n and shoto engulfed him in a hug. he threatened to burn their arms off if they did it again, but the smile on his face was hard to ignore.

congratulations continued, hugs going all around. the surprise announcement had cast a whole new light on their evening. it was a celebration not just of friendship and graduation, but of a love story that had blossomed within the very walls of U.A., a love story we all saw unfold.

married. at eighteen. the words echoed in the hollow space where my confession had died. cheers rained down on them, a cruel confetti shower on my silent tears. my wish for him was as futile as willing a dandelion's wispy white petals not to fly away with the wind.

they were a love story written in stolen glances and secret touches, a masterpiece i could only watch unfold from the sidelines - a happy ever after that couldn't be mine.

to the anon who requested this, i know you wanted it to be more angsty so i tried to make it as vengeful as i could, i hope you like it! <3 (i accidentally deleted the ask I'M SO SORRY)

please send in requests everyone 🫶

[marvelskies1969]

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, sexual assault, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 2]

(Chapter 32)

Evolving

The streets of Stuttgart were unnervingly quiet, the usual city bustle muted under the weight of fear. People knelt in submission, heads bowed, as Loki stood above them like a king surveying his subjects. He held his golden scepter with an air of triumph, the eerie blue glow from its tip casting shadows over his sharp features.

One man, frail yet resolute, slowly rose to his feet. His voice was steady as he spoke. “I will not kneel.”

Loki’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes gleamed with something dangerous. “Not to men like you.”

Loki smirked. “There are no men like me.”

Y/N, hidden among the approaching strike team, watched the exchange, a twinge of something unsettling flaring inside her. He wasn’t wrong. There was no one quite like him. Y/N pressed herself deeper into the shadows, her breath shallow as she watched him command the terrified crowd. Loki moved with a slow, deliberate grace, every step a calculated performance of dominance. The sharp lines of his armor caught the light, the gold and green making him look less like a man and more like something divine, untouchable. And those eyes—ice and fire all at once—burned with an intensity that made something coil tight in her stomach. He was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, in a way that made her pulse stutter against her will. She clenched her fists, disgusted at herself. This was the enemy. A murderer, a would-be conqueror. And yet, her body betrayed her, drawn to the arrogance in his smirk, the cruel amusement in his gaze. It was wrong. It was madness. But God help her, she couldn’t look away.

She rolled her eyes at herself. Get a grip.

The tension in the air crackled as Loki raised his scepter, aiming directly at the defiant old man’s chest.

A sharp clang split through the silence.

Loki staggered back, his attack deflected as a circular red, white, and blue shield ricocheted off the scepter, knocking him to the ground.

Steve Rogers stepped forward, catching his shield as it flew back into his grip. His voice was calm, yet commanding. “You know, the last time I was in Germany and saw a man standing above everybody else, we ended up disagreeing.”

Y/N groaned through the comms. “God, you sound like a grandad.”

A chuckle slipped through the line—Natasha, probably, and even Banner’s soft amusement could be heard. Steve just sighed at his sister’s remark, choosing to ignore it.

Loki, however, looked intrigued as he slowly rose back to his feet, brushing off his black and green coat. His eyes gleamed with something between recognition and delight. “The soldier.” He tilted his head, amusement curling his lips. “The man out of time.”

Steve didn’t hesitate. “I’m not the one out of time.”

Before Loki could respond, the unmistakable whir of a helicopter sliced through the sky.

Natasha’s voice rang through the comms. “Drop the weapon and stand down.”

Simultaneously, Y/N flew down from above, landing gracefully beside Steve, her blue energy casting an otherworldly glow.

Loki took a moment to observe her, eyes trailing over the faint blue shimmer still crackling in her fingertips.

Then, he attacked.

The fight was swift and brutal. Steve met Loki’s strikes with practiced discipline, deflecting the scepter’s blows with his shield. Y/N moved with raw agility, her energy pulsing in her hands as she struck where she could. But Loki was fast—too fast.

A well-aimed strike sent Steve crashing onto his back. Loki loomed over him, scepter poised.

“Kneel,” he commanded through gritted teeth.

Y/N didn’t think—she just moved. Instinct, adrenaline, something deeper and unspoken drove her forward. She stepped between them, her hand shooting out to catch the scepter mid-strike.

The moment her fingers wrapped around it, the world tilted.

A crackle of energy pulsed through her palm, racing up her arm like a live wire, but that wasn’t what made her breath hitch. It was him. The sudden, sharp inhale he took. The way his body went still, as if the universe itself had stuttered in place.

For a second—just a second—Loki’s expression changed.

Something flickered in his eyes, a crack in the icy blue glaze that coated them. A spark of something deep, something raw. A silent question, an unspoken plea. And beneath it—something else. Something burning, wild and electric, clashing with the cold that seeped from him. It was fleeting, but it was there.

Y/N’s pulse roared in her ears. She should have felt fear, should have been repulsed, but instead, heat curled in her stomach, foreign and unwelcome. Her fingers tightened around the scepter, not just to stop him—but to hold onto the moment. His gaze pinned her in place, a breath away from something she couldn’t name, something dangerous.

His lips parted slightly, as if words lingered there, unsaid. As if he recognized something in her, something neither of them understood.

And then, like a snapped thread, the moment was gone. His mask slid back into place, cold arrogance smoothing over whatever had just cracked beneath the surface.

But Y/N had felt it.

And she knew, in some deep, dangerous part of herself, that he had too.

The eerie blue tinge returned to his gaze, his expression twisting into something smug. His lips curled into a smirk, and before Y/N could react, he flipped the scepter and aimed it directly at her chest.

A searing energy exploded through her, flooding her veins like liquid fire. It spread rapidly—from her fingertips to her legs, to her head, to her very core. Her vision blurred, but this time, she didn’t see blue. She saw yellow.

The force of it sent them both flying backward.

Y/N hit the ground hard, gasping for breath as her vision swam. Loki, equally thrown, struggled to his feet, his face contorted in confusion.

And then—

A loud, blaring guitar riff tore through the tension, some rock song Y/N had never heard before.

A streak of red and gold shot through the sky, landing with a dramatic thud a few feet away. The helmet lifted to reveal a familiar smirk.

Tony Stark’s voice crackled through the speakers. “Agent Romanoff… did you miss me?”

Loki, staring up at the metal-clad figure, exhaled sharply. His grip on the scepter tightened—then, after a moment, he straightened and… surrendered.

As the chaos settled, Steve pulled Y/N to her feet, concern etched across his face. “You okay?”

She nodded absently, shaking off the lingering sensation. But as she looked down at her hands, her breath hitched.

Her glow was no longer just blue. It was shifting, swirling—a mix of blue and yellow.

Green.

When she glanced back at Loki, he was still watching her. Not just looking—watching. Studying. As if she were something unexpected, something he hadn’t accounted for. His sharp eyes hadn’t left her for a second, their icy blue depths locked onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach tighten.

A slow, unnerving kind of heat curled through her, spreading like ink in water. It was the way he looked at her—unblinking, as if he could peel back her layers with nothing but his gaze, as if he saw something beneath her skin that even she didn’t know was there. It should have made her uneasy. It did. But it also sent a shiver of something dangerously close to exhilaration down her spine.

There was arrogance in his stare, yes—an unshaken confidence that spoke of knowing his own power, of believing himself untouchable. But beneath that, there was something else. A quiet curiosity. A flicker of recognition, as if he’d seen something familiar in her, something he wasn’t sure he liked.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she found that a mix of intimidating—

And endearing.

The realization unsettled her. This was Loki. The enemy. The trickster god with a silver tongue and a cruel smirk, the one they had been sent to stop. And yet, here she was, caught in the weight of his gaze, her pulse betraying her with its quickened pace. There was a warning in the way he looked at her—something dark, something possessive, as if she had unknowingly stepped too close to the fire.

And the worst part?

Somewhere, deep down, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to step back.

[discotenny]

Lost you once

Chapter 1 ~ All there is, is you and me Where things go wrong following the escape from Sae's palace.

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Under the colorful fluorescents of Sae’s casino, all Ren can look at is you. 

In all your beauty, in all your grace, you dance above the lights with a smile that makes his heart flutter. Your presence shimmers like your blade as you fight your way through shadows. It shines like the chandeliers you swing from. As you intentionally put on a show, Ren almost feels jealous at how many eyes widen at your appearance. 

“Joker, stop staring at them! You need to keep up your own pace or you’re not getting out of there!” 

Futaba’s voice comes through his communicator, a warning lacing her teasing words as she alludes to the true plan he needed to carry out. Before the others could question her statement, Ryuji’s obnoxiously loud laughter pierces his ears. He can slightly hear Ann tell him to shut up but by then, Ren has already turned his eyes to look at you once more. 

Ren sees you giggle and send him a wink, blowing a kiss that he catches with his hand. As the large group of shadows you fight look over towards his hiding place, you take advantage of their distraction. 

“PERSONA!” 

Pandora’s Box- a myth said to hail from Ancient Greece. Pandora, the first woman ever alive, was blessed by the gods with gifts to guide her path. Among beautiful clothing, shining pearls, and wonderful musical sound, it was a singular box that took the attention of the girl. A gift she was warned not to open. And coupled with her innocently curious nature, it was a recipe for disaster.

The shadows dressed in suits laughed at you. After all, could you even fight with such an inconvenient persona? To them, it seemed you were better off fighting with your blade than some cumbersome box. 

Ren could see it in your eyes. The anger and the fury of being underestimated yet again. Through all their battles, you were the one that was always targeted, being thought of as the weakest link of their party. But time and time again- you would prove your worth and show it was a mistake to underestimate just how much damage you could do.  

When you first unlocked your persona, the thieves stood confused. No creature, no monster, no mythological being of any kind stood behind you and your new outfit. Instead, an ornate box appeared hovering in your hands. Nobody else could ever open the box except for you, and you wouldn’t tell anyone exactly what was in it either.

You glide your hand over the top, shifting the lid of the box to the side. It leaks out a black mass of smoke that enters your assailants lungs. Wretched coughs lined with the aftermath of your assault filled the air. 

You wielded the element of poison. With the smoke emanating from Pandora’s Box, you were able to inflict continuous damage on your opponents without even directly attacking.

For weaker enemies, the smoke was all you needed to put them out of commission long enough for you to get past. 

The group of shadows in front of you fall to their knees, gasping breaths as they heave on the floor. You walk past them, not bothering yourself to finish them off. You had a mission to complete, afterall. 

You hop onto the next chandelier, pausing as you survey the area to decide whether to jump down to the ground below or maneuver up to the elevated area above. 

“There are too many shadows below you to land down, Silhouette. There should be a platform with an exit door somewhere above you,” Futaba says. 

“Got it!” You say as you climb up the balcony. When your two feet touch solid floor, you turn around to see if Ren made it behind you. He makes eye contact with you and for a brief second your eyes soften and he forgets where he is- focusing on the beauty that is all of you . 

“Behind you, watch out!” Futaba’s voice interrupts his brief daze. Ren quickly climbs up, hiding himself as you turn to face the newly appeared opponent. “This one’s not like the others- make sure to be careful!” 

Your eyes narrow, sizing up the shadow in front of you. 

For stronger enemies, your poison wasn’t the only thing you’d need to use.

Manifesting your persona, you again flooded the arena with your black smoke. The poison begins to take effect, but as expected, the Moloch wouldn’t fall down with just that. It takes the opportunity to blast you with agidyne- which you just narrowly avoid. 

After dodging, you close the distance between you and the shadow. With the help of your intruding poison, you brandish your blade. It only takes three quick strikes to take it down. It cries as it vanishes into a black puddle, emanating a similar smoke as your own persona does. 

“Good job, Silhouette!” Akechi cuts through the communications and with a voice so cheery, no one on the line dares to comment further. Ren almost rolls his eyes at the facade he knows the detective is putting on. 

“Let’s keep moving- through those doors should be a maintenance area,” Futaba says. “Everyone else use escape route B!” 

Several chatters of agreement and acknowledgement follow her words. You turn to Ren and he nods in encouragement, already prepared to follow you through the doors and to the ends of the Earth itself. 

You head inside, going through quicker than you normally would have if you feared being caught. However, you had to. You needed to run ahead of Ren to make sure your opposition was reacting in the intended way for your plan to succeed. Keeping Akechi’s spirit in believing you were on your own escape route was part of it. Setting the stage for Ren to make his grand reveal was what was supposed to happen. 

Supposed to. 

Ren doesn’t know how it went so wrong. 

He was the one that leapt out the stained glass window, grabbing the attention of everyone in the premises. You were the one that took the quiet route at the last moment- through a set of unsuspecting gray doors. 

Ren can’t help but freeze as he stares at the scene in front of him. He can vaguely hear your voice fighting against your captors. He can barely see the outline of you trying to free yourself. He can just about feel your eyes begging at him for help. 

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. 

A helicopter shines a blinding spotlight on his face and he flinches. He can’t move- he can’t think- and every possible voice in his ear but one is screaming at him to run. 

He doesn’t want to leave you there, and all he wants to do is run over and free you from your binding so you can run off yourself- but he can’t. Not when there are other people’s lives at stake, not when it’s not over just yet. The burden of being a leader means he can’t always do what he needs. 

And so he turns away. Away from your voice. Away from the outline of you. Away from your pleading eyes. 

Ren feels sick as he runs off, taking your intended escape route as a few policemen attempt to chase him. He out runs them all, of course. When he meets up with the rest of the thieves, your missing presence is deafening. 

Despite being free, Ren can’t help but feel like he’s lost. 

He was the one that was supposed to get captured, treated like a dog by the cops once more. You were the one bound to the ground- kicked around like you were nothing more than worthless trash. 

Ren tries to keep up the confident facade as he speaks with your panicked friends- reassuring them that everything was going to be alright. They all separate for the night following the short debrief at Le Blanc. The rest of them leave with a hesitant hope that despite the hiccup, their intended plan would turn out and you would return to them safe. 

Ren wasn’t so sure of it himself. Morgana paws at him as he sits in bed- the wide eyed distant stare Ren wears makes the cat question if he was even alive. His hands cover his nose and mouth as he replays the image of you being rough handled in his mind. He doesn’t want to imagine the horrors of what they may be putting you through in custody- but his memories of his own treatment leak into his thoughts and all he wants to do is cry. 

He desperately, desperately wants you in his arms, but all he can do is sit in his bed and sob like you’re already gone.

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Decided to split this fic up into parts because I hate doing constant scene changes in my fics lowk lowk. Also to get this out of draft hell LMAO >:3 I have parts 2 and 3 already written, with part 4 already drafted and partially complete. Be warned this has the unrequited love tag on ao3 for a reason...