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cas-backwards-tie · 5 months ago

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Chapter One: News Crashing

Poly!TaskForce 141 x Omega!Reader

The Omega Pack Plan Masterlist

Summary: A change in procedure around base causes you to spiral as your world comes crashing down. There's only one way out of this and it starts with telling the truth.

Words: 4.4k

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anxiety, Existentialism, Misogyny, Dismissive Attitudes, Angst, Rage

Mentions of: Medication,

A/N: Honestly, I'd been inspired by a few series (Standard Emergency Protocol and Pantry Solutions) I've read those and it caused me to want to write my own A/B/O COD AU, so I started this as a sort of funny fic awhile ago. I'm haven't entirely plotted out the whole story, but I have some ideas for the first few chapters. I was finally inspired to finish and post it because @cringeycookies liked the snippet I posted in a wip tag game. So thanks to everyone who inspired me, and a special thank you to @penelopepine for helping me with the dialogue and Price's reaction as I try to begin writing for them.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," the nurse responds, "we're no longer authorized to refill suppressants of any kinds for any purpose." With a push of the empty orange pill bottle back across the counter in your direction, she offers you an ugly forced smile.

"Is there really nothing we can do?!" You complain incredulously, "Nothing at all? What am I supposed to do with this?!" Taking the emptied bottle into your hands, you stare at the nurse with widened eyes and a wild look.

"There is no 'we'..." she rolls her eyes in response, focus returning to the papers before her. "But if you insist, you can always bring it up with your CO, or the Base Commander." She scribbles something out on the page, but you can hardly focus when your world is virtually crumbling apart around you. "Now if you don't mind, some of us actually have work to do around here."

Still stunned, you can't help the way your breathing picks up as your heart begins to race. About a month ago now there was a base-wide meeting where they'd finally cracked down and implemented a new program the government is trying out: OPP. The Omega Pack Plan. While it's uncommon for Omegas to even be recruited into the military to begin with, such a thing does exist. Regardless, the Base Commander gathered everyone in the Auditorium for a presentation to talk about the new program and how the army would implement it into the troops. Luckily, considering you're on an elite Task Force, it doesn't apply to you. At least... it didn't.

"What the hell is this?!" You yell, tossing the orange bottle in his direction.

He'd heard the stomps all the way down the hall and smelled you coming, so he's neither surprised by your appearance, nor startled by the toss of the bottle. John swiftly catches it in his hand as he looks up at you. "What?" He inquires, finally glancing down to examine what he's caught. "A pill bottle?"

"Captain, it's empty! They won't refill it- I can-"

A groan tumbles past his lips as he drags a hand down his beard. "Look, Panther-" referring to you by your callsign, interesting move. "There's nothing I can do, it's over my head now. I wish I could do something, but I can't." Sitting back in his leather chair, Price places the bottle on the desk; a faint rap of the plastic hitting the wood is the only sound between you momentarily before you hurriedly shut the door.

Panic begins to flood your system as you're not sure how to handle this. It's your turn to freak out. You know how this goes, you know the story now; ever since they'd implemented and dispersed the Omegas into the troops, they'd started implementing them into the Task Forces, and now they have to do so with the One Four One. Fingers curling in and out of shapes as you try to process your next move, you speak before you can even begin to plan what you're going to tell him.

"I- I'm- I..." You're pacing his office now, the heavy gaze of your Captain upon you as you try to prevent yourself from hyperventilating. The thing is, you're usually good with pressure- really good. It's your job to be good. It's just... this is different. This is your life, your livelihood at stake, the livelihood of all your future generations to come.

A sigh resounds throughout the office before you hear the low timbre of his voice. "Dove," he calls out with a gentle tone, "I want you to take a deep breath for me. Alright?" With the calm and even sound of your Captain's voice and the assured look on his face, you comply. Exhaling the last of your breath, you close your eyes and focus in on the deep intake of air through your nose. With the parting of your lips you slowly release it before giving yourself a moment.

When you open your eyes he gestures to the seat before his desk, though you know he won't take offense if you decline. Hesitant, one hand finds its way to the other, wrapping around your arm as you listen to him speak. "Now, can you explain what has you in this state? I assure you that there's nothing that can't be dealt with." You want to trust him, you know him--John Price--your Captain. He's always had your back, always made sure you felt comfortable in the Taskforce, always made an effort to check on you after things got rough.

You nod. Licking your lips, you search his blue eyes as you tentatively take the seat across him.

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it, alright? I can guarantee you that unless you're trying to tell me you're an Omega, nothing you say is going to shock me that warrants the amount of panic you're putting yourself through," Price chuckles. He's obviously joking, trying to break the tension with humor. Lips drawn upward into a small smile, the Captain stares at you expectantly.

"What if I am?" You whisper, eyes unable to tear from his visage as you try and gauge his reaction. Unexpectedly, silence fills the space between you and feels deafening in the small space. The growing comfort of his office these couple of months now feels like a cage you're forced to stay in, under watch, as you stare down your superior on the brink of a battle to the death. And that's what you do. His blue eyes bore into yours, skeptically shifting between your left and right as he seems to try and get a read on you.

All of the sudden you jump at the smack of his hands hitting the desk in front of him. He laughs at you.

He's laughing at you.

And you're sitting there with your guts spilled out, dread eating away at the pit in your stomach... and he's laughing. It feels like forever is passing you by as you stare at him in shock, this moment between the two of you frozen in time as nothing else persists.

"I understand what this was now," Price explains, still chuckling to himself as he shakes his head. There's a warm smile on his face that feels eerie considering the dire context of the situation at hand. "You got me! I fully believed you for a second there, too."

Eyebrows furrowing in dark realization, you can't help but stare at him wildly. "Wha-" You begin to question him and his line of thinking, but he cuts you off.

"This was all a prank, right? The bottle, the hysterics- you really outdid yourself, Sergeant." Leaning back in his chair, he props his ankle up on his other knee. "Because let me tell you, this was good. Better than anything Soap's cooked up in awhile. Did you come up with it yourself?" There's a cheeky grin on his lips. "Ah, I know you did."

Lips opening and closing like a fish out of water, you sit in the armchair across from him pale with a dazed look across your face. He doesn't actually think that this was...

"Well, with your little triumph in your pocket, I say we get back to work, yeah? I've got some new leads from MI6 that've just popped in." With that, the man stands from his desk and rounds it. "Garrick should be back around Tea. I'll see you in the Command Station then," he informs you. It's then that he passes by, a genial clap on your shoulder while he's at it.

Left stunned in silence, you can't help but grit your teeth, consequentially pronouncing your jaw as anger ebbs through your bloodstream. Breath getting heavier, you can't help but loathe the meeting tonight. Your Captain might be satisfied with the conversation, but all you feel is discouraged. He's abandoned you, left you alone in his office with a humiliating sense of betrayal and shattered trust. Almost like you hadn't just told him your biggest secret at all.

Punching the standard heavy punching bag hanging in front of you, you grunt, ignoring the pain that gnaws at your knuckles underneath the reusable hand wraps. Sweat builds on your brow as you continue to unleash your pent up anger on the gym’s equipment. How could he?! When had you ever pulled anything even similar to this? Never! And the fact that you’ve only been on the team for a handful of months only exacerbates the abandonment you’re feeling right now. He’s your Captain! Regardless of your feelings or the situation at hand, isn’t he supposed to be there for you? He’d promised from the get go to help you with whatever you need, and now the one time you go to him for aid it backfires in your face and leaves you without any sort of solution going forward aside from straight up telling the whole team the flat out truth, and God forbid! You can’t even begin to fathom how that’d go.

A pent up and frustrated yell almost akin to something of a growl emanates from you as you tear into another round of swift jabs and punches. Regardless of the situation at hand, you’ve been trying to build up your upper body’s strength and letting out the anger you’d accumulated over this morning’s events seemed like a perfect opportunity to let loose.

The stretches and treadmill routine didn’t take a lot out of you, but the weights, and now the punching bag definitely is starting to take its toll. Sweat beads at your forehead in rivulets that drip down the sides of your neck, down your scalp past your neck and between your shoulder blades. Tank top soaked in sweat, you breathe hard as your heart pumps rapidly in your chest. You would’ve wound up here at some point or another tonight, but the Captain’s discourteous response certainly led to an earlier workout time.

While others sparsely litter the gym’s floor, you pay them no mind and vice versa. It’s not uncommon for soldiers to be found blowing off steam or aiming to beat their highest reps on the weights. Yet, this gym is reserved for higher standing members of the Force, the gym on the far side of the base where there are less people, offices, and considering the regular army men train in the bigger gym closer to their quarters, it’s mostly other higher ranked officers in here.

“Captain’s lookin’ for ya,” Markowski, another Sergeant that you’d come to befriend on base announces from the doorway, having poked his head in after leaving a few minutes earlier. He belongs to a different Task Force.

A groan tumbles out of you as you realize it’s already that time. Just as the door clicks shut, your phone chimes loudly with the alarm you’d set earlier going off. A few quick swipes of your fingers, you turn the alarm off and unlock the device, seeing a number of messages flood your notifications.

Kyle: You hear they’ve bumped up the timeline? 😯

Johnny: “ https://Tiktok/Shattered.Rat567 ” Had me rollin’ 🤣👏🏻 Gotta check it, Bonnie

Simon: You coming to the meeting or not? 🤨

Johnny: Where r u? You’re usually first here 👀 Cap’s getting peeved, watch out

Not looking forward to the inevitable mess of a meeting before you, you don’t bother rushing to join the men. With a wash of your face in the women’s locker room, a speedy bathroom break, and a grab of the items you’d brought with you, you’re heading for the Command Station.

With the time Price set the meeting, you won't get to eat dinner till afterward. You'd be lying if you said you weren't annoyed by this entire situation, your agitation from neglecting your hunger earlier has certainly come to bite you in the backside.

While you don’t have time to respond to their texts, having set the alarm with only enough time to get back to your team’s Command ‘station’ albeit more like your headquarters before heading out. Speed-walking through the orderly halls with a haste perfectly common around here, you navigate with a well practiced knowledge. Though you’ve only been here coming up on six months soon, you’re well acquainted with this part of the base.

Rounding the corner, you’re in the hall, close. Yet, the worry of being late lingers in the back of your mind and adds another layer of annoyance on top of your residual anger buried deep down from this morning’s situation. You’d inevitably come up with your solution. It’s not one you like… but it’s the only logical option. Another turn and you’re striding into the big garage-like room.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Sergeant,” Price calls out to you. Lifting his eyes from the map laid out across your station's table, he glares in your direction.

“What took you so long?” Soap snaps, his brows slightly furrowed as he stares at you from the opposite side of the table, hands lazily wrapped around his vest’s straps.

A look at your watch tells you that you’re not even late, the meeting doesn’t officially start for another minute! But you are usually waiting on them. He’s got you there.

“Yeah, you’re usually the first one here. It’s not like you,” Gaz whispers under his breath as you sidle up alongside Ghost, Gaz standing diagonal to you right beside Price at the head of the table.

“Focus,” Ghost orders the men, his hands tucked in his hoodie’s pocket. You don’t fail to notice the way he subtly takes a step further away from you as soon as they start talking again. Price goes back to talking plans as Gaz is questioning the circumstances of the information the Captain had acquired earlier when he’d had to leave the office.

“Which is exactly why-”

A heavy exhale on your behalf leaves the men frozen as their eyes drift back to you. “Do you have something you’d like to say, Panther?” The Captain questions. Jaw clenched, you tear your eyes from the map they’d settled on.

“We’ve got a big problem,” you announce, cutting off the Captain as you finally raise your gaze to meet Price’s slightly widened blue eyes.

“Well, if you see something that needs changin’ then let’s hear it,” he responds. A ‘hmph’ follows as he crosses his arms over his chest and sits his weight back onto his heels.

“It’s not about the op,” you correct him. Tilting your head side to side you attempt to crack the kinks in your neck while standing a little straighter to appear more engaged and serious.

“And it’s more important than this? What we’re doin’ right now?” Soap questions, his hands dropping to rest on the table as he looms over it, eyeing you with frustration obvious in his irises.

“What is it?” Gaz asks, a quirk of his eyebrow garnering your attention for a split-second. He’s genuinely asking, and there doesn’t seem to be a hostility in his scent as he turns his attention to you. Then there’s Ghost, who you don’t even need to look at to feel his heavy gaze on you, waiting expectantly.

“Actually, it is,” you argue with Soap, anger beginning to boil in your belly, the frustration and angst having been left to simmer all afternoon. “I can’t believe you didn’t take me seriously when I came to you earlier,” you turn your anger on Price. He looks taken aback by the outburst, something you’re not known for.

“Dove,” he calls calmly, hands out in an attempt to pacify.

“Don’t-” you bark, starting to raise your voice without realizing it. “I came to you in confidance! Trusting you when you said you’d be there to help me if I ever needed it! How could you?” Gritting your teeth, you don’t realize how hard you’re breathing as your chest heaves with anger.

“Woah, woah-” Gaz sputters, “What-” holding his hands out to try and diffuse the argument.

“I let myself be vulnerable-” You continue to shout.

“Isn’t this something that shoul-” Soap attempts to dissuade, backing down as he puts his hands out.

“-and tell you the truth, and-” you’re lunging for him across the table. You’re held back by a massive hand on your shoulder. “You laugh in my face?! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You're suddenly pulled back, off your feet, and shoved into a metal chair that'd been nearby. Your Lieutenant is hovering over you, his cold eyes now tinged with a spark of anger as they bore into you scrutinizingly. There's the sound of commotion behind him, multiple voices overlapping, yet you can't see anything with that utter giant in front of you!

“Does anyone wanna explain what the bloody hell is goin’ on here?” Ghost snaps. It's only then when the man steps aside that you can see where everyone is. With both of you in your respective corners, you simply glare at the Captain from over your crossed arms out in front of you.

“Are you bleedin’ kidding me, ya Scally?” Price grunts as he shrugs Gaz’ hand off his shoulder. “You’re still on about it! When w-"

"That doesn't explain what happened, Cap," Gaz interrupts, stopping him from going off and getting them nowhere.

He groans, running a hand over his face once more before composing himself. Everyone waits for an explanation—you too—he’d been the first to speak, and you’re curious to hear what he comes up with. “She came into my office, bloody cryin’, tossing me a pill bottle, muttering about, saying she’s a-”

You don’t dare let him finish, not wanting him to be the one to finally say it, exposing your truth to the team. "Omega. I’m an Omega, ” you finish his sentence. While you’re scared to meet their faces, you take a deep breath and force yourself to do so.

"Christ," Price curses, fingers coming up to pinch the skin between his brows as he hangs his head.

Ghost's stoicism is nothing unordinary, and in fact, is somewhat a comfort considering you'd expected nothing less from him.

Gaz looks stunned for a moment, eyes flitting about the other’s faces before the serious look on his face morphs. Lips slowly drawing upward, you shouldn’t be surprised when he starts laughing. "Yeah right," Garrick teases, "and I'm actually the Prime Minister."

Yet, it's not just him. The uproarious laughter from your right only adds fuel to the already burning flame as the two other Sergeants laugh like idiots. All as if it's some poor joke with no consequences to anyone's life, and yet... it's the truth. At the end of the day, it doesn't change anything. At the end of the day, your life is still in jeopardy and they're treating it like some joke. Unable to form any sort of retort, you simply blink; stuck in a stupor raw, stung, and with a dumb look on your face.

Soap, rounding the table slaps Gaz on the back, his face flushed red from laughing so hard. "Yer makin' my stomach hurt. God," he eggs the other on between his dying chuckles and attempting to catch his breath.

"You're really just gonna stand there and laugh?!" You finally burst. Anger surely must be coming off your scent in waves, but you don't care. Standing from the chair, you don't flinch as Ghost swipes his arm out in front of you in case you were going for the Captain again. There will be no physical altercation on his watch.

"She already pulled this on me earlier, mind you, and now what? You're trying to pull it over on the lads' too, eh?" Price goads you.

"And I was telling the truth! You're the one who said I was joking," you point out. The volume of your voice is lost on you, partially blinded by the fury bleeding out.

"I suppose you never did admit to it being a prank," Price reasons, fingers grazing his beard as he runs them over it repeatedly in thought. "But how do you expect us to believe that when you clearly smell of a Beta?"

"Even on the battlefield, after everything we've been through-" Gaz starts.

"After yer all sweaty from a workout, too. I think we'd notice, Pan," Johnny argues, illuminating a legitimate point of consideration.

"Oh please," you mutter quietly to yourself. Shaking your head, you can't believe they're really all being this daft right now. "Like you have heard of those Scent Spritzers.”

There are various perfumes on the market specifically designed to alter one’s scent. Most use it smell like an Alpha when they’re not, or an Omega when they’re wanting to seduce an Alpha when going out. But Omegas posing as Betas was rarely heard of. You’re more than sure it happens more frequently than people know of, they just haven’t been caught. And in your line of work? It’s scarce. People are thoroughly vetted, but… you’d been on suppressants for a long, long time. And a Beta perfume only perfected your hiding.

“Did you forget we’re Alphas, love? We’d be able to smell you across the room if you were,” Gaz taunts. There’s a puff of his chest that makes his cockiness even more annoying than usual.

"You really want to be an Omega? Dumb yourself down to some weak fragile thing?” Johnny jokes, nudging Gaz’ arm as he shakes his head.

“A doll who can get whoever she wants? Want to be nothing more than good for knockin' up and popping out pups?” Gaz adds on.

“Are you serious right now?” You test, seething under your skin as your hands ball up into fists. “How could you say that?!”

“It’s what people say,” Ghost comments.

“Nobody would want that and you’re out here lying about it,” Johnny pokes.

“We’re only trying to point out the flaws in your little rouse, Pan,” Gaz says, a smile lighting up his features as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"And what if I was lying, hm? Would that change anything you just said to me? How you feel about Omegas?" You scoff.

“This isn’t about your designation,” Price finally speaks. Fingers still weaved into his beard, his blue eyes lift to meet yours. “I see what this is about now, but there's nothin' to worry about, Dove.” Your Captain takes on a softer tone and all of the sudden you feel yourself start to get emotional as a twinge of sadness, of the hurt bleeding through upon understanding makes you feel seen.

“I know it's intimidating, the thought of having your first unmedicated heat, but we have medics here. It's natural. Heats, ruts, we all have them. And, hey... at least you're not an Omega, right?" Whatever relief you’d momentarily experienced sinks back down in your gut with the speed of a rollercoaster drop. It’s as silent as a stakeout, the only sound being people’s breathing. And the lack of yours.

It takes a moment to gather yourself, everyone’s eyes on you with the serious topic change. While sex and the downsides to a designation are something discussed with the boys, you’d often been left out. And to your comfort. "You know what? I can’t do this,” you retort. Backing from the group, you toss your hands up. “I guess you'll just have to wait and see," you bite back. With a whip of your hair over your shoulder, you head for the door.

The room is silent once more as everyone gawks. You’d never reacted in such a manner, had an outburst like that… this is… certainly different, and something they’re not at all used to.

“It’s because they took away her suppressants today,” Price explains. It might not have been something the group should be privileged to know. A private matter, really… but with the way you acted? He felt the men deserve an explanation, at least.

“That makes sense,” Gaz responds quietly, eyes still on the door you’d gone through.

“That’s no excuse,” Johnny counters, arms crossing over his chest with a scowl on his lips.

"Well... that went better than I thought,” Ghost comments with a shrug. “Back to the plan? We can fill her in later.”

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yung-notorious · 3 months ago

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ALWAYS SOME NEW SHIT, AIN’T NEVER THE USUAL! I FUCK YOU SO GOOD TILL I HAVE YOU DELUSIONAL! - ♡

— your roommates are gone, the apartment is yours, and you're laid up in bed with somethin' dangerous. all you need is him, his hands, and a little time to make the most of it. — feat. satoru gojo

+18 MDI. WARNINGS. baddie!reader x college!gojo, excerpt from never lose my chapter 8, porn with plot, situationship, morning sex, that good 'ol sunday dick, protected sex, dirty talk, body worship, sub/dom undertones, trust & boundaries, slight cum play, squirting, riding, fingering, voice kink, gojo kink(?), edging & milking, overstimulation, gojo’s character may be questionable but his stroke game is A1. notes. word count 5.8K, apart of a larger body of work but can stand alone as a one-shot. you can read the full chapter here: A03 & master post. title: lick me - sexyy red ft. lil baby. divider: fairytopea (tumblr)

You knew Satoru was bullshitting when he said he’d be on the phone for a few more minutes. He’s been chatting away for an extra thirty, and you’ve already gone through your entire Instagram feeds stories and now the Tiktok burnout is starting to set in.

Exhausted from doom scrolling, you chuck your phone somewhere across the bed to snuggle deeper into his embrace, resting your head against his chest. You don’t have a single fucking clue what’s being said anymore with his ear now pressed against the phone, but whatever it is definitely isn't related to earlier’s conversation. You think you catch mention of the school’s football team and the names of people you don’t recognize, but at this point, you’re too out of the loop to care. He’s lucky you actually like being around him, because had this been anyone else you’d probably kick them out telling them to go the fuck home.

What’s even more surprising is that despite being bored out of your mind, chilling with him in bed while he talks on the phone is strangely confronting. You’ve had your share of intimate moments at your young age, but you’ve never simply laid up like this with a guy before. It’s domestic as hell— whatever the girls online call it— but you’re not pushing it away.

Resting your head on his chest as he rubs your shoulder, you let the rhythm of his voice wrap around you like a warm blanket. There’s this cool boyish charm that comes through as he talks— a side of him you’ve caught glimpses of only a few times when he’s speaking to his friends. He’s more commanding and animated, yet somehow still a relaxed version of himself all together, nearly a polar opposite of how he is with you.

And you know what? That’s exactly how it should be, you’re not the one to be treated like a homie. And even though his friends do annoy the hell out of you when they’re together, seeing him be himself with them is undeniably attractive and lowkey turning you on.

Shifting over onto your stomach, you tuck an arm behind his neck, hooking a leg around his waist, letting your free hand slowly trail down his body feeling him up. Stopping to rest your hand on the inside of his thigh, you look up, waiting for a reaction.

When you don’t get one— he’s still chatting away— you decide to take it a step further, slowly creeping your hand up to cup his balls, palming his bulge.

It only takes a couple good rubs for you to feel his dick harden beneath you. Feeling bold, you wrap a tight fist around his length stroking him through his briefs. All it takes is a couple tight ones for his thighs to widen up and you take that as permission to go further.

Slipping a hand under his waistband to squeeze his dick, you watch him bite his lip, still ignoring you as he lazily stares up at the ceiling. He can try to act all cool and unbothered all he wants, but you know exactly how to melt his ice.

Taking charge, you rub your thumb carefully around his slit, your acrylic nail getting caught in the fabric of his briefs with each pressing circle. It doesn't take much effort before you’re feeling the wetness of his pre sticking to the pad of your thumb as you. Pausing to collect up what you can to wet his shaft, you grip your hand back around his length giving him more quick strokes.

Feeling more daring, you connect your lips to his neck, slowly peppering soft, wet kisses along his skin as you continue working your hand around his dick and balls. You’re finding some sort of fun in all this really, feeling him up in every which way you please while he lays beside you trying to act like he’s not bricked the hell up.

You can hear every grunt that gets stuck in his throat and cracking of his toes each time you press against the underside of his tip. It’s kind of funny how you’re unsure who’s more of a slut now: you for daring to do this, or him for letting it happen while he’s on a call. Y’all are both some trouble!

Just as you’re about to go for a gentle bite on his ear you feel the deep bass of his voice against your lips.

“Choso— Choso…bro I’ma let you go…I’ll try to be over there later tonight. Alright, I'll talk to you later. Bye.” He ends the call to lean over— your hand still tightly wrapped around his dick— to drop his phone onto the nightside with a loud thud.

Unfortunately for him, no matter how hard he tries to maintain his composure, it’ll be his own body that will betray him every single time. Men, they’re so fucking weak. You probably could rob him with a fleshlight.

Falling back onto the mattress, he turns to give you a look before opening his mouth, and of all the things you expect him to say, it definitely isn’t, “Why’d you interrupt my phone call?”

“Because you talk too much.” You say smart, releasing him to wipe your hand clean on his briefs along the side of his hip. Sitting up on your elbow to rest your cheek in your hand, you hover above his face to stare down at him challengingly, awaiting his response. This could go one or two ways, but you know for sure either way ends with you getting fucked.

"All I needed was a few minutes.” He murmurs, his hand glides up your chest stopping just below your neck before gently tracing your jawline with his thumb.

“I gave you that, now I want your attention.” You cock your head. “Did you forget where you were at?”

"You have it— so now what’s up?" He asks, his tone still soft, eyes locked on yours as he tilts your chin up just as your hand slides over to squeeze his thigh.

“You know what I want…” You breathe, inching closer to his bulge.

“Yeah?” He lets go of your chin, trailing his hand down your chest. “You don’t have to ask me— could have just pulled it out.” Eyes still locked on yours as you slip a hand under his waistband.

Letting you go, he gives you space to slip under the covers, lifting his hips to help you tug off his briefs. The second they're gone, your hand is around him, leaning over to take him between your lips. You know exactly how he likes it— your mouth and hand wrapped tight around the tip, teasing him with just the right amount of pressure that’ll make his toes curl.

You know you're doing a good job when his hand resting at the back of your neck tightens, turning into a firm grip that keeps you exactly where he wants you. Not wanting to try your luck deep throating him just yet, you brace yourself with a hand on his thigh for balance, but soon find yourself running your hand along the muscle instead, grabbing on wherever please, feeling out their solid weight and smoothness. Even though his dick is the main event— hot, thick, and heavy in your hands each time you pull off to catch your breath— it’s his thighs that have your full attention. Maybe next time you'll leave a trail of bites and hickeys along them, marking him up good just because you can.

“Get in between my legs...” He throws the covers back making room for you. Without a second thought, you crawl between his thighs, and just as you’re about to shift down the bed to lay on your stomach, his voice interrupts.

“Uh-uh, sit up...” He whispers, and despite it being nothing more than a gentle correction, it still finds a way to make your stomach tingle. You can’t even lie, that bossy shit turns you up. Glancing up at him, you slowly prop yourself up on your elbows to part your knees just enough, arching yourself down low, nice and sexy in a way you know he’ll like.

Bobbing your head up and down his dick, you lose track of every grunt and curse you pull past his lips. The wet, squishy sounds from each tight squeeze, paired with the clacking of your pretty nails around his dick, become a rhythm you get lost in until the growing dampness in your panties pulls you back in. Fuck, you’re going to have to speed this up because you really want to fuck now.

“Sloppy, baby. Make it—” His voice breaks off, caught in his throat as you pull off to throw a nasty wad of spit on his dick, watching as it drips down his length. “There you go…” He murmurs, a grin tugging at his lips. You don’t even need to look up to know he’s smiling. Anything for him, right?

“Gotta get the sides too. All of it. Just how I taught you...” His words make your stomach tighten. Glancing up through your lashes, you latch onto his shaft, tongue tracing long, slow licks along his length. The salty taste of him mixing with the slick of your spit as you pump the head of his dick with a tight fist.

“Sloppier…spit on it some more…get that shit wet for me…” He murmurs, bringing his hands down into your hair to gently pull back to keep out of your face. Taking a moment to lick his pre-cum and drool off your lips, you teasingly slap his dick against your tongue, testing its weight. Spitting down onto him again, you let it drip slow and messy before taking him back into your mouth, your lips wrapping tight around him. As you glance up, you catch him smiling down at you, and you can’t help but sheepishly smile back. You used to hate giving head, but for him— talking to you like this— you’ll keep going till he busts in your mouth twice.

You swear everytime he looks at you like that, something inside you loosens up. You never thought sex could be like this— fun, messy, and so damn freeing. That it’s not just about getting him off; but letting yourself enjoy it too.

Remembering the times he’s whispered for you to drop your innocence and open up awakens those butterflies in your stomach. It’s a mystery how in such a short time of knowing him, he’s managed to create a safe space for you to let go and push past the boundaries you once clung to— all without a hint of judgment.

But no matter how amazing everything feels with him, there’s this nagging thing that won’t leave you alone—a constant reminder of how off this all this really is. No matter how hard you try to push it aside, the truth is starting to feel impossible to shake, and the longer you avoid the elephant in the room, the harder it becomes to hold it all together. It’s doubt that creeps in at the end of every night, makes you wonder if any of this is even real. But fuck it, you don’t have the time to make any sense of it right now. You can talk it out with Tink later, you have to get this nut in.

"Ahmp!" You bite back a moan, caught off guard as his hand slaps your ass right when he shifts to sit up.

“Come up here…” He says, and without a second thought, you slide your soaked panties off to straddle his lap. Once fully seated, you wrap your hand around his dick, stroking him from behind your back, while your other hand rests against his shoulder for support. You can feel your wetness sticking against him, and it’s taking every ounce of willpower not to be a horny bunny and grind your sloppy wet pussy against his chest.

“You know where that condom at?” The question catches you off guard, making you pause— again, definitely not what you expected to hear. Someone’s full of surprises today, huh?

“Yeah, why?” You give him a confused look.

“It’s early, and I’m still kinda tired…I don’t wanna have to worry about pulling out. It be in the back of my mind when we fuck...” He says, warm hands smoothing along your stomach then up around your ribs.

Okay, cool, good to know at least one of you is trying to be responsible. Condom? Sure. Not a problem!

“I think it’s in here.” You lean over, trying to search in the top drawer of your nightstand without tipping over. “Hold me.” You warn, feeling yourself about to topple over. His hands quickly find your waist steadying you.

“I got it.” You find it stuck beneath a pile of clutter you've been meaning to sort out.

Handing him the gold foil, you scoot back a bit, giving him space to do his thing. As much as you love the feeling of raw sex, there’s something seriously hot about watching him work a tight fist along his length, struggling to stretch the latex over his girth. And as if that wasn’t enough, the damage your sanity takes from his dick snapping back against his abdomen when he lets go is downright disrespectful.

“Come on— ready?” He grabs you at your ribs, pulling you forward towards him, your breath hitches at his sudden eagerness. “You don’t need this…” He tugs at your shirt, and the second it’s off he’s grabbing hold of your boobs, squeezing them and sucking on your nipples like a baby. Never too tired to suck titties, huh!?

Taking your hand to guide his dick to your entrance, you carefully sink down onto the tip. Yet, no matter how many times you’ve done this, the feeling of just the head pushing through is one that’ll never get easier even with time.

It’s harder this time around— his dick— no pun intended. After nearly a week of constant sex, you have no choice but to take him slow, inch by inch, feeling yourself clench around him as you sink down.

“Gimme a second…” You plead, pressing your hand against his chest to keep him from bucking his hips up. On a good day you could take all of him, but with the way he’s bricked up, you’re not trying to bite off more than you can chew. See, this is that early morning dick, It’ll be a lot more than hurtful words flying out of your mouth if he so much as attempts to push you down.

“Take your time…” He teases, bringing both his hands to rub soothing circles along your jawline, fingers combing through your tresses around your nap. “Too much?”

“It’s enough— you’re not little.” You laugh, bouncing slowly on his length, giving your wetness a chance to moisten the condom as you try to fully take him in. It’s painstakingly slow working your sore pussy down his stiff dick, but guess this is the price you pay for letting him fuck you like a dog all week.

“My bad…” He chuckles. “Here, come lay on my chest— hmm.” He pulls you into his arms. Slanging one around your back, he scoots the both of you further down the bed gripping a handful of your ass to help guide you down his length.

“It’s too dry…” You come back up, the friction of the condom becoming unbearable as you feel yourself drying up from frustration. This isn’t working.

“I got you…” He brings two fingers to his mouth to wet them. Pulling out, he uses those same fingers to stroke your pussy, rubbing tight circles on and around your clit. Burying your face in his neck to stifle your moans, you feel yourself grow wetter as he whispers filthy praises in your ear, urging you on.

“This better?” He lips brush against the shell of your ear. Your thighs quiver with each teasing stroke to your clit, the oversensitivity heightening your arousal. And like a slut you can’t do much but moan against his neck when you feel those same two fingers sink into your heat. Curling deep, giving himself a feel around your velvety walls.

“Mhm…” You nod, slowly rolling your hips down to ride his hand. The exploratory movements of his fingers driving deep, stroking your g-spot. “Right there…fuck…right there…”

“I got you baby…I got you...” His palm presses against your clit as he drives his fingers even faster making sure to hit that sweet spot over and over, he’s so damn deep he could poke your cervix if he pleased. “…you’re squeezing baby, relax for me…there you go…how that feel, good?”

“Toru…I’ma fucking squirt…” You warn, already feeling yourself start to leak. Shit feels so fucking good he needs to publish a wikiHow on finger stroking pussy.

“Show me— go ‘head baby…you know I got you…” He exhales heavily, his other hand running through your hair to hold you close to him as he bullies your pussy like a pro, digging your coochie out so good, leaving her sorer than when you started. It’s a good soreness though, a sweet discomfort that’s nothing more than a reminder of how throughly he’s fucked you the past week.

“Fuck— hmmmm!” You grip his hair tight, trying your damn hardest to hold back the moan that’s fighting to erupt from you, but it’s no use because all it takes is one final stroke to your g-spot and you're cumming harder than a bull.

“Oh my god!” You cry out, clenching down on his fingers so tight he has to pull them out. Taking his hands to strum your pussy to keep you squirting, your thighs shake with such a force you have no choice but to cling onto him for dear life. A wave of pleasure hits you so intense your entire body electrifies like static off an old box TV across your chest and shoulders. His fingers are pruney once he lets go, all gooed up and coated with sticky globs of your cum.

Wiping his fingers clean on your thigh, he effortlessly guides your soaked pussy all the way down his dick, and a sweet moan comes up your throat once you’re fully seated. You’re so damn wet you can’t even feel the condom anymore, if it was any darker in here you wouldn’t even be able to tell he had one on.

“Bet that rose can’t do it like me, huh?” He teases, two hands at your waist rocking you forward. “I got you making a mess. Wetting the bed all up...”

“Heh— please shut up…” You laugh, catching your breath. Because of course he’d make a joke eight inches deep in your pussy. No matter how good his dick is it’ll never take away from how corny he can be sometimes.

Regaining your strength, your hands find his shoulders again to steady yourself as you begin a slow pace bouncing on his dick. It starts off a lot sweeter this time, nothing like your usual. No creaking bed or pounding headboard, just the quiet sound of your soft moans and his low grunts filling the room.

You’re fully lost in the moment when his hips start to move in perfect sync with yours, the delicious drag of his dick massaging your walls coaxes the softest, neediest whimpers past your lips. You’re so in love with his dick, you’re serious when you say you’ll fuck him up if you ever find out he’s sharing, because this shit right here makes no sense. It’s too damn good!

“More…right there…” You whine, needing to feel him deeper. Gripping your ass in response he presses his heels into the mattress, pulling your hips closer towards him to fuck up into you so well you have to put a hand to his chest to hold him back.

You totally get the need for the condom now— thankful for it even— because with the way he’s fucking you this damn good you don’t think he could push you off quick enough before he’s busting his load. And as bad as you want it, you’d hate to dip into that hundred dollars he gave you to spend half of it on a Plan B.

“Toru...Toru...Toru.." His name spills from your lips over and over as your brain goes fuzzy, slipping into a dizzy, dick drunken state. He's gripping you up just so right, and every stroke to your g-spot has you coming further undone, scattering every thought in your head until there's nothing left but his voice and touch occupying your mind.

“You’re so fucking pretty baby…didn’t I say I’d fuck you everyday? Hmm?” His voice rings.

“Thursday…Friday…Saturday…Sunday…” He murmurs, each day punctuated by a slow, deliberate thrust in sync with the roll of your hips. “You love this dick, don’t you?” He breathes, his hand coming down heavy giving a sharp slap against your ass.

“I do…” You whine, almost like a declaration, as you pull his hands off your waist to guide them up your chest to cup your boobs, lacing your fingers through his to show him how to squeeze them just right.

You feel so incredibly fucking sexy bouncing on his dick, riding him like it’s been a while and you miss him. You’re trying your hardest to keep it classy for him, but with one more slap to your ass, you’ll be begging him to take the safety off and hit your pussy raw from the side till it goes numb. You hope he’s loving this shit, because you’re not letting him get up in you for at least a week after this one. Your coochie needs a break!

“I wanna cum…” You whine, searching his face for permission, but he doesn’t hear you, too focused on working his own nut out.

“I wanna cum…” You whine again, your hands come down to press against his chest to grind your pussy down hard on his dick. You got him buried so deep inside you the weight of your hips are holding down his.

“You tryna be done already?” His hips still, falling flat as he watches you chase your orgasm all on your own.

“No. Just don’t move…” You plead, trying to keep him from messing up your rhythm as you hit that sweet spot like a drum. It doesn’t take long for that familiar heat to rise up your body, making your face flush hot and your heart rate pick up. You’re almost there!

“Don’t move— don't move— I’m close…fuck…ahh” You babble out, toes curling. Almost there, you’re almost there!

“Damn boo…” The pet name rolls off his tongue effortlessly, bringing you into focus, your eyes meeting his right as he wraps a firm hand around your neck holding you in place. You got him pussy drunk acting rough and nasty just how you like it. “When you start taking dick like this? You showing off for me today?”

“Mmmm— fuck me after I cum…” You say through a smile, his thumb brushing gently underneath your chin. The look in your eyes clear— you’re trying to get broken off like a Kit-Kat. You want it rough, and you know he’ll deliver. He’s got you.

“Say that again?” He asks as if he can’t understand a word you’re saying. There’s no denying that your voice turns him on. But it’s cool, you have no problem spelling it out for him.

“I said I want you to fuck the shit out of me after I c— ahmp!” You yelp, a wave of giddy pleasure washing over you from the sting of his heavy hand landing across your ass again.

“One more time for me?” He pulls you forward, a devilish look in his eyes waiting for you to soften into submission in his hands.

“I want you to fuck me so bad.” You whine, voice dripping with so much need. You don't give a fuck how you sound right now, his dick drilling your pussy deep, it’s thick head messaging against your puffy walls. “I wanna feel all of it— oowww— mmmm— Fuck! You feel so fuckin�� ahh good!—” You moan out, each and every one of his deep strokes punching the words from out of your chest.

“You don’t want it.” He taunts, a smirk tugging at his lips daring you to prove him wrong— to show him just how badly you want it— to beg. The sudden shift in dominance sends your heart racing, and you find yourself rocking your hips even faster.

It’s this dynamic that you love the most: how one minute he’s soft and tender, talking you through with the filthiest yet gentlest whispers, and the next, commanding and rude, giving you the space to surrender completely and embrace your submissive side. It’s the perfect balance of give and take, and with him talking in your ear nasty like this, you’re more than willing to give it all up and let him lead.

“Yes I do— fuck…fuck…” You moan breathlessly, lost in the wave of pleasure taking you under. “Make me cum…” You look down at him with those needy doll eyes, the kind that silently beg for more, even as you roll your hips slow and deliberate like the little minx you are, teasing him just enough that you know will drive him wild.

Every move is a silent challenge, a tease, a true test of his strength and you’re doing it because you know exactly what he wants, and he’s already right there ready to meet you. His hands find your waist again, gripping you firmly, and that awaiting spark of dominance lights up his eyes as he pulls you in close.

No one but him can bring this side out of you, the one that craves to be taken, to be pushed to the edge. You know he’s been holding back, waiting for you to push him there, and now, you’ve done it. His hand then tightens around your frame, the tension in his body radiating through every inch of him, and that tells you everything you need to know; you’ve got him right where you want him, you can let go.

“You not gonna run?” He presses, but you know your answer is meaningless. He wouldn’t let you even if you tried.

“No—” You whine, the sound barely escaping your throat as you bounce, the strain in your knees starting to intensify with each movement as you chase your orgasm.

“No, what?” Another good grab to your ass, this time with two hands and enough grip to bounce you on his dick himself, fucking up into with a force that causes you to fall forward, nails digging into his shoulders as you cling onto him. “Tell me baby…go ‘head.”

“Fuck…Gojo— Go— AHMP!” Another heavy slap to your ass before you can catch your breath to repeat it. “I’m not gonna run Gojo— I'm not gonna run—”

“You know I love hearing you say it…” He beathes heavy, one hand now threading through your hair to grip your tresses tight, the other fucking you down his dick. “You gonna cum on this dick? Yeah?”

“Yes! Fuck— Fuck— Gojo! Gojo!” You choke out, orgasm fully taking over each and every one of your senses.

“Again baby…come on…this your dick right…” He breathes, voice low and hot in your ear, hips bucking up fast as another heavy slap comes down to your ass. “Don't run from it…don’t run from it.”

“Fucckkkk— Oh my godddddd! Keep going! Keep going! Don’t stop! Yes! Yes!” You cry out, your pussy clenching so tightly around him that you can feel the rim of the condom scratching against your entrance. The intensity of your grip threatens to pull it loose as it’s already slipped off some.

“Mmmmm— there you gooo~“ He coos, sensing you reached your climax seeing the way your jaw goes slack and your grip around him tightens.

“Fuck me! Fuck me! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” You’re begging like slut now throwing your arms around him to tuck behind his neck. Feeling you lose yourself, you take your fingers to work them up to brush along his undercut, anything to try and keep you grounded.

“Kiss on my neck…yeah…just like that for me— “ He moans, as you press your lips against his skin, licking hungry, wet, and sloppy. “Just like that…”

“Where you want me to nut?” His question meets your ear with urgency, the pace of his thrusts quickening in such a way that you can tell he’s close to cumming.

“Anywhere…I don’t care—” You gasp, words spilling, your body trembling with anticipation. Stupidest fucking question he could ask right now. He can bust it on your tits, ass, pussy, or even your face. You don’t care as long as his hot cum drips off your body, ready for him to scoop up and feed to you like you’re Suki.

“Shit!— Get up! Get up!” He groans, lifting you up just enough to pull off the condom to jerk his dick.

“Gimme your hand…” He takes yours to grab his length, wrapping his large hand around yours, guiding you as you both help work his nut out. Both of your bodies are hot and sweaty, and his heavy breathing is perfectly in sync with yours. Your thighs coming down from a trembling mess.

“Like that baby….mmmm…you gonna kiss it when you're done?” He hums through a smile, head thrown back in pure bliss. It doesn’t take more than a few tight strokes for you to feel his dick pulsate, his hot cum spills out running down both your knuckles sticking your fingers together.

“Oowww— it's so much!” You giggle, endorphins still having you feeling like you're on cloud nine as you watch amazed by the amount of cum he’s spilling, feeling a warm milky streak run sticky down the back of your hand.

“Fuck—” He exhales, chest heaving as he starts to come down from his climax. His arms drop limply to his sides, but you stay right where you’re sitting on his chest, reaching back as you keep working the cum out of his still hard dick.

You can feel him twitch with every pull as you coax the last drops of cum from him. There’s just something so sexy about the way his breath stutters and his toes crack as they curl with each slow tug…like you’re draining him of every ounce of cum he has left.

“That’s it…baby…that’s it…alright that’s it…stop…” He warns, voice strained and his face balling up, eyes shut tight as he tries to fight back a guttural moan. You feel his abs tense up underneath you, throwing off your balance but you take a hand to his chest— now flushed red and glistening with sweat— to hold him steady, fist tightening around his dick to jerk him quicker.

“Uh-uh, there’s more, look…lemme get it all out for you.” You tease with a playful laugh, tightening your hold around him. “Just relax, it doesn’t hurt.” You purr, your voice dropping low and sweet. More cum spilling with every pull.

“Oh my g— Yooooo! Stop! Stop! Stop! Bro! Stop!” He gasps, body jerking involuntarily from not being used to the overstimulation. His hips shake under your grip as if trying to escape, but he’s trapped under the weight you’re pressing down on him.

“Bro!? I’m not your bro!” You scoff with a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief at the fucking nerve to address you by anything other than something ladylike! Goofy ass, now you’re really not letting up. He must have you confused for someone else.

“I swear to god, if you make me nut again— Fuck!” He growls, head tipping back as he wraps a tight hand around your wrist trying to stop you.

“Satoru, you don’t scare me— let go!” You mock, your hand steadily working his dick, grip unwavering even as his strength weakens less and less from every stroke.

“What happened to all that shit you were talking, hmm?” You pause, watching him closely. “Bet that hand can’t do it like mine?”

“I’ma fuck you up after this…I’m so serious…watch.” He breathes out, a shaky laugh breaking through, his grip on your wrist loosens completely as he gives in, letting you milk him for everything he’s got. He’s probably dead serious too, but the way his fine ass is squirming under you is too entertaining to give a damn. And to be honest, that just sounds like a promise for round two and that’s not striking fear in your heart— or pussy. Ain't no fun when the rabbits got the gun now is it? We can go till the fucking bed breaks boo, y’all got all the time in the world today!

“Schhhhhoooowwww— oh my god!” He groans, his plump lips parting with a low, desperate growl. “Alright c’mon, chill! Stop!”

“Keep lying telling people I snore, and I’ma tell your friends you moan like a bitch." You taunt, leaning closer. Pressing more of your weight down on him, your strokes turn into slow teasing massages around the tip of his dick with your palm.

“You still mad over that?” His eyes open meeting yours as his hands grip the sheets in an attempt to hold back from cumming. He can try to look intimidating with those blue eyes all he wants, but they aren’t moving you.

“I don’t get mad, I get even.” You bite back with a whole lot of sass, letting his dick go the moment you feel your hand start to cramp up. He jerks slightly, caught off guard by your sudden release. “Told you to stop trying me.”

“Clean yourself up~” You shoot him a look, wiping your cum-sticky hand off his chest as you ease yourself off his body and slide off the bed.

“Fuck you…” You hear him mumble under his breath with a laugh as you search the sheets for your phone, panties, and top before making your way to the bathroom to pee.

“What!?” You give him a look back, the fakest mean scowl you can muster up right now.

“Nothing— Fuck…” The back of his head hits the pillow again as he exhales deeply.

"Oh, okay! Like I won’t sit my ass on your chest and kill you. Talk to me nice." You fire back playfully, slipping on your top after giving up on the search for your panties— probably somewhere tangled up in the sheets.

Finding your footing, you cross the room to unplug the diffuser you left on throughout the night. With a gentle click, its light shuts off. You take a moment to gather yourself before stepping out and closing the door firmly behind you, leaving him to figure out what the hell just happened. You too are going to need a few minutes alone to yourself after this one.

#gojo x reader #gojo headcanons #tsnmi writes #never lose me #gojo smut #gojo x baddie #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #nlm collection #gojo satoru #jujutsu gojo #jjk fanfic #jjk fic #jjk smut #jjk gojo #jjk au #gojo x yn #gojo x y/n #gojo x you

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youraverageaemondsimp · 8 months ago

Text

Metanoia ;

Aemond Targaryen x Transmigrated!Strong!Reader

>> Chapter I : The Beginning.

Summary: "Be careful what you wish for" is what everyone says, you realise that you should've taken them seriously when you find yourself reincarnated as a character in the show who never existed.

WARNINGS: CANON TYPICAL INCEST, CONTAINS SPOILERS OF F&B, S1 AND S2, reader's appearance isn't described, only the fact that she is a strong, you can imagine her however you like, the picture used in the header is only to capture the feel of the story. A/N: divider credits to @cafekitsune

masterlist // next

“Jesus Christ, fuck this show, fuck everything, what the fuck is wrong with the writing?” You exclaim in annoyance after witnessing the scene that was supposed to be heavily impactful be butchered.

“That is the most anticlimactic death scene I've ever witnessed, this has to be a joke.” You furiously ramble. You decided to give House of The Dragon a try after your friend had recommended it, the show currently has released three seasons, with the fourth season in production, you thoroughly enjoyed season one and decided to binge all the seasons.

However, everything started to go downhill from season two, yet you still decided to watch for the sake of your favourite characters, daemon and aemond, only to witness the battle that was supposed to be intense and stressful get finished in the span of two minutes.

You stared at the screen, rolling your eyes in annoyance as you witnessed Aemond falling into the lake along with Vhagar, Daemon was knocked off Caraxes too and fell to his death.

They wrapped up the battle in mere moments, which made you angry as you were so hyped up to see them fight.

“Ugh, I never hated a show more than this, waste of my time, they did season one so well, what happened to rest? I did not expect this.” You sigh in frustration, feeling like you just wasted your time.

“If only… If only I ever get a chance, I'd change entire plot and script because fuck this.” You lay down on your sofa, staring at the ceiling, the show still playing in the background. You recollected the entire plot in your head, thinking of every moment in the show, trying to come up with an easy solution.

“If only they had married Jace to Helaena, it would have been peaceful.. Or at least if they had an older daughter married to Aegon or Aemond.” You mumble, but then shake your head, “What am I saying? Things still would've been complicated anyway.” You wonder in disbelief at your own words.

You yawned loudly, stretching out your limbs and blinking your eyes rapidly, your vision began to get blurry and you sighed in content, finally willingly wanting to sleep after you forced yourself to stay up all night to binge the series.

Your vision darkened slowly as you closed your eyelids, head spinning as you took slow breaths of air, cool breeze brushes past your cheeks and before you know it, you're slowly succumbing into slumber.

You blink your eyes open, realising you fell asleep, you sigh stirring on the soft sheets, entangling them between your legs.

Soft sheets?

Your sofa doesn't have any sheets.

You quickly blink again, taking the note of a translucent veil hanging from above, surrounding the bed you're in, creating a curtain around your bed.

Why were you in bed?

You sit up looking around, taking in your surroundings, your eyes widening in fear as you don't recognize this room at all, ancient tapestries, brown wooden furniture, and the source of light being only from the candle.

Have you been kidnapped?

You look down at your body, noticing you are in a white nightgown instead of the shorts you fell asleep in. Your heart begins to race and you panic, unable to understand where you are or how you got there. You steady your breathing, wondering if someone kidnapped you to play a role in a mediaeval film of theirs? But why would anyone do that?

The sound of metal clanking harshly against the floor and a small scream made your head turn the direction it came from, the liquid in the decanter spilling out rapidly as the person behind the fallen cutlery stood in shock.

“The princess is conscious!” She yells loudly before turning around and running out of the room in a hurry.

Princess?

Is this a prank?

You barely have any moment to think when you hear the sound of multiple footsteps coming from outside to your direction, you could almost feel the ground rumbling, noting that everyone was rushing to this room.

You push the veil to the side and stand up, getting out the bed and examining your surroundings, looking at the sigils and the paintings. All of this looked familiar somehow.

A small gasp echoed through the room, coming from the entrance, which made you turn around to take a look at who was in the room once again. Your eyes widened at the sight.

A lady with platinum blonde hair, blue eyes stood in front of you, someone who resembled Rhaenyra and next to her stood Jace and Luke breathing heavily, looking at you in shock.

Did the house of the dragon cast kidnap you to play a prank on you?

That sounds too unreasonable.

“Oh my sweet daughter!” Rhaenyra rushes over to you, embracing you tightly, tears flow down her cheeks as she peppers you with kisses “I-i i cannot believe this, you finally woke up after many years.” She sobs, you look at her questioningly. “Sister.” Jacaerys speaks up, coming to you and joining the embrace of you and Rhaenyra, Luke joins in as well.

“We missed you.” Jace says and you stare at all of them confused.

This has to be a joke.

They notice the expression on your face and their faces immediately drop, “Your grace, the princess woke up after many years, she might not be able to recognise you.” The maester chimes in, Rhaenyra nods, sniffling yet understanding your condition.

“Emma? Is this a joke?” You question, referring to the actor of Rhaenyra, “I’m not Aemma darling, she is your grandmother.” Rhaenyra corrects you. “I think she must be confusing the names of everyone due to her hazy memory.” The maester tries explaining, you sigh.

Yeah this must be a dream.

You shake your head gently and immediately slap yourself to wake yourself up.

“Ouch!” You yell in pain, cupping the cheek you slapped yourself on, Rhaenyra is mortified and the guards rush in and hold your arms back so you don't further hurt yourself.

This is not a dream.

You can’t feel pain in your dreams and you will wake up right before impact.

You look at Rhaenyra’s face, she is as real as a living person, standing right in front of you.

She looks just like Emma. of course, after all Rhaenyra is indeed played by them.

But this is not them.

She is not Emma

You can feel the vibe, it's very different.

You’ve met Emma before in costume, yet they did not give off the vibes as what Rhaenyra is giving off right now, after all, when you met them; it was just a show, but now it's your reality.

Did you die in your world?

You’ve definitely transmigrated into this show, but as who?

Did Rhaenyra ever have a daughter? You knew she didn't.

“Mirror, get me a mirror.” You ask and they look at you questioningly, your form begins to shake as the realisation is too overwhelming, there are many questions in your mind, “Please!” You cry, and immediately a servant moves and rushes over with a mirror.

Your eyes widen.

It's you.

You had not become someone else, but you remained as yourself. “What is my name?” You ask, “Y/N.” Rhaenyra replies. Your mind begins to spin, you are in another world as yourself, you have not possessed anyone else, which means your body must’ve disappeared from your world.

You try to stay calm in this situation, breathing heavily, “You are?” You ask, wanting to reconfirm, you watch as Rhaenyra's face crumples into that of a sad face, probably feeling hurt that her own daughter doesn't recognise her.

“I'm your mother, you are my eldest daughter, they—” She points at Jace, Luke and Joffrey, “—are your younger siblings.” You turn towards them.

You nod, pretending to play the part while you figure out everything. “I'm sorry, I do not remember.” You apologise and Rhaenyra shakes her head, “It is alright, you have been unconscious since the past six years, this is better than losing my daughter.” She replies.

“Six years… Did I fall unconscious after Aemond lost his eye?” You think out loud and Rhaenyra looks at you in shock, “You remember him?” She asks and you clear your throat, “It's hazy, my memory.” You answer back.

“Your grace, the event was probably traumatic for her, hence why she can remember it in parts.” The maester explains it to Rhaenyra, you mentally thank the maester for covering up for you always.

You noticed how they were all dressed up, looked as if they were about to leave but their plans were cut short, and you recognize this gown of Rhaenyra.

It was the gown she wore when she left for King's Landing, in order to settle the matter of Luke's right to driftmark. “You guys were departing somewhere?” You ask, wanting to really confirm it, “Hm? Huh, Yes, We were about to leave for King's Landing.” Jacaerys answers your question.

“Can I tag along?” You blurt the question.

“.. Tag along?” Lucerys repeats your words in confusion, your language confusing him.

“I mean to say, can I come along?” You ask the question in a proper manner, Rhaenyra shakes her head, “No- you've just woken up, you might still be weak- I cannot risk-”

“Mother! I am perfectly fine!” You cut her off, breaking free from the guards hands and running around the room, doing jumping jacks, showing her that you aren't weak and are perfectly capable of physical activity.

Rhaenyra watches in shock, seeing you move like this but she chuckles, shaking her head in comic disbelief, “I guess she has not changed after all.” The maester comments which makes Jace and Luke smile.

“Very well, Pack the princess’ belongings, and get her ready for departure, we will depart two days later.” Rhaenyra orders the maids and you smile at her.

“But mother, I do not have many dresses—”

“You do, I had them tailored every year, whenever you grew, hoping that you would wake up.” She replies softly and you just then realise how Rhaenyra loves her children.

“The maesters said that you might not ever wake up, and that your body will be stunted from growth, yet… I'm glad their predictions never came true.” She smiles gently at you, you smile back.

The maids come in with a bath as everyone leaves, some of them begin packing your belongings. You notice how your body doesn't look how a person in a coma state should be looking especially in the mediaeval times, but instead you seem to be well taken care of, treated as if you were alive.

The maids quickly finish your bath and dress you up, you have to pretend to get used to this atmosphere and era even though you're highly uncomfortable, the mere thought of having servants made you feel bad.

And with that, the night fell, you couldn't sleep thinking about how you're going to deal with everything, could you really prevent war from happening? It happens due to a misunderstanding in the show right? What if the misunderstanding doesn't occur? Your mind was filled with such thoughts through the whole night.

In King's Landing.

“My queen, Rhaenyra, has sent a letter saying that their arrival will be delayed further.” The master sums up the contents of the letter in the council room, in front of Aemond who had been called by Alicent for an urgent matter.

“Why so?” Alicent asks, furrowing her brows.

“Princess Y/N had woken up from her unconscious state.”

An ear piercing shattering sound of glass is heard through the entire room, when turned to look at the origin, It is known that Aemond had dropped the wine glass he was drinking from.

“Y/N is awake?” Aemond asks the maester.

“Yes my prince.” The maester replies.

Aemond's heart begins to pound in his chest loudly, his mind spiralling at the thought of you finally waking up all these years later.

“Please excuse me.” Aemond gets up from the chair, excusing himself from the council and leaving the room, his brain occupied with the thoughts of you.

There wasn't a day where Aemond hadn't thought of you, he would at least think about you once a day- the news of you waking up from unconsciousness made the adrenaline in his body rush.

He felt like a hungry snake that had been starved for many years who at last found a prey to feast on, he felt like a drought-stricken land finally receiving rainfall, he felt like a garden void of any flowers which started to bloom once again.

He was thrilled.

He reminisces of the fond memories you both shared, he could never ever forget them, smiling at the thought of you.

He wondered if you had changed or remained the same.

Whatever it was, he couldn't wait.

He couldn't wait to receive you.

#; metanoia !#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfic #reader insert #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond kinslayer #aemond one eye

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motorsportbarbie13 · 28 days ago

Text

Aftermath - Chapter 5

Aftermath - MV33 - Chapter 1 Aftermath - Chapter 2 Aftermath - Chapter 3 Aftermath - Chapter 4 Master List

When Lando leaves you heartbroken after you get tired of trying to make something out of nothing for far too long, Max steps in to help you pick up the pieces.

warnings: this chapter contains language and descriptions that illustrate abuse (mental and emotional). please don't engage with my work if you find any of the topics triggering. lando is, once again, an absolute asshole in this. i'd also like to point out that this is a character i am writing, i in no way am insinuating or implying the real lando is like this in any way.

pairing: max verstappen x leclercsister!reader

word count: 4k or something like that?

(Everyone say ‘thank you’ to @lestapiastrisgirl for beta reading and helping me through late night plot crisis so this can come out today!!)

f1.gossip.source posted

f1.gossip.source It's been months since @/Lando and @/MissLeClerc have been spotted togtether and we're starting to wonder...are they even together anymore?! Lando was spotted out alone in Monaco, looking annoyed at fans calling his name while his (ex???) girlfriend was papped out and about with none other than...Max Verstappen. Again. Rumors about the LeClerc sister and Dutch driver started to swirl right around the time her and Lando stopped being seen out in public...What do we think, chat??? Has little miss leclerc finally ditched the cocky British pilot for a new Dutch beau??? user029 maybe she got tired of having to parent her boyfriend??? user220 if it's true, she's really upgraded. 4 time world champion vs...what??? 4 time race winner. please. user0298 he never supported her art or anything, i'm not surprised she's moved on. max always looks smitten with her.

“Lando, you have got to get this under control.” The head of McLaren’s communications team hisses, her glare shooting daggers at the driver who’s just walked into the the hospitality building ahead of the race in Belgium.

Lando glances up from his phone, face pale and eyes worried. “How the fuck am I supposed to control what the gossip pages post?”

Marina throws her hands up in the air as she paces, her McLaren team kit wrinkled from lack of sleep thanks to the British driver. In the four weeks since your argument with Lando after Austria, things have only gotten worse. You’re still not talking to him and he still hasn’t figured out where the hell you’re living. You’re not staying with Charles and Alexandra or Jade, he’s been subtly watching both buildings. He knows you’re still in Monaco because you’ve been papped out with your family and friends but most maddeningly Max Verstappen.

Everyone seems to have noticed you’re not living with Lando anymore, your appearances in his streams have dwindled down to nothing. Fewtrell has had to start banning people form his chat because they won’t stop asking about you and what’s going on. Everyone knows that something went down but you’re straight up refusing to behave like an adult and come back to Lando, where you belong and it’s infuriating.

“You can’t, obviously.” Marina sighs, sitting down at one of the high top tables in the middle of the suite.

Around her, the Thursday afternoon crew of engineers and communications people buzz, all prepping for their weekends. Everyone seems to be acting normal but Lando can feel their glares on his back as he walks through the building. They all know he’s causing the entire team grief by causing so much drama with you, taking the attention away from the decent start to the year they’d had before all hell had broken loose a few months ago.

“But,” She continues, leveling a glare at Lando. “You either need to bite the bullet and release a joint statement with her announcing your breakup or you need to get her to the track this weekend and make a big show of a united front. It’s up to you Lando, but you need to do something. I can’t keep saying ‘no comment’ whenever we’re asked about the distraction this is causing the team.”

Lando pulls at his curls, like hell he’s going to admit that you’d left him. He supposed he could go rogue and release a statement without you. That way he could control the narrative and try to get the fans back on his side if he made something up like a cheating scandal or something. The moment that the thought flutters through his mind, he forces it out. For some fucking reason, the fans seem to have a soft spot for you and it’s maddening. Lando knew there was no way he could get public opinion on his side, not with how he was getting ripped apart on socials right now.

“We’re not broken up.” He bites out, taking a sip out of his water bottle as he contemplates what he can do.

Marina glances up from her phone, brow lifted in question. “That’s not what it looks like here.” She turns her phone towards Lando and shows him a photo of you descending the stairs of a private jet that’s just landed in Belgium. In front of you, already down the stairs and waiting on the tarmac for you is your brother with Leo cradled in his arms.

And behind you? A fiery rage burns bright and hot in Lando’s chest when he sees who’s behind you.

Fucking Max Verstappen.

The look you’re giving him makes his heart twist and for the first time since this entire thing began, Lando actually misses you. He misses the way you used to smile up at him like that, like your entire world revolved Lando and no one else. He missed the way your eyes would follow him around a room, how your body would center towards his. The way you looked at Max was how you used to look at him and it made jealousy twist violently deep in Lando’s gut just looking at the photo.

“I’ll take care of it.” Lando spits before stalking off to the privacy of his drivers room.

f1.gossip.source posted

f1.gossip.source Alexandra, Charles, and his little sister were seen arriving in Belgium this afternoon on Max Verstappen's private jet. It's yet another instance where the LeClerc sister was spotted without boyfriend Lando Norris, sparking new breakup rumors. Neither party has confirmed if they're still together, with McLaren PR insisting that the personal lives of their drivers are off limits. user019 honestly, I'm here for a LeClerc sister & Max relationship. >>>user028 me too. at least Max seems to actually like her, unlike Lando user0029 I mean, we all can see it. Why can't they just confirm it already??? user2333 fully on board the 'get her away from Lando train' ROOTING FOR YOU MAX!!! Get your girl!!! user029 my friend was out at the restaurant they were all at a few weeks ago and said that Lando crashed the dinner but left after a few minutes looking PISSED. >>>user029 honestly, Lando is kind of unhinged rn. get over her my man, move onnnnnnn!

“I can’t believe you got me to agree to come this weekend.” You grumble as you follow Max towards the paddock gates Friday morning before practice.

“You’ve barely been to any races this year and it’s almost the end of July!” Max shoots over his shoulder, grinning like an idiot he’s so happy you decided to come this weekend.

“I was at Monaco!” You protest lamely, shoving your elbow into your brother’s ribs when he laughs.

“You live in Monaco, that doesn’t count Little Dove.” Charles chuckles, rubbing at the sore spot where you’d just assaulted him.

“Whatever.” You mutter, rolling your eyes.

After arriving in Belgium last night, you had gone straight to your hotel room, needing a bit of alone time ahead of what you were sure was going to be a stressful weekend. As usual, you’d been papped arriving on Max’s jet, which you were certain Lando had seen because the moment you had checked your messages in the SUV Max had rented for your little group, there had been a text waiting for you from him.

I know you probably don’t want to see me and I get that. I’m sorry, from the bottom of my heart. Can we please get together this weekend and talk? Somewhere neutral if that’s what you want…

As you settled into the hotel room that was yours for the weekend, a war was being fought in your brain. On one hand, you didn’t trust a single thing coming from Lando’s mouth. Not a single thing. He hadn’t given you any reason to trust anything that he said for months, so why should you start now? But on the other hand…

On the other hand, you and Lando had so much history. His message seemed remorseful. You knew everyone in your life would kill you if you even entertained the idea of getting back with him but somewhere deep in your chest a little voice was saying maybe you should hear him out. He was finally leaving you alone, finally backing off, why did he have to pop up right when you thought you had finally gotten him fully out of your system?

You didn’t tell anyone Lando had texted you. Had been texting you all morning as well. You knew no one would understand. But you also hadn’t returned a single text either. The energy that responding to Lando would take was something that you just didn’t have today.

Your little group is captured by photographers as you walk in, a few even call out your name asking where you’ll be spending your time this weekend. Since dating Lando, you liked to split your time between the McLaren garage and Ferrari but this weekend was going to be different. Your VIP pass had Charles’ face and name on the back, not Lando’s. You had credentials from Ferrari like normal but this morning, Max had also slipped a Red Bull card around your neck, telling you if you got sick of looking at all that red this weekend, you could spend time with him.

“Are you going to come to the dark side this weekend and use those Red Bull credentials to whip up some gossip?” Max murmurs in your ear, watching as Charles trots off ahead of you after Leo.

You bump your shoulder with his, rolling your eyes and laughing lightly. “Stop.”

Mischief plays in Max’s pale blue eyes as he smiles down at you, enjoying the way your cheeks flush under his attention. Ever since the race in Austria a few weeks ago, you and the Dutch driver had been spending a lot of time together, all casual but he’d really begun to look forward to the nights you spent curled up on his couch eating takeout and watching bad reality tv with him.

Before he has a chance to reply though, he sees the color drain from your face as you freeze in the middle of the sidewalk. Whipping his head around, Max searches for what, or more accurately, who has spooked you. He already knows who he’s looking for so when his eyes settle on the McLaren driver standing just outside the sliding glass doors of the McLaren hospitality building across the paddock, his stomach lurches.

You had known you’d see Lando this weekend. How could you not? This was literally his workplace too. There was no way to avoid him, you knew that but you hadn’t expected to see him so quickly and before you had managed to work out how to respond to his text from the night before.

Your brother is between where you stand and McLaren’s hospitality so he clocks Lando staring after you at about the same time as you and Max. Turning on his heel, he scoops up Leo and makes a bee line back to where you stand, utterly frozen.

“Dovie.” Max coos in your ear, twining his fingers with yours in an attempt to pull you out of the state you’re in. “Hey, sweet girl, look at me.”

You ignore him, gaze locked on Lando’s frozen frame.

Charles steps in between you and Lando, instantly cutting off your line of sight. This seems to yank you back to reality and your brother snaps into action. “Shit. I’ve got a meeting in five minutes. I don’t want her alone.” Your brother sounds panicked, like the way you’re just staring blankly ahead is really freaking him out.

So, he improvises. “Here, take Leo and go take a walk. There’s tons of open space on the other side of the paddock.” Charles presses the small dog into your hands and you drop your gaze away from Lando for the first time in several moments.

Your gaze drops to where your hand is still clutched in Max’s larger one. The steady warmth from his presence grounds you, allowing you to pull in a full breath for the first time in several minutes.

“No, she’s not going off on her own.” Max cuts in, tone sharp. “I’ve got some time before I need to be in the car. Come stay in Red Bull with me until practice, then you can watch from my garage, okay?”

The force of his words leave little wiggle room for argument and Charles can’t help but smirk a little. He should have known Max would step right up to make sure you were taken care of.

“Yeah.” You agree weakly, finally tearing your gaze away from Lando, who is still starting at you, light eyes sharp and observant. You can feel the way his gaze drops to where Max’s hand is curled around yours possessively. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Without waiting for Lando to get any more ideas like wanting to try to come talk to you, Max tugs on your hand. He knows you well enough by now to know that you need a distraction and you need it fast. “Come on, you said you wanted to stir up some gossip this weekend, well here’s your chance.”

You laugh despite yourself, nuzzling your face into Leo’s soft fur. “I’m keeping the dog.” You tell your brother as you allow yourself to be led away by Max. All Charles does is nod, relieved to know that you’re in good hands while he’s busy.

missleclerc posted

24,029 likes liked by maxverstappen1, charlesleclerc, redbullracing, and others missleclerc in my defense, I was kidnapped ☝🏻 maxverstappen1 whatever, you wanted to be there. >>>missleclerc lies. It was a hostage situation. >>>maxverstappen1 is that what the kids are calling it these days? >>>user299 chat, are they flirting in the comments??? WE CAN SEE YOU TWO charlesleclerc can't believe you subjected your nephew to this. please make sure you take a shower before dinner tonight. >>>missleclerc rude. user0209 ya know, I'm kinda here for this ship. >>>user987 did you see how utterly distracted Max was during the one interview where she walked past him? couldn't take his eyes off her >>>user0209 lando's gonna be crashing out after seeing that interview tonight >>>user3443 GOOD. bro deserves it

“I think you may need to roll me up to my room after that dinner.” You groan, rubbing at the food baby making your black leather skirt pinch painfully at your hips.

After qualifying Saturday evening, when the boys were all finished with their media and team duties, Max had insisted that you, your brother, Alexandra and himself all go out to dinner. He’d wanted to insist it just be the two of you but he wasn’t blind to the gossip you two had stirred up in the paddock Friday afternoon so he’d figured bringing your brother and his girlfriend along would be a bit safer.

“I think I ate my weight in spaghetti.” Alexandra groans beside you as you plod towards the front doors of the hotel. “Carry me up to the room please, Cha?” She coos, throwing her arms around your brother’s neck as if she can’t go on one step more.

Charles laughs, snaking his arms around her waist and pulls her close, dropping a kiss on her forehead, a gesture so tender and intimate you have to turn away. Your gaze immediately connects with Max who is standing a few paces behind your brother and his girlfriend. A small smile tips up at the corner of his full lips when you make eye contact at him and your stomach swoops at the affection for you in his eyes.

You’re imagining things, you think instantaneously. There’s no way Max sees you as anything other than a friend, after everything that you’ve endured while he’s watched. How could anyone like Max be attracted to someone who had spent an entire year drowning in a failing relationship? It was likely a pity smile, something he gives you because he feels sorry that you haven’t found what your brother has found in Alexandra.

“There you are…” A smooth British accent interrupts your thoughts, jarring you out of your spiral. “You stopped answering my texts.” Lando says pointedly as he joins your little group in the lobby of the hotel.

Your eyes shutter closed as you blow out a breath. You had been hoping to avoid this confrontation all together but it was just another nail in the coffin of why Max wouldn’t even want to begin to get involved with you in the first place. Why would he willingly want to be with someone who was still so intertwined with her ex still? You’ve spent so long with Lando, were so intertwined with him it would certainly be easier to just go back to him, wouldn’t it? Maybe he was all you deserved after wasting three years of your life.

“I was at dinner, Lando. It’s rude to text during a meal.” You carefully control the tone of your voice, not wanting to instigate yet another public altercation with him.

“Ah, yes. I’m sure the company was riveting.” His eyes flicker over to where Max stands, stiff and unmoving, the smile that he’d just been showering you with totally gone from his face. “So, what do you say, can we finally talk like two adults?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Norris.” Charles cuts in, voice sharp and short.

“I think your sister can answer for herself, LeClerc.” There’s a challenge in Lando’s eyes that you don’t miss and you know you have about five seconds to diffuse the situation before it gets out of hand. Again.

Placing your hand on Lando’s elbow, you tug him away. “If you promise to chill out and actually listen to me, we can go to the bar and get a drink. One drink, Lando. Can you do that?”

If you had been looking at Max then, you would have seen the light flicker out of his eyes. He’s grateful that his hands are tucked away in his pockets when he hears your words because the way the ball up into tight fists would be embarrassing had anyone seen it. He wants to say something, anything, that might convince you to not walk away with him. He wants to tell you how he’s feeling, how this afternoon with you in his drivers room and then garage was the best start to a race weekend he’d had in recent memory. He wants to beg you not to go with Lando.

But he can’t. He can’t because he still hasn’t worked up the courage to tell you how he feels. Max is stuck in this painful sort of limbo where you two spend time together and he craves any bit of attention he can glean from you but it’s not enough for him to risk your fragile state of being right now. He knows you’re still recovering from leaving Lando. Three years is a long time to spend with someone, even if the last year was as painful as Lando had made it for you. He knows you’re not ready for him to tell you how he’s feeling but he’s afraid if he doesn’t, you’ll go running back to Lando.

While the internal debate about what to do with his feelings rages on inside, Max watches as a cat-like grin spreads slowly across Lando’s face. He’s won. Lando’s won and they both know it.

“Of course, baby.”

You bristle at the name but without the energy to fight him, all you do is roll your eyes. Max’s mask of indifference somehow staying in place when he hears the nickname, but it tears him up on the inside. He’s not sure how he manages it.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Thanks for dinner, Max.” Taking a step towards Max, you fold yourself into him, enjoying the way his arms come around your waist without hesitation. The hug is firm and he holds onto you for several moments longer than necessary.

“I can stay down here if you want me to.” He murmurs in your ear, his breath tickling the shell of your ear, sending a cool shiver of pleasure down your spine.

“I’m a big girl, I can handle him.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” He responds, looking down at you. You’re surprised to see a stark look of concern all over his face, like he’s genuinely worried about you.

“Max, I’m fine. It’s just one drink.”

But Max knows Lando. It’s not just going to be one drink. But what other choice does he have? Reluctantly, he releases you and takes a step back, forcing himself out of arms length. You instantly miss the grounding warmth of his body and fight to keep your expression neutral.

Max watches you walk away, shoulder brushing with Lando’s and has to resist the urge to rub at the painful clenching sensation that wraps itself around his heart.

“You don’t have to watch her leave.” Charles murmurs, standing off to the side with a worried looking Alexandra. They both share Max’s opinion that this is a bad idea but like Max, what else can they say?

Max scrubs at his face, suddenly so overwhelmingly exhausted that all he wants to do is climb into bed and sleep until the race tomorrow. “What am I supposed to do, Charles?” He throws his hands up in defeat as you disappear around the corner just as Lando’s arm slips around your waist. “I don’t have a single claim on her, she’s not mine to miss.”

His stomach twists painfully at the thought of having to go back to his hotel room knowing you’re touching him.

“She won’t go back to him.” Charles says with more confidence than Max can muster up himself. “She’s been doing so well lately and we all see it’s partially because of you, mate.”

“Don’t give up on her, Max. Not yet.” Alexandra offers quietly, stepping closer to Charles before reaching out and placing a hand on Max’s shoulder. “She’s stronger than we all think but she’s going to need your patience right now. It’ll be okay.”

The way it physically hurt watching you walk away had alarm bells ringing in Max’s head. He hadn’t realized just how attached to you he’d become in the time since you’d left Lando and it terrified him. If you went back to Lando tonight, he had this gut feeling he’d lose you forever and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to endure that.

Max barely sleeps that night, tossing and turning for hours trying to convince himself he hadn’t just watched you walk right out of his life again. He knew he was, once again, getting ahead of himself and that he needed to wait before going into full spiral mode but he couldn’t quite get himself there.

By the time he’s downstairs in the hotel lobby the next morning, waiting for the car that Red Bull had hired for him, he’s exhausted and on the brink of biting someone’s head off.

“You doing okay over there, Verstappen? You seem a little…irritated.”

Max turns and has to stifle a groan. “Why can’t you just leave well enough alone, Lando?”

Lando has the nerve to look confused, brows furrowing as he tilts his head to the side. “I have no idea what you’re on about, mate.”

It takes every ounce of control Max has honed over the years not to punch the British driver square in the face. “Why are you so fixated on her now that she’s finally trying to get away from you?”

Lando smirks, quick and ugly, before he shakes his head. “See, now that’s where you’re wrong Max.” He reaches over and pats at Max’s shoulder patronizingly. “I don’t think she really wants to get away form me anymore. Not after last night.”

It feels like the breath has been sucked out of Max’s lungs at Lando’s words. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He hisses, heat creeping up his neck.

“You’re a smart man, Max. Use that big brain of yours. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.” Lando grins like the Cheshire Cat as he shrugs. “Oh look, my ride’s here. Good luck out there today, Verstappen.”

Without waiting for a response because he knows full well he’s caught Max completely off guard, Lando saunters off, hands deep in his pockets, without a second look back at the Dutch driver.

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claymoresword · 2 months ago

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I Choose Her | Stand Alone Series: Chapter 3

Hermione Granger x Slytherin Fem!Reader

Summary: A few years post 'Battle Of Hogwarts', y/n decides to buy her and Hermione a home that they can move into as newlyweds.

Pairing: Hermione x Reader

Wordcount: 2.8k

Warnings: smut, jealous hermione, g!p reader, dom hermione (in theory), penis in vagina sex, cunnilingus, possesive hermione is hot, porn very little plot

Note: hello! so i've had this drafted for months but just never had the motivation to finish it but i finally forced myself to write since i was missing hermione, so here it is :) this isn't an original idea (loosely inspired by a scene in a film) and i'm embarrassed to admit which movie gave me the idea so i won't say it but iykyk. anyway, enjoy!

Taglist: @aweidlich @xxsekhmet @poppyflower-22 @cocoyeehaw @blackbirdv98 @arcturusseer @cherryflavoredcoke @js-a-writer @baylegend6 @t-wylia @raven-ss @unexpected-character @brocoliisscared @aki-ham @theheartwants-what-itwants

"Make a left here." You say as you point to the turn coming ahead. Hermione merely scoffs, begrudgingly turning the steering wheel.

"Will you just tell me where you're taking us?" She asks, your wife's brows are furrowed the same way it has been the entire drive, but still, you don't give in.

Shaking your head, you respond. "Have patience, darling.. you'll see soon enough."

Although that does nothing to soothe Hermione's curiosity; her scowl only deepens.

She takes her eyes off the road for a moment to glare at you. "You know that I hate surprises."

"Oh you'll like this one, I'm sure of it." You declare with a certain conviction, soon leaning in to place a chaste kiss on Hermione's cheek.

As you almost earn a smile, you continue to kiss along Hermione's jaw before reaching up to part her hair away and doing the same on the shell of her ear.

You nip at it, and this time Hermione doesn't fight back her giggle as she squirms, shrugging you off. “Stop it, you rogue– I'm driving.” Your wife warns, and you eventually relent, leaning back in your seat as you travel further into the outskirts of London.

Gone is the bustling city, now there is only a long winding road, shaded with tall oak trees.

For a while it seems as though the journey may never end, but soon enough, a large property comes into view.

Ten acres of wood and stone, the house sits perfectly at the end of the road. It remains still and empty, abandoned for nearly a century, but it is a glorious sight nonetheless.

“Why have you brought me here?” Hermione questions as she slows the car, before it eventually comes to a complete halt.

You don't respond just yet, your bottom lip is set in between your lips in excitement as you unbuckle your seatbelt before climbing out of the vehicle.

Hermione follows suit, eager for an explanation.

You step in front of the car before speaking.

“You once told me.. when we were looking for places to stay in London, that you liked the look of this house. So I bought it.” You explain with a growing smile, glancing at the home once more.

As you take in the sight of the house and the surrounding scenery, Hermione stares at you as though you had gone mad, but inevitably, a smile also graces her delicate features.

“You are a complete imbecile.” Your wife remarks, although there is no bite to her words. It is cushioned even further with the way she practically jumps into your arms.

You chuckle as your hand rests on the small of Hermione's back. She clings to you, enthusiastically peppering kisses all over your face.

You wince at the contact, but a grin tugs on the corners of your mouth all the same. “I've made a good decision then?”

“Yes, it's- I love it. Reminds me of the lakehouse my parents owned.” Hermione admits.

She takes a step back, keeping her hands on your shoulders as she marvels at the large house with an almost childlike wonder.

Your chest brims with pride at her expression, and you proceed to intertwine your hands with Hermione's so you may walk together.

“Come, let's go see inside.” You urge, giving your wife's arm a tug, but she doesn't budge.

Instead Hermione pulls you back towards her, capturing your lips with her own for a searing kiss, her grip remains firm on your collar.

As your fingers get lost in her hair, you move to deepen the kiss, however you are abruptly interrupted by the sound of another car pulling into the driveway.

“Ah, that must be the muggle architect I hired.” You state watching as the silver car parked next to your own.

“Look, we don't have to change a thing if you don't want to.. but I figured it would be good to have a second opinion.” You express and Hermione swiftly nods, her hand remains on the nape of your neck as you both turn your attention to the curly haired brunette that emerges from the car.

The woman smiles at you as she approaches.

“Mrs Y/N, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” The architect greets, surprising you by pulling you into a hug.

After the initial shock subsided, you stiffly embrace her in return, before shifting your gaze towards Hermione.

“This is my wife, Hermione.” You introduce, and the architect finally releases you from her hold.

“Hermione, I am Emilia.” The woman says, only regarding your wife with a firm handshake in contrast.

“This location is excellent, I am going to build you a fabulous house.” Emilia avows, her hand somehow finds your shoulder this time. Her touch lingers uncomfortably, and you catch the way Hermione is staring daggers at the other woman.

You clear your throat, deliberately taking your wife's hand in your own. “I'd like to show Hermione inside.”

“Ofcourse.” Emilia beams, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes. “This way.”

═══════════════════════════════════════════

On the inside, the house appears somehow worse for wear. The walls are caked in dust, the wallpaper and paint cracking, but it is expected, and the interior remains gorgeous nonetheless.

More importantly, you know that Hermione prefers houses like this, one with a rich history.

“This is beautiful.” Your wife gaped as you all stepped into the spacious kitchen.

“Really, you like it?” You inquire, making the mental note of keeping the kitchen as it is.

“Yes, it's perfect Y/n.” Hermione utters as she walks around the room, inspecting the aged furnishings.

“Good.” You mutter with a relieved sigh as you take off your blazer to hang it over the barstool.

“It's hot in here, isn't it?” Emilia's voice is sudden as she enters the kitchen with a roll of blueprints in hand.

“That's why I think it would be best to get rid of this old brick and instead replace it with some temperature resistant concrete.” The architect suggests, but as you open your mouth to respond you are distracted by the way Hermione falls in next to you.

She drapes her arm around your shoulder in an almost possessive fashion, her body is flush against your own, as though to eliminate any chance of space in between you.

You wrap your own arm around her waist as a way to reciprocate.

Emilia proceeds to roll out the blueprint onto the kitchen island so the three of you may look at it. “So, this is what I have in mind.”

“A state of the art, self-sufficient smart home. Marine steel with self-cleaning glass, a guest wing and an entertaining area to the west.” She continues, and you notice the way Hermione tilts her head as the architect speaks.

You know your wife well enough to understand that she only does so when she disapproves of something.

“and this, infinity pool” Emilia says as she points to the top half of the blueprint. “It will overlook a gorgeous view of the lake.” She finishes, unnecessarily reaching across the island to touch your arm.

You clench your jaw, now starting to grow agitated with the architect’s incessant attempts to flirt with you right in front of Hermione.

You feel the way your wife's hold on you tightens, she clears her throat before addressing Emilia directly.

“So you plan to tear the entire house down?” Your wife challenges and Emilia flashes an insincere smile once more.

“Why not? It is incredibly dated.” The architect remarks, glancing at you for a reaction.

“I like it, it adds character.” Hermione interjects, she threads her fingers through your hair, now demanding your attention.

You hear Emilia scoff, she continues to address your wife in a condescending tone. “Well, a new house would be a statement. Ecologically efficient– truthfully these older homes are very impractical.”

“Eitherway, it's up to you.” Emilia speaks to you directly, her fingers brushing your forearm once more.

The architect's lack of subtlety makes your brows knit together in annoyance, you look to Hermione to find her wearing a similar look on her face. Although you also notice the way her sharp gaze is now brimming with anger.

“Actually it is up to my wife. What Hermione says goes.” You declare, squeezing Hermione's waist reassuringly before removing yourself so you may look at the pool table in the study.

As you explore further, you somewhat manage to overhear the things Hermione is saying to the architect.

“Please stop speaking to my wife as if I weren't here.” Even in a hushed tone, your wife's frustration is palpable.

You can hear Emilia's chuckle, laced with condescension, no doubt, although as she tries to respond, Hermione interrupts. “This is not your prestige project, this is going to be my home.”

“If you want this job, I suggest you stop making eyes at my wife and keep your hands to yourself.” Your wife concludes firmly and only silence follows afterwards.

As you wait for a response from Emilia, you reach out for the eight ball atop the pool table, fiddling with it.

The architect soon speaks, and you listen closely in added intrigue.

“That is ridiculous, Hermione I would never–” Emilia attempts to continue the farce, but Hermione refuses to tolerate the disrespect any longer.

Your wife sighs. “I have decided this is not going to work, my wife and I don't require your services after all.”

“What? I–” Emilia stutters in evident shock, but Hermione's patience has been stretched thin.

“Do shut the door on your way out– drive safe.” Hermione instructs curtly, and more stunned silence follows before you finally hear the rustling of papers followed by the echo of footsteps heading towards the front door.

As you hear the door shut, the noise is swiftly followed by more footsteps, Hermione's heels against the hardwood flooring as she enters the room you are currently standing in.

You observe the way your wife is looking at you; she appears almost like a predator, staking her claim.

“She's gone?” You ask the obvious and Hermione nods, she gets close enough to wrap her arms around your neck.

“I think you should hire someone else.” She states in a lighthearted tone and you let out a huff in amusement, your hands find Hermione's waist as you reply. “Alright, darling, I will.”

Hermione hums in satisfaction before leaning in, her lips meet your own for a heated kiss.

You only break away once your chest is heaving.

“I've been in the presence of actual Death Eaters, and you are more intimidating than most of them.” You quip and Hermione smirks at your statement, but otherwise, she continues to look at you in a way that suggests she wasn't exactly in the mood for conversation.

“Shall we see the rest of the house?” You attempt, and your wife shakes her head in disagreement.

“Not yet.” Hermione contends and your breath hitches in your throat as her hand finds your rear, harshly holding you in place.

“You're mine.” She asserts and this time you smile, matching her intense gaze.

“Yes. All yours, my sweet.” You seal your promise by kissing the column of Hermione's throat. Your wife's hand shifts to the back of your head in approval as she bares her neck to you.

You continue to kiss her, earning a breathy moan as you sucked on her tender flesh, Hermione proceeds to tug on your hair so she may guide your mouth towards her own once more.

She kisses you passionately, open mouthed and wanting, Hermione's tongue clashes against your own repeatedly as her hands roamed your frame.

Eventually, her palm settles on your groin over your slacks, and you aren't able to fully comprehend what was happening before you can feel Hermione's enchantment working.

The shaft begins to form within your underwear, and the familiar sensation causes you to groan, it is only heightened as Hermione boldly palms your cock.

“Hermione–” You barely manage as your lips separate for an instant; your wife doesn't speak, but the gleam in her stare still manages to send a thrill through your body.

“My love, please–” You find yourself muttering pathetically, as you ground yourself into her touch.

Hermione gives your shaft one last squeeze before pulling her hand away. “I know, baby” Your wife coos, and you watch as she lifts her dress up to her thighs before languidly removing her black laced underwear.

“I want to feel your mouth first.” She admits as she settles her rear atop the edge of the pool table.

As Hermione parts her legs, you don't need to be told what to do next.

You kneel before her eagerly, trailing a path of wet kisses along her inner thigh before your tongue inevitably makes contact with her hot, weeping core.

Hermione gasps aloud at the sensation of your tongue on her heat. Her fist clenches in your hair once more as you begin to pleasure her with your mouth.

“Yes..” Hermione moans and you slide your tongue skillfully in between her folds. You repeat the motion a few times before settling your mouth over her sensitive clit so you can suck on it.

Hermione is already trembling once you slip your tongue inside of her. You revel in the way your wife moans aloud.

You soon break away to lap at her folds, and as your tongue makes contact with her clit again, Hermione finally comes undone.

Your wife throws her head back as her climax rips through her. You hold onto her thighs as she writhes, her hold on the back of your head is painful, in truth, but you don't care.

“Y/n,” Hermione utters breathlessly, as you place one last peck upon her swollen folds before standing up to meet her in an urgent kiss.

Your wife does not waste anymore time, matching your eagerness as her hands find your belt. She unclasps it with trembling hands, and you moan as she slips one hand inside of your slacks to grip the base of your shaft.

Her thumb then traces the tip of your cock before assisting you in pulling off your pants completely. As you kick them off, Hermione doesn't let go of your length, leaning back onto the pool table.

You swiftly follow her lead, as though in a trance, climbing on top of your wife.

Hermione hastily pulls down the top of her dress until they fall to reveal her breasts. You then eagerly take them in your mouth, licking and sucking on her hard nipples. Your lover rewards you with more gasps of pleasure.

Hermione tugs on your hair habitually, and once your face is hovering over her own, your wife kisses you again, stroking your length simultaneously.

You feel her leg settle around your waist as she lines up the tip of your cock to her entrance.

Meeting her halfway, you move in a fluid motion, and soon you are sheathed inside of her to the hilt. The moan that rips out of Hermione afterwards causes your cock to twitch desperately inside of her.

"Fuck–” You groan, retracting your hips slightly before pushing deep inside of her once more.

Your wife's nails begin to dig into your back through your blouse, you can feel the way she is desperately trying to pull you closer.

You oblige her, your mouth eventually finds the base of Hermione's jaw as you continue to pump in and out of her at an urgent pace.

Hermione is incoherent, she is mewling and whimpering with every movement of your hips as your cock never fails to reach just the right spots within her after each thrust.

“Y/n– don't stop” Your wife eventually manages through her heavy pants, and you can already sense her second orgasm approaching.

You don't stop, instead, bracing your hands on either side of her head, you lift yourself up before rutting into her wildly. The lewd noises of your joining fills the vast room, and Hermione's whimpers soon morph into a loud moan as she reaches her peak on your cock.

The way the walls of her cunt flutters around your shaft was maddening, and the sudden gush of arousal that coats your girth instigates your own release.

Your entire body tenses as you orgasm, mere seconds after your wife.

Your heavy breathing matches Hermione's as you collapse on top of her, for awhile all you can feel is her arms and legs draped around you, along with her soft lips against your ear.

“Perhaps I should make you jealous more often.” You mutter in a playful tone once you regain your bearings.

Your joke earns a firm slap from Hermione, one that lands directly on your bare rear.

“Don't get any ideas.” Your wife warns sternly.

#hermione granger imagine #hermione x reader #slytherin au #hermione granger #hermione granger x reader #g!p #hermione granger smut #hermione smut #g!p reader

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smartkookiee · 5 months ago

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How to Lose A Guy in 30 Days! || Series Page

Jeon Jungkook Series

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❥pairing: Jungkook x Reader

❥genre/rating: strangers to lovers, 18+

❥description: How to Lose A Guy in 30 Days! A guide of what you shouldn't do in the first 30 days of a relationship if you don't want him running for the hills! You get to see my experiment with the things I did wrong in the first 30 days of a brand new relationship.

You have just received your first opportunity to write your own column at Composure Magazine. This is everything that you have ever dreamed of and should be simple enough, drive a guy away in 30 days. Across town Jungkook, who hasn't committed to anyone in years, is issued a bet that he can stay with the same person for one month. Both of you being so head strong to achieve your goals cause a myriad of hilariously disastrous dates, unexpected sparks, and a countdown that neither is ready for. 30 days to fall in love or fall apart. After all, all is fair in love and war.

❥warnings/tags: software engineer!Jungkook, writer!reader, in the universe of How to Lose A Guy in Ten Days, comedy, crack fic??? (Yeaahhh), drinking, swearing, dirty talk, eventual smut, some angst, Y/N is a love girl (sigh), Jungkook used to be a playboy (heavier sigh), fluff, Y/N basically torturing Jungkook, Jungkook will never surrender lmao, I watched the movie recently and I haven't been able to get this idea out of my head (like seriously I plotted out the entire fic in like three hours), you don't have to have seen the movie to get this fic.

❥disclaimer: Fic is cross posted to ao3, every chapter I will give associated warnings and tags that apply.

Should I watch the movie before I read this fic?

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CH.1 // CH.2 // CH.3 // CH.4 // CH.5 // CH.6 // CH.7 // CH.8 // CH.9 // CH.10 // CH.11 // CH.12 // CH.13 // CH.14 // CH.15 // CH.16 // CH.17 //

TEASER

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rottenherbs · 3 months ago

Text

Matchmaker // F.W x reader

Request: it would be an honor to have a Fred Weasley x Reader wherein the reader is a matchmaker and students would often ask her for their suitable partners. But the irony is, since she's a matchmaker she can't seem to find hers (if that makes any sense), later on Fred would suddenly pop in in her life (I honestly don't know if this plot is sensible but yeah, the scene entirely up to you to alter and modify to your likings).

Word Count: 2k

Authors Note: CANONICALLY I understand that Neville asked Ginny to the Yule ball but I am re-rewriting history. And I am half sorry and half not. Also I swear i write my imagines like they are the first chapters to full fledge fan fictions.

If you want to request a second part (or more) to ANY piece of writing please do! I’d love to continue any of my pieces <3

[masterlist] ((PART TWO IN MASTERLIST)

Much Love, Saige

——————————

“I hope it works out for you.” You smile, ushering the young student off. “But if not, I'm not liable!” You mumbled lightly under your breath. They turned around for a moment, unsure if they heard you correctly; giving you a look of disbelief before quickly turning out of sight.

You relaxed your shoulders, letting your smile fall as soon as they left, closing your eyes for a moment before straightening your posture, ready to do it all again.

”Next please!” You adjusted the papers in front of you awkwardly as the next student walked in. A small brown haired boy, shuffling in short choppy steps, quickly making their way to your makeshift desk. They couldn't have been more than fourteen, visibly gangly under their uniform with charmingly large teeth hidden slightly by their pursed lips.

“Ahh Welcome welcome. What can I do for you?” You leaned forward, your elbows now resting on the desk watching them plop themselves in front of you. The young boys hands immediately covered his face, pausing before speaking.

“I don't know who to ask to the ball. ” He choked, his words muffled heavily by his hands. You cocked your head to the side, listening further. The Yule ball was a hot topic for most of the students right now, the idea of asking their peers to a dance gave most body chilling anxiety. This boy was no exception.

But you didn’t respond, allowing him to continue at his own pace.

“I think everyone thinks I'm a little weird. I act weird, I look a little weird.” He continued, his words only above a whisper. “I think it's a lost cause going to the dance.” He peered through his fingers at you, his face visibly red.

“Neville is it?” You asked, sorting through some of the papers in front of you. He looked up at you in shock, unaware how you knew of him.

“Yeah how did you-“

”You should give yourself more credit. From what I hear you have a lot of courage for a wizard your age.” You riffled through the papers some more, finding the roster of witches and wizards in the fourth year with him. You looked up momentarily to smile at him, noticing his posture shift in the chair, his hands now placed politely in his lap.

“I swear if Lupin had me do a boggart, it might as well of been Snape.” You chuckled, pulling a single paper out from the pile. You glanced at him again, a small grin growing on his face. “But that stays between you and me. Hmm?” You continued, raising your eyes slightly. Neville nodded his head quickly, becoming increasingly curious as to what you were about to reveal.

“Now. I know a little bit about the students of your year. You are a few years behind me but close enough.” You waved your hand haphazardly, attempting to keep the conversation light.

“Now you talked about being weird.” You set the paper face down in front of you, locking eyes with the boy. You wanted to give Neville a better sense of confidence in himself before matching him with one of his peers. “Weird is not bad. Weird is great. I’m pretty weird eh? I know everything about everyone in this school. I think that’s a little weird.” He laughed, listening intently.

“Now, I think you just need to find those who matches your weird” You smirked, flipping the page over, revealing a small image of a blond haired girl, silver eyes, and an odd yet charming sense of style. Nevilles eyes practically bulged as he grabbed the paper, unable to find the words.

”Eh eh eh! I keep the paper. You, on the other hand, keep the knowledge. Try it out. Talk to her. Something tells me you two have something mystical brewing.” You wagged your eyebrows sliding the paper back. Neville nodded his head, jumping from his seat out of excitement.

“Thank you! Thank you!” He reached out grabbing your hand, shaking it vigorously. You shook it back, feeling infected with the sudden burst of energy and confidence he now held. He turned and walked out of the empty classroom, head held high. His stride was a little less choppy and his hands a little less shaky.

You smiled to yourself, feeling an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. Collecting the papers strewn against the table, you hesitated over a few of them. Small cards with little tidbits of information scattered alongside images of students. Had their astrological signs, their hobbies, what their class records were. Everyone was intertwined in their own way and it fascinated you. Something that started as a fun joke between friends grew into something school wide. You watched students give their first attempts at love, bring relationships back from the dead, and matching unconfident teenagers with someone who understands them the most. It was your secret talent.

Shoving your book bag over your shoulder, you shut the classroom door behind you, content with another day's work. Turning on your heel, you immediately bump into a large mass, practically unmovable, knocking you to the floor. Catching yourself with your hands, your papers flew across the empty hallway.

“Oh god.” You looked up, noticing the mess now surrounding you. It would take hours to re-sort and categorize all these students. More focused on the papers, you didn’t notice a hand slipping under your elbow, pulling you to your feet. A small yelp escaped your lips, fear flowing through your body.

“Sorry! Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you — or make you drop all of your pictures. Wait, is that me?” The tall figure bent down, picking up a picture. Their back was towards you, only their gryffindor robes and fiery red hair noticeable. Quickly realizing who it could be, you gave yourself a 50% chance of guessing correctly.

Turning to face you, Freds eyes were practically shut, a grin growing on his face from ear to ear, wrinkling his face playfully. He held up the small picture of himself next to his head.

“ Quite a dashing image you chose.” He jokingly looked back and forth between the image of him and you, putting the pieces together,

”Oh! You’re the matchmaker! God George wouldn’t stop shutting up about you after he got Angelina to agree to go to the dance with him. Seriously, he is chuffed. They are inseparable.” He laughed, tossing the image back into the mess on the floor. “It’s actually quite disgusting really…. But hey, I'm a supportive brother.” He shrugged his shoulders, slightly kicking his feet on the stone ground.

You huffed, rolling your eyes at his lack of aid to your clutter. Bending down and beginning to pick up the papers on the floor, you ignored his comments, more frustrated with the large task in front of you.

“Oh god sorry. I got caught up.” He joined you on his knees, carefully picking up papers and pictures, cautiously making sure not to crease or ruin them further. You sighed, relaxing slightly at his help.

“Thanks. It's alright, mistakes happen. Now my whole night will just be fixing this jumble. Seems that 1st year Slytherin are mixed with the 6th year Hufflepuffs.’ You sat back, picking up two different students, shaking your head. Fred chuckled, pausing to read every now and again about the students he gathered.

“How come you never sent someone to me eh? No one matches my type?” He asked flirtatiously, his eyes focused on the floor. You halted your moments, looking at him in disbelief.

“Oh please. Look at the hundreds of students in your own hands. You’re not the only one. How come you never came up and asked for yourself.” You snorted, crawling against the floor, getting closer to Fred. His eyes watched you carefully, thinking about it himself. Why hasn’t he?

“You got me there. Guess I've been doing just fine on my own.” He shrugged, pursing his lips playfully. You laughed, sitting back down, your body tired already from cleaning.

“So who has the matchmaker matched with herself? Must be some fancy bloke who checks off all the marks.” He mumbled, a tone of sarcasm almost hidden behind his words. Almost.

You leaned your back against the wall, slightly saddened by his question. Most people didn’t know that you were almost cursed with your own lack of a love life. You could speak of it in heartbroken poetic love stories; the girl who always looked out for everyone else but never had the time to look inward. Fiddling with your hands, your silence said it all for you.

“If it's any consolation, I haven't had much luck either.” Fred spoke, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, setting the stack of papers down next to him. He sat crossed legged diagonal to you, his eyes now moving around the room, unable to stay still. You smiled lightly, feeling a small sense of relief.

“Is it bad if that does make me feel better?” You scrunch your nose, exhaling lightly, holding back a laugh. Fred looks up, taken back by your words. He laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the walls.

“If my unlucky status as a lone stag makes you feel better, by all means.” He lifted his hands, gesturing vaguely at the mess. You both sat for a moment, laughing with each other. The conversation relaxes back to normalcy.

Sighing lightly, you got to your knees, slowly making your way to your feet. Fred looked at you from the ground, wracking his brain on how you weren’t taken by anybody in this school. While he knew quite little about you, what he did know was that you were caring, kind, and thoughtful to those who came to you for help. Especially because you helped his brother earlier, he had a deep sense of gratitude for what you did.

Collecting the papers, you slid them into your bag, turning to face Fred. He was still on the ground, his eyes fixated on your every movement. You cleared your throat awkwardly, extending your hand, silently asking for the papers near him. Freds eyes widened, realizing he was just sitting and staring at you. He quickly turned, handing you the papers with a small smile. Getting to his feet quickly, he was now the one towering over you.

“So..” He reached up, adjusting his tie, the quiet corridor filling with anticipation. ”Do you need any help with sorting those?” He pointed at your book bag, quickly shoving his hands into his front pockets. He felt bad for creating the mess and wanted to help further, but he also wanted to spend more time with you. “I happen to know a lot of my clientele. Maybe we can join forces.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

For a second, you hated the idea. It was something that was special to you, something that was almost embarrassingly secretive you didn’t dare share with anyone. Yet when you looked at him, you didn’t feel judgement. You only felt genuine curiosity and a sense of complementary energy. Calibrating the pros and cons in your head, you reached a conclusion that you wanted to know more about him in any way possible.

“Yeah. I’d love that.” You affirmed quietly. The smile grew on Fred's face, a mix of mischievousness and mystery. You didn’t know entirely if you could trust him, but something in your heart pulled towards him. He was invigorating, charming, and smart. Whether he would be a helpful tool in your business — only time would tell.

Turning towards the hallway, Fred bowed slightly, his hands guiding you ahead.

“Ladies first.” He joked, his smile unwavering. You laughed, accepting his invitation. As soon as you passed him, he joined you in the hallway, only the sounds of your feet lightly pattering against the floor.

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley headcanons #fred #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley #fred wealsey fic #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasly x reader #harry potter #harry potter imagines #harry potter x reader #harry potter headcanon #harrypotter #harry potter fanfiction #hogwarts

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atyourmerci · 1 year ago

Text

♡ Hook, line, and sinker (sub!abby // follower req)

Basketball!abby X nerdy reader

Next chapter

♡ ♡

Summary: Abby is the head captain of your college basketball team, a known player in more ways than one…but you knew her dirty little secret

Warnings: smut, MDNI, porn smidge of plot, sub!abby, top!reader, cunnilingus, fingering if you squint, abby is sub inexperienced, abby is a whiny little sub, author enjoyed thoroughly, no y/n, no physical description of reader

A/N: first req!! So thank you for sending it in. Hopefully this will hold y’all off till I can get out a full fic :// (this was supposed to be a drabble and I got carried away oopsies). Psa wrote this at 2am so it’s probably a MESSSS

♡ ♡

She was dangerous force, intimidating just by the sheer sight of her. She was the kind of girl that people walked on the other side of the road when she was coming, afraid of what would happen if she snapped. Hell even the girls on the court would run from her, and not in the way the game was supposed to happen, they just knew she broke bones.

Abby was brutal, she was a hard hit, she was uneasy to break… she was a fucking whiny sub.

No one knew that of course, none of the girls she tossed around like dolls as she rammed into them emotionlessly, it would ruin the reputation she had built, right?

But you knew.

She was embarrassed you ever saw that side of her, but fuck did she need you. Only you could let her beg and plead to let her cum after denying her over and over again. Only you were allowed to see that pretty pink pussy drenched in slick that ran down her muscled thighs. Only you ever made her cum.

The situation she had you in was less than practical. Abby begrudgingly asked for your help in physics since you were undeniably the smartest in the class…oh if she would’ve know the things you’d teach her.

You weren’t her type, she liked easy girls, the ones that threw themselves at her so she never had to even try, open up to anyone. Some girls had pressed for more, to which she’d move on to the next.

You…you were difficult, hard to read. She was surprised you didn’t use the chance of meeting with her to study to get a good fuck out of her. You were strictly business, even when you couldn’t stop thinking about what she would look like with her legs wrapped around your head.

♡ ♡

That day had started just like the others, abby sprawled out on your tiny dorm bed while you sat neatly across from her, textbooks giving needed separation between the two of you. She always felt the need to dominate every space she took up. If only you could just break her…

“I- I don’t fucking get this. I’m not going to.” Abby says dragging her large hand cross her face. She was usually frustrated when she came to you, but today was the worst you’ve ever seen. She’d leave in a much better place than you had started, but after 3 hours there had been an unusual lack of progress.

“You’re not using your head,” you say growing impatient. You let out a sigh of equal frustration, knowing you’d have to break down the first wall of unspoken territory with her, “what’s wrong with you, you seem off today.”

She returns a scoff back at you, head tilting up to meet your eyes, “I’m fine.”

You shake your head knowingly back at her, “Abby you-“ you begin to protest as she cuts you off defensively, “I said I’m fine. Now are you actually going to teach me? Or would you like to keep interrogating me?”

Your mouth opens in anger. She wants to play this game, let’s play. “Don’t come at me because you were too busy fucking the entire woman’s soccer team last night to be prepared for this midterm.”

“Why the fuck do you care what I do,” she barks back with just the same vengeance.

You laugh at her blatant assumption, “I didn’t say I did.”

“Then why are you breathing down my neck,” she says narrowing her eyes on you, in an almost curious gaze, still laced with anger.

“I just think you should worry about yourself more than making half of Yale’s female population come.”

She returns a breathy laugh, shaking her head turning away from you, “and you don’t think I get off?”

You cross your arms with a testing gaze on the profile of her face, she couldn’t even look at you talking about herself that way. “I know you don’t.”

“And how the hell would you know that.”

“You’re so fucking tense I’m sure you haven’t gotten off in years, can’t even let yourself do it.” You watch as she twists her fingers around themselves nervously, still unable to meet your eyes.

“Y- you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says unsure, barely above a whisper.

Any assumption you had made had been completely checked off now, and you were ready to completely destroy her. Before you could make out a rational thought your hands were at the textbooks in front of you, the separation between you and your weary opponent. You moved everything off onto the desk next to your bed, closing the once necessary gap.

“Come here,” you say as she finally meets your gaze again. “W-what?”

“You heard me, lie down completely,” you demand, and she reluctantly agrees, unsure of her fate.

You make your way to the side of her, brushing your bare knees against her side which causes her to flinch as her fists are closed tightly next to her.

You place a hand on her abdomen first, trying to ignore the chiseled muscle beneath her black tank, “have you been touched here?”

“Yes.”

You then move your hand to the bicep caged around the outline of your legs, she was sure not to make direct contact, “have you been touched here?”

“Yes.”

You move the same hand to her cheek, cupping the sharp line of her jaw, her eyes now drowning in yours, the anger that had held her down now disappearing. “Have you been touched here?”

“Sometimes. N- not often.” Her gaze falters, fluttered down out of your reach at the vulnerability.

Your hand drags down to her neck, this time you let it roam, dragging your fingers across her pulse, “and here?”

“No.”

You click your tongue at her, “shame,” bending down on your knees to scatter slow kisses up the throb in her neck. You feel as she squirms slightly beneath you, “such a sensitive area, really,” you say returning upright, dragging your fingers down to her raised nipple, hardened by your kisses.

“Here?” You lay light circles around the heightened bud as her mouth falls open, quickly closing it with her top teeth on her lip to make sure she doesn’t crack.

She shakes her head rapidly in response, eliciting a giggle from your throat as you move to her other nipple, sure to give it just as much attention.

You let your hand drag down to the seam of her sweats, toying with the exposed skin between her shirt and pants with your fingertips. You watch as her teeth let the grip of her lip go and her head fall back to the ceiling.

The tips of your fingers ease under the sweats over her boxers, inching your way in till your hand cups her mound to which she lets out her first groan of satisfaction “Have you been touched here, Abby?”

“Fuck- no. never.” Her chest rising and falling heavily now, unable to catch her breath.

“You want me to touch you there abby?”

“Please- please touch me there,” her fist that was caged around your bent legs now gripped into your thigh, large hand almost completely engulfing your leg.

“Well since you asked so nicely, take off your pants. Only your pants.” Within seconds she had them down to her ankles, ripping them off and discarding them to the floor. Her hand returned to your thigh, eyes now trained on you.

You moved your hand back to her mound, covered by her black boxers. You began rubbing down to feel how soaked she was, pooling already. You wouldn’t give her much, not yet, only rubbing slow and soft stripes up and down to hear her breathy moans from the stoic woman.

“Does that feel good?” You ask her doe-eyed as she stare’s pathetically up at you, so needy for anything you’d let her have. “Y- yes.”

“Take off your boxers.” With the same enthusiasm she rips them down at your command, returning her gaze back to the ceiling, still embarrassed at her vulnerability but unable to stop herself.

“Open up those legs for me pretty girl,” you say rubbing your palm up her thigh.

“You can’t talk to me like that… I- I’ll come” she breathes out, bucking her hips slightly into the air to no sense of relief.

“I haven’t even touched you yet,” you let out a small giggle at her admission, continuing to rub in her inner thigh.

“Y-ou don’t h-ave to- I’m close enough.”

“Awh pretty baby, all from some talking?”

She continues to buck her hips in hopes that your hand will meet her in the middle. “Please touch me before I finish.”

She had been so good, so pliable, so you honored her wish by placing your fingertips to her raised clit, soaked by her arousal. “Oh fuck!” She yelps, raising her hips into your touch, the hand on your thigh digging crescents into your soft flesh.

“So swollen, just for me?”

“Yes! Yes! Fuck- don’t stop. Please don’t stop,” she begins to plead. You know she won’t last much longer. And you had to taste her.

You whip your legs around her backwards to straddle her, getting a perfect view of her sopping wet cunt, pretty pink lips coated in white slick. You lick a fat stripe down her slit, tongue pointing into her leaking entrance to get a taste of her.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck” she begins to babble as you lap at her hole. She moves her wide hands to grasp at your covered ass in search of stabilizing herself.

You return to her swollen bud, immediately sucking it into your mouth, pulsing it systematically as you hold her wavering thighs open.

“I- im- FUCK-“ she begins to shake under you, whimpers flying out of her as she bucks into your mouth, riding out her early orgasm.

She continues to shake as you try to suck every last bit of her climax out of her, letting her revel in her pleasure. You wish you could talk her through it now, but you’re sure she’ll let you do it over and over again.

As cries of overstimulation flood her voice you let off her clit with a pop, eliciting one last whine from her throat. You return next to the half naked brute, right back to where it started.

She hops of the bed and lazily returns her clothing back to her body.

“No one hears of this. No one.” She says with a pointed look, deep into your eyes.

Ah, the reputation must be upheld. Whiny fucking sub.

Follower req by: @ghgygd

Taglist: @wishbones999 @bookpagecandlescent @littlegingerperson5 @lookforthelight1 @fict1onallyobsessed @shewantstoknow

#abby anderson #the last of us #abby anderson smut #abby x reader #abby anderson tlou2 #abby angst #abby the last of us #abby tlou #sub abby #abby anderson fanfiction #abby anderson fanfic #abby anderson x reader #the last of us smut #tlou smut #wlw smut

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screampied · 4 months ago

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hi vegas how are u!!!!!! i was curious, are there any fics (like porn WITH plot kinda fics) that you would DIE ON A HILL for? i've been on this fanfic kick lately and after reading every single one of ur DELICIOUS works i need more!!! love u and ur writing sm i hope you have the best day/night <3

hi nonnie im doing okay !!!! i hope you’re doing well also 🙂‍↕️🫵 ack ur so sweet thank u sm u too :’) FUCK YEAHHHHHH. i probably don’t have many but i can name a few of my fav pwp driven fics for yew !!!!

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN by @satoruhour is literally chef’s kiss. noooo joke reading that entire fic from start to end was like i was watching a movie. YOU GOTTA READ IT. veryyyy immersive, and there’s a follow up part two which tops the cake !!!!! this is literature right here mmmngh

DYING FOR YOUR LOVE by @staryukis was an INSANEEEE READ. i love a good zombie! au ‘n if ur into stuff like that this is totally up your alley. also the ANGST IS TOP TIER. i genuinely read this in one sitting and it DIDNT DISAPPOINT. logan has a masterlist i believe for more works like these id rec also !!!!

HEARTSTRINGS & BULLETS by @sttoru IS A MUST READDDDD. i literally got hooked on the first chapter, the tension build up is amazing. toji ‘n reader getting introduced to each other — the difference in personalities, I LOVED IT. literally once you start, it’s immersive and the flow is YUM. again, also felt like i was watching a movie / netflix show. karina also has a masterlist for this series i’d rec checking out for more !!!

FIVE HUSBANDS by @kingkonoha are you kidding. the way the endings of each chap would have me off the edge of my SEAT. this is an attack on titan! au and i think tay said it’s based off the book ‘the seven husbands of evelyn hugo’. this series is soooooooo good, i literally live for the drama. it’s completed, and i can’t wait to give it a reread bc it’s AMAZING.

these are all i can think from the top of my head for now !!! 🏌️‍♀️

#✰ミ݁ ׅ ࣪ asks.#🧁#YALL ARE SOOOO TALENTED #crying screamin i love when writers

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moonstruckme · 5 months ago

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omg i just saw only thawing out requests are open and I had this thought yesterday we're mind linked i swear

i though about sirius having a ✨fun✨ dream with reader and then rem shows up in it and he wakes up sooooo confused

We are mind linked! Ty for requesting ;)

collab with @ellecdc

cw: smut mndi, modern au, chronic pain

note for minors: smut is between the red lines, so please scroll past those to read. You don't need it for the plot and there's an sfw summary at the end of the chapter. There is some suggestive content outside of the red lines, but no smut

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

───────────────────────────────────────────

Your hands are in Sirius’ hair, and his face is in your neck.

You make a breathy, needy sound, tugging at his roots, fingernails scraping his scalp. He chases the source of the noise. Finds the flutter of your pulse and sucks at it to feel your heartbeat between his teeth.

“Sirius,” you pant. Your lips brush across his hairline, baptizing him.

“I’ve got you,” he promises. Your thighs tremble with little shivers, his fingers filling up your cunt. “You’re so good for me. So sweet, and pretty, and perfect, my perfect girl.”

You giggle half deliriously, hips twitching into his touch as your walls flutter around him. Sirius moans.

“I love you,” you murmur by his ear. Hurried, desperate kisses in a path down from his temple. “I love you, Sirius.”

“I love you.” Sirius catches you mouth with his. The taste of you floods through him like the feeling of coming home, like coffee and sweetness and lazy Sunday mornings in bed.

He eats up your moan when his fingers curl inside of you, your gummy walls made to fit him. Your hand presses over the tattoo on his ribs.

You break away from him with a gasp, and Sirius opens his eyes to see you. You’re encompassed by bedsheets, soft pillowcase against your softer cheek, buttery afternoon light filtering through. Your face, cast half in shadow, is the only thing in the world.

You grind into his hand again, expression tightening in a way Sirius hasn’t seen before and makes his cock twinge to witness. You’re close.

“There you go,” he urges. “Come on, sweetheart.”

“Sirius.” Your grip on him tightens, “Fuck, baby.”

Sirius has fantasized about you calling him that, but when you do your voice isn’t yours.

He blinks, and the eyes peering at him are a warm amber, strands of tawny hair falling into them. A concentrated little divot between the brows. Sirius’ fingers are wrapped confidently around an entirely different sex organ.

“Good,” Remus grunts in that heady, approving timbre. “Good, just like that.”

“That’s good?” Sirius asks, uncertain but eager to please.

Remus hums. His hand draws up Sirius’ side, cupping his face.

“Yeah,” he breathes, drawing closer until his lips cover Sirius’. “Just like that, love.”

───────────────────────────────────────────

Sirius snaps awake as the plane jolts.

“Whoa, we’re okay,” you say, turning to grin at him. Sirius realizes he’s grabbed your hand, pinned harshly underneath his on the armrest. On your other side, Remus seems to have been jostled awake, too; he’s blinking blearily, lifting his head from your shoulder.

“Sorry.” Sirius looks down, then takes off his neck pillow, setting it over his crotch. He tries to make it look casual, hopes neither of you have seen.

Unfortunately, you know Sirius too well not to recognize the oddity of him being alert so soon after waking up. “It’s fine.” You smile, giving his hand a little squeeze. “Everything okay?”

Behind you, Remus turns to look at him too, eyes perceptive, discerning. A pursed mouth Sirius now imagines he knows the feel of.

“Yeah.” Sirius squeezes your hand back before retracting his. “Just a weird dream.”

You give him a sympathetic look. “Plane naps are always weird, aren’t they?”

He makes a disgruntled sound of agreement.

In the airport, you pace back and forth in front of the baggage carousel while Sirius and Remus watch from seats nearby. Remus is stretching one leg out in front of him self-consciously, his expression tense with discomfort. Sirius knew it hurt his hip to stand for too long, but apparently the long stint of stillness on the plane hadn’t been kind to it either.

“She looks nervous,” Remus hums.

Sirius nods absently. His mind has been spinning ever since the plane. Dreams about you, he’s more or less used to. They make him feel like the scum of the Earth afterwards—no matter his feelings for you, it feels wrong to fantasize about you in his bed with the real you none the wiser—but they’re a fairly regular occurrence. But Remus…that’s new. Sirius hasn’t dreamt, fantasized, or otherwise mentally cavorted with anyone but you in a long time. Now, echoes of your voice in his ear are all tangled up with the feeling of Remus’ fingers dragging over his skin, your mouth morphing into his, your cunt—

“Come here, love.”

Remus is beckoning you towards them, that endearment—the one from Sirius’ dream, from the day he hurt his ankle and Remus soothed him with soft words and softer touches—flowing easily from between his lips. Sirius finds he likes it much the same when Remus says it to you as when he does to him, which is…confusing.

The upset in your expression becomes clear as you get closer. You rub your lips together, brows pinched tight. “They’re not here,” you say.

Sirius glances behind you. The bags on the carousel are few now, yours not among them.

“We need that stuff.” You’re pacing again, now in front of them, your breaths shortening. “Our skates are in there, our costumes, all our backups. Shit, I knew we shouldn’t have checked them!”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Remus says. “Did you check with baggage claim?”

“Yes!” Your eyes are growing glossy. “They said they should have come down by now. But they’re probably back home, or on their way to Cambodia, or—”

“Alright, alright.” Remus stands, taking your shoulders in his hands. His gaze pins yours, firm and steady to contrast the gentle stroking of his thumb over your collarbone. Sirius watches with an odd feeling in his stomach and below. This unshakeable calm is proving to be an oddly attractive quality.

Not that Remus needs any more of those.

“It’s going to be fine,” Remus says evenly. “Just sit down and I’ll handle it, alright? Sit down.”

He encourages you towards his seat, giving Sirius a look. Help her.

“Take a breath, doll,” Sirius says, slotting you underneath his arm as you sit. “Our luck can’t be that shit, can it?”

“I don’t know,” you say miserably, scooting closer to him. He’s acutely aware of all the places your body is touching his. Aware of the places Remus has just touched you. Fuck, what is wrong with him?

But then you sniffle, resting your forehead on his shoulder, and a familiar, affectionate warmth floods through him. “I’ve just wanted this for so long,” you murmur.

“You’ll have it,” Sirius promises you. “We’re gonna do this, even if we have to go out there in rental skates and the clothes we’re wearing now.”

You give a half-hearted puff of laughter at the image. Sirius rubs your shoulder, pressing his lips to your head.

“And we’d still win.”

“We’d be putting on an unusual show,” you say softly.

“It’s the twenty-first century, babe. Originality is everything. We’d knock their socks off in our airplane sweats.”

Remus looks pleased to see you smiling when he comes back, wheeling both of your suitcases behind him. You gasp and launch yourself out of your seat, throwing your arms around him tearfully. He looks even more pleased then.

“I’ve had to travel a lot,” he says to your flurry of questions, patting your back. “There are some common miscommunications. Everything’s alright, see?”

Sirius drags you off of Remus before you can knock his hip out of place again, but nothing can shake the good mood you all share the rest of the way to the Olympic Village. Possibility seems to richen the air particles around you. Your leg and Remus’ are warm on either side of his in the back of your cab, the breeze is cool where it whistles through the crack in the window to ruffle Remus’ hair, and in two days’ time you’ll be competing on the world stage.

nsfw content summary: Sirius has a dream where he's engaged in sexual activity with reader. He expresses some of how he feels about her, and they both say they love each other. Then, reader transforms into Remus, and Sirius is engaged in the activities with him instead. Sirius seems slightly confused by this but is happy to go along, and appreciates when Remus praises him and calls him "love". Remus kisses him, and Sirius wakes up. Thank you for respecting Elle and I's mdni rules <3

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admiringlove · 13 days ago

Text

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. after an unexpected encounter, you find yourself unraveling in ways you never expected—especially when just the mention of gojo leaves your heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

➵ warnings. gojo being gojo; pureblood families being toxic and abusive; mentions of grievous injury; mentions of rough sports (quidditch, duh); profanity; slight timeline inaccuracy in the wizarding world; etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN; etc.

➵ word count. 14.3k.

➵ author's note. lowkey. was stressful writing this one but I HAD SM FUN WITH THE PLOT <3 ty for proofreading to @gojofile // @fxstpace my love for u is endless :3 and also taglist is only open until chapter four comes out, so pls sign up if you'd like !!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

Three weeks. That’s how long it takes to narrow down the bloody list.

Between Quidditch practice, Prefect duties, the Dueling Club, and the endless demands of the Marauders’ secret requests, you’re barely treading water. Sleep is a luxury you haven’t afforded yourself in days—not with everything weighing on your shoulders. The vials of Invigoration Draught are the only reason you’re still standing, stolen in the dead of night from Snape’s private stores or brewed hastily in the second-floor girls’ lavatory where no one ever ventures. Not even Moaning Myrtle bothers you anymore, at least not when she isn’t in the mood for company.

But those are just the mechanics of survival. The true strain is Gojo, who has taken your fight three weeks ago as a cue to abandon all responsibility, leaving you to shoulder the entire burden alone. You can feel his smugness radiating across the Great Hall whenever you arrive late, ink smudged on your fingers and hair sticking awkwardly to your face, while he sits surrounded by friends, ever unbothered, ever insufferable. You hate him with a passion that burns in the marrow of your bones. The kind of hate that keeps you awake at night, staring at the ceiling of your dormitory, imagining all the ways you could wipe that stupid grin off his face.

And yet, here you are. Dragging your exhausted body to the Courtyard because Shoko, the anchor in your spiraling chaos, demands it. She cornered you after Charms today, catching you slipping into a seat at the back of the classroom—your usual place in the front row long since abandoned. You can’t blame her for being worried. If the roles were reversed, you’d do the same. And honestly, she has a point. You can barely stand to look at yourself in the mirror, the dark hollows under your eyes brutally attesting to the past few weeks.

Still, there’s a spark of triumph burning faintly inside you. The list is done. Finally, mercifully, it’s done. You can rest, even if just for a little while. That is, after you give Gojo a piece of your mind. He deserves it, the arrogant twat. But then, perhaps your pride is to blame too. You could have asked him for help—should have, really—but the idea of admitting defeat feels like swallowing broken glass.

The air is sharp as you make your way down the corridor leading to the Quad Courtyard, the early spring chill biting at your skin. Your hand finds its way into your robes, curling around the cool glass of the vial nestled there. The Invigoration Draught is your lifeline now, a quiet little secret you cling to in the absence of sleep. Turning the corner, you pull it free and uncork it with a quick twist of your wrist, tipping the contents back in one practiced motion. The liquid burns as it slides down your throat, a fleeting heat that settles into your chest before dissipating. It won’t undo the ache in your limbs or the weight in your head, but it will keep you upright. That’s enough.

You slip the empty vial back into your pocket, adjusting your robes as you approach the Courtyard. It isn’t just exhaustion you’re trying to hide—it’s the unmistakable fragility of being stretched too thin, the fear that anyone might look too closely and see how close you are to breaking. You know Shoko will notice anyway. She always does. But with the list finally behind you, maybe you can let yourself breathe. Just a little. For now.

You wave to her as you cross the Courtyard, the grass soft and damp beneath your feet. Shoko is perched on the edge of the fountain, her posture casual, but her gaze sharp. You manage a smile, hoping to mask the exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin. Her eyes narrow the moment they meet yours, and you realize your facade is paper-thin.

"You look horrible," she says bluntly, skipping any pretense of pleasantries.

"Well, hello to you too," you reply, sinking down onto the stone beside her.

"You look like you haven’t slept in weeks," she presses, her tone half-concern, half-reprimand. Without waiting for a response, she hands you a neatly wrapped snack—a gesture so quintessentially Shoko that it almost makes you laugh. You peel back the parchment to reveal a warm pumpkin pasty and a delicate square of butterbeer fudge. Both are undoubtedly pilfered from the kitchens, no doubt acquired through her uncanny ability to charm the House Elves.

“Thanks,” you mutter, taking a bite of the pasty. The buttery crust crumbles perfectly, and for a brief moment, you let yourself enjoy the comfort of the warm filling. Shoko doesn’t waste a second diving into conversation, her voice animated as she talks about the upcoming Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match.

You nod along, interjecting with the occasional quip to keep the banter alive. It’s easy, familiar, a rhythm you don’t need to think about. That is, until she drops the bomb.

"If you keep showing up like that, Utahime’s going to bench you tomorrow. Before the match.”

You freeze mid-bite, blinking at her. “Wait, what? The match is tomorrow?”

She stares at you, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as if you’ve just confessed to a crime. “What day do you think it is? Tomorrow’s Saturday. We’re halfway through October.”

“Oh my God,” you murmur, the realization hitting you like a Bludger to the gut. “I haven’t practiced at all.”

Shoko bursts out laughing, the sound light and unapologetic. “Utahime is so going to bench you,” she says through her giggles. The certainty in her voice makes your stomach sink even further.

“I should go practice,” you murmur, your voice almost swallowed by the rustling leaves in the Courtyard. “I don’t want to be benched. It won’t look good on my record. Applications to St. Mungo’s are next year, and—”

“Hey.” Shoko’s voice interrupts, her hand settling gently over yours, grounding you. Her fingers are warm despite the chill in the air. “You’ll be fine. It’s okay. Go practice. I’ll see you on the field tomorrow. Just don’t stretch yourself too thin, alright?”

Her words are simple, but the weight of them pulls at something fragile in you. You hum, nodding, as you push yourself up from the edge of the fountain. The flakes of the pasty and fudge in your fingers now feel like a lifeline—a small kindness amidst the chaos you’ve made of your routine. “Thanks for the food. I owe you one.”

“Stop thanking me for feeding you!” she calls out, exasperation softened by amusement. “I wouldn’t have to if you’d actually show up to lunch!”

You don’t answer, already halfway across the Courtyard, the sound of your shoes muffled against the cobblestones. The air grows cooler as you slip back into the castle, the familiar draft of the corridors tugging at the hem of your robes. Your legs move on autopilot, carrying you up the winding stairs toward your dormitory. You need your broom; you need to practice; you need to prove to Utahime, and to yourself, that you can keep up.

Your thoughts spiral inward, full of determination, until—

Bang.

You collide with something—or someone. The impact is jarring, sending you staggering backward. Pain blossoms in your nose, sharp and immediate, and your ears ring with the aftermath. You instinctively clutch at your face, the warmth of your hands doing little to soothe the throbbing ache.

“Shit,” you hiss, your voice muffled as you press your palm to your nose.

When you finally look up, the world tilts slightly off-center. Standing before you is Fushiguro Toji, tall and imposing, his presence cutting through the haze of your pain. His green eyes, flecked with a sharpness that always seems to watch too much, narrow slightly as they take you in. For a moment, his expression is unreadable, but then his brow furrows—not in irritation, but in something softer, something that almost looks like concern.

“Sorry,” you stammer, the word tumbling out before you can stop it.

Toji shakes his head, slow and deliberate. His voice is low, rough like gravel underfoot, but not unkind. “Don’t apologize. I wasn’t lookin’.” His gaze flickers to your hands, still cradling your face. “Your nose okay?”

“Y-yes,” you manage, wincing as the sharp throb in your nose intensifies. “I’d like to think so. I have to practice for tomorrow’s Quidditch match.” Your voice comes out weaker than you intend, more brittle.

Toji tilts his head, his lips curving into the faintest semblance of a laugh. It’s not cruel, but it’s amused, the way one might humor a child determined to do something reckless. “Yer nose is literally bleedin’,” he says, gesturing toward your face as if you hadn’t noticed. “I think you should pay a visit to Madam Pomfrey instead. Besides, we’re winning anyway. We’ve got two new additions to the team, and, well—there’s me.”

His confidence borders on arrogance, but it’s casual, unforced, as if he’s simply stating a fact. You roll your eyes, already feeling the exhaustion creeping back in, but you muster enough energy to counter. “Ah, you forget. There’s Gojo, Suguru, and Shoko too.”

“And me,” he replies sharply, narrowing his eyes at you like you’ve just insulted his entire lineage. “I’m literally one of the most important players. The Keeper is arguably more important than anyone else.”

“Sure,” you say, tilting your head in mock consideration, a smirk tugging at your lips. “And the Seeker isn’t?”

Toji groans, dragging a hand down his face, muttering something about Gryffindors being too smart for their own good. But there’s no venom in it. Instead, he studies you for a moment, his gaze dropping to the way you’re wiping blood from your nose with the sleeve of your robe. He sighs. “We really should get that nose checked out,” he says, his tone softening despite himself. “I think yer brain stopped workin’. You also look…” He hesitates, as though weighing whether to say what he’s thinking. “Weird. Like you haven’t been sleepin’ or somethin’.”

The comment cuts through you—not because it’s cruel, but because it’s too accurate. You feel weird. You feel like a ghost haunting your own body, trying to move through the day with a willpower that’s stretched far too thin. His observation, though unintentional, feels like being caught in a lie you’ve been telling yourself. For a moment, you don’t know how to respond.

"I'm fine. I-I need to—"

The words falter as your head swims. Your eyelids feel unbearably heavy, as though weighted by lead. You blink once, twice, trying to summon the rest of the sentence from the haze that clouds your mind, but nothing comes. A sharp pang of embarrassment flares briefly before exhaustion crushes it, leaving you too drained to care.

Your legs wobble as you sway slightly, and Toji's hand snaps to your arm, steadying you. His grip is firm but measured, and a faint warmth radiates through his palm. He does this a lot, doesn’t he? Always having his palm around your arm. Like something protective.

"Alright," he says with the kind of certainty that brooks no argument, "yer comin’ to Pomfrey’s with me. Now." His tone leaves no room for protest, not that you have the energy to muster one.

He starts guiding you toward the Floo near the Great Hall, his hand never leaving your arm. The pressure of his grip is oddly comforting, gentle despite its firmness, as though he’s mindful of not making you feel worse. You let yourself be steered, your legs moving sluggishly beneath you as if they belong to someone else. The green flames of the Floo engulf you, their roar oddly soothing in your dazed state.

Moments later, you find yourself in the Hospital Wing. Toji doesn’t let go of your arm until he’s eased you onto a stretcher, his brows furrowed as he glances down at you. Madam Pomfrey appears from her office, her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation, though it’s her pristine white headscarf—tucked neatly around her dark hair—that catches your eye first. You blink at it, momentarily distracted by its perfect symmetry.

“What seems to be the matter?” she asks briskly, her eyes sweeping over you before narrowing in that way of hers that makes you feel six years old again.

You try to speak, but Toji beats you to it. He glances at you, waiting for you to explain, but when you don’t, he lets out a low sigh, clicking his tongue in irritation. “This one looks like she’s gonna pass out any second,” he says, jerking his chin toward you. “I doubt she’s slept at all in the last week.”

Madam Pomfrey’s sharp eyes land on you, brimming with a knowing disappointment that makes your stomach sink. She doesn’t even need to ask—you can tell she already knows. “Oh, come on, [L/N],” she chides, her voice tinged with exasperation. “How many times have I told you not to rely on Invigoration Draughts to get through your workload?”

Toji’s head snaps toward you, his brows drawing together in disbelief. “You mean she’s done this before?”

“Oh, yes,” the matron replies, her voice rising slightly as she straightens. “Multiple times. Ever since she figured out how to brew it, really. She’s got a knack for pushing herself too far. Hold her here while I fetch the Sleeping Draughts. She has the tendency to run away if I don't keep an eye on her.”

She turns on her heel, muttering about stubborn students as she disappears into the back room. Toji looks at you with narrowed eyes, his arms crossing over his chest.

“You're telling me you've done this before?” he says, half-scolding, half-incredulous. “And you ran away instead of listenin' to her?”

You let out a soft groan, covering your face with your hands. “Shoko dragged me here, anyway. There was no point.”

“And I’m supposed to make sure you don’t pull the same shit this time, huh?” he mutters, shaking his head. His voice carries a layer of irritation, but there’s something else beneath it, something softer, something you’re too tired to untangle.

“I really can’t afford to be benched tomorrow at Quidditch,” you say, your voice almost pleading as you push yourself upright. Your legs swing over the edge of the stretcher, and you fix him with a look—eyebrows knitted, lips pressed into a determined line. Tilting your head slightly, you let out a weary sigh. “Please, just let me go. I promise I’ll sleep after the match tomorrow.”

Toji takes a step closer, his arms crossing in front of him as he raises an unimpressed brow. “Absolutely not. Trust me, the puppy-dog eyes? They don’t work on me. Too many have tried, and every single one of ‘em failed.”

You roll your eyes, exasperation flickering through the fatigue that weighs you down like a heavy cloak. “Ah, yes,” you say dryly, “I forget. Your list of never-ending girlfriends never stops growing, does it?”

He smirks, a lazy, lopsided thing, and shrugs. “Gotta earn my keep somehow, right?”

“By ‘earn,’ you mean leech off people who actually like you?” you counter, the faintest spark of mischief finding its way into your smirk. It feels oddly warm, this exchange—like a fleeting ember in the cold fog of exhaustion that clouds your head.

Before he can retort, Madam Pomfrey strides back into view, clutching a small vial of Sleeping Draught. She stops in front of you, her expression a familiar mix of exasperation and maternal sternness, and uncorks the vial with a sharp twist. Toji steps back, leaning against the wall with his arms still crossed, his dark eyes watching with an amused tilt as she turns her focus to you.

“You will drink this,” Pomfrey says, her voice clipped and no-nonsense. “And you will drink it now, [L/N]. I do not want a repeat of last year when you fainted during Transfiguration. Open your mouth.”

“Can I just take it with me to the dorms?” you ask, a too-bright grin spreading across your face. It’s feigned, of course, but you try to sell it anyway, knowing full well it’s a futile effort. “I mean, I might be occupying a bed that someone else actually needs, someone truly in need of it—”

“Open your mouth,” she interrupts sharply, her glare unwavering. “Or I’ll have Fushiguro over there hold your jaw open for me.”

Toji snickers softly, the sound low and grating, and you shoot him a withering look before turning back to the matron. Your grin melts into a resigned frown as you let out a long sigh. “Fine. But how long will I be out?”

“That depends,” she says, her tone sharp as a scalpel. “How long have you stayed awake?”

You hesitate, glancing down at your hands as if the answer is written in the creases of your palms. “F-five days,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper. “I think.”

Pomfrey exhales sharply through her nose, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’ll drop dead before you even apply to St. Mungo’s if this is how you intend to spend your time here,” she says, rolling her eyes as she tips the vial to your lips. The liquid is bitter, and slightly tingly as it slides down your throat, and she doesn’t stop until the vial is completely empty.

“Count to ten,” she instructs, already moving to tidy her tray of potions. “You’ll be out before you get to six. You’ll wake up in the morning before the match—or if you don’t, I’ll make sure you do. Now lay down and sleep.”

The mattress beneath you feels impossibly soft, like it’s absorbing all the tension you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your eyes flutter shut almost involuntarily, the exhaustion pulling you under like a wave, and you hear Toji’s low chuckle somewhere in the distance. By the time you reach four, the world around you has already dissolved into quiet darkness.

You don’t know why, but your sleep is restless, plagued by whispers that seem to coil in the corners of your mind. They slide through the darkness like snakes, hushed and slithering, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t make out who they belong to. Only the words—if they can even be called words—linger, hissing and sharp, brushing your ears as if they’re alive.

The darkness is suffocating, so complete it feels like you’ve dissolved into it, lost all shape or form. You can’t see, but you hear them—those voices, too close and yet distant enough to elude you. A strange chill prickles down the back of your neck, and though you can’t feel your own limbs, the sensation of being watched settles into the base of your spine like a weight.

And then it changes. It twists. The hissing grows louder, more distinct, more serpentine. Parseltongue.

Your eyes widen instinctively in the black void, though they don’t open. The sound burrows into you, unwelcome, curling around your ears like the coils of a viper. You don’t understand the words—just the feeling they bring, cold and sharp as steel. You try to move, to shout, to demand to know who or what is there. But you can’t. You are utterly frozen, utterly powerless.

The whispers grow closer, pressing in like invisible hands, and for a moment, you’re sure you feel something brush against your skin. And just as you think you might suffocate under the weight of it all—your eyes snap open.

You sit up sharply in the infirmary bed, your chest heaving as you gulp down breaths. The air feels thinner here, the light too bright, almost blinding. It takes several blinks for your vision to adjust, for the trembling in your hands to ease. The infirmary is quiet, eerily so, and when you glance at the clock on the far wall, it reads seven-thirty.

The world outside is awake, alive. Breakfast is probably in full swing in the Great Hall. You can almost hear the buzz of voices, the clatter of plates and goblets, and the excited chatter about the first Slytherin versus Gryffindor Quidditch match of the season. You should feel excitement, anticipation, something other than this lingering dread sitting heavy in your chest.

But the memory of the dream—or was it more than a dream?—clings to you like cobwebs. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet brushing the cold floor, and push yourself up. There’s a sink on the far side of the room, and you stumble toward it, splashing water onto your face in a desperate attempt to scrub away the lingering unease. The cold jolts your senses, loosening the tightness in your jaw, but it doesn’t wash away the whispers still echoing faintly in your head.

When you return to the bed, you notice something on the bedside table. A neatly wrapped square of chocolate bark and a vial of something pale and glowing. Madam Pomfrey’s unmistakable touch. You know better than to drink the potion without her supervision—she’d have your head for it—but the chocolate feels safe, comforting. You unwrap it carefully, breaking off a corner and nibbling on it. The taste is rich, sweet, melting on your tongue like a balm for your nerves.

You don’t hear the footsteps at first. It’s only when they’re close—so close—that you look up toward the infirmary entrance. Fushiguro Toji.

He steps into view with an expression you can’t quite pin down. For a fleeting moment, you think it’s concern. But then his usual smirk appears, a practiced mask, and he makes his way toward you with the casual confidence he seems to carry everywhere.

“You look better than yesterday afternoon,” he says, his voice low but teasing.

You narrow your eyes at him, more out of habit than any real annoyance. “Something wrong? You looked worried.”

“Worried?” he echoes, as if the word itself is foreign. He waves a hand dismissively, though his gaze lingers on you longer than it should. “Nah. Just figured I’d check on the Gryffindor martyr who thinks five days without sleep is a brilliant idea.”

You grimace at that, your teeth sinking into another corner of chocolate to avoid answering immediately. “I had things to do,” you mutter, avoiding his eyes.

“Right. ‘Things.’ Another one of your little secrets, huh? Like the library thing a few weeks ago?”

“It’s not something I can talk about,” you admit, shrugging. “Not with anyone. Not even Shoko or Utahime.”

His smirk fades into something sharper, his jaw tightening. “You passed out in the corridor,” he says, his voice louder now, firmer.

“I didn’t pass out,” you argue. “I just... lost myself for a moment.”

"That's... the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he scoffs, his voice sharp but softened by the exasperation etched into his features. His words hang in the air, cutting, but there’s something else simmering beneath them—something harder to name. He doesn’t say anything else at first, just sighs heavily, dragging his fingers through his hair as his gaze flickers around the infirmary like he’s searching for some invisible lifeline, some tangible object to anchor himself to.

Then, without warning, he steps forward, fingers curling around the curtain at the edge of your bed, yanking it closed in one smooth motion. The sound is soft but decisive, the scrape of the curtain rings along the metal rod unnervingly final. Suddenly, the world outside this small, sterile cocoon ceases to exist, and the air between you grows heavier, charged with something you don’t entirely understand.

Your breath catches as his actions register, and instinctively, you set the chocolate aside, fumbling as you place it back onto the wrapping paper on the bedside table. Your heart picks up pace—loud, insistent, beating so fiercely in your chest that it feels like the sound of it might echo in the confined space.

And then, Toji moves toward you. And despite all the things you’ve been busying yourself with for three weeks, you feel yourself wanting him closer.

There’s something about the way he walks—slow, deliberate, as if each step is calculated. His eyes are locked onto yours, sharp and assessing, and there’s an intensity in his gaze that makes you feel like he’s sizing you up for a fight. Your breath grows shallow, your fingers curling over the edge of the mattress as if it might steady you somehow. You don’t know why he’s here—not now, not when he should already be heading to the field to warm up. The match starts at ten, and it has to be close to eight by now. He shouldn’t be wasting his time here.

And yet, he is.

When he finally stops, he’s standing between your legs, close enough that the wool of his sweater brushes against your knees. Too close. You tilt your head up automatically, craning your neck to meet his gaze, and your pulse thrums louder in your ears. His presence is overwhelming, suffocating in a way that makes it impossible to think straight.

He’s tall, towering over you in a way that makes you feel small, and the sheer proximity makes your skin buzz with awareness. His breath fans against your forehead, warm and steady, and the thudding in your chest grows louder—so loud that you swear he must be able to hear it, too.

“You’ll be good on the field today, yeah?” he asks, his voice low, rough in a way that sends a strange shiver down your spine.

You blink up at him, your lips parting instinctively as you nod. The movement is small, jerky, as though the words you want to say are lodged somewhere in your throat, refusing to come out. His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t soften, but there’s something about the faint curve of his lips that feels oddly tender, almost mocking.

A ghost of a laugh escapes him, barely audible, as his hand comes up to tilt your chin upward with his thumb. The touch is light but deliberate, his thumb pressing just enough to guide your face to meet his. “Would you like…” he starts, his words slow, deliberate, “let’s say, a small distraction before our game?”

“A distraction?” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

You feel it then—his chest brushing lightly against your chin, the contact subtle but enough to make your skin prickle with heat. He nods, the corners of his lips twitching faintly as though amused by your reaction. “A distraction,” he hums, his tone almost gentle, though there’s something darker lurking beneath it. “Something to take the weight off your mind.”

Your hands move without thought, reaching up to rest against his chest. The wool of his sweater is soft under your palms, warm, grounding in a way you hadn’t expected. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch, and it’s almost unnerving how solid he feels, how real.

He watches you with an intensity that makes your throat tighten, his eyes flickering over your face like he’s trying to memorize every detail. There’s a softness there that catches you off guard, an unspoken question lingering in the air between you.

Your heart thunders in your chest as his other hand moves, his fingers brushing against the curve of your jaw. His touch is light but sure, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns along your cheek. It’s tender in a way that feels almost unbearable, and you find yourself leaning into it without meaning to.

The way he looks at you—like you’re something fragile, something worth handling carefully—makes your breath hitch. It feels too much, too intimate, like he’s reaching into parts of you that you didn’t know existed. And yet, you don’t pull away.

He leans in closer, so close that the space between you is barely a whisper, and his breath ghosts over your skin. Your fingers tighten slightly against his chest, the fabric of his sweater bunching beneath your grip, and you feel the tension in your body coil tighter and tighter.

His voice is quieter now, softer, as he murmurs, “Let me help you.”

And then, slowly, carefully, he closes the gap.

You realize, with a sharp twist of embarrassment, that you’re far more inexperienced than you thought when it comes to kissing. That truth becomes glaringly obvious the moment Fushiguro Toji leans in, his arms bracketing you on either side, trapping you against the infirmary bed. His lips crash against yours with a fervency that’s all-consuming, his movements filled with a raw, unrestrained hunger that makes it hard to think, to breathe, to do anything except feel.

There’s a desperation to the way he kisses you, as though he’s been starved of something essential, and for some reason, you’re the only source of relief. A soft, involuntary sound escapes your lips—a moan, more a surprise to you than to him. Your hands find their way into his hair without thinking, your fingers threading through the dark strands, tugging lightly, experimentally. You feel him smirk against your lips, the hum of approval rumbling low in his chest, and his grip on your face tightens just enough to keep you firmly in place.

The kiss deepens, the press of his mouth becoming surer, more insistent, and you find yourself responding without hesitation, your body acting on instincts you didn’t know you had. There’s something dizzying about the way he makes you feel—like you’re teetering on the edge of the vast and uncharted, and you can’t decide whether you’re terrified or exhilarated.

But then, just as you’re pulling him closer, just as your body is tilting dangerously into his, he pulls away. The absence of his lips leaves you breathless, blinking up at him in dazed confusion as his smirk reappears, infuriatingly self-assured.

“I said, a distraction, [L/N],” he drawls, his voice low and teasing. “You’re getting carried away.”

You stare at him, chest heaving, your lips tingling from the kiss. Heat rises to your face, and you stammer, “I-I... I haven’t done that before. Sorry.”

His expression shifts, softening slightly as he processes your words. His hand still cradles your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a gesture that feels far too intimate. “Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “And how’d you like me being your first?”

Before you can answer, the distant sound of bustling breaks through the charged silence. Footsteps echo down the hallway, voices carrying—Madam Pomfrey’s voice among them. Toji stiffens, clearing his throat as he steps back abruptly. His composure returns in an instant, and he moves to pull the curtain aside, leaving no trace of the moment you just shared.

You feel the loss of his presence acutely, the warmth of him fading as Madam Pomfrey strides into the room, her sharp gaze sweeping over you.

“I trust you took the chocolate?” she asks, her tone brisk but not unkind. Her eyes flick to Toji, her brows lifting slightly. “And Fushiguro, you’re here already, I see.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Toji replies smoothly, his voice steady. “Came from breakfast to remind her about Quidditch warm-up. We’re supposed to leave in twenty minutes to meet at the field by nine.”

Pomfrey hums, nodding in approval as she turns her attention back to you. “Drink the vial before you go,” she instructs, pointing to the small glass container on the bedside table. “It’s a lesser dose of the Invigorating Draught to keep the body pain away. But mind you, you still need more sleep.”

You nod quickly, offering her a sheepish smile. “I’ll make sure to get back to my normal routine from today,” you say earnestly. “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. Really. It won’t happen again.”

She gives you a knowing look, her lips twitching with faint amusement. “We both know you’re lying, [L/N]. But all right. Go on, then. Do well today, yes?”

You hop off the bed, grabbing the vial and uncorking it as you make your way to the door. The draught is bitter but effective, the warmth spreading through your body almost immediately. Toji trails behind you, offering Pomfrey a quick goodbye before the two of you step into the corridor.

The air feels cooler out here, sharper, as you glance at your watch. It’s later than you thought. You pause, turning to Toji. “I should get going,” you say, adjusting the hem of your Quidditch robes. “Utahime’s probably waiting for me in the Common Room.”

“I bet she is,” he replies, his voice laced with amusement. His eyes linger on you for a moment, and you find yourself drawn to the faint scar across his lips before meeting his gaze again.

“Good luck,” you say with a small smile, your tone teasing. “I hope you lose.”

“Of course you do, Gryffindor,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t go fainting again.”

There’s a tug in your chest, a strange reluctance to leave him, but you force yourself to turn away. Hugging yourself lightly, you walk down the corridor, the sound of your footsteps echoing faintly. You don’t look back, though you can feel his gaze on you, and as you round the corner, a small smile creeps onto your lips.

By the time you reach the Gryffindor Common Room, the team is already assembled near the exit. Utahime spots you immediately, her sharp voice cutting through the chatter.

“And where in seven hells have you been?” she demands, her tone half-scolding, half-concerned. “I’ve been missing a Chaser since yesterday, and you didn’t even bother to show up for practice last night!”

“Infirmary,” you say simply, shaking your head lightly as if to tell her you’ll explain later.

Her eyes narrow for a moment before she sighs, exasperated. “Get in line. We’ll talk formations and head to the field. Got it?”

You nod, falling into step beside the other two Chasers. It's when your eyes land on Maki Zenin and Itadori Yuji, as they stand nervously on the other side of the line. You offer them a small smile, which they return, though their focus is already shifting to Utahime’s instructions.

As she outlines the strategy, your mind drifts momentarily, lingering on the weight of the match ahead. Slytherin has improved—everyone knows it. With players like Gojo, Shoko, Geto and Toji being good as they usually are, new players like Inumaki and Mai, the game will be anything but easy.

You sigh, steeling yourself. There will be teasing if you lose, no doubt about it. But you know that, whatever happens, today will leave its mark.

When you reach the field, the morning air is crisp, the sky a dull gray with the promise of clearer weather later in the day. The scent of damp grass lingers in your nose as you make your way toward the locker rooms, the sound of Utahime’s voice rising over the clamor of your teammates. She’s already rallying everyone together, going over strategies, but you barely hear her. You tune it all out, focusing instead on the motions of getting your gear on—shin guards, arm guards, knee guards. You secure your goggles, adjusting the strap until it sits comfortably over your forehead. Your broomstick leans against the bench beside you, ready to be picked up at a moment’s notice.

You’re tightening the straps on your gloves when Utahime approaches, her presence unmistakable even before she speaks. “You okay?” Her voice is quieter now, less commanding, edged with something close to concern. “Why were you in the Infirmary last night?”

Your hands still for the briefest second before you force yourself to continue lacing up your gloves. You glance up at her, hesitant, guilty, and the shift in her expression is immediate. Her eyes harden sharply, knowingly, the same way they always do when she pieces things together before you’ve even said a word. Shoko and Utahime have always been like this—able to read you like an open book, no matter how hard you try to shut them out. It’s been that way since your second year, and you’ve never stood a chance at keeping anything from them.

She crosses her arms over her chest, her nostrils flaring as she whisper-yells, “What is your problem? Before our first game? Really?”

You wince, your shoulders sinking slightly. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, bending down to grab her chest gear from the bench. You hand it to her carefully, the weight of her disappointment thick in the air between you. She snatches it from your hands, her jaw tight, her frustration radiating off of her in waves.

“Don’t apologize to me,” she says sharply. “Just try not to get yourself killed during the match. We already have our work cut out for us as it is.”

You frown, straightening up. “What do you mean?”

She exhales through her nose, adjusting her gear as she casts a glance toward the field. “Toji as Keeper. Gojo as Seeker. Geto and Shoko as Beaters, as usual. But now they’ve got Mai Zenin and Inumaki Toge. It’s practically a pureblood soup, except Suguru.” Her voice drops slightly, her lips pursing. “Shoko’s betting against us. She doesn’t think we’ll be able to win.”

Your stomach twists at that. You follow her gaze, taking in the sight of your teammates—some stretching, others already geared up, adjusting their grips. The weight of the match presses against your ribs, heavy and insistent, but you shake it off.

You reach out, placing a hand on Utahime’s shoulder, grounding both of you. “Hey,” you say, your voice steady, “we’ll be fine. We have you. Their Chasers have nothing on you.” You offer her a small, confident smirk. “You’re better than Fushiguro at what you do.”

Utahime stares at you for a moment before scoffing, but you see it—the slight easing of her shoulders, the flicker of amusement that softens her scowl. And that’s enough.

The game begins in your favor, if only just. The sky is a pale, grey blue, and the wind howls against your ears as you navigate through the rush of players. Itadori hovers high above the field, surveying the chaos beneath him like a hawk circling its prey. He hasn’t moved much—not yet. He’s waiting, watching. Below him, the match unfolds in frantic bursts of movement, the Quaffle trading hands so quickly it’s impossible to keep track for more than a second at a time.

Gryffindor leads by twenty points. It’s not much, but it’s enough to feel like the momentum is yours for now. You push forward, the Quaffle slipping through your fingers into Nanami’s waiting grasp. He flies in tandem with Mei Mei, their movements precise and effortless as they cut through the green and silver defense, closing in on the goalposts. You stay back, slightly behind them, your fingers tightening around your broom handle. You’re the safety net, the last line before a counterattack.

And then you see him.

Toji looms in front of the goalposts, watching the play unfold with infuriating calm, his body tense but unreadable. His grip on his broom is casual, effortless. He isn’t worried—not yet. And then, just as Nanami throws, he moves.

You see the smirk before you see the save.

The Quaffle rebounds off his forearm, spinning wildly into the open air before two blurs of green streak across your vision—Mai Zenin and Inumaki Toge, moving like twin daggers slicing through the sky. The Quaffle is gone in an instant, stolen from your team’s grasp before anyone can react.

And then you realize what’s happening.

Your heart pounds as you scan the field. At first, you think it’s coincidence, but then you see it for what it is: a mirror. Every movement your team makes, they replicate. Slytherin has stopped playing their own game and started playing yours. Every formation you attempt, they counter with eerie precision. A third Chaser lingers behind, watching—an old player, you realize, Kamo Noritoshi, slotted into the team like a missing puzzle piece. He isn’t rushing, isn’t chasing. He’s studying, reading your patterns, your movements. Feeding them back into his team like a conductor leading a symphony.

Nanami glances back at you, waiting for direction. But what do you do when your own strategy is turned against you?

You swallow, gripping your broom tighter. The hesitation lasts for only a second before you shake your head, motioning for Nanami to push forward. It doesn’t matter if they’re mirroring. You just need to break through. He understands immediately, nodding before diving forward, weaving past two defenders. He’s close. So close.

And then your stomach twists.

Across the field, moving like shadows on the edge of your vision, you see Geto and Shoko. Not advancing, not playing. Something worse. They pass a Bludger between them with their bats, calculated, measured, the way an archer tests their aim before loosing an arrow. Their eyes are locked on Nanami, tracking him with frightening precision.

They’re going to hit him.

If they land the shot, Nanami won’t just drop the Quaffle—he’ll drop out of the sky. You don’t think. You move.

Your fingers tighten around your broomstick as you surge forward, urgency sinking its claws into your chest. You barely have time to glance at Maki and Todo Aoi before signaling them to move with you. You need your Beaters with you. You need to get there before it’s too late.

Nanami has no idea what’s coming. And you don’t know if you’ll reach him in time.

"Guys!" Your voice cuts through the wind as you glance back at Maki and Todo, motioning for them to close in. They don’t hesitate. They’re right behind you, the three of you moving in tandem like cogs in a well-oiled machine. You barely notice the way your palms slick against the handle of your broom, the way your heart pounds so violently it drowns out the roar of the stadium. You’re too focused. Too set on the scene unfolding ahead of you.

Nanami is a target. He doesn’t even realize it.

You streak past Inumaki Toge, your breath sharp in your chest. A misstep, a fraction of hesitation, and you might fall off your broom—but that doesn’t matter now. The game isn’t fair, not today. Slytherin isn’t just playing to win. They’re playing to maim.

Your gaze locks on Geto, the way he maneuvers with that same unsettling calm he always carries. Too calculated. Too easy. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

"Maki, slow down!" you yell, jerking your broom lower, making yourself a smaller target. She listens instantly, adjusting her grip, her sharp gaze flicking toward you for the next instruction.

"Dopplebeater Defence," you call, your voice cutting through the wind. "Both of you—hit the Bludger at the same time! Make it collide with theirs!"

You don’t need to explain. Todo has been a Beater long enough to understand, and Maki was impressively experienced, despite being a new player. It’s a risky move, a technique Gojo had shown you in second year—one that required ruthless precision, perfect synchronization. Two Beaters striking a single Bludger at once, doubling the force behind it. Enough to knock another Bludger off-course.

It has to work.

You take a deep breath, lower yourself until you’re nearly horizontal against your broom. The Bludger is hurtling toward you now, whistling through the air like a bullet. If you miscalculate the timing, it’ll knock you straight off your broom. You hear the crack of bats against iron—Maki and Todo, perfectly in sync.

And then—impact.

The Bludger screams through the air, missing you by inches. You feel it graze just over your head, a rush of displaced wind knocking your hair into your face. It streaks across the pitch, colliding mid-air with the one Geto and Shoko had aimed at Nanami. The sound of impact is sharp, brutal, metal on metal, sending both Bludgers spinning wildly into the open air. Nanami’s eyes find yours, wide, startled, grateful. And then, he moves.

Before Toji can even blink, the Quaffle is through the hoop.

A triumphant grin spreads across your face as the stands erupt into cheers. You catch Shoko watching you from across the field, unimpressed, arms crossed. You wink at her. She exhales sharply, shaking her head before retreating back into formation.

Nanami loops around, keeping pace with you as you hover near the midfield, watching the play unfold. He’s still breathing hard, but his expression is calmer now.

"Thanks for that," he says, tilting his broom slightly so he can glance over at you.

"Anytime," you reply, rolling out the tension in your shoulders. Then, lowering your voice, you add, "I’m more worried about the Snitch. I can handle the field."

Nanami hums, scanning the pitch. "I haven’t seen Gojo."

You sigh at the mention of his name. "Don’t worry. He’s lurking around somewhere."

Nanami frowns, dodging a Bludger with an effortless twirl before shooting you a glance. "What do you mean?"

You shake your head. "He won’t let himself be seen until he’s seen the Snitch. He’s done this before, once or twice."

"Then we’re screwed," Nanami mutters, his tone dark, but there’s a glint of something sharp behind his words.

Your brows knit together just as the two of you dart past Mai, weaving through the chaos to steal the Quaffle. You flick a quick signal to Mei Mei, who shifts position to defend as you lead Nanami toward the goalposts.

"Why?" you ask, glancing sideways at him.

Nanami doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his grip tightens around the Quaffle. He exhales sharply through his nose before finally saying, "Because Gojo Satoru is above us."

Your breath catches.

"Fifteen, maybe twenty feet," Nanami continues, voice edged with tension, "but exactly above us."

Your fingers fumble momentarily around the Quaffle before you recover, instinctively passing it off to Nanami. You don’t even process the movement. Your focus is elsewhere. You tilt your head back, searching the sky.

And there they are. Gojo and Itadori. Side by side.

The Snitch—glinting, flitting just ahead of them like a trick of the light. Your breath catches. Holy shit.

"Kento, get Mei Mei here," you call over the roar of the game. "I’m going back. I have to play defense, or get Gojo off Itadori’s tail."

Nanami’s head snaps toward you, his brows knitting together in confusion. "You—what?"

But his broom never wavers. He exhales sharply, glancing at Kamo Noritoshi and Mai Zenin before his grip tightens around the Quaffle. You already know what he’s about to do. A clean, brutal check—one he’s perfected over the years. And sure enough, just as two Slytherin Chasers align for a pass, he cuts between them, intercepting the play with ruthless efficiency so they can’t steal the Quaffle.

You don’t wait to see the outcome. You tilt your broom upward, signaling to Mei Mei, who swoops in seamlessly to take your spot. And then you’re climbing—higher, higher, higher—pushing your broom for all it’s worth.

The wind cuts against your face as you rise above the rest of the players, the field shrinking below you. You barely think, barely breathe. Your focus is locked ahead. On Gojo. On Itadori. On the sliver of gold flitting just beyond them.

Gojo is gaining on him.

Your broom is old, sluggish compared to Gojo’s Firebolt, but you push it harder, forcing every last ounce of speed from the worn handle. Your arms burn, your fingers aching from the grip you refuse to loosen. You won’t let him win. Not today.

You’re closing the distance now—just a few feet between you and him, the faint scent of broom varnish and wind catching in your nose. He doesn’t see you coming.

And then, he looks back. Gojo Satoru looks behind him. It knocks the breath from your lungs.

Because in all the years Gojo has played, through every brutal match, every near-impossible maneuver, he has never once looked back. He is always the fastest. Always ahead. Always calculating three—no, ten—moves in advance, too confident, too untouchable to ever check behind him.

But today, he does. At you.

"What in Salazar’s name are you doing?" he shouts, his voice almost incredulous. You want to roll your eyes, maybe even laugh, but you don’t. Because that’s when you see it—Itadori.

His body lifting, shifting, hoisting itself up. Your heart stops as you realize what he’s about to do. He’s standing. Itadori Yuji is standing on his broom.

A gasp rips through your throat as you force yourself forward, pushing until your fingers graze the fabric of Gojo’s robe. You have him. You could pull him back, could send him reeling, could foul him if you wanted to—but you don’t.

Because in the next breath, Itadori dives. His broom plummets beneath him, and for a single, terrifying moment, he’s free-falling. You hear a collective gasp from the stands, a sharp intake of breath from Gojo himself. But Itadori doesn’t panic. His fingers latch onto the handle at the last possible second, his body swinging with the momentum of his own reckless descent.

And in his hand, the Snitch. Golden, fluttering wildly, wings beating against his grip.

The stadium erupts.

Your brain stutters, your vision blurs, and you can’t quite grasp the moment as it happens—because Gojo is yelping in disbelief, because your own breath is caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse, because Gryffindor just won the match.

And just as you’re about to pull away, just as the weight of the moment settles, you realize something else.

Gojo let you catch him. On purpose. He let you win. On purpose.

The silence of the locker room is thick, settling over you like a second skin. After promising Utahime you’d lock up, you let yourself sink onto the bench, exhaling, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes. The exhaustion isn’t just physical; it’s marrow-deep, a slow ache that radiates through every part of you. Your shoulders throb, your fingers cramp from gripping the broom too hard for too long, your shins sting beneath the tight guards still strapped to your legs. You should take them off. You should get up, peel the sweat-damp gear from your skin, but your body refuses to move, leaden and sore.

Then, a knock. Then another.

You blink, lifting your head, gaze hazy, breath slow. A shadow lingers just beyond the door, broad-shouldered, heavy in its stance.

"Hello?" your voice comes out rough, hoarse. No answer at first. Then, the door creaks open, and you recognize him before he steps inside.

Toji.

You sigh, setting your goggles down on the bench beside you. “You can come in, you know,” you say, voice still heavy with fatigue. “I’m decent.”

He chuckles, low, throaty, the sound flowing around the dimly lit room. And then you see him—hair mussed with sweat, a smirk tugging at the scar on his lip, his eyes sweeping over you in that slow, assessing way of his.

"No enchantments?" he muses, stepping in. He leans against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest. "How’s a Slytherin like me walking in here without getting hexed?"

"I took them off," you mutter. "Sometimes Shoko comes in after games. Didn’t want her getting cursed by accident."

He nods, thoughtful, then grins. "Guess you got lucky. It’s me."

"Guess so."

Your voice is even, but there’s something in the air now, something heavy and pressing, shifting the room into something smaller, more intimate. He moves, pushes off the lockers, steps closer. Close enough that the space between you barely exists. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him, the scent of sweat and something sharper, something dark.

“What, you didn’t wanna see me?” he says, voice playful, but his eyes flicker with something else, something more knowing.

You shake your head, letting out a tired chuckle as you lift one leg, fingers moving to unbuckle the straps of your shin guard. He doesn’t move away. He watches. And then, his hand closes around your calf. You freeze.

Your breath stutters. His grip is firm, warm, but not rough. He lifts your leg with ease, braces your foot right against his chest. Beneath your sole, the fabric of his shirt is warm, damp, the muscle beneath solid and unmoving.

A slow, quiet inhale. His thumb skims over the edge of the shin guard, almost absentmindedly, then he tugs at the straps, unfastening them with a precision that makes something coil hot and restless in your stomach.

A sharp gasp escapes you. Toji smirks.

“Never been touched there, have you?” his voice is low, a murmur meant only for you, but there’s something teasing in it, something that makes heat prick at the back of your neck.

"Shut up," you mutter, trying for irritation, but it comes out weaker than you want. Your fingers curl at your sides, gripping the edge of the bench. "You already know I haven’t."

He hums, amused, like he enjoys hearing you admit it.

"Just teasing, princess," he murmurs, softer now, almost gentle.

Princess. The word rolls off his tongue, something smug about it, something easy. Your pulse flutters against your throat. You hate how easily he affects you, how effortlessly he reads every twitch, every breath, every shift in your posture.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he presses your foot more firmly against his chest. Your breath catches. The heat of him seeps through the worn cotton of his shirt, his ribs expanding beneath your heel with every slow inhale. His fingers work at the last strap, pulling it free, peeling the shin guard away from your leg. The air feels sharp against your bare skin, exposed in a way that feels ridiculous, but Toji doesn’t look away. He watches you. Watches the way you tense, the way your breath shudders, the way your fingers tighten against the bench.

He knows. And worse, he enjoys it.

“Toji—”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, something uncertain curling at the edges of the syllables. He exhales, slow and measured, before releasing your leg. It drops to the floor with a dull thud, the absence of his touch leaving behind an invisible imprint, like a lingering heat in the air. You barely have a second to regain your balance before his hand is at your chin, fingers curling with a gentle but insistent pressure, tilting your face up toward his.

You go still.

His palm is warm, the pad of his thumb dragging lightly along your jaw, grazing over the rapid flutter of your pulse. He watches you with an expression you can’t quite name, something teetering between amusement and something deeper, something weightier.

“We can’t,” you murmur, wide-eyed. “Someone could walk in at any time—”

He scoffs, the sound low and unimpressed, tilting his head as he considers you. “Have you always been such a goody-two-shoes?”

You swallow hard, nodding before you can stop yourself, and Toji has the audacity to smirk, slow and knowing, like he’s already anticipated your reaction before you’ve even processed it yourself.

“You always answer questions honestly?” he asks, voice nothing more than a murmur.

“No,” you admit, quiet. “Only when I want to.”

His smirk deepens. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath stutters, your skin prickling under the slow, deliberate way he traces the slope of your jaw with his thumb. It’s not rough—not exactly. It’s careful and intentional, a touch that holds its own kind of weight.

You shift, fingers twitching at your sides. “Toji,” you try again, barely recognizing the way your own voice wavers. “What if someone comes in?”

“No one’s here,” he says, quiet, certain. “I checked. Both teams are back in their common rooms, every other student’s at the castle by now. There’s a few idiots still outside, loitering, but no one near here.” He tilts your chin just a little higher, like he’s forcing you to take in the certainty in his expression. “Trust me, princess.”

You exhale.

“Oh,” is all you manage.

Slowly, you push yourself to stand, your muscles still sore from the match, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. But even standing, you’re still nowhere near his height. The top of your head barely reaches his collarbone. He’s looking down at you with something unreadable in his gaze, something patient but expectant, like he’s waiting for you to come to some kind of inevitable conclusion.

You blink at him, slow and heavy-lidded. “‘M exhausted, you know,” you say finally.

His lips curl. “Want me to do all the work, don’t you? Brat.”

There’s a low amusement in his voice, a knowing edge to it, and you barely manage to hold back your grin as you let your hands rest lightly against his chest as you ask, “Would that be so bad?”

"I'm starting to think not," he murmurs, voice rough with something low and amused, something that simmers just beneath the surface. Then he’s leaning down, closing the distance between you, his lips pressing against yours with an ease that makes your stomach drop. The kiss is slow at first, exploratory, before you sigh into it, parting your lips just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation immediately, tongue sweeping against yours, tasting, teasing.

He laughs into your mouth, a low, satisfied sound, smiling even as he deepens the kiss. His grip tightens at your waist, pulling you flush against him, as if he’s intent on anchoring you there, on making sure you feel every inch of him, every shift of his muscles, every deliberate press of his fingers.

"I enjoyed losing to you," he breathes, mouth brushing against the corner of your lips.

You hum, tilting your head to press a kiss to his jaw. You have to rise onto your toes just to reach it, stretching up, but the effort is worth it when you feel the way he reacts—his breath stuttering, his hands gripping you even tighter. The kiss is messy, warm, damp from sweat, but you don’t care. You like it this way. You like having the burden off of your shoulders.

"I enjoyed winning," you whisper against his skin, grinning as he grunts, pulling you closer.

"I'm starting to think you enjoyed it a little too much," he mutters, voice low, teasing.

"I did," you admit, giggling, before trailing your lips down the column of his throat, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there. His skin tastes like salt and heat and something distinctly him. You let your teeth graze lightly, sucking just enough to feel him tense beneath you. He makes a quiet sound, something between a wince and a hum of approval.

“And you said you weren’t experienced,” he rasps.

"I read," you murmur, lips brushing over the dip of his collarbone. "It’s the only experience I’ve got. Muggle romance books are quite... vivid, you know."

He exhales a laugh, low and gravelly. "Oh, are they?"

You nod, fingers tracing absentminded circles at the nape of his neck.

"They teach you how to kiss a man's neck in those books?" His voice is all amusement, all dark-edged curiosity. "Might have to get my hands on one of ‘em."

"I bet you'd put it to good use," you tease, looking up at him, tired but still wanting, still pressing as close to him as you possibly can.

His hands slide up, firm and deliberate, as he leans down, his nose brushing against your throat before his lips follow. His kisses are open, hot, unhurried. The first press of his tongue against your skin makes you gasp, legs suddenly unsteady beneath you. You grip the back of his neck instinctively, fingers threading through his damp hair.

"Oh, fuck," you breathe, eyes wide.

He smirks against your skin, dragging his teeth over the spot he’s just kissed. You shudder in his arms, a quiet moan slipping out before you can stop it.

"Didn't know it felt that good, huh?" he murmurs, still working his way along your neck, sucking, biting just enough to make you tremble.

You shake your head, fingers curling against him. “M-more,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper.

Toji stills for a second, then pulls back, studying you with something unreadable in his expression—half amused, half something else entirely.

"You keep saying things like that," he says, voice rough, "and I might start to lose control."

You blink up at him, dazed, breath uneven. "O-oh. We should stop before that happens, then."

He huffs a quiet laugh, running his thumb over the side of your throat, tracing the places where his mouth had just been. "Yeah," he agrees, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. "Probably should."

You’re halfway up the stairs to your dorm when Utahime calls out behind you, "[L/N], are you coming to the party tonight?"

You pause, one foot on the next step, and glance back at her, brows furrowed. "What party?"

She gives you an incredulous look, as if the answer should be obvious. "To celebrate our win against Slytherin, of course," she says, shrugging. "Or, you might want to sleep, actually."

You shake your head, suppressing a yawn. "I’ll come for half an hour. Not more than that, though. I’m exhausted."

Utahime hums knowingly. "Alright. But beware, some of the students might be sneaking in Firewhiskey," she says, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. "I’m so happy today, I might just drink some."

"You’re of legal age," you deadpan, rolling your eyes. "You’re allowed to drink. Just make sure Kento or someone responsible keeps an eye on the younger ones. Last thing we need is a bunch of first-years drunk on our watch."

She snickers, nodding. "Right. Oh, by the way, no trouble locking up the locker rooms? You were in there for a while. I was going to check in case you fell asleep, but then you came back."

Your breath hitches—just for a second. The memory flashes through your mind unbidden. The press of Toji’s hands against your waist, his lips dragging over your neck, the weight of his body caging you against the lockers. A shiver runs down your spine. You clear your throat hastily.

"Oh, yeah," you mumble, patting your pockets. "Here, sorry." You pull out the keys and hand them over.

Utahime takes them, bumping her shoulder lightly against yours. "No problem, dummy," she says. "I trust you with it."

You blink at her, forcing a casual smile even as the phantom sensation of Toji’s breath against your skin lingers. Your voice comes out a little too high when you say, "I’m going to freshen up."

She doesn’t seem to notice, waving you off as she heads in the opposite direction. You exhale, shaking off the thoughts, and ascend the rest of the stairs.

The dorm is mostly empty when you step inside. Mei Mei lounges on her bed, a book held lazily in her hands, flipping a page without looking up. The other beds remain untouched, their occupants likely already at the party.

"Hey," you mumble, dragging yourself toward your desk. Your owl hoots softly as you run your fingers over its feathers, offering a half-hearted scratch behind its ear before collapsing onto your bed with a heavy sigh. For a moment, silence settles over the room. Then, a knock. Light, but deliberate, against the windowpane.

You groan, rolling onto your side to squint at the glass. Outside, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, a snowy owl perches on the ledge, its brilliant white feathers speckled with black and grey. Even before you open the window, you know exactly whose bird it is.

Hedwig. Satoru’s owl.

Scrambling up, you unlatch the window, letting her swoop gracefully inside. She lands on your desk, tilting her head as if scrutinizing you before dropping a neatly folded piece of parchment onto your lap.

"Thank you," you murmur, rubbing a gentle hand down her feathers. She preens under your touch, blinking slowly. Your owl simply watches her as she does.

Reaching for the box of owl treats, you grab a few and offer them to her. She takes them eagerly, nibbling at them as you unfold the note. The handwriting is unmistakable—looping and careless, yet undeniably elegant.

Meet me at the Room.G.S.

You sigh, rubbing a hand down your face, and glance at the snowy owl still perched beside you. Her pale feathers gleam like stardust against the dim candlelight.

"He works us both too hard, doesn’t he?" you mutter, scratching lightly under her chin. "Quite a twat, Gojo is."

You flip the parchment over with quick fingers, already reaching for your quill, the ink bleeding into the fibers of the page as you scrawl a simple reply—on my way, your initials curling sharply at the end. The response is short, dismissive, but Gojo will understand. He always does.

Hedwig tilts her head, watching you with intelligent amber eyes as you fold the note back into her talons. You run a hand over her smooth feathers, a quiet smile ghosting over your lips. “Take this to him, yeah?” The owl blinks once, as if unimpressed by the errand, before spreading her wings and taking off into the night.

Your gaze drifts to your own owl, Aether, perched regally near your desk, his feathers a luminous blend of rich browns and burnished golds. He reminds you of the morning sun, with how warm and gentle he is.

“Mei, I’m heading out,” you call, stepping toward the dormitory exit. Mei Mei doesn’t glance up from her book, only flicks a wrist in acknowledgment, and you take that as permission enough.

The castle corridors are dim and hushed, the distant drip of unseen water echoing through the stone walls as you descend into the dungeons. Shadows stretch long across the damp floor, torchlights flickering weakly against the cold stone. It’s quiet—too quiet—but you know these halls well. You navigate them with the ease of someone who has long since memorized every crease on the stone floors, every whispering draft of wind.

By the time you reach the Room, your shoulders ache, exhaustion creeping into your bones. You sink into the sofa the second the door closes behind you, melting into the cushions with a relieved sigh. The air is warm here, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, its glow casting golden halos against the old wooden walls.

Your body is still, your eyes fluttering closed, when the fireplace erupts in a violent burst of green flames. You groan.

“Wow,” Gojo drawls as he steps through the Floo, dusting off his robes with an exaggerated flourish. "Look how happy you are to see me."

He’s already moving toward the long table at the back of the room, parchment and ink scattered across its surface in half-organized chaos. You push yourself up with sluggish movements, trudging after him, your limbs heavy with fatigue.

"The list is narrowed now," he says, tapping a finger against the board in front of him. "We check their ancestry next. Whoever’s closest to Salazar Slytherin is our culprit."

You barely hear him. Your mind is elsewhere, still lingering on the Quidditch match, on the way he had turned back—looked at you—let you win.

"Gojo," you say, voice tight, "we need to talk about what happened on the field today."

He doesn’t turn around. "This too, obviously," you continue, gesturing vaguely at the board, "but you let us win. That’s not fair—"

"Can you just shut up and focus?" His voice is unusually sharp, his head bowing slightly as he rubs his temples. "Let’s just finish this. Our usual work, this investigation—whatever you want to call it. Then I’m getting food and going to bed. Please."

You stare at him, stunned for a moment by the uncharacteristic irritation.

"What?" Your voice raises slightly. "No. You let me win. You gave up the Snitch to Itadori. You looked back. At me. And you never look back, because, in your words, you’re the greatest Seeker of our generation at Hogwarts."

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, finally facing you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something guarded about the way his jaw locks. "Well, I lost, didn’t I?" He tilts his head, eyes impossibly blue beneath the dim light. "You won, so just be happy with it, will you?"

"No," you step closer, refusing to drop it. "Tell me why you looked back."

"Fucking hell," he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just did, okay? Now, why are you—" He stops abruptly, his entire posture shifting. His eyes narrow, sharp and focused, his lips parting slightly as if he’s just noticed something out of place.

"What’s that?"

His tone is different now. Not lighthearted, not teasing. Something else entirely.

You blink. "What’s what?"

His gaze flicks to your collar, his expression twisting into something unreadable. Slowly, his hand raises, finger pointing toward your neck. His brows draw together, knotted like a ship’s rope, a thread of unease laced into his voice.

You don’t understand at first. But then—oh.

Your breath stutters in your throat as realization dawns. The dull ache along your skin, the faint, lingering tenderness when his eyes bore into it. Hesitantly, your fingers reach up, pressing lightly against the spot. And, fuck.

It’s sore. A faint, blossoming bruise. Toji. Your stomach tightens.

"It’s nothing," you say, too quickly, dropping your hand like you’ve been burned.

But Gojo isn’t buying it. His gaze sharpens, scanning your expression, your hesitation, the way your shoulders have gone rigid. "What have you been doing?"

"What do you mean, ‘what have I been doing’?" You force a laugh, too light, too unnatural. "Why are we—"

"I should really be asking who you’ve been shagging," he cuts in, his voice lower now, his jaw tight. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something edged, almost mocking, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Your stomach flips, panic flaring at the edges of your mind. "Who I sleep or don't sleep with is none of your business," you snap. "Can we just get back to work?"

"So you only want to work when it’s convenient for you. Got it," he mutters, voice low, almost an afterthought, but laced with something sharp, something needling.

It’s infuriating, how easily he gets under your skin. Your hands clench at your sides, your jaw tightening as you walk past him, moving toward the board. "I did my part. You do yours. Check everyone's ancestry."

Gojo exhales, slow, measured, but you can hear the irritation in it, the way it sizzles between you like static. "It won’t take me as long as it took you to do yours," he says, and there is venom in it now, an unmistakable edge, something raw and unpolished in the way the words scrape against his teeth. "Three weeks is too fucking long to narrow down a list, especially when you know someone’s practicing dark magic right under our noses."

His voice is a weapon, cutting deep, slicing through flesh and bone, right into the most fragile, buried parts of you. Your fingers twitch at your sides, a heat rising up your spine, slow and simmering. His words actually contained malice now, and that made you seethe more than ever.

"I’m sorry, what exactly is your problem?" you turn to look at him, voice measured, though you can feel the sharpness curling at the edges of your words, barbed and coiled, ready to strike.

Gojo exhales again, longer this time, running a hand through his hair like he’s barely holding himself together. "You tell me," he bites out.

"I was in the Infirmary since yesterday, not that you care," you snap, crossing your arms over your chest. "But if I wasn’t, I would’ve gotten it to you sooner. Believe it or not, I have other responsibilities."

The room stills.

For a second, a single breath of time, his expression falters. His mouth parts slightly, and it’s as if the words have lodged themselves in his throat, unable to move past the disbelief settling over his features. He’s trying to say something, but nothing comes out, and then—

"You were in the Infirmary?"

The words are different now. They lack their usual sharpness, their casual cruelty.

"Yes," you say, rolling your eyes, refusing to acknowledge the slight shift in his expression. You turn back toward the board, hands moving with the precision of someone determined not to be affected as you point to a piece of parchment. "Most purebloods are in Slytherin and Gryffindor. We've only got around six or seven in Ravenclaw—"

"Fawkes."

His voice is lower this time. Steady, but heavy.

You don’t turn around.

"Just stop, for a second," he says, and there’s something unfamiliar about the way he says it, something unsettled in the spaces between his words. "What do you mean you were in the Infirmary? You seemed fine at the game—"

"Does it matter?" you cut in, finally looking at him, eyes sharp. "We’re working now, aren’t we? I’m not hindering your progress on this very serious matter."

Gojo’s nostrils flare slightly. "You were in the Infirmary and you didn’t tell me," he says, like he’s trying to understand it, like he’s trying to piece something together that doesn’t make sense in his head. "Obviously, that’s a problem. Of course it matters."

"Why?" you challenge, tilting your head.

His jaw tightens. "Don't tell me you've been skipping sleep and dosing yourself with Invigoration Draughts again."

You hesitate. Just for a moment. A flicker of guilt crossing your face before you school it away, pressing your lips together. "It doesn’t concern you," you say instead, carefully, deliberately. "You’re the one who gave me more shit to do, anyway."

Gojo exhales sharply, his hands flying up in exasperation. "I would’ve helped if you just asked!" he says, voice rising, incredulous. "All you had to do was ask for help! But no, you want to be the greatest, the most competent—"

"Oh, excuse me for wanting to be more like you!"

Your voice cracks, breaks open with something raw and burning, something pulled straight from the depths of your chest.

"Not all of us," you continue, breath hitching, "can afford to sleep in class and still pass every subject effortlessly. Not all of us can juggle being in every damn club, playing Quidditch, and somehow still come out on top without breaking a sweat!"

Gojo doesn’t say anything. Not immediately. His face is unreadable, but his hands have curled into fists at his sides, shoulders squared like he’s holding something back. Something unreadable flickers across his expression.

And for the first time tonight, you think you might have finally caught him off guard.

You leave the Room of Requirement not long after, shoulders stiff, pulse an uneven thing against your ribs. Gojo doesn’t stop you, doesn’t call after you, doesn’t do anything except turn back to the board and continue working, as if the argument hadn’t happened at all. As if you hadn’t just torn into each other like wolves snapping at the same scrap of meat.

Fine. Let him do what he wants.

You tell him, stiffly, that you’ll handle the usual Marauders’ business while he works on the genealogy of the people on the list. You don’t wait for his response before slipping out the door.

By the time you reach the Gryffindor common room, you can already hear the noise—laughter spilling through the corridors, the faint hum music. You hesitate for only a second before stepping inside, and immediately, you’re assaulted by the sight of it.

The room is alive with celebration, every corner threaded with streamers and floating ribbons. A long table in the back groans under the weight of drinks and plates stacked with food, the rich scent of butterbeer and treacle tart hanging thick in the air. Someone bursts into laughter near the fireplace, and you catch a glimpse of a pair of students dancing precariously on one of the sofas.

Your gaze drifts toward the drinks table just in time to see a sixth-year spike the punch. You roll your eyes but say nothing. You’re not in the mood to play prefect tonight. Then—

A hand grabs your arm, warm fingers curling around your wrist. You flinch, instincts sharp, but when you look up, it’s only Shoko. Her dark eyes are alight with amusement, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Hey," she says, voice bright over the hum of the party, "Congrats on the win today. I certainly didn’t expect you to see through Geto and my tactics."

Standing just behind her, Geto Suguru lifts his drink, nodding at you in quiet acknowledgment. His lips barely curve, but there’s something teasing in the way he holds himself, something easy.

You smirk. "I can read through you like a book, you know."

Shoko scoffs, looping her arm through yours. "Yeah, yeah," she says, before her eyes flick over you, sharp and assessing. "You also look better than yesterday. I’m guessing you finally went to the Infirmary?"

"I did," you groan, rolling your head back slightly. "She made me sleep all afternoon. And then through the night as well. Only woke up this morning before the game."

"And yet," Shoko says, tilting her head slightly, voice lilting, "you already went and snogged someone."

Your stomach drops. For the hundredth time today.

"What?"

Her grin widens as she gestures vaguely toward your collar.

"Your neck is visible to everyone," Geto murmurs, voice smooth, almost lazy, as he sips his drink. "You might want to wear something that hides that very obvious bruise. Or at least, heal it. It’s about to turn purple."

And then, slowly, carefully, you bring a hand up to your throat. Again.

The skin is sore when you press against it. Warm. Tender. A telltale sting left behind by lips and teeth and hands that had pressed too insistently against your skin.

You exhale sharply, looking down at your hands, then back at them. "I should probably head in and heal this, huh?"

Shoko blows a loud raspberry, waving a dismissive hand. "Absolutely not. I say, you flaunt it. Look over there—two fifth-years snogging like they’ve just received their last rites. And there—our oh-so responsible seniors, already one button away from indecent exposure."

Your eyes follow where she’s pointing. Across the room, a pair of younger students are tangled together on a loveseat, oblivious to the world, and just beyond them, a group of seventh-years are laughing too loudly, half-drunk and clearly daring each other into something that will, inevitably, lead to detention by morning.

You share a pointed look with Geto, who only raises an eyebrow in that slow, unbothered way of his before you turn back to Shoko. "Yeah, well, I don’t exactly want my entire life on display like these people—"

"Oh, live a little," she interrupts, rolling her eyes as she grabs your wrist and tugs you forward, already leading you toward the drinks table. "Suguru, I’m getting this one a drink. Stay here in case Satoru shows up!"

"Shoko, no—"

"Stop protesting," she huffs, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "Your team won because of you. Those idiots wouldn’t have been able to do a thing if you hadn’t saved Nanami or chased after Gojo. So, come on, let loose for once."

You pout. "I told ‘Hime I’d go to sleep. If she sees me around, she might feel bad."

Shoko waves you off as if that’s hardly a concern. "I got it, don’t worry. I’ll cover for you." She pauses only long enough to grab a cup from the table, dipping it into the bowl of spiked punch before pressing it into your hands. "Here. Drink this."

You hesitate, staring down at the liquid, pink and unassuming, but when you glance up, Shoko is watching you expectantly, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

With a begrudging sigh, you lift the glass to your lips and take a sip.

The sweetness hits first—fruit, sugar, something deceptively light—but then comes the burn, slow at first, then sharper, threading fire down your throat. You wince slightly, swallowing against the heat. It’s not unbearable, but it lingers, warm and curling in your stomach.

Shoko grins, smug. "Not that bad, right?" She wiggles her eyebrows at you. "Told you so."

"Now tell me," Shoko says, tugging you back toward where Geto stands, her grip firm, her tone lilting with amusement. "Who have you been snogging?"

You shake your head, quick and dismissive. "It’s nothing."

But Shoko looks at you in that way she does, like she sees right through the layers you’ve tried to tuck yourself beneath, and suddenly, you feel bare. Exposed. A flicker of something unreadable flashes in her eyes before a slow, knowing smirk curls onto her lips.

Suguru, beside her, exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. "This is fun to watch."

You pout, trying to glare at him, but it lacks any real weight, and Shoko merely doubles down. "Oh, come on. I told you about my first kiss being with Suguru, and how we both immediately regretted it because it felt like kissing my own brother. You don’t get to keep secrets from me." She leans in slightly, brows raised in expectation. "So, spill. Who was it?"

"This feels an awful lot like an interrogation," Geto mutters, taking a slow sip of his drink. "And manipulation. Also, what? You told her about that?"

"Obviously," Shoko deadpans, as if there could be no alternative, before turning back to you. "Now, [Y/N], I might as well know."

You swallow, shoulders curling in on themselves as if you can make yourself smaller, as if you can disappear beneath their scrutiny. The common room is too warm, the dim glow of floating candles too intimate, the chatter and music too distant for this moment to feel like just another conversation.

But at least it’s only them. No Gojo. No Utahime. No Nanami. No one else who could make this more of a spectacle than it already is. No one to guess that it had been Toji, that you had let him press you against the cold lockers, that his lips had been warm and rough against your skin, that you had wanted it.

You inhale, steadying yourself. Then, cautiously, you begin, "It was in the locker room. I’d removed the enchantments because I thought you were coming by, but—"

"I did not think we’d be getting details. Way to get a man invested," Suguru cuts in, grinning as he leans against the armrest of a nearby chair.

You shoot him a glare, then turn back to Shoko, whose smile is growing by the second, bright with amusement, with intrigue, with that deep, insatiable curiosity of hers.

"It’s…" You hesitate for half a second before finally letting the name fall, quiet, barely above the clatter of distant conversation. "Fushiguro."

Silence.

Shoko blinks. Once, twice. "I’m sorry—who?"

"I think you heard her well enough," Suguru supplies, his tone thoroughly unimpressed as he swirls his drink, watching you with mild interest. "But why him? Gross, he’s a leech."

You roll your eyes. "He’s nice enough to me." The words sound weak even as you say them, trailing off under their combined scrutiny. But you press forward, feeling the weight of their anticipation. "And we kissed in the Infirmary when I was there. Before the game."

"Oh my God," Shoko says, blinking rapidly, as if her brain is short-circuiting, her fingers pressing into her temples like she’s physically trying to process the information. "This is horrendous. How dare you not tell me the second it was happening?"

Suguru exhales an amused laugh, slow and easy, his head tipping back against the armrest of the chair. "Oh, look," he says, in the most nonchalant voice imaginable. "Satoru’s here."

Your heart drops so fast it feels like a free fall. The blood drains from your face, and for a horrible, disorienting second, you think you might actually be sick. You spin around so quickly your neck twinges, looking toward the entrance of the common room, eyes already scanning—

Suguru snorts.

You whip back to face him. "I ought to punch you. Why would you do that to me?"

"You’re too tired for a fight," he giggles, eyes half-lidded, thoroughly pleased with himself.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. "I really am." The exhaustion in your bones has settled in deep, an ache at the base of your skull, a dull weight pressing down on your limbs. "I think I’ll head in now."

"Alright," Shoko says, but she’s still shaking her head, still reeling from the revelation. "I’m still trying to recover from the shock you just gave me."

"Oh, pipe down," you roll your eyes, stepping back, reaching for some semblance of normalcy as you point to Geto. "You kissed him."

Suguru groans like he’s in physical pain, immediately shrinking into himself, his face twisting with mortification.

You wince, murmuring a quick apology before waving them both off, and then you’re climbing the winding stairs to your dorm, the noise of the common room fading behind you. The further you get, the quieter it becomes, the muffled chatter dissolving into nothing but the sound of your own footsteps, your own breath.

And yet, something twists inside you, something restless.

Because why had the mention of Gojo’s name sent a bolt of fear through you? Why had it made you sweat, made you press your palms against the fabric of your shirt just to ground yourself? Why had it stuck with you, clung to the back of your mind, even now, even after the conversation had ended?

And why—why is it that all along, all you can think about is the way Gojo looked at you earlier that night?

The way his face had twisted. The way his voice had shifted.

The way he had seen the mark on your skin and had immediately known, even before you had, that it was going to change something between the two of you. Perhaps forever.

275 notes · View notes

sceletaflores · 7 months ago

Text

working it out (on the remix)

pairing: art donaldson x patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: you sit in the angry silence, gears slowly turning in your head as you look between your boys. you should have known that this wasn't going to work, clearly just talking isn’t going to get the three of you anywhere.

—or: three tennis players walk into a hotel room.

word count: 5.5k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, fighting as foreplay, mean!reader my beloved, the patrick and art gay agenda, threesome, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y'all!), not quite hate sex more like angry sex, double penetration, oral sex (m!receiving), choking, finger sucking, degradation, creampies, lowkey sub!patrick coded, switch!art ofc, porn with a plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: oh em gee part three is here!!! i literally always say this but i had so much fun writing this one lol thank you so much for showing this series so much love right off the bat! i've loved loved loved reading all the ideas you guys have sent me for future chapters and trust when i say that i'll definitely be featuring as many as i can. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

tftw series masterlist!

Art is fuming. You keep glancing over at him to check that smoke isn't starting to blow out of his ears. It doesn't, but he's just as mad every time. Standing in the doorway huffing and puffing, arms crossed over his chest as he stares Patrick down from across the room.

Patrick is the complete opposite, all relaxed body language and easy half-smiles as he coolly stares back. You’d make a fire and ice joke if you didn’t think it would send Art over the edge.

He’s sitting in the room’s single chair, window cracked open so he can smoke. He’s practically naked, wearing an unbuttoned long sleeve and the tiniest boxers you’ve ever seen. His bare feet are propped up on the corner of the bed you’re sitting on.

You’re perched cross legged on the mattress, basically stuck in the middle of them.

You’re still surprised you even got Art to show up at all. You thought he almost flipped the table when you brought up Patrick at lunch, casually mentioning that you’ve been texting him for the past couple of days and you think the three of you need to talk. He was quiet for a long time before he finally asked if that meant Patrick was, has been, in town. You just shook your head yes.

You didn’t tell him you and Patrick slept together, you didn’t need to.

He went quiet again, stood up from his chair with an excuse of being late to class and stomped out of the dining hall. You texted him the address to Patrick’s hotel an hour later.

Art never responded, but his jeep was still waiting for you outside the biology building after your last lecture got out. He would always drive you back to your dorm since you’d get out so late, but this time he turned out of the campus lot and silently drove until you realized he was going to the hotel.

Now you’re here, and it's been almost ten minutes since you knocked on the door to Patrick’s room. And no one has said anything the entire time. No one has even moved, only Patrick every so often when he needs to flick his ashes out the window. A thick blanket of tense silence falls heavy over the three of you. It makes the room’s temperature feel that much hotter. The shitty air conditioner hums faintly in the background.

“So,” you say slowly, voice finally piercing through the quiet, “Am I gonna have to be the first to talk again or–”

“God, I don’t know,” Art cuts in tersely, not looking away from Patrick as he does, ”I can’t believe I don’t have anything to say to the guy that fucked my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Both you and Patrick ask sharply, opposing tones of shock and amusement blending together.

Art's eyes narrow, a storm brewing in the blue of them. He’s still looking at Patrick, talking about you like you’re not sitting right in front of him. "Yeah, my girlfriend. Did I stutter?" His chest is puffed out just enough for you to notice, his mouth pulled down at the corners in a deep frown.

You blink, caught off guard. Art’s never asked you to go steady with him, you’ve never even been on a date. Unless you count fucking in the back of his jeep at a drive in theater a date, then sure, you’ve been on one date. Regardless, the possessive timbre of his voice has something warm simmering under your skin.

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “Well, this is fucking news to me,” he says through a chuckle, eyes flicking between the two of you bemusedly, “I didn’t realize you guys were playing house, but that does makes a lot more sense now.” He gestures to your chest with his free hand, pointing out the dark blue sweatshirt you’re wearing.

‘Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy’ is stitched across the front in thin black thread; you'd stolen it from Art’s closet when you slept over at his dorm a few nights ago. He never asked for it back.

“It’s cute that you kept my shirt, Donaldson.” Patrick teases, lolling his head to the side lazily so he can look at Art through his lashes. A plume of smoke billows from between his lips, slipping through the open window slowly. “Even after you tried to turn my girlfriend against me and fucked her behind my back first–”

“Fuck you, Patrick–” Art starts, face twisted in a scowl. His hands ball into fists at his side, jaw ticking with anger.

Patrick doesn’t look deterred, leaning forward in his chair as he tries to talk over Art, “You’re such a fucking hypocrite–”

“I’m not anyone’s girlfriend,” you cut them both off, brows drawn together in frustration, “—and I’m not going to let this turn into some weird pissing contest between you two. We’re here to talk.”

Art scoffs agitatedly, casting his eyes to the ceiling. “Looks like the two of you have done plenty of talking without me,” he says bitterly. “Do you get off on this shit or something? On sticking your dick where it doesn’t fucking belong?”

Patrick smirks, leaning back in his chair, arms draped lazily over the armrests. “God, you really do think you’re innocent in this,” he laughs incredulously, leaning back in his chair. “You’re acting like you’ve got some moral high ground, but you don’t. You’re just as guilty of playing the game as I am.”

Art’s face darkens further, anger threatening to boil over. “This isn’t a game to me, Patrick,” he spits, tone hard and low, “I’m so sick of you treating everything like a goddamn joke.”

Patrick’s smirk doesn’t falter. “I never said it was a joke,” he says with a shrug, tone easy and nonchalant. “I’m just saying, maybe you should take a good look in the mirror before you start pointing fucking fingers. I’m not the only one who’s played dirty here.”

“Patrick–” you warn, sitting up straighter. You can feel the way the air changes, the way the animosity gets turned up. The last thing you need is for them to start throwing punches.

Art cuts you off, shaking his head in contempt. “You’re so full of shit. You don’t fucking care about her. You never did. You just want to win, because you can’t stand the thought of losing to me.”

Patrick groans loudly, throwing his head back with it. “We’re really going back to this again? Jesus Christ, give it up man. It’s not like she was ever really yours to begin with.” He takes another slow drag from his cigarette, eyes never leaving Art.

The jab hits its mark, you can see it on Art’s face. In the way he physically recoils, the way he takes a ragged breath through his nose, the way the muscles of his jaw work furiously. For the first time since you fucked Patrick, you feel like a fucking bitch. The familiar feeling of guilt wraps its tendrils around you, weighing you down into the mattress like a physical force.

It gives you an idea, the guilt. It's a filthy idea, one that has heat stirring between your legs at just the thought. It’s a good way to make this whole situation up to Art, a good way to let him get under Patrick’s skin the same way he’s getting under his.

You sit in the angry silence, gears slowly turning in your head as you look between your boys. You should have known that this wasn't going to work, clearly just talking isn’t getting the three of you anywhere.

You sigh, overly dramatic and long suffering, scooting down until your legs are hanging over the edge of the mattress. Art and Patrick watch you the entire time, eyes finally leaving each other to watch your hands settle on the hem of Patrick’s sweatshirt.

“You guys are being so difficult. Why did I think that you could behave enough to talk this out like big boys?” You tug it off in one swift move, tossing it to the side carelessly. Two sharp gasps ring out, two sets of greedy eyes roam the bare expanse of your torso. You hadn’t worn a bra today.

You smirk, standing from the mattress and hooking your thumbs in the waistband of your sweats. You push them down your legs slowly, making a show of it until you're only in the pair of light purple panties you slipped on this morning. Patrick smirks, flicking his cigarette butt out the window and yanking it closed. He goes to stand, Art pointedly takes a single threatening step forward as he does but you stop both of them in their tracks.

“No.” Your voice rings through the small room, loud and commanding. Patrick sits back down almost immediately, his brow raising in confusion. Art does the same, freezing with one foot in front of him. They’re both hard, cocks tenting the fabric of their bottoms. Their boners point towards each other, you bite your lip to hide your smile.

“You’ve been so bad, Ricky.” you scold softly, voice syrupy sweet as you lean back on the bed. “Dressed up like an easy whore in here waiting for us, being so mean to Art, fucking his girl…” You trail off boredly, palms braced flat on the bed behind you so you can lean back as casually as you can muster. You let your legs fall open, spread enough to let Patrick and Art see the wet spot slowly seeping into the fabric.

You can hear Art’s sharp inhale from across the room at your words, his girl. You’re still careful not to say girlfriend, that’s a whole other talk. Patrick squirms in his chair, practically itching with the need to say something. You level him with a hard look, a firm shake of your head keeps him quiet. When you finally turn your attention to Art, he meets your gaze easily, eyes already blown out and glassy. Even from here you can see the way his pupils swallow the pretty blue color.

You smile, lips curling up in a wicked smile. “Art,” you coo softly, reaching your hand out in offering, “come here.”

Art’s walking towards you without a second thought, crossing the room in just a few large steps. You smile at him, patting the spot next to you. The bed creaks as he sits down, the mattress dipping under his weight slides you closer to him. ”I think,” you say slowly, resting your hand high up on his thigh, so close to the hard line of his cock straining against the fabric, “that we need to teach Patrick a lesson on manners.”

“What! No fucking way, that’s bullshi–” Patrick fusses from the corner, sitting up straighter in seat, the armrest gripped tight in his left hand.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, whipping your head to the side to glare at him. “This isn’t about you.”

He frowns, pushing out his bottom lip like an actual child. You just barely fight the urge to roll your eyes, an evil smile spreading across your face as you watch him honest-to-God pout.

“This is about Art,” you slide your hand up higher, cupping him through his loose shorts. You can hear his sharp intake of breath, a quiet ‘fuck’ falls from his lips as you apply more pressure to where your hand is steadily rubbing him up and down. “Plus, you’re already in the cuck chair,” you aren’t able to stop the small chuckle that falls from your lips, “you’ve got a perfect view.”

His pink lips part ever so slightly, eyes going wide and hungry at your words. You throw him one last devilish smile before you’re sinking to your knees in front of the bed. The scratchy carpet digs into your knees but you don’t care, not when Art is towering in front of you with the ceiling lights shining around him like he’s an angel.

You smile up at him, dragging the palms of your hands up and down his thighs. “Take your shirt off,” you encourage, slipping your hands up to toy with the hem of his shorts.

He complies beautifully, pulling his shirt up and over his head and tossing it aside, revealing the lean, toned muscles of his torso. You let your eyes linger on him for a moment, appreciating the sight before returning your attention to your task. Your fingers deftly undo the drawstring of his shorts, and start tugging them down. Art lifts his hips enough for you to drag them all the way down his legs, taking his boxers with them to free his hard cock.

Again, you slide your hands up the bare skin of his thighs, inches away from where he wants them. He’s so hard, cock standing straight up in an angry red line against his stomach. The tip drools pre-cum that leaks down the length of him slowly.

Art's breath hitches, his eyes locked onto you with a mix of anticipation and desperation. Your fingers brush lightly over his upper thighs, before you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, feeling the heat of his arousal pulse against your palm. His gasp is sharp, and you silently revel in the power you hold over him in this moment.

You glance over at Patrick, who is staring wide-eyed, his earlier irritation replaced with a raw, unfiltered hunger.

Your lips curl into a smug smile at the sight of his flushed cheeks and the way his chest rises and falls with each heavy breath. “See something you like, Patrick?” you taunt, giving Art a slow, deliberate stroke that has him groaning softly. Patrick’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching, but he stays silent, his gaze locked on the two of you.

Art's hands grip the sheets beneath him, his knuckles turning white. "Fuck," he breathes out, his voice strained, "you're killing me."

You laugh softly, a dark, melodic sound, and lean forward, letting your tongue flick out to taste the bead of precum at the tip of his cock. Art moans, the sound vibrating through you. You glance up at him through your lashes, seeing the way his head tilts back, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

You slide your lips up the length of his leaking cock, teasing and slow. Art stares down at you, not breaking eye contact as he breathes raggedly through his nose.

“Tell him how it feels,” you whisper against the pink tip of his cock, sliding it back and forth across your lips teasingly. Art swallows hard, skin flushing in embarrassment.

“So good…” he whispers, eyes still locked onto yours. His blush goes from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, spreading pink and warm across the strong muscle of his pecs.

You smile, shaking your head softly. “Don’t tell me, tell him.” You jerk your head in Patrick’s direction once before you sink down until your nose is nestled against the soft blonde hair at the base of his cock, working your throat around the length of him.

Art moans loudly, his hands coming up to tangle into your hair. You keep going, fighting his grip on you as you start to bob your head over his cock in a steady rhythm, working your hand in time with your mouth.

He forces himself to look at Patrick, catching his eyes.

Patrick looks fucked, lips slick and dropped open as he stares back Art, hungry gaze not wavering. His cock is still hard, pressed against the seam of his boxers and leaking a steady patch of wetness around the head.

A silent challenge seems to pass between the two of them.

We doing this or what?

Art refuses to back down, hardening his resolve. “Feels so fucking good,” he groans, not looking away from Patrick, “her throat’s so tight, so– God, it’s so good. Best I’ve ever had.”

He’s rambling, not even making any sense but you hum in approval all the same, your tongue curling around the crown. Patrick doesn’t look like he minds too much either, pink tongue coming out to swipe along his bottom lip. "Please," he whispers, almost too quiet to hear. "Let me..."

You pull off Art with a wet pop, turning your head as best you can with his hand still tangled in your hair to fix Patrick with a steely gaze. "You don't get to make requests," you say, your voice hard. "You get to watch and learn."

Patrick's eyes darken, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he doesn't protest. Art lets out a low growl, his hand tightening its grip on your hair and dragging your mouth back to his cock.

“Stop fucking talking to him,” he demands, hips thrusting to fuck back into your mouth. You choke on the sudden fullness, wetness floods your panties as you moan around him.

Yes, you think, eyes squeezing close as you force your throat to relax around his cock, this is what I wanted.

You were waiting to see how long it’d take Art to snap, he lasted longer than you thought he would. The head of his cock punches against the soft, spongy part at the back of your throat. You fight to not gag around him, hands scrambling for purchase on his thighs. His balls slap against your chin roughly, sticking wetly to the drool that's starting to fall from the corners of your lips.

Art meets Patrick’s eye again, a smug smirk on his face as he jerks his head in a clear invitation, “Come here.” He grunts simply, dragging you up and down the length of his cock by his tight grip on your hair.

Patrick practically sprints from the chair, ripping his shirt off while he tries to kick his boxers off before he reaches the bed. He sits next to Art, chest heaving as he stares down at where your lips stretched obscenely over his best friend's cock.

Art pulls you off by your hair, holding your face a few inches away from his spit covered cock. He tuts at you sympathetically, tilting his head to the side with a tiny frown at the sight of you all teary eyed. “Bet you feel real empty, right?” he asks sadly, shaking your head back and forth like a dog. “That greedy pussy wants our cocks stretching her open, doesn't she?”

You whine loudly, nodding your head as best you can as the meaning of Art’s words sink over you. You feel far away, like you’ve already been fucked six ways to Sunday. You cunt clenches around nothing, aching for Art and Patrick’s cocks bullying their way inside you. You’ve never done anything like that before, taken two guys at once, but God do you need it.

Art nods back, brows pulled together in faux pity. “Pat and I will help baby,” he says sweetly, “You just gotta get nice and stretched out first, need to fuck yourself open on Patrick’s cock so you can take us.”

“Fuck yeah,” Patrick breathes, already moving up the bed to lay flat on his back agasint the pillows. His cock sticking straight out from his body, pointing to the ceiling desperately.

Art lets go of your hair, cupping the side of your face tenderly. His thumb rubs against the soft skin of your cheekbone a few times, you know it’s a question.

Do you want this?

You smile, nuzzling his palm and giving his thumb a playful nip. The answer to his question written all over your face.

Fuck yes.

Art smiles back, nodding his head once. You take the hint, rising from your knees to climb onto the mattress. You slide your panties off, tossing them aside as you crawl up the length of Patrick’s body, straddling his hips and wasting no time in sinking down on his cock.

Art settles next to the two of you, hand loosely gripped around his cock as he starts to lazily stroke himself to the sight of you and Patrick.

“Fuck!” Patrick hisses, his hands coming up to grip your hips fiercely as you start to ride him, not giving either of you anytime to adjust. The stretch burns, the lack of prepping before hand makes it sting. You don’t mind, too worked up to care.

“God, you’re such a fucking slut,” He tries, but you cut him off bringing your free hand to wrap around the column of his throat just like he did to you back in the shower.

“You’re the slut,” you growl, fingers digging into his skin roughly. His eyes widen, plush lips going slack. You speed your hips up, the loud smack each time you drop down onto him echoes through the room. “You’re the easy fucking whore that soaked your panties watching your best friend fuck my throat."

Art huffs out a breath, hand slipping over his cock faster as he watches you ride Patrick. His eyes are trained on the way your hand is wrapped against Patrick’s throat. He slips his free hand down, pressing two fingers against Patrick’s cock so you slide down onto them on the next bounce.

“Fuck!” You keen loudly, grip tightening on Patrick’s throat. Art’s fingers add to the sting of your cunt, but your hips don’t stop moving, even as he slips in a third just as fast.

You get lost in it, in the feeling of Patrick’s dick fucking into you so deeply you swear he’s hitting your cervix with every roll of your hips, Art’s fingers stretching you that much wider.

Suddenly, Art drops his cock so his free hand can latch onto your hips, his strong grip forcing you to stop your desperate bouncing. His fingers slip out of you, you immediately miss the stretch.

Patrick groans in displeasure, his hips buck up like he’s trying to slide back into the warmth of your fucked open cunt. His leaking head bumps against your sensitive clit a few times before Art’s dropping his hand down, gripping Patrick’s cock to line it up with his own.

Art slides up behind you, his sweaty chest pressing firmly against your back. “Should be stretched out enough,” He whispers into the nape of your neck, pressing both tips against your fluttering hole.

The shock of it has your hand slipping off Patrick’s throat to anchor onto his shoulders in a feeble attempt to brace yourself. He sucks in large gasps of air, chest heaving as he stares down to where his cock is pressed snug against Art’s, his hand big enough to almost wrap around them both. He throws his head back against the pillows, eyes screwed shut, “Fuck, I can’t watch,” he gasps, voice low and ragged.

Art laughs smugly, but it’s breathy around the edges and you can feel the way his hand shakes on your hip. “Close already, Pat?” He asks condescendingly, as his fingers dig in a little tighter. “You’re not even doing any of the work.”

You try to focus on the sensation of Art’s grip, but your mind is a haze of overstimulation and the throb of Patrick’s cock against you. Art’s mocking tone sends a shiver down your spine, making you acutely aware of how close you are to the edge yourself. Your greedy cunt clenches around them, trying to suck them in you.

Patrick’s breath stutters, his hips jerking up involuntarily, making a strangled noise that’s half-groan, half-whimper. “Fuck you, man,” he manages to grind out, but his voice is trembling and strained, the bite in his tone gets undercut by how wrecked he sounds. You can feel the barely there twitches of his hips, like he’s physically pained from having to wait any longer.

A sharp cry rips from your throat as they finally start to slide in, both heads popping into your tight hole all at once. Your eyes screw shut at the stretch, thighs shaking where they’re spread over Patrick’s hips.

“Someone kiss me,” you gasp desperately, chin lowering to your chest. Art’s moving before the words finish leaving your mouth, gripping a fistful of Patrick’s hair and dragging him up to your lips. You whine into his mouth, letting his tongue slide between your lips to claim your mouth.

The familiar feeling of his lips on yours relaxes you the tiniest bit, letting Art lower you down a few more inches. It feels like hours as you sink onto them, Art’s big hands gently massaging your hips while Patrick’s greedy fingers pull and paw at your thighs.

It’s the quietest you’ve ever heard Patrick. His lips going slack in awe against yours as Art’s cock slides up next to his, moaning into your mouth when your hips go flush with his.

They feel so huge inside you, so thick you swear you can feel them in your stomach. Bullying your insides into making more room for the both of them.

“Fuck," you gasp, nails digging little crescent moons into Patrick’s shoulders. Every inch of you is alive with sensation, a burning mix of pleasure and pain. Art’s breath is hot and ragged against your ear, whispering sweet encouragements, “It’s okay baby, you’re okay, taking us so fucking good–”

You nod, slowly starting to grind your hips back and forth, gasping when they rub up against the soft spot inside of you that has you clenching in pleasure– practically choking them off at the base. A high moan falls from your lips, hips swirling the tiniest bit faster that have both Art and Patrick growl out matching groans of approval.

“Just like that,” Art whispers into your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Gonna make him come first, or are you gonna beat him to it?” The challenge in his voice sends a jolt of heat through you, your thighs starting to shake with every pass of them over that spot.

“God, ah! Art– fuck, mh, Patrick–” You slur, head already starting to go fuzzy

“Fuck,” Art gasps out your name sharply, pushing you down onto Patrick’s chest so he can start fucking into your loose, sloppy cunt. “God, you’re so fucking tight,” his hand grips the back of your neck to pin you down, throwing all his strength behind the snap of his hips.

“Shit, look at you,” Patrick chuckles weakly pinching your hips hard, trying to seem less affected than he really is. “You’re so fucking gone. All that attitude needs is some dick to fix it, huh?”

You crack your eyes open, blearily searching until you zero in on his face. He’s smiling smugly, eyes blown out and hazy.

“Shut the fuck up,” you spit weakly, raising your hand to shove your index and middle finger between his parted lips. You push back far enough to feel his throat constricting against your fingers, letting him gag on you. Your eyes trace the side of his face, down the slope of his nose to where his cherry red lips are lewdly spread around your fingers.

You can distantly hear Art groan behind you, his hips speeding up impossibly faster. His hand squeezes your neck, fingers digging into your sensitive skin meanly. You hook your fingers behind Patrick’s teeth, dragging his face to the side to meet your eye. Patrick moans around your fingers, gazing at you pleading through half lidded eyes. Drool leaks from the corners of his mouth and down his chin, drenching your wrist. His hot, wet tongue sliding along the pads of your fingers feels scalding.

Patrick's hands are everywhere, pulling, pinching, caressing, his touch a maddening mix of rough and tender. The feeling of him inside you, alongside Art, is almost too much to bear, making you gasp for breath. Your moans are a symphony of pleasure and desperation, each one a plea for more, more, more the closer you get the edge.

“Shit, ah, Art, ah!” Your feet scrabbled uselessly against the sheets, the fingers of your free hand twist Patrick’s hair roughly. “I’m gonna come— Mm, ah! I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” Art goads, the rhythm of his hips not faltering, “Come on baby– fuck yeah– fucking soak these dicks–”

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as you come, your vision whites out around you as the entire world shrinks down to the stretch of your gushing cunt around Art and Patrick. The slight burn of them, the fullness, the unrelenting pace of Art’s hips stinging the skin of your ass on each thrust.

Patrick bites down on your fingers with a broken whine just as Art sinks his teeth into your neck, both of them groaning so loud it’s all you can hear. That and the faulty rhythm of Art’s hips snapping against the meat of your ass in loud ‘cracks’.

They come together, and you can feel it.

You can feel every twitch and jerk of their cocks inside you as they spray the walls of your cunt with their releases. Spurt after spurt of hot come claiming you as theirs, filling you to the brim. Art doesn’t stop, working the three of you through your orgasms. Each thrust fucks more of their come out of you, the lewd squelch of it leaking from of your loose hole to gather around the base of their cocks in two matching creamy rings makes your ears burn.

Just as it gets to be too much, when the pleasure starts to give way into biting overstimulation, Art stops. You’re slumped against Patrick, shaking like a leaf when Art starts to pull out as gently as he can. You hiss when the head of his cock slips out, thighs clenching together.

“Sorry,” he whispers sweetly, giving your shoulder a gentle kiss. He practically man handles you off of Patrick’s cock, lifting your hips up and off of him.

Patrick groans, stomach twitching in oversensitivity as your slick walls slide against his spent dick. Finally he slips out, his drenched cock falling to slap onto his stomach. There come rushes out of you, dripping sticky and thick down your inner thighs.

There’s sweat dripping down your temple when you fall onto the mattress, your back sticks to the sheets but you’re too out of it to care. Art collapses next to you, sandwiching you between him and Patrick. The three of you are quiet, chests heaving as you catch your breath. Patrick’s hairy thigh is pressed to yours, firm and toned. Art’s got an arm slung over your waist, his breath puffs hot against your neck.

“It doesn’t have to be one or the other,” you say breathlessly, voice raspy and hoarse. “It could work. We could make it work, the three of us.”

Art and Patrick are quiet, their silence heavy with contemplation. You keep your eyes trained on the ceiling, more nervous bringing this up than you thought you’d be. The room is filled with the sounds of your collective breaths, mingling with the lingering scent of sweat and sex.

Patrick chuckles, you can feel his curls brushing against your shoulder as he shakes his head in dry amusement. "Yeah, because everything about this screams 'healthy relationship,'" he quips, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Art lets out a soft, exasperated sigh, his grip on your waist tightening just a little. "We don't have to decide anything right now," he says, his voice low and steady. "Let's just...see where this goes."

You feel a rush of relief at his words, but Patrick’s hesitancy still gnaws at the edges of your mind. Patrick shifts beside you, his hand skirting lightly over your arm in a rare moment of tenderness.

"Guess we're in uncharted territory, huh?" he murmurs, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

You laugh, finally daring to glance at both of them, a tentative smile forming on your lips. "Yeah, but maybe that's not such a bad thing."

Art and Patrick look back at you with matching grins wide enough to show their teeth, blonde and black hair fanning around their faces like halo’s under the room’s shitty fluorescent light. Your heart swells under the intense stare of two pairs of eyes, one blue and one green. You can feel the room start to fade away until it’s just the three of you and nothing else seems to matter.

Art leans down, giving your right shoulder a quick kiss. “If we’re doing this, we have to be honest with each other.” He looks between you and Patrick pointedly, but he’s still smiling. “No more bullshit games.”

Patrick snorts, letting his head fall back onto the pillows, “Yes sir.”

You nod, not bothering to hide your smile. "No bullshit, no games," you agree, moving to squeeze Art's hand. He squeezes back in a silent promise.

The three of you lie there in a comfortable silence, the weight of your decision settling over you. It's definitely not going to be easy, but maybe, just maybe, it could work.

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reiderwriter · 9 months ago

Text

Wished Away Entire Lifetimes

Chapter 6 of I Can't Help Myself

Summary: Living with Spencer - even if it is because some psycho is trying to murder you - means learning more about him. You just hope that the reverse isn't also true as you keep your cards as close to your chest as possible.

Warnings: No smut, suggestive content, both reader and Spencer are horny as fuck the entire time, spoilers for Marley and Me, mention of a pet death in the aforementioned movie.

A/N: At this point, I have to admit to the audience that the plot has somewhat changed from my original intention, but I still have a solid goal in mind, so WHO CARES!!! Domestic Spencer! Dom can mean more than one thing, Amen.

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Spencer's apartment was exactly as you remembered it, but this time around, it felt different.

You quietly walked in and sat down on the sofa, trying not to be so obvious in your glances towards the bookshelf, trying to see if your message was still intact.

“The kitchen's just through here, my bedroom, study,” he said pointing to each doorway, introducing you to a place you already had ingrained in your mind as the site of your biggest surprise.

You nodded along awkwardly and shifted the bag of spare clothes and toiletries you'd picked up from your apartment on the way there between your hands.

The shelves were still in order and, based on the updated collection of dust sprinkled about the place, hadn't even been perused in a while. You pouted a little, thinking about how you'd have to reluctantly forgive him for not messaging you. If he hadn't seen the message, then you supposed he was telling the truth about being busy.

More of you wanted to wallow in your pettiness, to wait until he noticed himself that you were expecting. You did wonder how long it would take him. He was observant. You'd admitted that to himself when he'd first started mentioning case details and inferences months before in the office, but it seemed like people weren't hit forte.

You were sure he could statistically tell you how big your baby was given the amount of weeks pregnant you were (the size of a plum, according to a Google search the night before) but you didn't think he'd be able to notice that you specifically were carrying said baby.

It was, though, only a matter of time.

“Y/N? Did you hear me?” He asked, staring at you with his brow furrowed, his tie slightly looser than it had been a few moments earlier.

Now you were the thoughtless one. Your gaze raked down from his face to the loosened tie, the top buttons undone, the flash of skin at his neck as he swallowed lightly, obviously not as effected by your gaze as you were by his.

“Yes,” you replied, letting your mind wander off to one of the two couched he'd fucked you on.

“Y/N, you're not listening,” he said again, slightly irritated now. Somehow that turned you on more.

“Yes, I am.”

“What did I say then?”

“I said I was listening, not that I cared.”

He closed his eyes in a sigh before stepping closer to you and grabbing your bag in his hand. You quickly snatched it back and pulled it to yourself.

You hadn't exactly packed much, but in your rush out of the door, hormones or something maternal had grabbed a baby grow and a teddy bear, and you knew the combination would cause questions you didn't have the patience to answer just then.

“Y/N,” he moaned, signalling how tired he was with your attitude. You wanted to calm down and just apologise, but the part of you that had jumped at the sight of his bare skin was now itching for a physical fight.

Emphasis, hopefully, on the physical part.

“I'd rather you didn't go through my things, Spencer,” you said, throwing the bag back over your shoulder.

“And I'd rather you listened to me instead of glaring at me, but here we are.”

Your eyes narrowed on him as you found yourself pitching forward, head tipping back as his hand caught the top of the strap and slowly pushed it down your arm.

“There, now, let me show you the bed.”

“Bed?”

“You really weren't listening?”

“I tend to drown you out these days, I fear its a trauma response.”

He scoffed and pressed a hand to the base of your spine, inching you forward as he held your bag for you.

First, his hand on your arm, and then the one on your back - you really shouldn't have accepted his offer knowing you were going to spend at least a night and likely more frustratedly horny.

You'd barely survived a day in an office with him, And that was before you'd been intimate.

Now you had memories, and a reference point, and a goddamn bed.

“Here. I'll clear a draw so you can unpack. Let me grab you some towels as well, and-”

“What do you mean?” Your tone was brighter, less challenging now and more open curiosity, as if being mollified by his temporary kindness. The change made you uncomfortable.

He looked back at you with a wide-eyed questioning stare.

“Hmm?”

“Clear a draw? You keep clothes in your spare room?”

He struggled for an answer for a second before meeting your eyes again with an almost apologetic glance.

“Y/N, I don't have a spare bed. The other room only has a desk. The bed was removed when-” he trailed off, looking almost guilty as he spotted your embarrassed look.

“Okay, and when were you going to tell me that?” You said, hands on your hips in an attempt at intimidation. His eyes dragging down your body said that it'd had the opposite effect.

“I did,” he said, stepping closer to you again, hands resting on your hips then stroking up your back until he was cradling your back, closing the gap between you until you were chest to chest.

“You weren't listening, remember?"

You desperately clung to that indignant annoyance as his gaze slid to your mouth, your hands pinned against his chest. You were painfully aware of the bed just inches behind you, wondering what his reaction would be if you just stripped off and climbed in.

“I wasn't listening just now, but I sure as hell was listening on campus. Emily has a spare room, let me call her.”

“No,” he pouted, leaning forward to press his lips to your cheek.

“Spencer!” You gasped at the unexpected move. If you weren't so delicately pressed up against his rising member, you'd accuse him of acting like a spoiled child.

He did it again, switching to your other cheek. You pouted back at him, glaring at him when he surfaced from each kiss.

“You know,” you said as he licked at the skin between your neck and your collar bone. “You have a job to do, right?”

He hummed against your skin, lips rising to the sensitive point just below your earlobe.

You breathed out a shaky sigh and tried again.

“You can't just keep me in bed for two weeks,” you said, gripping his shoulders lightly, not sure whether you wanted him off you, or you wanted him buried deeper.

“I can't?”

His lips rose again to your cheeks, but so his his hands, grabbing a breast in one hand as the other squeezed your ass, pulling you closer.

“Spencer, some would think you hadn't had sex in months, come on-”

“Haven't.”

His hands were more insistent now, pushing up your shirt and finding your sensitive breasts. His wandering hands didn't care about your bra, they didn't care about how sensitive your nipples were because of the hormones, they didn't even care they were being a bit too rough as he pinched your nipples hard and pulled them upwards, a moan shooting from your mouth.

It was so painful, so fucking delicious that you almost missed his words. You almost laughed at the irony that both your and his first fuck in months had resulted in a pregnancy. A dry spell ended by a shower of orgasms and a conception to boot. How lucky.

Spencer was too busy for thought.

“God, Spencer, if you're going to fuck me standing up, at least do it against a wall.”

He reluctantly pulled his hands away and his head, too, just long enough to glare at you.

“Towels,” you said. “And a clear draw.”

He nodded and finally removed his hands from you, though you had no doubt he'd be back on you the minute all the tasks for the day were done.

“And Spencer?” You said, curiosity getting the better of you.

He turned to look at you, and you let the question out before you could think about it too much.

“How busy were you that you haven't had time to fuck in months?”

If it were any other man, you'd have cringed at hearing your own question. But Spencer always answered so earnestly that there could be very little embarrassment with him. Just frustration and confusion.

“I wasn't busy,” he said, already making his way out of the room, leaving his head peeking around the doorway as he finished his explanation.

“I was in prison.”

You spent the next 72 hours trying to wrap your mind around that declaration. Of all things he could've been doing, prison never came to mind.

A vow of celibacy you'd believe. Just a general lack of game, you'd be a bit more hesitant to believe, considering his general attractiveness. A nasty case of (now cured) Chlamydia leading to almost a year sex free in recovery would be preferable. Or a stint in rehab for sex addiction, perhaps, considering how often his hands had been on you since arriving.

But prison?

What the fuck would they put him in prison for?

While he'd run errands for you that night, you'd tucked yourself into his bed, not even bothering to change into your pajamas. You stripped off a single layer and climbed in, not stopping to let yourself contemplate that answer until the morning.

Unfortunately, since you'd found yourself snuggled up to a hard cock 8 hours later, you didn't exactly have time to think about it then either, busy grinding against him wantonly.

By the time his hands were gripping the flesh of your thighs grinding back into you on the edge of sleep, you'd been struck with your usual morning upset, and had sent yourself to the bathroom quietly to empty your stomach.

He was still abed when you'd finished, and you decided to leave him there to think, and then you'd repeated that twice coming up with no logical conclusion.

You'd finally given in and thrown in the towel when you realised you had Penelope’s contact details still and decided to ask her yourself.

It was a relief to know that the man you'd created life with was not actually a murderer but actually wrongfully convicted. Especially since you were supposedly thrown into his arms (this time) by a murderer yourself.

You did start to feel guilty about treating him like shit when you first met, though. He'd, supposedly, only been back from federal prison for a few weeks when he was thrust into your office, which probably explained his less than friendly nature.

It didn't excise yours.

You'd kept our distance enough in those few days to avoid sexual encounters, but you relaxed into his touch a little more after finding out.

It came as a bigger shock than it should have that you enjoyed Spencer Reid's company.

Bored out of your mind on house arrest, you'd taken to rooting through his bookshelves, and when he wasn't commenting on your bad habit of touching other peoples books or actually doing his job, he rooted with you.

“Why do you have a copy of The Collector by John Fowles from a New York public library?”

“It was from a case.”

“And why didn't you return it.”

“Touché.”

You'd rolled your eyes at him and picked up a battered copy of Crime and Punishment from a lower shelf.

“Writing a book this long should be a crime, and reading it must be a punishment,” you grumbled to yourself as he laughed behind you.

“I can finish it in three hours,” he said, trying not to brag but failing miserably.

“You're bluffing.”

“Want to make a bet?” He smiled at you mischievously, and suddenly you saw the boy he must've been. Your heart panged as you wondered if your child would inherit that look.

“Penelope said I shouldn't gamble with you. Las Vegas, right?”

“Penelope?” he asked, and you realised your blunder. Technically, you still had yet to be introduced to the one woman tech show that was Ms. Garcia, and you scrambled for an excuse.

“Emily made me contact her with all my passwords and tech info,” you said, technically not lying.

“She's real friendly.” That was definitely the truth, and you prayed to god that he bought it.

You didn't give him a chance yo interrogate further, simply throwing the brick of a Russian classic at him and grabbing a book yourself.

You climbed onto the couch next to him, resting your head in his lap and began to read your book.

“Time starts now, Reid. And I will be testing you after.”

“Sure, if you can stay awake,” he said, stroking your hair out of your eyes and leaving you in peace as he began his solo race.

Spencer didn't let go of your off-hand comment, though. On the contrary, he let it spill over into his work life the next day as he watched Penelope with furtive eyes, wondering what the two of you could be hiding.

He knew you were hiding something. You'd had the same look about you at the bookshelves as you did when you first insisted you weren't attracted to him. A mildly annoyed face and an unconscious bite of the lip, a glance to the right, and all of a sudden, he was dying to know what you were hiding.

“So far there's been little activity in the hunting grounds due to the vigilance of the girls on campus, but there have been a spike in reported stalking, and Penelope, how do you know Y/N?”

He fought to get the words out, mollifying himself with the consolation that at least he got all the important information out first in the middle of the meeting.

“Oh ho,” chortled Luke from the side, looking on amusedly as Penelope glanced about for help or a way out.

“I don't know Y/N, I've never met Y/N. Why would you think I know Y/N? Who is Y/N?”

“Slightly overkill, Penelope,” Emily said, collecting her papers and abandoning the other woman.

The others followed suit as she gaped and sent pleading looks behind them.

“Penelope?” Reid said again, and Penelope was annoyed to find his stupidly innocent puppy-dog eyes staring back at her and expecting answers.

“No, no, no, no, I promised I wouldn't say anything, and I am not breaking a promise. Don't make me break a promise, Spencer, you know that's bad luck.”

She stood and tried to walk briskly out of the room, but he followed her still.

“Penelope, please. I won't say anything.”

“Yes, you will. You can't help yourself,” she said, stopping to talk to him for a second before quickly starting again, practically marching to her office.

“Then tell me where you met, at least? I know it wasn't messages, Penelope, all her communications went through Emily. She's lying to me, and we have to keep her safe.”

They finally reached her office, and Spencer finally pulled out his final card.

“I just want to keep her safe, Penelope. Just this one girl, just this once.”

She looked at him with a shocked, heartbroken face, even as she knew he was manipulating her and caved.

“She came to your apartment. A month ago. I was there picking up a book for you.”

“What was she doing there?”

Penelope hesitated, trying to avoid the topic of your revelation, telling herself that if she didn't tell him about the baby, she hadn't actually broken her promise.

“The emails. She found some emails from you in her spam folder.”

“Right,” he said, blowing out a deep breath in relief. “Right the emails. She mentioned that.”

Penelope, too, let out a sharp exhale, imagining the worst of it over now he'd stopped asking questions.

Spencer made his way to the door before turning back and asking one more, though.

“Penelope, why did she ask you to keep this to yourself?”

Penelope sent him an apologetic look, then zipped her mouth shut and threw away the key. He nodded and took his leave.

Spencer was sure that there was an explanation for everything, that you'd probably just been embarrassed at turning up at his house and finding out he wasn't there. Maybe you'd even forgotten you'd been.

But another deeper part of him was angry and unjustifiably so. You'd lied to him, and he felt sick, angry, violent, and like he'd love nothing more than to bend you over his lap and make sure you never did it again.

All of the unjustified anger he'd pent up in prison, the rough way he carried himself in the field now, his less than friendly exterior, it was bleeding into his relationship with you.

He tried to damp it down, but he couldn't control it, and he was scared even as he opened the door to the apartment and prepared himself for an argument that would probably end in rough, probably progress-ending sex.

And you had made progress in the last few days. He'd thought at the very least that you'd be a friend, albeit one he would love to kiss and sink deep into. Now he knew that he'd probably ruin all chances of that as he rounded the corner and prepared for a fight.

He was angry, and, like it or not, he knew he was going to take it out on you.

It was the sight of you on the couch that completely dissipated every negative emotion that he had.

Your dress was loose and fell about you in a puddle, though it too was drowned underneath what looked to be every blanket in the house.

Tara sat off in the corner silently watching you, and he gave her a stiff nod as she departed her protection duty for the day.

“S-Spencer,” you sniffled, and his heart paced rapidly as he found your face stained with tear tracks, fresh tears still dripping down as well.

He had just enough time to check you over for injuries before you had flung yourself into his arms and commenced sobbing like an absolute baby.

“Y/N, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Did something happen?”

Your breath hitched as you tried to speak, but you couldn't calm down and he walked you back to the couch, sitting down and letting you climb into his lap, straddling him as you once again buried your face in your neck.

Five minutes later, you'd ceased with the dramatics, but you faced the awkward consequence of having to tell him now that you were crying because of a scene in Marley and Me.

“It's s-stupid,” you laughed into his neck as you cuddled into him, further muffling your voice against his chest.

“Just tell me,” he pleaded, stroking your back and hair. You looked up at him in his eyes, and then shook your head and retreated into the comfort of the crook of his neck, hips pushing closer into his as his hands rubbed comforting circles in your back.

After a few rubs, it was quite obvious that his hands were pushing lower, and his fingers were close to grabbing a handful of your ass.

“Was it a movie?” He asked. You nodded.

He looked at the screen and sighed.

“Marley and Me?” He asked. You nodded again.

“And the dog-”

“He died, Spencer. He loved his family so much that he took himself outside so they wouldn't have to watch him die.”

“I know, Y/N, I know.”

“He was such a good dog,” you said, blubbering again.

“I know,” he said, gently kissing you.

“You know, crying during movies is a sign that oxytocin has been triggered by the connections you feel due to vicarious social experience. Your attention is captured and emotions elicited by the movie's story.”

He kissed you again, and you kept listening to his explanation, suddenly calmed by his gentle explanation.

“Oxytocin is best known for its role in childbirth and breastfeeding, increasing contractions during labour and stimulating the milk ducts, but it's also released in response to positive physical contact – hugging, kissing, sexual intimacy and even petting animals – as well as through positive social interactions.”

“Spencer?” You said, looking up at him again.

“Yes?”

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I do know what oxytocin is. I, too, have a PhD, you know.”

He smiled shyly as he ran his hands down your legs and back up again, pushing your skirt up to the tops of your thighs before gripping the bare skin he found there.

“I think I'd much prefer if you just kissed me again,” you said.

And he did.

With a tear, you'd lifted the anger that had built up all day, and now he was like putty in your hands, obeying his every command for physical attention.

He kissed you hard, his tongue tangling with yours as your hips subtly shifted above his, stimulating areas that had been much too eager to be stimulated in the last few days.

His cock rose slightly, filling with blood as you moaned gently into the kiss.

He was seconds from pushing you into the couch once again and freeing his abused cock, plundering your depths once again, but gently this time. He had promised himself he'd make the third time a bed at least, but here he was. You had to stop sitting on sofas.

But with a quick thank you and heavy eyelids, you pulled away and rested your head against his shoulder.

In his shock and disappointment, it took him rather a long time to realise you'd fallen asleep in his arms. Though his body craved attention for his own, the weight of you on top of him was warm, and satisfying, and when the shock wore off and he'd blinked away any untoward thoughts, he pulled you in closer, sunk down into the couch, and slept with you.

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