#drag shows are fun and harmless

[handspunyarns]

[drop-the-curtain-123]

ok very specific gripe about assassination classroom

But how comes the series is all "be yourself, use your hobbies, despite everyone judgement, for good" then just... Never questions the roasting of Mimura air guitaring?

Look at my boy! He's so unwell afterwards

Ik now there are more scenes later in the manga that again use it as a Punchline. It just encapsulates that weird gap of "things that are just never Not the Joke/Mocked" which kind of defeats the show messaging 😭

t's not even used in a "do it anyway, grow strong and proud" like some others, it's just. There.

(hi rinka btw happy belated birthday to you)

Anyway unconsequential nitpicking rant over, have a good day.

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ just us

➤ summary: a situation between pogues and kooks at the beach made Rafe rethink his priorities

➤ w/c: 1.8k.

➤ warnings: season 4 spoilers, established relationship, mention of the dead turtle, that hoe Ruthie, protective Rafe

➤ a/n: i'm obsessed with season 4, y'all. absolutely in love with everything that's going on and especially with Rafe being in a better place with a girl that he actually likes 🥹 this scene at the beach with turtles just made me sob, so I really need someone to drag that bitch by her hair. sorry not sorry.

masterlist

Your heart was beating with adrenaline from the scene that just happened at the beach, with Topper’s girlfriend almost running over the pogues and being the usual insane bitch that she was. Rafe stood beside you, silent but shaking his buzzed head in disapproval.

Kie was standing on her knees on the sand, in shock, with juice still dripping down her face and hair. She brushed off the help of her friends, instead standing and picking something up from the ground, without hesitation, going towards the group of people around you. They seemed absolutely delighted by the whole situation, laughing, fist bumping each other, and making you want to punch every single one of them in the face. 

You didn’t even want to be here in the first place, not with a bunch of people with whom you shared mutual hatred towards each other. Rafe was your only connection with them, and it seemed like even for him it was a bit too much. A fun day at a beach with a little surfing competition, where even Topper and JJ seemed to have some fun together, took the wrong turn way too quickly.

“Look what you did! Is this okay?” Kie stopped in front of Ruthie, reaching out her hand to show something that you weren’t able to see, but by the look on her face it was obviously serious to her. “There was a turtle hatch, you idiots! You drove right over it!” Your stomach twisted at the realization, and you took a step closer to see it yourself. 

“Oh my God.” You whispered, catching a glimpse of a tiny dead turtle with a crushed shell laying in the palm of her hand. So little and harmless that the picture of it brought tears to your eyes. 

“Don’t look, baby.” Rafe’s deep voice mumbled near your ear, with a warm hand sprawled across your back to try to distract you, but you shook your head, unable to take your eyes off it. 

“All right, but it was only one.” Ruthie said with her usual attitude, nonchalantly pointing to the rest of the turtles that, luckily, were perfectly fine. Your mouth opened in disbelief, and you looked at Rafe to see him uncomfortably rubbing the back of his head. 

“I’m so sorry, Kie…” You whispered to her, stepping further away from the kooks, eyes drifting again to the dead animal in her hand. No matter how hard you tried to fit in with Rafe and his friends, you could never be one of them if it meant to be a bunch of pompous and cruel rich kids. You thought that, maybe it was time for you to finally admit that. 

“It’s not your fault, Y/N.” She briefly looked at you, because despite not being friends, there never were any arguments between you and the rest of the pogues, always keeping cool and friendly with each other. “There’s something wrong with you, people.” Kiara looked back at the kooks with disgust written all over her face. 

“I’m leaving, Rafe.” Barely holding back your tears, you looked back at your boyfriend, before picking up your beach bag from the sand and turning around. “I’m sorry again for them, Kie.”

“No, wait, Y/N.” He pushed through the crowd, wide-eyed, quickly approaching you and grasping your wrist. “This is not—“

“I don’t want to be here. I didn’t sign up to hang out with your friends when I started dating you, okay?” You groaned in frustration, attempting to move, but Rafe stopped you. “I don’t even know why we’re here, why you are here, when you clearly don’t enjoy it anymore.” 

“Listen, this is not so easy, okay?” He rolled his eyes, but you knew it was not fully directed at you; Rafe was already struggling with trusting those around him, and the fact that you slowly but steadily made him reconsider his current surroundings did not help. 

“You are not like them, they are not your friends, don’t you understand it?” The pure desperation was speaking in you, searching for the answers in his eyes. You overheard some people laughing at you, as they were too confident that Rafe would never listen to someone like you, someone from the cut, not even realizing the war that was currently going on in his head. 

He was silent, thinking, making his already overwhelmed mind go hundred miles per hour to figure something out, because you were right. The more time had passed, the more the two of you were together, the less Rafe found himself enjoying the presence of his old friends, the less he wanted to do that childish bullshit. 

“This dumb fucking bitch almost ran over people and killed an innocent animal because her big ego got hurt, do you understand?! So I’m leaving. Alone or with you.” You almost whispered the last part to him, too scared that he'd not choose you. At the end of the day, you were a pogue, and no matter how much you tried, you would never be good enough for Rafe. 

“What did you just call me?” Ruthie arched a brow, now shooting daggers at you. 

“I called you a dumb fucking bitch, didn’t you hear me?” You spat, finally having a good enough reason to tell the truth right in her face. “Or are you too stupid to get that through your thick scull?” 

“That’s rich, coming for a pogue. It’s just a cycle of life. And if you, losers, are so offended by that, it’s not my problem.” 

“A cycle of life? Getting flattened by a truck is not a cycle of life.” Kiara pushed Ruthie with her hand, and it nearly turned into a fight, with JJ standing by his girlfriend's side. You turned away from them, too frustrated and drained to bother listening to the rest of the conversation, your gaze shifting to Rafe, who still held your hand.

“I want to leave. Stay here if you want to, I don’t care. I’m done with them, Rafe.” Your teary eyes met his blue ones, and he shook his head, pulling you closer with your forearms. The mere thought of you leaving him, angry and upset, triggered a whirlwind of panic within him.

“Hey, no, I’m not staying, okay?” Rafe's hands, now much gentler and delicate, touched your cheeks, wiping away a few tears that you could not keep back. Rafe had never been too comfortable with the display of emotions, and he was pretty sure that it was the first time he had actually seen you cry. And he knew how much you had always carried for animals, how you petted every stray cat or a dog on the street, and how you hated any form of violence against them. 

The pulsating and aching feeling in his chest at the sight of your tears made him want to drop everything, or rather, eliminate everyone who had upset you, and just hold you in his arms. 

“Aw, look at you.” You heard that annoying voice behind you back again, pulling you out of the bubble in which you fell, and turning around, you saw that Kie and JJ were no longer there. Your eyes instantly rolled back as Ruthie looked at you with her usual fake sympathy, crossing her arms over her chest. “Go back to your side of the island, you’re not one of us. Don’t even know why Rafe bothers to bring you here when you’re just another dirty toy to—“

Rafe left your side before she could finish her sentence, looming over her with the most furious expression you had ever seen on his face. Everyone and everything seemed to fall silent for a moment, and you held your breath, unsure what he would do. “Wanna say some bullshit about her? Try to do it right in my face and see what happens.”

“You’re not seriously protecting the pogue. She’s not on our side.” Her smile faded, her eyes now nervously looking between Rafe and Topper, who was standing behind her back. 

“C’mon, Rafe…” He started, but quickly shut his mouth as soon as Rafe turned his head towards him with a silent threat. You felt your heartbeat quickening as the atmosphere started to get even more intense. Everyone around you also started arguing and saying God knows what, but Rafe was awfully calm, and it frightened you even more. 

You moved closer to them as you made your way through the warm sand, until you were able to place a comforting hand on your boyfriend's back. He was so tense under your touch that it amazed you how the hell he was not shaking because of it. The only times you had ever seen him behaving that way was when people whispered something about his father behind his back.

“It’s okay, Ray.” You whispered, kissing his shoulder and sliding your hand down his back to take a hold of his bicep. 

“You’re lucky that I don’t hit women. But if I hear a single word about my girlfriend again, you will regret it, I promise you." Your stomach flattered from the way he protected you, from the way his friends opened their mouths in shock at his words. Even Topper and Kelce were too stunned to speak, sending each other weird glances. “Control, your crazy bitch, Top.” 

As if nothing had happened, Rafe stepped back, throwing a protective hand over your shoulders and guiding you away from the group. He was silent for a whole walk towards his truck, only stopping near the passenger door and turning you to face him. 

His worried blue eyes were almost shining under the bright and hot sun and you saw words forming in his head and sitting at the tip of his tongue. You waited another minute, while Rafe was focused on your necklace, thinking. His hands found a place on your waist, rubbing circles into your skin, until he finally took a deep breath and looked up. 

“You’re right.” He said simply. “I’m not this person anymore. That shit with racing with pogues was fun and all, but I didn’t like what happened today.” You half smiled, nodding and encouraging him to talk. “If—if I want to be like my dad, I need to have my priorities straight. No more of this bullshit, no more fake ass people, yeah? You’re the only one who's been here for me for a long fucking time. You’re the only one who I can trust, baby.”

His hand cupped your cheek, eyes focused solemnly on you, before he lowered himself closer to you to place a kiss on your lips. 

“This is the right decision. You’ve overgrown them, you’re a better man now. And i’ll be here for you whenever you need me, I promise. I guess it’s just us now." Your body sagged against his, too wrapped in the comfort of his presence to even care about anything else. Your lips brushed against his, making Rafe groan.

“Just us, baby.”

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

fuckfest. the slytherins — groupsome / drunk sex.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: malfoy manor is a great place for drinks, laughs, and…. orgys?

warnings: 18+ MDNI, SMUTTTTTT, porn with negative 100 plot, literally just sex and mentions of alcohol, group of uni students that love to consensually gangbang when they have the chance (sorry i’m cackling at that), pansy and reader kiss a few times, multiple orgasms from some of the boys, anal sex, fingering, oral.

Habits are simple, predictable things, slipping into your life without much thought. Some are reckless, some harmless. And some, well—some come with the taste of someone else's lips.

You're not sure when kissing Pansy Parkinson became one of them. What started as a drunken dare, a little more fun than you'd planned for, has now undoubtedly turned into something else—something almost close to ritual. With every night that stretches long, every round of drinks that comes too fast, it's inevitable that your lips will find hers at one point or another, like clockwork.

And a habit is just a habit, but this one—this one you never feel like breaking.

"You ever try body shots with tequila?" Pansy whispers, breath warm against your lips as her smirk hooks you, the same way it always does.

"Plenty of times." You grin back, your mouth barely brushing hers. "What, you want me to lay back for you, Parkinson? Shirt pulled down—or off?"

Theo whistles, and Pansy giggles. They've seen this before, watched it unfold in countless variations, yet it's still equally as entertaining every single time.

"Pull it down, take it off, whatever gets me there faster." She's already moving, grabbing lime and salt with hands that are too steady for how much you've all been drinking. "You know I won't complain either way."

You pour her a shot, liquid gold catching the dim light in the room. You feel the weight of every inebriated gaze on you—Draco, Blaise, Enzo, Mattheo, Theo—all of them watching, same way they always do when you and Pansy put on a show.

You blink and she’s back in front of you, lime and salt in hand. You feel bold, drunk on the moment as you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt, leaning into her kiss only to break it as you pull the fabric over your head. The boys shift around you—more whistles—and Pansy's hands find your face, greedy and gentle all at once, barely giving you a moment to toss the shirt aside before she nudges you onto your back.

"You're so fucking hot," she purrs, slinking between you and the boys who are seated around the table, grinning. "Tilt your head, that's it—here—"

She nestles the cool shot glass between your tits while sprinkling the salt on your neck—then, the lime slice is between your teeth before you can even register it, and now you're staring straight at Blaise—his dark eyes roving over you like a feast, lips parted just enough that you can imagine the feel of them pressed against your own.

Your thighs tense, heat pooling low in your stomach.

"The boys wanted a show," Pansy whispers as she pulls off her own shirt. "They'll get one."

You hum in agreement and she works like she's done this a hundred times— shot glass disappearing between her lips, tossing the tequila back before she sets it aside— warm tongue dragging along the line of salt on your skin, moving up to suck juice from the lime between your lips. She meets your eyes for what feels like a split second before the lime is yanked free and her mouth is on yours, lips tasting like tequila and salt and something wild—

You close your eyes against the flood of sensation—the alcohol, the heat, the spinning of the room—and kiss her back with equal fervour. Her lips crush yours, sloppy and wild, a thousand impulses spinning through your mind and inevitably, you're too weak to fight them, tugging her closer as a result.

Pansy huffs, fingers curling into your hair as she crawls on top of you—straddling your hips on top of the table as one hand slips down to your chest. The boys are muttering things that you can't hear as the kiss is frantic now, teeth grazing, tongues tangled, the taste of lime and tequila lingering in each exhale.

"Gods, Pansy," you gasp into her mouth, hands sliding down her waist, digging into the fabric of her skirt. "You're insatiable."

She pulls back just enough to smirk, breathless, her dark eyes glinting. "I could say the same about you, babe."

You feel the tension in her greedy fingers as they curl against your scalp, her weight pressing you down into the table, and suddenly—all the teasing, all the playing at flirting feels too far away—you need her closer, need to take control back, need to feel her beneath you instead of towering over you—

"Pans—" your hands find her hips, gripping tight as you push against her, trying to flip her onto her back—but in your haste, you misjudge the edge of the table and before you can stop her she's tumbling forward, off the side, straight into Draco's lap. "Oh—shit—"

Everyone gasps, the room pausing for a moment and you're vaguely aware of Blaise's hands clutching your waist, pulling you steady into his lap as you teeter off the table too, the tequila making your head spin. Pansy is sprawled over Draco on the floor, skirt hitched high enough to give the rest of you a perfect view of her ass—to which everyone in the room is admiring. Shamelessly.

It's a spectacle—and the boys have always loved a fucking spectacle.

"Merlin's sake—" Draco grunts as Pansy slumps over him, straddling his waist. You catch the way his hands grip her thighs, fingers flexing like they don't quite know what to do with themselves. "Always the bloody dramatics with you two.”

"I'm not even sorry." Pansy grins, unrepentant as ever as she leans into Draco's neck, teasing like nothing's even happened, like she's perfectly content to remain there, straddling his lap. "You make a good seat."

Draco scoffs, and Theo snickers from across the table.

"You're a menace." The words from Draco's lips sound a lot like praise, and something about the way his eyes flutter shut when Pansy's tongue finds the sensitive skin at his throat makes your mouth go dry. "You're alright, though?"

"Fine," she murmurs, though her tone suggests she's thinking of anything but her well-being. "Totally fine." Her fingers brush over his chest, tracing the buttons of his shirt. "Are...are you fine?"

"I'm—" his voice catches when her fingers undo the first button. "I'm fine."

"You are," she agrees, voice a little hoarse, as she undoes the second, then the third. "Very, very fine."

Draco's face flushes, and there's a sheepish edge to his smile as his hands—almost without thought—begin to slide higher, fingers trailing under the hem of her skirt, pulling it just a little further up her hips. Her eyes flutter closed for just a second as he settles over the curve of her ass, and there's a spark, a shiver of something between them—

Your gaze flicks to Blaise, feeling his presence at your back—solid, grounding, the warmth of his chest pressed against you as you lean into him. You don't have to see him to know he's watching, though you find the confirmation anyways, his dark eyes tracing every movement, every shift between the two heated Slytherins on the floor.

When you glance back, you see the boys are all watching, too—Theo, Enzo, Mattheo—all glued to the sight, silent in their anticipation.

Pansy grinds down, and Draco's head tips back, eyes closed, hands clinging to her hips, her ass, anywhere he can find—

"They don't waste any time, do they?" Blaise murmurs, words a tickle at your pulse, the sound of his voice pulling you back into your own body, your own skin.

You shiver as his fingers trail lightly up your ribs, teasing the edge of your black lace bra—you tilt your head and you catch Theo's gaze sliding over you, flicking back and forth between Pansy's legs and the way Blaise's hands have begun their slow exploration along your sides. You grin as you meet Enzo's eyes next, his lip pulled between his teeth, fingers tracing the rim of his cup—

"You could take notes, Zabini," you murmur, the words catching in your throat as his lips graze your shoulder—so close, too close.

"Me? Take notes?" He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the spot just below your ear. "I've already got it down to a science, baby.”

"Yeah?" You hum, lost in the feel of his mouth on your skin, the way his fingers are edging dangerously close to your breasts. You can feel Mattheo's gaze, burning into you from across the table, but you don't dare look, you'd crack if you did. "You sure about that?"

"Quiz me if you'd like." As if to prove his point, he pushes past the fabric of your bra, long fingers finding a nipple, and your hips twitch of their own accord, a gasp leaving your lips.  "I'll pass any test you give me."

"Cocky." There's a slight edge to your voice as you roll your hips, meeting his heat with your own—just to distract him, of course. "You're gonna' make the others jealous."

"They'll have their fun," his finger toys with the clasp of your bra, now. You feel him undo it. "I want you first."

"Oh," you gasp at the sensation of cool air against bare skin as he yanks it off your arms, exposing your tits to everyone at the table. "Cocky and greedy."

"You'd expect nothing less, baby." He practically growls.

You choke on a moan. "Blaise-"

"That's my name," he's groping, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you squeak. "I know you're real familiar with it."

Pansy's moans, soft and breathy, fill the space as Draco works her out of her skirt, mouth moving between her thighs. You clench—seeing them—her fingers in his hair, her gasps growing louder and more frantic—your pulse quickens—

"Jealous?" Blaise's taunts, having caught you staring.

You shake your head, but—Merlin, how could you not be? You'd give just about anything to relieve the heat between your thighs. To feel the heat of all the eyes watching you right now against your skin. Mattheo, Theo, Enzo—

"Not jealous." Even you can hear how breathless you sound. "Just impatient."

"Patience is a virtue," Blaise says, all mock-virtuousness, squeezing your tits again, as if to punish you for being impatient. "One I'm happy to reward—"

Mattheo is the first to snap, shoving the half-empty bottle of alcohol aside and standing up, chair scraping across the floor. Theo considers doing the same, you can tell, eyes still glued to your half-naked body as he drains his cup in one gulp. Your eyes flick to Enzo, who's merely staring, his lip still being bitten to death between his teeth.

Merlin help you.

Mattheo strolls around the table—eyes roaming as he moves, stopping just behind where you sit on Blaise's lap, breath warm on the back of your neck as he murmurs in your ear—

"I've been patient." You think it's to Blaise. "Where's my reward."

Blaise snorts, and then Theo stands up.

"We've been patient." He's looking at Blaise, lips just starting to grin. "Real, real patient."

Enzo laughs as he rises, too—all three of them forming a loose semi-circle around you and Blaise. You can almost taste the testosterone—hot and eager and hungry—as their eyes rake over you.

Blaise tugs you closer, his hands sliding down to your hips. "I'm feeling outnumbered."

"You're outnumbered," Theo agrees, smirk growing as his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you off Blaise's lap and to your feet. "You're also outvoted. You think we're going to just sit around and watch?"

"Not a chance in hell," Mattheo growls as he moves behind you, calloused hand running up your thigh.

Blaise grunts from where he's still seated, watching you with molten eyes, "you lot are animals, you know that?"

You almost laugh at that, considering he had your bra off in minutes.

"We're just—eager." Theo whispers, leaning in just enough to breathe against your neck, kissing a path up your jaw while Mattheo's hands work at undoing your skirt. You're so turned on you're not sure how you're not dripping down your thighs. "I wanted to be inside you three fucking hours ago."

You whimper at his words, the thick air of the room suddenly too much as Mattheo's hands push your skirt down your legs.

"Three hours is generous." Enzo's moving now, but he isn't looking at you—his eyes are locked on Pansy as Draco slams into her—the two of them locked in a trance. "My head's been filled with filth since this afternoon."

"Filth?" Blaise cocks an eyebrow. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

"Filth," Mattheo husks, and his hand comes up to wrap around your throat—lips pressed to your ear. "All I've been able to think about for the past week."

Your hips twitch at the pressure against your throat—and you moan louder than Pansy. "Gods—if one of you doesn't fuck me in the next minute—"

"Told you," Blaise chuckles, watching Mattheo's hand around your throat like a hawk. "Animal."

"Then what?" Mattheo ignores him—fingers pressing against your pulse just a little harder as he pulls you flush against him, teeth finding your ear, and you feel Theo's fingers trail down your front, teasing your slit. "What're you gonna do?"

"Fuck," you mutter, breathless, hips jerking toward the touch. "I'll die—"

"Oh, that's not good." Enzo's looking now, circling around to stand on your free side, his gaze traveling from your face, down your body, to where Theo's fingers are centimetres from pushing into your soaked cunt. "Is it our responsibility to prevent that?"

"Probably. It's only the right thing to do." Mattheo's cooes against your neck. "Can't have you dying on us, now can we?"

"Mm. Not the only," Theo murmurs, pressing his lips to yours as he pushes a finger inside you. "I can think of a dozen things to do right now."

"A dozen?" Blaise scoffs. You're starting to hate the sound of his teasing fucking tone. "Only a dozen?"

You can't even reply—any words you possess are swallowed by another moan as a second, then a third, of Theo's fingers push deep into you. Even his fingers are long, you think. You forgot just how big—

"Merlin, Theo—fuck—"

"That's the idea," he grins against your lips—you moan again when his fingers curl deep.

"You like that?" Mattheos hands are all over you—your tits, your ass, the press of his chest against your bare back—and you think that you need to see his face, need to see his eyes. "You need more?"

"Yes." You're not sure if you're speaking to Mattheo, or Theo, or Enzo or Blaise, or all of them. "Yes, please—please—"

"Oh good," Blaise muses. "She's polite."

"Of course she is," Theo groans as your cunt clenches around his digits—your slick sounds filling the space between you, mingling with the sound of skin smacking from a few feet away. "So good for us."

"Mm," Mattheo adds, teeth scraping over your shoulder, squeezing your ass to make you gasp. "Very."

"A real angel," Enzo purrs, still circling like a fucking shark, eyes flitting over to Pansy and Draco again as her moans grow louder, more insistent. "Especially when she's begging."

It's all too much—Theo's fingers pumping deep, his thumb swirling your clit, the sounds of Draco and Pansy and the feel of hands and lips and intoxicated eyes everywhere—

Your head falls back against Mattheo’s shoulder. "Oh, please—fuck—please—"

"What're you begging for, Bellissima?" Theo murmurs, drawing your eyes back to his. "Wanna use your words?"

You gasp as his fingers move faster, deeper, as if he's trying to pull the words out of your throat. "Need—"

Blaise snickers. "Yes?"

"Need to cum—" you cry out, hysterical as Mattheo pinches your nipples, groans against your neck. "Need to be—fucked—"

"And I'm the greedy one." That's Blaise again, insufferable as ever.

"We like greedy," Theo grins against your mouth, fingers crooking, and your knees buckle. "Right, boys?"

"We do," Mattheo growls.

"We like it a lot," Enzo agrees, his eyes finally meeting yours. "We love it."

"Then what're you waiting for," you gasp, unable to take much more of the heat building, twisting, every point of contact sending a new wave of need through your body. "Give it to me—"

"Give you what?" It's Blaise again—God, he's driving you fucking insane tonight. "You gotta be more specific, babygirl."

"Give—ohh—" your orgasm is right there. Right. Fucking. There. "Give me your fucking dick, Zabini—fuck—you called first—"

"Oh I did, didn't I?" Blaise still hasn't moved from his seat, but you can see the way his trousers are straining. "Guess it's my lucky day."

Theo lets loose a groan, and you can feel his hips jerking in rhythm with his fingers. "Thank Merlin for small favours."

"Lucky for all of us, really." The corner of Blaise's mouth twitches, almost with the suggestion of a smile. "Don't you think, Enzo?"

Before you can even comprehend Enzo's response, Theo curls his fingers just right, thumb rubbing your clit just right, Mattheo groping your chest and kissing your neck just fucking right—and then you're there—climax charging you, release spilling all over Theo's fingers—

"Oh, fuck—yesyesyes—"

You cry out and shudder forward, only being held up by Theo and Mattheos hands, and you're barely back on earth before you feel Blaise's fingers under your thighs—urging you back and laying you out across the table as if you're a fucking feast for him—

"Patience," Blaise grins down at you, hands finding your thighs, squeezing hard enough to drag you back to reality and realize he's got his trousers undone. "Is really such a virtue."

"Right," you mumble, still breathless as you look up at him. "Too bad I'm fresh out."

Blaise chuckles at that. "I can tell."

Fuck this—

"Blaise—if you don't fuck me right now—" you push up from the table, urging him back into the chair he was sitting in. "I will let everyone else fuck me first and make goddamn sure you watch."

There's a flicker of surprise in Blaise's eyes as he slumps back in the chair—Mattheo snorts behind you and for a second you wonder if you may have just gone too far—

"Not a chance," he smiles, his words coming out in a growl that's all heat and lust and something just a little dangerous. "We'll have none of that."

And then, he's on his feet again. But this time, when he touches you, it’s firm and fast and not at all gentle. He directs you around the table before bending you over it, and you hear someone—Theo, you think?—groan like they're in pain, the sound swallowed by a desperate moan that you know for certain is Pansy's.

Your eyes flutter when you hear it—you just don't know where to look—

"No, look up. Up." Blaise's hand is in your hair, forcing you to look up from the table, and you realize where the sound came from. "I want you to watch."

Your head's spinning in a way you're sure is not entirely from the alcohol, and it only intensifies when your eyes focus on the scene just across the room—Draco and Pansy sprawled on the couch, now, Pansy riding him while stroking Enzo's insistent dick, his glossed eyes glued to yours, watching, just watching—

Blaise's hand is still in your hair. "That's it. Watch."

Enzo smiles at you, cheeky and fucking taunting before Pansy tightens her grip while jerking him off and his head tips back—

"Gonna' be good for me," Blaise murmurs against your back—his tip pressing against your dripping entrance. "Gonna' take it all for me?"

"Yes," you gasp, catching a glimpse of Mattheo and Theo just off to the side of you, sharing a smoke. "Fuck yes—"

"That's it, baby. Just relax," he cooes, and then he's pushing into you. "Relax and enjoy it—"

There's a sting as he stretches you, and keeps stretching you until he's bottoming out far fucking deeper than you'd remembered—there's a moan from you that gets tangled between your teeth, a gasp from infront you, a moan from someone else, and—gods, if Blaise doesn't start moving—

"Blaise—oh, fuck—"

Blaise gives a low moan as your walls flutter around him, a swear under his breath that's punctuated with a hard squeeze of your hip. "Good—god—Merlin—"

He pulls out just enough to make you cry out, shameless—and it melds with Pansy's from across the room.

"Shh," Mattheo steps infront of you, blocking your view of Pansy and Draco and Enzo. "Let Blaise feel you—"

—and suddenly, Mattheo's hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back, coaxing your eyes to his. His other hand disappears, down past his belt, and you moan again—wet walls squeezing Blaise as he slowly starts to rock into you.

"I wanna' fuck your throat," Mattheo murmurs, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. "Badly."

"So needy," your words are a breathless moan, but Mattheo doesn't seem to mind—he just grins as he unbuttons his trousers. "Can't even watch for five minutes without—"

"I know, I can't," he interrupts, and his hand's back at your jaw, gripping hard. "You've got me too fucking hard."

You're about to reply with another smartass comment, but Theo saddles up next to his fellow Slytherin and before you can blink his hand is on the back of your head, tangling in your hair, angling your lips toward Mattheo's now-exposed cock—

"Don't worry about the smart mouth," Theo leans down close to you, every intention of cutting off your reply. "We have other uses for it."

You'd probably roll your eyes at the phrase if it wasn't for Mattheo's dick pushing past your teeth and hitting the back of your throat so quick you gag— eyes squeezed shut as Blaise bottoms out, again and again.

"That's one of them." he adds with a smirk, watching you choke on his best friends dick.

You can't even think. Every thought that enters your head is immediately replaced with another moan, another sensation, another need, another—

"Draco! Fuck!" You hear Pansy cry out from the couch.

"Keep going, Pans," Enzo grunts, his voice sounding choked. "Just like that."

"She taking you good, Blaise?" The question comes out in a moan of his own—you think it's Draco—and you wonder idly who's doing what over there now. "Tight as I remember?"

“Tight and wet and—fuck—" Blaise's voice has taken on a new level of strangled, desperate, need that's almost too raw to hear it, and— "she's—good. She's good."

"That's it," Draco grunts again, like he's pleased to hear it. "She's an—oh, yes, Pansy, fuck—"

The noise from the couch is too much—you're not able to think past the fullness—the desperate, overwhelming heat that's consumed you, and that's when you feel a pair of lips at your ear—

"Does it feel good?" Theo's words are barely louder than a whisper, your gagging sounds almost drowning them out. He grabs your hand, slowly bringing it to his crotch. "Having us like this?"

Your fingers are clumsy, shaky as they wrap around him and try to push his trousers down—it's hard to see past the water in your eyes but once you do you're rewarded with a gasp and a low swear under his breath that sounds so damn good you want to hear it a million times more.

"Mmmfff." You moan around Mattheo as Blaise's fingers find your clit, coaxing you towards a high you're not sure you can handle—

"That's it," Theo whispers, moving your hand just the way he likes it. His fingers are tangled with yours while his free hand finds your hair again, shoving you closer to Mattheo. "Fuck. That's it."

Everything is spinning and whirling in the best way, the best possible way, and you know you're there, so close, but it's so hard to think, so hard to do anything—when—

"You gonna' cum for us, baby?" Another pair of lips at your ear, not Theo's voice, but Blaise's—ragged with his deep thrusts. "Gonna' cum for us good and hard?"

Your response, which most likely would have been something along the lines of: "yes" or "please" or "gods yes fucking please," is completely smothered by Mattheo—his hand at the back of your head alongside Theo's, fingers tangled in your hair, cockhead slamming the back of your throat over and over and over—

"Then do it," Blaise knows your answer anyways. His fingers rub quicker, his hips piston faster. "Now."

And it's in this moment where you lose yourself completely—the world narrows down to your body, every sensation flooding through you, and the fucking sounds—Pansy's moans, Theo's groans, Blaise's pants, Mattheo's swearing, Draco's whimpers and Enzo's fucking grunting—where you can't do a goddamn thing to stop it, not that you even wanted to. You do what Blaise told you, cumming so hard you see stars behind your eyes, and for one blissful, everlasting second—you feel nothing but pure unadulterated pleasure, until it all comes rushing back with force.

You think you hear Theo say "good girl" as your body tenses—shaking, trembling, clenching around Blaise so hard his pace falters and his hips slow and his thrusts turn erratic—and then you feel it—the result of his pent up passion as he slows to to an absolute standstill—spilling his cum deep into your cunt while he shudders against you, gasping out a curse that might have been your name.

"Oh, fuck," he groans, slowly—carefully—and you feel him pull out of you just as Mattheo moans, hands tightening in your hair, spilling his own release down your throat. "Oh, sweet Merlin."

It takes a moment for reality to filter back in, and you try to catch your breath in a way that's probably not very dignified. You're not quite sure what to do with yourself—and quite frankly, you're not given the chance to figure it out as Mattheo pulls out too and Theo slips up behind you—

"Come here, Bella," he murmurs, his lips at your ear again—he sounds like he's trying to catch his breath, too. Through the fog you remember that at one point you were jerking him off—and you feel the confirmation of his need still hard against your ass as he pulls you up against him. "There we go. Easy now."

You try to speak—you're not sure what you would even say—but your voice is as shaky as the rest of you, and all that comes out is a soft moan.

"She's—" Blaise's still trying to steady his breath as he slumps into his prior chair, trousers still half undone. "—she's on mars."

"I've a feeling we all are," Theo mutters, holding you against him. His fingers skim down your stomach, almost like he's mapping out the aftershocks. "Some more than others."

You can almost feel the way his eyes flick across the room with that—noting the way Draco's splayed out on the couch next to Pansy who's now riding Enzo and jerking a still half-hard Mattheo—

"Oh, relax," Draco scoffs, eyes shut and head tipped toward the ceiling. "I'll rejoin the land of the living in a moment."

"Sure, Draco," Mattheo huffs, and you can practically hear the roll of his eyes from here. "We'll be here when you do."

"Mm—fuck, Pansy—"

Enzo's moan cuts through their bantering and it's at that moment where Theo finally decides he's waited long enough—he grabs your wrist and pulls you away from the table, directing you to the couch where he slumps down and drags you into his lap, your thighs on either side of his—throbbing, leaking cock pressing against your cum soaked cunt.

You moan, and Pansy moans beside you.

"I think," Theo murmurs into your neck, his words as thick and as needy as his hardness, "I could get used to this."

"S'that right?" You try to keep your words cool, to be as unaffected as you'd like, but—there's no hiding the way your breath hitches, the way you move your hips just the slightest in his lap. "I can't say the same about your size."

"Take me at your own pace." He husks, a smirk you're sure is attached to the words. "I'm halfway there already from that handjob."

You'd laugh at that if you weren't still so breathless and shaky from before, so instead the laugh comes out as a needy moan as you slide forward, shifting in his lap until you feel his tip brush up against your already sensitive clit—

"Gods," you breathe out the word, bracing your hands on his shoulders. "Such a gentleman."

"Always," he replies, completely sincere just before his hands grab your hips and in one quick motion—he's guiding you down onto him. "Always for you."

You'd reply—you'd probably even say something that might be sweet, if you could, if the rest of the world didn't fade into a sort of pleasurable blankness as you sink down—down until the moan that leaves you is so unbridled that it should have been embarrassing if the whole fucking lot of you weren't so far passed embarrassment—because just the head of him is so thick and you're suddenly thankful Blaise stretched you out so deliciously because otherwise you think it'd be too much, too quick and—fuck.

You're still sensitive, and you know he can tell—

"Oh, she's tight." Theo's voice is low in your ear, his lips tracing your jawline. "Too much?"

"Never," you gasp out, offering some weak shake of your head. "Never too much."

He grins against your pulse, teeth scraping across your skin—

"Good."

He punctuates the word by sinking you down a bit more, the stretch of his shaft drawing out a moan from deep in your chest—

"And when it is?"

—he pauses, tightening his grip on your hips to pull you up slightly before sliding you back down—

"Tell me."

You're only half able to form the thought at this point—the other half of you is so preoccupied with the feeling of his hands holding you, his lips against your skin, his voice in your ear—you nod, anyway, and there's another moan from somewhere in the room—Enzo again, and it's more of a whimper than anything else.

"That’s it, Pansy, so good—"

"Feels good, Enzy?" Her response comes through gasps. "You like it like that?"

Blaise answers for them both—you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, slumped back in his chair with a new drink in hand. "Keep that up and he'll never leave that couch again."

"He's not the only one." Theo's words vibrate through you, and while you're not sure if it's the meaning behind them or the way they're sent deep into your neck with a hint of teeth, either way you have to swallow a moan before you can respond.

"Is that so?" You reply, doing your goddamn best to keep your voice steady as Theo's hips roll up into you again.

"It is so," he murmurs. "You think you can handle staying on this couch all summer?"

Summer. Hardly a week away. You think of the days and nights you're going to spend in this manor, in this room—in this room on this fucking couch—

His hands slip to your ass, guiding you up and down. "You think you could last another hour?"

"Mmm," you manage to get the sound out before he rolls up again, the perfect angle to hit that sensitive spot somewhere deep inside you and that's all you have to say before all other higher level thinking goes out the window. "Oh, Theo, you’re fucking deep—"

"I know," he replies, his breath harsh against your throat, his words lost between the moans you can't seem to keep from slipping out. "I know, bella, I know—"

Cocky bastard.

You lean down, pulling his head against your chest with hands in his hair and he follows. You'd think he'd try to pull back, just to say something witty with a smirk on his face—but instead he groans, his tongue flicking over your nipple and that's when you hear Mattheo grunt from somewhere beside you—

"Fuck me." His voice comes out as a gasp that he's struggling to keep from sounding strangled. Pansy's still lazily stroking him, multitasking while riding Enzo. "I'm so fucking hard again."

If you could manage a proper response, you might have said that was the idea—you'd probably have said something very clever about how you wouldn't mind letting him down your throat again.

You can still think, but the thought is a struggle, so all you manage is a breathless—

"Matt—“

"Mmm?" Hardly a hum—and for some reason it's so much more attractive than it probably should be. "Yes, princess?"

The way you shiver at the pet name is something you're going to have to examine at some point—not now, though, because if you have to put any more thought into any single thing you're going to explode.

"You—you—"

Theo interrupts before you can finish the sentence. "Fuck her, Riddle."

If Mattheo's surprise at Theo's apparent order is evident, it's masked by the moan he lets out as Pansy does something that must have felt especially good.

"I, fuck—I already fucked her throat, Nott. If you'd finish gatekeeping her—"

"She's got another hole, Riddle," Theo replies, with that self-assured tone that's too goddamn cocky to be legal and you wonder absently if he knows what it does to you as he gives a sharp, deliberate roll of his hips. "She can handle it, can't you, bella?"

You try to moan out an answer—you're sure there's a sound there—anything to let him know that yes, you not only can but that you're not sure there's anything you'd rather do—yet the words die before you can get them out as Mattheo is already moving—rough hands finding your ass, spreading your cheeks as he leans down to press a kiss to the dimples on your lower back. The sensation catches you off guard but you don't have time to think about that before you feel something wet—his saliva, you think—slick between your cheeks and then his fingers are there, rubbing and massaging against your tight hole—

And then, he's pressing a finger into you. "Oh—"

You're not even sure if your gasp is a reaction to Theo's movement or Mattheo's—all you know is that for a moment it all just combines into a whirlwind that seems to just drown all the oxygen out of your lungs completely—

"I know," Theo's breath is as laboured and rough as yours—the rumble of his words vibrating against your chest, your collarbone. "God, I know—"

"Jesus," another moan, strangled and needy, and it's not from you or Theo or even Enzo—it's from Mattheo. "Oh, this ass is tight—"

That's not something you're going to be able to get over—hearing that coming from him. "Oh fuck, Matt—"

"Mmm?" There's a smile in his voice—and you'd see it on his face if you were facing him, if all of his focus weren't so decidedly somewhere else. "You want me to fuck this perfect ass, don’t you?"

With that he pushes another finger into you while Theo wraps his arms around your waist to hold you steady to his chest. His hips cant up into you, and you swear you're on fire—Mattheo chuckles.

The sensation is so much you’re crying out again, his teasing turning infuriating. "You're a goddamn—ah—bastard—"

"Maybe so," he replies, with a smack to one of your asscheeks. "But a bastard that's going to—"

He stretches you out, pumping and scissoring slow, just as deliberate as everything else he does—and the moan you let out is enough to drown out whatever witty, dirty words you're sure he was going to follow that with—

"Fuck—fuck," the word is all you can manage as you brace your hands against Theo's shoulders, nails digging into his skin— "oh, fuck—"

Mattheo groans against your back and you swear it's intentional because he has to know what all of this is doing to you—what it's doing to Theo by association.

"Fuck, she likes that—" Theo's gasp hits you like a punch in the gut. "I should have—"

It's like there's a whole sentence, some snarky, perfectly articulate statement he had in mind, but whatever words it was comprised of are lost in the way he shivers—in the way his hips jerk more erratically due to how tight you're squeezing him—due to the way your walls spasm as Mattheos fingers keep pumping, stretching—

"Should have what?" It's a miracle you manage the words, and you're feeling particularly proud about the way it's more of a challenge than a question, even if it's half mumbled.

Whatever it is, he can't say it, and whatever retort you had for that is interrupted by the sound of a grunt—Enzo. His face is screwed up in pleasure, his breath is coming in ragged, uneven pants and there's a look in his eyes that looks distinctly broken.

Mattheo groans and pulls his fingers free. You feel the tip of his dick replacing them. "Can’t fucking wait any longer."

Enzo's eyes meet yours, then, and they're absolutely wrecked. "I'm going to—"

Pansy grins and moans out her reply. "Yeah, you are."

There's little else you can say—not that you'd have the words even if you weren't as lost as the rest of them. You just have a flash of thought about how you've never seen Enzo look like that before, open and vulnerable and completely at the mercy of whatever bliss he's riding right now, but then there's another feral moan escaping your lips—

"Oh, Gods, Mattheo!—"

Theo groans into your neck as Mattheo presses in and it takes merely two seconds before your eyes roll back—the way he sinks into your ass is a level of fullness you weren't sure you could reach, and even that's a thought that's too complex for you to process as your head drops, forehead pressed to Theo's shoulder.

There's a hiss from his lips, another muttered curse that you half catch as he bites at your collarbone, his hands moving back to squeeze your hips—

"Fuck, yes," Mattheo's voice sounds more strained than you've ever heard it. "Jesus Christ, that feels good—"

"Don't think the saviour would like you taking his name in vain," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room. "Not in this scenario at least."

No, he wouldn't, you think, but there's no way you've got the wherewithal to speak now—any focus you had is lost now that you're impaled on not one, but two cocks and it's like your entire nervous system's been turned over to the sensation of being so fucking full, so surrounded—of not being able to do anything except try to remember how to breathe.

It's not working very well.

"Mm," Theo's moans, fucking up into you nice and slow. "I think he'd understand."

"I think that's a rather blasphemous stance to take," Blaise replies. "Then again, given the scenario, perhaps that's not the most shocking revelation I've had of you all today."

"Blaise," Enzo groans, his tone somewhere between pleading and demanding. "Are you really going to try and have a conversation right now?"

"Just making an observation," Blaise says casually, and you swear that part of your brain that still functions can see the smirk plastered on his face in your mind. "Merely commenting about the depravity on display."

"Your commentary is duly noted," Mattheo breathes, his words punctuated by a low moan as he smacks your ass. "And dismissed."

There's a grumble of agreement through the room at that, including one from you, but all your words come out as a gasp—

Theo loves you like this. You can tell he's fucking savouring it. "That's it, bella. You don't need to do more than that."

Part of you wants to protest the statement, wants to argue that you have it in you to contribute more, but no matter how hard you try—and you do try—all that comes out around the moans is an inarticulate mess.

"Yeah, that's it," Mattheo groans, and you'd be embarrassed about how utterly ruined by all of this you are if you could focus on anything other than the two dicks pumping you in rhythm. "Just let me and Nott take care of your—mmf—tight fuckin' holes."

There's a whine that worms its way out of your chest and through your lips at that, and you don't know what it's begging for—just that it's begging, and all your mind cares about right now is that Theo and Mattheo understand that.

Theo's response is a moan of his own and a hand finding the back of your neck, his fingers wrapping around your hair. "So fucking wet—tight—"

"And taking us so goddamn well," Mattheo adds as one of his hands grab your ass again, spreading you open. "Fucking hell—I'm so close—"

"So are we," Theo responds for you, and the words are harsh and desperate and make your whole body shudder. "So—ah—so are we—"

The realization that he can feel how close you are makes you clench—walls fluttering around the both of them as they fuck you tempered—it’s only a few more seconds before you're seeing stars so bright you hardly register the sounds of Enzo and Pansy reaching their climaxes next to you—the feeling of Pansy crashing her lips to yours as she cums and moans into your mouth propelling you further over the edge, into your own ecstasy—

And if there were a way to describe it, you're sure you'd think of it later, but right now it's all just fire and lightning—pleasure wracking your body until you're certain you're not going to come down for hours. You can't really hear anything—just the rushing of your own blood pulsing in your ears—but as it starts to subside, your vision returns and the sound follows—your lips still pressed to Pansy's as Theo moans underneath you, spilling his release into your cunt while Mattheo is still thrusting slow—

"Oh my god," you gasp as you break the kiss, all of you breathing so hard you're sure it's going to take a while for the oxygen levels in the room to return to normal. "Oh my god, oh my god—"

"Mmm," is about all Theo seems to be capable of currently.

It’s a rare thing for him to be rendered speechless—and you'd grin at the knowledge if it weren't for Mattheo still thrusting deep in your ass—leaving Theo trapped inside your cunt, his length still twitching and throbbing within your walls.

"Still with us, princess?" Mattheo's chuckle is somewhat strangled, and the hand he's not gripping your ass with finds your hair again, tugging your head back to expose your neck. "You aren't done already, are you?"

If he expects—or even wants—an actual answer to that question, he's going to be very disappointed because all you can manage is a strangled half-moan that's a decent representation to how you're feeling right now—

"I think she's lost her words," Mattheo murmurs—and then it's like he realizes something. "Maybe we should test that."

"Wha—"

It's not a proper word, but you don't even have the chance to fully get it out before his hand in your hair is pulling your head back even further and you realize that at some point Pansy had gotten off of Enzo and he's now kneeling on the couch in front of you with his cum covered cock aimed directly at your lips—

"Clean me off."

It's another demand you'd probably be inclined to respond to with a snarky reply if you were at all confident in your ability to do anything other than open your mouth and let him press the tip to your tongue—

"Good girl," Enzo says, and the praise is delivered with that voice that sounds like it came from some dark place inside him, the one that's only ever really appeared in the privacy of these walls and with this group of people. "Taste your bestfriend on me, hm? You like that?"

It's a question you'd probably deny a few months ago, but that's not the case anymore—and you know that the answer would be obvious regardless, given how you've just proven you're more than happy to share them with her. So instead you give an answer that's a better representation of how you feel without having to admit it, and it only comes out as a hum of agreement as you taste her.

"I know you do," Enzo replies, and he's got that same smirk he usually has when he's got the upper hand, the one that usually makes you feel at least mildly put out—now it just makes you shiver. "Little slut."

Theo, who's still trapped underneath you and still half hard inside you, moans at that.

"Mmmm-" yes, you want to say, but you can't and the noise you manage instead, around the taste of your bestfriend on your tongue, comes out more like a whimper that has absolutely no business doing as much to you as it does.

Mattheo growls with a deep thrust into your ass, and the whimper turns into a whine as Pansy moves closer to you.

"You look pretty," she murmurs, her mouth pressed against your hair as Enzo pushes his dick deeper down your throat. "You look so fucking pretty right now."

There's something about that, the way her voice caresses the words, that makes something warm rush through you, wrapping around the bliss and squeezing until you're almost overwhelmed again.

Your eyes water, as you gag. "Mmgh—"

"Mhmm," her lips move down your cheek, next to your mouth where Enzo is still slowly fucking it, and it's like the action is deliberate—a way to show, without saying it outright, just how wrecked you are. "And you say I'm insatiable."

That's fair, because right now you're fairly certain you've never wanted something to continue forever quite as much as you do this, regardless of the fact that you know it's not practical.

"Ah, fuck—" Mattheo grunts with a messy thrust. “Oh, fuck—"

He's not the most loquacious person in the world but even he is having a hard time getting words out—and you're not much better, with the only sounds you're capable of making completely indecipherable even for you, let alone the rest of the room.

"Fuck—" with a final curse, he spills his release deep into your ass and Theo groans from under you as you clench as a result. "—yes."

The feeling of him twitching and spilling inside you makes you moan around Enzo, and he groans too—one hand tangled in your hair and the other tangled in Pansy's to keep her close—

"Mm, yes," Enzo moans now, jerking his hips toward your face. "Feels good—so good—“

—and close is an apt word because they're all close to you, all surrounding you—even Blaise and Draco's exhausted presence are felt in the background.

"I'm pretty sure she's gonna be sore for days after this," Pansy says, the words whispered. "I hope you all know—"

"I think she'll be thanking us for that," Theo replies before anyone else can. "In a day or two at least."

Pansy giggles, a sound that's soft and familiar and comforting even in this current state of being surrounded and overwhelmed, and her cheek brushes up against yours as the two of you peer up at Enzo—

"You're probably right." She whispers.

Enzo grunts, pulling his cock from your mouth and offering it to Pansy who greedily takes it in her own—

"Selfless generosity," Theo murmurs from directly under your chin having just witnessed that, and his tone suggests he's got his signature smirk in place. "How noble of us."

"Very selfless," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room again—and even as you're lost in pleasure you know that statement borders on sarcastic. "Absolutely nothing in it for any of you."

"Nothing at all," Theo replies, the same amount of sarcasm in his voice as Blaise's. "It's all self-sacrifice."

"Mm," Mattheo murmurs against your shoulder, before he pushes himself off you and finally pulls out. "Not even a shred of personal satisfaction."

You're still collapsed on top of Theo, as boneless as a human being can be, and a quiet whine escapes your lips at the loss before you can stop it.

"See," Theo murmurs, a hand coming up to run through your hair. "We've practically made a martyr of ourselves here. Selflessness at its finest."

"So humble," Blaise says, and you swear you hear the eyeroll that's almost certainly included. "I think this calls for medals and a parade through the streets. A holiday, maybe. Selfless Slytherin Day."

Enzo huffs—you can tell he's considering telling Blaise to shut up before he ruins his orgasm but as Pansy drags her tongue along the underside of his shaft, he seems to forget about it—

"Absolutely," Mattheo says—and if you had the strength to lift your head and look at him there'd likely be a smug smirk on his face. "I'd volunteer to be parade marshall, personally."

Enzo pulls out of Pansy's mouth with a gasp—and it's all but two seconds before he sprays sticky jets of cum all over your face and hers, his head tipping back as he does—

"I'm sure you would," Blaise says dryly, his voice coming from closer now than before. "I'm sure you would also volunteer to accept the medal, and then offer a speech about how humble you are."

"Mhm,” Mattheo sounds unbothered. You know he is. "Obviously. Someone's got to make sure the truth is told."

Pansy giggles against your face, then, before her tongue drags across your cheek, collecting some of Enzo's release. "Well, it's no good if you all are going to keep doing a poor job at the selflessness part.”

"I think we're well past the point of pretending we're doing this selflessly," Theo mutters dryly as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "If we were capable of that level of pretending, we'd all be in Ravenclaw."

Your hands find Pansy's hair, holding her close to you as you lick Enzo's cum off her chin and jaw.

"You're welcome to switch houses if you'd like," Blaise responds dryly. "Some of us were sorted to our houses for reasons other than self-satisfaction—"

"Oh, shove it, Zabini," Enzo says as his breath comes back. "You're acting like a bloody dad."

Blaise opens his mouth, presumably to offer some kind of sharp retort, but before they have a chance, Pansy cuts in. "If you're all quite finished with the pissing contest—“

"We've been done for minutes," Theo replies quickly, hand now stroking through your hair. "Now we're just bickering for the sake of it, as usual."

"Which means we've got at least another half an hour to go," Blaise mutters—before apparently giving up all attempt at sounding cool and collected and flopping down on the nearest open section of sofa.

"At least," Mattheo agrees. "Maybe an hour, if we're lucky."

Next to you, Enzo grunts out a laugh as he starts trying to fix himself back to modesty. "Lucky is one word for it—"

"I think lucky is an excellent term for the current state of things," Theo replies, his voice all smooth and silky and perfectly at fucking ease. "In fact, I'd be hard pressed to think of anything more lucky than getting to experience this."

Everyone is in agreement, at that.

[yeyinde]

Thinking about post-war/70s era Price coming home to an empty house (his wife divorced him while he was overseas) and a child he can't take care of all on his own, and snatching up the sweet little neighbour-next-door as a babysitter.

Temporarily, you stress, all soft smiles and polite little sir's that go straight to his cock. You're going back to university in September, after all. You have big aspirations that go beyond the whims of the men around you, ones who seem to want to confine you to the kitchen where your mother spent most of her life. And he can respect that. He likes people who have that grit. That determination.

But unfortunately for you, he thinks all devotion would be better suited to taking care of a family. Particularly, his.

NONCON. MISOGYNY. AGE GAP.

It's cute, though. The way you keep reminding him that you're going to college when he slips in sly comments about how good you look with his baby in your arms. barefoot in his kitchen as you make him dinner, his child on your hip, babbling at his new mommy. nervously stuttering around the notion that you're going to become something more than a mother, Mr Price. more than this deadbeat town stuck in the fifties, where women wearing pants is still an anomaly that makes men shake their heads and stare disapprovingly.

But you get these notions in your head. These little ideas he finds so adorable, and ones he sees no qualms in manipulating to his advantage—and why would he? You want to act grown, independent, then he'll teach you what happens to silly little girls when they get too deep in over their heads.

(like letting you think this is just a fling. flirting with an much older man is harmless, your friend says with a shrug. a little summer fun.)

And he plays into it, too. humming along dutifully as you stammer out that you don't want children when he shoves his hand under your skirt after steadily chipping down those walls of yours. Or that you don't want to be tied to just one man when he slips a little extra wine in your cup to loosen you up before dragging you upstairs to his bed. You want to experiment and enjoy life as a single woman while you're in college. And this is just a fling, right? Your friend said losing it to an older man was normal. perfectly okay as long as you were safe about it.

But he doesn't have any condoms, and you're too tipsy to put up much of a fight when he pulls you into his bed (beautifully obedient, as always). A nervous little tremble to your voice as you beg him for more—

(and please, please, please, Mr Price, don't put a baby in me—)

You're skittish around him the next morning, but that's fine. It's common for newlyweds, isn't it? And when you try to avoid him, pretending to be sick the day after—

Well. It doesn't hurt to remind your parents just who he is, and who he has stuffed inside his pockets, so he isn't too surprised to see you at his doorstep the next morning, wringing your hands as you apologise for getting sick. An indiscretion that's easily forgiven when you shiver against his hands, nervously asking how you can make it up to him.

(you want autonomy. agency. control. and he's always been the type to coddle, hasn't he? so he teaches you the most powerful position you'll ever be in next to him—on your knees, mouth wide open, begging for him to cum on your face like the naughty thing you keep pretending you want to be.)

It's a much better alternative than taking you over his knee like he was planning when you didn't show up to take care of your child the way a new mother should, and he tells you this after you put the baby to bed. Whispers it into your skin as he grips your hips and makes you take him deeper than you ever did before. Coos softly about places—

(and yours, sweetheart, is under him. takin' his cock like a good little wife should—

wide-eyed and shivering from more than just pleasure as he spells out your future beneath him.)

—something that seems to scare you a bit more than he expected when he finds out you sent your college applications out when he thought you had come to an agreement already. But luckily for you, he knows how to pull strings and keeps you right where you belong: with him.

Of course, the rejections come at the perfect timing, too, and he watches the fight inside of you dwindle to smouldering embers after your father pulled his funding, and even the local college refuses your application.

You just feel so confused, you tell him, biting nervously on your nail as he prowls after you. The baby is in bed. The other in your belly. His glass of whiskey after dinner did little to soothe his hunger when you showed up at his door with red-rimmed eyes and the ghosts of your father's anger snarling down at you. He, too, disapproves of college—and it's just so sudden, Mr Price, because he used to be so encouraging, but now, he's telling me it's not right, and i don't know why—

Everyone around you is pushing you towards the inevitable, it seems. And he manages to feign enough sympathy when you turn to him, teary-eyed, as your carefully laid plans fall to pieces under the weight of his own. Cups the back of your head softly as you weep into his chest over this craziness—this sheer madness, Mr Price, because surely you don't want to even marry me? god. you can't even think straight anymore.

but that's the problem, isn't it? he asks, rapping his knuckles softly against the side of your head before offering a smile oozing with thick patronisation.

"You keep thinkin', mm," he rumbles, chipping away the last of your meagre defences as he pushes you towards the bedroom—your bedroom, now. "Thinkin' 'bout things you don't need to, love. Not anymore. Got all these silly little ideas inside here—" his hand curls around the back of your skull, thumbs stroking your skin in a way that might feel comforting if he hadn't been adding a slow, unrelenting pressure to the cup of his palm. Pushing you down, down—

Your knees hit the carpet in a muted thud, and he doesn't even need to tell you to do anything—your hands are already there, trembling fingers unlatching the clasp of his buckle before clumsily pulling him out. Scared and cornered and with nowhere to go because he changed the locks, didn't he, mm? mum ain't answerin' the door? but that's okay. you belong here, anyway, don't you?

And really. You don't have much of a choice when you wake up feeling sick to your stomach at the end of August. belly already swelling with his second child. Your first. ain't that excitin'? givin' your little baby a brother.

He presses a kiss to your sweat-slicked forehead when he finds you hunched over the toilet that morning, cooing in your ear about how happy he is.

"and jus' think, sweetheart," he murmurs, eyeing the shredded acceptance letter sitting in the trash beside you, the one you tried to sneak past him, with a withering distain before aiming that dulled hostility back towards you, a mockery of a smile toying along the edges of his mouth when you shiver, pushing yourself closer to him. The only thing you have left.

"you thought this—we—would be temporary."

[kathaelipwse]

You Can Take It, Right? | S.Mingi

MDNI 18+

Song recs: Friends by Chase Atlantic | Take you down by Chris Brown | Say my name by ateez | Red lights by Skz |

Warnings: Heavy sexual tension, explicit dirty talk, mutual pining, teasing, best-friends-to-lovers energy, Mingi being a menace, mild language, hot & messy make-out session.

Trope: Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Friends Who Flirt Too Much, Slow Burn with a Payoff

WC: 781 words

Synopsis:

What starts as harmless teasing turns into something far more dangerous when Mingi decides he’s done playing around. Trapped between him and the couch, you’re forced to answer the question—will you push him away or pull him closer?

Author’s Note:

I had way too much fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy Mingi being an absolute menace with that dirty mouth of his. The tension? Thick. The teasing? Dangerous. And that payoff? Worth the wait. LMK if you want a part two! 😉

You should’ve known better than to challenge Song Mingi.

It started off the way it always did—banter, teasing, stolen glances that lasted too long to be friendly. You were used to pushing each other’s buttons, toeing the line but never quite stepping over it. Until tonight.

It was just the two of you, sprawled out on his couch after a movie, the soft glow of the screen flickering over his face. The teasing had started when he caught you staring.

"Like what you see?" he’d smirked, stretching his arms over his head, his hoodie riding up just enough to show a glimpse of his toned stomach.

You rolled your eyes, trying to act unaffected. "Please. You’re all talk."

That was the mistake.

Because the second those words left your mouth, Mingi shifted—his lazy smirk sharpening into something darker, something unreadable.

"All talk, huh?" His voice was lower now, dipping into that deep, husky register that made your stomach tighten.

Before you could react, he moved—one arm bracing against the back of the couch, the other pressing into the cushion beside your hip, caging you in effortlessly.

The air changed.

Mingi wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes dragged over your face, slow and deliberate, lingering on the way your lips parted, your breath suddenly uneven.

"You can take it, right?" he murmured, and fuck. The way he said it—like a challenge, like a promise—sent a shiver straight through you.

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. "Mingi—"

He hummed, dipping his head until his lips hovered just above your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, his voice a deep rasp that made your stomach flip.

"Look at you," he mused. "All quiet now. Wasn’t so cocky a second ago."

You clenched your fists, fighting the urge to squirm. "Shut up."

Mingi chuckled, the sound low and smug. "Make me."

Your breath caught.

He was still so close, his body heat sinking into you, his scent—clean, warm, Mingi—wrapping around you like a trap. But it wasn’t just his presence. It was his voice—the way he was dragging this out, letting his words settle over your skin, heavy and thick.

"If I touched you right now," he murmured, his lips just barely grazing your jaw, "would you push me away… or pull me closer?"

You should’ve pushed him away.

You should’ve.

But instead, your fingers twitched, itching to grab the front of his hoodie and pull. And Mingi saw. His smirk widened, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he let out a low chuckle.

"That’s what I thought."

Your patience snapped.

With one sharp tug, you fisted his hoodie and yanked him down.

Mingi barely had time to react before your lips crashed into his. And for a second, he froze—like he hadn’t actually expected you to cross the line first. But then he moved.

A groan rumbled from his chest as he kissed you back, deep and hungry, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. The shift sent you sprawling back onto the couch, Mingi following without hesitation, pressing you into the cushions as his weight settled over you.

His mouth was hot, his lips parting just enough for his tongue to brush against yours, slow and teasing. His fingers dug into your hips, keeping you pinned beneath him, his body pressing into yours like he needed to be closer.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips, breathless. "You taste better than I imagined."

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "You imagined this?"

Mingi grinned against your mouth, his teeth grazing your lower lip before sucking it between his teeth, biting down just enough to make your breath hitch. "Baby, you have no idea."

The way he said it—low, rough, possessive—sent a full-body shiver through you.

And then he was everywhere. His lips trailed along your jaw, down the column of your neck, each kiss punctuated by a hushed whisper, a dirty little confession. "Been thinking about this for so long." A slow, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone. "The way you look at me? Drives me insane." His teeth scraped against your skin, making your fingers tighten in his hair.

"Mingi—"

He groaned, his hands tightening around your hips as he rocked against you, his breath coming out in a shaky exhale. "Say my name like that again, and I swear I won’t stop at just kissing you."

Heat flooded through you.

But before you could respond, his phone buzzed on the coffee table.

The sudden noise snapped you both back to reality, your heaving breaths the only sound filling the room. Mingi didn’t move right away—his forehead still resting against yours, his fingers still gripping your hips like he was this close to saying screw it and going all the way.

You let out a shaky laugh. "Guess we got a little carried away."

Mingi groaned, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. "Worst timing ever."

You nudged him playfully. "You gonna check that?"

"Absolutely not."

You giggled, finally pushing at his chest until he let you sit up. But when you looked at him, his dark, hooded eyes were still locked on you, his lips kiss-swollen, his breathing uneven.

"This isn’t over," he murmured, tilting your chin up with his fingers.

You swallowed hard. "No?"

His smirk returned, slow and dangerous. "Oh, baby… I���ve barely even started."

---

[visdollie]

☆ having fun without me?

sum: vi isnt happy when she sees you posing on your insta story with another girl at a party

cw: wlw, angry sex, overstim, fem!reader, dom!vi, clit rubbing (r!receiving), dirty talk, slapping, name calling (slut), not proofread

fucked.

fucked is what you were when you realized the time. after countless hours of heartfelt conversations and a plethora of shots, you had gotten so distracted at the party that you forgot to get home to vi on time.

10:00 pm was the time vi told you before your friend picked you up. it was fucking 2:31 am. you already knew how impatient she could be.

"aw, leaving so soon?" a girl you met at said party whined at you with a tilt to her head as she watched you rush to gather your belongings and text your friend a quick "meet me outside" in an obvious hurry. the same girl you decided to snap a cute 'harmless' selfie with and post to your story.

you dashed out the door, leaving her a quick "so sorry we'll meet again soon!" before rushing to the parking lot, searching for your friends car with a look of fear on your face.

"im fucked, im so fucked!" you yapped her ears off, just watching her roll her eyes and drive you home.

---

shivers went down your spine as you steadily unlocked and opened your shared front door, avoiding making any noise in hopes that vi was just asleep, and would just penalize you in the morning.

you were practically on your tippy toes, but the creaky door did you no justice as it slipped out your grip and slammed closed.

"fuck." you whispered.

it was terrifyingly dark in your home. not a single peep or sound besides the loud ass air conditioner. you thought you were fine for the night, but no.. not until your girlfriend snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you back roughly as a yelp slipped from your lips.

"ah! vi.. you scared me." you giggled anxiously. vi could sense that you both knew the obvious issue which placed tension between the situation as she planted kisses across your collarbone.

"missed me?" she muttered on your warm, sticky skin in a malicious tone. you nodded your head, too nervous to say anything that could possibly anger her more.

she crept closer to your ear. "was having fun without me, yeah? takin pics with random girls, lettin them grab all on your ass? bet you had a great fucking time.. slut." she bit down on your neck, not hard enough to leave a scar, but harsh enough to taste the metallic flavor of your blood. you whimpered, loud.

"m sorry.. was jus having fun, n i didnt realize the tim-"

you yelped as she grabbed your wrist and dragged you down the so familiar hallway to your bedroom, muttering a rough "shut it. you saw this coming, baby."

the grip she had on your wrists tightened, her nails digging into your soft skin that made it obvious to you she was getting angrier by the second. was she angry because you got home late? or because of your oh so touchy friend? you assumed it was both.

all thoughts were snapped out of your head as she threw you on the silky, crepe pink sheets and immediately started attacking your neck with bites and bruises.

"mmh.." you whined pathetically, letting her take your brain over and dumb it down. her hand slid down your body, putting it up your skirt to rub at your clit at a rugged pace to make you more wet, as if you already werent.

your poor body struggled in determination to move away from her touch but her grip on your hips with her free hand kept you still. she lifted up from your collarbone, admiring the mess she made. "keep still, slut. shouldve been home on time, but was too busy out fuckin girls, yeah?" her pace on your clit grew faster.

"f-ffuhck.. was.. wasnt fuckin no one, vi! was jus havin fun.. d.. dont even know the girls name.. m sorry.." you babbled on and on hoping for some relief on your poor clit as she went faster each word you spoke. she had no plans of showing mercy, no way. she was way too pissed for that.

"yeah, right. she shouldnt have been touchin you like that, baby." a loud, harsh slap met your thigh, pulling a choked out moan from the back of your throat. "p-please!"

she felt you growing wetter through your panties, deciding to pause her steady motions to rip them off. she grinned at how wet you were. your pussy was glistening, practically reflecting off the ceiling light. you stuffed your face in your pillow in embarassment.

"so fuckin wet, its like you were waiting on this. prolly were, slut." she belittled you, listening to your whines of disagreement. her fingers rubbed up and down your cunt, lubricating them so she'd be able to fuck you senseless. sloppy noises of you pussy making her drip through her own underwear.

you keened at the feeling. "p-please.. fill me up vi! hurry.." vi let out a grunt of annoyance at your impatience. a rough SLAP at your pussy. yeah, that'll shut you up.

tears welled up in your eyes as you pressed your lips closed, a long whimper leaving them. "always so fucking noisy." your girlfriend quietly muttered before shoving two of her fingers deep in your cunt. "just wanna be stuffed full with my fingers, dont you baby?"

throwing your head back at the feeling, you nodded hastily. brain going dumb as she worked her digits in and out of you, thumb going at your clit. "tell me baby, did you do anything with that girl, hmm? why were you with her?" she spoke to you softly, as if she wasnt pissed a few seconds ago.

"w..was just a friend vi, promise! she.. haah.. means nothin to mme.. pleasepleaseplease.."

she snickered at your babbling, fucking you quicker as a reward of your honesty. you knew vi wasnt really worried about you leaving her. you adored her and she adored you on an unfathomable level, she just worried about your safety. (and had a big fear of other bitches growing crushes on you.)

"gon.. gonna cum.." you whined, legs trembling from how sore they were growing. vi felt you clenching around her rough fingers, thumb rubbing at your clit to loosen you up.

"cmon, baby. cum for me. let go all over my fingers.." her words made you sob out even more. you clawed at the sheets, cumming all over them with a long, drawn out wail.

she kept fucking her fingers into you, adding a third one. you started kicking your legs in overstimulation, whining for her to let up but she was relentless.

"tell me, baby. tell me who you belong to."

you doubted you could even speak properly due to the aggressive fingerfucking, but you made an attempt, tears dripping onto the sheets at this point. pathetic.

yet you tried anyway. "y..you vi.. belong to.. you.."

she faught back a laugh, removing her fingers from your cunt and planting a kiss to your forehead. you laid back onto the bed, immediately squeezing your thighs closed.

"you did so well, cupcake. but you arent going out for a while."

you frowned, rolling your eyes at her. secretly though, you didnt mind. if it means being able to spend more time with your girlfriend, you dont mind.

@ visdollie 2024

[sushirrrry]

NEEDED || a harry styles x you one-shot. word count: 3,138 content warning: fluff fluff and more fluff

summary: you plan father's day, & chaos is the only way you, your three girls, and harry know how to do it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You’d tried—you really had.

The girls had tiptoed through the kitchen in their little socks at six-thirty in the morning with wild hair and even wilder energy, whispering with all the stealth of a herd of elephants. You let them—smiling from behind your coffee mug as the older two argued over who would crack the eggs into the bowl, and the littlest just wanted to lick the batter even though you weren’t making pancakes yet.

It was Father’s Day today, which meant it was a whole Sunday just for Harry. Just for celebrating him, showering him with affection and love and showing him that all four of his girls could make him feel the most special he had ever felt.

Now that the girls were older, it was much more fun to watch them shower their dad with love—you found it to be exciting to watch their little brains love their father so much and knowing that it was everything he had ever dreamed of.

And the plan, in theory at least, was to let him sleep in, shower him in homemade cards and kisses, then spoil him rotten all day long without needing a single thing from him—that was his gift, relaxation. Just one day where you’d all handle everything—the food, fun, chaos. All of it.

This didn’t even last an hour.

“Daddy! Snake!”

Hazel, your six-year-old, screamed from the back porch like her legs had been bitten off.

You were holding a bowl of fruit salad in one hand and your toddler, Bea, on your hip—because she refused to wear pants and you were trying to preserve what little dignity she had left even though she loved streaking through the yard. You and Harry had decided to let that go, but you realized it may have started to become a habit with taking her clothes off just to go outside.

You were already sweating in the heat of the June morning. It was 8:47 a.m.

Harry came out the back door barefoot, blinking sleep away from his eyes, t-shirt probably inside out and hair all askew. He still looked stupidly good, which made you smile just a bit. It was the kind of good that made you want to grab him by that messy collar and drag him back to bed just so you could have him yourself—but Hazel was pointing toward the flowerbeds like she’d seen the devil, and you watched your oldest, Lucy, start to panic too.

“There’s a snake!” Lucy pointed, obviously not going anywhere near it either.

You groaned, not even wanting to look—if it was a snake, you didn’t want to know about it being so close to the house. “It’s probably a garden hose again, baby.”

“It hissed!” Hazel interjected, moving over to grab your waist.

Harry yawned, stretched, and gave you a drowsy grin. “Father’s Day, huh?”

You giggled, bouncing Bea on your hip. “Well, we had breakfast plans, I swear.”

He kissed the top of Bea’s curly head, to which she giggled and grabbed for Harry—as they all did. You had just gotten used to the fact that he was overall the favorite parent; you could understand why. “What’s a man need with eggs when there’s a reptile to wrangle?”

It hadn’t really taken much to get the snake out of the yard—yes, the real snake. Not the garden hose. The snake, a harmless garter snake, was gently relocated to the trees behind you home and over the rock wall with a pool net and a lot of squealing. Hazel stayed on top of the patio table the entire time like it was lava. Bea clapped like it was a circus.

And just like that, Harry had become the hero of the morning.

“Daddy’s the best snake catcher,” Lucy declared proudly, her eight-year-old voice full of awe. “Mummy would have let us get eaten.”

He knelt down, giving her a look, “Mummy is a bit of a scaredy-cat, but she’s also quite a tough one. Doubt she’d let you get eaten.”

Of course, that made Hazel giggle, and you shook your head as you watched her follow him back onto the deck. You took a sip of your lemon water as you sat on the chair and rolled your eyes at him, “I am not a scaredy-cat!”

“And now we’re going to cook breakfast!” Hazel chimed in, holding a spatula in her hand as you all start to move inside towards the stove to make the pancakes. “Without your help!”

You handed him a coffee when you got inside from the hot pot that was sitting, waiting for you to take it to him in bed, but now he was standing here in front of you. “Please don’t go far.”

He sipped it, grinning. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

By noon, the “we’ll do it ourselves” barbecue had devolved into Harry manning the grill because you couldn’t light it, Hazel almost lost an eyebrow when she stood too close to it, and the hot dogs slid off the plate onto the deck, as you shooed the dog away—but Honey grabbed one as soon as she could, regardless.

Harry gave you a smirking look as he stood by the stove, shirtless, in his swim trunks. You scrunched your nose back at him. You were flustered. The girls were giggling. And Harry was as calm as ever, with just tongs in hand, flipping burgers like he wasn’t being slowly pulled into his own Father’s Day responsibilities.

“Harry,” you said, from your perch under the patio umbrella, nursing a lemonade and your pride, “you’re not supposed to be doing everything today.”

“I’m not,” he said, glancing at the girls dancing to the speaker’s bubblegum pop mix. “I’ve got three assistants and a very pretty supervisor, who I’m now realizing, I dramatically underpay.”

Lucy ran up grabbed at his waist. “Daddy, the pool! The floaties are stuck!”

He raised an eyebrow at you, handing over the tongs, “You’re on grill duty, babe.”

“Gotcha’ covered, daddy.” You tell him with smirk, knowing that you’re both making an eye at each other under your sunglasses.

He sighed deep and quite theatrical and kissed your temple as he walked past. “Good thing I wouldn’t want to be needed anywhere else.”

The pool rescue mission led to full-on splash war—it was really a way to get him into the pool. You gave up on trying to keep Bea dry after she waddled in in her diaper. You had to tell Harry to cut it out after the third cannonball that soaked the surrounding area of the deck.

The girls were shrieking with laughter, spraying him with their mini water guns, and even Lucy forgot she’d said she was too big for pool games now.

“Team Daddy loses!” Hazel shouted gleefully, water dripping down her cheeks as she swam towards the edge of the pool.

“Team Daddy is outnumbered!” he yelled back, wiping his hair back off his forehead when he resurfaced.

You were sitting on the edge of the pool, watching him chase them around like he wasn’t pushing thirty-five. You caught his eyes through the mess of laughter and sunlight. He winked back at you, swimming up to your legs as you looked down at his big, green eyes.

“Having fun?” You ask him, feeling the coolness of the water on your legs as he comes to lean on you.

“They’re animals out there,” he tells you, shaking his head. “Don’t know when we acquired a zoo.”

“They, unfortunately, are our circus, and our monkeys.” You tell him with a giggle, watching as he pushes himself from the wall.

The afternoon was soaked with downtime in a chorus of protests, wet towels, and sticky popsicle fingers. You wrangled the girls into dry clothes, curled up Bea on your chest, and tucked Hazel into her bed for a quick nap—even at six, she loved taking an afternoon nap, after two books and three sips of water.

By the time you got downstairs, Harry was laying on the couch with Lucy curled against his side, her chapter book resting on his chest as she had proudly been reading back to him. He’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, mouth slightly open, arm protectively around her back as she laid next to him.

You stood there for a moment, heart tugging painfully. You loved him—you really did. Especially when he was pulling snakes out of the garden. Especially when the entire day you’d planned for him ended up looking more like a tribute to his problem-solving skills than a break.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe being needed was its own kind of gift.

Dinner was takeout—because you admitted defeat. Bea wanted noodles, Hazel voted pizza, Lucy demanded sushi, and Harry just looked amused while you FaceTimed the local Thai place and begged them to do a split order.

You all piled on the couch and surrounding areas afterward, the girls curled against him, watching Finding Nemo for the fiftieth time—of course, not a movie he wanted to watch, but a movie he preferred out of the ones they had given as suggestions.

“I had a different day planned,” you whispered to him over a plate of dumplings.

“I didn’t.” Harry shook his head, taking a bite of his Szechuan beef and looked over at you with a smirk.

You hesitated for a moment, tilting your head. “You didn’t?”

“I figured I’d be unclogging something or getting tackled into the pool,” he said, setting down his finished plate on the coffee table, “Being a dad doesn’t come with quiet Sundays. It comes with snake calls and princess parties and no hot food. But I wouldn’t want to be needed anywhere else.”

You kissed him softly, right over his smile. “We love you.”

“I know,” he murmured, eyes crinkling. “You show me every time you break something.”

Later, when all three girls were getting their clothes picked out for the next day, and the lights were low, and you finally got him to yourself—just you and him on the back porch, your bare feet on his lap and his hand tracing lazy circles along your shin—you looked up at the stars and said:

“Next year, we’ll let you sleep past ten.”

He chuckled, eyes warm. “I won’t hold my breath.”

“But we’ll try again.”

“You will. And I’ll get up again. That’s the gig.”

You leaned in, kissed the soft underside of his jaw. “Happy Father’s Day, love.”

And with the cicadas humming and the moon overhead, he gave your ankle a squeeze and said it again, so quietly and so full of truth:

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be needed.”

You stayed on the porch a little longer after he stood and kissed your forehead, murmuring something about checking on “his girls.” You let him go.

The warm buzz of the day still clung to your skin—sun-kissed cheeks, a satisfied ache in your legs from chasing barefoot toddlers through the yard, laughter still echoing in your ears like music you never wanted to turn off. You could still see him in your mind: soaked at the pool, tongs in hand at the grill, wrangling a snake with a grin like it was a fairground game.

But this part… this was your favorite. Watching him be a dad at bedtime was sacred. It always had been, because it felt like this was the moment you both had waited so long for—you remember every single moment with him in detail, and you never took it for granted.

You padded in barefoot, quiet, the hallway dim with the soft glow of the nightlights. From the doorway of Lucy’s room, you saw him seated at the edge of her bed, her chapter book in his lap again. Harry always went oldest to youngest, from each room.

She was sprawled under her quilt, freshly showered, hair wet and put in a braid to keep it from tangling. Her face was tilted up toward him, the freckled bridge of her nose wrinkling with curiosity as he finished a sentence. Her eyes were big—they were his eyes, truly—and locked on his like she’d never heard anything more fascinating.

He didn’t rush reading through chapters to get from one girl to another; he never rushed bedtime.

Even when he was tired, even when his back ached, even when there were dishes in the sink or emails to answer or things left undone. When it came to these few quiet moments—just him and his daughters, he never hurried.

“That’s the end of chapter twelve,” he murmured, setting down the fantasy book that she had recently been into.

“Can we do thirteen?” Lucy asked, already turning the page to see what was up next.

“You’ll fall asleep before I finish the first paragraph,” he teased, brushing her damp hair behind her ear. “Tomorrow. I promise.”

Lucy smiled, stretching her arms up and wrapping them around his neck. “You’re the best.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a second, like he was letting the words sink all the way down. He was letting this memory hold on him as he recalled how another year, they got older, and another year bedtime would be long gone.

“Love you, bug.”

You felt something twist sweetly behind your ribs.

In Hazel’s room next door, he found her sitting cross-legged on her bed in her favorite ballerina pajamas, trying to rearrange her plushies in some very complicated performance tableau. Harry dropped down beside her with exaggerated effort, groaning like his knees had betrayed him.

You missed what he had said to her, but could never miss the way that she wound up during bedtime; Harry tickling her until her squeals were muffled in his hoodie, and he just laughed—endlessly amused at her laughter.

When she’d settled back onto the mattress, he helped her line up each stuffed animal the way she wanted, nodding seriously when she said that Beary and Bunbun were getting married tomorrow and everyone else was invited.

“Even you,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Because you’re the handsomest.”

“Well now I’m definitely coming if you’re going to flatter me like that.”

She kissed his other cheek too and whispered something that made him smile. You watched Harry lean down and press a kiss to her head. He lingered there a moment, hand stroking her back through the blanket, before gently rising and meeting you outside the door.

“What was that?” you asked softly from the hallway, leaning against the doorframe now.

Harry turned, grinning as he caught your waist. “Apparently I’m the handsomest and the bestest.”

“She’s not wrong,” you said with a laugh, grabbing at his bicep before he kissed your cheek.

Hazel turned over and burrowed beneath the covers, already half-asleep.

“One more,” he whispered.

Bea was waiting, always waiting. Somehow your youngest had the keenest sense for routine, and she didn’t like when things deviated, but she was always patient with him as he had to go from one girl to the next. She sat in her crib, already holding her blanket in one fist and the other arm extended toward the doorway where her daddy’s shadow had just appeared.

“Da-da,” she said, sleepy and soft, her curls sticking out in every direction like dandelion fluff.

“There’s my bumble-bee,” Harry cooed, lifting her with a practiced ease, letting her cling to his shoulder and pat his cheek with her sticky little hand. “Did you wait for me?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, smushing her face into his neck.

You stood by the doorway, not daring to interrupt. This was their moment. You’d had your share earlier—bubble baths and brushing teeth, outfit battles and bedtime songs that lead to the girls giving their best Eras Tour performance down the hallway. But this… this part belonged to him.

She melted into him, her tiny body going limp with trust, with complete love. And Harry… Harry held her like he’d waited his whole life to be needed like this. And the truth was—he had.

You’d seen it before with him in the earliest years. In the way he’d looked at Lucy when she was first placed in his arms—like the entire world had been rewritten in one moment, because it had been. In the way he’d stood outside the bathroom door while you puked through every trimester, rubbing your back and reading baby name lists aloud. In the way he knew every pediatrician visit by heart, every favorite cup, every stuffy nightmare fix, every girl’s favorite bedtime story, every song they wanted hummed before bed.

Fatherhood wasn’t a costume he wore once a year to be celebrated. It was stitched into his bones and this was who he was meant to be—this was the best version of him.

And as you watched him lay Bea back down, tucking her in with her favorite blanket just so, your eyes stung with the weight of how full your house was, of how lucky you all were, of how deeply you loved the man who carried all of you in quiet, steady hands.

He turned back toward you in the dark, his expression soft and proud. You met him in the hallway, winding your arms around his waist. “You’re such a good dad.”

He tucked you into his chest, holding you close as he rocked you back and forth. “They make it easy.”

You pressed your nose to the hollow of his throat. “You make it look easy.”

He held you there. In the glow of the nightlight and the sound of the sound machine down the hall, in the soft thud of three hearts asleep.

You pulled back and smiled, eyes glassy. “You waited for this. All those years you said you’d be the fun one, the soft one, the dad who showed up for everything. You did it.”

He kissed your forehead, reassuring that he had made his promise, and was meant to keep it. “I’d do it again a thousand times over.”

“And next year…” you murmured against his chest, “we’ll try to let you sleep in past nine.”

“Sure, you will,” he said, chuckling, knowing very well that this would happen again next year. Maybe the next things would change as the girls got older, but he knew one thing for sure: he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You looked up at him, hand cupping his cheek. “Happy Father’s Day, Harry.”

He kissed you then—slow and tender. The kind of kiss that says thank you for this life. For them. For all of it.

Then he whispered it again, right against your lips, like a promise: “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be needed.”

[covenofagatha]

A New Addiction

You've known Agatha for awhile now but when you start working with her, feelings start to develop

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: oral sex, service bottom reader, caffeine addiction, praise kink, bit of an oral fixation, age gap

A/N: This is super specific and entirely self-indulgent lmao

It’s a stupid crush. 

Harmless. Futile. Foolish. 

You’ve known her for years. She’s friends with your mom. And now, she’s your much older co-worker. 

Well, kind of your co-worker. You’re just helping out on the side. It’s the swimming unit for the Physical Education classes at the high school you went to and you’re lifeguarding after graduating college just to make some extra cash. 

Which means getting to hang out on the pool deck with Agatha Harkness for two weeks. 

The crush sort of came out of nowhere. You’d never really thought of her in that way, and you’re not sure when things changed. 

Maybe it was when she asked you deep questions when it was just the two of you sitting there and she actually listened. Maybe it was when she teased you about trying an energy drink for the first time and getting hooked immediately and still encouraging you. Maybe it was when she told you that you were funny a few days ago. 

But you can’t stop thinking about her now and the way she tilts her sunglasses down to look at you with those bright blue eyes and the way she tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder and the way she nudges you when you say something cheeky but then smirks wickedly to dish it right back at you. 

It’s becoming a slight problem, how you always want to be with her. How the class periods that she has free just drag by and you count down the minutes until you might be able to see Agatha again. How you would do anything just to have her attention on you, even though you know logically that she’ll never like you back like that. 

But Agatha brings you an energy drink on Monday, tsking when your eyes light up and you immediately reach for it when she gives it to you in the office. 

“You are so addicted,” she sighs with a chuckle when you hand it back to her because you can’t open the can. Agatha easily pops it open, nails painted a deep red that contrasts nicely with her pale skin, and she holds eye contact as she takes a sip right from the opening of it. She’s wearing shorts that show off her long legs and a light blue shirt and you can’t stop your gaze from wandering down her body.

She gives it back to you and you try to ignore the fact that your lips are touching the spot that hers just did. 

“And yet, you’re just giving me more,” you say, grinning. “You like it.” 

Agatha snorts. “And you’re crazy.” 

You take a long swig and swish the liquid around your mouth. She watches, pupils dilating just slightly. When she looks at you like that, you think she must feel something for you. 

It looks like she’s going to say something else, but she doesn’t—she just smirks knowingly and picks up her clipboard before walking out and to the pool deck. 

This is her easiest class: not a lot of kids and they’re all strong swimmers. Which means you get to just hang out with her. 

You walk with her up and down the deck, mindlessly chatting about your weekends and how the kids are doing while swimming. Agatha’s lips quirk up each time you lift the can to your mouth and you pretend not to notice, but you can’t help laughing. 

She makes you feel so free. 

When the kids are done swimming and they have free time to play around in the pool, you and Agatha sit next to each other in chairs by the diving well. You take off your shirt, revealing your sensible one-piece just to get some sun, and you think you hear her breath hitch. 

It’s hard to ignore the warm feeling spreading through you as you feel her eyes raking over you. 

—

She walks with you up to the cafeteria during lunch and you’re hoping you can snag something to eat. 

You have a second energy drink in your hands and Agatha keeps making fun of you for it. 

“One day, your heart is going to explode,” she says while shaking her head fondly. 

Lifting the can to your lips, you smile into it before taking a short sip. “What can I say? I get addicted to things way too easily. I just can’t stop thinking about them.” 

There’s a look in Agatha’s eyes, like she knows that what you really can’t stop thinking about is her. 

The cafeteria is crowded when you get there. You open the door and hold it open for Agatha, who breezes past you with a quick “Thank you.”

It’s easier to hang back, so you do. But Agatha pushes through the crowd to get food and she comes back a few minutes later to raise an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you getting something?” 

You gesture at the line of kids standing there. 

Agatha huffs. “Go up there and get something. Do you need me to hold your hand?” 

Turning out your bottom lip mockingly into an exaggerated pout, you nod, wondering what she’ll do. 

She grabs your hand from where it was limply resting on your waist and squeezes it. “Be brave and go get some food.” 

But then Agatha drops your hand and you’re almost disappointed. You nod and she claps you on the shoulder before you push through the kids to pick up a paper plate with pasta on it.  

When you come back, she’s still waiting for you and she buys your food for you. You don’t really know why she’s being so nice but you mumble a “thank you” and she smirks before waving you along. 

A few girls from her class catch you both as you’re walking back to the office and you finish your pasta while they talk to her. After you throw your plate away, she hands you the rest of her food without saying a word to you. 

Once again, you have to pretend not to care that your mouth is eating from the same fork that hers was. 

—

You’re back on the deck with Agatha. It’s only her class in the pool—just how you like it. It means it’s just the two of you, no other coaches around. 

One of her students, a girl with light brown hair and black suit, is talking to you about boy drama she’s having, trying to stall having to get in the pool. 

Agatha laughs when you say something snarky and you try to ignore the way your clit pulses. Your hands are slightly trembling, a remnant of all the caffeine you’ve drank today, and you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you again. 

“All right, Jess, you need to go swim,” Agatha says and Jess looks at you pleadingly but you tilt your head toward her coach in agreement. 

She sighs but finally goes to jump in the pool and catches up with her friends. The air is thick with something now that she’s gone and it’s just you and Agatha. 

“How is your love life?” Agatha asks and you stiffen before trying to seem casual. You pick at your nails while she leans over the side of her chair. “Any guys?” 

That makes you snort and you turn to look at her. “I’m not really into guys,” you rasp, voice suddenly deeper. 

She picks up her sunglasses and rests them on top of her head, surveying you. Her blue eyes seem to pierce right through you, and although it’s really hot outside, you shiver. 

What is she going to say? 

All Agatha does is hum and drop her glasses back down onto her nose and you bite your lip at the silence. 

Should you continue that conversation? Tell her about your failed relationships? Ask her about her love life?

“That’s good to know,” she says finally and you stare straight ahead at the pool and hope that she thinks your flush is just from the temperature. 

—

Agatha brings you another energy drink the next morning and you think you get more of a high from her than you do from the caffeine. She’s wearing a green tank top and khaki shorts and you want to get on your knees for her. 

She opens your drink for you again and takes a sip before you can. 

It’s like she wants you to think about kissing her. Like she wants you to imagine it. 

“I hate this type of schedule,” you say. The kids have only their even class periods today, whereas yesterday, they had their odd. 

She smirks and steals the can from you again to take another sip before handing it back. Her fingers brush against yours and there’s droplets on her lip that you want to lick off. “Is it because you don’t get to see me as much?” 

It is. She only has one class out in the pool on days like this. You like the other coaches well enough, but none of them give you the rush that Agatha does. 

“Totally,” you answer sarcastically so she thinks you’re joking. 

Agatha taps your chin with a knowing look and you think she must know a lot more than she lets on. “Don’t get too bored without me.” 

“I could say the same thing to you,” you quip and are delighted when she winks at you. 

She takes a step closer to you and the air gets tighter around you. All you can think about is her leaning in and kissing you slowly. 

But she doesn’t. 

Agatha just gives you a crooked smile and walks out to get her class and you trudge to the pool deck for over an hour of boredom. 

—

“How was it?” Agatha asks when you collapse into a chair in her office after the first period of the day. You’re sweating already, even though it’s still early in the morning, and the sleeves on your shirt are rolled up, baring your shoulders. 

You groan and wipe your forehead. “Those boys are the worst. And you weren't there.” 

She laughs and it’s music to your ears. “I’ll be there next period, don’t worry.” 

It pulls a smile onto your face and she holds your stare for a second. There’s something different about the way she’s looking at you and talking to you. Like there’s a closeness now that wasn’t there before. 

Agatha doesn’t act like this with anyone else, at least not that you’ve noticed. She doesn’t share drinks casually with anyone else like she does with you. 

It has to mean something, right? 

Your hand is trembling again against the desk. No surprise after downing the drink and you can slowly feel yourself start to come down from the high. 

She abruptly slides back in her chair and stands up. You look up in surprise and she puts her hand on top of your shaky one. 

“I need something from the equipment room. Come with me?” she asks, but it’s not really a question. 

And you’d never say no anyway. 

Her office is connected to the gym and she leads you into the storage room on the other side. It’s big and filled with carts of footballs and basketballs and volleyballs and hula hoops hang on the walls and big physio balls are stacked on top of shelves. It smells musty but it doesn’t take long to adjust to it. 

Agatha walks back and forth like she’s looking for something and you don’t get in the way; you stand to the side and run your hands through the line of jump ropes hanging. 

You accidentally catch one of them with your fingertips and end up pulling about six onto the floor. 

Before even thinking about it, you sink to your knees to pick them up. 

Agatha stops in front of you and you just look up at her, dropping the ropes in your hands back onto the floor. It feels like everything goes even quieter than it was before. Can she hear you breathing? You can hear yourself and you don’t know if it’s really as ragged as you think it is. 

Her eyes are dark as she peers down at you and something just feels right about this. 

She must want you too.

She has to like you too. 

Agatha swallows, strangely and uncharacteristically affected, and reaches out to brush a strand of hair back behind your ear. It’s gentle and you almost shiver. Your mouth is watering. 

You could make her feel so good right now. Your clit pulses at the thought. 

Neither of you have moved. 

Will you just stay like this until the bell rings and then pretend that nothing happened?

But then she clears her throat and your eyes dart up to watch her lips move. “You look good like this,” she says, thick and hot and you let out a strangled gasp. 

Your hands are shaking again but it’s not because of the caffeine, it’s because of your desire. Your need. 

She sees it too and smirks. “You are addicted, aren’t you?” 

Addicted to her. 

Is that what she’s asking? 

“Yes,” you admit breathlessly and she grins wolfishly and starts to walk away. You watch her, dumbfounded, until she backs into the wall only a few feet away from where you’re still kneeling and stares expectantly at you. 

And then she hikes up her shirt and unbuttons her shorts and your eyes widen. 

“But—I—you—” you stammer, not sure why you can’t just shut up. This can't be real, this is just some hallucination or something. 

“Are you going to make me feel good?” Agatha asks nonchalantly, like she isn’t about to let you fuck her, and your world tilts on its axis. 

You whimper and nod pathetically and you don’t even care that you’re crawling across a dirty floor on your knees for her because you’d do anything for her at this point. 

How did it get to this point? 

Her thighs are soft under your quivering fingertips and you don’t care if this is a dream or if she calls this a moment of weakness or if you never get to touch her again. 

She tenses as you drag your hands up further to tease the edge of her shorts and you flick your eyes up to watch her through your eyelashes as you pull her zipper down with your teeth. Her chest flares and she reaches up to ruffle her hair with her left hand. 

When her zipper is all the way down, you find a hint of gray cotton underwear peeking through and you quietly groan to yourself. You tug on the waistband and slowly drag them down her pale legs. You can’t resist the urge and you lean in to nip at her thigh and she hisses. 

“We don’t have much time,” Agatha rasps but you move in slow motion anyway, tilting your head back up, eyes travelling up from her shorts pooled at her ankles to the damp fabric between her thighs. She says your name, a testament, maybe, to how much she wants this too. 

You could tease her; it would be payback for all the teasing she’s given you the past few days. 

But you need this as much as she does. 

Agatha lets out a small noise when you lay your hands on her thighs to spread them and you scooch closer to her. You give her one last look, just to make sure, and you only find desire on her face. 

You drag your tongue over her wet gusset and everything is changed between you forever. 

Agatha slumps against the wall and you moan unconsciously at the tangy flavor before sucking on her folds through her underwear. Her hips buck and you’re surprised by how turned on she is already. 

But you can’t talk—you can feel how much of a mess you are. 

You lick at her clit through her underwear which is now a charcoal gray color with your saliva and her wetness staining it. A thrilling high roots itself in your brain at the thought of her walking around in these the rest of the day. You hope she feels how soaked she is with every step she takes.

She gasps and her hand finds your hair. Her fingers tighten and her nails scratch against your scalp, pulling a moan from you. “Hurry up,” she grits out. There’s a longer break on days like these, but you don’t know how much time is left. 

And you’d hate to leave her unsatisfied. 

You pull back and scrape your teeth over her thigh before reaching up to pull her underwear to the side. Her wetness gets on your hand and you suck your fingers into your mouth to clean them. Her top teeth sink into her bottom lip as she stares down at you. 

And then you slowly move back to her cunt, like you’re being pulled magnetically. You breathe heavily, already craving her, and you think you die and go to heaven when you drag your flattened tongue through her folds, able to feel her this time. 

She fills your mouth and your taste buds are flooded with the best thing you’ve ever had and you close your eyes to savor her. Agatha inhales again and slides further down the wall so you’re able to get more between her legs. Your fingers are digging into her thighs and they’re not trembling anymore—you’re getting your fix right now.

Agatha gasps when you lap around her clit, teasing but not giving in just yet. She makes a muffled noise and her fingers warningly tug on your hair and you smirk against her hot center before enclosing your lips around the nub and sucking. Her eyes shoot wide and she clamps her other hand over her mouth. 

Your knees ache from the floor but it hardly even registers because you can feel her clit throbbing in your mouth and her head drops back against the wall and you know you’re doing something right. 

She keens when your tongue slides down to her entrance and then curls up inside her and her hips rock again. Your nose moves over her clit and she does her best to ride your face, as much as her position allows her to. 

Her walls clench around your tongue and more wetness leaks down the side of your face but you can’t get enough. You devour her, frantically mouthing at her pussy, and you still can’t believe this is actually happening. 

��Fuck, your mouth is so good,” she groans and you moan into her. She stiffens over you and you curl your tongue inside her again. She pulses around you. 

You say something into her cunt; it’s muffled and unintelligible and even you don’t know what you’re meaning to say. 

Agatha whimpers and pulls at your hair again when you move back to sucking at her clit. “Right there, fuck, that’s perfect,” she sighs and your tongue lashes against her. 

Her pupils have swallowed up almost all the blue in her eyes and her cheeks are a rosy pink color. The vein in her forehead that you watch throb sometimes is throbbing right now as she looks down at you. 

You’ve never felt like you belonged somewhere as much as you do right now. You could live under her desk with her cunt in your mouth and you don’t think you’d be more content anywhere else. 

Agatha’s fingers are gripping your hair so hard it’s almost painful and you relish in the fact that you’ll feel her phantom touch even after it’s gone. You’ll be sitting on the pool deck next to her, the taste of her still in your mouth, and no one will know. 

It’ll be your little secret. 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to come,” she groans urgently and it’s as close to begging as you’re going to get from her. 

Your teeth scrape against her clit and you dip your tongue back inside her one last time before sucking open-mouthed on her and flicking your tongue over her clit as fast as you can. Agatha throbs and her cunt is getting hotter and your nails dig deeper into her legs. 

“Oh—fuck,” she breathes and you feel her come. Her thighs tighten around your head and shake like your hands were earlier and she yanks on your hair. Her lip has to be stinging from how hard it looks like she’s biting it. 

And you just keep sucking and lapping up her wetness, drunk on her taste and feel and everything. Her noises are delicious and go straight to your own cunt and you want to make her make them over and over again. 

Her clit is still pulsing; you can feel it, and you think she might come again. She has a dazed out look in her eyes as she stares down at you and her breathing is labored. 

But she shakes her head and tugs you away from her and you reluctantly let her. You sit back on your heels, gasping, the entire bottom half of your face and nose slicked with her. 

She chuckles while she takes in the disheveled mess that she’s made you into and wipes her thumb against your chin, collecting her wetness. She holds it out to you and you eagerly suck on her, bobbing up and down to make sure you get all of it. Even after the taste is gone, you don’t stop. 

“Already addicted?” she asks, soft and teasing and this won’t be the last time this happens because you think she might be addicted too. She bends down to pull her pants and underwear back up.

You nod and there’s a smug, triumphant smirk on her face. She’s so proud and there’s a burning sensation that sears through your stomach. 

The bell rings and you’re reminded that you’re on your knees in a storage room in a high school gym and you have to go out and work. 

With Agatha. 

After she just came all over your face. 

You can still taste her and smell her and feel her. 

“Go clean up,” she orders and holds out her hand for you to take. She helps you up and your knees hurt when you bend them and she laughs when you wobble on your feet. 

She looks over your body one last time before nodding assuringly and then walks toward the door. She glances over her shoulder to make sure you’re okay and you follow her out with a foggy mind. 

You already can’t wait for the next time. 

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @500daysofmarissa @tobeawriter98 @hapuchika @r0se16

[81pastrys]

Jealousy

Summary— Her ex starts becoming more prominent, along with her harmless interactions- until Lando notices.

Warnings— smut ; serious talk ; rough sex ; aftercare ; overstimulation

A/N— short ik ik

Lando One Shots

Request— Hii, I love your works sooo much!! Can you please do one where Lando saw reader talking to her ex, then he gets so jealous that they end up having rough s*x???

It was an accident- the first few times. Now that it’s happened a lot more recently, Lando is starting to believe it’s not an accident. Her ex, who worked for SkySports F1 and seemed to find her at every race recently and they would end the conversation as soon as Lando or a current hookup of his came into their sight. It was suspicious and Lando didn’t like the guy to begin with.

“So if my ex worked for SkySports would you be okay with me talking to her?” He asked, he was annoyed, pissed, above and beyond the point of caring. He was all for her being independent and confident but with her ex? That’s different.

“What?” She asked confused. It was innocent talks, reminiscing on past things. Lando didn’t seem to believe that was it but he had no proof to hold against that it wasn’t so he just never brought it up.

“Well you seem to catch him in conversation every race, so I’m just asking if the table were turned how would you feel?” His insecurities were showing, vulnerability in his annoyed state.

“Oh baby, your jealousy is showing.” She said mockingly. Not that she was taking him for a joke but he sure saw it like that.

“Jealousy? I feel like all you do is talk with him at races, like I’m not one garage over.” She’s now realizing Lando was in fact not kidding and seriously was questioning it.

“Lan, baby, I love you. I would never go back to him, let alone ever cheat on you.” She furrowed her brows at him. “I can stop talking to him if it’ll make you feel better, seriously I don’t mean to hurt you.”

That eased his worries, not that he thought otherwise, but that she understood what he was trying to say without saying it. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to him as much as you do, but I won’t stop you. It’s your decision, your ex.” He shrugged still a bit annoyed they’re even having this conversation even though he brought it up.

“Lando, seriously if it bothers you I’ll stop.” Her words did no justice in changing his mood. “I want you to know that I wasn’t trying to be sneaky or suspicious- I honestly got excited to stop talking to him when I saw you.” She admitted.

Lando left it alone, there was break upcoming and he knew they would go back to just them. Well, that’s what he had thought. She begged to take her car out to the bar one night and Lando was confused. Usually they would take his car, his beautiful sports car. He obliged and they left however.

It was only when she became severely clingy to him at the bar- only two drinks in- that he noticed her ex standing with another girl on the dance floor. He sighed heavily and pushed her to a corner where he couldn’t see. His arm outstretched above her head and the other wrapping around her hips.

She felt small, the way he held her like this. His eyes said ‘spill’ and so she did. “I didn’t know he was in town.” She lied.

“Oh, so we took your car for fun? Not because he would be able to see that mine was in its place?” Lando teased with a knowing look. “Then all of a sudden decided you needed to be all over me as if he didn’t just get here? Hm?” The added hum got her to blush and bite her lip.

He kissed her forehead and tapped her ass. If she wanted to out on a show, he would put on a show. He dragged her to the dance floor, forgetting any drinks they had. He danced behind her but held her hips close, purposefully grinding her hips to his. “Lan..” She whined.

“Move with the music baby, isn’t this what you wanted?” He said into her ear. His strong arms helped her sway to the music as his hard dick was very much noticeable while grinding on her party dress. She whined and he decided that was enough for the night. “Home. Now.” He commanded.

The ride home was quiet, the low murmur of music playing and the street sounds echoed. Lando’s hand was planted firmly on her bare thigh as she looked out the window. His thumb lightly caressed her outer thigh the entire ride.

Inside was no different, shuffling to the room and getting undressed while haphazardly throwing clothes around. He was on her within seconds of them being naked.

He had her hands pinned up by her head with his and the other held her hip still as she tried to wriggle. She was giggling to no end. “So jealous.” She mumbled. He tightened his grip and she groaned.

“Wouldn’t need to be if you didn’t flirt around with exes.” He said low and teasing in her ear. He kissed her rough, teeth clashing as she tried to pull away from the rough handling. “Don’t go anywhere this is what you wanted, no?”

She panted and nodded, her eyes looking up at him like a lost puppy. He smirked at her and lined himself up, letting her hands free although she kept them in place. With a swift thrust he was inside her. A punched out moan spilled from her throat.

He watched her as he wrecked her in every way. Hands running down her body, kisses on her collar bone and neck, whispering the occasional, “Yeah, baby?” At her involuntary moans.

He noticed she was getting close and kept the pace and angle just right, watching her crumble. Her body twisted and contorted as her orgasm took over. “Fuck! Lando!” She screamed out. Her body shakily lowered back to the bed and his thrusts turned teasingly slow.

“Scream my name again.” He whispered warningly. The slow thrusts hurdling her into another orgasm quickly. Her hands finally moved to push at his hips, which was no use— he had the strength against them. “You know what to say if you want me to stop.” He reminded.

“Lando! God- fuck!” She whimpered as he kept the slow, teasingly, languid pace. It felt good, but overstimulating her over the edge again.

“That’s it baby, give me another.” He teased, looking between their bodies where they connected. He leaned back to settle himself upright, only to grab her hips and find that perfect angle.

She yelped at the overstimulating pleasure as her body shook with the intensity of her fourth orgasm. “Okay, okay, I won’t- fuck! I won’t flirt with him please!!” She begged. He smiled and set her hips down.

“I’ll take your word.” He compromised. “How many was that baby?” He was kissing her upper body while stilling his hips and her breathing calmed the slightest bit.

“Four.” She panted. “Four Lando, your number.” She connected the dots in her wrecked state.

“That’s right, my number for my girl.” The kisses subsided and he pulled away, returning with a wet washcloth to clean up the mess he made of her. “Quit flirting with him like you aren’t screaming my name in bed after.” He whispered before they fell into sleep.

I’ll have a lot of free time soon and I will put it to use- trust.

@il0vereadingstuff @kallanfiona @itznotsophia @justaf1girl @pandabiiissh @angelluv16

[deadprince05]

Excitement. Blue Lock

My headcanons of how characters will act if you arouse them

Characters: Sae Itoshi, Seishiro Nagi, Ryusei Shido, Reo Mikage, Yoichi Isagi, Rin Itoshi, Michael Kaiser

Sae Itoshi

You were supposed to go with Sae to an important event where many Italian stars were invited. Before you left, you and Itoshi had a little fight, the guy left without you, and you decided to take a little revenge on him. You spent a long time choosing your outfit and arrived a little later as a companion of the invited guest. When you entered the room, people's eyes were glued to you and everyone was whispering about your beautiful, but rather revealing outfit. A black fitted skirt with a cutout at the knee accentuated your figure and curves, an elegant shirt gave you charm, and high-heeled shoes visually elongated your legs. Sae was stunned by what he saw, because you had rarely worn such open clothes before. You walked confidently and smiled, knowing that everyone was looking at you. Because of the quarrel, you didn't talk to Itoshi, but you talked to guys who came up to you and complimented you. Sae was both angry at you and amazed at the same time, he couldn't stop looking at your bare legs. After a while, he suddenly took you by the hand and dragged you into a quiet corridor where no one was, pressed you against the wall and wanted to say something, but you stopped him with a kiss on the lips. The guy was a little surprised, but it turned him on more, he returned the kiss, hugging your waist and stroking your thigh. You stood there for a while until you heard footsteps approaching, so you pulled away from each other and went back into the hall. On the way, Sae said that he would continue what he had started at home.

Seishiro Nagi

You were sitting at Naga's house and playing games. He was very good at it, so he beat you in all the competitions, and you got bored of losing. You looked at the guy and decided to distract his attention by unbuttoning a couple of buttons on your shirt, as if you were hot, and sat down closer to him so that he could explain to you again how to play, even though you already knew everything. Nagi felt embarrassed, but he really liked the look of you, he started to show you how the console works again, but his head and thoughts were occupied with something else entirely. You pretended to understand everything and started the game all over again, Nagi tried to distract himself from you, but he couldn't, he played sloppily and lost, which you were happy about. Seeing the guy's reaction, you wanted to tease him even more, so you moved closer to his ear, starting to whisper something. Nagi couldn't help but hug you to stop it and not see your exposed body, he was very embarrassed but also excited at the same time, this situation is new to him.

Ryusei Shido

You decided to play cards with Shido on desire and at the same time drink some alcohol. It all started out fun and harmless, the guy sometimes tried to cheat, but you caught him at it and won. That was until you got too drunk to think straight and started losing all the time. At first, Shido wanted you to do something simple, like make him laugh or eat something tasteless, but this time he told you to surprise him. Without thinking twice, you came up close to the guy, looked into his eyes, sat on his lap and pressed your breasts against him. He blushed a lot, but still hugged you, and you licked his neck and started fidgeting while sitting on him, which made Shido as confused as possible. He couldn't help himself and laid you on the floor, looming over you, and then began to kiss your cheeks, lips, descending a trail of kisses to your neck and even lower while you stroked his head. You completed Shido's task perfectly.

Reo Mikage

You walked around the mall with Reo and chatted about different things. You wanted to find new clothes for the summer, as it was going to be very hot, and Mikage agreed to accompany you and help you choose. The guy bought you some dresses and skirts, but you still needed one thing-a swimsuit. Reo didn't know that you would try on such clothes, so he was waiting for you to come out of the locker room in another dress, but then he saw you in a bikini and opened his mouth in surprise. The bikini accentuated all the charms of your figure, so that Reo didn't know where to look, he blushed very much.

"Does it suit me?" You asked, looking at the embarrassed guy with an innocent look

"Very much," Mikage replied, hiding his groin behind the bags of clothes and looking away.

You smiled and went to change your clothes.

"Try on this outfit again at home," Reo said with a grin.

Yoichi Isagi

You've been dating Isagi for several months now, and you have a calm and moderate relationship, so you decided to live together for a while. You were lying on the bed and sorting through your makeup, but one of the items rolled away and fell. You reluctantly got up to find the fallen object, but there was nothing on the floor, so you decided that it had rolled somewhere. You got down on your knees and climbed under the bed, where you saw the lipstick lying around. You reached out your hand, trying to reach it, but it was short and couldn't reach it. You didn't want to call Isagi, so you continued to suffer until the guy accidentally came into the room and saw you in short homemade shorts in this position. You were twitching a little, trying to stretch your arm as far as possible, but you couldn't. Isagi tried not to look in your direction while talking to you, but his gaze always returned to one place - your buttocks. He blushed very much, told you to get up, took your lipstick out from under the bed himself, and then hugged you tightly and hugged him, saying that he expected a reward from you for your help.

Rin Itoshi

For no reason, Rin started spending more time outside the house and paying less attention to you. You didn't like it, but Rin kept doing it until you decided to take revenge on him. Today, Rin came in late again, as he had been training all day. The lights in the house were turned off everywhere, so he decided that you were asleep, took off his shoes, took off his outdoor clothes and went to the bed, where he saw you lying in your underwear, although you usually wear pajamas. The guy blushed and couldn't take his eyes off your body, and at that time you sat closer to him and began to scold him a little for being late. He nodded and apologized, but you didn't stop and got very close to Rin's face, gently touching his lips with your own, your light kiss turned into a deep and sensual one, rin began stroking your waist and back, and you held onto his shoulders. The guy pushed you onto the bed and continued to kiss your body, but you stopped him and asked

"Do you love me?"

"I love you," he said instantly

"Do you want to continue?"

"I really want to.." He replied sheepishly, but very confidently, to which you grinned and continued

"Then don't be late next time."

Rin was surprised and didn't seem to believe at first that you had decided to scold him in this way. He wanted to object, but he realized that he had acted badly, so he sighed, hugged you tightly and promised not to come late. After that, you continued what you started.

Michael Kaiser

It was evening, you decided to spend the night at Kaiser's, you took a shower, and he was waiting for you in bed. However, you were in a very playful mood and you didn't want to just fall asleep without incident, so the idea came to your head to make a little joke on the guy. You came out of the shower wrapped in just a towel, which was also slightly pulled up, and told the Kaiser that you had accidentally wet your clothes and now you had nothing to wear. He was very surprised by your outfit, tried to look into your eyes, but his gaze kept dropping down to your slightly exposed breasts. You noticed this, smiled, and approached the guy and asked him to let you put on his clothes. He blushed even more and looked away, but agreed to it.

Kaiser went into another room to find something for you, but on the way he turned into the bathroom where you were washing and noticed that your clothes were dry. He started wondering why you had deceived him, and his first thought was that you specifically wanted to go out in front of him half naked. He was even more surprised and came to you, your arousing appearance could not leave him indifferent, so the guy sat down on your bed, moving his face very close to yours, and said that he was already aware of everything. You immediately felt shy and wanted to explain that it was a joke, but he kissed you and you were unable to resist him. The guy started stroking your shoulders, deepening the kiss, and you snuggled up to him and hugged him tightly. Did you have a fun night

[lycheeflavr]

Heat of it 🐋🍊

pairing: Jealous!Choso x female Reader. Heavy smut, soft aftercare. Situationship-to-something-more. tags: PWP with feelings, Situation ship to lovers, possessive male lead, emotional smut, angst (light), hurt/comfort, jealousy, rough sex, praise kink, Dom! Choso, cream pie, aftercare, miscommunication, emotional vulnerability, reader-insert, nsfw, kind of mutual pining.  summary: You and Choso don’t talk about what this is — not really. But when he sees you laughing with someone else, it rips something ugly open inside him. He doesn’t ask questions. He just takes — until there’s nothing left but your name in his mouth and your nails down his back. word count: 3.2k

You barely got the key in the door before you felt it — the air, too still. Too thick.

The lights were low, the hallway quiet, but the second you stepped in and shrugged your jacket off, you knew. He was already here.

Your boots thudded softly against the floor as you padded toward your room, trying not to let your breath catch. But it did. Because there he was.

Choso.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, broad shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees. Hair pulled back messily like he’d dragged his fingers through it a dozen times. Head tilted just slightly.

Watching you.

“You have fun?” he asked, voice flat. Unblinking.

You blinked at him, confused by the tone more than the question. “What—yeah, I guess. Why?”

His head cocked a little to the other side. Like a predator assessing.

“Who was he?”

You paused mid-step, purse still half-on your shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not fucking stupid.”

The words weren’t loud. But they hit like a closed fist.

You squinted at him. “Okay, seriously—what is this? Some kind of interrogation? I went out with some friends, that’s it.”

He stood up slowly. Like every inch of him wanted to go for your throat but was trying very hard not to. You felt the heat roll off of him — jealousy not loud or obvious, but boiling underneath. A quiet storm with no lightning strike yet.

“I heard you,” he said, voice low. “Laughing on the phone. Talking about how he was cute. How he bought you a drink.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Choso, are you serious? That was some random guy—he was harmless. It wasn’t like that.”

He moved then. Not fast, not violent — just deliberate. Each step closing the distance, forcing your back toward the wall without even touching you yet. You could feel it in your spine: the tension in him wound up so tight it made your skin prickle.

“You think that makes it better?” he asked, stopping just inches from you now. His voice dropped even lower — dangerous and silk-slick. “That it was some random guy?”

Your breath caught. You hated how your body responded to this. The way heat bloomed low in your belly like it always did when he got like this. The way he made you feel like you were the only thing he could see, the only thing that existed.

You lifted your chin, trying not to show it. “You’re not my boyfriend, Choso.”

His eyes narrowed.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m not.”

Then his hand came up — slow, careful — and curled around your jaw. Not rough. But firm. Like a warning.

“But you let me fuck you like I am.”

That hit somewhere deep. Shame and arousal twisted together so tight you almost swayed.

Your voice cracked. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means everything.”

He was closer now. You could feel the ghost of his breath against your lips. His thumb dragged down your bottom lip, tugging it gently.

“You want to fuck around, fine,” he murmured. “But don’t lie to me. Don’t pretend you don’t know what this is.”

His hand slid from your jaw to your neck, resting there. Not squeezing. Just… claiming.

“And don’t pretend you don’t love it when I get like this.”

Your thighs clenched before you could stop them. And he saw. Of course he saw.

His mouth curved into something dark.

“That’s what I thought.”

Your heart was thudding now. Loud in your ears. Or maybe that was just how close he was — how his presence filled the room like smoke, like heat, like something you shouldn’t want but craved anyway.

You didn’t move. Not when his fingers tightened slightly on your neck, not when his eyes dropped to your lips again like he was trying to decide if he wanted to kiss you or ruin you.

You tried to sound steadier than you felt. “Are you gonna keep posturing or actually say what’s on your mind?”

He laughed. Quiet. Dark.

“You want me to say it?” His thumb dragged under your jaw, lifting your chin just enough. “Fine. I don’t like the idea of anyone else looking at you. Touching you. Even talking to you like they’ve got a fucking chance.”

You swallowed. “So you’re jealous.”

“No,” he snapped. Then caught himself. Breathed through his nose. “No. I’m territorial. There's a difference.”

You tilted your head back slightly, exposing more of your throat, whether consciously or not. “You don’t own me, Choso.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at you. Like the words had lodged somewhere deep and painful.

And then—

His hand dropped from your throat.

Only to slam against the wall behind you a second later — palm flat, caging you in, his body crowding yours. Not touching you fully, not yet, but you felt it. The crackle of it. The heat radiating off him, barely restrained.

“You keep saying shit like that,” he growled, low and lethal, “but you moan like you’re mine every time I’m inside you.”

You flinched. Not from fear — from how true it was. How easily he got to you.

Your back hit the wall as he stepped in closer, chest brushing yours. His other hand curled around your waist, not pulling — just holding. His grip flexed like he was fighting himself.

“Say it,” he said, almost under his breath. “Say you didn’t want him.”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught.

And Choso saw that, too.

His eyes flashed.

“That’s what I fucking thought.”

He moved fast this time — not violent, just decisive. Your back hit the wall a little harder as he pressed you fully against it, hips pinning yours, his body flush against you now. Solid and warm and overwhelming.

His mouth was right next to your ear.

“You really think he could touch you like I do?” he whispered. “Think he could even get you wet?”

You sucked in a breath, your hands coming up instinctively — not to push him away, but to anchor yourself.

“I didn’t do anything,” you said, voice shaking now. “He just—he was there. I didn’t even want—”

“Bullshit.” His mouth dragged down your jaw, hot breath against your skin. “You liked the attention. You wanted me to see. You wanted me like this.”

Your thighs clenched. His grip on your waist tightened.

“God, you’re fucking twisted,” you whispered.

His teeth scraped your throat.

“Only for you.”

Then his hand dropped, sliding down your side, slow and rough through the fabric of your clothes. Not groping. Not yet. Just touching. Mapping. Remembering.

You felt his voice when he spoke again — deep in your chest, down your spine.

“Open your mouth.”

You hesitated. Just a second. And that second cost you.

Because his hand gripped your jaw again, firmer now, tilting your face to his.

“I said open your fucking mouth.”

You obeyed. Without thinking. Without questioning.

And his fingers — two of them — slid between your lips. Pressed to your tongue, slow and heavy. Not deep. Just enough to make your eyes flutter, to feel the weight of him. The intent.

“Good girl,” he muttered. His eyes burned. “Now stay like that.”

Your breath caught, a soft noise muffled by his fingers.

His hand still gripped your hip. His leg slid between yours, thigh pressing against the heat there — and god, he felt it. You knew he did. You knew the way your body betrayed you.

“Look at that,” he breathed. “Already soaking.”

His fingers pushed a little deeper. His other hand slid around to your lower back, dragging you closer, grinding you against him now, and the friction was obscene. Too much, not enough, like being dragged under by a tide that spoke your name.

You whimpered, eyes rolling slightly, and he smirked.

“You don’t need anyone else, do you?” he asked, withdrawing his fingers slowly. Your lips stayed parted, wet and swollen. “You never did.”

You shook your head, dizzy, dazed.

And still — he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t touch you where you needed him.

Just let the tension hang, breath to breath, as if daring you to beg.

“Bed. Now.”

You barely had time to breathe before Choso’s hands were on you again — dragging, not gently, toward the mattress. Every step back you took, he followed. Eyes on you like prey, his body a storm ready to break.

You hit the edge of the bed, and before you could steady yourself, he pushed you backward, flat onto your back. The air rushed out of your lungs with the force.

He stood at the foot of the bed, panting, jaw tight, his hands shaking as he pulled his shirt off over his head. Eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re gonna say it,” he growled. “Before I’m done with you. You’re gonna say you’re mine.”

You opened your mouth, but the words never came. Just a gasp — because he was already on you again, crawling over your body like he was claiming it.

“You liked him looking at you?” he spat, mouth against your jaw, your throat. “You think he could make you cum like I can?”

His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding the heat there instantly.

“Already fucking soaked. Fuck.”

He pushed your underwear aside with rough fingers, dragging two fingers through the slick mess he’d made of you.

“This is mine,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Say it.”

You whimpered.

He pressed a palm hard against your cunt, just to feel how hot it was — and then slapped it once. Sharp. Not enough to hurt, just to make your body jolt and your eyes fly open.

“I said,” he hissed, “say it.”

You choked on a breath. “Yours—fuck—yours, it’s yours—”

“Damn right.”

He shoved your thighs open wider, burying himself between them like he’d die without it. Tongue flat against your cunt, he licked a stripe up the center, groaning like he hadn’t eaten in days and you were the only thing left to survive on.

You cried out, hips twitching. “Choso—!”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t ease up. His tongue worked you like a threat, like a warning — the kind of head that made your vision spark white and your fingers claw the sheets. One hand gripped your thigh. The other was pressed flat over your lower belly, holding you down.

He came up for air only when your thighs started to tremble. Lips and chin slick with you.

Then he kissed your inner thigh. Once. Soft.

Before sinking his teeth into it hard enough to leave a mark.

Your cry turned into a moan. Pain and pleasure blurred into something shameless.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Get up.”

“What—?”

“I wanna see you. Get the fuck up.”

You moved, shaky and dazed, and he manhandled you until you were on all fours, crawling toward the headboard, legs shaking. You reached it and turned just as he knelt behind you, grabbing your hips, yanking you back.

Your cheek pressed to the mattress as you felt him rub his cock through your folds — thick and hard, dragging through the mess he made.

Then—smack. He slapped it against your cunt. Once. Twice. Cruel and slow.

You gasped at the humiliation of it — the sound so loud in the quiet room.

“Feel that?” he muttered. “That’s what you need. Not some punk talking pretty in a hallway.”

He lined up. Pushed in.

Not gentle.

He buried himself in one slow, brutal thrust, hips snapping forward until his thighs met yours. You arched, mouth open, moaning something that didn’t sound like a real word.

“Fucking tight,” he breathed. “Like you were waiting for me to do this.”

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there. Deep inside, cock pulsing, letting the stretch ache. His hands gripped your waist so hard you knew you’d bruise.

And then he started to move.

Rhythmic. Deep. Mean.

You weren’t quiet anymore. Couldn’t be. Every thrust punched little breathless sounds out of you, broken moans, choked cries, the slap of his skin against yours echoing filthy through the room.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Take it. Take all of me. Fuck—this pussy was made for me.”

His hand wrapped around your throat from behind, pulling you back into an arch. His chest was warm on your back, breath ragged in your ear.

“You hear me?” he snarled. “Say it. Say this pussy’s mine.”

You tried to speak, but nothing came — just a whimper, a half-sob, because your mind had already gone somewhere high and dizzy.

He laughed. It was breathless. Wild. Almost cruel.

“You can’t even talk. Look at you.”

His grip tightened. His other hand came around to rub your clit — fast, hard, like he wanted to drag it out of you, make you cum around him so hard you forgot your own name.

“You want him now?” he asked, voice dark with mockery. “You think he’d make you cum like this?”

You sobbed, full body trembling. “No—Choso—please—fuck—”

He pushed deeper, changing the angle, and you screamed.

“Who’s it for?” he demanded, snarling into your neck. “Say it.”

“You,” you gasped. “You, it’s yours—yours—!”

“That’s right.”

You barely had time to recover before he was hauling you up again, dragging you up until your knees were off the bed, your back against his chest. One arm around your ribs, the other gripping your face, turning it to the mirror.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Watch me fuck you.”

And you did.

You saw the flushed mess of your face, your mouth open, drool on your lip. Saw your thighs trembling. His hand around your throat, his hips slamming up into you.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, low and final. “You’re mine now. You always were.”

Your eyes rolled back. He knew you were close.

“Cum,” he growled. “Cum for me.”

And you did — hard, your whole body seizing, his name torn from your throat as you came around him, walls squeezing him so tight he nearly lost it.

But he wasn’t done.

He held you through it. Let you shake. Let you cry out.

Then slammed you back down onto the bed again — face-first, used, marked, shaking — and fucked into you with wild, brutal need until he came too. Groaning your name, biting your shoulder as he buried himself deep and spilled inside you.

Hot. Endless.

Like he needed to mark you from the inside out.

You lay there, shaking, wrecked.

And Choso kissed the spot between your shoulder blades.

Still breathless. Still possessive.

“Mine.”

The room was hot with the scent of sex, thick and heavy in the air. Your breath still hadn’t evened out — neither had his. Sweat clung to your skin, sticking your chest to the sheets. You weren’t sure if you were trembling from the aftershocks or from the weight of what just happened.

Choso didn’t say anything at first.

Just hovered above you, his body still pressed flush against your back, breath rough in your ear. He pulled out slow, careful — and even that made you whimper.

You felt the heat of him leaking out, the mess of it, the ache in your thighs and spine.

Still, silence.

Then the mattress dipped as he moved beside you, dragging you into his chest, one arm tight around your waist, the other cradling your head like he needed to make sure none of you could vanish. His heart thundered against your cheek.

Not gentle — not quite — but not rough either. Just desperate.

Possessive.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

But his hand kept moving. Over your back. Your shoulder. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiped the sweat from your temple. He looked at you like you were something he could lose if he blinked wrong.

Finally, he muttered, voice hoarse:

“Don’t want to lose you.”

It was barely above a whisper.

You blinked. Lifted your head just enough to look at him.

His face was tight. Like it cost him something to say it. Like he hated himself for it but couldn’t keep it in.

Your voice cracked when it came out.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He didn’t answer.

Just pulled you in tighter.

And buried his face in your neck.

small bonus scene hihi 🤭 (with some well-deserved aftercare)

You woke to warmth. Not just the sun, though golden light stretched lazily across the sheets. No, it was him — his body wrapped around yours like a second blanket, face buried against your shoulder, his arm heavy across your stomach. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, the deep, even breaths of real sleep.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

His fingers twitched against your waist in his sleep, like they couldn’t stand to not be touching you — even unconscious.

You lay there for a long moment, just breathing. Sore in the best way. Skin humming with leftover heat. Everything ached, but nothing hurt.

Choso shifted slightly behind you, and you thought he might still be asleep — until his arm tightened.

“…You okay?”

His voice was gravel, low and rough with sleep. You turned your head a little to look back at him.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Are you?”

He was quiet. Then:

“…Didn’t mean to go that hard.”

You could hear it — the tight edge under the words. Guilt, maybe. Or fear you’d pull away now that the fog had cleared. That you’d look at him and see only the monster in the jealousy.

You reached back, found his hand where it was resting on your stomach, and tangled your fingers with his.

“I liked it,” you said. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. Pressed his forehead to your shoulder.

“…Good.”

You turned over slowly to face him. His hair was a mess, dark strands sticking to his forehead. His eyes, though sleepy, looked more open than usual. Like the walls had slipped.

You reached up, brushing his bangs out of his face.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you said softly.

Choso didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you like you’d said something foreign — something he didn’t know how to trust, but wanted to. So badly.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“I’ve never wanted something like this before.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Didn’t think I could.”

You moved closer, pressing your forehead to his. Letting the silence wrap around you both again.

He kissed you then. Nothing like last night — not hungry, not demanding. Just lips pressed to yours in a warm, lingering drag, like he was trying to memorize you in daylight.

When he pulled back, he whispered:

“Stay.”

Your smile was soft. Certain.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

authors note: well, what can I say... I was thinking about choso and this is what came out of it. Also tried something new, something a little rougher, so I hope y'all still like it <3 reqs are open :)

[crowsofdarkness]

Beach day with some of the Avengers turns into a little private time with Bucky.

18+ CW's below the cut(public sex, p in v, Bucky not being able to wait for you any longer)

The sun beat down on my bare back, covered by the thin material of my swimsuit; a cute olive green one. I adjusted my position from my stomach to lay on my back, needing to tan my front side. Things have been slow with the Avengers so some of us decided to spend it at the lake. All of us had been working extremely hard the last week so a day outside relaxing in the sun, I was eager to get there.

“Did you reapply sunscreen?” 

Raising my sunglasses, I raised myself on my elbows as I lay on the blanket in the sand to look over at Steve who was holding up a bottle of sunscreen. 

“Depends, are you asking to reapply for me?” I teased with a sly smile. 

He snorted before tossing me the bottle, me catching it mid air. My casual flirty banter was what I was known for. It was all in good fun and made things comfortable for me to be in a group of guys, most of them either Gods or super soldiers; as weird as that sounded. Everyone here made me feel welcomed when I first started six months ago which I was grateful for. They were all great friends of mine and the flirting was all harmless. 

Well, all were harmless but for one. 

As I rubbed the sunscreen into my red skin thanks to the tanning, I peered through my sunglasses over towards Bucky who was resting in the water on a raft, water droplets falling off his vibranium arm. I nibbled on my bottom lip when I noticed Bucky was already watching me rub the sunscreen into the skin above my breasts. 

Things between us were different from the rest. 

It was always stolen glances, lingering touches, and the occasional finding ourselves stuck in an enclosed space together. But that’s all it ever was, much to my dismay. It was pretty evident I had feelings for Bucky but was too shy with him to take it a step further mostly because it wasn’t clear what he wanted. 

Sure he would let his eyes burn as he drank me in or would playfully smirk at me when I was walking around the Avengers tower. But he’d never come out right and say anything. 

Noticing he was still watching me, I decided to test the waters with my plan and spread the sunscreen lower in the valley of my breasts. I slowly worked it into the skin while peeling away the fabric of my swimsuit slightly to press the sunscreen into the skin there. I wasn’t showing my full breasts but due to the angle where Bucky was floating in the water, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind he got a little peek. 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips and slowly began rising out of the water to walk up the sand towards me. Swallowing thickly, I glanced at him as he blocked the sun's rays with his large form. 

“Do you need me to get your back?” His voice was strained, almost as if he was trying to hold himself back. 

Phase one of my plan? Check. 

I took a deep breath to gather my courage, pushing away my nerves, and shook the bottle at him. “Do you mind?” 

Our fingers brushed when he took the bottle from me and I felt a spark surge through me when he motioned for me to lay back on my stomach. He sat on the back of my knees, both of his locking me in place on either side of me. The water dripped from his soaked shorts onto my skin, making me shiver. The water had been freezing when we first arrived a few hours ago and I refused to dip my toes in it. 

“Sorry,” Bucky chuckled when he noticed me shivering underneath him. 

But it wasn’t only for the water but because of how he felt on top of me when he worked in the sunscreen on my back, working out the tense muscles as he went. I had to bite back a moan not only because of his fingers dragging down my back but because it truly felt euphoric as he massaged my back. Especially with his vibranium fingers.

“Is this okay?” He wondered, moving his hands lower. 

My swimsuit was a one piece but a lower exposed back and the bottom pulled up between my ass cheeks, almost like a thong. 

“Just as long as you cover all of me. I don’t need a handprint being tanned into my ass because you missed it,” I teased while looking over my shoulder at him. 

Bucky’s eyes met mine and darted his tongue out to wet his lips when I mentioned my ass. His fingers ghosted over it, a teasing gleam in his eyes now. I froze under his touch, not because he was about to touch my ass, but the fact he could possibly see the wet spot between my legs. Teasing him and then having his hand all over me had worked me up and I couldn’t help the way my body reacted. 

The rest of the group had parted from the beach and were all swimming in the water, meaning they couldn't hear us. Or see what we were doing unless they were close by. To them, it seemed like Bucky was innocently applying sunscreen to my back for me. But to us, he was dragging a finger down my spine and over the swell of my ass. 

He leaned his tall body over my back so he could breath against the crook of my neck. “Green is your color, doll.” 

My heart lurched into my throat when his pet name for me lingered into my skin. The first time he uttered it to me was earlier in the week when we arrived at the first venue for the tour and we both found ourselves alone in the kitchen of the Avengers tower and I was on top of the counter, trying to reach something in a high cabinet, to which Bucky was there to grab it from me when I was struggling slightly. 

“Careful, doll. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” 

I blinked at him. “Doll?” 

Bucky’s face twitched when he realized what he had said. “Sorry, it just slipped out. If you don’t like it or are uncomfortable, I understand.” 

“No!” I was quick to wave him off. “I-I like it.”

A wide smirk spread to his face, causing the skin next to his eyes to crinkle. “Good, because it stays. doll.”

A soft breeze brushed over my skin even with Bucky’s body heat wrapping around me as he still hovered. 

“I remember you mentioning you love the color green,” I admitted while removing my sunglasses so I could look up into those dark eyes. 

He hummed while brushing away a strand of hair from my face, applying sunscreen to me long forgotten as he laid his body next to mine. I let my eyes trace the muscles across his skin and tried so hard not to trace it with my tongue. 

“Can I be honest with you?” He asked while letting his inner battles win and traced his vibranium finger over my shoulder, tracing the patterns the freckles made. 

Even though the nerves ate away at me for what he was about to divulge, I did my best to nod. 

“The second I saw you step into the common area wearing this swimsuit I knew I wanted to fuck you in it,” Bucky leaned forward to whisper in my ear. 

A moan fell from my lips as I kept my gaze from meeting his, not wanting him to know how bad I wanted that. 

His knuckle lifted my chin, giving me no choice but to look at him. “Can I?” 

Something about him being so sweet with his question made my insides warm, even though I was freaking out. 

“Won’t this make things weird for us?” I asked. 

“I don’t see how,” Bucky’s hand was now resting low on my hip. “Something tells me you want it just as much as me.” 

Now I could help the teasing smirk as I rested up on an elbow so I could bring my lips closer to his. 

“I think you’re wrong.”

“The wet spot between your legs tells me I’m right, doll,” he faintly brushed his lips over mine before tapping my hip. “Face the water.” 

My eyes widened. “Wait, we’re doing it here?” 

“I can’t wait until we get back to the bus, Y/N. I’ve been forcing myself to not want you but I can’t do that anymore. I need to feel you,” Bucky admitted before helping me turn to face the water while he laid behind me. 

My entire body was set ablaze knowing that he felt the same way I had. Months of flirting and dancing around each other led to this moment; us fucking on the beach while the rest of our friends could possibly see if they looked close enough. I made this known to Bucky, who reached for another blanket we’d brought and laid it over our bodies to cover our lower halves. The sun was setting, bringing a slight chill along with it so it wasn’t odd. To everyone else, it seemed like we were taking a nap together.  

Bucky’s fingers palmed my ass causing him to groan in the back of my head. 

“I’m sorry if I ruin your swimsuit,” he apologized while pulling it to the side so he could have full access to my pussy. 

“You’ll just have to buy me a new one,” I said. 

A soft kiss to my head. “I’ll buy you whatever you want, doll. If you let me.” 

He pulled out his cock from his shorts and brushed the head along my folds, causing my eyes to roll back as my forehead fell to the blanket. 

“Are you on anything?” Bucky asked. 

I nodded while pressing my ass against him. “Please no teasing. I’ve been wanting this for a long time, Bucky.” 

He said nothing, simply pressing himself fully inside of me causing us both to moan. At first his pace was slow, wanting to feel all of me as I clamped around his cock. I did my best not to move much, not wanting to give way to the others what we were doing underneath the blanket. Since Bucky’s one arm was supporting my head now and the other gripping my hip, I held the bottom of my swim suit to the side so he could fuck into me. His cock was thick, filling me up completely and I desperately wanted to see how it looked. 

Another time. 

“Bucky,” I moaned. “It’s so good.” 

His breathing was warm against my ear. “You feel just like I imagined, doll. I’m not going to last long.” 

I pressed a kiss to the gold streaks of his vibranium arm. “Neither am I.” 

Both of us moved slowly together, enjoying the sensual moment together as the sun set bathed us both in a glow of orange and purples. Bucky left kisses along my neck as he pulled his cock nearly out right before filling me up again; over and over until I was able to finally let euphoria win as I gave into him. I bit the inside of my to muffle my yell when my orgasm hit, body writing against him. 

“You did so good, doll. Such a good girl for me,” Bucky’s snaps of his hips were becoming more fast paced as he chased his own release. 

Movement caught my attention and I noticed that the rest of the group were starting to leave the water, walking up to us, and Bucky grumbled under his breath. 

“When we get back to the compound, I’m not letting you leave my room. I want you all for myself.” 

I rested the back of my head against his chest. “You have me, Bucky. Now cum for me. Fill me up.” 

He made a low noise in the back of his throat as his cock swelled inside of me moments before he spilled all of him inside of me, coating my walls. Just in time because Steve stopped in front of our blanket and looked down at us. 

“Are you guys done doing whatever it is you’re doing or can we eat now?” 

Bucky flipped him off and pulled me closer to his chest by wrapping his arm around me. “Fuck off, Steve.”

He made no move to remove his cock from inside of me as we allowed ourselves to fall into a small nap while the others started prepping everything for our fire barbeque. 

[tan1shere]

Okay

Billie Eilish x female reader !

A/n: angry sex is all I can say 😩 enjoy 😇

Summary: she's mad at you, but it doesn't last long.

Warnings: smut ! Car sex, angry sex, RED ROOTS BILLIE ! Rough billie 😋

Masterlist

She was mad. Angry. But that didn't even begin to explain it. But so were you, she didn't have a right to be mad at you. You two were on the brink of an argument, only moments before one of you breaks. Hence why she dragged you out of that club. The Audi was speeding through the night when suddenly she speaks up. "You shouldn't of done that." Her voice was stern. "Billi-" "No. It was stupid." Your eyes roll. "Oh please give it a break, I needed some space." She's silent. No reply. "I'm sure you did too." You look out the window, when you see your surroundings blur as she speeds up.

You turn your head to face her. Her left hand was gripped tightly around the steering wheel eyes glued infront of her. Fury radiating off her body. Your nerves pick up, you had to admit it was thrilling. She always made you feel that way and would never ever put you in danger so you trusted her. Her nuckles flex, veins popping in the night lighting. "Billie." You then say trying to get her to either slow down just a tiny bit or talk to you. There was no telling what could happen as her foot presses harder on the accelerator. "Billie." You repeat more forceful. Feeling your heart rate pick up.

Nothing. As the car speeds up her anger only increases. Her eyes darken, her brows furrowing. This is the most mad you've seen her in forever and it frightened you whenever you saw it. But at the same time, it made her look even more attractive, sending you hot. Your eyes dart to her hand, everything more prominent because of her grip. "Bills.." You whisper, and that's when she looks at you. The exact same look on her face. Still nothing, but a slight smirk.

Try to stop me, I'm like no way.

She could see slight fear, but with the past incidents, she knew that you knew she would never do anything but protect you. Just some harmless fun. It was turning her on. Even more so when you squeeze your thighs together, her eyes move to look. Noting that the dress you wore was ridden up very high. "Scared?" You shake your head. But you do get a bit scared as she keeps looking at you, pushing down all the way going far over the speed limit. But what was going to happen? It was 3 in the morning. There's nobody out.

Speeding like this shit was stolen.

Your eyes knit together with worry. "Billie-" Your eyes look to the road making sure she's still going straight. She surprisingly was. Your head looks back at her, her eyes on you intently, tilting her head a bit. "Tell your eyes that." Your breath catches in your throat. "Im still mad at you." She chuckles dryly. "Ditto." Her voice was dripping with venom. Your body shifts in the seat, causing her to look down at your thighs, biting her lip. "Fuck it." She mumbles. "Wha-?" But you were cut completely short as she slams on the breaks, putting her arm infront of you to make sure you don't fly forward.

Confusion strikes you as you're in the middle of nowhere. "Backseat. Now." Even though you were still slightly mad at her, your brain was telling you to do it. Wanting to see where this would lead. "Gunna show you just how angry I am." She says getting out the drivers seat and slamming the door. You flinch just slightly not expecting it. But my god was she sexy this way. You climb into the back, not caring if your dress moved more. She was just going to move it anyways. She opens the door, getting in and grabbing you. "Come on baby get on top, there you go."

She grabs your face instantly kissing you with absolute fire. Your mind shuts down. Forgetting even why you two were arguing. She was still very well aware, grabbing one of your hands and placing it on her belt. "I'm still pissed, you undo it. Kay?" "Okay." Your fingers fiddle with it, unhooking it and grabbing her zipper. "Good, good." She says observing. "Keep going." Your breath stills, moving her jeans to get the fake dick out. On full display. "Don't see why I have to do all the work. Sit." She stares into your soul, your heart rate still picking up. You felt like her prey in the little game. "B-" You begun but immediately shut up as she raises a brow. Tongue visibly poking into her cheek.

I got dirty in my own veins.

Fuck. You were so incredibly screwed. "Sit." She repeats. Your hands quickly try to take your underwear off, finding everything more difficult especially with her God damn eyes glued on you. You go to grab it again breathing out shakily. Lining it up perfectly and slowly sinking down. And with how wet she had you it wasn't hard. "Good fucking girl." Your mouth hangs open at the feeling of the slight stretch, causing both of you to bite your lips. Your hips move on her with need, everything about it was hasty. Gripping her shoulders for support. The feeling of how deep it was going straight to your stomach. Literally. Her hands make contact with the straps.

Pulling them down and letting your breasts spill out. "You're going to apologize." And that's when you give her a look. "The fuck I'm no-" Her hand comes flying to your jaw causing your mouth to close shut. "You want this right? You want me in you correct?" You whimper out as her fingers most definitely leave marks but you gave zero shits. You wanted that, you wanted her to mark you all over. "Speak." She orders. You gulp back a moan as she ruts up into you, making sure you're focusing. "Y-yes." "Apologize." She warns you with her eyes. "But-" Her hands instantly move.

Picking your hips up off of her making you whine out, her trips to the gym really paying off. "I'm sorry!" You screech. She gives it a second but she didn't need to. She had you exactly where she wanted you. "I'm sorry Bills, I'll talk to you next time just please. Please, need to feel you so bad." You felt pathetic, but you needed this desperately. She slowly puts you back down, making a moan slip into the car. It soon smelling of sex. Her hands continue their previous actions. Grabbing both your tits and kneading them. "Speed up baby, atta girl." Your eyes roll back as you feel her pinch your nipples. Moving up and down on her. Her hands moving down your body.

I can feel it in my brain.

Gripping your sides and helping you move even quicker. "Fuck!" You say falling against her, letting your head land on her shoulder. Her leg lifts up, bringing the one straddled on her up aswel in the process, getting a perfect angle. Your brain fogs up, squeezing your eyes shut as you feel it deeper. "Billie.." You breathe. She doesn't respond, only rutting her hips up into you. Causing you to almost scream but your mouth turns and bites the flesh on her shoulder. Her teeth sink into her lip as you do so, finding every action of yours attractive.

She grips your ass tightly, slamming you down with more force onto her dick. "Cum on me baby, do it. Know you can." Your head turns to the side, still having it rested on her shoulder. Moving so you can watch just a little of what was happening. Your breath uneven, having it warm against her neck as your fucked out state comes closer. And closer. And within seconds your juices are leaking all over her, moans floating into her eardrums. She was in heaven. "W-was that a good apology?" You tiredly speak.

She smiles to herself stroking your hair, soothingly. "Yeah baby. A very good one."

"I'm sorry too." She then says, kissing your head. "It's okay Billie. Trust me. We gave eachother a pretty good apology."

"Agreed."

[satansdarlin]

Blue stained glass

While I work on the fourth chapter of a full deck of cards I also decided to write for another one of my boys! Welcoming Kurt Wagner to the stage! Apologies for any bad German, I'm still learning it and often forget that it is a gendered language so please forgive me.

MDNI

Rating: E

Word count: 8.3k

Pairing: Kurt Wagner x shy!artist!fem!reader

Warnings: reader being kinda stalkerish but not with bad intentions, implied that some of the students have harmless crushes on Kurt, Kurt being a flirt, smut! Because I missed writing it, Oral (fem receiving), PiV, mentions of Kurt's faith, you wife that man up!, pregnancy. Not beta read!

If you liked this check of my masterlist or put in a request if they are open

Golden light trickled in through the curtains as the sun set behind the school. The smell of dragon's blood incense wafted around the room in delicate wisps of smoke. The only sounds were the slight breeze outside and the dragging of bristles across canvas. You sat on the wooden stool, a slight hunch in your back you'd need to correct later with stretches. Your gaze followed along as you drew blue across the canvas. Blue had become a vital part of all your recent works, and you knew exactly why. Whenever you thought of art, flashes of blue fur, a spaded tail, the smell of sulfur, a silver cross, and a mischievous laugh filled your mind. You wouldn't call it obsession or infatuation. He was your muse. Not that he knew. How could you tell your teammate that he gave you such powerful inspiration? So the portfolio filled to the brim with artworks of just him remained hidden away under your bed.

Kurt Wagner. Everyone loved him. He was a friend worth keeping, made everything fun, always had the best ideas to keep the students entertained, and loved to chatter. Even Logan enjoyed his company from time to time. Kurt just had a way with people, with mutants. A few months back, you had a solo mission with him. It was awkward at first—the shy, quiet artist of the school and the impish chatterbox didn't know how to approach one another. In the end, the mission had concluded in giggles and soft-spoken words. Kurt was wonderful. That's why you couldn't understand why he kept insisting on spending time with you of all people. You were reserved, shy, introverted—the exact opposite of Kurt.

You had put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on your door before starting, hoping it would deter visitors. It did. Well, anyone who saw the sign didn't bother you; the same could not be said for the blue fuzzy imp. He didn't see it, to be fair. He had just gotten home from taking some students to the mall for shopping and wanted to show you the paints he had found, so he teleported. The smell of sulfur and the familiar BAMF sound filled your room, making your eyes widen comedically as you stared at the canvas. A painting of Kurt praying in a church with blue stained glass—one he was most certainly not supposed to see.

"Mein Freund, you would not believe the gift I have found for you— ah," his pleasant accent-tinted voice stalled as he gazed at your shape and then the painting before you. His eyes widened and filled with glee. "Oh mein Gott! Is that me? It's... it's—" he struggled to find the English word for a moment before settling on, "herrlich."

You stammered shyly as he walked up behind you, gazing at the painting with a smile that made your insides flutter like a thousand baby butterflies had hatched. "I... erm... yes, it's you, but it's not finished," you spoke hesitantly.

"Not finished?" Kurt moved closer, his tail swaying gently behind him in that way it did when he was truly excited about something. "But it's already so beautiful! The way you captured the light through the windows..." He leaned in, careful not to disturb your workspace, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. "I had no idea you were watching me pray."

Your cheeks burned hot. "I... I wasn't. Not really. I just... sometimes I sketch you when you're around the mansion, and I remembered how peaceful you looked that one time I passed by the chapel..." You trailed off, realizing you might be revealing too much.

Kurt's expression softened, and a knowing look crossed his features. "Then perhaps..." he said, reaching down to carefully take the brush from your trembling fingers, "you wouldn't mind showing me the other drawings?" His golden eyes flickered toward your bed, where your portfolio lay hidden.

Your heart nearly stopped. "You knew?"

A gentle laugh escaped him, musical and warm. "Mein Schatz, I may be a fool sometimes, but I'm not blind. I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching." He paused, his tail curling slightly in what you had learned was nervousness. "The same way I look at you when you're lost in your art."

The confession hung in the air between you, as tangible as the wisps of incense smoke still dancing through the golden evening light. You sat frozen, brush dripping blue paint onto the dropcloth below, as Kurt Wagner—your muse, your teammate, your secret inspiration—waited for your response with bated breath.

"You... look at me?" You whispered in shock and a tinge of disbelief. He looked at you like you looked at him? That sounded impossible, yet the way his tail curled in nervousness and his foot tapped against the ground told a different story.

Kurt's hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you'd seen countless times when he was trying to find the right words. "Ja, I do. More than I probably should." His voice was softer now, almost vulnerable. "When you're in the garden sketching, or during the art class with the students when you create those beautiful displays... The way your face lights up when you finally perfect a piece you've been working on..." He trailed off, a deeper blue tinting his cheeks.

Your heart thundered in your chest as he took a small step closer, his tail now swaying in a gentle, hypnotic pattern. "I've wanted to tell you for so long, but..." He gestured to himself with a self-deprecating smile. "Well, I wasn't sure someone who creates such beauty would want..."

"Kurt," you interrupted, finding courage you didn't know you had. Standing from your stool, you reached for his hand, feeling the unique texture of his fur against your palm. "You are beauty. Why do you think I can't stop painting you?"

His golden eyes widened, and that brilliant smile you'd captured in countless sketches spread across his face. "Then perhaps," he said, bringing your joined hands up between you, "we've both been a bit foolish, ja?"

A small laugh escaped you, breaking the tension. "More than a bit." Your eyes drifted to the painting on the easel, then back to him. "Would you... would you like to see the others? The real ones, not just the ones I do for art class?"

Kurt's tail perked up, and he squeezed your hand gently. "I would love nothing more, mein Schatz. But first..." He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small paper bag. "I really did bring you something from the art store."

Inside was a set of iridescent blue paints that shifted colors in the dying sunlight, almost the exact shade of Kurt's fur when he moved. Your breath caught at the thoughtfulness of the gift, and when you looked up at him, his expression was so tender it made your heart ache.

"I saw them and thought of you," he admitted quietly. "Though I suppose I'm always thinking of you these days."

The confession hung in the air like a prayer, and you found yourself moving closer, drawn into his orbit like you'd always been, only now there was no need to hide it. The golden light that had started this evening's painting session now painted Kurt in warm hues, making him look almost ethereal—your own personal angel, right here in your art-cluttered room.

"Kurt," you whispered, not quite sure what you wanted to say, but knowing you needed to say something. The way he looked at you now, like you were one of his precious religious paintings come to life, made you understand why he'd always insisted on spending time with you. He'd been drawn to you just as you'd been to him, both of you dancing around each other in an elaborate routine of stolen glances and hidden feelings.

His tail curled gently around your wrist, as if he couldn't bear to not touch you in some way, and you realized that maybe this was what inspiration truly felt like—not just the desire to capture beauty, but to be part of it. With trembling hands, you knelt beside your bed, aware of Kurt's presence behind you as you reached underneath to pull out the large black portfolio case. Your heart hammered against your ribs—no one had ever seen these pieces before. They were raw, honest, intimate in a way your public artwork never was.

"I, um," you started, clutching the portfolio to your chest as you stood, "some of these are just quick sketches, and others aren't very good—"

"Liebling," Kurt interrupted gently, his tail swaying with barely contained excitement, "everything you create is wunderbar. May I?" He gestured to your bed, and you nodded, watching as he settled cross-legged on the corner, patting the space beside him.

You sat down carefully, the portfolio balanced on your lap. Kurt's warmth beside you was both comforting and nerve-wracking. Taking a deep breath, you unzipped the case and pulled out the first few pieces.

"Oh!" Kurt's delighted gasp made you jump slightly. His tail curled in pleasure as he leaned forward to study a charcoal drawing of himself perched on the mansion's balcony railing, looking out over the grounds. "I remember this day. It was right after that terrible thunderstorm, ja? When the sun finally came out?"

You nodded, surprised he'd remembered such a small moment. "The light was hitting your fur just right, and I couldn't help but..." you trailed off, embarrassed at admitting how much you'd observed him.

But Kurt was already reaching for the next piece, his golden eyes bright with wonder. "And this one!" It was a series of quick gesture sketches of him during a training session, his body in various poses of acrobatic grace. "You've captured the movement so perfectly. I had no idea you were watching so closely."

Your cheeks burned. "I hope that doesn't sound creepy."

His laugh was warm and genuine. "Nein, not at all. Though it does explain why you always volunteered to help supervise training." His tail brushed against your back playfully, making you squeak in surprise.

As you went through more pieces, your initial nervousness began to fade, replaced by a warm glow at Kurt's genuine enthusiasm for each drawing. He had a comment for every piece—remembering the moments you'd captured, praising your technique, asking questions about your process. His tail never stopped moving, expressing his excitement in a way his controlled expressions couldn't quite hide.

"This one," he breathed, carefully lifting a watercolor painting, "this is..." It was one of your favorites—Kurt in the library late at night, reading by lamplight, his tail curled around a cup of tea. You'd painted it from memory after watching him there one evening, trying to capture the peaceful contentment he radiated in those quiet moments.

"The way you see me," he said softly, tracing the air above the painting as if afraid to touch it, "it's so..."

"Real," you finished quietly. "That's just... how you look to me."

Kurt turned to face you then, and the expression on his face made your breath catch. "All this time," he murmured, "I thought I was alone in feeling this way. In seeing such beauty in someone else."

You ducked your head, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze, but his tail gently curved under your chin, lifting it back up. "No hiding," he said softly. "Not anymore, ja?"

The portfolio slid forgotten to the floor as Kurt's hand came up to cup your cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed this. In the fading golden light of your room, surrounded by scattered artwork that told the story of your hidden feelings, Kurt Wagner looked at you like you were the masterpiece—not the artist. Time seemed to slow as Kurt's hand remained gentle against your cheek, his thumb brushing softly across your skin. Your heart was doing acrobatics that could rival his best performances, and you wondered if he could feel how warm your face had become.

"Mein Schatz," he whispered, leaning closer, "may I...?"

You could only manage a tiny nod, and then his lips were on yours, soft and sweet. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and you could feel his smile against your mouth. His tail curled around your waist, drawing you closer as your hands tentatively came up to rest against his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt and the steady beating of his heart beneath.

When you finally parted, you immediately buried your burning face in his shoulder, earning a warm chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "Hiding again so soon?" he teased, his accent thicker with emotion.

"Mmph," was all you could manage, which only made him laugh more.

"And here I thought artists were supposed to appreciate beautiful moments," he continued playfully, his tail squeezing your waist. "Perhaps I should pose for another painting? 'The First Kiss' would make a lovely addition to your collection, ja?"

You groaned and swatted his chest weakly. "Kurt!"

"Or maybe a series?" He was clearly enjoying himself now, his voice full of mischief. "We could call it 'The Evolution of Romance' or 'Love in Blue'—"

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your face still flaming. "You're terrible."

His grin was radiant. "Terrible, but yours?" The hope in his voice made your heart flutter.

"Yeah," you whispered, managing a shy smile. "Mine."

"Wunderbar!" He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. "Though I must ask—do you have any paintings of our future together hidden away as well? Should I be prepared for more surprises?"

"Kurt Wagner!" You tried to sound scandalized, but you couldn't help laughing, especially when he waggled his eyebrows at you.

"What? It's a reasonable question! After all, you've been secretly documenting me for months. For all I know, you've already planned our wedding colors—blue and more blue, I assume?"

You grabbed a nearby pillow and tried to smack him with it, but he teleported across the room with a BAMF, leaving a cloud of sulfur and the echo of his laughter. He reappeared perched on your easel, careful not to disturb your painting, his tail swishing playfully.

"You know," he said, his golden eyes twinkling, "I think I prefer being your muse when I know about it. The poses can be much more interesting this way."

"Oh my god," you mumbled, falling back onto your bed and covering your face with your hands. But you couldn't hide your smile, especially when you felt the familiar displacement of air and suddenly had a warm, fuzzy mutant curled around you, pressing gentle kisses to your temple.

"Don't worry, Liebling," he murmured against your skin, his tail finding your hand and twining with your fingers. "I promise to be the best muse you could ask for. Though..." He paused dramatically, "I do have one condition."

You peeked through your fingers at him. "What's that?"

His smile softened into something so tender it made your chest ache. "That next time you paint me praying in the chapel, you'll be there with me. Some masterpieces are better created together, don't you think?"

This time, when you pulled him down for another kiss, you didn't hide your face afterward. After all, how could you when he was looking at you like that—like you were both the artist and the masterpiece, the muse and the creator, the beginning and end of something beautiful?

Though you did blush furiously when he later insisted on signing all your portraits of him with "Kurt Wagner, Professional Muse and Master of Stealing Artists' Hearts.”

.

.

.

The chatter of students filled the air and the sweet smell of honeysuckle surrounded you and your students. Truth be told, you hadn't even offered to do this job; teaching the art class wasn't something that had ever been on your mind, but Charles had asked you to do so, saying it would be good for the students to have an outlet for their emotions. Though teaching a bunch of mutant teenagers wasn't particularly easy, especially when half of them wanted to be in the danger room training to be X-Men—you probably got more questions about that than actual art.

"Your piece should be about expression. There is no right or wrong, only your feelings about your art," you spoke gently as you walked by the students settled in the grass of the gardens behind the school. A hand rose up and you looked over and nodded at the boy, Damian you believed his name was.

"Excuse me, but how exactly is painting helping us prepare for anything?" You sighed at the boy's question as he got some chastising nudges from some of your more kind students. You got that question about every class.

Before you could answer, a familiar BAMF sound and the scent of sulfur announced Kurt's arrival. He appeared perched on the garden wall, his tail swaying as he grinned at the class. Several students brightened immediately—Kurt had always been a favorite among them.

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong, mein junger Freund," Kurt said, gracefully flipping down to land beside you. His shoulder brushed yours in a subtle show of support that made your heart flutter, even after months of being together. "Art teaches us more than you might think. Strategy, patience, observation..." He winked at you before continuing, "How do you think I learned to move so efficiently in battle? By understanding space, movement, and perception—all things your talented teacher here helped me improve."

A few students giggled, well aware of your relationship with the blue mutant. It had become something of a school legend how you'd been caught with a portfolio full of Kurt drawings. Some of the older students even insisted they'd known all along, claiming they'd seen the way you both looked at each other during training sessions.

"Besides," Kurt continued, picking up one of the spare brushes from your supply kit and twirling it like one of his swords, "did you know that Leonardo da Vinci used his artistic skills to design defense systems? Or that camouflage patterns were created by artists? Even the maps we use for missions were drawn by artists."

Damian sat up straighter, suddenly looking more interested. "Really?"

You smiled, grateful for Kurt's intervention. "Really. And speaking of missions..." You shared a knowing look with Kurt before addressing the class. "Who wants to hear about the time my sketching skills helped us locate a hidden Sentinel facility?"

"Oh, tell them about the warehouse in Berlin!" Kurt added enthusiastically, his tail curling around your waist as he settled beside you. "When you noticed the architectural inconsistencies in my reconnaissance sketches?"

The students were all paying attention now, art supplies temporarily forgotten as they leaned in to hear the story. Even Damian had put down his phone, his previous skepticism replaced with curiosity.

"Well," you began, feeling Kurt's tail squeeze encouragingly, "it started when we noticed some unusual energy signatures in an old industrial district..."

As you recounted the mission, Kurt occasionally chimed in with his own colorful commentary, making the students laugh with his dramatic reenactments. You couldn't help but smile, watching him demonstrate his acrobatic moves while describing how your artistic knowledge had helped spot the hidden entrance.

"And that," Kurt concluded, landing gracefully beside you again, "is why we should never underestimate the power of art. Or artists." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, making several students coo and others playfully groan at the display of affection.

"Mr. Wagner," one of the girls called out, a mischievous glint in her eye, "are you going to model for our class like you do for the teacher?"

Your face immediately heated up as Kurt laughed delightedly. "Sadly, I'm needed in the danger room. Though..." He grinned at you, that familiar impish look in his golden eyes, "I do have a private session scheduled later."

"Kurt!" you hissed, mortified as the students erupted in giggles.

He merely winked, pressed another quick kiss to your cheek, and teleported away with a theatrical bow, leaving you to face your amused students with burning cheeks.

"Now then," you said, trying to regain some semblance of professional dignity despite your flushed face, "back to your projects. And no, Jenny, you cannot paint Mr. Wagner for your assignment—pick a different subject."

The disappointment on several faces told you that more than one student had been planning exactly that. You couldn't really blame them though. After all, you had an entire portfolio that proved just how inspiring a subject Kurt Wagner could be. After the lingering giggles from Kurt's dramatic exit finally subsided, you circled back through your students, the grass crunching softly beneath your feet. The afternoon sun warmed your shoulders as you paused to observe their work, offering gentle guidance where needed.

"Sarah," you said, stopping beside a girl whose hands were literally glowing as she painted, her mutation allowing her to create luminescent colors, "that's beautiful. The way you're using your powers to add depth to the sunset—very creative." Her beaming smile made your heart warm; it was moments like these that reminded you why Charles had been right about teaching.

Moving on, you found Marcus struggling with his brushstrokes, his extra set of arms getting in the way of each other. "Try coordinating them like we practiced," you suggested softly. "Remember, each hand can work on a different section. Think of it like... like when Kurt coordinates his tail with his movements during training."

The mention of Kurt made a few nearby students glance up with knowing smirks, but you ignored them, focusing on how Marcus's face lit up with understanding. Within minutes, all four of his hands were working in harmony, creating an intricate pattern that would have taken others four times as long to complete.

"Teacher?" A quiet voice drew your attention to Amy, a shy freshman whose scales tended to change color with her emotions—currently a nervous purple. "I... I don't know if this is good enough." She gestured to her canvas where she'd painted a self-portrait, her scales rendered in beautiful iridescent shades.

You knelt beside her, careful not to disturb her workspace. "What makes you think it's not good enough?"

"It's just..." she glanced around at her classmates' work, her scales shifting to a deeper purple. "Everyone else is painting normal things. Beautiful things. I painted... me."

"Amy," you said gently, thinking of all the times you'd doubted your own artwork, of all the paintings of Kurt you'd hidden away because you thought they were too revealing, too personal. "Do you remember what Kurt said in his last ethics class about beauty?"

Her scales flickered with hints of pink—she had a bit of a crush on Kurt, like half the school. "That it comes in all forms?"

"Exactly. And look—" you pointed to how the light caught her painting's scales, creating rainbow patterns across the canvas. "You've captured something uniquely beautiful. Something only you could create, because only you know exactly how those scales feel, how they shift and change. That's not just good art, that's powerful art."

The purple of her scales gradually shifted to a warm golden hue as she smiled, looking at her painting with new eyes. Around you, other students had paused to listen, and you saw several of them return to their work with renewed purpose.

"Damian," you called out, noticing he'd actually started painting instead of just complaining, "excellent use of perspective on that building. Been practicing your architectural sketches?"

He tried to look nonchalant, but you caught his pleased grin. "Yeah, well... after what you said about the Berlin mission... I figured it might be useful. You know, for future X-Men stuff."

"Hey, teacher?" Jenny piped up, paint smudged adorably across her cheek. "Since we can't paint Mr. Wagner, could you tell us more about how art helped on missions while we work? Please?"

A chorus of agreements rose from the class, and you couldn't help but smile. "Alright, but keep painting. There was this one time in Moscow when my knowledge of color theory helped us identify a shapeshifter..."

As you shared the story, moving between easels and offering guidance, you noticed how the students' work seemed to come alive. Even the most reluctant artists were engaged now, their creativity flowing as they listened to tales of how art and heroism could intertwine.

The smell of honeysuckle grew stronger as the afternoon wore on, mixing with paint and teenage enthusiasm. A flash of blue in your peripheral vision caught your attention—Kurt, watching proudly from a nearby window between his training sessions. He blew you a kiss before disappearing again, leaving you with paint-stained fingers and a garden full of budding artists who were finally beginning to understand that there was more than one way to be extraordinary.

"Teacher?" Amy called out, her scales now a confident shade of blue that reminded you of someone special. "I think I'd like to do another self-portrait. Maybe... maybe one of me in an X-Men uniform this time?"

You smiled, thinking of your own portfolio of Kurt, of how art had led you to love, and how that love had led you here, helping these young mutants find their own way to express their unique beauty. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Amy. Just remember—"

"We know, we know," the class chorused together, matching your grin, "there is no right or wrong, only our feelings about our art!”

.

.

.

Evening had settled over the mansion, the last rays of sunlight painting your studio in familiar golden hues. The day's classes were done, art supplies cleaned and stored away, and you'd finally managed to stop blushing from Kurt's teasing comments during your lesson. You were just setting up your easel when the familiar BAMF announced his arrival.

"Ah, mein Schatz," Kurt's voice was warm as he appeared behind you, arms wrapping around your waist and tail curling affectionately around your ankle. "Ready for our 'private session'?" You could hear the playful smirk in his voice.

"You," you turned in his arms to poke his chest accusingly, "are terrible. Do you know how many knowing looks I got from the students after you left?"

He laughed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I couldn't help myself. You're adorable when you blush. Speaking of which..." His tail reached over to your desk, picking up your sketchbook and flipping it open to reveal today's quick sketches of him during his brief visit to your class. "Someone was inspired during their teaching duties, ja?"

"Kurt!" You tried to snatch the sketchbook, but he teleported across the room, perching on the window seat as he continued flipping through pages.

"Oh, this one is new!" He held up a sketch of himself demonstrating acrobatic moves to your students. "You captured my best side."

"All your sides are your best side," you mumbled before you could stop yourself, then immediately covered your face with your hands as he teleported back to you, gathering you close.

"Is that so?" he murmured against your ear. "Then perhaps we should make sure you have proper reference material for all of them?" His tail gently pulled your hands away from your face, forcing you to meet his tender gaze. "Now then, how would you like me to pose, Liebling?"

You gestured weakly to the arrangement you'd set up—a comfortable chair positioned near the window, where the last of the sunset would cast those perfect shadows you loved to capture. "Just... sitting would be nice. Natural. Like when you're reading in the library."

Kurt's expression softened as he settled into the chair, understanding your desire to capture one of your favorite quiet moments. He pulled out a small book of poetry—Rilke, you noticed—and arranged himself comfortably, his tail draped over the armrest.

"Like this?" he asked, and you nodded, already reaching for your charcoal. This was familiar territory now, though no less special than those first secret sketches. If anything, it was more intimate—knowing he was here specifically for you, watching you create, sharing these peaceful moments together.

As you began to sketch, Kurt started reading aloud softly in German, his accent wrapping around the words like silk. You'd grown to love these evenings, the gentle cadence of his voice mixing with the scratch of charcoal on paper, the way his tail would occasionally twitch in response to a particular phrase or stanza.

"You know," he said during a pause between poems, his golden eyes meeting yours over the top of his book, "I used to wonder why you chose me as your subject so often. Now I think I understand."

You paused in your sketching, curious. "Oh?"

"Ja. It's the same reason I can't stop watching you when you create." He marked his place in the book and leaned forward slightly. "There's something magical about seeing someone doing what they love, being exactly who they are meant to be. You see me that way when I move, when I pray, when I simply exist. And I see you that way when you're lost in your art."

The charcoal trembled slightly in your fingers as he continued, "It's like seeing someone's soul, isn't it? Their truest self?"

You nodded, unable to find words for how perfectly he'd captured it. Kurt rose from the chair in one fluid movement, crossing to where you stood. His hand covered yours on the charcoal, bringing it to rest against the easel.

"Perhaps," he whispered, turning you to face him, his tail wrapping around your waist, "we could find other ways to capture this moment?"

Your breath caught as he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted of poetry and promises. The charcoal slipped forgotten from your fingers as you wound your arms around his neck, letting yourself get lost in the overwhelming rightness of being held by him.

When you finally parted, Kurt rested his forehead against yours, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Though I do hope you'll finish the sketch later. I have a reputation as Professional Muse to maintain, after all."

You laughed, the sound mixing with his own quiet chuckle in the golden evening light of your studio, where art and love had become beautifully, perfectly intertwined.

"So how do you wish to capture this moment, hm?" You hummed up at him with a new sense of courage.

Kurt's yellow eyes sparkle with mischief and desire as he gazes down at you, his tail gently squeezing your waist. The sunset light casts a warm glow on your skin, highlighting the delicate curve of your neck and the soft fullness of your lips. He leans in, his breath ghosting over your skin as he speaks.

"There are so many ways, mein Schatz..." he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "We could start with a kiss..."

And he does, capturing your lips in a deep, lingering kiss that steals the breath from your lungs. His lips are surprisingly soft against yours, moving with a passion and tenderness that sets your heart racing. One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down your back, pressing you closer to him.

When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily, your cheeks flushed and your eyes dark with desire. Kurt's tail tightens around you, keeping you anchored against him as he trails his lips along your jaw, nipping lightly at your earlobe.

"Or perhaps," he whispers, his voice sending shivers down your spine, "you'd like to capture the way my hands feel on your skin?"

Without waiting for an answer, he begins to unbutton your shirt, his fingers brushing against your bare skin as he reveals more and more of your body to his hungry gaze. Each touch sends sparks of electricity through you, igniting a fire that only seems to grow with each passing second.

As your shirt falls to the floor, Kurt takes a step back, his eyes roving hungrily over your newly exposed skin. His gaze is almost reverent, as if he's drinking in every inch of you like a man dying of thirst.

"Beautiful," he breathes, his voice filled with awe and desire. "You're absolutely perfect, Meine Liebe."

His hands come up to cup your breasts, thick fingers brushing over your hardening nipples through the thin fabric of your bra. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he begins to circle and tease, building the pleasure slowly but surely. Kurt's hands continue their sensual exploration of your body, tracing every curve and dip with a reverence that makes your skin tingle. He leans down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin.

"I want to worship every inch of you," he murmurs against your throat, his voice rough with desire. "To show you how much you mean to me."

His fingers find the clasp of your bra, deftly unhooking it and sliding the straps down your shoulders. The garment falls away, baring your breasts to his eager gaze. Kurt pauses for a moment, simply drinking in the sight of you, before cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms.

"Perfektion," he breathes, thumbing your nipples until they pebble beneath his touch. He lowers his head, taking one nipple into his mouth and suckling gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

You gasp at the sensation, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair, holding him close. Kurt continues his ministrations, alternating between your breasts, licking and sucking and nipping until you're writhing against him, desperate for more.

His hands drift lower, skimming over your stomach and hips before dipping beneath the waistband of your pants. He strokes you through the damp fabric of your underwear, his touch light and teasing.

"So wet already," he marvels, his voice thick with arousal. "You're so responsive, mein Schatz. So perfect."

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your pants and underwear, tugging them down your legs in one smooth motion. You kick them off impatiently, standing before him in nothing but your socks and shoes.

Kurt takes a step back, his eyes raking over your naked form with undisguised hunger. He licks his lips, his tail swishing behind him in anticipation.

"Lie down on the couch," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I want to taste you." You obey without hesitation, settling into the plush cushions immediately.

 Kurt follows you to the couch, his eyes never leaving your body as he crawls over you, settling between your spread thighs. He runs his hands up your legs, his touch light and teasing, until he reaches the apex of your thighs.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, spreading your folds with his fingers and exposing your glistening flesh to his hungry gaze. "I can't wait to taste you."

He leans down, dragging his tongue along your slit in one long, slow lick. The sensation is electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your body. You gasp, your hips lifting off the couch as you seek more of his touch.

Kurt chuckles, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin. He looks up at you through his lashes, his yellow eyes gleaming with mischief and desire.

"Patience, mein Schatz," he teases, blowing a cool stream of air over your wet heat. "We have all the time in the world."

And then he's diving back in, his tongue delving deep into your core, lapping at your essence like a man starved. He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, flicking over the sensitive bud again and again until you're writhing beneath him, desperate for release.

His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he feasts on your flesh, his groans of pleasure muffled against your skin. The room fills with the obscene sounds of his licking and sucking, punctuated by your own breathy moans and gasps.

Kurt brings a hand up to your clit, rubbing tight circles around the swollen nub as he continues to tongue-fuck your dripping cunt. The dual stimulation is too much, pushing you closer and closer to the edge with each passing second.

"That's it, Kleine," he encourages, his voice rough with arousal. "Let go. Come for me."

His words are all it takes to send you hurtling over the edge, your body convulsing with the force of your orgasm. You cry out, your hands fisting in Kurt's hair as waves of pleasure crash over you, threatening to drown you in their intensity.

Kurt works you through it, his tongue and fingers never faltering as he prolongs your climax, drawing out every last shudder and gasp until you're boneless and spent, collapsing back against the couch in a sweaty, satisfied heap.

He presses one last kiss to your sensitive flesh before crawling up your body, settling his weight on top of you. His erection presses insistently against your thigh as he wiggles off his pants, hot and hard and ready for you.*

"I need you, meine Engel," he breathes, his voice thick with desire. "I need to be inside you."

He reaches down between your bodies, grasping his cock and lining it up with your entrance. You can feel the heat of him, the pulsing need that throbs against your slick folds.

With one swift thrust, he's inside you, filling you completely. You cry out at the sudden stretch, your walls clenching around him like a vice.

"Fuck, you're tight," Kurt groans, his hips rocking against yours as he begins to move. "So perfect. So gut."

He sets a steady rhythm, pulling out slowly before slamming back in, his cock hitting depths you didn't even know you had. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, igniting a fire in your core that threatens to consume you whole. Your heart flutters hearing him slur out German and English in a pleasure drunken haze. Kurt's tail wraps around your legs, holding them open wide as he pistons into you, his hips snapping against yours with increasing urgency. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your shared moans and gasps.

"So good," he pants, his face buried in your neck as he laves his tongue over your pulse point. "So perfekt. So mine."

His words send a shiver down your spine, igniting a possessive heat in your core. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your body with each thrust.

"Yours," you gasp, your nails digging into the fur of his back. "All yours, kurt"

Kurt growls, low and deep, his tail tightening around your legs as he pounds into you with abandon. The couch creaks beneath your combined weight, threatening to give way under the force of his thrusts.

"Ich liebe dich," he slurs, his words muffled against your skin. "Love you so much. Need you. Need to be inside you forever."

His confession sends you careening over the edge, your body seizing up as another orgasm rips through you. You clench around him, your walls fluttering and spasming as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

"Fuck, Prinzessin," Kurt groans, his hips stuttering as he chases his own release. "Feel so good. So perfect. Gonna come. Gonna fill you up."

With a final, bruising thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he empties himself into your waiting womb. You can feel the heat of his seed, the way it paints your insides, marking you as his.

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions as he pants against your neck. His tail unwinds from your legs, draping lazily over your thigh as he nuzzles into your hair.

"I love you," he murmurs, his voice soft and sated. "My perfect girl. Meine schöne Künstlerin."

You smile, your heart full to bursting with love and contentment.

.

.

.

Nearly a year later

The chapel was quiet save for the soft whisper of your pencil across paper. Early morning light filtered through the stained glass windows, casting familiar blue patterns across the wooden pews. Kurt knelt at the altar in prayer, his tail curved peacefully behind him, rosary beads wrapped gently around his three-fingered hands.

You'd grown comfortable here in these morning moments, sharing this sacred space with him. What had once felt like an intrusion now felt like belonging. Your sketchbook was filled with these quiet scenes—Kurt in prayer, Kurt reading his Bible, Kurt simply existing in this place that meant so much to him. But this morning was different. This morning, your hand trembled slightly as you drew, your mind wandering to the small box hidden in your art supplies.

It had taken weeks to create, working late into the night in your studio after Kurt had fallen asleep. A hand-carved wooden ring box, painted with delicate scenes from your relationship—the first time you'd been caught painting him, your first kiss, teaching art class together, quiet moments in the chapel. The ring inside was simple silver, engraved with tiny crosses and artist's brushes intertwined.

"You're thinking very loudly this morning, Liebling," Kurt's voice startled you from your thoughts. He hadn't moved from his position, but his tail swayed knowingly.

"Sorry," you mumbled, adding another shadow to your sketch. "Didn't mean to disturb your prayers."

"You never disturb me," he said softly, finally turning to face you with that gentle smile that still made your heart skip. "Though I am curious what has you so distracted. Usually you're much more focused when drawing in here."

You set down your sketchbook with trembling fingers. "Actually, I... I have something for you."

Kurt's eyebrows rose curiously as you reached into your art bag, pulling out the painted box. His golden eyes widened as you stood and walked to him, kneeling beside him at the altar.

"Kurt Wagner," you began, your voice shaky but determined, "you've been my muse, my inspiration, my best friend, and the love of my life. You've shown me that beauty exists in so many forms, that faith can be found in art just as much as prayer, and that love..." you had to pause, swallowing hard as his tail curled around your wrist encouragingly, "love can be both the masterpiece and the creation itself."

You opened the box, revealing the ring nestled inside. "Would you let me spend the rest of my life creating with you?"

Kurt's breath caught as he took in the painted scenes on the box, his fingers trailing reverently over the tiny details you'd spent so long perfecting. When he looked up, his eyes were shining with tears.

"Mein Gott," he whispered, "you've managed to surprise the teleporter." His tail tightened around your wrist as he pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. "Did you really think there could be any answer but yes? You are the greatest masterpiece God has ever placed in my life."

Your laugh was watery as you slipped the ring onto his finger, a perfect fit just as you'd hoped. Kurt cradled your face in his hands, his touch infinitely gentle.

"Though I must say," he murmured, his accent thick with emotion, "you've rather stolen my thunder, Liebling." With his tail, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box, making you gasp. "I was planning to ask you after morning mass."

Inside was a delicate gold ring with a blue sapphire that matched his fur perfectly. "Great minds think alike, ja?"

You couldn't speak through your tears as he slipped the ring onto your finger, but you didn't need to. The way you pulled him into a kiss said everything necessary, the morning light painting you both in shades of blue and gold through the stained glass windows.

"I can't wait to see how you'll paint this moment," Kurt whispered against your lips, making you laugh.

"Already planning it," you admitted. "Though I might need my muse to pose for several reference sketches."

His tail wrapped around your waist as he grinned. "I believe that can be arranged. After all..." he pressed another soft kiss to your lips, "we have the rest of our lives to perfect it."

Through the chapel windows, the morning light continued to paint you both in blues and golds, artist and muse, two hearts creating something beautiful together. And if anyone noticed that your afternoon art class was especially romantic that day, well... they were kind enough not to mention it. Though you did have to tell Jenny, once again, that no, she still couldn't paint Mr. Wagner for her assignment—even if he was now your fiancé.

.

.

.

You woke up to soft snores and looked over, unable to help but smile softly. Your husband's sleeping face was too cute to not smile at. After five years of being married, you'd never grow tired of waking up to this. Recently he had taken to growing out a goatee, saying it made him look more mature (you couldn't help but agree—after all, it made your mind wander a lot too). You carefully pulled out of his embrace without waking him; his tail was always a struggle to remove from its place around your leg without waking him, but you managed it. After a small silent dance of triumph, you moved out of your shared bedroom to the room across from it.

The room was halfway painted, though you had been working on it for the past six months. It had paintings of stories and family littered across it—scenes from Kurt's favorite fairy tales, the X-Men as loving aunts and uncles, even a small portrait of Professor Xavier smiling benevolently from above the planned crib space. You picked up a brush and were about to continue when you accidentally kicked a paint bucket. That's all it took, and with a sudden puff of smoke your husband had teleported in, his stance ready for action but relaxing when he saw it was just you up early.

"Mein Gott, woman, I thought you were a thief!" He exclaimed, holding his three-fingered hand over his chest before walking over with a soft tired smile and pecking your lips. "You're up early, I don't even hear the morning birds yet."

"Needed to stretch my legs," you hummed back, and he hummed softly in suspicion. His hand rested on your stomach.

"Are you sure it is not because of the Kleine?" He spoke in a teasing voice as he gently rubbed your stomach.

You leaned back against his chest, letting his warmth seep into you as you both gazed at the wall you'd been painting. His tail automatically wrapped around your waist, just above where your small baby bump was beginning to show. "Maybe," you admitted. "I just... I want it to be perfect before they arrive."

Kurt nuzzled against your neck, his goatee tickling your skin. "Liebling, with you as their mother, how could it be anything but perfect?" His hand joined yours on the brush. "Though perhaps we could add a few more acrobatic scenes? A future X-Man should know their father's best moves, ja?"

You laughed softly, mindful of the early hour. "Kurt, we don't even know if they'll be able to teleport yet."

"Ah, but they're already showing artistic talent!" He moved to stand beside you, gesturing dramatically at your stomach. "Look how perfectly they've rounded out your usually straight lines!"

"Did you just call me fat, Mr. Wagner?" you asked with mock offense.

His eyes widened comically. "Nein! Never! I merely meant to say you're more... sculptural these days?" His tail flicked nervously as he tried to backtrack, making you giggle.

"Saved it," you murmured, turning back to the wall. You'd been working on a particular scene—a small blue figure learning to teleport while protective arms waited to catch them. "Do you really think they'll like it? All of this?"

Kurt's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as he surveyed your work. "Mein Schatz, they will love it. Just as they will love you." His hand splayed protectively over your stomach. "Though perhaps we should add a small easel next to the training equipment? Best to be prepared for all possibilities."

You turned in his arms, brush still in hand, accidentally leaving a small blue streak across his chest. "Oops."

His grin turned mischievous. "Oh? Is that how we're playing this morning?" He reached for another brush. "You know, the wall isn't the only canvas in need of some color..."

"Kurt Wagner, don't you dare—" But it was too late. With a playful BAMF, he was behind you, painting a gentle heart on the back of your nightshirt.

What followed was a careful (mindful of your condition) but enthusiastic paint war, filling the nursery with quiet laughter and colorful streaks. By the time the sun began to rise, you were both covered in paint, sitting on the drop cloth and admiring your handiwork—both on the walls and each other.

"You know," Kurt mused, his tail drawing abstract patterns in a small paint puddle, "this might be your best work yet."

You looked around at the cheerful chaos you'd created together—the story-filled walls, the paint-splattered drop cloths, the mixing of your artistic vision with his playful additions. Your hand found his, fingers intertwining as they rested on your growing bump.

"No," you said softly, "I think our best work is still in progress."

His answering smile was brighter than the rising sun, and as he pulled you in for a paint-smudged kiss, you couldn't help but think that sometimes the most beautiful art came from life itself—messy, unexpected, and absolutely perfect.

Though you did make him clean up the paint footprints he'd teleported all over the mansion before the students woke up. Your gaze went over to the window which Kurt had helped you place the stain on. The blue hues glittered over the room and it filled you with a sense of love and happiness. Blue would always be apart of your life now, and you wouldn't have it any other way. 

[jijournal]

PRANK WARS | F.W

malfoy!reader x fred weasley

"rudest white haired person ever"

Summary: You and Fred Weasley had been bickering since first year, locked in a never-ending war of (mostly) harmless pranks. Why is it that he's so obsessed with tormenting you? you’ll never know—but it’s equal parts annoying and entertaining, especially when you catch that furious look on his face as you walk away from your latest victory. The petty rivalry drags on for years, until your sixth year, when one of Fred’s pranks goes completely wrong… or maybe completely right.

Word Count: 6k+

A/N: This is definitely NOT my usual go-to posts, but I reallyyyyy loved this idea I had since like—forever. Soooo here you go!

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It started on the train on the way to Hogwarts. It was your first time being completely away from your family. No more cold sharp gazes were present, instead the warm breeze was hugging you as the sound of your short heeled boots echoed through the hall.

You were walking along the corridor of the train, eager to find that old lady selling candies. That was until a red-headed boy around your age popped up in front of you, smiling like an idiot.

"Quick question! Frog spawn soap OR Snake spawn soap?!" he was practically shouting at you.

Instead of turning him away, you immediately answer. "Snake spawn soap, duh!"

“And why is that?” he asked, his face inching closer to yours, determined to know why you chose snakes over frogs.

"Snakes are far more dangerous," you reply smoothly, a glint of amusement in your eyes. "People might like frogs—some even keep them as pets. But snakes? They strike fear. If you want real panic, snakes will always get you the reaction you're looking for." A slow, knowing smirk curves your lips.

"Wow..." his mouth was now agape instead of that cheeky grin a few moments ago. "You are... wow... that was amazing. You are definitely getting added on my 'people I want to be friends with' list!"

You stare at him, brows furrowed as he rattles on about the people that are on his list.

"I'm Fred by the way!" he exclaimed, his hand extended in front of you, hoping you would shake it.

Your eyes darted away from him to the sound of a trolley just behind him. The colorful cart easily caught your attention more than this boy's hair. You can already smell the chocolate frogs and the sherbet lemon waiting for you to devour them.

'The old lady selling candies!' you thought.

You brushed right past Fred, ignoring his outstretched arm as you marched directly toward the reason you’d left your compartment in the first place.

You could practically feel his glare burning into the back of your head as you neared the trolley where the old witch stood. You didn’t turn around, but you were almost certain you caught the tail end of his muttered complaint:

“Rudest white-haired person ever.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended not to hear him, too focused on piling your arms with every sweet you’d been craving since the train left the station.

⸻

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was beautiful, showing a deep twilight sky where stars twinkled softly, matching the real weather outside. The loud whispers of older students bounced off the stone walls—talk of Quidditch, exams, and quiet gossip filled the room, blending with the familiar magic of the castle.

Unlike the other students in your year—their backs slouched, fingers nervously fidgeting—you stood tall, shoulders squared, head held high, and hands calmly poised before you, radiating the composed authority of a headmistress.

You were a Malfoy after all.

But unlike your younger brother—who was cold, dull, and uninterested in anything fun—you were full of life, sharp-witted, and always up for an adventure. Especially when it came to pranking.

Your Father never approved of your foolishness but you never minded him. Your father adored you.

Behind that mischievousness of yours, you understood the importance of blood purity. You swore to your father you would never marry a man that doesn't have clean blood. Your father was proud.

You grew up in a house where your mother would teach you proper etiquettes of a pure blooded woman before you could even read. You carried yourself with proper poise, grace and elegance.

So when you walked through the Great Hall, students' whispers grew rapidly.

"White hair?" "Is she a Malfoy?" "She must be!" "Look at the way she acts, it screams pure blood."

You could hear them talking about you. As they should.

You weren't a mean person. You just... like to boast.

You like to tell people the new things your father bought you. You love to show off. Show off every expensive dress, every polished pair of shoes, every glinting necklace that probably costs more than their family vacations.

It’s not your fault you have taste—and money.

You walk like the hallway is a runway and talk like everyone’s dying to hear what you'll say next. And they usually are. Eyes follow you when you pass, even if it’s just to roll them. Jealousy’s loud like that.

And whenever you prank your little brother and turn out successful, you would tease him for weeks with no end.

"You could never be like me Draco. Father actually smiled when I pranked you. Slightly, but anyway! He's going to buy me more prank stuff from Zonkos that I would use on you!"

Draco would roll his eyes and retreat into one of his classic sulks, convinced your father liked you more than him.

As you reached the front of the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall began calling students one by one to sit on the stool, gently placing the old, tattered Sorting Hat atop their heads.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat bellowed as it touched the head of a boy named Cedric Diggory. Cheers exploded from the Hufflepuff table, the students in yellow welcoming him with proud claps and bright smiles as he made his way over.

Professor McGonagall looked back down on her parchment, "Y/N Malfoy!"

Your breath hitched as your name got called out. You walked up the steps and sat on the stool, the talking hat pressed on your head. It wasn't even a second when the pointed hat shouted "SLYTHERIN!"

You smiled in relief and started to walk towards the sea of students wearing green robes. That was when you locked eyes with a particular red head.

His brows was furrowed as you look him in the eye, a small smile plastered on your lips. He was staring at you with curiosity, his head slightly tilting as he watches you. His eyes looked away from yours as his name got called out.

"Fred Weasley!"

A Weasley, huh. The family your father had always told you to avoid at all costs. Even if they were pure-bloods, they were the biggest blood traitors alive.

Fred jogged up to the stool, his usual grin back in place as the Sorting Hat was placed on his head.

"GRYFFINDOR!" it shouted a second later.

He shot you a wink as he hopped off the stool and ran to join the cheering Gryffindors. You rolled your eyes and were about to look away—until you heard the next name.

"George Weasley!"

You blinked, your head tilting slightly. Another one?

Sure enough, an identical boy stepped forward, the same red hair, same build, same smug grin. Twins. Fantastic. He gave a playful nudge to Fred as he passed him, then sat down and was sorted just as quickly.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The two high-fived as George dropped into the seat beside his brother, both of them stealing a glance across the room toward you. Fred pointed discreetly, clearly whispering something to George, who looked at you, laughed, and nodded as if they were already plotting their next move.

You pressed your lips together, holding back a smile. Two of them. Double the trouble.

This year was going to be interesting.

⸻

Settling into Hogwarts was easier than you thought. Your Slytherin dorm under the Black Lake was cold but pretty, with green light dancing on the stone walls. You unpacked fast, hanging up your best robes and filling your shelves with sweets you bought from the trolley. For once, everything felt right. No strict parents watching you—just freedom and a castle full of chances.

You went to bed with a smug smile, already imagining how fun this year was going to be. And in the back of your mind, you kept replaying that brief encounter with Fred Weasley. The nerve of him… but also, the boldness. You almost admired it.

The next morning, after breakfast, you decided to get a head start on the day and wash up. The bathroom was surprisingly empty, the stone floors chilly beneath your feet as you stepped into one of the stalls. You grabbed the fancy soap you had brought from home—a pure white bar, scented with lavender—and started lathering it onto your hands.

That’s when you noticed it.

A thin, slick shape slithered down your wrist.

You froze.

Another one dropped from the bar of soap and landed with a soft plop on the wet floor. Then another. And another. Before you knew it, tiny snakes—green and black, hissing and coiling—were appearing one by one, wriggling free from the soap like it was some kind of cursed egg.

Your eyes went wide in shock as you dropped the soap, stumbling back against the wall.

“What the—” you muttered, heart racing.

The snakes kept coming, a writhing little pile now forming by the drain. None of them looked dangerous—they were too small to be deadly—but still, the sight was enough to make your skin crawl.

And yet, as the panic settled into irritation, only one name flashed through your mind.

Fred Weasley.

Of course.

You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching into an unwilling smile. That absolute prat must have enchanted your soap when you weren’t looking. You don't know how, but he for sure did!

You almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. He asked, you answered, and he delivered—exactly as promised.

“Well played, Weasley,” you muttered under your breath, staring down at the last of the tiny snakes slipping down the drain. “But if you think this means war, you’re absolutely right.”

Because if Fred Weasley wanted to play games… you were more than ready.

After Fred pranked you with those snakes, which he kept denying that it wasn't him—"I swear! It wasn't me!" he stammered, but a small smirk was forming on his lips—you got him back by making his toothpaste spurt out slugs.

"What in the Godric's beard was that Malfoy!" he scowled, storming toward you during breakfast.

"What do you think it was?" you smirked, crossing your arms. "It was payback for your pathetic Snake Spawn soap—the idea you stole from me!"

Fred Weasley didn’t let the slug-toothpaste prank slide—and from that moment on, you both knew it was war.

⸻

It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon in the Hogwarts library. You sat at a far table, head bent over your parchment, scribbling notes on magical creatures. The air smelled faintly of old books and dust, and the only sounds were the gentle scratching of quills and the occasional creak of a chair. You didn’t even notice Fred Weasley slip in, his bright red hair barely visible behind the tall shelves.

You reached for your ink bottle, dipping your quill without looking. The second the quill touched the liquid, the bottle gave an odd hiss. Frowning, you leaned closer just as the bottle exploded—not with a bang, but a poof of thick, emerald-green smoke that enveloped you entirely. Coughing and spluttering, you waved your hands wildly to clear the cloud, but when it faded, the real horror set in. Your arms, your robes, even your face were stained neon green, glowing faintly under the dim library light.

“Fred Weasley!” you hissed, spinning around—but he was already gone. You stormed out into the corridor, cheeks burning, catching sight of his retreating back as he disappeared around a corner, laughter trailing behind him. You clenched your fists, seething.

The embarrassment was bad enough, but the fact that Fred had done it so effortlessly, so smoothly, infuriated you. Oh, he thought he was clever, did he? Thought you’d just let it go? Not a chance.

That night, lying in bed, you stared up at the canopy, plotting. You weren’t going to rush your revenge—no, you were going to wait, plan, and strike when Fred least expected it.

You replayed his routine in your head: how he swaggered into the Great Hall every morning, always late, always grinning, always taking the same seat beside George. Perfect. You smiled to yourself as you drifted off to sleep, your mind already working on the trap you’d set for the following week.

By the time Friday rolled around, you were ready. You watched from the Slytherin table as Fred sauntered into breakfast, completely unaware of what was coming. Just as he sat in his usual spot, the plate in front of him screamed, loud enough for the whole hall to hear:

“THE UNDERWEAR FRED WEASLEY IS WEARING RIGHT NOW HAS PINK CARTOON DRAGONS ON THEM!”

The Great Hall went silent for a beat—then exploded with laughter. Fred froze, his face turning bright red as he grabbed at the plate, trying to shut it up.

You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice, laughing so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes. Across the room, you met his gaze with a sweet, innocent smile. “Enjoy your breakfast, Weasley?” you called. Fred’s eyes lit up with that gleam you knew too well.

The prank war had officially begun.

⸻

After your triumphant revenge in the Great Hall, you thought you’d earned at least a few days of peace. But you should have known better—Fred Weasley never let a challenge sit unanswered for long. Sure enough, by midweek, you caught him sneaking glances at you across the corridors, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes. You tried not to let it rattle you, but something inside warned you: Fred was planning something, and he was planning it soon.

The real blow landed in Charms. You were sitting near the front, feeling unusually confident. Professor Flitwick had just posed a question, and your hand shot up without hesitation. “Yes, Miss Malfoy?” Flitwick called brightly. You opened your mouth, ready with the perfect, well-rehearsed answer—and instead of words, a loud quack echoed through the classroom.

You froze. Heat flooded your cheeks as the entire room burst into laughter. Eyes wide, you clamped your mouth shut, blinking furiously. Surely not—surely you hadn’t just—

“Quack,” you tried again, panicking. The sound was even louder this time, like an angry goose. Across the room, Fred was doubled over, shaking with silent laughter, his shoulders trembling as he bit his lip to keep from howling outright.

“Miss Malfoy?” Flitwick asked gently, though even he looked dangerously close to giggling. Mortified, you covered your mouth with both hands and sank low in your seat, glaring daggers at Fred the whole time.

He gave you a little wave and an infuriatingly innocent grin, as if he’d had nothing to do with it. You seethed in silence for the rest of the lesson, burning with embarrassment—but inside, your mind was already racing. Fred thought he’d won? He had no idea who he was messing with.

That night, you lay awake, arms folded behind your head, plotting your next move. You weren’t about to let him win this round. If Fred wanted a prank war, he was going to get one. You smiled darkly to yourself, already imagining the look on his face when you hit back—because this time, you were going to make sure everyone remembered your victory.

After the humiliating Charms class quacking incident, you knew you couldn’t let Fred get away with it. He’d crossed a line — and it was time to hit back, harder. You needed something clever, something unexpected, something that would rattle his pride without hurting a hair on his head… or maybe, you thought slyly, right on his head. That’s when the idea struck you late one night, as you watched Fred swagger past in the corridor, his famously messy red hair sticking up in every direction. Oh yes. His hair was the perfect target.

You spent two days perfecting the potion: harmless, temporary, but utterly impossible to ignore. It would activate on contact — the moment it touched Fred’s hair, it would transform it into a neon, bright pink masterpiece, styled into chaotic spikes that no charm could fix for at least a full day.

The hard part, of course, was slipping it into his shampoo bottle undetected, but you were determined. One well-placed distraction, one quick charm, and the bottle was yours. You switched the contents with a satisfied grin, and the trap was set.

The next morning, you sat casually at the Slytherin table, sipping your pumpkin juice and waiting. The Great Hall buzzed with chatter—until the doors swung open, and Fred Weasley strolled in. And then, slowly, the room fell silent.

One by one, heads turned, eyes widened, and whispers filled the air. Fred blinked, confused, looking around. He frowned as people snickered, nudged each other, pointed. Finally, his hand shot up to his head—and he froze.

His jaw dropped as he yanked a lock of his hair down in front of his eyes, only to stare in horror at the vivid, bright pink. He tugged at another piece, then another, pulling on the spiky strands as George burst into laughter beside him.

Across the hall, you raised your goblet in a smug, silent toast, locking eyes with Fred. His mouth opened in an outraged protest, but he couldn’t even form words. His hands flew up to his hair again, as if sheer willpower could tame the wild spikes.

That entire morning, Fred Weasley was the talk of Hogwarts. People stopped him in the corridors, poked at his hair, and grinned as he passed by, fuming.

You, meanwhile, glided through your day with a satisfied smile, feeling like you’d finally evened the score. But deep down, you knew this wouldn’t be the end. Fred wasn’t the type to back down — not when the game was just getting interesting.

⸻

By third year, the pranks had become legend.

By now, you understood each other’s pranking style well—Fred never struck back immediately. No, he waited, let you drop your guard, and then unleashed something that would leave you shrieking. You just didn’t know when or how.

The answer came one chilly morning when you woke up, stretched lazily in bed, and felt something… odd. There was movement, faint but undeniable, under your blanket.

Blinking blearily, you propped yourself up and slowly peeled back the covers. That was when dozen—no, hundreds—of tiny green frogs came leaping out, landing on your pillow, your nightstand, even right into your lap.

You let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed through the Slytherin dormitory. Your roommates bolted upright, shrieking alongside you as frogs bounced off beds, desks, and curtains, their little webbed feet slapping against the stone floor.

Chaos erupted as girls danced around, trying to dodge the tiny invaders, while you sat frozen in your bed, fury bubbling in your chest. You didn’t even have to think about who was behind this.

Fred found you later that day in the corridor, his grin stretching ear to ear. “Sleep well, Malfoy?” he drawled innocently as he strolled past. You whipped around, eyes blazing, but he was already gone, leaving only his laughter trailing behind him like a victory banner.

Oh, he was delighted with himself — and honestly, you had to admit, it had been a brilliant prank. But you weren’t about to let him have the last laugh.

That evening, as Fred and George made their way up to their dorm, they opened the door—and were immediately hit by a horrible stench. The entire room was overflowing with thick, slimy bubbles that weren’t just foam—they reeked of rotten eggs and old socks. Every surface was coated in sticky, smelly slime that clung to their clothes and hair, making a disgusting squelching sound with every step. The more they tried to wipe it off, the more it spread, leaving their skin itching and their eyes watering.

Fred stormed into the Gryffindor common room later, drenched in stinking goo, his hair matted down, his face twisted with fury. You passed by the open entrance just then, humming cheerfully, and couldn’t resist tossing over your shoulder: “Sweet dreams, Weasley.” You could practically feel his glare burning into your back—and you knew the prank war was only just beginning.

⸻

By the time the Slytherin vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch match rolled around, you were riding high on your latest victory. You’d nailed Fred and George’s dorm with the multiplying bubble charm, and you were sure they were still scrubbing soap out of their ears.

You strolled confidently to the pitch that Saturday morning, bundled in your house colors, ready to cheer on your team with the rest of Slytherin.

The stands were packed, banners waved, and the air was buzzing with energy. You couldn’t help glancing smugly toward the Gryffindor section—where Fred was undoubtedly plotting, but surely, surely not ready yet.

Oh, how wrong you were.

The first hint came when you felt a strange shimmer in the air around you—like the prickle of a spell. You frowned, looking down at your robes just as they poofed—transforming in an instant into a massive, fluffy pink tutu complete with glittering bows and frilly trim.

A horrified gasp escaped your lips as you spun in a circle, trying to make sense of what had happened. The crowd exploded into laughter, students pointing, hooting, clutching their sides as they doubled over. Even the Hufflepuff Beaters flying overhead paused to stare.

You whipped your head toward the Gryffindor stands, and sure enough, there was Fred, laughing so hard he was wiping tears from his eyes. He leaned against George for support, both of them howling with glee as they pointed directly at you.

Your face burned as you glared daggers at Fred, fists clenched at your sides. You yanked at the tutu helplessly, but it stayed stubbornly fixed, sparkling in the sunlight as if mocking you.

By the end of the match, you had sworn revenge. You stormed off the pitch with as much dignity as you could muster, but the laughter followed you all the way back to the castle. That night, as you lay awake in bed, you plotted carefully.

Fred had humiliated you in front of the whole school. This couldn’t be a small response—no, this needed to be legendary. You smiled darkly to yourself, already imagining the chaos you’d unleash at the next Gryffindor match. Let Fred laugh now. His time was coming.

⸻

You spent the entire week before the Gryffindor match planning your masterpiece. After the tutu incident, you knew Fred would be watching his back, so you had to be subtle — quiet, clever, and completely foolproof.

You studied his broomstick when he wasn’t looking, charmed it carefully, triple-checked your work, and then waited.

The pitch was packed on the day of the match, the crowd roaring with excitement as the Gryffindor team zoomed out onto the pitch. You sat calmly in the stands, heart racing, a small, satisfied smile curling on your lips.

Fred flew like he always did — fast, flashy, confident. He soared past the stands, weaving between players, pulling off little stunts just to rile up the crowd.

But then, slowly, the audience’s cheers shifted. The laughter began, rippling through the rows of students like a wave. Heads turned, fingers pointed, and a roar of amusement filled the air. Fred slowed slightly, frowning in confusion — and then glanced back.

Trailing behind his broomstick was a giant banner, magically tethered to the tail. And in enormous shimmering letters, it read:

“PROPERTY OF SLYTHERIN’S PRINCESS.”

Fred’s jaw dropped. His eyes darted up toward the stands—and there you were, lounging comfortably, chin in hand, flashing him a radiant, triumphant smile. You lifted your hand in a mock wave, watching as realization crashed across his face like a tidal wave.

Midair, Fred began twisting and spinning, yanking desperately at the banner, but no matter how he twisted or turned, it stayed firmly attached, fluttering proudly behind him like a royal flag.

The Gryffindor Beaters were doubled over on their brooms, howling with laughter; even the Slytherin players slowed down just to watch the spectacle unfold. The entire stadium roared with delight, students nearly falling out of their seats with laughter.

By the end of the match, Fred landed red-faced and panting, yanking the banner off and storming into the changing rooms. You stayed seated, basking in the victory, knowing full well that you’d just made history in the long-running prank war. B

But deep inside, you also knew Fred wouldn’t let this slide. His pride had taken a hit — and next time, he’d strike back harder. The game was far from over.

⸻

By fourth year, the prank war between you and Fred still hasn't stopped.

First-years whispered about it in the corridors; even the professors exchanged amused glances when your names came up together.

But after your spectacular broom-banner stunt the previous year, Fred had gone unusually quiet. For weeks, you waited, suspicious. Surely, he was planning something. Yet days turned into weeks, and… nothing. You began to relax—maybe he was finally calling a truce.

That was your mistake.

One afternoon in Potions, you were diligently working on your essay, head bent over your parchment, quill scratching away. You dipped your quill into the inkpot — only to have it float just out of reach, hovering playfully in the air.

You frowned, stretching a little farther, but it danced upward again, spinning tauntingly. A flicker of annoyance sparked in your chest.

You stood slightly, reaching — but the quill zipped even higher, twirling right above your head. Suddenly black ink spilled right over you.

He definitely charmed the ink pot because by the time the ink stopped dripping, you were covered from head to toe.

Around you, students began to snicker, and when you shot a sharp look across the room, there was Fred, lounging at his desk, arms folded behind his head, wearing that unmistakable smirk.

By the time class ended, you were fuming. But you didn’t rush to retaliate. No—you waited, planned, prepared.

You spent two days brewing a harmless little potion (with a bit of help from a very amused friend in Ravenclaw), and when the time was right, you slipped it discreetly into Fred’s morning pumpkin juice. The next day, the results were glorious.

Fred burst into the Great Hall, laughing and talking—but every word came out in a ridiculous, high-pitched, chipmunk-like squeak. His eyes widened in horror, and as he tried to speak louder, it only got worse.

The entire Gryffindor table collapsed in laughter, banging fists on the table, tears streaming down their faces. Even Professor McGonagall struggled to keep a straight face when Fred tried to answer her roll call.

You watched the scene unfold from the Slytherin table, coolly sipping your tea, giving Fred a calm little wave. His cheeks were scarlet as he glared at you, voice cracking absurdly as he hissed,

You smiled sweetly. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

⸻

By fifth year, things between you and Fred had reached new heights. The pranks were no longer casual skirmishes — they were full-out battles, planned with military precision.

You both had reputations now: you, the sly Slytherin strategist; Fred, the Gryffindor king of mischief. Neither of you could walk down a corridor without someone whispering, “What do you think they’ll do next?” You’d been planning your next move carefully—but Fred got to you first.

It happened on an ordinary morning, as you confidently strutted through the corridor, feeling untouchable. Suddenly, you felt the sharp tug of a spell.

Before you could even reach for your wand, you were yanked upward, shrieking as you dangled upside down in midair, robes flapping wildly around you.

Students gasped, then burst into laughter, pointing and clapping. You twisted frantically, trying to cover your face, heart hammering in humiliation.

And there was Fred—leaning casually against the wall below you, looking utterly pleased with himself. He grinned up at you, arms crossed, his brown eyes dancing with laughter. “New perspective, Malfoy?” he called, smirking as you fumed and flailed above him.

You shouted at him to put you down this instant, but Fred only chuckled, drawing out the moment until you were red-faced with fury. Finally, with a flick of his wand, he released the spell, and you crumpled ungracefully to the floor.

Oh, you were going to make him regret that.

The next Hogsmeade weekend, you struck back. You waited until Fred was seated comfortably at the Three Broomsticks, surrounded by friends, lifting a butterbeer to his lips — boom — the bottle exploded in his hands, sending sticky foam splashing all over him.

He yelped, startled, but laughed it off — until the second glass exploded. And the third. And the fourth. No matter what glass or bottle he picked up, no matter where he went, the moment butterbeer touched his lips — boom.

By the end of the day, Fred was soaked, hair dripping, robes sticking to his skin as he glowered at you from across the room. You hummed cheerfully as you passed by, offering him a bright, innocent smile.

The war was far from over—and both of you knew it.

⸻

And yet, no matter how ruthless the pranks became, there was always a secret thrill between you—a challenge, a spark. Fred would catch your eye across the room, mischief shining bright, and you’d lift your chin, daring him silently to try again.

Because with Fred Weasley, it was never just a prank war.

It was your thing. And neither of you was planning to stop any time soon.

By sixth year, things between you and Fred Weasley were… complicated. The pranks were still part of your lives, but there was something else now. Something you couldn’t name.

A fluttering in your chest when your eyes met across the Great Hall. A lingering glance after a shared joke. But neither of you said anything, hiding behind the comfort of your prank wars.

And then Fred went and ruined everything.

It all started when Fred and George Weasley decided it would be “fun” to sell love potions to unsuspecting students. The twins had always been known for their mischievous ideas, but this one took the cake.

They had somehow managed to make the potions look like ordinary sweets, luring in the girls of Hogwarts with promises of a little extra charm for their crushes.

But things got weird fast.

First was Seamus Finnigan, who’d never paid you much mind beyond the occasional “Oi, pass the vial.” Out of nowhere, he appeared at your side one morning, holding a crudely folded origami flower. “For you,” he’d said, practically shoving it into your hand. “You’ve got the nicest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

You stared at him, bewildered. “Thanks…?”

Then came Terry Boot, cornering you in the library with a shaky smile and a book of sonnets. “I wrote one. For you,” he blurted, cheeks blazing as he read, voice cracking horribly:

“Your hair is like a broomstick’s sweep, your eyes like—uh—cauldrons deep…”

You snatched the paper away before he could butcher any more.

By the third day, it was full-on chaos. Boys trailed after you like a parade, bringing you ridiculous gifts—fizzing whizzbees, hand-knit scarves, even a foot massage coupon from some over-eager third year.

Anthony Goldstein left enchanted bubbles floating around your head between classes, each one popping with a heart-shaped puff. And one morning, Dean Thomas literally serenaded you at breakfast with a shaky guitar and the most awkward grin you’d ever seen.

Everywhere you went, there they were—dozens of them—pushing, shoving, offering to carry your books or walk you to class. Some you barely even knew.

It was exhausting.

You were cornered by the Black Lake one afternoon when it finally clicked. A group of lovesick boys surrounded you, all chattering over each other.

That’s when you overheard one murmur, “It must’ve been that love potion… Fred said it’d work wonders…”

You froze, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Fred Weasley.

You found him at their little booth that night, selling potions with George, looking smug as ever.

“WEASLEY!” you snapped, storming up to him.

Fred grinned lazily, biting into a chocolate frog. “Evening, Princess. Enjoying all the attention?”

“You complete git!” you hissed. “You did this! Your stupid potions—why are they all in love with me?”

Fred shrugged, feigning innocence. “Funny thing… must’ve been a little cross-contamination. The potions got… mixed up.”

George snorted into his drink. “Mixed up, my arse. You spiked them, Fred.”

Fred elbowed him, eyes sparkling. “Purely accidental, of course.”

You glared at him, seething. “Well, fix it.”

But before Fred could answer, a bold Gryffindor stepped up behind you. “Hey—want to grab a butterbeer at Hogsmeade this weekend?” he asked, puffing out his chest. Before you could react, he reached out and roughly grabbed your face, eyes locked on yours in that same bewitched daze—and leaned in to kiss you.

You gasped, frozen—but Fred was faster.

With a sharp, “OI, BACK OFF!” Fred grabbed the guy by the collar and yanked him back so hard he nearly toppled over a chair.

“Not happening, mate,” Fred growled, stepping protectively in front of you, eyes blazing.

The room fell silent.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t think it would go this far,” Fred said, his voice serious now.

You stared at him for a moment before answering, your voice icy with frustration. “You went too far, Fred. This is beyond a joke now.”

For the first time, you saw Fred falter. He swallowed hard, then nodded, his usual cheeky grin nowhere to be found. "I know. And I’m going to make it right."

The next morning, you found a neatly folded note on your bedside table:

“I know I went too far. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that chaos. – F.W.”

Beside it sat a small bag of your favorite sweets—the same ones you always got off the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. Your chest tightened as you stared at it, fingers brushing the paper.

You huffed, stuffing the note in your pocket. But later, in Potions, you caught Fred’s eye across the room—and your stomach did that stupid fluttering thing again. You scowled, focusing hard on your cauldron, but couldn’t stop thinking about the note.

The next day, another note appeared tucked into your Transfiguration book:

“I know you’re angry with me, but I can’t help myself. I miss the way we used to mess with each other. I miss the banter, the pranks. And maybe, just maybe, I miss you a little bit too much. – Fred”

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly. You were mad at him. Furious, even. But somehow, those words… they made your frustration feel like a tangled knot in your chest.

You missed him too. The teasing, the way he always knew how to get under your skin, the way he made everything feel exciting.

And the worst part? Every time you looked at him now, your chest felt tight and fluttery, your head full of memories you couldn’t shake.

Later that evening, you sat under the archway outside the Slytherin common room, arms crossed tightly as you watched the lake ripple through the glass wall. You hadn’t heard Draco approach, but suddenly he was there beside you, arms folded and expression sharp.

“You’ve been moody,” he observed.

You didn’t look at him. “Nice to see you too, Dray.”

He raised a brow, then sighed. “Let me guess. Weasley trouble?”

You stiffened. Draco caught that immediately and scoffed.

“Seriously?” he asked, disbelief creeping into his tone. “You’re letting Fred Weasley of all people get under your skin?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” he said, leaning against the wall beside you. “You’ve been weird for days. Distracted. Flushing like a third year every time someone says his name.”

You rubbed your temple, exasperated. “He’s… he’s just being Fred. Annoying. Charming. Infuriating.”

Draco snorted. “And yet you’re reading his little notes like they’re love poems from Merlin himself.”

“I’m not!” you shot back, but your face betrayed you instantly. Draco tilted his head, eyeing you with an amused smirk.

“He’s reckless,” Draco said, more serious now. “Immature. A walking explosion. You really think someone like that knows how to… I don’t know. Handle someone like you?”

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. Draco wasn’t being cruel—he was being honest like a true brother could ever be.

“I think…” you began slowly, “I think he sees me in a way most people don’t. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

For once, Draco was quiet. Then, he sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Just don’t let him play you,” he muttered. “You’re more than a prank war.”

You turned your head slightly, studying him. “You almost sound like you care.”

“I do,” he said quietly, eyes on the lake. “I just know how easy it is to fall for someone who makes everything feel like fun—until it’s not.”

The third note came the following night, slipped under your pillow:

“Can’t stop thinking about that look you gave me when I saved you. Never want to see you scared like that again. – Fred”

You hugged your pillow, scowling at yourself, frustrated and flustered. Why did your heart betray you every time? Why did Fred Weasley, of all people, make you feel like this?

Days passed, the awkward tension between you easing little by little, especially with Fred’s persistent peace offerings. Slowly, your anger melted, leaving behind that familiar fondness and something… more.

So when Fred finally cornered you near the entrance of the Great Hall one evening and muttered, “Astronomy Tower. Tonight. Please,” you found yourself nodding—despite the voice in your head screaming danger.

“It better not be another prank, Weasley,” you warned, crossing your arms.

Fred smirked, eyes warm. “Promise. No tricks. Just… meet me.”

That night, you climbed the tower steps, heart thudding painfully. When you reached the top, Fred was there waiting, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking up at the stars.

“You made it,” he said, his grin soft.

“I’m still convinced you’re about to drop a bucket of slugs on me,” you shot back—but there was no venom in your voice now, only teasing.

Fred’s eyes twinkled. “Nah. Too easy.”

He lifted his wand—and the sky exploded.

But this wasn’t any ordinary fireworks display.

First came a soap and it started to spawn snakes. Next, a toothpaste that squirted out slugs.

Then, bubbles—huge, shimmering orbs that floated above the tower, popping into sparkly trails just like the time you’d enchanted Fred's dorm. Then a giant sparkly tutu spiraled through the night sky, glittering silver and pink—the very same tutu Fred had hexed you to wear in the middle of a quidditch match. You laughed despite yourself, eyes shining.

Next, sparkling green and silver snakes slithered across the stars, intertwining with floating butterbeer mugs that frothed and fizzed—exact replicas of the butterbeer you’d once hexed to explode all over him.

A shimmering banner unfurled in the sky, sparkling with the words: “PROPERTY OF SLYTHERIN PRINCESS”—the prank you did with his broom.

One by one, every prank, every memory, every laugh you’d shared burst into glowing shapes above you, dancing against the night sky. Your chest tightened painfully, your eyes misting up.

And finally, in huge, crackling gold letters:

“Let's end this war, but first... Fall for me at Hogsmeade?”

Fred turned, his expression surprisingly vulnerable despite his trademark grin. “No jokes this time. No potions. Just me… asking you the normal way.”

Your heart pounded as you stared at him, overwhelmed. “That’s… honestly the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard,” you whispered, voice shaking.

Fred’s grin widened, eyes locked on yours. “Yeah, but admit it—you love it.”

You shook your head, laughing softly despite the tears pricking your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So… is that a yes?”

Your breath hitched, chest aching with everything you’d been holding back for years.

“Yeah, Weasley. It’s a yes.”

And when Fred pulled you into the warmest, stupidest, most wonderful hug in the world—fireworks still echoing above you—you realized something terrifying and exhilarating all at once:

You’d fallen long before this firework show. You just hadn’t admitted it until now.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

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