Summary: Locked on James’ knot, soaked in heat and seed, you need to pee. He tells you not to move, tells you to let it out right there.
Warnings: alpha!james potter x omega!reader, omegaverse, breeding kink, knotting, watersports/piss kink, piss while knotted, mess/praise kink combo, dom!james, sub!soft!reader, overstimulation, post-knotting filth, reader cries from intensity, scent kink, possessive behavior, heat nest sex, praise-heavy filth, talk of pregnancy/breeding, very messy, very loving.
Words: 1.2K
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You’re not sure how long it’s been — hours, maybe, or days.
Time ceases to matter once the heat takes hold.
The scent of slick and Alpha is thick in your lungs, coating your throat like honey. You’re tangled in your nest, buried in James’ old Gryffindor jumper and a nest of warmth, legs shaking, cunt fluttering around his knot where you sit locked to the hilt on his cock. You’ve cum too many times to count — soft and hard and wrung out until you sobbed into his neck and still, he didn’t stop.
“Sweet little bunny,” he murmurs now, voice hoarse and adoring as his large hand strokes up the curve of your back. “So soft like this. All mine, aren’t you?”
You whimper, too fucked-out to nod, too blissfully sore and heavy to speak. The swollen bulb of his knot is still locked inside you, keeping his seed deep, keeping you claimed. You’re straddling him in the middle of your nest, thighs trembling, clit sore, the soft stretch of your body twitching with aftershocks.
“Alpha,” you breathe, barely a whisper.
He shushes you gently. “I know, baby. I’ve got you. Still stuffed full, yeah?”
You nod this time, nose brushing his neck. “S’too much. I’m— I need—”
Your voice breaks, not with heat but something else, an urgent pressure that has nothing to do with slick or pleasure.
James notices immediately. “What is it, bunny?” His hand cups your hip, grounding. “Tell me.”
“I— I need to pee,” you admit, breath catching. “I really need to— but I can’t. You’re still— you’re knotted.”
There’s a pause. A stillness that spreads across his broad chest beneath you.
Then his voice, low and sweet and wicked: “Oh, bunny.”
Your face burns. You try to look away, but he catches your chin gently in his fingers, tilting your face up until you meet his gaze.
His pupils are wide, golden eyes half-lidded and drunk on you. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. You’re staying right here, on my cock.”
“But—James—”
He growls, soft and indulgent, and you instantly go pliant again, your body responding to that sound like a command.
“You need to let go, don’t you?” he purrs, voice rough with love and filth. “You poor thing. So full, stuffed with my knot, all bred and leaking — and now you’ve got another need, huh?”
You nod quickly, shame flooding your chest. “It’s bad, James. I really need to—”
“Then go ahead.”
You blink. “W-What?”
“Let it out,” he says, grinning now, dark and pleased. “Right here, bunny. On my cock. I want to feel it. Let me have everything.”
Your brain stalls. “You… want me to pee on you?”
“I want you to piss on me while my knot’s still keeping you full,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “Go on. Let it mix. You’re already leaking my cum. What’s a little more mess, hm?”
The moan that leaves you is mortified — and hot.
“James…”
His hand slides down your back to the swell of your ass, squeezing. “Go ahead. Be a good girl. Let it all out for me.”
You clench around him without meaning to. Your body is on fire, overstimulated and raw, but you’re still desperate, still too full — of him, of everything. And now your bladder aches on top of it.
He leans closer, voice low in your ear. “I said go, baby.”
It breaks something open inside you.
You close your eyes and relax your trembling muscles as best you can — and then warmth floods between you, a slow, humiliating release. The sound is unmistakable. Wet. Hot. It runs down his thighs and your own, soaking into the nest beneath you.
You sob — not from pain or pleasure, but pure, blinding relief.
“Ohhh, there you go,” James groans, utterly gone. “That’s it. That’s my good girl. Look at you. Fuck.”
You’re shaking, unable to stop the little whimpers leaving your mouth as you empty yourself over him. His cock twitches inside you. He’s panting now, his fingers digging into your hips as you piss all over his knot, all over the mess of his cum still leaking from you.
“That’s right,” he says again, drunk on the sight. “Just like that. My perfect bunny. Letting go right on her Alpha’s cock. So sweet. So soft. So fucking filthy.”
You can’t stop crying. It’s not from sadness — it’s the intensity. The overstimulation. The humiliation. The love. It’s too much.
And James… he’s worshipping you.
“Can feel it, bunny. So warm. So messy. Still leaking my seed, and now this—” he groans, biting your shoulder lightly. “Let it mix, yeah? Let it all get in there. Piss and cum and slick — fuck, you’re gonna get pregnant for sure now.”
You whimper and bury your face in his neck, body limp as the last of your bladder empties and you fall back against him, trembling and flushed.
“Such a good girl,” he whispers, cupping your cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I didn’t mean to— I couldn’t—”
“Shhh.” He kisses you, sweet and slow, still holding you open around his knot. “You did so well, baby. Look at you. You didn’t move an inch. Still locked around me like a good little Omega.”
His hand dips down between your thighs, brushing the absolute mess between your legs. You flinch. He coos.
“Sensitive, huh?” He hums, licking your cheek. “Think you can give me one more?”
You sob a little. “James—”
He’s already shifting beneath you, dragging you closer despite the swollen knot that keeps you connected. He presses his thumb just above your clit, massaging in gentle, slow circles.
“You can, bunny. I know you can. Gimme one more. Just one. Let me make you cum while you’re still warm and wet all over me.”
You cry out as the stimulation hits, your poor swollen pussy clenching helplessly around his knot. He doesn’t even move — just holds you there, rubbing, praising, voice like a balm and a knife all at once.
“Such a good girl,” he pants. “Pissed on my cock. Took every drop of my cum. And now you’re gonna cum again for me. One more time, baby. Show me how pretty you look when I ruin you.”
And you do.
You shatter on him, keening and shaking, slick spilling out of you in waves as you soak the knot that still pulses inside you. James moans with you, cradling your body like something sacred as you cum on him for the last time.
The room smells like sex and salt and need. You’re both panting in the aftermath, tangled together in the nest, ruined and trembling and still joined.
“Shhh,” he whispers again, brushing hair from your face. “That’s my good bunny. So perfect. So soft.”
You can’t even form words.
You just breathe — in the scent of him, the heat, the bond humming beneath your skin.
Eventually, James lies back fully, taking you with him, knot still locked tight. He wraps both arms around you, protective and possessive.
“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Every drop inside you. Every mess we make. All of it.”
You nod weakly. “Yours.”
He hums in approval. “I’ll keep you full, bunny. Don’t worry. We’ll make it stick.”
You shiver, the idea of his seed soaking into you — mixed with your own release, your shame, your heat — too overwhelming to process.
“Still leaking?” he asks after a beat, lifting your hips slightly. The sound that follows is obscene.
“Mmhmm,” you whisper, face buried in his chest. “Still full.”
Pairings: James Potter x Fem!Reader, (James Potter x Lily Evans)
Summary: On the eve of James Potter’s wedding, an old flame ignites in the shadows of a dingy pub. Fueled by rage, regret, and lust, you let him take you apart one last time. It’s not love. It’s war. And you make sure he carries the bruises down the aisle.
Warnings: Hate Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity / Cheating, Morally Grey Characters, Rough Sex / Domination, Emotional Manipulation, Toxic Dynamics / Codependency, Angst / Emotional Hurt, Unprotected Sex, Possessiveness / Jealousy, Mentions of War Aftermath, Vulgar Language, No Aftercare / Cold Ending, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War.
Words: 1.4K
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The pub air clung to you, thick with the stench of cheap firewhisky and stale regret. It was a place for lost causes and broken things, and you fit right the fuck in. You threw back the last of your drink, the amber liquid burning a satisfying path down your throat. Tomorrow, James Potter would say his vows. Tomorrow, he’d belong to her forever.
The door creaked open, slicing a bar of dim light across the sticky floor. You didn’t need to look up. You felt him. The air shifted, charged with a familiar, hated electricity.
He slid onto the stool beside you, his auror robes smelling of rain and night air. “Fancy finding you here.”
“Fuck off, Potter.” Your voice was flat, a dull blade. “Shouldn’t you be polishing your halo? Or your bride?”
He laughed, a low, rough sound that grated against your nerves. “You’re drinking alone the night before my wedding. Seems a bit pathetic, even for you.”
You finally turned your head. His hair was a mess, his glasses slightly askew. The perfect golden boy looked… frayed. Good. “I’m celebrating. The Wizarding World’s most insufferable prig is finally taking himself off the market. It’s a public service.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. The heat in his look was unmistakable, and it made something ugly and possessive coil in your stomach. “You’ve always been a fucking liar.”
“And you’ve always been a fucking coward.”
That did it. His hand shot out, fingers closing like a vice around your wrist. The contact was a jolt, a violent spark that travelled straight up your arm. “You think I don’t know why you’re really here?”
“I’m here for the piss-poor whisky.” You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.
“You’re here for this.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that was all for you. “You’ve always been here for this. This fucked-up thing between us that you pretend to hate.”
He was right, and you hated him for it. You hated the way your body responded to his proximity, the way your breath caught seeing the frustrated desire in his eyes. This wasn’t about love. It was a war, and this was the final, brutal battle.
“Take me upstairs, Potter,” you hissed, the words tasting like ash and sin. “Or fuck off back to your perfect little witch.”
He didn’t speak. He just stood, pulling you up with him, his grip unrelenting. He tossed a handful of galleons on the bar and dragged you toward the rickety staircase in the back, past curious and disapproving stares that he ignored completely.
The room upstairs was a dismal box: a narrow bed, a single candle flickering on a bedside table, peeling wallpaper. He slammed the door shut, the sound final. He crowded you against it, his body a hard, warm line against yours.
“You want to pretend this is about hate?” he murmured, his lips a hair's breadth from yours. His breath smelled of mint and firewhisky. “Then let’s hate each other.”
His mouth crashed down on yours. It wasn’t a kiss of love or tenderness; it was a conquest. A punishment. His tongue forced its way past your lips, claiming, demanding. You bit his lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make him groan, a raw, hungry sound that vibrated through your entire body. Good. You wanted to mark him. You wanted to ruin him.
You clawed at his robes, pushing them from his shoulders. He did the same, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your blouse until the fabric gave way. His hands were on you then, rough and impatient, palming your breasts through the lace of your bra. He pinched a nipple through the fabric, the sharp burst of pleasure-pain making you arch into him.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growled against your neck, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. “You wanted me to come find you? To do this?”
“I wanted you to admit it,” you gasped as his mouth found your breast, his tongue laving a wet circle over the peak before he took it into his mouth, sucking hard. Your head fell back against the door with a dull thud. “I wanted you to admit you’re just as fucked up as I am.”
He ripped the rest of your clothes away, his eyes dark and furious as they raked over your naked body. You did the same to him, pushing his trousers and pants down. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking. It was a vicious-looking thing, veined and curved slightly upward, the head a flushed, dark red. You wrapped your hand around it, squeezing just to hear him hiss.
He pushed you backward onto the bed, following you down, his weight pinning you. He didn’t bother with foreplay. There was no time for gentle exploration. This was a crash, a collision. He positioned himself at your entrance, and you were already soaked, your slickness coating his length as he pressed against you.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice ragged.
You opened your eyes, meeting his furious, lust-blown gaze.
“What would your wife think?” you taunted, your voice trembling as he pushed the broad head of his cock inside, stretching you, filling you in one excruciatingly slow, perfect inch.
A muscle feathered in his jaw.
He drove the rest of the way into you, a single, brutal thrust that stole the air from your lungs. You cried out, a broken sound, as he buried himself to the hilt. You were so fucking full, stretched taut around him. He felt bigger than you remembered, every vein and ridge a distinct torture.
He didn’t wait for you to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the force of it shaking the rickety bed frame. Each thrust was an accusation, each grunt from his lips a confession. You met him thrust for thrust, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, scoring red lines down his skin. You hoped they scarred. You hoped Lily Evans had to see them tomorrow.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his hips pistoning into you. “You feel how fucking tight you are for me? Like you were made for this. For my fucking cock.”
“It’s just a fuck, Potter,” you moaned, the lie tasting weak even to you as he angled his hips, hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. Your vaginal walls clenched around him, pulsing, trying to milk him.
“Liar,” he snarled, gripping your hips tighter, his fingers leaving bruises. “You love this. You love taking what’s hers.” He lowered his head, his mouth finding yours again in a sloppy, wet kiss. “Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my cock.”
The command, the raw need in his voice, undid you. Your orgasm ripped through you without warning, a violent, shuddering wave that clenched every muscle in your body. You screamed into his mouth, your back arching off the bed as your cunt spasmed around his length, drenching him in your release.
The sensation of your tight, fluttering channel pushing him over the edge. His rhythm shattered. His thrusts became wild, uncontrolled. He buried his face in your neck, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as he came.
You felt it, every fucking pulse. The hot, sudden flood of his release painting your deepest parts. His cock twitched inside you, pumping jet after jet of his cum deep into your womb. It was a claiming. A violation. The most intimate thing you’d ever shared, and it was built on a foundation of pure spite. You could feel the wet heat of it, a profound, internal warmth spreading through you as his hips stuttered against yours, emptying himself completely.
He collapsed on top of you, his body heavy and slick with sweat. The only sounds were your ragged breaths and the pop of the candle wick. His spend began to seep out of you, a warm trickle against your thigh.
He shifted his weight, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound. He looked down at where your bodies had been joined, at the evidence of what you’d done, smeared across your skin and his. His expression was unreadable.
He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, your voice hoarse.
Summary: You surprise Harry at work with lunch and a very short skirt.
Warnings: Public sex, Office setting, Dirty talk, Control kink, Desk sex, Post-Hogwarts, Dominant Harry, Mild risk of being caught.
Words: 1.2K
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The stale, paper-scented air of the Ministry’s Record Retention wing was so thick you could taste it, a flavour of dust and forgotten bureaucracy. You found him exactly where you knew he would be, buried in a canyon of towering file shelves. Harry Potter, the man who saved the wizarding world, looked utterly defeated by a mountain of parchment on a rickety wooden desk.
His tie was loose, his hair even more of a wild mess than usual, and his shoulders were slumped with a tension you could feel from the doorway. He didn’t even look up, his quill scratching furiously.
“Told Robards I wasn’t to be disturbed,” he muttered, his voice a low, tired growl.
You let the heavy door thud shut. The sound finally made him glance up, irritation sharp in his green eyes. It melted away the second he saw you, replaced by a flicker of heat that had nothing to do with the stuffy room.
“You also told me to bring you lunch,” you said, holding up a paper-wrapped sandwich. “You forget to eat when you’re like this.”
“Like what?” he asked, though his gaze wasn’t on the food. It was tracing the line of your body, from your heels, up your legs, to the hem of that deliberately short skirt you’d chosen.
“Like a man trying to solve the world’s problems single-handedly before dinner.” You placed the sandwich on the one clear corner of the desk and leaned forward, your palms flat on the wood, giving him an unobstructed view down your blouse. “You need a distraction, Harry.”
His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. Fuck, that look did things to you, unravelling you from the inside out. He stood up so slowly it was a threat, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor. He didn’t touch you. Not yet. He just walked to the door, and you heard the definitive, heavy click of the lock.
The sound was a promise.
He turned, and the man who had been drowning in paperwork was gone. In his place was him. The one who knew exactly what he wanted. He crossed the room in three long strides, his hand snaking out to sweep the entire pile of files from the desk. They fluttered to the floor in a chaotic rain of paper, a testament to how badly he needed this. Needed you.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice rough, stripping away the last of his professional veneer.
You obeyed, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs. The cool, scarred wood of the desk met your palms as you bent over it. The hem of your skirt rode up, the cool air a shock against the bare skin of your thighs, your arse. You heard the clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zip, and then his body was covering yours, his chest warm and solid against your back.
His mouth was at your ear, his breath hot. “You walked in here looking like this, knowing what it would do to me. Knowing I’d fucking lose my mind.”
“Yes,” you breathed, the word barely audible.
One hand splayed across your stomach, holding you firmly in place against the desk. The other hooked into the flimsy lace of your knickers and pulled, not tearing them, just yanking them down to your knees in one sharp, efficient movement. The exposure was dizzying.
“The door isn’t silenced,” he growled, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You make a sound louder than a whisper, and I stop. Understand? You stay quiet for me.”
A thrill, sharp and electric, shot through you. Fuck. The risk of it, the sheer audacity. You managed a jerky nod.
He didn’t make you wait. There was no gentle exploring, no soft caress. He was as pent-up and desperate as you were. You felt the thick, blunt tip of his cock nudge against you, already slick with your own wanting. He was hot and hard and right there.
With a single, powerful thrust, he filled you completely, sheathing himself inside you to the hilt. A choked gasp caught in your throat, your nails digging into the wood grain. Oh god. The stretch was perfect, a breathtaking fullness that punched the air from your lungs. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, both of you utterly still, the only sound your ragged breathing and the distant, muffled echo of footsteps passing the door.
“So fucking wet for me,” he muttered into your hair, his voice thick with a filthy sort of wonder. “You’re absolutely soaked. Did you think about this? When you put this little skirt on? Did you think about me fucking you over this desk?”
“Yes,” you whispered, the word trembling out of you.
“Good.”
He began to move then, a slow, punishing rhythm that was all power and control. Each withdrawal was a near-torturous emptiness, each drive back in a reclaiming, a possession. His grip on your hip was iron, his other hand still pinning your abdomen to the desk, holding you exactly where he wanted you. The desk creaked a steady, rhythmic protest with every one of his thrusts.
You bit down on your lip, the taste of copper sharp on your tongue, trying to stifle the moans that threatened to break free. Every sound was a violation of his rule, and the terrifying, thrilling thought of him stopping, of leaving you aching and empty, kept you silent. Pleasure coiled, tight and urgent, deep in your belly. You could feel the sweat-dampened cotton of his shirt against your back, hear the soft, ragged grunts he made with each movement. The world narrowed to this: the smell of him, of sweat and cheap Ministry soap, the feel of his relentless pace, the stifled, desperate sounds of your joining.
His pace began to falter, his thrusts growing more erratic, more frantic. Fuck, he was close. The hand on your stomach slid down, his fingers finding that perfect, aching spot between your legs. The contact was electric, a direct circuit to the core of the pleasure building inside you.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his voice a raw, husky command against your ear as his fingers worked you in tight, perfect circles. “Come around my cock. Right now. Do it quietly.”
It was the permission, the order, the exquisite friction of him inside you and his skilled fingers on you that shattered your control. Your climax ripped through you, a silent, seismic wave of pleasure that turned your bones to liquid and your vision to white static. Your internal muscles clenched around him, a rhythmic, pulsing squeeze that dragged a guttural groan from his throat.
He fucked you through it, his own control breaking. With three final, deep, grinding thrusts, he followed you over the edge, spilling himself inside you with a sharp, choked-off cry that he muffled against your shoulder. His body went rigid against yours, then heavy, as the last waves of his release shuddered through him.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your laboured breathing, slowly returning to normal. The distant hum of the Ministry continued, oblivious. He stayed buried within you, his weight a comforting press, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades.
Finally, he softened and slipped out of you. His hand, surprisingly gentle now, smoothed your skirt back down. He turned you around to face him. His face was flushed, his eyes still blazing with a satisfied, possessive fire. He didn’t speak. He just looked at you, his gaze tracing your kiss-swollen lips, your flushed cheeks, as if memorising the sight.
Pairings: Bodyguard!James Potter x Bodyguard!Sirius Black x Bodyguard!Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader
Summary: Assigned three bodyguards after a kidnapping attempt, you rebel against their rules and sneak out. When they catch you, the punishment is harsh, humiliating—and unbearably hot.
Warnings: spanking kink, brat taming, soft dom!James/Sirius/Remus, D/s poly dynamic, discipline kink, punishment (consensual, non-sexual), over-the-lap spanking, praise & pain, reader is a spoiled brat, humiliation kink (light), pet names (baby, good girl, etc.), modern non-magical au, bodyguard!marauders, rich!reader
Words: 850
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You knew the second you saw them—leaning against the sleek black car, arms folded, expressions carved from stone—that you were in trouble.
Not “they’ll yell a bit and then forgive you” trouble.
Not even “you’re grounded for a week” trouble.
No, this was “Remus has his sleeves rolled up and James is cracking his knuckles while Sirius looks like he’s picturing you over his lap” trouble.
Which was ridiculous, because you were twenty-one, not some wayward teen.
Still, your strappy heels clicked with less confidence as you descended the party steps, and the cool autumn air did little to soothe the heat crawling up your neck.
“Get in,” James said. His voice was even, calm. That was the worst sign of all.
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Got in the car.
They don’t speak the whole ride home. That alone is punishment. Sirius drums his fingers against the window like he’s keeping himself from exploding. Remus sits stiff beside you, jaw clenched. James drives with the same terrifying calmness he always uses when he’s past fury and into something colder.
You’re not used to cold from them. You’re used to warm—too warm, three smothering bodies and far too many hands that dote and discipline in equal measure. They spoil you, they always do. James brings you iced coffee in the morning. Sirius helps pick your outfits. Remus reads to you when you can’t sleep.
But tonight, it seems, you’ve crossed the line even their spoiling can’t erase.
When the front door slams shut behind you, you try for a laugh.
“I mean, you’ve gotta admit—I looked hot tonight.”
Silence.
Then James turns to you slowly, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “You could’ve been killed tonight.”
Sirius tosses your purse on the counter with a thud. “Or taken. Again.”
Remus walks up behind you, hands settling on your shoulders. Not to comfort. To hold you in place.
“You think we’re here to entertain you?” he murmurs. “You think we’re just eye candy for your amusement?”
Your throat tightens. “No. I—”
James steps forward, invading your space. “You were told. No unapproved events. And you lied.”
You hate how your stomach flips. How the fire of guilt burns under your skin… and how shamefully hot it makes you to be the center of their attention like this.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
“You’re sorry,” Sirius mocks, sauntering over. “No, sweetheart. You’re sorry when you knock over a drink. You’re bratty when you sneak out in a micro-skirt and ignore your security protocols.”
“I was safe!” you snap.
James raises a brow. “That skirt had you one bent-over-couch away from a crime scene.”
That earns a chuckle from Sirius. Even Remus smirks. But then his grip on your shoulders tightens just slightly.
“You wanted to act like a brat?” James says, tone dropping low. “Fine. We’ll treat you like one.”
Your heart leaps straight into your throat.
“Upstairs,” Remus says, already steering you toward the hall. “Skirt stays on.”
Your legs are jelly. Your mouth, dry. You half-expect them to change their minds—but they don’t.
The bedroom is dim, lit by soft amber lamps. Your knees hit the bed before you can second-guess it, and Remus is guiding you down, across his lap. He sits at the edge of the mattress, one strong arm curling around your waist, the other sliding your skirt up your hips in one humiliating sweep.
“Oh look,” Sirius purrs from behind you. “She wore the pink one. Our favorite.”
Your thong is barely a strip of lace. You let out a mortified squeak and try to twist, but Remus simply holds you tighter.
“Mm-mm,” he hums. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, baby?”
James stands in front of you, tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet his gaze.
“Count for us.”
“What—?”
The first smack lands before you can finish. Hard, perfect, right on the curve of your ass.
“One,” you gasp.
Another. This one from Sirius, you think, based on the way it stings sharper.
“Two.”
Remus is steady, patient, taking his time with each spank, alternating cheeks, letting the heat build until you’re squirming and gasping and clutching at the sheets.
They take turns, all three of them—James brushing your hair out of your face, Sirius whispering filthy praise in your ear while his palm punishes your skin, Remus anchoring you against his thigh, murmuring soft, cruel nothings about how pretty you look when you’re ashamed.
“Such a spoiled little thing,” Sirius says. “Too rich to follow rules.”
“Maybe next time she’ll remember who she belongs to,” Remus adds, giving you a particularly sharp slap.
By the time you reach twenty, your voice is breathless. Your thighs are trembling. Your eyes are wet, but not from pain. Not really.
“You still think you don’t need us?” James asks, leaning down so his nose brushes yours.
You shake your head frantically. “No. I need you.”
“Good girl,” Sirius praises, brushing his hand over your heated skin.
Summary: Unloved at home, hunted at school, you found solace in poison and books — until Tom Riddle made you his. His soft words rot you sweeter than venom. You kill without question. He rewards you with praise. And when he says you’re perfect, you believe him. Because you want to be.
Warnings: praise kink, dom/sub dynamics, soft!dom tom, manipulative tom, muggleborn!reader, slytherin!reader, loner!reader, unpopular!reader, naive!reader, dark!au (Tom wins), morally grey!reader, post-mission reward sex, emotionally dependent reader, weaponized praise, toxic dynamics, reader kills for him, filthy smut, corruption kink, power imbalance, trauma background, emotionally manipulative behavior, manipulation disguised as romance.
Words: 3.5K
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The weight of the crystal vial in your pocket felt heavier than lead, a cold, dense counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of your heart. You kept your chin high, your posture rigid, the way he’d taught you. The walk through the Ministry’s opulently grim corridors was a gauntlet, but the whispers that usually followed you like a shroud were conspicuously absent today. They knew. They’d heard. And they were afraid.
It was a new sensation. You rather liked it.
The door to his private study swung open before your knuckles could graze the dark wood. He stood there, a silhouette against the firelight, his expression unreadable. For a paralyzing second, you feared you had failed some unspoken test. Then, the corners of his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, but was infinitely more satisfying.
"Come in," Tom Riddle said, his voice a low, smooth command that vibrated right through your bones.
You stepped into the warmth, the door clicking shut with an air of finality. The room smelled of old books, polished oak, and him—that clean, sharp scent of ozone and power.
He didn't ask. He simply extended a hand, palm up. Your fingers trembled only slightly as you placed the empty vial into his waiting hand. His skin was warm. He never seemed to feel the cold.
He examined the glass, holding it up to the firelight. It was pristine. No trace of the honey-coloured, scentless poison that had, just hours before, stopped the heart of a prominent Wizengamot member who had dared to speak against the new regime.
"A flawless execution," he remarked, his tone clinical, analytical. He finally looked at you, and his dark eyes seemed to drink in the sight of you, from your hastily smoothed hair to the slight tremor you were trying so hard to suppress. "They found him at his desk. They believe it was a sudden, but natural, failing of the heart. They suspect nothing."
A breath you didn't realize you’d been holding escaped your lips. It wasn’t relief. It was something hotter, sharper. A need for validation that coiled deep in your stomach.
He placed the vial on his desk with a soft click and turned his full attention to you. He moved closer, and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. He was so close you could see the flecks of deeper crimson within the dark brown of his irises.
"You were perfect," he murmured, his gaze tracing the line of your cheek, the curve of your lip. "Precise. Unseen. Absolutely faultless."
The words sank into your skin, warming you from the inside out, a stark contrast to the cold dread of the mission. This was what you did it for. Not for the cause, not for the power it would grant you. For this. For the honeyed warmth of his approval.
His fingers came up, not to strike or to shove, but to gently tilt your chin up further. His touch was feather-light, yet it felt like a brand. "You followed every instruction. You didn't hesitate. You didn't doubt."
"Never," you whispered, the word tasting like a sacred vow on your tongue. "I never doubt you, Tom."
A real smile, then. A slow, devastating thing that made your knees feel unreliable. "I know."
His other hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic arc along your jawline. His eyes searched yours, seeing everything—the lonely, bookish girl from the Slytherin dungeons, the desperate need for a single kind word, the terrifying aptitude for brewing death. He saw it all, and he did not look away. He approved.
"You are my most valuable instrument," he whispered, his voice dropping to an intimate caress. His face was inches from yours now, his breath warm against your lips. "My brilliant, deadly girl."
And then he closed the distance.
His kiss wasn't demanding. It was a reward. A slow, deliberate claiming of the devotion you so freely offered. His lips were softer than you ever imagined they could be, moving against yours with a practiced, devastating skill. It was a kiss that spoke of possession and praise in equal measure, and you melted into it, a soft, yielding sound escaping your throat.
His arms encircled you, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his body. One hand slid from your face into your hair, twisting gently in the strands, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you achingly aware of his control. The other splayed across the small of your back, pressing you even closer.
You could feel the evidence of his own reaction, the hard ridge of his arousal against your stomach, and a fresh, liquid heat bloomed low in your belly. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping in to taste you, to conquer. He tasted of dark magic and mint, an intoxicating combination that made your head spin.
When he finally broke for air, you were trembling in earnest, clinging to the front of his robes to stay upright. Your lips felt swollen, sensitized. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing a fraction less even than usual.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a dark, velvety rumble that went straight through you. "Trembling for me. So beautiful like this. So obedient."
He peppered soft, biting kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, and you let your head fall back with a sigh. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin where your pulse hammered, and you jolted in his arms.
"Tom..."
"Shhh," he soothed, his lips returning to yours for a brief, searing moment. "I have you. I always have you."
His hands began to move, one sliding down to cup your backside, pulling you even more firmly against him, drawing a ragged gasp from your lungs. The other hand slipped between you, his long, elegant fingers making quick work of the buttons on your robes. The heavy fabric slid from your shoulders, pooling on the floor at your feet with a whisper, leaving you in just your thin silk blouse and skirt.
The cool air of the study hit your skin, but you didn't feel cold. You felt on fire. His gaze was hot, Heavy. Possessive. He traced the neckline of your blouse, a single finger dipping beneath the fabric to brush against the upper curve of your breast. Your breathing shallowed, every nerve ending alight.
"Such a good girl for me," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to that hypnotic, intimate register that was for you and you alone. "My good girl."
The words unspooled something deep within you. A desperate, aching need you hadn't even known was there until he’d first unearthed it in the Slytherin common room. You would level cities for this. You would burn the world to ashes to hear him say it again.
His fingers found the top button of your blouse. They paused there, not pushing, not demanding. Just waiting. His eyes locked with yours, a question and a command all in one.
Your voice was hardly more than a breath, raw with want. "Please."
“Please,” he echoes, his voice a low, velvety hum that vibrates deep in your core. “Such a polite, perfect thing.”
The first button gives way. Then the second. The fine silk of your blouse whispers apart, revealing the lace-edged camisole beneath. His knuckles brush the heated skin of your sternum, and a full-body shudder wracks you. You can feel the cold, polished wood of his desk through your skirt, a stark contrast to the inferno he’s stoking inside you.
“You crave my approval more than air, don’t you, my dear?” he murmurs, his gaze locked on the path his fingers are carving down your torso. He isn’t asking. He’s stating a fact, one he forged himself. “You would do anything… be anything… to feel my pride settle in your veins.” His hands slide to your waist, gripping firmly, and in one fluid, powerful motion, he lifts you and sets you down atop the wide, solid desk. Parchment rustles beneath you. An inkwell wobbles precariously.
He steps between your legs, his own robes brushing against your stockings. The intimacy of the position is dizzying. You are spread before him, perched on the altar of his power, and he is the high priest. His hands glide up your outer thighs, pushing the fabric of your skirt up until it pools around your hips. The cool air of the study kisses the bare skin of your legs.
His eyes are black fire, drinking in the sight of you exposed like this. Your heart is a wild, caged bird beating against your ribs.
“You want to know how pleased I am with you?” he asks, his voice dropping to that hypnotic register that is yours alone. He leans in, his lips a hair’s breadth from yours. “You want to feel the depth of my gratitude for your… flawless work?”
You can only manage a desperate, jerky nod. Your fingers clutch at the edge of the desk, the wood solid and real beneath your grip.
“Then let me show you.”
His hands slide under your thighs, his grip firm and unyielding. He pulls you forward, right to the edge of the desk, and pushes your legs apart, wider, until you are utterly open to him. A moan, half-protest, half-plea, catches in your throat. The vulnerability is terrifying. Exhilarating.
He lowers himself to his knees.
The sight is enough to short-circuit your thoughts. Tom Riddle. On his knees. For you. The most powerful wizard in a generation, brought to this posture of worship before you. But you are not the deity here. You are the sacrifice. The offering. And he is about to devour you.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your knickers. His eyes never leave yours, holding you captive as he slowly, so slowly, draws the delicate fabric down your legs. He lets them drop to the floor, a forgotten scrap of lace.
You are completely bare to him now. The firelight gilds the inside of your thighs, and you watch, mesmerized and mortified, as his gaze travels over every intimate inch of you. His expression is one of rapt, intense study, as if he is committing the most intricate and deadly new potion to memory. He sees the slick evidence of your arousal, the faint, betraying tremor in your muscles.
“Look at you,” he breathes, the words a hot caress against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His hands smooth up your legs, spreading you just a fraction wider. “So beautiful. So ready for me. All for a few kind words. My brilliantly responsive girl.”
He leans in. You stop breathing.
The first touch of his tongue is not what you expected. It is not tentative. It is a long, slow, deliberate lick from your entrance all the way up to the aching, sensitive apex of your sex. It’s a claim. A branding.
A shattered, guttural sound is torn from your throat. Your head falls back, eyes squeezing shut as sensation, pure and white-hot, obliterates every coherent thought. Your back arches off the desk, but his hands on your thighs are iron clamps, holding you in place for his feast.
He does it again. And again. Each broad, flat stroke of his tongue is a masterclass in torture. He explores you with a scholar’s precision, learning what makes you jerk, what makes you cry out, what makes your hips twitch with a mind of their own. He drinks from you like a man dying of thirst, his mouth hot and hungry and impossibly skilled.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your flesh, the vibration shooting through you like a lightning strike. His tongue circles the slick, swollen centre of your pleasure, a lazy, maddening orbit. “Let me hear you. Let me taste how much you love my praise.”
He doesn’t just use his tongue. He uses his lips, sucking gently. He uses the very tip of his tongue, flicking over that one exquisitely sensitive spot until you are clawing at the desk, your knuckles white. He presses open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, biting just hard enough to make you gasp before soothing the spot with his tongue.
You are unraveling. Coming apart at the seams under the relentless, worshipful assault of his mouth. The world has narrowed to this desk, to the scent of your own arousal and his clean, dark scent, to the wet, filthy, glorious sounds his mouth is making against you.
“You taste like victory,” he growls, his voice thick and muffled against you. He pushes your legs up, bending you almost in half, exposing you even more. He drives his tongue inside you, a shallow, fucking motion that has you seeing stars. “You taste like power. My power. Everything you are… is mine.”
His words are a weapon, each one striking the exact same chord of desperate need within you. You are so close. The coil of pleasure in your gut is wound impossibly tight, a spring about to snap. You are panting, pleading, a broken litany of his name and half-formed words.
He redoubles his efforts, his mouth locking onto you with a fierce, possessive suction. His tongue works that perfect, devastating rhythm, and you can feel yourself spiraling, falling, the first tremors of a cataclysm beginning to shake you apart.
His voice is a dark promise against your wet, heated skin.
His mouth abandons you with a wet, final sound that echoes in the deafening quiet of the study. The loss of that heat, that devastating pressure, is a physical ache. You groan, a raw, pathetic sound, your body still taut as a bowstring, teetering on the very edge of release. Not enough. It wasn’t enough.
You feel empty. Bereft.
Cool air replaces the warmth of his mouth, and you force your eyes open, your vision blurry with unshed tears of frustration. Tom is rising from his knees, his movement fluid and powerful, like a great predator uncoiling. There is a dark, slick gleam on his chin. His eyes are utterly black, pupils swallowing the deep brown of his irises. He doesn’t look like a man who has just been brought to his knees. He looks like a king surveying his conquest.
His hands are on you again before you can plead, his grip firm on your hips. He lifts you from the edge of the desk as if you weigh nothing, your body pliant and weak from his earlier attentions. He turns you with an effortless twist, pressing your front down against the cold, polished oak. The forgotten parchment crackles beneath your cheek. The scent of ink and old paper fills your nose, grounding you in the stark reality of where you are: bent over the desk of the most dangerous wizard in the world.
“You took that so beautifully,” he murmurs, his voice a low, approving rumble that vibrates through your spine. One hand splays across the small of your back, pressing down, keeping you in place. The other works at the fastenings of his own robes. You hear the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet clink of a belt, and then the unmistakable sound of his trousers being pushed down. Your heart hammers against the hard wood of the desk.
You feel the heavy, hot weight of his cock against the back of your thigh. It’s smoother than you imagined, the skin like heated silk stretched over an impossible, rigid density. He rocks his hips, and the blunt, slick head of him slides through your wetness, coating himself in you. The sensation is electric, a promise of what’s to come. A broken sob escapes your lips.
“So wet for me,” he praises, his voice thick with a dark, possessive pleasure. “All that slick, gorgeous proof of how much you want this. How much you need my cock inside you.” He pushes forward, just a fraction, just enough for the tip to press against your entrance. You jerk, a involuntary spasm of anticipation seizing your entire body. You are stretched, sensitive, aching.
“Please, Tom,” you whimper, the words muffled by the desk. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need,” he cuts you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. His hand leaves your back, and you feel his fingers curl around the base of his cock, guiding himself. “You need to be filled. You need to be claimed. You need to remember who you belong to with every fucking thrust.”
He doesn’t ease into you. He drives forward in one long, smooth, devastating motion.
The world fractures.
A choked cry is ripped from your throat as he sheathes himself to the hilt inside you. The stretch is immense, a burning, perfect fullness that steals the air from your lungs. You are stretched around him, every nerve ending screaming with the sensation of being so utterly, completely taken. He holds himself there, buried deep, his body pressed flush against your backside, and you feel the faint tremor that runs through his own frame. Even he is not entirely immune.
“Fuck,” he hisses, the curse a raw, guttural sound of pure pleasure. His hands clamp onto your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessiveness that borders on pain. “Look at you. Taking all of me. Your perfect, greedy cunt squeezing my cock like it was made for it.”
He pulls back, almost all the way out, the drag a delicious, agonizing friction that makes you see stars. Then he slams back into you.
The rhythm he sets is relentless. It is not tender. It is not gentle. It is a furious, pounding pace designed to overwhelm, to dominate, to brand you from the inside out. Each deep, driving thrust jars your entire body, pushing you forward on the desk. The wood is cool against your flushed cheek, a stark contrast to the inferno he’s stoking within you.
His grip on your hips is iron, holding you in place for his use, controlling the angle and depth of every brutal, perfect stroke. The sound is obscene—the wet, rhythmic slap of his skin against yours, his low, ragged grunts, your own hitched, desperate moans.
“That’s it,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of his thrusts. “Take it. Take every fucking inch. You wanted my praise? This is my praise. This is my gratitude. Feel it.”
You do. You feel all of it. The pleasure is a coiled serpent in your gut, tightening with every deep, penetrating drive of his hips. The frustration from his denied climax is gone, replaced by a mounting, terrifying wave that threatens to shatter you completely. You are nothing but a vessel for his pleasure, a thing of skin and sensation and desperate, clawing need.
He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding your ear. His breath is hot and ragged. “You are mine,” he snarls, the words a violent, possessive whisper that goes straight to your core. “Your cunning is mine. Your brilliance is mine. This tight, perfect little cunt is mine. Say it.”
You can’t form words. You can only moan, a high, keening sound of utter surrender.
He fucks you harder, deeper, his pace becoming punishing. “Say it.”
“Yours!” you cry out, the admission torn from you. “I’m yours, Tom! Only yours!”
“Good girl,” he purrs, the approval in his voice a sharper, more potent drug than any sensation. It unlocks something deep within you. The coil snaps.
Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your vision whites out. Your internal muscles clench around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse, milking his cock, and you scream, the sound swallowed by the wood of the desk. You shake apart, completely unraveling under the force of it, held together only by the bruising grip of his hands on your hips and the relentless, pounding rhythm of his thrusts.
He groans, a deep, satisfaction sound, as your climax ripples around him. “Yes,” he rasps, his own control fraying. “That’s it. Squeeze my cock just like that. Milk me dry, you perfect fucking thing.”
His movements become jerky, erratic. He drives into you once, twice, three more times with a feral, desperate intensity. Then he stills, buried to the hilt, and you feel the hot, pulsing rush of his own release flooding you. He grinds himself against you, as deep as he can possibly go, making sure every last drop is spent inside you. A long, low groan is wrenched from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated victory.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged, mingled breathing. The study air, once cool, is now thick and humid with the scent of sex and sweat and power. You feel boneless, wrecked, completely and utterly claimed.
He stays inside you, softened but still present, his weight a heavy, comforting pressure on your back. His lips find the sweat-damped skin of your shoulder, placing a soft, almost tender kiss there.
“Exquisite,” he whispers, the word a reverent murmur against your skin. “You are truly”.
Summary: Sirius Black doesn’t do patience, and he certainly doesn’t reward disobedience. When you come without permission, he teaches you exactly what it means to earn your release.
Warnings: smut (18+ only), dom!Sirius Black, orgasm denial / control, rough language, degradation (mild to moderate), power dynamic, thigh riding, face fucking (light), spanking implication, possessive behaviour, overstimulation (implied), crying from pleasure
Words: 1.0K
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The rough denim of his jeans was a delicious, punishing friction against your aching clit as you ground down on Sirius’s thigh, your own smoothness a stark contrast to the coarse fabric. His hands were firm on your hips, not guiding, just holding you in place as you chased your own pleasure against him, the room filled with the sound of your ragged pants and the low chuckle rumbling in his chest.
Almost there.
Your fingers dug into the leather of his jacket, your forehead pressed against his shoulder as the coil deep within you tightened, wound to its absolute limit. A broken sound tore from your throat as it snapped, pleasure detonating through you in a series of sharp, blinding waves that left you trembling and limp against him.
For a single, blissful moment, there was only the echo of your own pulse in your ears.
Then, he laughed. It wasn’t a warm sound. It was dark, knowing, and it curled low in your belly, a brand new kind of heat. Damn him.
“Cute.” The word was a velvet-coated razor blade, whispered against your ear. His grip on your hips tightened to the point of possession. “You thought that fucking counted?”
Before you could even form a thought, his hands were on you, maneuvering you with an effortless strength that stole the air from your lungs. One moment you were slumped against him, the next you were on your knees on the cold floorboards between his spread legs, looking up at his smug, devastating face. The fly of his jeans was open, his cock—hard and already leaking—right there. The musky, clean scent of him was all you could breathe.
“Open.” The command was soft, absolute.
You obeyed, parting your lips, and he didn't thrust, he fed himself to you, the thick head of his cock pressing against your tongue. You moaned around him, the taste of his skin and pre-come flooding your senses. He let you take just an inch, then withdrew, leaving you empty and desperate.
“Such a pretty fucking mouth,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip. “Looks perfect wrapped around me. But you don’t get to come from just rubbing on my leg like some impatient little slut. You want to come, you earn it.”
His fingers traced down your jaw, your neck, dipping beneath the collar of your shirt to find your nipple. He pinched, the sharp burst of sensation making you jerk, a choked gasp escaping you. “You stay right there. Don’t you fucking move.”
He slid from the chair to kneel in front of you, his eyes holding yours as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants and underwear, dragging them down your legs in one rough, impatient motion. The cool air hit your wet skin, and you shuddered.
Sirius pushed you back until your shoulders met the floor, his body coming over yours, caging you in. His mouth found yours in a deep, claiming kiss that tasted like firewhisky and pure Sirius. It was all tongue and teeth and dominance, stealing what little breath you had left. His hand slid between your legs, two fingers sliding through your slickness with a filthy, wet sound that echoed in the quiet room.
“So fucking wet for me,” he growled against your lips. “All this, and you haven’t even been properly fucked yet.” His fingers circled your clit, a slow, torturous pressure that had your hips lifting off the ground, seeking more. Just as you were about to tip over the edge again, his hand vanished.
You cried out at the loss, a wordless plea.
He replaced his fingers with his mouth.
His tongue was a flat, hot stroke against your clit, and you nearly screamed. He licked into you like he was starving for it, his hands pinning your hips to the floor, holding you completely still for his feast. He was relentless, a master of rhythm and pressure, bringing you right to that glorious precipice again, your muscles coiling, your back arching.
Then he stopped. Pulled away. Left you buzzing, throbbing, empty.
“Sirius, please—” you sobbed, the words ragged.
“Please what?” he asked, his voice deceptively light. He leaned over you, his own arousal pressing against your thigh. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”
“I want to come,” you begged, the humiliation of the plea only fueling your need.
He laughed again, a dark, thrilling sound. “I know you do. That desperate little cunt is begging for it. But you came without permission. You need to be reminded who’s in charge here.” His fingers dipped inside you, curling, finding that spot that made you see stars, but he didn’t move. Just held them there, a maddening, stationary fullness. “You’re my good little fuck-toy, aren’t you? My perfect, desperate slut. You’d do anything to get my cock, wouldn’t you?”
You nodded frantically, tears of frustration welling in your eyes.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes! Yes, Sirius, anything, I’m yours, just please let me come,” you babbled, the words tumbling out in a mess of need.
He lowered his head again, his tongue flicking your clit once, twice, a cruel tease. “Not yet.” His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a gentle bite that promised a bruise, a mark of ownership. He worked his way back to your core, his tongue plunging inside you this time, fucking you with it, and you were so close, so fucking close you could taste it.
He pulled away, your arousal glistening on his chin.
“Look at you,” he sneered, but his eyes were blazing with hunger. “Sobbing on the floor for it. You’re a fucking mess. My beautiful, pathetic mess.” He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, not entering, just applying that exquisite pressure. “This is what you want, isn’t it? You want me to ruin you.”
A broken cry was your only answer.
He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low, wicked promise. “Beg me properly this time, or you’re not coming tonight.”
Summary: After childbirth, James becomes obsessed with the idea that Harry has something he doesn’t—your milk. One night, that obsession turns intimate.
Warnings: lactation kink, postpartum body focus, lactation during sex, nursing during penetration, obsessive/possessive behavior, power imbalance, manipulation, breeding kink references, unprotected sex, slight dubcon tones (coerced consent), emotionally unhealthy dynamics
Words: 2.0K
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Harry’s finally asleep.
You rock him a moment longer than necessary, just to be sure, before carefully laying him in the bassinet beside your bed. The room is quiet but heavy, like the very air is watching.
Behind you, James leans against the doorway. He hasn’t looked away from you since you unlatched your nursing bra twenty minutes ago. Not once. You pretended not to notice the shift in his breathing when your shirt slid down your shoulder, or the muscle in his jaw ticking every time Harry latched onto your breast.
You’d felt his eyes like heat.
You don’t say anything when he pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you, slow, barefoot. There’s a strange look on his face. Tender, but dark behind the eyes.
He doesn’t ask. He never really asks.
“I don’t get it,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t even… he doesn’t even appreciate it.”
You freeze as James stops beside you, his hand brushing the bare curve of your chest. You’re still full, still soft and swollen from the feed, still leaking slightly at the nipple. He’s watching it bead—slow and deliberate—as if transfixed.
“He gets to taste you,” James whispers. “And I don’t.”
You swallow. “He’s a baby, James.”
“I know. I’m not stupid,” he says quickly. His hand curls over your breast possessively. “That’s not what I mean.”
You try to step away, but he gently presses you back with a hand to your hip.
“Don’t get shy on me now, darling,” he coos. “Let me see.”
Your breath catches as he peels the soft cotton aside again, exposing your bare breast. It’s damp where Harry fed, the skin slightly flushed from suction. The air is cool and your body responds instinctively—nipple hardening, milk gathering again, like your body knows it’s still wanted.
James traces the skin beneath your breast with reverence.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Still so full. He didn’t even finish you, did he?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He leans in, eyes flickering up to meet yours.
“Let me try,” he says.
Your lips part. “James—”
“Just once.” His voice is so low it’s almost a growl. “Just to know what you taste like. He shouldn’t be the only one.”
There’s that sharp edge again, behind the softness. The part of James that’s always been a little too intense, a little too much. Even now—soft curls mussed from his pillow, sleep in his lashes—he still looks like a man who could burn the world down if you told him no.
He kneels in front of you, eye-level with your breasts, and cups them in both hands like an offering.
“I need to know what’s mine,” he says softly. “Please.”
And even though you know it’s wrong because you’re tired and raw. Your postpartum body is still healing—your body tingles at the reverence in his voice. The quiet awe. Like he’s worshipping you.
You’ve never been good at saying no to James.
So when he leans forward and licks experimentally at your nipple, you let him.
The first suck is tentative.
His lips wrap around your nipple and pull, warm and wet, and your eyes flutter shut.
Milk spills into his mouth and you hear him moan low in his throat.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you—eyes blown wide with something darker than curiosity.
“…fuck,” he whispers. “You taste like heaven.”
You tremble under his hands. “James…”
“I could get addicted to this.”
He latches again, hungrier this time.
Your knees buckle and he catches you, guiding you backward until the backs of your legs hit the mattress. You fall onto it with a soft gasp and he’s on top of you instantly, settling between your thighs like he belongs there.
He mouths at your breasts with single-minded obsession—kissing, sucking, nursing from you like he’s starving. You whimper as he switches sides, his tongue teasing the tender skin, his hands kneading and squeezing your milk-swollen chest like it’s his.
He’s rutting into the bed now, grinding against the sheets, still suckling from you. It’s filthy. Unholy.
You can’t stop the moan that leaves your lips when he bites gently and pulls.
Your panties are soaked.
He notices.
James pulls back with milk glistening on his lips and a ravenous look in his eyes. He grabs your thighs and yanks them apart.
“Haven’t touched you since, have I?” he says, voice low.
You shake your head. He doesn’t ask again.
He tugs your panties off, lips trailing wet kisses down your belly as he goes, then pushes your legs up and apart.
“I’ve missed this cunt,” he mutters. “Look at you. Fucking dripping. Just from me nursing.”
You arch off the bed when he licks into you, slow and thick and greedy. He doesn’t ease you in. He devours you, tongue pushing deep as if he can taste the motherhood on you, the sweetness your body has made.
His hands never leave your breasts.
He cups them while he fucks you with his mouth, squeezing until milk spills from your nipples again, dripping down your sides, wetting his fingers. He groans against your clit when he feels it.
You sob his name.
It only spurs him on.
“God, I need to fuck you,” he growls, crawling up your body and kissing you. You taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with the milk he stole.
He drags his cock against your thigh and you feel how hard he is—thick and swollen, already leaking.
“Gonna fill you up again, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Maybe this time it’ll be twins.”
Your eyes widen. “James—no—”
“Why not?” he breathes, lining himself up. “You’re perfect like this. Soft. Full. Mine.”
And then he’s pushing into you.
You cry out as he fills you—stretching you open, slow and deep, careful but unrelenting. It’s overwhelming. You haven’t had sex since giving birth, and everything feels hotter, wetter, tighter.
But James doesn’t stop. He kisses you, whispers soft praises against your throat.
“That’s it, baby. Take me. You were made for this. For me.”
He wraps a hand around your breast and brings it to his mouth again as he starts to thrust. This time, he nurses while he fucks you—slow, rolling strokes that hit every tender spot inside you, coaxing moans from your lips with every pass.
You feel owned.
You feel fed from.
You feel like something sacred and sinful, like a shrine desecrated in the dark.
“Please…” you gasp. “James—please, it’s too much—”
“No,” he groans. “You can take it. Look at you. Fucked full and still feeding me.”
He pulls back just long enough to watch a ribbon of milk squirt from your nipple.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers. “You’re my goddess.”
You clench around him.
James’s eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed. His hips falter, then slam into you with new desperation.
“Say it,” he rasps. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you cry, tears slipping from your eyes as your body begins to shake. “James—James, I’m yours—”
“That’s right,” he growls. “Only mine.”
Your whole body tightens as your climax rips through you.
James keeps nursing from you even as you sob through it, trembling beneath him.
And then he’s pulsing deep inside you, groaning into your chest, hips jerking erratically as he fills you with everything he has.
His cock twitches and spurts and he doesn’t stop—he fucks it deeper, smearing his come against your walls, your cervix, like he’s branding you.
Even as your body goes limp, even as you whimper for rest, James doesn’t move far.
He stays inside you, cock softening but still twitching, while he cleans your breast with slow, deliberate licks.
“Mine,” he murmurs again. “All of you. Always.”
You blink through the haze, dazed and fucked out, barely able to lift your head.
James strokes your cheek gently, like nothing about this was wrong.
Like this is exactly what you’re for.
He looks at you like you’re salvation.
Then, soft as ever, he smiles.
“Tomorrow,” he says, tucking the blankets around your hips and kissing your temple, “we’ll try the other side.”
Summary: During a full moon, Remus loses control and accidentally knots you. Panic sets in but you ground him with your touch and your words.
Warnings: accidental knotting, first time, A/B/O dynamics, omegaverse, alpha!remus, reader is very into it, primal sex / mating instincts, overstimulation, creampie + knot stuck, mild breeding kink, filthy talk, post-knot cuddling, reader gives enthusiastic consent
Words: 1.1K
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His growl was a raw, guttural thing that vibrated deep inside you, a sound that was more animal than man. You could feel the tension coiling in his muscles beneath your hands, the slick heat of his skin under your palms. You’d thought you were prepared. You’d done your research, you’d whispered your eager yeses into the dark. But the reality of him, of what he was, was a physical force you couldn’t have imagined.
Then it happened.
A sudden, impossible swell at the base of his cock, a thick, urgent pressure that stretched you wider than you thought possible. You gasped, a sharp, broken sound that was swallowed by his own ragged groan. He stilled, the hard, driving rhythm of his hips freezing mid-thrust.
"Oh fuck," he choked out, his voice strained, almost frightened. "Oh, fuck, no. No."
His eyes, usually such a warm brown, were wide and wild with a panic you could taste, metallic and sharp in the air. He tried to pull back, a futile, jerking motion that only made you both gasp as the knot held fast, locking him inside you. The sensation was dizzying—a profound, stretching fullness that bordered on pain but was already tipping over into a deep, throbbing pleasure.
"Remus, wait," you breathed, your voice softer than you felt.
"I'm stuck," he panted, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. "Fuck, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to… I can't… I'm hurting you." His words tumbled out, laced with a fear that cracked his voice. He looked shattered, a man horrified by his own nature.
You moved your hands from his sweat-slicked back, bringing them up to frame his face. His stubble was rough against your palms. You forced his frantic gaze to meet yours. His breathing was shallow, terrified.
"Look at me," you whispered, your thumbs stroking his jaw. "It's okay."
"It's not," he insisted, a low whine in his throat. "You don't… you don't understand what this is. What it means."
"I understand that you're inside me," you said, your voice gaining a strength you pulled from somewhere deep, a place his knot was currently pressing against. "I understand that you feel fucking incredible. And I want it. I want all of you. Don't you dare pull away from me now."
You saw the conflict in his eyes, the human fear warring with the instinct that had claimed him. You shifted your hips, a tiny, experimental movement that made you both groan. The knot shifted inside you, a thick, unyielding pressure that ignited every single nerve ending.
A shudder wracked his entire frame. The panic in his eyes began to dissolve, burned away by a dawning, desperate need. "You really mean that?" he murmured, his voice a rough whisper against your lips.
"Fuck yes, I mean it," you moaned, arching your back to take him even deeper, the stretch a delicious, burning ache. "I want your fucking knot, Rem. I want to feel you come so deep inside me I can taste it."
That was all the permission he needed. The last vestige of his control shattered. A low, possessive snarl ripped from his chest as he drove forward, burying himself to the hilt once more, his knot stretching your cunt to its absolute limit. The pain was a bright, fleeting star, instantly consumed by the overwhelming wave of pleasure that followed. You cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth crashing down on yours.
His kiss was brutal and claiming, all teeth and desperate tongue. He fucked your mouth with the same helpless, instinctual rhythm his hips were grinding into you. He was trapped by his own biology, and instead of fighting it, he was surrendering to it, pouring all that wild, chaotic energy into you.
One of his hands tangled in your hair, holding you still for his kiss, while the other slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. You could feel the animal in him, the raw, unfiltered drive to claim and possess. It should have scared you. It only made you wetter, your own body clenching around the thick base of his cock in helpless, rhythmic pulses.
"That's it," he growled against your lips, his breath hot. "Squeeze my fucking knot. Milk my fucking cock dry. God, your cunt is perfect. So goddamn tight around me."
His words were filthy, a stark contrast to his earlier panic, and they sent another violent thrill through you. You could feel him starting to lose his rhythm, his thrusts becoming shallow, frantic jerks that were less about movement and more about the intense, stationary pressure of his knot stretching you open. You felt a building heat low in your belly, a coiling tension that was so much more intense because you couldn't move, because you were utterly impaled on him.
"Rem, I'm gonna come," you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Do it," he commanded, his voice a dark rumble. "Come all over my fucking knot. Let me feel that sweet cunt drown me."
The orgasm didn't crest; it exploded. It tore through you with a violence that stole the air from your lungs, a silent scream forming on your lips as your entire body seized. Your cunt clamped down on him, a series of intense, fluttering contractions that milked the length of him, pulling a roar from deep within his chest.
His own release was a torrent, a hot, seemingly endless flood that filled you, painting your insides with his warmth. You could feel every fucking pulse, every jet of his come from the very root of his cock to the tip, a claiming so profound it felt like he was branding you from the inside out. He collapsed onto you, his full weight a comforting anchor as you both shuddered through the relentless aftershocks.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the frantic beat of his heart against your chest. You were still locked together, a single, joined entity in the moonlit quiet. The initial intensity slowly ebbed, leaving behind a heavy, sated warmth. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath cooling on your damp skin.
Pairings: James Potter x Reader (past), James Potter x Lily Evans (present)
Summary: You were James Potter’s first love, not his last. Through sixth and seventh year, your relationship slowly unravelled as he grew into the man Lily Evans would marry. Years later, his son asks what his father was like before. And you—still his friend—are the only one who can truly answer.
Words: 3.0k
Warnings: Emotional Angst & Heartbreak, Unrequited Love / Past Relationship, Nostalgia and Regret, Hurt / No Comfort. Unrequited Love, Still in Love, Bittersweet Ending, First Love, Emotional Hurt, Gryffindor Reader.
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You still remember the first night you realized James Potter was going to be real, not a rumor with a laugh attached.
Sixth year, September, a windstorm rattling the panes in the Gryffindor tower. The common room hummed with that first-week electricity: new timetables, lost quills, someone swearing loudly at a stack of Arithmancy problems. You’d tucked yourself into the armchair nearest the fire, legs folded under you, trying to mark the margins of your Charms essay with something intelligent. Your quill kept pausing over the word “intent.”
“You’ve been frowning at the same sentence for eight minutes,” James said, appearing like mischief had sent him as a messenger. His hair was a storm all its own, and he held two steaming mugs. He offered one. “Butterbeer. For academic bravery.”
“You bribing me to stop looking studious?” you asked, taking the mug. You’d known of him for years, the grin that arrived before he did, the Quidditch Captain who never quite walked anywhere when he could run. But it had been changing since fifth year, and it was clear in how he held himself now—less peacocking, more light collected in his palms.
“Never,” he said. “I’m bribing you to look at me.”
“You could have asked.”
“That seemed… terrifying.”
He was ridiculous. He was charming. He was sincere in a way that made your throat ache. You’d expected to deflect him with something clever, Gryffindor to Gryffindor, banter to banter but then he leaned against the hearth and the fire threw gold into his eyes and the part of you that lived on the edge of a dare whispered, Go on then. See.
He saw you. Not for who you were to anyone else, but as if he’d found an answer key stitched beneath your skin and refused to cheat.
You started quietly. Walking to Transfiguration with your hands wrapped around the same scarf. Studying late while he stole your quill to draw antlers in the corner of your parchment. He’d toss Bertie Bott’s beans into the fire to see what color it burned, and you’d pretend to scold him, and he’d pretend to be ashamed. He wrote you notes with diagrams of Quidditch plays he swore resembled the constellation of your freckles, and you told him he was ridiculous. He looked delighted to be ridiculous for you.
On the first Hogsmeade weekend he led you down the alley behind Honeydukes, where the wind smelled like sugar and wet stone, and he fumbled your mittened hands into his. “I’m not subtle,” he said, earnest to the bone, “so I’ll be plain: I really like you.”
“You’re not plain,” you said, and you laughed because your heart was skidding.
There are photographs, burned into your head, not any album of that autumn. You at the Quidditch pitch bundled in scarlet, shouting yourself hoarse until your throat felt like you’d swallowed smoke. James glancing up before every practice as if your being in the stands was a luck he could spend. Your essays passed back with neat O’s and a scrawl in the corner from him: Celebrate with me? The letter P he wrote in “Please” curled like a lily stem; you only realized months later how you’d noticed the shape of that word.
Because Lily Evans was every corridor he walked down, too. Not yet a harbor, just a compass he’d learned to read, silently. She and James had been pushing at each other for years; by sixth year, they had stopped shouting and started listening, and that was worse, somehow, than all the fireworks before. You were not jealous so much as wary. You told yourself it wasn’t a triangle. You told yourself you were a point and so was he, and all the lines were choices.
You knew the first hairline fracture of your love by sound. The way laughter in the common room turned to applause when someone pinned a badge to James’s jumper—Captain again—and the way he turned to look for you first and found you, and you clapped like you’d split your hands open. He mouthed thank you. You felt full. Then, later, after the cake and the song, you watched him standing beside Lily at the notice board, talking about Prefect rotations with that calm, concentrated face he wore when he compromised, when he tried. You knew he was practicing something near her that you had already believed about him. That knowledge made you both proud and cold.
“Am I imagining this?” you asked him, weeks after, tucked in your hidden corner on the seventh-floor landing, where the wall bowed enough to offer two students refuge if they didn’t mind knees touching.
“Imagining what?” He toyed with your scarf fringe. He was always touching the loose threads of you.
“That she… steadies you,” you said. “And I—” You tried to make it a joke. “I egg you on.”
“I like eggs,” he said very solemnly, eyes bright. “They make magnificent omelettes.”
“James.”
He breathed, looked out the narrow window, looked back. The wind made a tapestry thrum against its brackets, a heartbeat in the walls. “You don’t egg me on,” he said. “You… you see me. And that makes me want to be the version you think you see. Lil, Evans,?she holds me to the version I say I am. It’s different.” He lifted your hand. “Both are real.”
Both are real. The truth felt like someone had pressed a coin into your palm: weighted, warm from another person’s skin, unspendable.
You kissed him to stop the ache from spilling down your face. He kissed you back with that James way—fervent like he’d been dared to live. Later, in the common room, when the fire was low and the chessboard muttered to itself, he fell asleep with his head on your lap, and you combed fingers into his hair so slowly you were certain time would forget to go on.
Time didn’t. The year advanced. OWL results, NEWT predictions, rumors about the world outside school that came in like fog. You wrote his History of Magic essay outline because he kept mixing up his goblin rebellions. He stitched your torn sleeve with a shaky charm that held until you laughed and blamed Sirius, which felt like mercy. You memorized the rhythm of his footsteps on the boys’ staircase: he always skipped the second stair from the top, not out of mischief, but because it squeaked. You collected these bits like proof; you will always spend a life noticing him, even after you learn to stop hoping he will spend it back.
Winter gave you a table in the library that belonged to you both because you’d claimed it with enough hours. He’d bring chocolate and you’d bring annotated notes, and you’d trade. Sometimes Lily would appear, sliding into the chair across from you, red hair trapped in her scarf like a flame caught in a net. She’d show James her revised Prefect schedule and he’d debate with her, his hands active, yours curled around a quill you didn’t move.
“You’re very good,” Lily said to you once, sincere, gesturing at your ink-lined parchment. “He listens to you—he retains things you say like they’re the password to some secret club.”
You just smiled at her and Lily smiled. It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t even pity. It was recognition—of the shape you made around this boy who was learning to be a man.
The second fracture was summer. He wrote to you from his parents’ garden, letters with smudges where he’d spilled lemonade and scolded himself for the waste. You wrote back from your family’s tiny flat where heat made the ceiling bend. Your letters crossed and mis-crossed. You told him about the elderly neighbor who swore her kneazle was speaking French; he told you about practicing with a broommaker in Godric’s Hollow who swore he could hear wood think. In July, his letters slowed. “Mum’s not well,” he wrote once, and you felt the sky lower just a fraction, like the ceiling at home. You wrote back immediately, and then twice again when he didn’t reply the first day, and you didn’t feel foolish on the third.
When he replied, the ink bled in with grief at the edges. You caught a train you weren’t supposed to take and showed up with an ugly bouquet of carnations and a bag of your mother’s biscuits that always tasted of lemon zest and apology. You sat in the Potters’ kitchen where sunlight laid itself down, tired, on the tiles. You couldn’t fix anything. You held James’s hand under the table and counted his breaths until they slowed.
Later, when you left, you walked past the hedges and saw Lily on the front path with a casserole dish, like a stereotype of kindness. You almost laughed from the pain of it. She saw you, paused, and said softly, “He’ll be back in school with one less thing he thought would always be there. That makes—” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
You told yourself that grief would bend him closer to you. It made him taller. It made him lean on more things than one.
Seventh year began with the badge you’d known was coming—the Head Boy pin sitting awkwardly on his chest as if even metal needed time to learn him. Lily wore her badge like a promise kept. You kissed him in the corridor the first day, and he kissed you back, and then he left to go to the prefect meeting, which he chaired with every ounce of his earnest, irritating heart. You didn’t follow. You watched from the end of the hall and felt proud, and frightened of your pride.
He was different that year. Not grown, exactly—he would always be a kind of glorious disaster—but gentled around the edges in a way that made you want to lay your hands there and see if they fit. He remembered more birthdays than his own. He apologized first more often. He wrote to his dad every Sunday. He made a rota for refilling the common room ink wells and bribed first-years to do it with Chocolate Frogs.
You had three fights that mattered.
The first: he missed your celebration the night you finally nailed a tricky bit of nonverbal magic you’d been practicing. He’d promised to skip patrols, but there had been a fifth-year crying in the girls’ bathroom because her friend had hexed her hair while they argued about a boy. “I couldn’t leave her,” he said, hands up, chest open with apology. “I know,” you said. You did know. You cried anyway, privately, because your triumph had had a seat saved for him, and the chair stayed empty until it cooled.
The second: you snapped at him for arriving late to the library and he snapped back—“I’m doing my best”—and you said, “I know,” and he said, “Sometimes I don’t think you do,” and it was quiet in the way that happens when you say something that will bruise later. You sat three chairs apart for an hour, healing in the slow way: by doing the thing you’d meant to do together before you hurt each other. You met halfway when you left. He carried your books; you carried the silence. In the stairwell he said, “I’m scared all the time of not being enough, and then I’m loud to keep from hearing it,” and you said, “I hear it anyway,” and he laughed like that had saved him.
The third fight was the last one.
It was after a prefects’ meeting you hadn’t attended, because the badge didn’t belong to you. You’d been waiting in your spot on the seventh-floor landing, the word “our” beginning to slip, letter by letter. When he came up, he looked wrung out. He sat beside you, shoulders pressed, and exhaled. You didn’t speak immediately; you were afraid to throw words at something so fragile. His hand found yours. Yours didn’t move to meet it.
“Do you love me?” you asked, which was not what you meant. You meant, Is love between us the current thing or the ghost of the first thing?
He flinched as if you’d hexed him. “Yes,” he said, instantly, like the answer had been sitting in his pocket waiting to spring. “I do.”
“But differently,” you said. It wasn’t accusation. You were a Gryffindor; you could look at a truth and keep looking.
He closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“And you” You cleared your throat. “You love Lily. In a way that isn’t practice.”
He opened his eyes. He didn’t look away. He was so careful with the next breath that you admired it as an object. “I don’t know what to call it yet,” he said. “But I know I watch her do what she says and I want to be worthy of standing beside that. And I watch you look at me like I am that already, and I want to keep being the person you think I am. I can’t do both, not the way this deserves. You don’t deserve half of me.”
You leaned your head back until it hit stone. The wall hummed that old tapestry heartbeat you’d come to count on. “We were good,” you said.
“We are,” he said fiercely. “You taught me how to be a person when I was just a spectacle.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Your throat felt raw with honesty. “I’m sorry too.”
You didn’t shout. No one stormed away. The end of your first love was gentle, which made it hurt more. You cried that night in your dorm with the curtained bed drawn, face buried in your pillow so the other girls wouldn’t hear. In the morning, you ate toast and went to Transfiguration and answered a question correctly, and McGonagall said, “Excellent, Miss—” and you realized the name still fit you.
There were small afters. James began walking to meetings with Lily, not because he loved her, yet, but because they worked well and wanted to see if working well could be a kind of tenderness. You sat two chairs from him in the common room and joked about Sirius with the same ease as always, and it felt like practicing a new spell: the same wand movement, a different outcome.
In the spring, you watched him kiss Lily by the lake under the shade of a beech tree, the wind rolling the surface into scales. It wasn’t fireworks. It was a soft, sure thing—two people choosing the same step at the same time. You didn’t see it by accident; you’d known when they were headed there, and you’d gone anyway. Not to punish yourself. To be a witness to the moment your own hope changed shape from a door to a window. You pressed your palm flat against your chest and said to your heart, learn this: how to be full and still let people go.
The world after school did the thing it does: it grew larger and stranger and more ordinary all at once. There were jobs and flats and the sudden oddness of doing your own shopping for toothpaste. War rumbled, then quieted, then left the kind of quiet behind that sounds like relief with a scar. James and Lily married in a ceremony that smelled of flowers and fear and laughter, and you stood close enough to see his hands shake when he slid the ring on. He cried, of course; James has always cried at the edges of the most honest moments. At the reception he danced like a man who had learned how not to perform for applause but to celebrate a promise, and you danced until your feet ached and then stole out to the back step and cried again, and then laughed at yourself for the melodrama of it, and then cried a little more, because endings deserve rites.
You didn’t become strangers. There was no single day where you folded away your history and labeled it something pretty for memory. You were friends. Real ones. James sent you a parchment at three in the morning once, an owl pecking your window with misguided aggression, just to say, “I don’t know how to fix a crying baby, but I do know you know everything. How do I be helpful?” You wrote back: “Tea, patience, Lily’s favorite biscuits, and don’t talk about Quidditch for once.” He wrote: “Cruel.” You drew a stag with a dummy in its mouth. He framed it. You never looked at it when you visited because your chest did tight, ridiculous things.
Years passed in the ordinary way. You learned new kinds of magic: the sort you use to mend a favorite jumper, the sort that keeps a plant alive on a windowsill that doesn’t get enough sun. Sometimes Lily would meet you for coffee and talk about a mistake she’d made at work and you’d love her fiercely because she let you see her without all that competence. Sometimes James would pop by your flat with a packet of crisps and a borrowed book and fall asleep snoring on your rug like you were still seventeen and had forever to figure things out.
Then one spring afternoon—ripe with the smell of soil warmed for the first time in months—you found yourself in the Potters’ back garden with a small boy peering up at you like curiosity itself had put on glasses.
Harry’s hair was an argument with gravity. He had Lily’s eyes, as everyone always said, and the way James stood just inside the kitchen, pretending not to be listening, was both hilarious and tender. Lily was at the sink rinsing strawberries, humming. The domesticity of it—the humming, the summer air—was a miracle you didn’t take for granted.
“Is it true,” Harry asked, serious as a judge, “that you knew Dad before Mum did?”
You almost laughed. “I think everyone knew your dad,” you said. “He was… loud.”
Harry considered this as an archeological fact. “What was he like? Before Mum.”
The lawn made a hush under your shoes. Beyond the hedge someone’s chimes caught a lazy breeze and shook themselves awake in a thin-bright clatter. You glanced at James. He lifted his hands in surrender, like I won’t interfere. Lily leaned against the doorframe, amused and fond and, you thought, a little curious too. You crouched to be level with the boy.
“Your dad,” you said, “was a comet. He burned bright and fast and sometimes forgot he had a tail.” Harry blinked. You tried again. “He was sunshine in a place that needed it, and a storm in a room that was too quiet. He loved very loudly, even when he didn’t know where to put it yet.” You tipped your head. “He learned where to put it.”
“In Mum?” Harry asked promptly, cheerful with certainty.
“In your mum,” you agreed, smiling. “And in you. And in his friends. And in himself, which was the hardest bit.”
Harry thought about this, mouth making small shapes as if he was tasting a new word. “Did you teach him?” he asked, scandalously earnest.
“I taught him some things,” you said truthfully. “Like how to revise without turning into a puddle, and how to borrow a quill instead of stealing it, and how to listen when someone was sad instead of trying to make them laugh right away. But the rest he learned because he wanted to. He decided to be better and then he did it.”
Harry nodded, as if that was a sensible project to assign oneself before breakfast. “Did you love him?”
“Yes,” you said, because you are Gryffindor and he asked and it deserved a yes. “Very much.”
Harry’s eyes cut to his father, whose hand had slid around Lily’s waist without him even seeming to notice he’d done it. “Did it make you sad? When Mum happened?”
“It made me sad when growing up happened,” you said gently. “Growing up always hurts a little. But your mum didn’t make me sad.” You looked at Lily. She raised one eyebrow in that way she had and you laughed softly. “She’s very good,” you confided to Harry. “It’s hard to be sad about very good people. Even when they get things you wanted.”
Harry wrinkled his nose, weighing the fairness of this. “But you’re friends with us,” he said finally, not as a question.
“I am.” You reached to flick the untidy fringe off his forehead. “I get to watch you grow up and tell you how much you’re like the worst parts of your dad and the best parts of your mum, and maybe some of the other way round.”
“What’s the worst part of Dad?” Harry asked at once, delighted.
“His snoring,” Lily called, a strawberry halfway to her mouth.
“Oi!” James protested. “Lily.”
“You keep me up,” Lily said serenely, “and I’m choosing to call it love because that’s what we promised.”
You rose, knees creaking, and Harry took your hand without looking at it, as children do when they trust a person more than they can articulate. He tugged you toward the broom shed to show you a snail with the ambition of a mountain goat. You followed obediently because why wouldn’t you.
On the way, he asked softly, a private addendum to the greater question, “Are you happy?”
You thought of seventh-year you, pressing your forehead to a stone wall that remembered your secrets. You thought of sixth-year your hands around a mug of butterbeer cooling and turning to watch a boy grin at you like you were luck arriving. You thought of every room since where you had chosen to stand. You looked at James, who was pretending not to be listening, and at Lily, who was better at pretending not to listen, and at the house they’d built whose corners were not all neat, because life isn’t, but which held them without fail.
“I am,” you said. “I get to love lots of people in lots of ways. That’s a good kind of life.”
Harry considered for a beat, then nodded as if you’d passed some exam you hadn’t studied for. “Good,” he said gravely. “Because Dad says you taught him to be brave when he was mostly just loud.” He peered at you. “And he’s very brave.”
“He is,” you said around the lump in your throat, because the things that are truest always press at your voice. “He always was. He just learned where to put it.”
Harry released your hand to chase the snail, shouting, “GO ON THEN, CLIMB!” like encouragement could change physics. It made James laugh in that unguarded way you’ve known since he was mostly knees and noise, and it made Lily shake her head with the soft exasperation of a person in love with a family and all their foolishness.
James wandered out, hands in pockets, scuffing the grass like he needed it to pretend at nonchalance. He stopped beside you, shoulder bumping yours just enough to be deliberate. “Was I all right?” he asked quietly, so Harry wouldn’t hear. He meant: Did your history sound like something our present can survive?
“You were honest,” you said. “And kind. And a menace. All the things you’ve always been.”
He hummed a note that sounded like relief. “I wake up sometimes and all I can think is thank God I got to grow into the person you believed I could be, even if you weren’t the one sleeping beside me.”
“James,” you said, a protest shaped like his name.
He tipped his head, grinning, that same comet flashing. “I know. Sentimental.” He huffed out a laugh. “Evans will accuse me of reading poetry again.”
“You don’t even read,” you tease.
“Oi! I so do,” he said, and then, softer, sincere: “Thank you, for everything.”
You could have said a dozen things. I loved you. I love you still, a little, in the way one loves the blueprint of a house even after one has moved out. I am proud of you in a way that feels like a secret handshake with fate. Instead you leaned your head to his shoulder for a moment and let the afternoon mark you gently.
Later, after Lily had foisted strawberries on you and Harry had shown you the snail’s indifferent triumph and James had groaned about being assigned hedgerow trimming like he was fifteen, you walked home along the lane with the kind of tired that feels like it will become fondness by morning. The sky was that pale, almost-translucent blue spring wears after a long winter, like skin after a scar has faded.
You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You’d already learned how to carry what mattered without making it heavier.
When you let yourself into your flat you set your key on the dish by the door where it made its soft, familiar note. On the table sat a letter you hadn’t opened yet from a person you were learning to like in the present tense, whose handwriting made you smile. You cut it open with the dull butter knife you should replace and read it over your elbows on the counter, the light catching on your ring—different metal, different promise, your own timing. You laughed once at a joke, and then twice because laughing felt like a way to bless the room.
Before bed, you pulled the old sketch of the stag from your drawer, a copy you’d made before you gave James the original and looked at it. The lines wobbled a little, from a night of too much sugar and not enough sleep and grief you hadn’t yet named. It was imperfect. It was yours. You tucked it back where it lived and turned out the light.
This is what you tell Harry in longer words, over a longer life: that before his mum, his father was still his father. He was a boy who burned merrily, who tripped over his own certainty and learned to stand anyway, who loved his friends so much he tried to be better because they were watching, and who loved you loudly and then learned to love someone else quietly, and that both were true and good. That the friendship which remained was not a consolation prize but a different kind of prize, one you could only recognise with time.
And when Harry is older, tall with a new measure of the world in his shoulders, he will ask again, not because he doesn’t remember your answer, but because he wants to hear the story grow with him. You will tell him again: Your father was himself. Before. During. After. He just learned how to put his bravery where it could build a home.
You blow out the candle. You sleep. Somewhere, not far, a house glows like a held breath. Somewhere else, another drawer holds a different drawing—a map of an old constellation that still lights your way when the new road turns dark. You are not alone. You were never alone. You loved bravely once and you love bravely still, and when the boy with his mother’s eyes asks you again one spring, you will smile and say, “He was wonderful, and infuriating, and true,” and the truth won’t hurt the way it used to. It will shine.
🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍
*Something I’ve been sitting on for a while now, a little break from all the smut*
Pairings: James Potter x Fem!Reader (main) | Remus Lupin x Reader | Sirius Black x Reader
Summary: James sees the way his best friends look at you. He understands—you’re sweet, oblivious, and his. So he lets them watch, lets them touch. Just this once. Because no matter how desperate they are, you’ll never belong to anyone but him.
Warnings: established relationship, slytherin!reader, marauders era, smut (no penetration), sharing / voyeurism, praise kink, fingering, soft corruption, innocent!reader, oblivious!reader, whipped & possessive james potter, morally grey james, jealous!sirius and remus, soft degradation, touch kink, tension, james being too smart for his own good, reader being adored and overwhelmed,
Words: 1.5K
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James Potter wasn’t half as stupid as he liked people to believe.
Oh, he played the part well—grinning like a golden retriever with a wand, Quidditch hair always messy, tie askew, laughter loud and eyes brighter than they had any right to be. But under all that was calculation, precision. You didn’t become Head Boy by charm alone, and you didn’t keep your place as top of Advanced Charms by luck.
No, James Potter was a genius. And unfortunately for his best mates, he was also deeply, hopelessly in love with you.
You, his sweet Slytherin.
You, who had a smile like summer and hands that curled into the sleeves of your jumper when you were nervous.
You, who couldn’t tell when someone was flirting if it danced naked in front of you with mistletoe between its teeth.
It made James insane. It made Sirius worse. And it made Remus the most dangerous of them all, because he was subtle. Quiet in his hunger. Patient.
Which is how James found himself seated on his bed, you tucked between his legs, your back to his chest as you flipped through his Potions notes like the perfect little academic you were, none the wiser to the looks being exchanged across the room.
Sirius sprawled on his bed across from you, pretending to read a Quidditch magazine but turning one page every six minutes.
Remus was curled up near the headboard, book forgotten in his lap, knuckle resting against his mouth as he watched. Always watching.
James could feel the tension like electricity between them. They were pretending not to stare, pretending not to breathe too deep when you laughed. And you—well. You were blissfully unaware. Clueless. You wriggled closer into James’ lap when the castle draughts caught your ankles, completely oblivious to the way Sirius shifted and Remus exhaled like he was in pain.
James grinned, lips brushing your ear.
“Y’cold, love?”
“A bit,” you murmured, smiling. “You’re warm though.”
“I’ll always be warm for you,” he murmured, hand smoothing over your bare thigh where your skirt had ridden up. “Always.”
You didn’t even flinch. Just leaned back into him, trusting, safe. So trusting. So sweet.
James’ fingers lingered.
Sirius’ magazine crinkled in his hands.
Remus didn’t even blink.
Oh, they noticed now.
Good.
His hand slid a little higher, fingertips ghosting over the edge of your knickers beneath your skirt. You inhaled, body going still, but not pulling away. He pressed a kiss behind your ear, then said low and slow, “Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax for me.”
You blinked down at the notes, confused, flushed. “But… the others—”
“They don’t mind,” James interrupted, smiling darkly. “Do you, lads?”
Sirius made a strangled sound.
Remus said nothing.
James smirked.
You made a soft noise when his fingers dipped beneath the waistband, gentle and slow, teasing along your folds with reverence. “James…”
“Shh, love. Just wanna make you feel good. You’ve been working so hard for me, haven’t you?” His lips grazed your jaw, his voice soft and full of syrupy praise. “So clever. So sweet. My perfect girl.”
You whimpered when his fingers circled your clit, feather-light. You didn’t even register Sirius sitting up straighter or Remus shifting forward on the mattress. James did. He saw everything.
“That’s it,” James whispered. “Y’don’t have to do anything, just let me spoil you.”
Your head tipped back on his shoulder, lips parted, eyes fluttering as his fingers grew more insistent—still slow, but pressing, knowing exactly how to touch you. You gasped softly when he slid one finger lower, circling your entrance but not pushing in, just… teasing.
“Feels good?” he murmured.
You nodded rapidly.
“She’s so responsive,” James said, louder now, dragging a second finger through your slick with wicked satisfaction. “So wet already. You should see her, lads. She’s dripping just from a little praise.”
You stiffened in his arms, blinking in realization, trying to sit up—but James was quicker, arm wrapping around your middle, holding you in place with gentle strength. “No, no, none of that, love,” he soothed, dragging those same fingers over your clit until you whimpered. “They already know. They’ve known. I’ve seen how they look at you.”
You glanced at Sirius—his jaw was clenched, hands white-knuckled on the edge of the bed. Remus looked wrecked, his book now forgotten on the floor, eyes burning gold under the dim lights.
“I’m just sharing, darling,” James said, smug and low, sliding one finger into you. Your walls clenched down, and you moaned in surprise. “Just letting them look while I touch. They’ve wanted to for so long. Haven’t you?”
Sirius swallowed.
Remus licked his lips.
James curled the finger slowly inside you and you cried out, face burning, but you didn’t tell him to stop. Of course you didn’t. You liked being praised. You liked being touched. James knew you better than anyone else.
His mouth grazed your temple. “Such a good girl for me. Taking my fingers so well. D’you want to come, sweetheart?”
You whimpered, nodding against his shoulder.
James smiled.
“Then come for me. Right here, in my lap, with my best mates watching—because you’re mine. And I want to show you off.”
“I—James, I—”
“You can. You want to be good for me, don’t you? My clever, kind little Slytherin.”
Your walls fluttered again at the praise. He added a second finger and your hips jerked helplessly forward.
James chuckled, low and soft.
“She doesn’t even realize what she does to people. Fuck. Look at her. Look how she reacts to a little kindness.”
You tried to hide your face, but he guided your head back and tilted your chin upward.
“Let them see how pretty you are when you come.”
Your eyes met Sirius’s, then Remus’s. And that was it.
The orgasm hit fast and hot. You gasped his name, body jerking in his lap as you clenched around his fingers. James held you tight, murmuring in your ear.
“That’s it. Good girl. That’s my good girl. So proud of you.”
You slumped against him, trembling and dazed, as he eased his fingers from you, coated in slick. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low groan.
Sirius made a strangled sound. He looked desperate.
Remus exhaled through his nose, slow and silent.
James smirked.
“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” he asked, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “So fucking good. And she doesn’t even know how much you both want her.”
You blinked up at him, still panting, still flushed. “James… what was that?”
“That,” he said, brushing hair from your cheek, “was me being generous.”
There was a pause thick with tension.
Then James looked across the room and said calmly, “You can touch her, if you want.”
The silence shattered.
You went still in his arms.
Sirius’s eyes widened. Remus straightened.
James kissed your cheek and murmured, “Only her thighs. Maybe her waist. Nothing else.”
He tilted your face toward him and kissed you slowly. “Because she’s still mine.”
You trembled in his lap, too soft to move, too stunned to speak.
Sirius stood and crossed the room. His hand hovered over your thigh, hesitant. James nodded once.
Sirius touched you gently. His hand slid over your skin, reverent and slow.
“She’s so soft,” he whispered.
James smiled. “Of course she is. She’s perfect.”
Remus moved forward as well, his fingers brushing the back of your calf, feather-light. “She’s warm,” he said softly.
You whimpered, your head resting on James’s shoulder, overwhelmed and breathless. James shifted behind you, guiding your legs a little wider.
“Be gentle. She’s still sensitive.”
Sirius’s hand slid a bit higher. “You’re not real, sweetheart. Can’t be.”
Remus traced the edge of your knickers, fingers near but not touching where James had been. Your body reacted anyway, hips twitching under the attention.
James watched them both with dark satisfaction.
“You’ll never fuck her,” he said, calm and steady. “You’ll never have her like I do. But I’ll let you look. Just this once.”
You turned your face into his neck, hiding from their eyes. James only pulled you tighter.
“She’s mine,” he said again, louder this time. “But look how pretty she is when she’s worshipped.”
“Please… gods, Hagrid… I don’t think I can take any more…” You gasp the words into the thick, coarse hair of his chest, your entire body trembling from the aftershocks that still ripple through you. Your cunt is impossibly full, stretched to its absolute limit around the massive, impossibly thick girth of his cock, which remains buried deep inside you, not even fully sheathed.
A low, rumbling sound, more felt than heard, vibrates through his chest and into your own. “Yer doin’ so good, sweet thing. So good for me.”
His voice is a gentle avalanche. The sheer tenderness in it makes you clench around him instinctively, drawing a sharp, hissing groan from him that seems to shake the very foundations of his small hut. One of his hands, bigger than your entire back, strokes slowly from your shoulder down to the curve of your ass, his touch impossibly careful. The other hand is beneath you, his enormous fingers laced tightly with yours, a tender anchor in the overwhelming sea of sensation.
It started with a shared bottle of Firewhisky by the hearth, a thank you for helping him tend a sickly Hippogriff foal. The conversation had strayed, meandering from creatures to more personal comforts, to the way you’d always watch his hands, wondering what such power would feel like on your skin.
“Y’aren’t scared?” he’d rumbled, his dark eyes soft in the firelight.
“Not of you,” you’d whispered. “Never of you.”
That was all the invitation his cautious heart needed.
Now, laid out on the expansive stretch of his bed, you are dwarfed by him. His cock, a monstrous, beautiful thing you’d only glimpsed with wide-eyed, hungry awe, had given you pause. But he’d been so patient, so excruciatingly gentle, working you open with his thick, calloused fingers and a murmured litany of praise until you were begging for it.
“I need it. All of it, Hagrid. I need to feel you fucking ruin me.”
He’d pushed in slowly, an endless, stretching, burning invasion that tipped into pure, mind-numbing pleasure. And now here you are, stuffed so completely you can see the faint, distinct bulge of him distorting the flat plane of your lower belly with every slight shift he makes.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice thick with awe. He releases your hand to splay his palm over your stomach, his thumb gently stroking the swollen curve where his body lives inside yours. “See what yeh do to me? See what I’m doin’ to you? Fuck…”
The obscenity in his gentle voice sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core. You writhe under him, the movement making you acutely aware of every throbbing inch of him. “Don’t stop,” you beg, your own voice a broken thing. “I want to feel you come. I want to feel you pump your fucking load so deep inside me I taste it.”
A growl rips from his throat, and any last vestige of his famed gentleness shatters. He shifts, pulling his hips back just an inch before driving forward. The world whites out. This is what you wanted. His thrusts become purposeful, powerful pistons of his hips that jar your entire body, slamming you up the bed with their force. The wet, filthy sound of your cunt taking him, over and over, fills the hut, mingling with your choked screams and his guttural grunts.
“This cunt,” he snarls, his breath hot against your ear. “This perfect, tight, fuckin’ cunt was made for me. Gonna breed it. Gonna fill yeh up ‘til yeh’re drippin’ with me.”
His words are the final key. Your climax detonates without warning, a raw, seismic event that wrings a gush of fluid from you that has nothing to do with his own release. It soaks his thrusting cock, his thick thighs, the furs beneath you. You scream, your back arching violently as you squirt around his pounding length, the sensations so intense they border on pain.
He fucks you through it, his rhythm growing frantic, losing its pace. With a roar that seems to shake the dust from the rafters, he rams himself to the hilt and holds there. You feel the hot, pulsing eruption of his cum directly inside you, a torrent of heat that seems to have no end, painting your deepest, most intimate parts. The bulge in your stomach seems to swell further, a visible proof of his immense, finishing release.
He collapses carefully onto his side and takes you with him, keeping himself buried to the root. You are a trembling, boneless mess, your forehead resting against his chest, drool smearing on the hair there from your slack jaw. His spent cock twitches inside your oversensitive cunt, each throb a reminder of the sheer volume of seed he’s deposited.
His big hand finds yours again, his calloused fingers weaving between yours and squeezing. A silent promise. A final, thick pulse of his cum makes you jerk against him, a weak, overwhelmed sound catching in your throat.
“Hagrid…” you slur, your senses completely overloaded.
“I know, sweet thing,” he rumbles, his voice back to that soft, earth-shaking gentleness. He nuzzles the top of your head. “I know.” He’s still inside you, and he makes no move to pull out. The warmth of him, the feeling of being so utterly claimed and filled, is everything.
“Don’t… move…” you manage to whisper. “Just… stay…”
Pairings: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader, George Weasley x Fem!Reader
Summary: You made the mistake of telling the twins you were curious about being tied up. Now you’re tied to their bedpost, completely at their mercy.
Warnings: NSFW / SMUT, Bondage (rope restraints), Edging / Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, Degradation kink (light to moderate), Praise kink, Oral (f!receiving), Squirting, Light spit kink (implied), teasing, Dom!Fred & Dom!George, Sub!Reader, Rough language, Use of “slut,” “fucktoy,” etc. Reader begging / crying from overstimulation, Fred is not merciful, George is worse, No actual penetration but plenty of tongue-fucking.
Words: 4.1K
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You really should have kept your mouth shut.
One offhand comment, was all it had taken…
It started, as most things with them did, with a joke.
You had been sprawled across one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, pretending to study while the twins toyed with each other across from you — flicking Bertie Bott’s Beans at each other’s heads and whispering Merlin-knows-what back and forth, always a breath away from being thrown out again.
It was late. Most of the Tower was asleep. And you were tired — too tired to be careful with your words.
“I think it would be fun,” you’d said, half-buried in your Charms textbook, voice casual. “Being tied up. If it’s done right.”
There had been a beat of silence.
Then two identical smirks.
“Oh?” Fred had purred, eyes gleaming with interest.
“Define ‘done right,’” George added, leaning forward, far too interested for someone supposedly studying.
“Because we happen to be very thorough,” George said, and their twin gazes locked onto yours with something far more dangerous than teasing.
That was three nights ago.
And now, you’re here — spread out on their bed like some gift-wrapped treat, trembling under their matching grins.
“You look so fucking pretty like this, you know that?” Fred’s voice is a low, wicked hum against the shell of your ear, his warm breath sending a jolt straight to your core. “All trussed up and waiting for us. Looks like our little experiment is a success.
Your wrists are bound securely to the ornate bedpost with soft, spell-strengthened silk — a parting gift from one of their more adventurous product testers, they said. The initial thrill of restraint has melted into something deeper, something hungrier. You’re stretched out on the crimson duvet, bare and trembling, completely at their mercy. Your chest rises and falls with shaky, shallow breaths.
George kneels at the foot of the bed, his copper hair disheveled and his green eyes fixed on every tremor that ripples through your body. His grin is pure sin. “Told you she’d love it, Fred.”
“You were right, George,” Fred murmurs, his chest a wall of heat against your back, his voice smug and slow. “Our clever, curious little friend.” He chuckles — low, dark, and vibrating straight through your spine. “We’re just being good friends, darling. Granting wishes.”
A single calloused finger, George’s, traces up your inner thigh, feather-light and agonizing. You twitch beneath the touch, a small, broken sound catching in your throat. The satin of your knickers is already soaked and they know. You can feel it in the way George smirks.
“Shhh,” he coos, voice thick with amusement. “We’ve got you. We’re just going to explore that little curiosity of yours. Every last filthy inch of it.”
Fred’s lips find the soft skin just below your ear. He doesn’t kiss you. He claims you, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat. “Gods, you smell good,” he groans. “All nerves and need. Is that for us? This sweet, dripping cunt…” His hand slides around your hip and presses flat against your lower belly. “All ours, isn’t it?”
Your head falls back against his shoulder, a breathy whimper escaping. Words feel impossible.
“Ah, ah. Use your words, gorgeous,” George drawls, voice lazy but sharp. His finger slips beneath the elastic of your knickers. Not inside, not quite. Just resting there, maddening and still. “Is this pretty pussy ours to play with?”
“Yes,” you whisper, almost too soft.
“Yes, what?” Fred snaps, lips still brushing your skin as his hand slides up to your breast, teasing.
A shiver racks through you. “Yes, it’s yours.”
“That’s our girl,” George praises, his voice turning soft, briefly, before it darkens again. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
In one fluid motion, he hooks his fingers in your knickers and pulls them down your legs, tossing the damp scrap of fabric aside. The cold air hits your soaked folds and you gasp, legs parting instinctively under his guiding hands.
Fred’s hand tightens on your stomach, holding you firmly in place. “Look at that,” he breathes. “Absolutely fucking pristine. And already soaking. Were you thinking about this? Our hands? Our cocks?”
You barely get the breath to answer before George leans in — and instead of touching you, he blows. A cool stream of air ghosts over your clit, and your back arches violently, a raw moan spilling out of you.
“So responsive,” he hums, and then, finally he licks you.
It’s slow, broad, deliberate. His tongue drags up your center like he’s savoring every second. Your hips jerk, but Fred holds you down with practiced ease.
“None of that,” Fred chides, biting your earlobe. “You don’t get to move. You feel. That’s your only job tonight. Our pretty little fuck-toy.” His voice drops, filthier. “And playthings don’t get to come until we say so.”
George’s mouth is ravenous now, eating you like he’s been starved, tongue circling your clit before plunging deep into your heat. The wet, obscene sounds make your cheeks burn, but you can’t look away — not with Fred whispering filth into your ear, and not with George’s hands pinning your thighs open like you’re nothing but a meal.
One of George’s hands slides up to your breast, pinching your nipple with a roughness that makes you cry out. Fred’s hand joins his, twisting and rolling the other until you’re keening — a desperate, incoherent thing.
“You take it so well,” Fred growls. “Our greedy little slut. Listen to those noises. You love this. You love being our toy.”
You do. Gods, you do. You’re moaning openly now, their names tangled in your throat with every gasping breath. That pressure in your belly is coiling fast, sharp and terrifying — your thighs are shaking, your vision blurring.
And then… they stop.
George pulls away with a wet pop. Fred lifts his hands. You sob, a broken little sound, tugging uselessly at your restraints as the edge slips cruelly away.
Fred laughs, rich and low. “Ah, ah, ah. What did we say?”
George crawls up your body, face glistening with your arousal, and kisses you hard. You taste yourself on his tongue — sharp and musky and yours. It’s a mark, a brand, and when he pulls back, his eyes burn with something possessive.
“You feel that ache?” he murmurs. “That emptiness? That’s us. We own that now.”
Behind you, Fred shifts. You hear the soft rustle of his clothing — a belt, a zipper and then the blunt heat of his cock is sliding through your folds, coating himself in your wetness without pushing in.
He grinds his length against your clit, slow and cruel, and you sob.
“You want this cock to fill you up?” he growls, voice wrecked. “Want me to split open that needy cunt and fuck you until you’re crying?”
“Yes, Fred,” you gasp. “Please.”
“Please what?” he snaps, but he doesn’t stop — the slow, devastating rub of his cockhead over your clit continues, dragging more slick from your desperate cunt.
“Please fuck me,” you cry, voice raw.
He stills. Presses the tip right at your entrance — not in, not yet — just enough pressure to make you ache.
George watches, hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly, his eyes fixed on your face.
Fred leans close to your ear and whispers, “Not yet.”
Not yet.
The words hang in the air like a curse, like a sentence you can’t escape. Every nerve in your body screams in protest as Fred holds perfectly, torturously still — the hot, blunt head of his cock pressed flush against your soaked, aching entrance. It’s a promise. A threat. A denial that cuts deep.
Your throat tightens around a sob, and just as it starts to climb its way up, a brand new wave of sensation crashes over you. George’s mouth, hot and hungry, closing over your other nipple with sudden, searing precision. His tongue circles the peak in slow, merciless rings, lashing the sensitive bud until your spine arches off the bed, the silken cuffs biting hard into your wrists.
“Oh—god—George,” you moan, the sound wrenched from somewhere deeper than your lungs.
He doesn’t answer with words. Just a low hum of satisfaction, vibrating through your chest, as his teeth graze your nipple. Just enough to make your thighs clench, before his tongue smooths the sting away. His free hand slides up to cup your other breast, kneading it with possessive pressure, thumb flicking across your already-raw skin.
You’re trapped between them, pinned like prey, your body no longer your own. Your world narrows to the twin points of torment: George’s burning mouth on your breast, and Fred’s unmoving cock at your entrance, heavy and hot and just there. Refusing you.
Fred leans in, his voice brushing your ear like velvet and filth. “Look at me, darling,” he growls, his tone dark and indulgent. “Look at that greedy little cunt. Dripping all over my cock, and still begging for more.”
You can’t help it. Your hips jerk, desperate to pull him inside, to end this unbearable ache. But he only laughs, low and cruel, pressing you down harder with a palm to your belly.
“You’d let him suck on your pretty tits all night, wouldn’t you?” he whispers. “Let me use this sweet, twitching hole ‘til you can’t think straight. Just a fuckdoll for the two of us.”
His words sear through you, filthy and glorious, pooling heat low in your gut. Another involuntary thrust, another cruel denial. Fred still doesn’t move, just stays at your entrance, letting you feel how close you could be.
George lifts his head, nipple glistening, the cool air a slap to the wetness he’s left behind. He kisses his way up your sternum, nipping along your collarbone until he reaches your mouth. His eyes burn into yours, wild and hungry and his kiss is nothing like the soft ones you remember. This one takes.
It starts tender, your lips part instinctively but the moment his tongue slides into your mouth, it deepens into something possessive. Dirty. Claiming. He tastes like firewhisky and you and the promise of everything.
You melt into him, letting him control the rhythm, the depth, the need. His fingers cradle your jaw, holding you steady for his slow, consuming exploration. Your toes curl. The ache in your cunt sharpens to pain.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you gasping. “You have no idea how long we’ve wanted to hear you beg for us,” he murmurs, voice shredded with need.
Then Fred moves but not how you need. Not yet.
He drags the head of his cock through your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it over your clit with slow, calculated strokes. His pace is maddening — just enough friction to light your nerves on fire, never enough to let you fall.
A strangled sound escapes your throat, not a moan, not a sob, just something raw.
“Such a pretty, desperate mess,” Fred growls, grinding against you without giving you an inch. “Our clever little friend… reduced to a drooling, cock-drunk slut on our bed.”
His voice drops lower, filthier. “You were made for this. Made to be used. Made to be shared.”
Shame should burn. But it doesn’t. Not with the way your cunt clenches around nothing. Not with the way your body begs to be filled.
“Yes,” you whimper. “Please, Fred… George… fuck—please—”
You don’t even know what you’re asking for anymore. Just that you need. More. Relief. Pressure. Anything.
George’s fingers dip between your thighs, collecting the mess between your legs. When he brings them to your lips, you open without hesitation, sucking them clean.
“Taste yourself,” he orders.
And you do. You taste like sex and surrender, and the obscenity of it pushes you deeper into the haze. Fred groans above you.
“Good girl,” he purrs. “Our good, filthy little girl.”
Then his hips shift again — faster this time — grinding slow circles over your clit, his cock dragging against you just right. The pressure builds, sharp and fast, the edge racing toward you.
Your mouth falls open, your legs tremble.
“That’s it,” George whispers, mouth against your ear. “Let go for us. Come all over his cock. Show us what a good little fucktoy you are.”
You’re going to. You can feel it. Everything in you coils, tight and blinding…
And Fred pulls away.
Completely.
The pressure vanishes. Your orgasm dies mid-birth, yanked cruelly from you. A ragged, helpless scream tears out of your throat — part frustration, part devastation, all need.
Fred laughs. “I told you. Not until we’re done.”
He moves down the bed. You can’t even stop the trembling. Your thighs are shaking, your wrists sore, your whole body a live wire of denial.
And then his mouth is on you.
He licks a broad stripe from your aching entrance all the way to your clit, slow and wet and thorough, and you scream. Not a moan. A scream. Your body bucks against the ropes, instincts overriding logic.
George grabs your hips, pinning you in place. “Hold still, love,” he growls, his voice shaking. “He’s just getting started. And you’re going to take every fucking second of it.”
Fred groans into your cunt, tongue lapping with greedy precision, and you sob because you’re not sure if you’re going to survive it…
But you want to.
Fred’s mouth is a brand, searing heat and wet hunger, and it makes your entire world shrink to the space between your thighs. Your back arches off the bed, a desperate, involuntary act that’s instantly stopped by George’s strong hands pinning your hips to the mattress.
“I said hold still” George growls into your ear, his voice a low, rumbling command that rakes down your spine. His breath is warm against your flushed skin. “You’re going to take every fucking second of it”
And you do. Fred’s tongue isn’t just tasting you. He’s claiming you. He plunges in deep, a thick, wicked muscle fucking into your cunt with a rhythm that’s brutal and perfect all at once. The sound is obscene, wet and slapping and slick, and it echoes in the quiet room like a dark melody, undercut by your own broken whimpers.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He thrusts his tongue deep, then curls it upward, and you cry out as stars burst behind your eyelids. His nose presses against your clit with maddening pressure, not enough, never enough. Your whole body is a live wire, every nerve frayed and burning, the need for release clawing at you, begging.
“Look at that” George murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “Look how deep he’s fucking you with his tongue. You’re dripping all over his face, you filthy girl. You love this. You love being used like this”
His voice is molten filth, soaked in praise and cruelty all at once. It burns you from the inside out. All you can do is moan, thrashing your head against the pillow as your wrists strain against the cuffs. The cold bite of the metal only intensifies the inferno consuming you.
Then Fred pulls back.
The sudden absence of his mouth is another kind of torture. Cool air kisses your soaked, swollen cunt. A sob catches in your throat and slips out before you can stop it.
“Please” you whisper, broken and wrecked.
Fred chuckles against your inner thigh. Low. Dark. Cruel.
“Please what, you desperate thing? Use your words”
But you can’t. You can’t even think. He doesn’t wait.
His tongue flattens against your folds, dragging a broad, lazy stripe from your dripping entrance up to your clit, where his lips close around it with a tight, relentless suction.
You scream.
The sound tears out of your throat, jagged and wild, as your heels dig into the small of his back, trying to pull him closer. His tongue flicks your clit in rapid, brutal bursts, and the suction is perfect. Precise. Unbearable.
Oh god. You are right there. So close. So full. So ready.
And just as the first tremors of your climax threaten to rip through you, Fred pulls away again.
The denial hits like a physical slap. A wounded, animal sound escapes your chest. Your whole body trembles with the force of the orgasm that never comes, the ache of it so deep it leaves you dizzy and hollow.
Fred lifts his head. His chin is slick, glistening with you. His green eyes are blown wide with lust and satisfaction.
“Not yet” he says, voice gravel rough. “You don’t come until we say you can. You’re ours to play with”
Tears prick at your eyes. The ache in your core is a violent, exquisite agony.
Then George’s fingers replace his brother’s mouth.
Not his cock. Not his tongue. Just his fingers. Teasing. Feather-light.
They circle your clit without pressure, without urgency. Just the barest ghost of contact. Your breath stutters. Your hips twitch. Your body jolts from the tease.
“You’re so wet for us” George whispers, dragging his other hand up to your chest, where he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “Your perfect, tight little cunt is soaked, can’t take much more can you?Wanna come so bad, don’t you?”
His fingers brush your clit again. Just barely. Again. Again.
You whimper, straining against the cuffs. Begging for pressure. For anything.
Fred watches you fall apart with a feral grin, unbuttoning his trousers slowly, lazily.
“She’s so close, Georgie. Look at her. She’s shaking. She’s going to break”
“She will” George says, his voice low and certain. His fingers finally press down, but instead of slow circles, he rubs side to side in a tight, relentless rhythm that punches the air from your lungs.
Fred dives back in. His tongue plunges into you, deep and hungry, licking and fucking you with wild abandon while George works your clit like a man possessed. The pressure is instant. White-hot. All-consuming.
You can’t breathe. You can’t speak.
The room is filled with the slick sounds of your cunt, Fred’s groans, George’s low commands, your choked cries. It is overwhelming. It is perfect.
Fred growls into your cunt. His voice is muffled but you hear every filthy word.
“Let us hear you. Beg for it”
George’s pace doesn’t slow. His fingers are a blur. “You were born for this, you perfect slut. Born to be stretched and used by us. Now come on. Fuck yourself on his tongue. Do it. Come all over his fucking face”
That’s all it takes.
You explode.
The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. Your body locks up, rigid and trembling, a silent scream caught in your throat before it rips free. Your vision whites out. Pleasure burns through you, wave after wave, pure and devastating. You gush against Fred’s mouth, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t stop. He drinks you down, groaning into your cunt as you convulse beneath him.
You sob. Shaking. Wrung out. Every nerve raw and alive. The climax is so strong it leaves your body jerking helplessly in their hands.
But George’s fingers don’t stop.
They slow. They soften. But they keep going. Circling. Stroking. Teasing your overstimulated clit with unbearable precision.
You whimper. Try to twist away. Try to escape the sensitivity, the way your body jerks violently with each tiny motion.
Fred finally lifts his head. His lips and chin shine with your release. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks at you like a man who has claimed something sacred.
“Beautiful”
And then George leans in, voice low and dark at your ear, his breath hot and steady.
Pairings: Fem!Reader x Draco Malfoy, Fem!Reader x Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader x Harry Potter.
Summary: You’ve kept Draco in chastity for two weeks, and he’s getting desperate. To remind him who’s in charge, you let him kneel beside the bed while you ride Harry — praising Harry’s cock, moaning louder on purpose, while Draco whimpers and begs just to be touched.
Warnings: Cuckolding kink, Chastity (Draco in a cage), Edging / denial, Sub!Draco Malfoy, Bull!Harry Potter, SoftDom!Reader, D/s dynamic, Praise kink, Humiliation kink (verbal), Jealousy kink, Voyeurism / Exhibitionism, Pure smut.
Words: 1.1K
⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆
The air in the bedroom was thick with the scent of your perfume and the low, resonant hum of anticipation. You sat on the edge of the bed, your gaze fixed on the man kneeling on the plush rug beside you. Draco’s eyes, dark with a potent mix of want and frustration, were locked on you, his posture a perfect sculpture of submission. The subtle bulge of the metal cage straining against his tight trousers was a sight that never failed to spark a low, warm thrill in your belly.
“Two weeks, darling,” you murmured, your voice a silken caress that made him shiver. “Has it been terribly difficult?”
A low, gutted sound escaped his throat. Yes.
“Use your words, my love.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he rasped, the words scraping out of him. “It’s… agony.”
You smiled, a slow, curling thing, and reached out to card your fingers through his pale hair. He leaned into the touch like a starving man, a desperate sigh hissing through his clenched teeth. The simple contact was a cruel, beautiful mercy.
“Good,” you purred. “I want you to remember this feeling. I want you to savor it.”
The bedroom door opened then, and Harry walked in, his expression one of easy-going confusion that quickly shifted to understanding, then to a flicker of dark interest as he took in the scene. You crooked a finger at him.
“Come here, Harry. I have a use for you tonight.”
You didn’t miss the way Draco’s body went rigid, the way his jaw tightened. You kept your hand in his hair, a grounding, possessive weight as Harry approached, his eyes roaming over your body with open appreciation.
“What’s all this, then?” Harry asked, his voice a low rumble.
“A lesson,” you said simply, your eyes never leaving Draco’s. “And a reward for you. Get undressed. I want to feel your cock inside me. Now.”
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He stripped quickly, his clothes pooling on the floor, revealing a body built for sin and a thick, proud erection that made your mouth water. You laid back on the bed, spreading your legs, and beckoned him closer. Draco’s breathing became a ragged, shallow thing.
“Watch, baby,” you commanded Draco, your voice dropping to a husky whisper as Harry settled between your thighs. “Don’t you dare look away.”
You gasped as Harry’s cockhead nudged at your entrance, already slick and ready for him. You arched your back, a moan tearing from your throat as he sank into you in one smooth, devastating thrust. Oh, fuck. He filled you completely, a perfect, stretching fit that made your vision blur at the edges.
“God, look at that,” you moaned, your head turning to Draco. Your fingers tightened in his hair, forcing him to keep his eyes on the junction of your bodies, on where Harry’s cock disappeared into your wet cunt. “Look at how he fills me, baby. Does your little cage twitch when you see him ruin me? Does it ache?”
A broken whimper was his only answer. You could see the desperate strain in his thighs, the way his hands clenched into fists on his knees.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” he choked out. “It aches. It aches so fucking much, Mistress.”
“Good,” you breathed, starting to move your hips against Harry, setting a slow, grinding rhythm. “He feels so good, Draco. His cock is so fucking thick. It’s splitting me open.” You let your moans pitch louder, more theatrical, just for him. You saw the pain and arousal flash across his face like lightning. “Oh, Harry! Just like that! You fuck me so well!”
You reached down with your free hand, guiding one of Harry’s to your breast, groaning as he squeezed and pinched your nipple. The dual sensations were overwhelming; the deep, full feeling of being fucked and the sharp, sweet pain from his fingers.
“He knows exactly how to touch me,” you gasped, your words meant for Draco alone. “Do you see? Do you see how a real cock feels inside me? Not a pathetic, locked-up little thing. A proper, hard fuck.” You let your head fall back, a string of filthy praise falling from your lips. “Your cock is a fucking masterpiece, Harry. I want to feel you come in me. I want to feel you pump your fucking load into my cunt while my sweet boy watches.”
You felt Harry’s rhythm stutter, his own control fraying at your words. His thrusts became harder, more frantic. The wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin filled the room, a lewd soundtrack to Draco’s torment. You looked down at him again, your eyes half-lidded with pleasure.
“You’re my good boy, aren’t you, Draco? My perfect, desperate, locked boy. You love watching this, don’t you? You love seeing your Mistress get properly fucked by a real man.”
Tears welled in his eyes, tracing clean paths down his flushed cheeks. He was trembling, a fine, constant shake that spoke of a need so deep it was physical pain. “I love it, Mistress,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “Please… please can I…”
“Can you what?” you asked, your voice saccharine sweet even as Harry pounded into you, driving you higher and higher. “You can’t possibly want to touch me. You haven’t earned that. You haven’t earned anything but the sight of me coming on his cock.”
You felt the orgasm building, a taut coil of pure heat in your core, fed by the power, by the obscene display, by the raw feel of Harry fucking you senseless. You let it crest, crying out Harry’s name as you clenched around him, your body seizing with wave after wave of intense pleasure. Your grip on Draco’s hair became vicelike, holding him there, forcing him to witness every last shudder, every spasm that rocked through you.
Harry groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and you felt the hot, sudden rush of his release flood into you, pulsing in time with his final, jerking thrusts.
For a moment, the only sound was our heavy, panting breath. You slowly released Draco’s hair, your fingers trailing down his wet cheek. Harry pulled out of you, collapsing beside you on the bed, spent and satisfied.
You looked down at Draco, at the utter devastation on his beautiful face. He was crying in earnest now, silent tears of exquisite frustration, his body still trembling, his cock still trapped and untouched.
You slid off the bed and knelt before him, cupping his face in your hands. You kissed his tears, tasting the salt of his submission.
“My beautiful, perfect boy,” you whispered, your voice full of a twisted, loving cruelty. “You did so well. You’re going to stay like this for me, aren’t you? For as long as I want.”
He nodded, unable to speak, leaning into your touch like it was his only tether to the world.
“Good.” You stood up, leaving him there on his knees, a monument to your control. “Now, clean me up.”
Summary: You start baking because rich girls are supposed to have hobbies, and you finally have time. He sends you gifts instead—hoodies that smell like him, lace you’ll ruin, blankets for a nest you’ve never made. Your heat’s coming.
Warnings:
omegaverse dynamics (alpha × omega, scenting, nesting behavior), emotional intimacy / domestic fluff, light sexual tension, no explicit smut in this chapter, gift‑giving / sugar‑daddy arrangement themes, power imbalance , mention of past sexual content (brief), age gap, discussion of upcoming heat, comfort, softness, nesting & scent kink undertones, reader builds her first nest 🕯️🩷, minor mention of illness (reader’s mother, cancer).
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The next couple of days, you try to pretend nothing happened.
You fold the memory up like a silk scarf and push it to the back of a drawer in your head. You keep busy—tidying cupboards that don’t need tidying, wiping the spotless marble around Harold-the-Coffee-Machine, deadheading the white roses on the table like a person who has always owned pruning shears. But every time your mind idles, it does what minds do: it slips open the drawer. Warm breath on your lips. The patient pressure of his mouth. The way you climbed into his lap like your body had always known how. The silk whisper of your dress, the obscene intimacy of him sliding your panties down, the rasp of his voice when he said he’d think of you every time he smelled them.
Heat pooled low in your belly at the faintest memory, molten and heavy. You’d have to sit down in the middle of rinsing grapes. You’d lean your forehead to the cool cabinet door and tell yourself to breathe.
James texts like normal. Morning. Did you sleep? How was Dr. Malik? What’s for dinner. Send me a photo of the view today. He never once brings up your underwear; he never alludes to your flushed face in the lift or the breathless way you said goodnight. If he pocketed soaked lace and pressed it to his nose until his eyes went dark, it exists only in the drawer. You’re both very well-behaved in text.
Wednesday you spend at the hospital. Your mother looks small in fresh sheets, hair wrapped in a soft cap the nurses tie for her. Dr. Malik meets you in a light-filled consultation room with a view of plane trees.
“She’s responding well to the pain management,” Dr. Malik says, tapping a chart. “We’ll start the new regimen Monday. I’d like to adjust the steroid taper—she was a little jittery last night.”
“Is that—should we worry?” you ask, and your voice doesn’t wobble because you’re learning how to hold yourself like scaffolding.
“It’s standard.” Dr. Malik smiles with her eyes. “You’re doing an excellent job advocating for her. The transportation arrangement has been seamless. Whoever is funding this has made very clear that we’re to prioritise her comfort.”
You try to think of a word for the person funding this. Patron is too cold. Alpha is too intimate. You settle on truth. “A friend,” you say. “He’s… organised.”
Dr. Malik nods, amused. “We like organised friends.”
You help your mother sip water. You rub sweet almond oil into her hands and tell her about Harold’s temperamental steam wand. When you lean to kiss her forehead, you still catch lavender under the antiseptic and something in your chest unknots.
After the ward rounds and the paperwork and scheduling the next blood draw, you step out into the crisp air to find Amelia already leaning against the Marylebone concierge desk like she owns the building. She’s in white trousers and a pale green blouse that says brunch in a dialect you don’t speak yet. She sees you and brightens.
“I simply had to check if your postcode actually took,” she says, hooking her arm through yours. “Also if your kitchen is real and not just a film set.”
“My kitchen is terrifyingly real.”
“So am I. I invited myself for lunch and you can’t stop me.”
You laugh because it’s easier than saying thank you into her blouse. “Come on then.”
Upstairs you give her the tour, which takes exactly three minutes because your flat is pretty and not massive. She coos appropriately over the balcony and gives Harold a skeptical pat. Then she perches on a stool, kicks off ridiculous shoes, and points at the fridge. “Right. Feed me and tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything,” she repeats happily.
You assemble a lunch that would make Instagram proud with very little effort—fresh bread from the bag that arrives every two days like magic, good cheese, figs, some Parma ham, olives in a small bowl because bowls make things look intentional. You talk with your hands as you arrange it all on a board.
You tell her about Mayfair, about oysters that slid like cool marble over your tongue and his quiet grin when you said you’d never had one. You tell her about how he sat with his back to the wall, how he asked about everything in your week with that patient intensity that makes you feel like a jewel he’s turning in his palm. You don’t immediately tell her about the lift of his hand under your dress. You keep that for yourself a little longer, tasting it like black chocolate you don’t want to finish.
“And did he—?” Amelia wiggles her eyebrows in a way that makes you roll your eyes and blurt it all out, breathless and burning.
You tell her the truth. The slow climb into his lap. The kiss that lit you from the inside. The quiet way he asked for a gift and the unimaginable reality of giving it. You hide your face in your hands and peek out between your fingers when Amelia squeals.
“He’s teasing you,” she declares, delighted. “Fucking teasing you to pieces.”
You pull at the hem of your jumper. “It felt… I don’t know. It felt cruel but not mean? It felt like—like he’s in control even when he’s being sweet.”
“Baby,” Amelia says, voice going warm, “that is the textbook with men like him. He’s laying down a story: I lead, you yield. He gave you just enough and then he took something, so your body learns that saying yes equals being rewarded, and also, sometimes, denied. It’s power. It’s foreplay.”
You press your palms to your cheeks, mortified and melting. “I wanted him to touch me. But I didn’t know how to ask. And he… he seemed set on not touching me more.”
“He’s pacing you,” Amelia says matter-of-factly, popping an olive. “He’s also pacing himself. Alphas that get to that age and status without turning into outright monsters? The way they survive is control. He’s not going to lose his head on a sofa with his back to a wall of windows, not with two of his men downstairs pretending to be street furniture. He’ll make you burn for him, and he’ll make himself wait until you’re somewhere that belongs to him.”
Your stomach flips. “You say that like you know.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “I know the breed.” Then she pats your hand, nails cool. “So here’s what you do.”
You sit up straighter, because you trust her in this territory the way you trust Dr. Malik in hers.
“One,” Amelia says, counting with a manicured finger, “do not be afraid to match his energy. If he teases, tease back. Not loud; not messy. Precisely. He’s playing chess, not Twister. Two: men like that are easily bored. They have three phones and ten meetings and two women on three continents who’ll do backflips if asked. You don’t hold attention by behaving like a doormat. You hold it by being sweet—and making sweetness feel intentional.” She winks. “Three: do not assume exclusivity means monasticism. Tier One alphas using Roselock? Plenty have multiple omegas tucked away. I’m not being cruel; I’m being realistic. If he’s offered exclusivity, it’s likely about you—as in you being exclusive to him. Not necessarily him to you.”
You swallow around the pebble of understanding. “And I should be… okay with that?”
“You should know it so you’re not blindsided. If he’s a unicorn, lovely. If he’s not, you won’t bleed out over a myth.” She squeezes your fingers. “Four: never beg. Ask, yes. Offer, yes. Begging makes you small. You’re already an omega. Don’t add smallness to the deal. Five: make him want to work for the centre of you. Let him smell you, sure. Let him taste, eventually. But keep a piece back that’s yours. That’s the hook.”
You try to picture being that deft. “I’m… not you, Amelia.”
“No,” she says, and she’s kind instead of smug when she says it. “You’re you. He chose you because you’re not me. You’re shy and soft and smart. Use those like a knife.”
You laugh, a little hysterically. “Use shy like a knife?”
“Men like that will bleed on anything if you press it right,” Amelia says blithely. “Also—do something with your time before you go mad. You need hobbies now that you’re not juggling three jobs.”
“I don’t know what to do with myself,” you confess. “I wake up and… there’s nothing to panic over.”
“Then you’re going to try things and see what sticks. I’ll send you links. Pottery, watercolours, yoga, learning French so you can bully waiters in Saint-Germain on holiday.” She studies your face. “But I feel like you already did something, didn’t you?”
You glance at the kitchen, guilty. “I baked once. Chocolate chip cookies. They were edible.”
Amelia beams. “Start there. Start cheap. Flour, sugar, butter. If you burn it, I’ll still eat it.”
She does. You both scarf cheese and bread and laugh about nothing important. She gives you a list on your phone and a kiss on the cheek and tells you to send outfit photos before you wear anything outside. “Just in case,” she says grandly, sweeping out.
After she leaves, the flat feels very quiet. Not lonely. Just… open.
You stand in the middle of the kitchen with a sudden itch in your hands. You do what the list says: try something. You pull up a recipe for chocolate cupcakes—not fancy ones, not ganache-filled or meringue-topped. Just little domes of cocoa with a swirl of buttercream like a birthday.
The cupboards make this easy. There’s proper cocoa powder in a tin the color of a piano. There’s vanilla paste that looks like caviar. You measure carefully, whispering “level, not packed” like a spell. You whisk sugar and eggs until it goes thick and pale, you fold in dry ingredients with as few strokes as you can. You line a tin with little brown papers that look like flower petals and pour the batter until it sits halfway like a row of stubborn puddles. You lick a streak off your finger and hum.
Fifteen minutes later your flat smells like the sort of bakery you used to stand outside on cold days just to pretend you’d bought something. You make buttercream with too much vanilla because you like it and beat it until it looks like clouds. You pipe swirls on the cooled cakes, clumsy at first, then smoother. You grate a little dark chocolate over the tops because it looks like snow. You take a photo because you’ve learned that photos are the currency of proof in a world that asks you to be grateful.
Your phone buzzes.
James: What have you been up to today?
You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s been four days since you were in his lap; he’s texted daily and said nothing about seeing you. He’s out there doing whatever mystery men do when they wear white shirts and roll their sleeves to show ink. It isn’t like you miss him. (You miss him.)
Amelia’s voice purrs in your ear: Tease back. Not messy. Precisely.
You hold your breath and snap a better picture, kneeling to get the cupcakes in the late afternoon light, a curl loose at your temple, flour dusting your knuckles. You send it with a caption that makes your stomach flip even as you type it.
You: I baked cupcakes!
The three dots appear almost immediately. Then:
James: How do they taste?
You stare at the text box. You type sweet and then delete it. You type like chocolate and delete it. Your pulse is stupid in your throat. You can feel the drawer in your head creak open all by itself.
You type: They taste sweet. You hover. You hit send. Your finger moves again without your permission.
You: Not as sweet as me.
As soon as you see it in the chat you want to die. You squeeze your eyes shut and make a noise like a teakettle. You slap your thumb at the message to delete it but it’s too late; the Seen pops up with brutal efficiency. The dots appear. Oh god, he’s typing, and then disappear.
You blink at the screen, panic rising like a tide. Does he think it’s childish? Clumsy? Too much? You imagine him in a meeting with men in expensive watches showing your needy little sentence to all of them, and you almost throw your phone into the sink.
It vibrates in your hand. James Potter flashes across the screen. FaceTime.
“Absolutely not,” you whisper to no one, and then, because you’re an idiot who can’t leave a door unanswered, you swipe to accept.
His face fills the screen. He’s in the back of a car; the world blurs blue-grey outside the tinted window. His suit jacket is off; his white shirt is rolled to the elbows, exposing ink—black lines and curves—across the cords of his forearms. He has one hand in his hair, rumpling it; his tie is loose. He looks like an advertisement for sin.
“Hi,” you squeak, breathless. “Um.”
“Is that all you have to say?” he asks, smirking, and his voice is a slice of warm night through your kitchen.
You bite your bottom lip without thinking. His eyes flick down, fast, like a hawk catching movement.
“Don’t lose your courage now,” he says, gentler than the words.
“My—my hand slipped,” you blurt. “I didn’t mean to send that.”
“You did,” he says, amused, tipping his head. “You meant to tease me. And as clumsy as it was, it worked.”
“I’m not— I wasn’t—” You twist a curl around floury fingers. “I baked. I was thinking of cupcakes.”
“The photo suggests it,” he says dryly. “And yet here we are, discussing the comparative sweetness of you.”
You make a strangled noise. “Stop.”
He doesn’t. He leans back, one ankle on his knee, languid in a space that probably smells expensive. “I know how you smell,” he says, voice going lower. “I don’t know how you taste. Perhaps I should come over and compare: you on one plate, one of your cupcakes on another.”
The sentence hits you squarely in your belly. Heat flares; slick floods with humiliating immediacy. You squeeze your thighs together where the camera can’t see. Your breath goes high.
He’s watching your face like a weather report. He’s not sniffing the air like a wild thing; he doesn’t have to. He can see it. He can hear it when your breath changes.
“Is that all it takes?” he teases, soft, private. “One sentence and you’re wet for me?”
You shake your head automatically, denial a reflex. “I’m not— I’m not wet.”
“Mm.” He tips his head as if you’re a case study. “Prove it.”
You freeze. The room narrows to your phone screen and his eyes and the thud of your heart. “What?”
“Show me,” he says, and for once there’s no pet name, no velvet. It’s not sharp, but it’s not coy either. “Prove me wrong.”
You know for a fact that James isn’t driving the car, that there must be someone else in the car with him. So, the idea of him talking to you like this with someone within earshot makes your skin prickle. “You’re in a car,” you whisper. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
“Can and did.” He doesn’t look away. “I won’t push. I never do. I’m asking.” His mouth softens, and you hate how your body answers it. “Will you be a good girl and show me you’re not messy? Or will you tell me no and I’ll respect it?”
You stand in a kitchen that smells like sugar and cocoa and your own rising arousal. You think of Amelia’s voice: match him. You think of how badly you want to be good for him, of how your body already knows it’s not going to win the lie. Your panties are already damp; soaked, if you’re honest, and it would take nothing—one more sentence—to make you a puddle.
You swallow. Your mouth says before your brain can: “Okay.”
You move to the living room on shaky legs, prop the phone on the coffee table against a small stack of books so it shows your face and the line of your body on the sofa. You sit, heart tripping, and pull your knees up on the cushion so your feet rest on the couch, knees bent, thighs tenting the pink shorts.
A sound comes through the phone you’ve never heard from him—a low, pleased hum that vibrates like a cat settling. It does something to your bones.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer. “Good girl.”
The praise hits like a pulse between your legs. Your hands tremble. You glance at your own reflection in the black band of the TV: wearing only a white cropped knit shrug, a pink vest, matching shorts, no bra, flour dusting your cheek.
Amelia’s advice comes back with perfect, wicked clarity: Tease precisely. Make him work. Keep something for yourself. He’s not in the room. He’s on a screen. The distance emboldens you.
You slide your hands, very deliberately, down to the hem of your shorts. You don’t look at your phone; you look at your own knees and pretend you’re not shaking. You hook your thumbs and start to peel the shorts down.
On the screen, he doesn’t move much, but his focus goes surgical. He watches your hands. He watches your thighs as the pink slides. He watches for the first glimpse of white lace.
The fabric clears your upper thighs and the triangle of your panties shows—wet, the delicate cotton and lace gone translucent where your slick has soaked straight through. Your scent rises, sweet and mortifying; you can feel it in the air, even if he can’t. Your cheeks flame.
“And I thought you weren’t wet,” James says, almost conversational, like he’s discussing the weather. He sounds faintly amused. Also faintly wrecked.
“I—” You try for dignity. It fails. The camera catches the way you swallow.
He doesn’t make you say it. He makes a slow noise instead, filthy praise in the shape of words. “Look at you. Sticky little thing.” He reclines another inch, gaze traveling slowly up and down your body like hands, and gives you filthy compliments in a voice so smooth you barely register their dirtiness until your toes flex. “I could eat that right through the cotton. I could make a mess on my hands just from pressing my thumb over your little clit, couldn’t I?”
Your thighs twitch. You hear yourself make a soft, helpless sound.
“Spread a little wider,” he says, quiet. “Let me see how not-wet you are.”
You hesitate, and he leaves the space open. He doesn’t fill it with pressure. He has learned that you move into gaps like water. You set your feet a little farther apart on the cushion, knees falling open, and your shorts slide down to your calves and then off, leaving you in the vest and the white lace that’s really not hiding anything. You can feel cool air lick at your skin, the contrast making you shiver.
“Good girl,” he says again, and you want to be perfect for him. You want to do the thing that will make his voice drop that extra octave that turns your bones to syrup.
Your hand shakes as you bring it to your hip. You hook your ring finger under the side of the panties and draw the elastic aside by a fraction, just enough. It’s almost worse than taking them off; it’s showy, obscene in its deliberation. Your mound glistens, slick gathered where it shouldn’t be. The camera picks up the shine. You feel heat flash through you like lightning.
For the first time since you’ve known him, James looks genuinely surprised. It shatters the controlled line of his jaw; his eyes go wider, pupils swallowing brown. He involuntarily leans closer to the camera, as if smelling isn’t enough, as if he might climb through. His tongue clicks against his teeth in a sound that’s half-annoyance, half-awe. Mostly awe.
“Who’s been corrupting my little omega?” he asks, voice so low you feel it where you’re wet.
“No one,” you say, breathless, actual laugh breaking the tension because you’ve got him. “Must be the cupcake.”
His smile is slow, dangerous, fond. “I’ll remember to discipline the baker.”
You let the elastic slide back, covering yourself, pulse tripping wild. You grab the shorts and pull them back up, shaky and suddenly gentle with yourself, like you’ve just done something brave. His gaze follows every micromovement, pupils still huge.
“I wish I could come and taste you myself,” he says after a beat, voice gone rough. “But alas, I’m out of the country.”
You blink. “You are?”
“Mmm.” The corner of his mouth flicks up. “Business.”
“Where?” slips out before you can bite it back.
He ignores the question with surgical grace, giving you a look that says nice try. “I’ll bring you back a souvenir,” he says blandly instead, as if he hasn’t just watched you pull lace aside on your sofa.
You force a smile because this is his boundary and he’s making sure you understand it. “I like presents,” you say softly, and you mean I like being remembered.
His face gentles in a way that puts the rug back under your feet. “I know.”
There’s a small pause where your breathing normalizes and the world widens back out to include the sound of cars, the hum of your fridge.
“About your heat,” he says, switching lanes as smoothly as a car with power steering. “It’s at the end of the month. Right? I’ve cleared my schedule.”
You had, in the middle of baking and pretending not to think about his mouth, completely forgotten that there were calendars and cycles that didn’t bend to your attempted self-discipline. Before your arrangement, you’d been on suppressants so diligently you carried them like rosary beads. Now you weren’t anymore because you didn’t need to be. Now that you didn’t have to work, now that you had James. The thought of a real heat, a full, present heat with him spins your stomach.
“Oh,” you say, cheeks heating anew, this time in a different way. “Right. I—I haven’t been… I used to— I mean, I was on—”
“Suppressants,” he supplies, understanding. “First cycles can be scary but actually going through them is a lot healthier than using medication.” His tone leaves no room for argument on that point, but it’s not bossy; it’s simply fixed. “That being said we’ll do it the way you want. I’ll talk you through every step as many times as you need.”
Your chest tightens, relief so sudden it stings your eyes. “Thank you.”
“I’m very selfishly looking forward to it,” he says, lighter, and the corner of his mouth does a thing you’re already powerless against. “But not as much as I’m looking forward to confirming whether you truly do taste sweeter than your cupcakes.” His gaze slips to your mouth. “And teaching you why it isn’t wise to tease me over the phone if you don’t want me rearranging my flight.”
You make a mortified little noise and hide behind your hands. “Don’t— I mean, do— I mean—”
He laughs, a real laugh that makes you feel like you’ve discovered a rare animal. “You’ll have to bake me something once I’m back in the country” he says.
“Bossy,” you mutter, affectionate before you can stop yourself.
“Correct,” he says, and winks in a way that should be illegal as the screen cuts to black.
You flop backwards onto the sofa like someone unplugged you. Your panties are painfully wet. Your heartbeat is in your throat and your pulse is in your hands and your kitchen still smells like chocolate. You stare at the ceiling and laugh the kind of laugh that is half-desperate, half-joy, and then you reach for your phone again with fingers that are not entirely steady.
You text Amelia: I think I won a round. Also I need to invest in more underwear.
She replies instantly: Video?? God, you’re a menace. I’m proud. And yes—buy ten pairs. Men like him are thieves.
That night you lie on your side in the big bed and breathe the faintest trace of him that still lives in your head: smoke and resin and winter. You slip one hand under the waistband of your new, very clean panties and you don’t touch yourself because a part of you wants to wait. Wait, until he touches you first. You just rest your palm low and think of the way he looked when you pulled the lace aside—his careful control cracking into awe.
You sleep with a smile on your mouth like a secret.
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺🎀༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺🎀༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺
You fall into a rhythm with him after that day. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t break the skin but leaves dents in your memory.
He FaceTimes you a couple more times. Those calls stay PG, somehow. James in a different shirt, a different car. He asks about your mother, about what you had for lunch, about the song stuck in your head. Once, he’s nowhere near a car; he’s in a hotel room with big, anonymous art on the walls and a terrible lamp. His sleeves are rolled and he’s eating from a carton with chopsticks.
“Rate the noodles,” you say, chin in your palm, flour dusted on your sleeve from scones you don’t want to admit you overbaked.
“Six,” he says. “Generous because I’m starving.” His mouth tips. “Sing me the chorus.”
“No.”
“Please.”
You sing. He smiles like you just set a table. He never once brings up what you did on your sofa; he never mentions the lace; he never asks you to pull anything aside or prove anything except that you ate lunch.
A week slides by. Your calendar app throws confetti at you when you tick off appointments; you pretend you’re not counting the days to your heat—the first un-suppressed one you’ll have since you were sixteen and terrified. Dr. Malik talks through it with the brisk gentleness of someone who knows the worst-case scenarios by name and still believes in best ones. You pick up electrolyte powders and gentle painkillers on her list. You put them in a neat basket on the bathroom shelf and feel very adult until you remember you are twenty-one and nervous.
James is still vague about where he is. You don’t push. You water the little plant on your balcony and make pancakes on a Tuesday because you can. You spend an afternoon writing labels for your cupboards because it calms you. You kiss your mother’s forehead and stay until a nurse tells you to go home and sleep. You do.
Mid-August lays itself over the city like a warm hand—heavy air, slow evenings, the special, breathless quiet between eight and nine when everyone is exhausted by their own heat and has not yet surrendered to the pub.
When the knock comes, you are barefoot and humming to yourself, folding yet another soft throw because apparently you’ve developed an addiction to things that feel like clouds. You open the door to a man in a black polo carrying a stack of boxes taller than your torso.
“Miss… ?” he asks, voice mild.
“That’s me.”
“Delivery.” He doesn’t ask you to sign. He moves with the ease of a person who’s put expensive things in expensive places for longer than you’ve been using moisturiser. He brings in three stacks, four boxes to a stack, and sets them down in your living room with a care that makes you want to defend them. There are brand logos you recognize in high-gloss; there are plain brown cartons with your alias on stark white labels; there are two huge boxes the color of a pearl that make your heart rate misbehave.
“From…?” you ask, though you know.
“Mr. Potter,” he says, polite, like a weather report. “He said to tell you to take your time.” A tiny flicker of a smile, like he knows nothing personal and everything practical. “Have a good evening, miss.”
“You too,” you say, and then you’re alone with a living room full of possibility.
For a moment you just sit cross-legged on the floor and look. There’s something about the sight—stacks of gifts in a space that used to hold three secondhand chairs and a clock that gained two minutes a day—that makes your chest ache in a very specific way. It’s not just excitement. It’s recognition. It’s being… seen, in the shape of tissue paper and ribbon.
You start with a plain white box because the brand names scare you a little. Inside: tissue, then a slip of ivory card with For you. —J in the same tidy handwriting (his, you’re sure now; the assistant writes tighter). Underneath: a silk camisole in the faintest blush, cut on the bias so it will fall like a secret. You touch it and gasp because your fingers know what quality costs and this is that.
You move to a bag with a chain handle and feel faint when a handbag that costs more than your first four years of rent stares blandly back. You stroke the leather and whisper “hello” because you’re a lunatic. You lift the dust bag on a small jewelry box and find a pair of pearl studs that are so simple and clean you can wear them to see your mother and not feel like you’ve betrayed a version of yourself who used to count bus fare.
You open a plain box and flush scarlet—underwear, delicate and white and black and blush, gossamer lace so fine it looks like a sigh. There are sensible cotton sets too, lovely ones, and a note in the corner: Choose what makes you feel like you. You press your lips together and decide not to think about the last pair he took. You smile anyway.
Another box: clothes—a white dress you could wear to dinner anywhere in the world, a soft cashmere cardigan light enough for August nights, two tees in the exact shade of white that makes your skin look like brown sugar, a skirt in navy that swishes right. Tucked in with them: a scarf the color of champagne.
You leave the biggest boxes for last because you are afraid of loving them and because you know you will. When you strip the ribbon and fold back the lid on the first, you inhale like you’ve just been dunked in lavender water. Blankets and throws, plush and heavy, knit and faux fur and cotton waffle, all in creams and soft greys, each tied with twill tape like a promise. The second big box is pillows, ridiculously expensive one, that squish under your cheek and spring back up.
At the very bottom of the second box, nestled like smuggled contraband, are hoodies and shirts that look like they lost their way and wandered into a boutique by mistake. They’re not new. They’re broken in—the grey hoodie soft with a thousand washes, a black one with a faint crackle on the logo as if it’s been through winters and late nights, two white T-shirts with necklines loosened by being pulled on in a hurry, a navy dress shirt with the top button missing as if a man had tugged at it in impatience.
You bring the grey hoodie to your face without thinking. Your knees go soft.
James. Smoke, cedar, dark spice, something resinous and clean. The scent is old and new at once, the way his car smells after he’s left it, the way hotel air smelled through the phone because he was in it. It’s not cologne. It’s him.
“Why would he—?” you start, out loud, and then the phone rings.
“Hello, little omega,” James says, and you swear the hoodie in your hands gets louder.
“You’re back,” you say, and then remember you don’t technically know that. “I mean—are you—? Sorry. Hi.”
He chuckles, pleased. It does that thing to your stomach. “Did you get your presents?”
You look at the landscape of your floor and press your lips together to stop the noise that wants to come out. “Yes,” you say, dignified somehow. “Thank you. They’re… a lot.”
“I don’t do half-measures,” he says mildly. “Do you like them?”
“Yes,” you say, and then, because thank you doesn’t feel big enough: “I… feel spoiled.”
“Good,” he says, like you answered the right question on an exam. “Tell me what you’re holding.”
“A hoodie,” you admit. “Um. Yours.”
“Mm.” The sound is messy and fond. “How does it smell?”
You press your face to the fabric again and close your eyes. “Like you.”
There’s a small, dangerous silence. You picture his mouth. “Good,” he says softly, and then: “You’re wondering about the blankets and pillows.”
“I—yes?” You stare at the mountain. “It’s August. And the apartment has… like… three already.”
“And now it has twelve.” You can hear him smiling. “They’re for nesting.”
You freeze. Heat crawls up your neck, ridiculous because you are alone and he is a voice and a smell in your hands. “Oh.”
“Ever built one?” His tone is warm curiosity, not judgment.
“No.” You sit down automatically, as if your knees don’t know how else to be. “I—didn’t… I don’t know. I never needed to, I guess. I didn’t feel the… urge. Outside of—” You make a vague hand gesture he can’t see to encompass heat, biology, the box they tried to put you in.
“Some omegas nest for comfort,” James says, as if he’s cataloguing something he’s actually learned and not just read on a slide. “Some only during heats. Some never. All normal.” His voice softens. “I want you to make me a pretty little nest for when I come over for your heat.”
Your stomach flips like a coin, lands on its edge, spins. “For you,” you repeat.
“For me,” he says simply. “With my scent in it. And yours. Pillows, blankets, whatever you want. Make it yours and mine.”
The word hits you somewhere behind your eyes. You swallow. “I’ve never—what if I do it wrong?”
“You can’t,” he says. “You won’t. But I can talk you through it, though I don’t know how much help an alpha can give.”
You look around your living room and see it differently, see the couch not just as a place to watch a show, but as a border to pile against. You imagine the bedroom with the curtains drawn and the balcony door cracked for night air, a ship of blankets under the comet of a fan. The idea makes your shoulders drop in a way nothing else has.
“Okay,” you say. “Yes. Tell me.”
“Where do you want it?” he asks. “Living room? Bedroom?”
“Bedroom,” you hear yourself say, because that feels sacred and right. “By the window.”
“Good.” You can hear the spatial map unfolding in his head. “Start with the biggest blankets on the bottom. Layer them so they’re thick under your hips. Pillows in a U around the head so there’s support on either side—your neck will thank me by day two. Toss the knit ones on top; they trap heat better. Put my hoodie where your face will be.”
You laugh helplessly. “That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s correct,” he says. “And put one of my T-shirts at the foot; you’ll want to drag it up at some point and I’d like you to have it.”
“Bossy.”
“Observant.” His voice goes softer. “Put out a bottle of water. Whatever book you’re pretending you’ll read and won’t. Charge your phone, but turn off everything but my name.”
You sit very still because you didn’t ask him to be sweet and he did it anyway. “Okay.”
“Add a sweater of yours that smells like you being calm,” he goes on, as if he can see the exact version of you that smells like that. “If I forget to breathe for a second, it’ll help.”
You make a small noise that embarrasses you. “Are you back in London?” you ask before your courage breaks.
“I am,” he says, as casual as weather. “Busy for a few days. Then entirely yours.”
“Vague,” you murmur.
“Habit,” he returns. “Can I ask for a picture? Of the nest. Once it’s finished, like a preview.”
You look at the piles, then at your own face, which is undoubtedly pink. “I—yes,” you say. “I mean, no. I mean… I’ll send one.”
He hears the yes underneath. “Good girl.” The words slide warm under your ribs. “And the underwear—”
“Shut up,” you say, laughing, hand over your mouth.
“—are replacements,” he finishes, shameless. “For the one i took. Consider them a deposit on a future crime.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t,” he says. “But you can tell me you do if it makes you feel powerful.”
You choke. “Stop psychoanalysing me.”
“Stop making it easy.”
There is a silence where you both grin at phones like fools. It feels like the kind of quiet you can walk around in without bumping into corners.
“Build,” he says finally. “Text me if you get stuck. Or if you miss me, both work.”
“I won’t miss you,” you mumble out, an obvious lie because you will, you have and you already are.
“You say that now,” he says, and you can hear the smile. “I’ll let you go.”
“James?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you,” you say, and you mean everything.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Make me something I want to crawl into and forget my own name.”
After the call ends, you sit for a very long minute on the floor, grey hoodie in your lap, phone screen dark and reflective. Your face looks like someone has been kind to you.
You start.
You drag the bed closer to the window because you can; the frame shifts with a satisfying scrape. You spread the heaviest blanket—a quilt in a stitched honeycomb—and test it with your palms like kneading dough. You add another, softer, then the knit with the big loops that snag on your ring and make you laugh. You tuck pillows in the U he described, two on either side, three where your head will be, a small one to wedge under your waist. You throw the faux fur on top because your fingers say yes even if it’s August. You lay the grey hoodie where your cheek will land and lie down just to see, and immediately your eyes prickle. It’s ridiculous. It’s also exactly right.
You put a T-shirt at the bottom like a secret. You fill a carafe with water because it looks pretty and grown, even though a bottle would do. You set your book down (you will not read it; you put a ribbon in it anyway for the illusion of discipline). You plug in your phone, set Do Not Disturb to everyone but James and Amelia. You pick up the cardigan you wore when baking and tuck it near your pillow.
You text Amelia a photo because you can’t not: I made a thing.
She replies with a voice note full of delighted profanity. Light a candle (unscented). Put snacks by the bed. And for God’s sake, line up lip balm and hair tie, you’ll thank me.
You add those too. You step back and take the photo for James, heart hopping like a rabbit.
You: For inspection.
The dots pop up quickly.
James: Perfect. I can smell it from here.
You hold the phone to your chest because your body doesn’t know what else to do with the swell of… something.
You climb into the nest in your shorts and vest, then immediately get up to put on the grey hoodie over them because the room suddenly feels ten degrees cooler without it. The cotton is heavy and softenough to make you close your eyes. You tuck your face in the collar and breathe until your heartbeat steadies. You doze, the kind where the edges of the world blur but don’t fall away.
Summary: You tease Sirius too far. Bratty, mouthy, touching him under the dinner table. When he finally gets you alone, he puts you over his knee and reminds you who you belong to. By the time he’s finished, you’re crying into the sheets, begging to come.
Warnings: Smut (18+ only, MINORS DNI), Modern Mob Boss!Sirius, Fem!Reader, sub!reader, Bratty behavior & brat taming, Orgasm denial (multiple times), Overstimulation, Spanking (hand), Crying (pleasure/overstimulation), Wrist restraints (belt), Power play / soft dom x bratty sub dynamic, Praise kink, Daddy kink, Slight degradation, Filthy talk & possessive language.
⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆
The clink of silverware against porcelain doesn’t mask the way your heel trails up Sirius Black’s thigh.
Not when his hand is resting on your knee under the table. Not when his jaw tics the moment your foot—encased in sheer black tights and fuck-me heels—presses between his legs.
“Don’t” he warns lowly, voice thick with a velvet danger that doesn’t match the polished hum of the high-end restaurant around you.
You smile sweetly and take another sip of red wine. “Something wrong, daddy?”
His knuckles tighten around the fork. You know that look. Sharp jaw clenched, tongue pressing into his cheek. His rings glint under the soft amber light as he places his silverware down, a deliberate act of restraint.
You just lean forward, cleavage peeking in the slinky black slip dress he picked out for you earlier that night, and slide your foot higher.
“Be good,” he growls, not looking at you.
You’re not. Of course not.
Because being bad gets you what you want, gets you him like this. On edge. Breathing hard. Holding it together by a thread.
“Don’t wanna be good,” you murmur, leaning into his ear, voice barely a breath. “Want you to ruin me later.”
He doesn’t answer.
But he does grip your thigh hard enough to bruise.
You smirk behind your glass.
Sirius Black is London’s quiet storm. Always in control, always dressed in sharp black tailored suits and a shadow of five o’clock stubble. Tattoos inked up both arms, full sleeves, creeping onto his hands and neck. No one dares question his authority, and those who have… aren’t around to regret it.
But when it comes to you, he’s just a little bit feral. And you love it.
Dinner tonight had been a rare gathering with associates—Russian Bratva, Irish syndicates, the silent partners. You’re seated beside him like the good little trophy girl everyone assumes you are. His darling. His doll.
They don’t see the fire under the gloss. The way you bite. Push.
But Sirius does.
So when the dessert comes and you’re already on your second glass of wine, hand sneaking onto his lap with the wicked innocence of a girl who doesn’t know better, he snaps his gaze to yours with a threat like smoke.
“I told you,” he says quietly, deadly calm. “Don’t act out in front of people.”
You pop a cherry from the tiramisu into your mouth and say, “What are they gonna do? Spank me?”
He lets out a sharp breath.
That’s when you know: you’ve crossed the line. You don’t stop, though.
Your fingers curl around the bulge under his slacks. You squeeze once, just enough to make him stiffen. Just enough to tempt fate.
And then you smile. “Oops.”
His laugh is hollow. Dangerous. His arm snakes around the back of your chair, lips brushing your temple as he leans in.
“Get in the car,” he says darkly. “Now.”
The ride back is silent.
You think he won’t do anything. That maybe the mob boss mask will stay on. That he’ll pour himself a drink, light a cigarette, and cool off while pretending you didn’t just grope him in front of his business rivals.
You’re wrong.
The second the penthouse door clicks shut behind you. You’re shoved against it with a gasp, his hand wrapped around your throat, not tight, just possessive.
“Upstairs. Now.”
You blink. “Why?”
He just cocks a brow. “You wanna play dumb, too?”
Your thighs clench involuntarily.
“Sirius…”
“Say it right.”
You bite your lip. “Daddy…”
He drags his hand down your body, slow and deliberate, before landing a harsh slap on your ass that makes you yelp.
“Upstairs. Last warning.”
His bedroom is dark, warm, and masculine—leather, wood, rich tones of sandalwood and smoke clinging to the air.
You’re halfway through unzipping your dress when he catches your wrist mid-motion.
“Did I say you could undress?”
“No, but—”
“You don’t touch unless I say.”
His voice is cold. So cold your stomach flips.
You pout, tilting your chin up defiantly. “Thought you liked when I touched you, daddy.”
He studies you. A cruel, amused glint in his silver eyes.
“I do,” he says, backing you toward the bed. “But tonight? You’re gonna earn that privilege.”
He sits down on the edge of the mattress and spreads his legs.
“Over my knee.”
Your heart skips.
“What?”
He doesn’t repeat it. Just sits there, sleeves rolled up, tattoos on full display, rings gleaming, looking like sin incarnate.
“Now.”
You hesitate.
Then obey.
You drape yourself across his lap, palms bracing on the mattress. The cold air kisses your thighs as he lifts your dress up, baring your ass, no panties.
“Of course not,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Fucking brat.”
You wiggle your hips. “You love it.”
And that’s the final straw.
The first slap lands hard. Sharp, echoing through the room.
You jolt. “Fuck!”
Another. Then another. His hand cracks across your ass in steady, punishing rhythm, each one harder than the last.
“You think you can tease me like that in public?” SLAP.
“Touch me under the fucking table?” SLAP.
“Call me daddy like a good little girl—then act like a whore?” SLAP.
Tears sting your eyes. Your thighs press together.
He smooths a hand over the reddened skin, then spanks again, twice. You cry out, hips jerking.
“Say you’re sorry.”
“I—” You gasp. “I’m sorry, daddy.”
“Say why.”
“I—Because I was a brat—ah!”
He lands another.
“Because I embarrassed you because I touched you without permission!”
“That’s right,” he growls, his palm landing on the inside of your thigh now. Teasing. Just barely grazing where you’re soaked. “And now?”
You sniffle. “Now I’m gonna be good.”
“Are you?”
You nod fast.
But he doesn’t move to flip you over or pull you onto his cock like he usually would. No.
He keeps you bent over his lap, face in the sheets.
Then reaches for the drawer.
You hear it before you see it. The low whir of the vibrator.
You twist to glance back, eyes wide. “Daddy—”
He grabs your chin, dragging you up just enough to whisper in your ear:
“You don’t get to come tonight, baby.”
Your blood goes cold. Then hot.
“What—no—please—”
“Ah-ah. You want to act like a spoiled little slut in public?”
He pushes the vibrator against your soaked pussy. You cry out.
“You’re gonna learn what it feels like to beg.”
The vibrator hums mercilessly between your legs, pressed tight to your clit, and Sirius hasn’t said a word in over a minute.
You’re gasping now—writhing on his lap, dress bunched around your waist, thighs twitching from the relentless buzz and your aching need.
“Daddy, please—please let me come—”
“No.”
His tone is flat. Controlled.
And it wrecks you.
“I’ve been—been good—”
A scoff. “Good?” He finally moves the toy back—just an inch. Just enough to make you sob from the loss of friction. “You call that good?”
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—fuck—”
His hand rests on your lower back, keeping you pinned across his lap as you grind helplessly into nothing. His voice is a low rasp now, thick with something darker.
“You humiliated me in front of every man in that room tonight.”
Your breath hitches.
“You touched me like a needy little whore under the table, then looked me in the eye and dared me to do something about it.” His fingers brush your inner thigh—then grip it hard. “So now I am.”
You whimper into the sheets. “I wanted you—I just wanted you to touch me—”
“You wanted to make me angry.”
He shifts, spreading your legs wider. His ringed hand drags the toy through your soaked folds again, slow and lazy, ignoring your swollen clit entirely.
“Wanted to push me, get my attention,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to be good. So don’t beg for it now.”
Your hips jerk. “I—daddy, I need it, please—”
“Oh, you’ll get it,” he says. “After I break that brat streak right out of you.”
He flips you suddenly, one hand hooked under your waist, and tosses you onto the mattress like a rag doll. Your chest heaves as you scramble onto your elbows, mascara smudged and thighs shaking.
Sirius stands at the edge of the bed.
Black dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal the ink curling over his chest. His belt comes undone with a slow, deliberate hiss. The buckle clinks. Then drops.
You watch him. Panting, dripping, desperate.
“Color?” he asks.
“Green,” you breathe instantly. “So green, daddy.”
He smirks. “Good girl.”
The praise hits you harder than the spankings.
You want more of it. Crave it. Would get on your knees and beg for it.
You almost do.
But he’s already climbing over you, belt in one hand, the other forcing your wrists above your head as he straddles your waist.
The look in his eyes is wild.
“Since you like teasing in front of people so much,” he murmurs, “let’s see how loud you get.”
He binds your wrists to the headboard with his belt, tugging it tight so you can’t move.
You arch into him. “Daddy—please—”
“Still don’t get to come.”
“What?” You’re sobbing already, hips searching for friction. “Please, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good—”
“I know, baby.” His hand slides down your stomach, slow and heavy. “But you don’t get to come because you want to.”
His fingers drag through your wetness again, and you let out a strangled moan.
“You come when I say. You come when I decide you’ve earned it.”
His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “You wanted daddy to ruin you tonight, didn’t you?”
You nod frantically. “Yes—yes—please, ruin me—”
“That’s what I thought.”
He doesn’t go easy.
He makes you take two fingers, then three. Spreads them in you until you’re choking on your own moans, head thrashing against the headboard.
He eats you out like a man starved, dragging his tongue over your clit until you’re close. Right there and then stopping. Every. Single. Time.
“Not yet.”
“Daddy, I’ll cry—”
“That’s it, baby,” he rasps, voice almost sweet. “Cry for daddy.”
And you do.
Tears stream down your cheeks. You’re a mess, slick, ruined, begging and broken open but it’s only when you say the words he wants that he finally changes.
“Please let me come, daddy,” you sob. “I’ll be your good girl. I’ll never tease again—I swear—just please, please let me come.”
His mouth finds yours.
Messy. Hungry. Tongue licking into you like he owns you—and god, he does.
He tears his pants open and thrusts into you in one punishing stroke.
You scream.
He doesn’t stop.
The sound of skin slapping echoes through the room as he fucks you into the mattress.
“Such a fucking mouthy little brat,” he groans. “Had to take my cock to shut you up, huh?”
“Yes—yes, daddy—”
He grabs your hips and drives into you harder, faster, deeper, until your breath is just a series of broken cries.
“You gonna come now?”
“Please—please—I’ll do anything—”
“Then come.”
It crashes over you.
White-hot. Shattering. You scream his name, your body convulsing around him, and he doesn’t stop, fucks you through it, lets you ride it out until you’re limp under him.
Then he pulls out, flips you over, and shoves back in from behind, one hand yanking your head back by the hair.
“You think I’m done with you?”
“Daddy—!”
“Not until you’re crying into the sheets.”
He takes you again, rough and hard, cock slamming into you until your vision blurs and your arms give out.
You sob against the mattress, screaming when the overstimulation hits.
“That’s it, baby. Take it.”
He grips your hips so hard you’ll bruise.
“You want to be ruined? That’s what you get.”
You break again.
Another orgasm rips through you. Then another.
You’re not sure how many. You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t feel anything but Sirius inside you, around you, claiming every inch.
He finally slows.
Then stops.
You’re shaking, still sobbing softly into the sheets when he leans over and unties your wrists, then flips you gently onto your back.
His voice is low now. Gentle.
“Breathe, baby.”
You do.
And when you look up, he’s already got your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing away the tears, gaze soft and sweet despite the wreckage he’s left in your body.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my good girl.”
You sniffle. “I was bad…”
He kisses your forehead. “Not anymore.”
Then your nose. Then your lips.
“You earned it, baby.”
You melt.
He lays you on his chest, wraps the sheets around you, and holds you like something precious.
Summary: You finally break up with James Potter. It takes months to prepare yourself, even longer to admit that the relationship that once felt like home has quietly turned into something suffocating. James is sweet, steady, and impossibly kind, or at least that’s how he seems. When he offers you one last night together for “closure,” you agree. You shouldn’t.
Warnings: Break‑up sex, forced pregnancy/breeding (reader believes she’s on birth control), manipulation, dub‑con due to emotional power imbalance, emotionally abusive relationship, possessive/morally grey James, reader’s insecurity, pregnancy, full smut (oral, penetration, creampie), James is deeply unhinged but in love™️, toxic relationship, soft dom vibes masking morally grey intentions.
⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆
You don’t even know how to begin.
The words feel foreign, heavy, too sharp for your mouth. It doesn’t matter how many times you rehearsed them in the mirror of the guest bathroom. Your secret bathroom, the one James never uses, where you started hiding pieces of yourself months ago. Every sentence you practiced there falls to pieces the moment he walks in through the front door, suit jacket folded over one arm, hair wind-ruffled, shirt untucked in the way he knows you like.
Because James is always beautiful. Even when he’s wrong. Even when he’s cruel.
“Hey, baby,” he says, stepping inside like he hasn’t already taken up every inch of this home. His tone is casual, warm. His eyes flick to you immediately, like they always do, and a little smile creeps onto his lips. “You didn’t tell me you’d be home early. I’d’ve picked up that wine you like.”
You want to cry and scream and run, but all you do is smile—watery and pathetic—because you’ve never been good at saying no to James Potter.
And he knows it.
He peels off his tie, walks over, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. His lips linger longer than they should. You flinch.
That’s when he knows something is wrong. He calls out your name worriedly.
You inhale. Exhale. Your fingers knot themselves into the hem of your sweater like they’re bracing for impact.
“I want to break up.”
You say it quietly, like the volume might soften the blow. Like shrinking the words will shrink the damage.
Silence.
James doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe. He just watches you.
You try not to shake. Try to look composed. But your chest is already tightening, your throat dry, and the longer the silence stretches on, the more you want to take it all back.
“I just—It’s not working anymore,” you mumble. “It hasn’t been for a while, and I—James, I need space. I need to figure out who I am without you. I—”
“You’re serious?”
His voice is low. Confused. Hurt, maybe. But not angry.
You nod.
Another silence. This one feels worse than the first.
He drags a hand through his hair, mouth pulling tight. For a moment, he looks stunned, like this is the first time he’s considered the possibility of losing you. Like it doesn’t even make sense to him.
“But… why?” he finally asks, blinking. “I don’t understand. Is it something I did? Did someone say something?”
That question makes your stomach lurch.
Because yes. A lot of people said a lot of things. But none of them mattered until recently.
You met James two years ago. He walked into your life like a fairytale. Expensive watch, clean shoes, charming smile. The kind of man who made the world bend around him. A man who made you feel seen.
Remus introduced you. He worked at the little bookstore down the street from your flat, and you’d gotten close over shared literary rants and quiet weekday shifts. You trusted him. So when Remus mentioned his old school friend—said his name like it meant something—you listened.
“I think you’d really get on,” Remus said one slow Tuesday, leaning across the counter. “He’s not like the rest of them.”
You hadn’t been convinced. James Potter came from old money. Legacy wealth. A surname that carried weight and whispered expectations. He’d gone to boarding school with Remus, one of those ivy-covered castles tucked into the countryside. The kind with oil paintings in every hallway and trust funds gifted at birth. You assumed he’d be pompous or condescending.
But he wasn’t.
James smiled when you shook his hand at the café Remus picked for your first meeting. He listened when you talked. Asked questions. Made you feel like your opinions were the most interesting things in the world. Not once did he mention where he came from. Not once did he make you feel small.
So when he asked for your number at the end of the night, you gave it to him. When he texted you the next morning, you smiled. When he invited you out again, you said yes.
It felt natural. Easy.
A few months later, you were sleeping over most nights. A few months after that, you were living in his condo. Big windows, sleek furniture, views of the city. He said it made sense. That you were already always there. That you made it feel like home.
And you were happy.
For a while.
It started small.
He bought you a dress.
“You’d look so good in this,” he said, pressing the shopping bag into your hands. And you had looked good. It fit perfectly. He always knew your size. It was sweet. Thoughtful. You wore it to dinner that night.
Then another dress came. And another. And then a whole row of blouses and skirts and coats began appearing in your shared closet. Slowly, your old clothes started disappearing.
You told yourself it was fine. He had better taste than you anyway. It didn’t matter.
Then he started commenting on your friends. Mostly the guys.
“Barty’s always flirting with you. I don’t like how he looks at you.”
Or—
“Sirius is reckless. You don’t need to be around people like that.”
You argued once. Just once.
But James was so good at making you feel like you were wrong.
“I’m just looking out for you,” he said. “I know people like them. I grew up with them. They don’t want to see you happy. Not like I do.”
So you pulled away. First from Barty, then Sirius, then all of them.
Except Remus. James never minded Remus.
You told yourself it was compromise. Relationships were about compromise. He was just protective. It was love. That’s what it looked like, right?
Then came the parties. His parties. His friends. His people.
You didn’t have much in common with them, but they welcomed you—when James was watching. When he wasn’t, you felt like a museum piece they were politely tolerating. Their smiles were too polished. Their compliments too rehearsed. Their judgment too subtle to name.
When you brought it up to James, he laughed.
“You’re just nervous,” he said. “They like you. You’re overthinking it.”
That became a theme.
You’re overthinking it.
You’re being sensitive.
You’re making a big deal out of nothing.
So you stopped talking. Stopped noticing. Stopped caring.
Until one of your old friends—someone from high school you’d secretly kept texting—called you crying one night. Her boyfriend had cheated. You stayed on the phone for two hours, comforting her.
James walked in, saw the call still ongoing, and frowned.
“You didn’t ask me if it was okay to stay on the phone this late.”
It wasn’t even midnight.
You tried to explain, but he kissed you instead. Slow. Apologetic. Whispered that he just missed you. That he just wanted time with you.
You felt guilty for even picking up the call in the first place.
But something cracked that night.
You sat in the bathroom after he fell asleep, staring at yourself in the mirror. Trying to find the version of you that used to laugh loud. The version who said no. Who didn’t ask permission to live her own life.
It took months.
Months of texting your friend behind James’ back. Months of saving up some money from your freelance gigs. Months of lying awake beside him, pretending the weight in your chest wasn’t fear.
You planned your escape like it was a prison break.
And then today came.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you say again, stronger this time. “I can’t keep pretending like everything’s okay.”
James leans back against the kitchen counter. He still hasn’t raised his voice. Still hasn’t said anything cruel.
He just stares.
Then, slowly, he exhales.
“…Okay.”
Your head snaps up. “What?”
“I said okay,” he repeats. Calm. Controlled. “If that’s what you want.”
You blink. You hadn’t expected it to be this easy. Not from him. You feel off balance. Unsteady.
“You’ll let me go?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “I never owned you, Y/N.”
That feels like a lie, but you let it slide.
“So, that’s it?” you ask.
James tilts his head.
“On one condition.”
Your stomach drops. “What?”
“One night,” he says. “One last night. Just us. You and me. Like it used to be.”
You freeze.
“I don’t—James—”
“Just for closure,” he adds. “If you still want to leave afterward, I won’t stop you. I promise.”
You should say no.
You should push him away and leave.
But James knows how to look at you. Knows how to soften his eyes. How to bend his words just right. His voice is honey-slick and low, curling into the air like a promise. You feel yourself crumbling.
You tell yourself it’s harmless. One night won’t change anything.
You need closure anyway. Right?
“…Okay.”
He smiles.
And for the first time in a long time, that smile terrifies you.
The bedroom looks the same, but everything feels different.
You sit at the edge of the bed like a guest in someone else’s house. The sheets are cool beneath your legs, crisp from the laundry James had done earlier that afternoon. He had folded your clothes too, carefully, as if nothing was unraveling. As if this weren’t the last night you would be here.
He stands across from you, fingers loosening the buttons on his shirt one by one. You watch his hands, slow and deliberate, and hate how your thighs press together on instinct.
Because you still want him.
Even after everything, even with the decision made, you still want James Potter like an ache in your ribs.
“Still okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, throat too tight to speak.
He kneels between your legs, palms skimming up your thighs, and dips his head to press a kiss just above your knee.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he murmurs, mouth moving over skin like silk. “Just tell me if you want to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” you whisper.
He undresses you slowly. Reverently. Like unwrapping a secret. Kisses your collarbone, your shoulder, the swell of your chest. When his fingers hook into your panties, he looks up, eyes dark.
“Still okay?”
You nod again.
He slides them down your legs, kisses your inner thigh, then lets out a soft, pleased sound when he parts your legs and sees how wet you are.
“God,” he murmurs. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”
He leans in and licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, groaning at the taste.
You gasp, fingers curling into the sheets.
He eats you like he’s starving. Soft and slow at first, tongue dipping inside you before sliding up to circle your clit, firm and unrelenting. He sucks gently, then harder when your hips start to twitch beneath him. His hands slide under your thighs to keep you spread open, to hold you exactly where he wants you.
“Oh my God, James.”
He hums in response, sending vibrations through your core.
You’re panting now, the heat building too fast, too intense.
“I’m gonna… James, I’m…”
You cry out when you come, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly. He doesn’t stop. He keeps licking through it, gentle now, drawing every last spasm from you until your body goes boneless.
When he finally pulls away, his mouth is slick and his eyes are molten.
You’re still shaking when he climbs up your body and kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “You always were.”
“…Do you want me to get a condom?”
He pauses.
And that pause lasts a beat too long.
Then he kisses you again, softer this time.
“You’re still on birth control, yeah?”
You nod, hazy, breathless. “Of course. I’ve been on it for months.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
“Then no,” he says gently, rocking his hips against you. “I want to feel you. Just this once. The way we used to.”
You don’t argue.
You let him guide himself between your legs and push in slow, so slow, until he’s fully buried inside you.
You moan.
You forgot how full he makes you feel. How thick he is. How easily he stretches you open and fills every inch.
His forehead presses to yours. He breathes hard, holding still.
“Jesus, baby… I missed this.”
He starts to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts. Not rough. Not fast. Just deep. Intimate.
He holds your hands above your head and kisses your jaw, your cheek, your throat.
“You feel so good,” he groans. “Like you were made for me.”
He moves faster, hips slapping into yours, his grip tightening around your wrists.
You cry out when he hits that spot inside you, again and again, relentless. Your legs wrap around his waist before you can stop yourself, pulling him deeper.
He kisses your mouth, breath ragged. “Come for me again,” he pants. “Want to feel you squeeze me.”
And you do.
It slams into you, hard and fast, stealing the breath from your lungs. You sob his name into his mouth as you shudder around him, and that’s all it takes.
James buries himself deep and groans, hips twitching as he spills inside you.
Hot and thick.
You should have told him to pull out.
But it doesn’t matter. You’re on the pill.
You remind yourself of that as he slowly pulls out and collapses beside you, still panting. You feel his release leaking out of you onto the sheets and try not to think about it.
He kisses your temple and whispers, “Still with me?”
You nod.
But you’re not sure if it’s true.
Later, after you’ve both caught your breath, James doesn’t let go.
He curls around you like he used to, one hand stroking your back, the other resting possessively over your stomach.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.
“I’m just… tired,” you whisper.
“Mm.” He kisses your shoulder. “Do you regret it?”
You pause.
Then shake your head. “No.”
It’s not a lie. But it doesn’t feel like the truth, either.
And when he gets hard again a little while later, he doesn’t ask permission.
He just pushes back inside and moves slowly, deeply, whispering things like mine and made for me and gonna keep you forever.
And again, he finishes inside you.
You tell yourself it’s the last time.
You tell yourself it’s fine.
You’re on birth control.
You’re sure.
Aren’t you?
It has been two months since you left James Potter.
Two months of cheap furniture and mismatched mugs. Two months of silence and freedom and the slow, awkward process of relearning who you are when no one is looking.
The first weeks were hard. You didn’t know what to do with all the space. You’d wake up expecting his arm around your waist, his breath in your hair. You’d catch yourself reaching for your phone to text him.
But you stayed away.
Until the nausea started.
At first you blamed stress. Moving. Work. Anything else. But then your period didn’t come. And then it didn’t come again. And then the test you bought from the pharmacy down the block flashed two pink lines at you like a verdict.
You’re not supposed to be pregnant. You’ve been on birth control for months. You never missed a pill. You were careful.
But you are pregnant.
And James Potter is the father.
Telling him feels like the only responsible thing to do.
Even now, even after everything, you’re not the type to hide something like this. He deserves to know.
James meets you in the lobby of his company’s headquarters. He is dressed down compared to usual. Open collar, sleeves rolled up. When his eyes land on you, something flickers behind them. Not surprise. Something else.
He calls your name softly, like your name is still a prayer. “You’re here.”
You nod. “We need to talk.”
“I’m pregnant,” you say in the conference room, no preamble. No softening.
James blinks.
Then exhales through his nose, slow and measured. “…Okay.”
“You’re not surprised,” you say slowly.
James tilts his head. “Should I be?”
“I was on birth control,” you snap. “This isn’t supposed to happen.”
“Birth control isn’t perfect,” he replies gently. “You know that.”
“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper.
James steps closer. “You don’t have to figure it out alone.”
“James…”
“I mean it.” His voice is low, steady. “You’re carrying my child. Let me be here for you. Let me help you. Whatever you need.”
Your throat tightens. “We’re not together anymore.”
“We could be,” he says simply.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
He nods like he understands. Like he’s patient.
“That’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to trust me right away. Just let me be near you. Let me help. Let me show you.”
“You don’t have to decide anything today,” he says. “Just come home with me tonight. We’ll talk. That’s all.”
You stare at him, trembling.
It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. You can feel the hook of his voice sliding back into you, the way it always has. But you’re scared. You’re overwhelmed. And you’re pregnant.
And James is right here, steady and warm and unshaken.
You nod.
“…Okay.”
His smile blooms slow, radiant. He squeezes your hand once and presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there just long enough to make you close your eyes.
“You’re not alone,” he whispers again.
You don’t know that two months before you left, James Potter started switching out your birth control pills with identical-looking vitamins. That he had noticed you pulling away and convinced himself he could fix it. That when his charm didn’t work, when his gifts didn’t work, when his soft voice and patient hands didn’t work, he decided on something else.
You don’t know that your pregnancy wasn’t an accident.
You don’t know that as he leads you out of the conference room, fingers laced through yours, his chest feels lighter than it has in months.
