cw: MDNI!! dubcon (bc there's an aphrodisiac involved), oral (f!receiving), fingering, lots of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, mating press, creampie, multiple orgasms, friends to lovers!!, HUNGRY peter
masterlist, taglist, and kinktober 2025 masterlist!
you weren't sure when it became a habit to sneak into the chemistry building after hours with peter to help him work on his web fluid; all you knew was it was your turn to pay for the pizza.
it was nearing midnight as your full belly laughs echoed through the empty lab, crusts long forgotten on the table behind you, as you lost yourself in a story. peter's smile was visible through prickling tears.
he knew it was a bad idea to invite you from the start — there was no shot in hell he'd get any work done as long as you were around him. peter had figured that out by the senior year of high school: he just couldn't seem to focus on anything other than you. he began to lie and say he was finished with his homework whenever you would hang out, covering his lack of progress in your presence.
peter had been distracted by you for the last few years, yet he could never seem to resist your company anyway. he beamed as you laughed at your own joke, relishing in the alone time he got to spend with the one person who made him feel like himself.
you let out a snort, and peter was done for, tears in his own eyes as he joined you in hearty laughter. he reached down and grabbed a vial through blurry vision, adding the final touch to his web fluid 3.0.
except that, instead of a sticky web-like substance, peter was met with a bright flash of hot pink from the liquid in the beaker before a cloud of magenta powder exploded from the glass, dusting the room, and in turn, you and peter.
he was on you instantly, shielding you from the flying shards of glass before the beaker even burst, though the aerosol impact was inevitable. the reaction was quick to hit your lungs, dragging out hoarse coughs, rough and heavy in your chest as you fought to regain a sense of your surroundings.
the headache was almost immediate as peter leaned down to say something, and you winced as you looked up at him.
"what?"
"are you okay? did you get cut at all?" peter frantically examined for any tears in your sweatshirt, checking your hands for any possible nicks.
"i'm okay, rea—woah," peter placed a hand on your jaw to inspect your face, and the touch activated something deep inside of you.
suddenly, you felt the hottest you'd ever been, and the headrush made you weak in the knees. your vision began to cloud, senses on overdrive as you felt an aching pain rising in your chest. meeting peter's gaze with panicked eyes, you began to really take in the state of the situation.
"peter, what did you just mix?"
"i-i don't know, i must've grabbed the wrong thing..." he trailed off as he turned to search through the drawers, but the movement stopped him dead in his tracks.
peter was instantly met with a rush of vertigo, the room spinning violently around him as he braced himself on the countertop. he felt like he did when he was first bitten: hypersensitive and overwhelmed. fuck, what did he mix?
amidst the rest of the world in his ears, peter picked up on the sound of your heartbeat and immediately knew something was wrong. really wrong. he took a moment to analyze you, everything moving in slow motion as he fought to figure out what the hell he mixed together, and where these symptoms were headed.
your current state didn't give him much comfort; peter quickly noticed how you were starting to sweat, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath, despite not having left your chair. your full-body flush made him wonder if he looked just as disheveled.
"are you feeling okay?" peter asked, heavy with concern and guilt.
you shook your head at him, words fighting to escape your trembling lips. "i-i don't know. i feel... warm. i don't know."
and then peter felt it. his cock twitched, and he realized for the first time how painfully hard he was. he looked down in horror, hoping you hadn't yet noticed in your own haze. peter quickly sat down again to cover the evidence, praying to any god who was listening that this wasn't happening.
while successful in his concealment, the slight friction in the movement of his pants was enough to elicit a groan from his throat; he hoped you didn't hear.
but you did. because each little noise he made, conscious or not, egged on every dirty fucking thought you were having right now. and about peter. in front of peter.
"maybe we should get some... some fresh air, or something," peter says weakly.
as you nodded in response and moved to get up, it became horribly apparent to peter that he had to stand up with you, and not only would you also know just how hard he was, but the friction alone might be enough to kill him.
and then he had a thought:
are you feeling this way too?
no, don't think like that. that's your best friend, and whatever's happening, clearly neither of you was in your right mind.
but peter had always felt this way about you. this time, it was just so physically painful for some reason. what the fuck was in that beaker?
he didn't have any more time for his mind to race, as you stood from your stool and he watched your knees buckle underneath you. peter rushed to stabilize you, grabbing your shoulders and keeping you steady. it was pointless, though. somehow, the feeling of peter's hand against you knocked your breath out, far worse than falling ever would've.
you had no idea what was going on, but it was getting harder and harder to think about anything other than peter (as if that wasn't the norm anyway, bffr). but this was heightened. this was all of your wildest desires pulled to the forefront of your mind in the middle of your ochem 403 lab at 11pm on a tuesday night.
what the fuck was going on with you?
you tried to shake off the way peter's touch relieved some of the haze clouding your brain, and tried to shake off the feeling that maybe he was also feeling this way. your thighs clenched at the thought — that peter was also thinking of every possible way to take you on this counter right now.
but this was your best friend, and you needed to get your shit together long enough to handle whatever this feeling was on your own.
"woah, are y'okay?" peter slurred, your body heat under his palms radiating down to the rest of his body and nearly sending him down as well.
"i... i don't know, i think..." you stuttered out, not trusting anything coming from your mouth right now. "i-i think i have to go, i'm, i'm not feeling well."
you turned to make a run for it, hoping to get out of peter's sight before you either passed out or pounced on him. he stopped you, though, grabbing your hand with a pleading "wait!" falling from his lips.
before you could stop it, a whimper escaped from your lips at his touch, and you went bright red in seconds, hand flying up to cover the unexpected noise.
peter didn't help as he stared at you with his mouth agape, pupils blown to shit. he looked fucked out beyond belief and you'd barely even touched.
you cleared your throat, hoping to get out as coherent and PG a sentence as you could. "peter i-i feel really weird. a-and, i think i'm freaking the fuck out."
knowing you were hurting as much as he was broke his heart, and peter struggled to put all his energy into focusing on you. "i know, it's okay, bug. just take some deep breaths, a-and let's try to make it outside, yeah?"
he tried to pull you, but your legs forgot how to work, and you were frozen where you were, breath quick as everything grew downright painful.
peter's breathing picked up as he heard you hyperventilating, panicking himself as he watched you crumble in front of you. he needed to find out what was in that vile, and fast.
but all he could fucking think about was being on his knees in between your thighs.
fuck.
"p-peter, please. please, i-i, i need your help. you have to make this stop."
"fuck— it'll be okay, i promise. i'll do whatever i need to get you better. i-i just..." he clamped his eyes shut, desperately trying to come up with a way to make an antidote of some kind without dying or ruining your friendship along the way.
"peter... i—"
"what?" he cut you off, concern heavy in his tone.
despite his ever-growing problem, peter reached out to cup your cheek, and though not an unnatural thing to do, it was one definitely influenced by a gravity drawing him towards the feeling of your skin on his.
you stared at his lust-blown eyes, wondering if yours looked the same. wondering if he felt the same.
peter spoke your name softly, his thumb grazing your cheek softly and lingering far too closely to your lips to not mean anything.
fuck it.
you grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, nearly headbutting him in the process as you locked onto his lips, surprised when you felt him immediately reciprocate and tangle his hands in your hair. everything about the kiss was desperate, and the feeling of peter all over you was fucking radiant.
peter was nothing but a moaning mess against you, sloppy and wet against your lips as he pleaded your name as though each time he said it, it took away the pain in his chest. truthfully, it did.
peter pulled away to take a breath, and the lack of contact brought the sharp pain immediately back, earning a whine to fall from his lips. he shook it off, grabbing the sides of your face and doing his best to refocus.
"f-fuck, should we talk about this?" peter asked relectantly.
"i-i don't know. i don't know what's happening right now, pete. all i know is that i need you to touch me. anything, please. i'm sorry. just, please make it go away."
yeah, you could talk about it later.
"nonono, hey. im so sorry, baby, this is all my fault. i'll do whatever you need, i mean it. i'll make it better, i promise."
peter pulled you back into a hungry kiss, rough hands roaming your body in a way he'd never touched you before. the feeling of your curves under his palms was only something he'd dreamed of, and peter was insufferably hard as he pulled you into him further.
there was a nag in the back of his mind, something telling him to stop before you did something you'd regret. because there was no possible way he had you, his best friend, tangled in his arms and lips heavy on his own. and yeah, peter had been smitten with you since the day you met, but he was never going to do anything about it. you didn't feel that way about him, of course. right?
cause right now, you kinda did.
no! fuck! just the chemicals! this was a one-time thing, friends helping friends.
yeah, friends helping friends.
but the pretty little moans that came out of your mouth as peter trailed his way down your neck? those sounded awfully more than just friendly. and the way you whined as he moved his hands up your waist, palming your tits through your shirt as he growled for permission in your ear? peter was never going to be able to look you in the eyes after tonight.
but right now, he was entranced as you bunched his shirt fabric in your hands and begged for it off, pulling the material over his head and immediately attacking his firm chest with a series of hickeys. you shifted your hands down towards his waistband, tugging him by his belt loops as you left a wet, hot trail of kisses down his abs. peter couldn't help but cant his hips forward into you, absolutely fucking losing his mind.
his own hands made their way around your frame, trailing down to your ass and grabbing hard. you gasped at the feeling, then lost your breath fully as peter nipped at your ear and told you to jump. he caught your thighs, shifting to set you on the lab counter and wedging his body between your legs.
everything was hot and heavy, and the effects were evolving and worsening. it was growing stronger with each touch, and though feeling each other was helping ease the pain, the need for more was growing too strong to ignore.
you pulled away from him, tears threatening to spill from your doe eyes as you stared up at peter, who didn't look much better.
"what? what is it, what do you need, baby?"
"i-i... i need you to touch me, pete."
peter went pale at your confession. it was asked so quietly, but it held so much weight. weight he'd think about after he got to find out what you tasted like.
with a deep rumble in his chest and another sloppy kiss to your neck, peter began to fumble his way around your waistband, asking you a thousand extra times if this was okay.
yeah, i fucking think so.
peter's index fingers hooked the hips of your pants; feeling his hands on your bare skin for the first time covered you in goosebumps. it was numbing the pain in your chest and igniting something in it all the same. you were so caught up in the moment, gobsmacked over peter parker, your best friend of six years, tugging your pants down, that you almost didn't notice that he'd pulled them back up.
your cheeks instantly bloomed in mortification. "fuck, i-im sorry, i-i don't know what's come over me—"
"no! stop apologizing, please. i just..." peter took a dramatic pause, and the only thing that could be heard was the two of you heavily panting, taking in the scene unfolding before you as the pain hammered in each of your chests.
"i need to tell you something before anything else happens."
you gave him a worried look, and peter returned it with a heavy sigh.
"i don't know what the fuck is happening right now, and why i feel like im fucking going to die if you don't touch me right now, and this is all my fault and i'm so fucking sorry—"
"peter. what's wrong?"
well, we're already in this deep.
"i don't know what fuck-ass aphrodiasic i just created, but i need you to know that the real me means this too. i can't let anything happen without you knowing that i love you, and this still means something to me. even if i'm not myself right now. a-and i'll do whatever you need me to do, and we can never talk about this again, but you don't deserve me keeping that from you."
you sat on the counter, stunned, as peter anxiously bit his lip, worried he'd just fucked up one of the best relationships that had ever happened to him. and he was still so fucking hard.
the only response you gave him was hopping off the counter and taking your bottoms off for him.
and peter was immediately on you again.
he had a hand rough in your hair as he kissed you, his other firm on your bare ass as he kneaded the soft flesh with a hunger. through his moans and downright whines, he almost missed it:
"i love you too, peter. so fucking much."
something inside of him snapped, and this time he didn't even ask you to jump, wrapping his hands around your waist and lifting you to the counter like you weighed nothing. you wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him close, the make-out nothing short of a frenzy.
the entire time, peter was in your ear, moaning things into your mouth you only ever dreamed you'd hear:
"this. this isn't how this was supposed to happen."
"you deserve better than this, fuck. deserve better than an empty fucking chem lab, christ's sake."
he was quick to get his hands back on you, traces of mischief left behind as he massaged your thighs and stared at your lace thong with a look you'd never seen from him before. peter had been so caught up in it all, he'd almost forgotten the effects of the reaction. his actions were genuine and intentional. but as he pulled back to get a proper look at you, the pain in his chest settled back in, and his senses reheightened to a million
"fuck, i need to touch you. please, can i touch you?" peter whined.
you were breathless in response, "please peter, do whatever the fuck you want to me. just please, do something. anything."
he groaned and ran his hands up your thighs till he reached the delicate lace, teasingly tracing the hemline. "don't fucking say that. i-i don't think i can control myself right now."
"pete, i don't want you to control yourself," a shudder ran down his spine.
"please. fuck me."
peter didn't have the energy left in him to delay this any longer.
he ripped the underwear clean from your body, pulling you to the edge of the counter and dropping to his knees in front of you. he wasted no time running his tongue through your glossy folds, latching his lips over your clit.
peter was so hungry, and the mixture of the fading pain in your chest and the pleasure blooming inside of you was an insane feeling. he added a finger? oh my god. you were fucking incoherent. he added another? you were pretty sure this rivaled the time you tried molly.
you pulled at his hair, begging him (to stop or to go harder, you didn't know). it was all so overwhelming, and every time you looked down to see the source of your pleasure and remembered it was your peter parker? you were close to the edge the quickest you'd ever been.
"pete, i-i..."
"what is it, baby?" he breathed, quickly returning to your dripping cunt.
baby. jesus fucking christ. that almost did you in right then and there.
"i wanna touch you too."
peter groaned deep inside you in response, and the vibration was enough to send you over the edge. you felt your body fly over the moon as you came, peter not letting down for a second as he fucked you with his tongue so you could ride out the high, lapping up every drop you gave him.
he stood up, breathless, glistening, and a little cocky if you knew peter the way you thought you did. "how are you feeling? did that help, d-does it still hurt?"
you were panting as you came down from your high, taking a second to be aware of your body and headspace again. you couldn't help but feel emotional as you noticed the effects starting to creep back in. you shed a tear and nodded as you felt the headache thundering in the distance.
peter pulled you into a hug, and it was almost enough to sober you up again, because something about this one felt different. more weighted.
"im sorry, baby, fuck. i-i'm sorry, what can i do? how can i help?" fuck, this was all his fault.
you sniffled in his ear, but the movement of your hips against his contradicted your melancholy demeanor. "it's better when you're touching me. please, just don't stop."
between your words and you snaking your hand down to palm him softly, peter parker was a wreck, and wrapped around your finger.
he was quick to envelop you in a kiss and drink you in, and you moved to claw his shirt off of him. you pulled back to look at him, and it wasn't like you hadn't seen peter shirtless over the years, but you'd never seen him this close, in this context. it made your chest hurt in a different way.
"fuck, you're so hot," you groaned, almost as though an inside thought had slipped out.
he snickered. "me? are you kidding me right now?"
peter roughly kissed you before tugging your shirt off, absolutely elated at the discovery you'd forgone a bra under your crewneck. he stared at you like a deer in headlights, starstruck as he saw you for the first time.
"jesus christ, you're a fucking dream."
his hands were on your tits before you could even register it, but the feeling only made you crave him more. you messed with his pants, and he took over amidst your frustration. boxers and all, he sprang free in front of you, and Holy Shit Peter Parker. that's fucking obscene.
"this is your last chance to change your mind. because once i start, i dont think i'll be able to stop," he warned.
"please fuck me, peter."
he attacked your chest with his lips, hands firm on your hips as he shifted you again to the edge of the counter. you wrapped your soft fingers around his leaking cock, and he was almost done for before you'd even started.
peter moaned loudly and moved to put his large hand over yours to line himself up. you were still soaked from peter's previous meal, making it easy for him to slide his head through your slit. you were a begging mess in his ear, nails scraping down his back in anticipation.
peter nudged your entrance and pushed in easily (whether from the pollen or his ample prep, no one knows). the two of you moaned in filthy harmony, the feeling a definition beyond indescribable.
his legs were shaking immediately, and despite his inhuman strength, it became apparent that he couldn't do this standing for much longer if you felt this good.
"fuck, sweetheart," peter grabbed you roughly and pulled you towards him, pushing to the hilt and pressing hip to hip with you. he picked you up, spun you around, and laid you on the cool tile
"this isn't what you deserve, fucking you on the ground like this. fuck, baby."
and then peter was relentless.
he pounded into you with such a force, his mouth still focused on your tits and how they bounced for him. both of you could breathe again, the pain lifting and now replaced with a newly discovered pleasure that made you emotional again. you looked completely fucked out, tears streaming down your cheeks as peter lifted your thighs higher to get as deep in you as possible.
"fuck, please don't cry," he begged, though he kept drilling into you, knees now meeting your own chest. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."
you pulled him down, his chest pressing against the back of your thighs, and your foreheads connected as you breathed him in, exhaling a rough "i love you so much, peter".
he stuttered for a moment, eyes as wide as they were the first time he heard you say it. not for long, though, as he stayed pressed against you and picked up the pace like never before.
"oh my god, i fucking love you."
peter had you seeing stars, and you didn't know how long you'd even been in the lab. five minutes could have passed, maybe three hours. all you knew was that you didn't care, and you were close. peter knew it too.
"babe-baby, you're close. i-i can feel it, you're so fucking tight around my cock." you couldn't help but clench him in response.
"fuck, yeah-y-yes. god, squeezing me so good. god, i knew you were made for me."
it was the sentimentality of everything that sent you over this time. hearing the way he talked about you, you came around his cock, and it felt so fucking magical. but peter didn't slow down, determined to ride out your orgasm. he was quickly losing his composure, though, at the feeling of you fluttering around his cock.
"sweetheart, w-where—"
"inside, please."
peter didn't even have time to question the outcomes to his actions because the second he heard you, his best fucking friend, moaning for him to cum inside of her? oh fucking hell.
he let out such a guttural moan as he came, hot and thick, deep inside of you. you felt so warm and full, so much so that it triggered a third orgasm, sobbing peter's name as he just kept going. mixed arousal spilled down your thighs as he continued to fuck you, and through your fucked out haze, you could feel his cum drip down and pool around your ass.
you were barely conscious at this point, but peter kept going as he muttered "i'm sorry" over and over again.
luckily, he'd released the goddamn mating press and released your legs, allowing you to stretch out. peter was able to cover more of your body with his, lying chest to chest with you as his hips rutted into yours. the new position was so much more intimate as he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss again.
"please. please, just one more. one more and i'll stop."
peter said that three more times that evening before he was done, and he felt like himself again.
he looked down at you in awe, though concern slipped through his fucked out eyes. "you okay, bug?"
"i can't believe you really just gassed us with an aphrodisiac."
peter laughed, a blush creeping on his cheeks at the memory of his fatal mistake. "yeah, that was, uh... that was my bad."
Summary: Bob tries a new way of folding Sentry and the Void into his psyche, and it involves recreating the vibes of your smutty books.
Bob is a cinnamon roll, but Sentry likes it spicy. If you only like Bob soft and sweet THIS IS NOT FOR YOU.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 11.1k (complete)
Suggested listening: Off the Ground (Feat. MRYN)
CW: Porn with plot, no use of y/n, mutual pining, verbal consent, Bob is down bad, Sentry is a dom, reader is femme coded but not described, reader is also a thunderbolt/superhero (of vague power and origin, you decide!), banter, discussion of sexual harassment, Yelena is the greatest wingperson of all time, mild themes of violence, Bob is jealous, power dynamics, power play, dom/sub dynamics, p in v sex, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, creative sexual use of super powers, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks), cream pie, fluff.
Sick af dividers by @lobster-graphics
“She likes you, you know. Everyone thinks she likes you.”
It should’ve made him feel better. It should’ve made him happy. Bob closed the book he had been pretending to read. Clearly, he wasn’t fooling anybody, and especially not Yelena. He was trying not to pretend so much lately, but old habits…
“I don’t know,” Bob muttered, shrugging. Across the common room from them, you sat on the bar top swinging your legs, hands flying as you relayed the details of yet another terrible date while Ava nodded along, absorbing, chiming in with the occasional disgusted grunt, laughing where appropriate. Bob shoved a piece of hair behind his ear and went back to pretending—pretending that he didn’t notice things about you, pretending that he didn’t care. Yelena, perched on the right arm of his overstuffed reading chair, shifted as if she might relent and leave him alone. He should’ve let her. Instead, he blurted out, “She goes on dates.”
Yelena snorted softly. Like him, she had opted for sweats and sneaks on a rare day off. Well, all of Bob’s days were off, technically; he was on the bench until he learned how to integrate. That was the word everyone kept using. Integrate. His personality was fragmented. He wasn’t much use to anyone, least of all a superhero team, until he learned to integrate. It would be easier to try if everyone stopped treating him like a puppy with a busted paw.
“Dates shmates,” Yelena said, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the two women gossiping by the bar. “She’s just waiting for you to work up the courage.”
Bob gave her a worried smile. “It’s um, I think maybe it’s better for her if I don’t.”
“I thought we were trying optimism.”
“Like I want to hear about crypto, of all fucking things…” you were saying, to a belabored groan from Ava. “…ruined my chicken parm.”
“Save her, Bob. Save her from the finance bros.” Yelena patted his shoulder, hopping down from the arm of his chair. “They are a menace and a scourge.” She tilted her head to the side, smirking as she flicked her head toward you and Ava. “Doesn’t it sound like she needs…a hero? A super hero?”
Yelena kept trying to walk away, but Bob kept saying too much. He flinched as his jealous mind tattled on him again. “Yeah? Maybe Walker can ask her out.”
“John?” Her brows tugged down along with the rest of her. She knelt beside the chair, folding her arms across the spot she had just been sitting on. Bob opened his book, a reflex, studiously avoiding her more pointed look. “Why do you sound bitter? What do you know about her that I don’t?”
Bob set his jaw, which in his mind projected a supremely tough and firm expression. It did nothing to rebuff Yelena. She went on staring, skipping a hand up the sleeve of his hoodie before poking his shoulder. He winced away from the prod. “Please don’t do that, you’re very strong.”
“You’re the Sentry.”
Bob shook his head. “Just…we should drop this.” His eyes, unbidden, tracked from the page he wasn’t reading, over Yelena’s head, to you. What did he know that Yelena didn’t? Where to start?
When you joined the team, you had gone to shake everyone’s hand without a second thought. Bob had been too distracted by your eyes, your warm smile, your laugh, to stop you before it was too late. Your hand folded into his, a perfect fit, and then you were somewhere else, a room he didn’t recognize, a memory dredged from the darkest shadow of your mind. He had witnessed your deepest shame, a thing he had no right to, a thing he wished desperately to forget.
Or maybe not. He didn’t know. He didn’t like the idea of forgetting any aspect of you, even the difficult pieces. When the vision faded, you stared at him with your lips parted, a muscle twitching in your jaw. Tears filmed your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he had muttered, looking down at his shoes. “That…sometimes I can’t control that.”
And he would’ve forgiven you if you never warmed to him after that, but you did.
Yelena and Ava were so overjoyed to have another woman on the team that they took you in as a third sister; he was sure they must have filled you in on his whole sordid backstory. The drugs. The wandering. The lab in Malaysia. The vault. The Void. Even more ticks in the What The Fuck column, but you didn’t shun him. Sometimes, when he did the dishes, you just came and stood beside him and waited to help, taking the wet glasses from him and drying them. You didn’t always talk in those times, but the silence was fine, companionable. You calmed him down. He knew your darkness, and it hadn’t frightened him away or turned him into a judgy prick, and he got the sense that was a relief.
You left books out for him, ones you thought he would like, a hobby crumb trail to gauge his taste. You offered to take the pickles off his burger when he didn’t want them. When Walker condescendingly called him “House Husband” after catching him doing chores, you laid into John for it. “Does that mean you’re going to start pulling your weight around here? Pick up your shit?” you had shouted, and Walker’s face turned a hilariously patriotic shade of red. “No? Didn’t think so…”
On and on.
“Bob? Earth to Bob?” Yelena snapped in front of his face, then searched it.
“We shouldn’t…” Bob scrambled for an excuse she would accept so everyone could move on with their lives. Or Bob would try to move on, at least. Someone should move on because that’s what healthy people were meant to do. “Shouldn’t fraternize with teammates."
"Fraternize? Who said anything about fraternize?” Yelena scoffed, then laughed, then scoffed again, rolling her eyes. She wiped a nonexistent booger off her nose and lowered her voice to a naughty whisper. “I’m talking about smooching and cuddling and fu—”
“That’s fraternizing.” Bob shrank down into the chair, trying to disappear. She was never going to relent, ordinarily a fantastic quality for a superhero to possess but in this specific case highly irritating. “Look, if I tell you the real reason will you let it go?”
Yelena hummed. “Mm, that depends on the reason. Is it a dumb reason?”
“I’m not her type.” Bob shut his eyes and said it fast, definitively, so he didn’t have to hold the words in his mouth for too long. If he did, he knew they would burn. Across the room, you laughed, and it was like an arrow lodging in his heart. He peeled one eye open at the sound, expression softening.
“Oooh you are down bad bad, I see.” Yelena clucked her tongue, shifted her legs to shake the ants out of them as she continued kneeling beside the chair. “And bullshit, Bob. Bullshit. She tries not to stare at you as much as you try not to stare at her.”
“How can you even tell something like that?”
“It takes a yearner to know one.” Yelena heaved a long-suffering, dreamy sigh, then leaned forward slightly and slapped Bob on the knee. “Why wouldn’t you be her type? You have the beautiful, wounded eyes of a basset hound and the floppy hair of a 90s heartthrob. That is a lethal combination for many.”
Bob quirked his lips to one side, temporarily less interested in vanishing off the face of the planet. “You think my eyes are beautiful?”
“They are beautiful, Bob. I know it, you know it.” She frowned, narrowing her eyes. “I thought self-image work was part of you integration therapy.”
“It is,” he said. “This has nothing to do with that.”
You and Ava had finished your complete evisceration of Crypto Guy and, after a job well done, had wandered off together toward the elevator discussing dinner options. Now that you were gone, Bob felt a little easier about having this discussion right out in the open. God forbid Walker waltz in and overhear something with this super soldier hearing.
Yelena popped up, standing over him, hip cocked, arms folding across her half-zipped hoodie. “She’s gone. Out with it.” Her eyes somehow narrowed further. “You know something.”
“Listen, I’m not proud of it…” Bob cleared his throat, ran one hand through his hair, then both, with greater agitation. “I just…she likes to read, right? She left her Kindle out on the coffee table last week and I thought, hey, her birthday is soon, I can figure out what book to get her and like a total dumb ass I snooped.”
“You snooped.” Yelena repeated it, dry. “Does this story get more interesting? Because—”
“She has all these books about…” He took a deep, centering breath. “Sex.”
“Sex books!? Bob.” Fluttering her hand over her heart, she pretended to faint and swoon. “Oh my God. A grown woman has sex books? Like about sex? Penis vagina sex? How will your pure baby heart ever recover from the shock? Are you okay? I’m glad you’re already sitting down, because--”
“Stop. Forget it.” Bob shook his head, hugged his book to his chest, and stood, bypassing his interrogator as he stormed toward the kitchen and bar. Of course, she followed. Of course, the heckling didn’t stop. She always meant well, but sometimes it was just too much. Nimble and a thousand times more athletic than Just Bob, she beat him to the refrigerator, placing herself between it and him.
“It’s not a problem, okay? It isn’t that it’s sex. Sex is fine. Sex is great.” Bob couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth, he sounded like a guidance counselor. But the lines about these things had always been blurry at best. The team gave each other shit like siblings and also like siblings, protected each other fiercely from the criticisms and cruelties of the outside world where normies, like, just didn’t get their whole thing, man, and if there were explicit rules against inter-Avenger romances, he hadn’t seen it in the paperwork, but if something went wrong, if something got messy…
“Sex is fine. Sex is great?” Yelena rolled her shoulders, pursing her lips as she snorted at him. “Sex is cool, maybe? Is it wow neato?”
Bob rocked up onto his toes, trying to remember the box breathing exercises his integration therapist had taught him before she accused him of being a virgin. What do you think is holding you back? the therapist had asked, bouncing the butt of a pen against his chin while he appraised Bob over a pair of thick turtle shell glasses. He didn’t know that such a therapist even existed, but Valentina had insisted it was totally a real thing, and whatever his reservations might be, the meetings were not optional. This is not a humane society, were her words, and you are not a stray kitten.
There were worksheets, homework. Constant, constant questions…
Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?
Bob flexed his white-knuckled fingers around the book he was clutching like a life preserver. He closed his eyes because he wasn’t sure he could explain it if he had to see her reaction. “The guys in her books are intense. They're tough and they yell constantly. They…they boss the women around. They’re fucking jerks, honestly, and I don’t want to be a jerk.”
The cackle he expected from her never landed. Yelena lowered her arms, then crossed the distance between them and gently touched his elbows. “Bob. Robert. It’s just a fantasy. She doesn’t actually want a jerk, she wants you.”
He shook his head. “No, no, they were all like that.”
“You read them all?”
“No. No. I skimmed. Enough to recognize a pattern. Look, I don’t know how to be like that,” he said quietly, deflating. “Even if it is just a fantasy, I couldn’t give that to her, I’m…” He sorted through all the unkind descriptions that had been hurled at him in his life, the ones he had internalized, the ones that stung, and the ones he could shrug off. “Afraid.”
“My sweet Bob. My darling Bob. My tiny baby sweet boy Bob…” Yelena patted his elbows, sticking out her lower lip.
Bob twisted away from her. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”
He was so fucking tired of everyone patronizing him. Yes, he had problems. Yes, it was taking quite some time for him to figure out his fragmented identities, and yes, he was kind of a dead weight in the meantime. Couldn’t they see that he was fucked up about it? Couldn’t they see him trying?
Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?
He tossed his book on the bar top and reached over Yelena’s shoulder for the refrigerator door, promising himself a crisp Dr. Pepper could fix this, pulling the panel open with enough force to rip it halfway off its hinges. Yelena leapt back, silent. Bob stared at where his hand was wrapped around the cylindrical handle. A jar of Dijon mustard fell off the lowest shelf and rolled across the shiny floor until Yelena stopped it with a tap of her foot.
“That’s new,” she said, eyes widening.
“I, um…” Bob tried to put the door back, but it hung loose and to the side, visibly busted. “I’m sure we can fix that.”
“Was that Sentry?” she asked lightly.
“I don’t know.” Bob hunched, keeping his eyes turned away from her. “Maybe.”
Suddenly, he didn’t have a choice about looking at her. Yelena soccer scooped the mustard jar onto the top of her foot and flicked it up into her hand, tossing it in the air and catching it as she came toward him, chewing her cheek in thought. She took him by the arm, swinging until they were face to face. “This is a good thing, Bob.”
“It…is? Because I think Valentina is going to be pretty pissed, and—”
She felt along his bicep as if to make sure he hadn’t secretly gotten jacked while they weren’t looking, but she didn’t seem to detect any major changes. “I met Sentry—”
Bob groaned, trying to veer away. “God, don’t remind me, I—”
“And he was kind of a fucking asshole.” She smiled, though, squeezing his arm playfully. “But he could be our kind of asshole. Her kind of asshole.”
Bob froze in her grasp, catching up to her meaning. His mouth fell open as his eyes shifted side to side. “I don’t know about this, Lena. I don’t know if I can control him if he comes out, and if I did something, hurt her, God, if I hurt her, I would never forgive myself.”
“Which is why you won’t.” She said it so simply. Honestly? It was kind of refreshing, and certainly more direct than the constant loops he went in with the integration therapist. “You are Bob and Bob is Sentry and Sentry is Void and Void is Bob, and so on, yes? If you want to keep her safe, they will keep her safe.” She poked him hard in the chest, and Bob jerked backward. “The heart of one man, but the, uh, diverse skillset of three. So maybe Sentry would…be a bit more flexible when it comes to playing the jerk. Just for her.” Yelena waggled her eyebrows and winked. “Just in the bedroom.”
“I thought you hated this stuff.”
You watched Yelena tear through your bookshelf with the zeal of a sheltered Mormon teen, fingers like claws as she dumped romance novel after romance novel into the growing pile at her feet. She was certainly organizing her night around a theme. You glanced at the titles with a knot tightening in your stomach. The Storm and the Stallion. The Sellsword’s Bride. Mounted by the Warlord.
“I’m broadening my horizons,” Yelena said flatly. She picked up Mounted by the Warlord and gestured toward you with it, eyes dark and dubious as she considered you and then the book. “How’s this one? Intellectually stimulating?”
“Is this a cry for help?” You joined her by the bookshelf. Previously, you had been observing her 180-degree personality shift from the safe harbor of your bedside table and the multicolor reading lamp there. Walker said those were for insomniatic autistic kids, but you had shot him such a poisonously withering look that he had stumbled on to say there was nothing wrong with that and maybe he should get one and oh look the Yankees game was on…
You studied Yelena, growing more suspicious by the second.
“Don’t worry about me, worry about you.” She put the novel back down on top of the stack, and pivoted, puffing the hair out of her eyes.
“Me? What did I do?” you asked, mirroring her defensive posture. “Did Bucky say something about bugs in the Britta filter because if so, I had nothing to do with that…”
“What bugs?”
“It’s not important.” You wiped impatiently at your eyes. Valentina had volunteered you for a charity fundraiser the following evening, and you had hoped to take all of the hours between now and then to prepare, decompress, practice your calming mantras before wading into a sea of politicians and paparazzi. You did not expect the Oprah’s Book Club treatment from someone who thought Pedro Páramo was a taco joint. “Can we skip to the part where you lovingly berate me?”
“Sure. Fine by me.” Yelena dusted off her hands as if touching all of your smutty books had left a physical residue. She squared up to you, placing her palms on your shoulders, giving her best frustrated big sister sigh. “Why are you wasting your precious time with finance bros when our dear beloved Bob is right there? I know you are not stupid, so what’s the problem?”
You opened and closed your mouth a few times, wondering if a stiff headbutt would be enough to knock her out. Anything to escape this conversation.
“There is no reason to torture yourself with Wallstreet coke heads, my love, Bob is single and ready to awkwardly mingle, and we would all cheer you on. Even Walker, which is saying something.”
“Please stop talking.” You covered your face with both hands, forcing out a groan through the crack between your palms.
Bob. Oh God, Bob. You had just survived twelve rounds of merciless interviews, a background check that would make even Steve Rogers sweat, and a compulsory media training camp that made you self-conscious about everything from your teeth (showing too much, too little) to your ankles (showing too much, too little) and—exhausted, terrified—Bob’s guileless smile had felt too good, too kind, to be true. It was, of course, because thirty seconds later he touched you and you were blasted back to the most traumatizing day of your life, but somehow you had known he didn’t mean to do it. He fell all over himself apologizing. He found you, hours later, and offered to order you a pizza or shawarma, or whatever, and that shame room thing didn’t always happen, and he mostly had it under control…
When you came home from your first mission, high as balls on adrenaline and public adoration but sporting several new battle scars, you found that he had cleaned off a corner of the main bookshelf in the common room. A place for your stuff. There was a crooked cardboard placard there, handmade, with your name scribbled on it.
In the storm of egos and anti-social behaviors that were the team, he was an oasis.
Yelena did not stop talking.
“—if it’s about the pot head sweaters, I know, I hate them, too, but we could just take him shopping, it will take like ten minutes and then you two can finally--”
“It’s not about the fucking sweaters.” The walls shook from the unnatural clang of your voice. Yelena froze, gently plucking her hands from your shoulders and holding them up in mock surrender. You heaved for air, getting control of yourself, of your power. “He’s sweet. He’s gentle. I’m not that.”
Yelena nodded along, but you could tell she was coming to unrelated conclusions in her head.
The admission toppled out of you before you could stop it. “I’d ruin him.”
“You can’t ruin Bob,” she stated. “You weren’t there; you didn’t see it--he almost destroyed Manhattan through the sheer, terrible power of self-loathing. Bob is as ruined as he’s going to get, and we all suffered for it, but he’s trying to be something else now.”
“That’s the problem,” you said, curling your hands into fists. “You’ve met those other parts of him. I haven’t.”
“I’m working on it. But trust me, you really don’t want to meet the V-Man--”
You squinted, shifting closer to her. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end. “What does that mean?”
“He’s working on it, I mean, of course,” she hurried to correct. “With his state-sponsored therapist.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Just…don’t write him off, okay?” Yelena asked, doing that puppy dog, pouty pleading thing that was annoyingly effective. She bent down and scooped up her stack of books. You had assumed she would forget them, that it was just a pretense to get you alone for this conversation. You tracked the novels in her arms as she shuffled toward the door. “Promise me you won’t write him off.”
Never. Never.
“No promises,” you said, and went to bed.
Sometimes Bob liked to take his book to Carlo’s and sit at the bar, eat a slice or two, and just watch the world go by. HQ was nice, of course, and they were gradually making it feel more lived in, but sometimes there was still a soulless, corporate quality to it that was a real god damn bummer. Carlo’s was real. The bathrooms smelled like the stuff they used to clean high schools, the coasters were mismatched, the pepperoni cups on the pies were always wrinkly and spicy, and they still had the red, bumpy plastic cups that somehow made the water taste good but also thrifted. The Rat Pack and only the Rat Pack crooned in mellow swells from the juke box, because Carlo’s grandson and the current owner would kick out anyone who tried to switch up the vibe.
The elderly Italian lady who bartended made sure there was a spot at the bar for Bob. She called him “sweetie” and refilled his sodas before he was even halfway done. It was a hidden gem, something he kept just for himself, which was why he was more than a bit surprised to see Yelena there on a Friday evening. This was usually the time when she and Ava took over the common room for their horror movie nights, but here she was, frolicking toward him with a book bag slung over one shoulder and enough mischief in her eyes to sound the early warning system in his head.
“This place is cute,” she said, settling in beside him.
Bob wedged a bookmark between two pages to hold his spot, watching as Yelena took the pizza crusts left on his plate and wolfed them down without asking. He didn’t want them, but still.
“How did you--”
“We have trackers, Bob. We all wear them?”
“Oh. Right.”
“I have something for you,” she said, heaving the bag onto her lap with a grunt. Just from the way it dented her thighs, Bob could tell it was heavy. “Start with this one.” Yelena reached into the bag and pulled out a worn, tattered paperback, shoving it toward him.
Bob looked around to make sure the elderly bartender didn’t see him holding a tattered copy of Mounted by the Warlord.
“It’s hers,” Yelena said before he could ask, then, pointing a finger at him, added teasingly, “do not sniff it.”
“Jesus, I wasn’t going to…”
“Phase One of the plan is go—read these and do some visualization exercises. Probably don’t tell your therapist about Phase One.”
Bob flipped the book over on his lap, afraid just touching it would put a scarlet letter on his forehead for the rest of time. “Okay, I won’t tell him because I never agreed to a plan or any phases--”
“Bob, please just try.” Yelena swiveled to face him on her stool, chin working side to side as she sized him up. “You never said you didn’t like her, by the way. You just gave me a bunch of excuses for why you hadn’t done anything about it.”
He fell quiet, spinning his cup in place and watching the pool from the condensation spread. “I wouldn’t be good for her. I’m not even one whole guy, I’m just…pieces.” Simply for something to do, something to keep his mind occupied, he flipped to a random page in the book. He squinted down at it.
The warlord loomed over her, and she was helpless before his power. “You are mine to take. I have no patience for your modesty, girl. Remove your tunic and spread yourself, show me all that is mine by rights to claim.”
Bob flopped the book toward her, pointing. “I can’t be this guy.”
Yelena quickly read the passage in question, clearing her throat. She didn’t even blush. “No, but Sentry?”
“I don’t think Sentry, Earth’s mightiest protector, should be this guy.”
Bob slammed the novel shut and tried to push it into her hands, but she dodged, grabbing him by the wrists until he had no choice but to relent and keep it.
“You keep sidestepping the pretend part,” Yelena pointed out, lifting a brow. “It’s okay to try different things, play dress up, put on different hats--unless you’re Walker, in which case hats are to be avoided at all costs.”
At that, Bob allowed a grim smile.
“Keep the book for now,” she said, leaving the bag behind on the stool that she slid down off of. He would, and further, he knew he would cave and read it. Probably that night. Probably in one sitting. God damnit. “I worked really hard to get that. I thought she was going to stomp me into paste when I asked to borrow them all.”
Bob fidgeted, fixed his hair. His temperature flamed just at the thought of you. He ran his fingers through the condensation pool to try and cool down. “Did she…” He glanced to the side. “Did she say anything…”
“Just that she’d like to meet all of you, Bob.” Yelena leaned in and tapped his knee before turning to go. “All of you. Me personally? I think you should let her. I think you won’t get anywhere unless you push yourself a little.”
Bob paid his tab, hooked the book bag over his shoulder, and drifted through the night to the subway. Maybe it was okay to try a different kind of homework, one that wasn’t worksheets and self-affirmations that filled him with thoughts and questions but not much else.
Bob stared out the window as the train ca-shookt ca-shookt over the tracks; two girls in their clubbing clothes whispered behind their hands across the aisle from him. The car shook, jostling the overfull bag on his lap. A novel fell out from the commotion, hitting his foot. Bob leaned down, making sure his hand covered the title as he jammed Mounted by the Warlord back in with its mates. Jesus. He shook his head, feeling ridiculous, his gaze unfocusing as he watched the dim lights in the tunnel flash by. It had a lulling effect, turning off the constant stream of checks and admonishments that dominated his mental landscape. And for a moment, his mind was empty, a smooth blank, before an image flashed before his eyes—an image of you on his bed, half-cloaked in shifting silver as rain pelted the window, his shadow falling across you, your eyes filled with excitement that verged on fear; all the power of the world was in his hands, and you knew it, and you liked it, and as he stepped closer, a voice came out of him that was cold and confident and demanding…
You are mine to take.
“Fuck.” Bob blinked, squeezing his temples, shaking himself out of that place. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the subway window, and not even the streaks and grime could conceal the faint glint of gold in his dark, dark eyes.
Saturday night. You had survived the charity event by the skin of your teeth, somehow with your patience and dignity intact, and you had every intention of rewarding yourself with a casual night that could go anywhere. No high heels. No high slits. No high expectations.
It was kind of a shame though, you thought, elbowing your way into your favorite bar, that no one else on the team had been there to see you all glammed up. Even Valentina had found a compliment for you, and a vast majority of your responsibilities for the evening became keeping important politicians from saying something deeply uncomfortable in front of their spouses. Nobody had prepared you for how weirdly touchy-feely people got with superheroes, like they were suddenly all drunk dads at Disney trying to feel up Princess Jasmine.
We’re not real to them. Does a symbol know it’s being sexually harassed?
A question for the next interminable banquet. It would’ve been nice to show everyone your dress, your makeup, your bag, but it would’ve been better if someone had come with to help fend off the creeps. Or at least make fun of them with you. You had ideas, of course, for ideal candidates. Candidate. Maybe next time you would beg Valentina to let Bob come along. How bad could it get? He needed the media practice, and he would look nice in a tux. James Bond if James Bond mostly rescued kittens. Seemed like the gentlest possible way of easing him into the job. Eat a few canapes, rub a few elbows, try not to combust when the mayor eye fucks you in front of his wife…
Speaking of sexual harassment, that would basically just be you taking a circuitous route to landing a date with Bob. A date he couldn’t refuse. Holy shit. Maybe not, maybe you’d just wait for him to make a move, which, at this rate, meant sometime during your retirement years.
You went to the bar and got in line. It was a black and white tiled floor, mostly pool, mostly beer and wings type of place. Unpretentious. Easy to blend in with a t-shirt, jeans, and ball cap if you were feeling extra solitary. You weren’t noticeable or beloved enough yet to draw a crowd even if someone did recognize you. Your accolades weren’t filling up the front page, and nobody was going to buy you a round for surviving the Perv Purge at the charity ball.
You breathed easier here. Your shoulders went down. The staff knew you, liked you, and always made friendly conversation when it was your turn to grab a beverage. Long, emerald lights glowed above the cash register. A few pool tables in the back provided pleasant click-clack percussion under the bluesy music. No juke box, thank God. You found your way to a circular table, high top, and perched there with your drink. The bar started to fill up, and you idly took out your phone, uploading a few choice pictures from the night before—the ones that made your legs look great, the one where the photographer had caught you in profile and the chandeliers made your silhouette glow. Almost as soon as they were live, you noticed a profile liking all of them back-to-back.
justyouraveragebob and two others liked your photo.
His instagram handle always made your heart squish. There was nothing average about him.
A shadow spread across your hands and your phone. You really, really didn’t want to be bothered, especially when Bob was somewhere shamelessly liking all of your hot pics, which was about as direct as he got with his flirting, but whoever it was, they didn’t budge. You sighed, not glancing up from your phone.
“Table for one, I’m afraid.”
“Come on, we’re not strangers.”
Your eyes raked up the screen to the man standing across from you. Just as quickly as your heart had somersaulted for Bob, it sank like a stone at the sight of Gilbert. Yes, Gilbert. No, you hadn’t known that was his name when someone from your last crew set you up on a blind date. It seemed crazy that he would turn up here. Gilbert wore seven-hundred-and-twenty-dollar Dior cufflinks. Gilbert had shoes made out of crocodiles. Gilbert had shot an honest to god lion on safari once. Gilbert had lunch at Eleven Madison Park on a bi-weekly basis, which he would absolutely make sure you knew within moments of making his acquaintance. The corpse of your last date wasn’t even cold, and here he was, that annoying fucking TikTok song come to life—trust fund, 6’5”, blue eyes. Although you were fairly certain he was maybe 6’3” on a good day; his crocodile shoes had lifts.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, placing your phone face down on the table, as if Bob could see what you were doing and you wanted to shield his eyes. “I don’t think there’s fennel pollen within six blocks of this place.”
Gilbert smirked, a default facial expression for him. Maybe you were being unkind. He had paid for the meal, held the door, said nice things about your outfit, and asked three standard questions about your life. You didn’t know if he would be a generous lover but maybe a tolerable one.
“My firm had a trivia night thing,” he said, answering your initial question. He had blonde, feathered hair that ruffled itself attractively when he moved. And he had tried to dress like a normal person, a light gray tee under a bomber jacket and jeans. “Just a few doors down,” he went on, pointing to the wall with his beer in hand. “Thought I would scope out the local attractions.”
At that, his eyes lingered on you.
“No fennel pollen required,” he added, with a wink and a laugh at himself. Another man bumped into him from behind, almost but not quite spilling his beer. Gilbert sneered, shoving the man back with a muttered, “Asshole.”
“Well, great,” you said, in a tone that you hoped communicated your total lack of interest. “It was nice bumping into you.”
He leaned in to shout above the music, which wasn’t even really that loud. “We could go somewhere else,” he said, keeping his face close to yours. “I can get us into Clemente no problem.
You smiled, tight. I’m one of the fucking Avengers; even with a z, I think I could get a table. “I’m good, thanks.”
Gilbert either hadn’t heard you or had decided not to care, barging on. “Their beverage program is second to none, the Real Talk will knock your socks off, we—”
“I said I’m good.”
He put down his beer, which was never a good sign, and moved around the table in a half-circle toward you. There was a slack, weird quality to his expression, like he was suddenly wearing a mask of his own face. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his left hand start to move toward your hip under the table. Contact never came; Gilbert froze as a third person arrived, leaning onto the table like he belonged there.
Because he does.
“Hey, baby.” The first thing you noticed was that Bob had done his hair. Not a lot, just enough. He had ditched the Grateful Dead sweater for a simple, clean button down tucked into jeans that fit. Your eyes met under the red glow of the hanging BUDLIGHT-themed stained-glass lamp, and the insistent pressure of his eyes said: Trust me. Go with it.
“Hey,” you breathed, all of you bending toward him with relief. “You made it.”
Bob grinned, eyes only for you. “Sorry I’m late. Impromptu dance thing on the subway. I think maybe they were a cult? Not super clear. They should really work on their messaging.”
You snorted down into your drink. “Sounds like it.”
He moved in the opposite direction as Gilbert, melding against your left side like he was made to fit there. Your skin started buzzing from the ease of it, and from the flabbergasted expression on Gilbert’s stupid face.
“Who’s this?” Gilbert asked, allowing you a few inches of space as he sidled back toward his beer.
“This is Bo—”
“Robert,” he said, still with that cool, calculated smile, million-yard stare, but only when turned against Gilbert. He raked his gaze up and down the other man as if he had been forced at gunpoint to give him an ounce of attention. “And you are?”
“Gilbert.”
And because you knew Bob and Yelena were horrible eavesdroppers, you added softly, almost to Bob’s shoulder, “He’s in finance. Crypto.”
“It’s the future,” said Gilbert, certain.
“Oh.” Bob’s eyebrows went up with a flicker of a laugh. “Ha. Right. Makes sense.” He tapped the side of his nose as if to say, the cocaine guy?
“Excuse me?” Gilbert had started getting heated the moment Bob arrived, but now he looked like he might shoot through the ceiling like a rocket. “Did you just—”
“What are you drinking tonight?” Bob asked, simultaneously cutting Gilbert off from the rest of his sentence and the conversation at large. The world shrank down around you. You were in Bob’s warm embrace, his hand like a quietly pulsing star against your spine. He kept himself angled toward you, protectively, a preemptive shield. “Can I get you a refill?”
“I’m fine for now,” you said, showing him that you still had half of your drink left. Bob took that in stride, rubbing your back with a soft hum. “Gilbert was just telling me about the beverage program at Clemente Bar.”
Bob nodded once, as if any of those words made sense to him. “Beverage program,” he repeated, enjoying himself.
Gilbert chugged a few fortifying gulps of his beer, rightly sensing that the night was not going his way. “The chef there is—”
“Not relevant,” Bob said flatly. “Because she’s not going with you.” His tone brightened, almost cheerful, and for a moment, he was sweet, boyish Bob again. “But you have fun, Dilbert.”
“It’s Gilbert, freak.”
Bob waited for a beat, maybe giving Gilbert time to walk that back.
“Freak, is it?” Frost settled across Bob’s features. The lights above the pool table flickered. Just once. He didn’t move, or blink, and the small smile that tugged at his lips did not indicate pleasure, but rather the beginnings of an impatience that could expand into worse. Bob inclined his head slightly toward the other man; the music fizzled, going to static. You saw the glimmer of gold circling his irises as the air between you deadened. The beer bottle in Gilbert’s grasp shivered, popped, exploded so quickly into hot vapor that the glass didn’t have time to break. The sudden rush of heat sent Gilbert reeling back a step as he shook out his singed hands.
A cloud of steam rose between them and lingered, sizzling.
“Had enough?” Bob asked, lowering his voice to a glacial whisper.
“Psycho shit,” you heard the other man mumble before he dodged swiftly toward the exit, running.
When Gilbert was gone, you snort-laughed, leaning into Bob, expecting to glance up and see him smirking back at you. But Bob wasn’t present. The gold diminished in his eyes, but the specter of it never completely went away. A shiver caught you off guard. He noticed, and folded you more firmly against his side, the heat rolling off of his body and through his shirt was incredible. Your whole life had been about strangeness, power, but what you felt now radiating off of Bob—Robert—was hard to comprehend.
The power of a million exploding suns, that was how Yelena had put it. The pitch. The tagline. It sounded like an insane exaggeration at the time, but now…
His voice, rough, baritone, settled over you like a tight hug. “Did I frighten you?”
You stared up into his face. So. This wasn’t quite Bob and it wasn’t quite Sentry. Integration.
“No,” you said truthfully. Relief softened the cold blankness in his eyes. He didn’t seem interested in letting you go and you were not interested in moving back.
“I’m…trying something,” he said.
Earnest. Nervous. Your heart ached.
“How does it feel?” you asked, slowly pushing your half-finished drink toward him. He took a single, grateful gulp, but that was enough to empty the glass.
“Okay, I think, I’m still figuring things out.” Like he was test-driving a car. Like he was encased in a robotic suit. But you could hear Bob in there, nestled in alongside this other guy. “I’m gonna be honest, when the beverage program thing came up, I thought about making his head explode.”
“You and me both.” You hid your face in his shoulder, both of you shaking with laughter.
His hand tented on your back, less encompassing, less there.
You tensed, as if afraid to lose that point of contact.
“Is this alright with you?” he asked, flattening his palm again, touching more of you.
“Yes,” you said. You couldn’t help it. “I know this has to be scary for you, letting different parts of you take up more space. If you need to just be Bob—”
“No,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut for just a second. “No, I can’t…I have to live with my anger, I have to make friends with it. He can be an asshole but he’s not always wrong. I’m Bob, I’m him, I’m all of this.” He shook his head, eyes narrowed. “I’m not pretending. When I saw him bothering you, I wanted it to stop. That’s all I had to do, focus on the truth of the thing, and suddenly I could just do it. Be him. Be…me.”
You didn’t want to ruin the vibe with tears. You pressed your lips together, catching yourself. “I’m really fucking proud of you. Even just for trying.” He looked down at you, and you gazed up at him, not knowing exactly what had changed between you, only that something had. You could stay swimming in his eyes forever, you thought, float in the darkness, bask in the gold. “And maybe it was a tiny bit fun?”
“So fun, oh my God,” he agreed, snorting in a quintessentially Bob way. He rubbed your back again, leaning in, brushing a kiss across your forehead that made your skin ignite. Oh no. Yelena was never going to put away her shit-eating grin when she found out. “And is that alright with you?” he asked, doing it again when you nodded.
You pressed into his side, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt over his chest. “Can we get out of here?”
“Anywhere but Clemente Bar,” he teased, his nose in your hair.
You slid your hand into his—easy, comfortable—and he tugged you toward the door. “Who are we kidding?” you laughed. “We’re Avengerz with a Z, we’d never get a table.”
Bob couldn’t hear the decision itself, but he detected everything that surrounded it—the rasp of desperate breath; the jangle of a zipper; the sound of flop sweat hitting the pavement; the cock of the hammer; the implosion within the barrel; the singing of the bullet as it kissed the night air.
And his decision and his movement happened instantaneously, even before the projectile zipped toward you. Way before death was a sure thing. In a blink, he was at your side, then behind you, hand outstretched, not catching the bullet but stopping it in mid-air before it could slam into your shoulder. It flared into a burning red eye, melting.
“Shit, shit, shit…” Gilbert, fucking Gilbert, crouched in the alley outside the bar, fumbling with his revolver before deciding to cut his losses and run. All of these finance guys were getting into meth, he thought, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. And maybe he wasn’t; no, not surprised, just transmuting. Integrating. The gun turned to molten slag in the jerk-off’s hand, cold and metal again by the time it thunked to the pavement. Vaguely, Bob heard you calling his name, but he was already rounding on Gilbert, following him into the darkness.
“I don’t know what the fuck is going on, what the fuck you are—” Gilbert broke into a frantic run, screaming over his shoulder. It was no effort to follow. It was a child’s game.
“Good observation,” Bob said, appearing in Gilbert’s path. “I’m still learning what I am, too. Maybe we should find out together.”
His hand closed around Gilbert’s neck, threatening, the flesh and the pulse and the blood of meager interest to a god. The facts of Gilbert were so sad, sad enough to make him wonder if the man ought to exist at all. That was the Void talking, because where Sentry went, Void followed. But then he saw you jogging down the alley toward them with a question in your eyes that Bob must answer.
Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?
You looked so alive, so beautiful, and Gilbert monstrously defaced by his own choices; the contrast fascinated him. Like a universe blinking out, heat death, he felt the impulse to destroy Gilbert vanish. A human man screamed inside him to remember—remember his own pain and how he had tried to numb it. And sympathy declared itself like a fourth voice; gradually, his grip eased on Gilbert’s neck.
“Go back inside,” he told you calmly. “I’ll be right back.”
“Bob—”
His eyes were bright hot in the darkness. “Trust me.”
There was no need for the subway; Bob flew you home.
You almost wished someone had been there to see it. Walker, preferably, so he could finally quit whining about fueling up the jet as if the gas came from his pocket personally. Or Alexei, who seemed fixated on the idea of one day riding Bob into the sky. Instead, the tower was quiet. You clung to Bob’s neck, forearms looped around him, legs kicked up into his grasp. It was, you thought, the most superhero thing that had ever happened to you. And as he set you down gently, allowing but not forcing you to glide fully down his front until your feet touched solid ground, you wondered if it would be too embarrassing to swoon.
Along the way, Bob had promised you that no real harm had come to Gilbert, that he had handed him over to the nearest precinct and waited until Gilbert confessed to his attempted murder. On an Avenger, no less.
“That was big of you,” you said, meaning it. Bob was still figuring out how to control this side of him—it was a miracle he had wrangled his impulses before doing something extreme. You watched his ears turn pink from the compliment as you walked back inside, where it was warm and smelled faintly of burned popcorn. “Your first night as the new you and no extrajudicial killings. That’s major.”
Bob shook his head, sticking his hands into his pockets. Now it came down to it—you stood chest to chest in the common room, both of your rooms in walking distance. But Bob kept his eyes on you. “You’re making fun.”
“I’m not,” you said, crossing your heart to show him. “I would tell you what happened the first time I felt my powers manifest…” Your voice dropped, no longer teasing, no longer giddy. “But you already know.”
The moonlight through the tall windows turned slivers of his hair silver. He touched your cheek, cupping your face. You held your breath, worried, briefly, that you would slide back into those ugly memories just from skin-to-skin contact. But you stayed where you were—in your new home, with your new….
“You were just a kid,” he told you, gentle. His eyes shined with all of the kindness and all of the grace that he rarely showed himself.
“I tell myself that all the time. Somehow, it never sticks.”
Bob tilted his head to the side and down, studying you. “What if I told you.”
You kept waiting for it to sound like a question. His eyes burrowed into you, deadly serious. “You just did, Bob.”
He shook his head, inching closer, not crowding, showing you how solid and real and overpowering his presence could become. Through his fingers, carefully channeled, you felt a growing, odd heat. “What if I told you over and over again,” he said, gold liminal in his gaze. It came and went, but you could sense Sentry just on the other side of his brittle restraint. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I’ve already seen your darkness.” He brought his lips down carefully, his eyes locked to yours, monitoring, checking. His breath ghosted across your mouth, and you let him in.
“What about yours?” you asked, kissing his chin.
His composure cracked, just for a millisecond. His eyes changed rapidly, colors shifting, moods flying by, like someone clicking through slides, dark blue to black to gold to a gradient of all three. He shivered, closed his eyes, and kissed you. Both of his hands bracketed your face, thumbs just outside your lips. A rush of air. A feeling like falling. His lips slid against yours, hungry, seeking more. By the time you pulled back slightly for air, you realized you were no longer in the common room together but his quarters, both of you levitating inches off the ground.
“How did you do that?” you asked, grabbing his neck before you could fall. But he had you, and his smile was mild, amused, as he lightly set you both down.
“Does it matter?”
His eyes flared gold; the door shut behind him.
“No,” you whispered, mouth suddenly dry. “No, I guess not.”
Bob let go of you, hands at his sides, eyes falling to his feet. “I ruined it, I—”
“You didn’t ruin anything.” You hugged him, arms around his waist, and just as readily his hands found their way back to you, settling on your hips. “This is new for both of us.”
“Can I kiss you again?” he asked.
You leaned up and pressed your lips to his in answer. His heart hammered against your chest. A quiet, greedy sound rasped out of the back of his throat. The room was cold and dark, and his heat called to you. Your fingers crawled from his back to his shoulders to his hair, threading into the thick golden-brown waves that he had tamed that night just for you. Breaking the kiss, you thumbed a few loose strands of hair behind his ears, stroking his temples. “You can stop asking, Bob.”
He took you by the wrists, jaw tightening. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. You told me to trust you—I did.”
His eyes went up and down your body once, then burned into yours again. “How attached are you to these clothes?”
You smirked, curious. “Not very, I—”
A feeling like you had just stepped in front of a bonfire roared across your skin. Light shimmered up from your arms and torso, and then your t-shirt and jeans were dust scattering to the floor, disintegrated. Not a single hair on you had been so much as toasted. Bob touched your cheek again, his eyes difficult to read.
“Better,” he said.
It was juvenile, maybe, but that show of power thrilled you. There was steel behind his touch, hunger gathering in his gaze. He looked you up and down again, taking his time, absorbing the shudder that ripped through you as he drank in your body, his thumb jerking on your cheek when his gaze reached your breasts. They were caged in sheer fabric, the chill in the room and his heat drawing out your nipples, hardening them, every part of you desperate for more, for his touch.
You undid the top button on his shirt clumsily; you tried to move quickly but your fingers had stopped working, and it only got worse when he laughed softly at your distress. Bob took over, nodding toward the bed just behind you.
“Get on the bed,” he said. There was the slightest tremor in his voice, but by the time he spoke again, it was gone. “Show me what’s mine.”
Your eyes widened. Not in a hundred years had you considered those words would leave Bob’s mouth. You moved before he could register your hesitation. Not hesitation, just…wow. You remembered the feeling of your own clothes burning off of your body, something he had accomplished with a single thought. As you turned and crawled onto his bed, knees and palms sinking into the soft, dark blue flannel, you noticed a stack of books near the bedside table. You would’ve recognized them anywhere, even in the dark—they were yours.
A tide of conflicting emotions rose in your chest. It was incredibly sweet that he had made a close study of your desires. On the other hand, if this wasn’t him… You flipped onto your back, head at his pillows, to say as much, but the concerns died in your throat. You didn’t know who was standing there—Bob, Robert, Sentry, the Void—but the sight of him took your breath away. He stood at the foot of the bed, stripped down to his black boxer briefs, every perfect muscle visible in the gray slats of gloom allowed in by the half-tipped blinds. Maybe it was the perma pajama pants, but you had never noticed how unbelievably thick his legs were. Thighs. The word pulsed like a neon sign behind your eyes.
“What did I say?” he asked, in a voice of quiet command. Not angry, perhaps somewhat disappointed.
“S-Sorry.” The apology spilled out of you. Holy shit. It was one thing to read about a towering figure in the bedroom ready to control, ready to take, but experiencing it with a guy who could explode a gun with his mind was altogether different. It felt like you could levitate again, this time all on your own.
“Don’t apologize,” he said, his eyes rotating through that odd catalog of colors again as he tilted his head to the side. “Just do as I ask.”
Sir, yes, sir.
You tried to relax, but there was no hiding the shaking in your legs as you laid back against the pillows and rested your hands across your midsection, subtly opening your thighs as you stretched out. His eyes burned like stoked coals in the darkness, sharp lights in an anti-halo of shadow. A heartbeat later, he was on the bed, over you, his weight sinking the mattress at your sides.
“Jesus,” you whispered, jolting your head up to meet his eyes.
“Good?” he asked. Bob, you thought, he was in there.
You nodded, licking your lips.
Just as quickly as he had come, Bob receded again. His lips descended to your throat, searing across the delicate architecture there, down to your collarbone, across, learning, memorizing. “Maybe I need an outlet,” he said. “What am I? A god? A man? A monster?” His hips lowered until you were forced to twitch your thighs further apart to accommodate him. “Out there,” he went on, still dropping kisses across your neck, “I have to be so careful. But in here?”
His voice trailed away. You slid your hands across his back, molding your fingers around the hard juts of his shoulder blades. He made a pained sound against your throat, dragging his nose from your neck to your shoulder. His teeth closed around the ridge there, biting until you gasped and arched against him. “You,” he said, releasing the hold of his teeth, but blinking up at the ceiling, you knew there would be a mark there in the morning. “You. My outlet. For the god,” he whispered fiercely. “And the monster.”
Bob craned back, looking down at you. Checking. You wondered if the blend of them was becoming more seamless. He was waiting for you to fend him off, disagree, but instead you touched your forehead to his chin. Permission. He allowed himself one weak, ragged breath.
“Show me,” he said. “Show me that you’re mine.”
You took his right hand, sliding it from the mattress by your shoulder to your side, over your left breast and your heart, then down, guiding his palm over your stomach, beneath the waistband of your panties, and toward the soaking wet heat he had generated between your legs. His middle finger curled automatically into you. The power in the building surged, a transformer down the block splitting the silence with a thunderous boom. The sound startled you, your hips driving you against him, forcing him further inside. All of the lights went on in the room, twinkling in a sequence before turning themselves off again.
Both of you were holding your breath.
“What happens when you cum?” you whispered.
Bob supported himself on his left elbow, shook his head. “That’s never happened before.” He tossed his head again, eyes stuttering shut as if in disbelief. A second finger joined the first, shocking your hips up again. “Is this for me?” he asked.
“Yes.” You tightened your grip on his wrist as he twisted his fingers, pumping, searching, stretching.
“You’re so fucking wet.” Golden eyes found you in the dark, brightening, your bra and panties sizzling off of your skin until you were completely bare beneath him. He claimed your mouth with a brutal kiss, forcing your chin upward, then down, his tongue driving into you at the same rate as his fingers, setting a steady rhythm. “Let go of my wrist,” he said, breaking the kiss. His chest rose and fell, expanding like bellows. “Put your hands above your head. Don’t move them unless I tell you to.”
You did as he instructed, bracing your fingertips against the headboard.
“Good,” he said. He pulled his fingers out of you with a sound that made your ears burn. Wet wasn’t the word for it. The word hadn’t been invented yet. You whimpered at his absence. “Don’t worry,” he told you, reaching down to free his cock from his shorts. His voice seemed to fill the room, infiltrate you from every direction. “Beg for it. Beg for it from your god.”
He drove home the command with a glimmer building in his eyes. He wasn’t even touching you anymore, but you felt a whisper of pressure around your clit, circling, teasing. You shivered and clamped down on nothing, whispering his name. He waited, patient, never increasing the speed of that sensation, making it spread, flickers of energy circling your breasts, skipping up and across your nipples until it felt like they were being lightly, teasingly electrified. You felt it in your teeth. Helpless, you flexed the hands wedged above your head, desperate for relief. Your back bent toward him, but Bob remained still, letting you torture yourself until the words clawed their way out of your throat.
“Please, Robert,” you whispered, fighting the waves of pleasure contorting your spine. “Please, I need you. Please, Jesus, it’s too much.”
The touching without touching had been bad, but when he made it stop, that was worse. You slithered back down to the mattress, breathing hard, gasping as he crawled over you, urging your thighs wider before pressing his lips to your ear. His hot, swollen dick pulsed against your thigh, brushing at such tantalizing range you heard yourself whine like a frantic animal. “I’m going to fuck you now, and if it destroys the power grid then so be it.”
He scooped you against him, one arm braced under your lower back, his other hand guiding his cock to your entrance. There was so little resistance it made you both exhale; no more waiting. Stretch but not resistance, your body was ready for him, soaked and pliant. Bob rewarded you with a biting tug on your earlobe, his breath shuddering against your neck as he fit himself inside you to the hilt and groaned. You smiled at the thought of making a fucking god moan like that.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, ragged. “You’re beautiful. You look so beautiful when I fuck you.”
He worked his hips back and forth, giving you a preview of just how much delicious friction that could produce. A string of lights stapled around the border of his ceiling sparkled on, warming the space above his head. Your thighs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his sides, technically not against the established rules, and seemingly to his taste. He hummed with approval, slapping both of his palms against your upper thighs as he knelt, shifting his weight, pushing into you on a long, devastating stroke.
“Fuck.” Your head fell back, air blasting out of your lungs.
“You seemed to like this before,” he said, laughing against your throat. “Let’s try it again.” Those cruel, teasing flickers of hot energy coiled around you again, tracing maddening circles around your clit, your peaked nipples, the ends of your toes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Even if those lights hadn’t turned on you would be seeing stars. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked, wry. “To give up control? Give yourself to me? Because now that I have you, I could do anything. Anything.”
The energy was everywhere now, coursing through you, pinging through every cell, mapping every corner of your body. You felt him in your throat, behind your knees, along the inner coils of your ears, zapping your tongue. You arched and cried out for him and then fell silent, dumb, just letting the insane, raw beauty of his power tingle in your blood. Bob fucked into you harder, sweating, his hair damp as it clung to your shoulder. Down the street, another transformer erupted, a dog barked. The air around you sizzled. He angled your hips slightly, finding a new depth, holding his own orgasm at bay long enough to leave you panting, dazed, fucked into a place where your mind had gone blank. There was just him. Just his eerie energy moving through you. He could do anything. Anything.
“Please,” you murmured, wishing you could hold him, touch him, rake your nails down his back in pent up gratitude. “Please I’m so close.”
“That’s good,” he said, shoving his forehead against your jaw. Finally, he sounded as wrecked as you did. He was coming undone, close, close, driving, swelling… “Let go. Show me.”
The little gusts of heat he had been controlling coalesced around your sex, concentrated on your clit, spiraling inward, faster, faster, until the glittering, live wire mesh that had been tightening around your body snapped shut, heat rocketing through your core, burning a clean line from your abdomen to your eyeballs. You couldn’t keep your hands away from him any longer. You clung to his shoulders, sobbing out the shocks that had nowhere to go but out.
It sent him over the edge.
Bob ground you into the mattress, holding himself deep, whispering something you couldn't make out as he jerked and bucked and filled you until it felt like you might burst. Jesus, every part of him was powerful—you had never felt someone cum like that, distinct enough to push another little climax through you.
His chest worked against yours, his breathing evening out after a prolonged, sweaty moment of total entangled bliss. He let you go gently, setting your legs down as if they might break, but he didn’t climb off of you. Lowering himself with utmost care, he nestled against your body, face in your neck and arms around your middle. The string lights were still glowing faintly, like you were just two horny losers in a college dorm. As you came back to yourself and opened your eyes, every single object in his room except the bed was floating.
“Now we know what happens,” you said softly, carding your fingers through his hair. Just from the weight of him, from the sweet way he kissed your throat and held you like his life depended on it, you could tell Bob was back in control. He turned his head, looking around at the desk, the lamp, the laundry basket, the sneakers, all suspended as if you were in outer space. Coughing, perhaps with embarrassment, Bob gradually let the objects float back down. His hands tightened on you in concentration.
“Do…do you think everyone heard us?” he asked, hiding his face against your skin again.
“Probably.” You laughed, relaxing against the pillows as he finally rolled to the side, freeing himself from you with a groan as he crumpled to your right. “I don’t mind,” you said, reaching for him. “It’s okay if they know I’m yours.”
Bob blinked at you, a shy, boyish smile pulling his lips to one side. “I’m yours, too. You know that, right? I…said a lot of stuff at you just now. I hope it was okay.”
“It was more than okay,” you assured him. “Like you said. An outlet.”
“This is gonna blow the tits off my integration therapist,” he muttered, covering his face with both hands. “I’ll maybe gloss over some parts. Like where stuff exploded. And the burning your clothes off with my mind thing.” He shrugged and flopped onto his side, gazing at you adoringly from his pillow. “I’ll, um, I'll buy you new jeans.”
You snuggled closer, fitting your face against his chest. He pulled you in, sighing. It seemed right, the way you fit together.
You leaned up for one more kiss. “Fine, but only if you promise to burn them off again.”
A little zap of energy coasted up and down your back. “Deal.”
"Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet."
- William Shakespeare, "Romeo and Juliet"
summary: You are the beloved and sheltered eldest daughter of the Malfoy family. You've spent your life tucked safely away in the walls of the Manor, but for your final year of schooling, your father decides to send you to the esteemed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, under the protection of your younger brother, Draco.
Finally, you have a chance to be a normal girl.
But who else captures your attention the moment you arrive but George Weasley, the one person you have no business getting involved with. As tensions rise and war looms on the horizon, it's only a matter of time before these violent delights meet their violent ends.
cw: mdni 18+, smut, abuse, dark themes, angst, war, forbidden love
inspired by these requests: 1, 2, 3, and 4 | divider by @roseraris
part one
part two
part three
part four
part five
part six
masterlist
check the ammd tag for reader discourse and bonus content!!
summary: Sirius Black returns to 12 Grimmauld Place battered and alone after 12 years in Azkaban. While his childhood home is the last place he wants to be, there's a small glimmer of hope right next door.
cw: MDNI 18+, smut, mentions of abuse and parental illness/death, head injury, hospital visit. Sirius has got that dog in him. 🐾
masterlist
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
12 Grimmauld place loomed over him, weathered and and glaring. Sirius dropped his bag on the porch as the taxi rumbled away. Why had he insisted on coming back here? He hated this house, hated it’s stained brick and crooked shutters and gaping black maw.
But he had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to. So backwards was the only way to move forward.
He glanced at the neighbors house, the y/l/n’s, and was struck to find the same olive Ford Cortina in the drive, blue tansy in the window boxes. Could y/n still be there?
Unlikely, he thought. She was probably working some posh career in Paris, a fashion designer, or journalist. He hoped she was, even if part of him longed to see her again.
They’d grown up together, despite living in entirely separate worlds. Y/n’s life was pretty, honeyed, with loving parents, lavish Christmases, and vacations to the French coastline to visit her grandparents. But she’d always been kind to him, and went out of her way to sneak him pastries made by their Parisian chef. She never knew that some days, that would be the only thing he’d eaten. Some days, her silly jokes were the only thing to make him smile after weeks of misery.
When she’d left home to attend Beauxbaton’s, he’d been heartbroken. He knew she likely wouldn’t attend Hogwarts, but part of him had desperately hoped they’d go together. Countless nights were spent awake in his bunk in boys dormitory, wondering how she was, what she was studying, if she liked it there. If she thought of him, too.
He’d only seen her a few more times after that, in fleeting moments over the course of five summers. But then he was disowned, and the war began, and then…
Sirius sighed. Even if she was here, she likely thought he was a murderer, and dark wizard, and would want nothing at all to do with him.
Kreacher opened the front door, startling him. “Master Sirius returns, but Kreacher remembers how he left, yes, Kreacher remembers…”
Sirius grabbed his bag before the elf could and pushed inside. “I’m not happy about this either, mate. But we’ll have to make do.”
Kreacher grumbled and disappeared into the dining room.
“Welcome home,” Sirius muttered to himself and shut the door.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
A few days passed while Sirius settled in, despite Kreacher’s constant efforts to inconvenience him. At least the house elf had kept the house in decent shape over the years.
The sound of a car rolling up the neighbors drive drew his attention from the novel he’d been reading, and he sat up from his sprawled position on the couch, parting the heavy velvet curtains.
The Cortina rolled to a stop in front of the neighbors house. His palms began to sweat, his heart pumping in his chest.
“Master Sirius—”
Sirius waved Kreacher off, fixated on the drivers side door. There was a woman inside, he was sure of it. But was it…
The door opened, a denim clad leg poking out, a slender, red-polished hand gripped the edge of the door. Y/n stepped out of the car, her curls shining in the morning sunlight.
Sirius’ stomach flipped, and he swallowed hard. She’d been beautiful as a girl, but now she a woman, and that much more stunning.
Fuck me, Sirius thought, hand tightening around the edge of the curtain. The countless times he’d dreamed of her, mapping every inch of her face, every hair on her head, somehow he’d forgotten just how perfect she was.
Her head turned suddenly, their eyes connecting across the way, and Sirius ducked down, the curtain falling closed.
“Shit,” he hissed, smacking his forehead. “Kreacher!”
“Master Sirius called Kreacher?” the elf hissed, entering the room.
“How long has y/n been back home?”
“Kreacher remembers Miss. Y/n returning six years ago…yes, six. With Mistress y/l/n. Kreacher saw them take Master y/ln away in a long, black car…the crying disturbed Kreacher, yes, Kreacher scolded them—”
“That’s all, Kreacher. Thank you,” Sirius said, risking another glance out the window. Y/n was helping her mother from the driver’s side, the old woman frail as wheat with a pink cap over her head. Sirius frowned, concern tightening his throat. First, her father passed, and now her mother was ill.
My poor little bluebird.
How he longed to go speak to her, to knock on her door, throw a rock at her window like he did in their youth. But, things were different now. He was different now. And he had no doubt that as soon as she laid her pretty brown eyes on his gnarled, tattooed appearance, she’d run screaming.
He slumped back on to the couch and retrieved his book, determined to ignore the persistent ache in his chest.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
You glanced back at 12 Grimmauld Place while guiding you mother up the front stairs. Surely, you hadn’t imagined him. A man with dark curls, his face severe, but so familiar.
Who else could it have been but Sirius?
Your heart drummed in your chest, trilling with nervous excitement. Your entire life, you’d harbored a crush on the mysterious Sirius Black, the absurdly wealthy, rakishly handsome, silver-tongued boy next door. but then you left for school, and his family unraveled, and then the incident…
You shivered. You never thought he’d see the outside of Azkaban, and when the reports of his escape were plastered all over the city…you’d felt nothing but girlish hope. Not for a single moment did you think that Sirius, your sad-eyed friend, was guilty of something so heinous. No, you knew there was more to the story.
Once your mother was settled in bed, exhausted from her treatment that morning, you ventured into the kitchen and got to work.
Two hours later, you poured the steaming pork cassoulet into a tall-sided dutch oven and wrapped a fresh loaf of bread in a kitchen towel hand-stitched with blue flowers. Nerves tickled behind your ribs, but you fluffed your curls, straightened your ivory jumper, and loaded the items into a picnic basket.
Would he answer the door? Will he be glad to see me? Will Kreacher chase me away?
Thoughts raced across your mind as you walked down the driveway, across the sidewalk, and up towards the Black front door. It struck you that this was the first time you’d ever done this. Your parents had forbade you from visiting the Black’s household, though Sirius, and his little brother Regulus, were welcome at your house anytime, and Sirius echoed the same sentiment whenever you brought it up.
With trembling fingers, you tapped the door knocker against the wood three times.
“Intruders at Mistresses stoop!” Kreacher wrenched open the door, his eyes narrowed. If one’s entire body could frown, Kreacher’s certainly was.
“It’s a pleasure, Kreacher,” you said brightly, offering the crotchety house elf a smile. “Is your Master home?”
“Y/n?” A deep voice called, and Sirius Black stepped into the shadowed foyer.
Your tongue tied, your mind grinding to a halt at the sight of him. He was gorgeous, if a bit thin from twelve years in prison. Time had honed the handsome boy he’d been into a bonafide man, complete with rugged facial hair, smoldering eyes, and spools of intricate ink across his skin. He wore a gray henley, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and black jeans, capped with sturdy black boots.
“Cassoulet,” you said dumbly, and your cheeks immediately heated with embarrasment.
“Sorry?” He asked, stepping closer and shooing the house elf away.
Kill me now, you thought. “I, uh. I noticed you were home and, uh, I thought you might like a home-cooked meal,” you said, holding up the picnic basket.
“For me?” he asked, taking the basket from your hands, though his eyes never wavered from your face.
You nodded. “It’s a pork cassoulet, stew,” you corrected yourself. “And a loaf of bread to go with it.”
He looked a little surprised, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth, exposing a sharp canine. Heat curled along your spine, making your knees soften.
“Thank you, y/n,” he said, passing the basket to the scowling Kreacher, who was eyeing our exchange with open disdain. “Would you like to come in and have dinner with me?” he offered, leaning against the door frame.
Even though he was on the thinner side, he still towered over you, consumed every one of your senses like a greedy masterpiece.
“I should get back to my mother,” you said, more nervous by the second. You weren’t afraid of him per se, but what he was coaxing out of you. The long dormant feelings you’d locked away to spare your own heart.
“Of course.” He nodded, but didn’t make any move to close the door, still assessing you with those sharp eyes.
“But perhaps another night?” you offered, raising an eyebrow in a gesture you hoped came across as flirtatious, not creepy.
“I look forward to it,” he purred, flashing that wicked smile once again.
Before you did something rash, you turned and hurried down the steps, not daring to look back until you were safely behind your own front door
“You’re blushing,” your mom teased, startling you.
You flipped her the bird and trudged back to the kitchen to clean your mess.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Sirius couldn’t stop thinking about y/n. From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, to the moment he fell into fitful, sinful dreams about her. It was driving him mad. She was driving him mad.
He found himself waiting by the window, waiting for her to step outside to water the flowers, or fetch the mail, just so he could get a glimpse of her. A few times, her mother invited him for tea and he’d get to bask in y/n’s presence for an hour or so, nibbling on flaky pastries, sipping fresh cups of herbal tea, and making silly small talk, not that he ever had much to contribute. It was the best part of his week, and he was grateful for even a few moments of conversation with her, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
He’d even appeared on her front porch in his animagus form, literally begging like a dog for a scrap of her affection. She had scratched behind his ears, offered him a wedge of cheese, and even placed a gentle kiss on his snout, leaving behind a red lipstick print.
It had taken hours for his heart rate to settle, his blood to cool, after that. He imagined every place she’d leave lipstick smudges. Across his jaw, his collarbones, over his tattooed chest, haloed around the root of his cock…fuck.
His whole world had tilted to orbit around her gravity, and made his childhood crush look fleeting in comparison. She had ensured him, enthralled him, and he was beginning to think twelve more years in Azkaban would be more tolerable then this. Having her so close, but just out of his reach.
Sirius knew he should be worried about other things. His godson, for one. But selfishly, he wanted to linger in this feeling. The anticipation, the thrill of a passing touch, a prolonged gaze. Even if it would likely never be more than that.
His life had been nothing but darkness for so long, even a thimble of her light would be more than he could wish for. And yet, she gave it with abandon, recklessly doling out kindness and sweet smiles.
Bang bang!
Sirius jumped from the love seat, tossing his book onto the coffee table. He snagged his wand from the bookshelf and ran to the foyer, beating Kreacher to the rip open the door, wand raised.
Y/n stood on the other side, eyes wide with terror and tears streaking down her face. “Sirius, my mum—”
He was already out the door, running across the walkway and into their house, y/n on his heels.
“The bathroom. She hit her head,” Y/n said through hiccuping sobs, leading him up the stairs and down a narrow hall.
He found Ms. Y/l/n leaning against the wall in the master bathroom, a bundle of tissue pressed to her temple. She was awake, but her eyes were a bit unfocused, her hand struggling to keep the compress in place.
“Call an ambulance. I’ll bring her down,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level.
“Sirius—”
“Now, y/n,” he ordered, lowering his voice to not alarm the old woman. Once y/n ran out of the room to use the telephone, he crouched down beside her mother. “Hello, love. Can I carry you downstairs?”
She looked at him, eyes bleary. “Orion?” she asked, reaching up touch his face.
Shit, he thought, and didn’t waste another second before scooping her up, her frail body feather-light in his arms. “I’ve got ‘ya, hold tight,” he murmured softly as he carried her downstairs, careful to avoid any jerking movements.
“They’re coming,” y/n said, rounding the corner at the same time he reached the bottom.
Within minutes, sirens filled the neighborhood and her mother was taken away in an ambulance, y/n riding in the back with her.
Sirius followed on his recently returned motorcycle, breaking a few too many speed limits on the way.
He ran into the hospital, finding the first nurse in the lobby.
“I’m looking for—”
“Sirius!”
He turned and y/n slammed into his front, throwing her arms around his neck. Her whole body was trembling, sobs strangling her voice, and throttling his heart.
“Oh, darling,” he shushed, wrapping his arms around her. “I’m here, love. I’m right here.” He ushered her into an empty waiting room, keeping her pressed against him. It was agony to see her like this, her eyes rimmed with red, her breathing unsteady. He wanted to steal all of her hurt, banish it with a spell or a cruel word, but he was helpless to do anything but hold her.
An hour passed with her resting against his side, cycling through boughts of tears and stony silence. The only words were offered by him, small murmurings of hope, empty promises that everything would be alright.
Just as she was starting to calm, a doctor walked into the waiting room. They bolted up, rounding on him.
“How is she?” Y/n asked, clutching Sirius’ hand. In another situation, he’d be elated.
“She’s fine,” the doctor said, resting a placating hand on her shoulder. Sirius narrowed his eyes at it, but resisted the urge to slap it away. “We’d like to keep her overnight for monitoring, but we believe it’s a minor concussion at worst. She’ll be just fine.”
“Oh, thank God.” Y/n sagged into him, relief bringing tears to her eyes.
”Can we see her?” Sirius asked, wrapping a protective arm around y/n’s waist.
“Of course, right this way.”
They followed the doctor down a series of hallways, Sirius never once releasing his hold on y/n. Seeing the doctor touch her awakened something in him, something possessive and snarling, and every man that glanced her way made his hackles rise.
The doctor stopped at a door and y/n broke from his side, bursting into the room.
“Maman!,” she cried, rushing over to her mother’s bed. She was sat up and alert, nibbling on some crackers and drinking a cup of tea.
“Mon Cherie,” she cooed, taking her daughters hand. “I’m well, darling. Don’t fret.”
“I was so worried,” y/n said, wiping a tear from her cheek. They began whispering back and forth in french, leaving Sirius and the doctor estranged. Until, that is, Sirius caught his name in the jumble of unfamiliar words.
Y/n glanced back at him, then her voice took a argumentative tone. Her mother bit back, and y/n sighed, then waved Sirius over.
Perplexed, he stepped up to the side of the hospital bed. Ms. Y/l/n took his hand in hers, his long, tattooed fingers a stark contrast to her willowy ones.
“Take y/n home with you. Make sure she eats and gets some rest,” she said, whispering to him. “She worries too much.”
“Mum!”
Sirius nodded, smiling. “I’ll take good care of her,” he promised.
“You were always such a good boy, Sirius,” she said, meeting his eyes. “We always knew that.”
Unexpected emotion welled in his chest, and he cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he managed, voice gruff.
“Now get out. I need my rest,” she barked, shooing them away.
“But—” y/n argued.
“Out!”
“C’mon, love,” Sirius urged, taking y/n’s hand and leading her away. “I’ll take you home.”
Reluctantly, she followed him, twining her fingers with his.
Y/n was a bit daunted by the motorcycle, but after some coaxing, she climbed on, wrapping herself around him like a koala. The warmth of her body spread across his skin, rousing that hunger in his soul and making his pants tighten.
He drove as carefully as he could, keeping one hand on her body the entire time to ensure she stayed tucked safely against him. But it was nearly impossible for him to focus with her small hands curled against his lower stomach, her thighs pressed against his waist.
He really was a feral fucking beast.
Finally, they made it back to 12 Grimmauld Place just after sunset. He helped her off the bike, her legs a little wobbly from the ride. Indecent thoughts flitted through his mind, but he shoved them away. She needed him to look after her, not drool all over her like a dog.
“Could we do that again sometime?” y/n asked, surprising him.
“Ride the bike?” he asked, raising a brow.
She gave a small nod, blushing. He nearly gave an audible groan, his heart thumping out of rhythm.
“Whatever you want, bluebird,” he said, leading her up the steps and into the house. She blushed even further at the childhood nickname and he about tripped up the last step.
Kreacher was already there, of course, complaining loudly.
Sirius whistled to get the house elf's attention. “You’re off duty for the rest of the night. Go on,” he ordered, and if Kreacher could smile, Sirius swore he did.
Kreacher made himself scarce, and Sirius led her further into the house.
“I’ve never been in here,” she said, looking around with wide eyes.
He shrugged, sheepish at the grandiose nature of the interior design, how dark his home seemed in comparison to hers. “Better than Azkaban,” he muttered, and she giggled.
“What’s this?” she asked, pausing at the hall he hoped she’d miss entirely. The one with the sprawling mural of the Black family tree.
“The bane of my existence.” He followed behind her, watching as she ran her fingers along the branches, tracing his lineage across centuries.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, craning her head back to take it all in.
He just hummed in response, trailing the lines of her throat with his eyes, wondering what the fragile skin would feel like beneath his teeth.
But his revery was short-lived. He saw the moment her eyes snagged on his scorched name.
“Sirius…” she rubbed her finger over the burned hole, tilting her head slightly.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, wanting to avoid this conversation all together.
“Who did this?” she asked, turning to look at him. Tears glimmered along her lash line, and he regretted not tearing this wall down the second he returned. How dare his mother make her cry.
“It’s in the past,” he said, wanting desperately to comfort her despite the curdling sadness in his own heart every time he confronted the memories of his families disdain.
She didn’t respond, instead fishing around in her purse. She withdrew a tube of lipstick, her signature, oxblood red that his mother would think was garish, and spread it effortlessly across her plush lips.
Sirius’ mouth filled with saliva. What is she doing?
Y/n leaned forward, pressing her lips over the space his name once was, and his heart stopped. When she pulled back, a red lipstick print was left behind.
“Fuck your family,” she said, putting the lipstick back into her purse.
Sirius couldn’t bear it any longer. The beast severed the last of his restraint. He lunged for her, crushing her body between himself and the cursed mural, and claimed her mouth in a savage kiss.
She tasted like tea and chocolate, liquor sweet, and he was starved for it. She grabbed at his collar, pulling him closer as she bloomed for him, spreading those painted lips for his tongue to delve deeper. To devour her. A small sound of pleasure slipped from her throat and he growled, notching his thigh between her legs as their bodies rolled together. It was a fevered kiss, frenzied and desperate, and he never wanted it to end.
“Sirius” she panted, her fingers tangled in his hair.
“Hmm?” he hummed, kissing along her soft jaw, smirking when her hips twitched against his thigh.
“Should we, with everything—”
He pulled back, finding her eyes. “Most would caution you against associating with the likes of me,” he murmured, his tone light and teasing. He swiped at her smudged lipstick with his thumb, a deep pulse of satisfaction curling his toes in his boots. Already, he was making a mess of her.
She smirked. “The likes of you?”
He slid his hands down her body before scooping her up by the thighs and wrapping her legs around his waist. His constrained cock pressed against the heat between her legs, aching to feel her. “A feral stray with a chip on his shoulder,” he said, dragging his teeth along her pulse.
“Feral, hm?” she teased, her voice breathless as he continued to lavish attention across her neck.
“What would they think? The pretty, Parisian bluebird caught in the jaws of a murderous beast?” He felt her heart rate accelerate under his touch, her thighs clenching at his words. “But I think you’d like that. Would you like a little danger, love?”
“Yes,” she exhaled, then kissed him again, as hungry and needy as he felt. “All I ever wanted was you.”
If he was a cat, those words would have conjured a rumbling purr. But he was hound, a wolf, so he growled instead, and carried her into the closest room, the dining room. He dropped her onto the expensive, polished wood and undid her belt. He glanced up at her, asking permission before he ripped her jeans off of her. She gave a hurried nod, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, and he removed them swiftly, revealing her white panties and gorgeous legs.
“The amount of times I’ve dreamed about this,” he said, lowering to his knees in front of her.
She pulled her jumper over her head, and his brain short circuited as he stared up at her. She was braless, her perfect tits bouncing freely on her chest, nipples tight and rosy with arousal. “Me too,” she admitted, combing her fingers through his hair.
He rose up to kiss her, pressing her back against the wood. He moved a little more slowly now, savoring her taste rather than devouring it, making note of every hitch in her breathing, every flutter of her heart. With unhurried care, he kissed down her throat, along her collarbones, between the valley of her breasts, before wrapping his lips around a taught nipple. She loosed a soft moan, arching into his touch.
He lingered there for awhile, nipping and sucking at her tits until she mewling for him, her hips rocking against the hard plane of his stomach.
“Sirius, please,” she whined, tugging at the roots of his hair.
He gave a soft tsk. “Is it too much, love?” he asked, lifting his head.
Her answering glare could raze all of England.
Sirius chuckled and started kissing down her stomach, lowering back onto his knees between her legs. “I promised I would take care of you, didn’t I?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer, couldn’t stand to wait another second himself, and dragged his tongue over the soaked gusset of her panties.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
“Ohh,” You moaned, your head falling back.
Sirius’ fingers hooked around your underwear, tugging the fabric aside, and his tongue finally connected with your clit, setting your brain on fire. He was slow and steady at first, exploring every inch of you before picking up the pace until he was ravaging you, feasting on your pussy like a man starved.
Already, you were barreling towards release, the coil in your pelvis winding tighter, tighter, until your whole body was thrumming with tension.
“So fucking perfect,” Sirius praised, flicking your clit with the tip of tongue with maddening softness.
“Sirius, please—fuck,” you panted, nails scratching along the wood table.
He stopped suddenly, rising to his feet and looming over you. “Please, what?” he asked, eyes dark, facial hair shining with your slick.
“Fuck me.” You grabbed at his belt, undoing the latch and fumbling with his zipper.
He let out a low chuckle, his hand sliding between you, two fingers dragging through your heat before easing inside. You let out a keening cry, hips bucking into the palm of his hand. “This what you wanted, darling?”
You shook your head, biting your lip to suppress a frustrated whine.
“No?” He removed his hand and undid his pants to free his cock, the head an angry red, slick with precum. He tapped it against your clit, shooting sparks of pleasure through your body. “How about this?”
“God, Sirius. Stop fucking around,” you snapped, grabbing at his collar to pull him in for a kiss. But he resisted, smirking down at you.
“So impatient,” he teased, sliding his cock through you slit, lubricating himself. Driving you fucking mad. “You want me to ruin this spoiled pussy?” he asked, notching the head at your entrance.
“Please,” you whimper, desperation driving you to tears.
“Oh, bluebird,” he cooed, catching a tear with his thumb. “My sweet girl. How could I ever say no to you?” With a punishing stroke, he buried himself to the hilt, splitting you open on his cock.
You cried out, collapsing onto the table, the feeling exquisite and brutal, ruinous.
“Bloody hell, angel. Like a fucking vice,” he rasped, drawing his hips back before surging forward again. You grabbed his shoulders, pulling him closer and capturing his lips with yours in a rough kiss. He fucked you slowly, deliberately, while dominating your mouth with his tongue, claiming you as his. And you fucking loved it.
You were sure he meant ‘ruin’ physically, but he had ruined you in other ways as well. You were ruined for any other man. None would compare to him, none ever had, even if you didn’t know it at the time. You were his, a bluebird caught in the jaws of a predator, and you were more than happy to let him eat you alive.
His buried his face in your neck, licking and biting the skin there, ratcheting you that much closer to your peak. He must have felt your walls contract because he amped up the pace, fucking you mercilessly. Pouring gasoline on the fire, he reached between you and started circling your clit with his middle finger, the metal of his rings like ice against your heated skin, and the coil in your stomach snapped.
You came with a scream, your whole body shattering as it laid waste to your nervous system.
“Good fucking girl,” he snarled, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own high. He grabbed your shoulder with his free hand, holding your body down against his as you rode out your orgasm, driving deeper, harder than before.
“God, Sirius,” you cried, another orgasm riding on the tails of the first, your muscles shuddering around him.
“You can do it, darling. C’mon,” he panted, before loosing a long moan, his hips flush with your as his cock bucked inside of you, pumping you full of his release. The sensation plunged you over the edge once more, bliss spilling through your blood like ink as you milked him dry.
He collapsed onto you, breathing hard. You wrapped your arms around him, your movements sluggish, and nuzzled into his shoulder as contentment settled over you. He peppered small kisses against your hair, wandering fingers ghosting over your sensitive skin just to feel you tremble beneath him.
Sirius let you bask in the afterglow for a few moments before hauling you up against his chest. He used his shirt to clean the mess you both made, then carried you down the hall and into a bedroom. His, you presumed. He set you on the edge of the luxurious, four-poster bed before turning to retrieve a pair of pajamas.
“Sirius,” you said, voice small as doubts began to circle in your mind.
He immediately dropped the pajamas and returned to your side, smoothing a strand of hair from your face. “What is it, love? Are you hurt?” he asked, brows knitted together in concern.
Suddenly, you couldn’t find the words. “I, did you do this just to make me feel better?” you asked, flushing at how pathetic you know you sound.
He blinked, tilting his head. “Y/n, I’ve been waiting to do that since I was old enough to want to do that. I’ve wanted you for years and years.” He cupped your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “I’ve waited for you my entire life, bluebird.”
Tears well in your eyes, and you let him draw you in for a kiss. Not a hungry, frantic kiss like before, but a soft one, full of emotion, over a decade worth of words unsaid.
You had waited your entire life for him too, your sad-eyed boy, and nothing in the world would keep you apart again.
Summary: In his obsessive urge to protect you, Severus has refrained from touching you for weeks. Now, in your seventh month of pregnancy, doubt coils in your chest, fearing that your physical changes no longer stir his appetite.
AN: I'm back! Been working on a Lucius smut but haven't finished it yet— Enjoy this
Find it on AO3
Warnings: Smut, Pregnancy, Body Worship, Eating Out, Tender, Emotional, Soft-Rough
3,1k words
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Sharing quarters at the castle with Severus Snape had once sounded like a temporary arrangement.
"Only while the war lasts," he had promised you, his voice rough, but his eyes full of an anxiety he made no effort to hide from you.
And you, with your growing belly and your almost childlike need to feel protected, hadn't had the will to argue much.
Now, Hogwarts had once again become your home. But the physical closeness you shared here hadn't brought the intimacy you had hoped for.
In truth, if you were honest with yourself, you couldn't even remember the last time Severus had truly touched you.
It had been weeks —too many— since his hands had roamed your body with the urgency you so desperately craved.
Though his gestures remained protective, attentive even, his eyes seemed to carefully avoid yours whenever your changing, prominently sensual curves intruded into his line of sight.
Despite being well into your third trimester, you clung to teaching classes as if they were a lifeline, while Severus —and half your colleagues— insisted, with growing impatience, that you should be dedicating your days solely to yourself and the baby. But you were stubborn. You had always been.
Now, wrapped in a silk robe that outlined every new inch of your body —the wider hips, the heavy breasts, the firm, rounded belly— you crossed the bedroom toward the bed, foolishly hoping, maybe, to catch his eye.
He didn’t lift his gaze.
Seated in his usual armchair, with a heavy tome on dark magic resting across his lap, Severus seemed utterly engrossed in his reading. His eyes barely moved. Your heart, tightened with every step you took. When had it become so hard just to get him to look at you?
On a painful, impulsive whim, you moved closer. From behind the chair, you tilted your head, and then you saw it.
Tucked between the open pages of the large book, Severus was hiding a smaller, much more modest volume. One that had nothing to do with dark magic. One filled with meticulous notes about protective charms for newborns. Safe potions during pregnancy.
And suddenly, the heavy knot in your chest twisted into something else entirely. You had to admit it was adorable, even as the bittersweet ache remained.
Leaning over the back of the armchair, you slipped your arms around him, brushing your nose along the line of his neck before pressing a warm kiss to his cheek.
Severus startled, slamming the heavy tome shut, the sound echoing sharply against the stone walls.
"You don't have to hide what you're really reading..." you whispered against his ear, offering him a small, trembling smile —something caught between tenderness and sadness.
He let out a huff, loaded with irritation. Not at you, never at you. Irritation at himself, perhaps. For letting himself be caught, for being so transparent with you.
Without a word, with a kind of reverent patience, he took your wrists in his long hands and gently drew you toward him.
Guiding you firmly, he settled you onto his lap, handling your weight as if you were made of glass.
The warmth of his body beneath yours, the unmistakable scent of him —it was home to you. And lately, you had felt it so painfully distant.
One of his hands, large, rough, and warm, instinctively came to rest on your swollen belly.
He began to caress it in slow circles, his thumb tracing lazy paths over the fine silk of your robe. "You should stop teaching already," he murmured, his voice low, rasping, almost defeated. "You should be thinking only of... the two of you."
It was so strange to hear him speak like that, without his usual armor. For a moment, you simply surrendered to the rhythm of his caress, to that rare, precious intimacy.
A sudden dampness on the silk caught his attention before it caught yours.
Severus frowned slightly —not in disgust, but in concentration— and brought his fingers to the small damp spot blooming over your chest.
He touched the wet fabric with an unusual gentleness, almost reverent, like someone handling something sacred they didn’t fully understand.
His fingers hovered there for a breathless moment, suspended between surprise and a raw, almost childlike curiosity.
It was then that you, trapped in the current of your own insecurities, shifted away from his lap.
You crossed your arms over your chest, trying somehow to shield yourself, and averted your gaze, refusing to meet his.
Before you could stop yourself, the words burst out, burning in your throat:
"I don't want to give you... another reason not to want me."
Your voice barely cracked, no louder than a whisper, yet it carried more weight than any scream.Your eyes filled with tears, though you stayed proud, rigid, as if it didn’t matter, as if you didn’t care.
You turned toward the bed, your steps almost defiant, your back stiff.
But Severus didn’t hesitate for a second.
He rose from his chair, the book forgotten, crossing the space between you in only a few long strides. His hand caught yours before you could climb into bed. It wasn’t a pull, just his fingers wrapping warmly, firmly around your wrist.
"Don't ever say that again," he murmured, his voice low, rough, filled with something that made you shiver to your bones.
He pulled you gently, turning you to face him. There was no rush, no forcefulness .Only his gaze, dark and intense, locking onto yours —and you felt stripped bare under it.
His hands slid upward, releasing your wrist to frame your face. He stroked your cheeks with his thumbs, brushing them tenderly, as if trying to wipe away the tears before they could fall.
"You are beautiful," he said, as if it were an undeniable, absolute truth.
The tenderness of his words, the restrained worship in his gaze, struck hard against the wall of insecurity you had built inside yourself.
Something within you cracked, dangerously close to breaking. Severus leaned in then, his forehead resting against yours, his warm breath mingling with your own.
"All of you," he whispered. "Every change, every new part of you... you have no idea how much I want you, how much I've fought it."
His nose brushed yours in a gesture so small, so intimate, your knees almost buckled.
His hands slid down, gliding over your arms, your fuller hips, and finally came to rest, reverently, over the generous curve of your belly.
He held you like that, breathing you in, as if every beat of your heart was the most precious thing he had ever known.
His hands, still firm on your hips, trembled ever so slightly as he lifted his gaze to you.
A moment of silence stretched between you, so thick you could almost hear your own heart pounding against it.
With meticulous slowness, his fingers sought the sash that held your silk robe closed.
He looked at you, asking permission without words.
And when you didn’t resist, he pulled the ribbon loose with a careful tug. The fabric parted, not fully, but enough to expose your torso, your full, heavy breasts.
The lingering trace of dampness still visible on one of them, the most intimate evidence of the life growing inside you.
Severus let out a low sound, something between a sigh and a groan. It wasn't unchecked lust. It was wonder. Pure fascination.
His hands, warm and rough, traveled slowly upward, caressing your shoulders, your arms —every new, sensitive inch of your skin.
He paused at the curve of your neck, the line of your collarbones, as if he were committing every part of you to memory.
He leaned in then, brushing you with his lips —not urgent kisses, but patient touches.
A kiss in the hollow of your throat.
Another on the sharp bone of your shoulder.
Another, trembling slightly, just above one of your breasts.
"You are perfect," he murmured against your skin, his voice heavy with a reverence that made your lungs seize.
His fingers ventured lower, tracing the line beneath your breasts with no hurry, like a man cradling something too precious to risk harming.
Everything in him screamed desire, but also something deeper —adoration.
You felt precious. For the first time in weeks.
His large, steady hands continued gliding over you, exploring the new fullness of your body without rush, without judgment.
His thumbs brushed along the sides of your breasts, then down to the generous curve of your belly, massaging in slow, wide circles —as if he wanted to soothe your child even as he worshiped you.
His mouth followed the path his hands had traced earlier, his nose nuzzling the lush swell of your breast.
With inhuman patience, Severus tilted his head and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the damp skin of your breast. The heat of his mouth against you contrasted sharply with the cool silk still clinging to your hips, and a trembling sigh escaped your lips before you could hold it back.
He took your nipple into his mouth, closing his lips around it with wet, reverent warmth. You gasped softly, your fingers tangling in his messy hair, holding on to him.
Severus growled low in his throat, a sound almost primal, at feeling you respond so openly under his touch.
He straightened just enough to meet your eyes, his lips shining slightly, his breath ragged.
With patient hands, he slid the rest of the robe off your body, letting it pool at your feet.
He looked at you then, standing naked before him —your belly full with life, your breasts heavy, your skin taut and achingly sensitive.
And instead of averting his gaze, Severus devoured you with it —every new curve, every mark, every part of you that now existed to carry the miracle of his child.
With a firm gesture, he took your hands, placed them on his shoulders, and then lifted you easily, as if you weighed nothing at all, laying you down with infinite gentleness on the bed.
He leaned over you, sliding naturally between your legs, resting his weight carefully to your side.
His hands never stopped moving —caressing your belly, your sides, your thighs— as if he couldn’t decide where to start, as if he needed to map every part of you anew.
And his mouth...
His mouth returned to your skin, planting open, wet, hungry kisses along your breasts, your stomach, the edges of your hips.
His lips traveled even lower, leaving a wet trail down the lower curve of your belly.
His hands slid to your thighs, parting them with firm but careful insistence —not rough, not demanding— simply inevitable, as if he had waited too long to dare touch you.
His breath washed over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and a fragile, trembling moan tore from your throat.
Severus didn’t rush.
Instead of devouring you hungrily, he looked up at you, his black eyes gleaming under the messy curtain of his hair.
Waiting. Asking without words.
You, trembling, lifted a hand to his cheek, caressing the roughness of his skin. It was all the answer he needed.
With a reverence almost religious, he lowered his mouth to you. His tongue slid first, soft and slow, between your swollen folds, exploring you, savoring you.
You arched your back, a high, broken moan shattering the stillness of the bedroom.
Severus growled low against you, the vibration rumbling through your flesh, and he gripped your thighs firmly, holding you open while he lazily circled your clit with devastating patience.
His movements were constant, meticulous, designed to consume you slowly, to show you —without needing a single word— how much he wanted you, how much he worshiped you in every phase, through every change.
He kissed you there as he had kissed your belly, your breasts —with hunger, but also with tenderness.
There was no rush. There was no need for anything except you. You in his mouth, you in his hands.
When your hips began moving against his mouth, when your moans became uncontrollable, Severus slipped two fingers inside you with exquisite care, slow and steady, filling you gradually as his tongue kept dancing over you.
Your body, so sensitive, so alive, responded with violent sweetness.
The orgasm overtook you without warning, without permission, ripping broken cries from your throat that barely sounded like your own.
Your hands clutched at his hair, his shoulders, anything you could reach, as if afraid you might fall apart without him anchoring you.
And Severus didn’t move away.
He kept licking, kissing, holding you through the shudders of your climax, only lifting his head when you finally lay trembling beneath him, soft moans slipping from your lips, shattered and adored beyond words.
Only then did he lift his face to you.
His face was undone with desire.
He slid over you slowly, propping himself up on his elbows so as not to crush you, adjusting his body alongside yours so as not to put pressure on your belly, yet still maintaining the desperate closeness you both craved.
His erection, hard and throbbing, brushed your thigh as he settled in, trembling slightly at the contact.
But he waited.
He left the last word to you.
"May I...?" he whispered, hoarse, his voice almost breaking with restraint.
You nodded, lifting a hand to stroke his chest —a small gesture of tenderness, trust, longing.
Severus exhaled sharply, as if you had torn the weight of the world from his shoulders, and wrapped you in his arms.
He shifted to his side, pulling your back against his chest, guiding you until your thigh rested over his hip, opening you to him with infinite care.
His hand trembled slightly as he lowered it between you, guiding himself, searching for the heat he had missed so desperately.
When he found you—wet, soft, waiting—he let out a low, ragged groan. A sound that vibrated through your skin even before he began.
He entered you slowly. So slowly.
As if he couldn’t believe he truly had you like this: open for him, in this state.
You felt every inch of his hardness pressing into you, every fiber of your body stretching to receive him.
Your belly tightening softly, your chest heaving, a broken sob escaping your throat before you could even recognize it.
He paused for a fraction of a second, buried fully inside you, gasping into your ear. The heat of his breath, the tremble of his muscles, everything enveloped you, claimed you.
And then he began to move.
At first, his thrusts were long, deep, calculated.
You felt so full of him, invaded in the sweetest, heaviest way, as if your body had been made only for him.
But it didn’t take long for his control to unravel.
The hunger he had bottled up for weeks, that passion he had repressed out of fear of hurting you, slipped to the surface.
His rhythm grew more insistent, less perfect, more human.
His large hand cradled your belly, as if to remind himself of your fragility... but his hips couldn't help but quicken, slamming against you with a need barely held in check.
"Merlin..." he murmured against your ear, his voice raw, lost. "I missed you."
The low rumble of his voice, vibrating through you, almost made you cry.
You felt ablaze.
Every friction of his body within yours stoked hidden embers inside you, each movement of his pelvis against your rear sending electric waves up your spine.
The heat between your legs was unbearable, slippery, overflowing, each of Severus' thrusts tearing moans from you you no longer tried to contain.
The sensation of his hot, hard flesh sliding against your walls, filling you with every push, was overwhelming.
The pressure inside you built and built, a cruel promise holding you suspended between pleasure and desperation.
Severus seemed desperate not to let you go.
He clutched you against him, his hand alternating between your belly, your thigh, drawing you harder against him, setting a rhythm he could no longer pretend to control.
He fucked you in long, heavy strokes, each thrust dragging a moan from your lips.
Didn't give you space to think or breathe. Only to feel.
"So fucking beautiful..." he rasped into your ear, his hand sliding to cup your heavy breast, his thumb teasing the sensitive, leaking nipple. "Mine. Every part of you..."
You whimpered at the rough squeeze, at the obscene wetness slicking your thighs, at the pressure building unbearably inside you.
Your name fell from his lips like a prayer as his pelvis slammed into you in erratic, deeper thrusts.
His hand found your throat, not choking, just holding —a possessive, grounding weight that had you keening his name.
You surrendered to the brutal, sweet rhythm of his hips, to the relentless glide of his hot flesh, to the torrent of emotions and sensations that drowned you.
Your body spasmed around him, heat bursting through your core as the orgasm tore you apart. You screamed with pleasure as you came, tears streaming from your tightly shut eyes, your legs trembling uncontrollably.
You felt his body convulse behind you just seconds later, a guttural growl tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, clutching you with all the desperate love he could offer.
And even after emptying himself, even after groaning your name against your sweaty skin, he didn’t pull away.
He held you tighter.
He covered you with his body as if he could shield you from everything.
As you both trembled, trapped in that moment, Severus kissed the back of your neck—once, twice, a thousand times—murmuring words you could barely hear.
Eventually, as your breathing slowed and the tremors faded from your limbs, Severus shifted just enough to see your face.
He brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead with a tenderness that made your heart ache.
"You are everything," he whispered, the words breaking against your skin.
You turned your head slightly, finding his mouth in the softest of kisses, one that tasted of salt and love and everything you had both survived to reach this moment.
Held tightly against him, you let yourself fall—completely, irrevocably—into the arms of the only man who had ever truly seen you.
Summary: Kinktober 2024 Day 4 - Stalking. Severus is in love with you from afar. Severus is also very good at legilimency. You show a tiny bit of interest by helping him out in class and he loses a little more of his self-control.
Tags: Stalking, P in V, Unprotected sex, Oral sex (f receiving, a LOT of it), Very dubious consent, Mind manipulation / control, Brainwashing, Improper use of legilimency, Toxic relationships, Yandere Snape, Creepy perverted behaviour, Fantasising, Implied loss of virginity, Self-blaming.
READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!!!!
Word count: 3.7k
all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3
Authors note: Severus in this fic is written to be a walking red flag, don't seek this kind of relationship irl!! I started to get a headache toward the end of writing this, sorry if it's noticeable in the writing!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡
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Splat, Severus’ books thud to the ground. A cacophony of laughs erupts behind him, led by James Potter, a satisfied smirk on his face from having caused this mild inconvenience. Severus huffs and rolls his eyes, luckily hidden by his mop of long black hair. He bends down to pick up the books, not at all surprised when James nudges one further away with the toe of his shoe. He shuffles forward and picks it up too, straightening himself back up, head hung low. He shuffles across the hall to lean against a wall further from the marauders, who hoot and laugh at him. Even putting himself in their shoes he can’t understand what’s so funny about watching someone pick up books. None of it matters anyway, because you’ll be here soon. Perfect you. You always arrive at this class at 12:56, with your friend by your side. You’d usually be chatting, finishing off a pastry from lunch, whatever had taken your fancy that day, Severus guessed it would be the Pumpkin pasties today. He watches the clock above the door into the potion's dungeon, feeling a familiar tingle of excitement. Just as he knew you would, almost exactly as the clock struck 12:56, your voice drifted around the corner down the corridor. He watches behind his hair as you come into view, chatting happily with your friend, carefully holding a hand in front of your mouth as you chew. He imagines you spotting him, smiling and making your way over, giggling and offering him a bite of your pastry. He’d go to bite it and you’d withdraw it playfully, just to tease him, you’d laugh that bright laugh you have and he’d give you a chastising look before stealing a kiss from you, making you smile wider. You’d wrap your arms around his neck, pushing closer so that–
He’s yanked from his thoughts by Slughorn opening the doors to the lab, the heavy wood scraping unpleasantly against the stone floor. Everyone starts to head inside, he keeps his head down as he enters, hanging back at his usual spot at the back of the room, the spot with a perfect view of you. He places his books down, watching as you quickly scoff the last of your pastry, a pumpkin pasty as he’d guessed before the lesson started. Throughout the lesson he’s watching you, barely concentrating on the topic at hand, he doesn't need to, he already read up on it in his own time so that he can watch you. He’s lucky, in a way, that he only has you for potions, no matter how much he wishes you always there, always by him, always in view, else he may never learn anything at all. You lean forward on the desk, your chin in your palms, legs swinging under the desk. He can vaguely make out the outline of your bra through the back of your uniform shirt, it’s black, clasped on the final row. He almost jots this down on his parchment before he catches himself. He imagines that if he told you this, you’d laugh and call him something childish and endearing, like a ‘silly sausage’, flicking his nose gently. He’s lost in this fantasy, this world where he can tell you that he’s watching you and you find it sweet, going through the motions of setting up his workstation for brewing. He doesn’t even realise that Slughorn is calling out to him until your head turns towards him, looking curious. He notices with a start that the entire class is looking at him, the marauders laughing tauntingly among themselves.
“Er… what?” he croaks out, his voice a little rough from barely speaking all day. He hears a few more chuckles, but not from you. Kind, perfect you. You just glance between him and Slughorn without a hint of judgement in your eyes.
“Your hair is getting rather too long, boy, you’ll have to tie it up for this potion, it’s very volatile,” Slughorn chortles from the front of the room. “Do any of the ladies have a spare?” He addresses the room. The marauders and a couple of the other boys explode with laughter, several of the girls immediately shake their heads, or do nothing, except beautiful, perfect you. You’re picking up your bag and digging through it without a second's hesitation and he could kiss you right now, not that there was any time he felt like he couldn’t. Your friend, obviously shamed into action by you, flicks half-heartedly through her bag too. The rest of the class returns to setting up.
“A-ha!” you exclaim, pulling out a plain black hairband from your bag. Black like your bra, his brain supplies, but he shakes that off because you’re walking over to him. He’s immediately sweating, luckily you’re unlikely to notice through his robes, although you may notice the growing sheen on his forehead. You stand in front of him, smiling like an angel. He’s not this close to you often, somehow you’re even more ethereal up close. He takes a shaky breath as you extend the hairband to him. "Don't listen to them, Black is only about an inch away from needing one himself,"
“Th-Thank you…” He mumbles, brushing your fingertips with his own on purpose. It feels like a thousand fireworks exploding under his skin and he smiles shakily. You smile and shrug.
“Just get it back to me when you can, or keep it honestly, I have hundreds and you’ll probably need it again,” you explain happily. You always seem to have nothing bringing you down and he admires it, wishing he could be so positive, perhaps it’s easy when you’re as flawless as you are. You skip off back to your workstation to your friend. He has something in his hand that is yours, something he’s allowed to keep, something he didn’t have to snatch when you left the room. There’s a couple of your hairs stuck around it and he shivers in excitement. This is something you have used, and he has it through legitimate means. He’s floating on air. While everyone else is beginning to brew, he hides behind his cauldron carefully laying down your hairs in his notebook, making sure not to break them, securing them so they don’t fall out.
Eventually, once he’s sure he can’t extract any more of yours from the hairband, he finally ties his hair back into a low ponytail, getting to work. He’s confident he can catch up on the brewing time he missed, even as he keeps being distracted by the sight of you across the room, your hair pulled up out of your face in the same type of hairband you gave him. You’re gorgeous, somehow more than usual, which shouldn’t be possible or, frankly, legal. He’s often wondered if you’re part Veela somewhere far back, because of how absolutely perfect you are. Through extensive research of your family tree, he was able to prove himself wrong, but he still wonders. His potion expertise allows him to catch up on the potion, still being awarded the best potion in class by the end of it. He almost feels bad for everyone who actually put some effort into brewing just to lose to him again, but that feeling melts away when he spots you grinning at him as Slughorn announces his win. The two of you have never been friends, but you have always been silently friendly toward him, refusing to be swayed by the rumours about him. It’s perhaps what he loves the absolute most about you. He’s packing up when you approach him again, smiling softly.
“I actually like your hair up like this,” you whisper, reaching over to gently flick the end of his short ponytail. Severus doesn’t know if you’re teasing him or not. He feels like he’s been struck by lightning, both by your words and your playful touch. A hundred images of fantasies he’s had about you over the years flash through his mind. You’ve touched him! Willingly! In that playful way, he’d always imagined you would. It takes a lot of effort to remind himself that he can’t just kiss you right now. His mouth falls open and he lets out an undignified throaty noise. He quickly covers it up with a cough, blinking rapidly.
“I um… you… do?” he chokes out. You study his face for a moment, he’s sure you’re about to change your mind. You could never be so cruel though, he knows this, you’re too wonderful.
“Yeah… it’s nice to see your eyes sometimes,” you tease. Severus forces himself to laugh back casually, trying to force down the love hearts that are practically forming in his eyes. He also has to stop himself from grabbing you, never letting you move away again. He regrets holding himself back when your friend comes up behind you and ushers you away to your next class. You smile at him over your shoulder as you begin to leave. He quickly decides to use the compliments you’ve just given him against you. He wonders how much you really meant to them, but he has to try anyway. He invades your mind, silently smug about your lack of defences even after all this time. He feeds you a vision based on what you’ve just said. His head between your perfect supple thighs, looking up at you with wide needy eyes, his hair pulled back just like this, devouring your sweet cunt. He knows he’s been successful as he watches you suddenly flush and turn away, your cheeks bright red.
He doesn’t really know how you feel about these visions. He’s been invading your mind and planting them since the end of the fifth year. He would love to stick around in your brain, find out how you react to them, do some digging, and find out how you really feel about him, but he can’t risk it. The longer you’re in somebody's mind, the more they can feel the foreign presence. You’re still yet to put up any wards, even rudimentary ones, so he assumes you don’t realise you’re being invaded. You also haven’t started to avoid him more than normal, if you realised these visions were coming from someone else, there would only be one logical conclusion as to who they came from, but you haven’t withdrawn or confronted him in any way, so he figures he’s safe for now. The nature of the visions he gives you is probably enough to distract you from the momentary uncomfortable tingle of someone else being in your brain. He’s been experimenting for a long while to see what thoughts you react to the best. He often sits in the dining hall, somewhere where he has the perfect view of you, and plants various thoughts. You don’t seem to school your emotions very well, so he gets a vague idea of how you react to each scenario. He’s tried visions of him bending you over, roughly taking everything he wants from you, he’s tried visions of him begging on his knees to please you and everything in between. You blush beautifully at each one, whether from embarrassment or arousal, he isn’t sure. He can’t wait to feel your cheek heat up under his hand, because he will get to feel it, some day. You don’t seem to like the more extreme scenarios, complete domination or complete submission, but you don’t seem to mind either way if the power dynamic is a little milder. He doesn’t mind, he would be anything for you, do anything. What you seem to like best is when he feeds you a vision of him eating you out. He supposes it makes sense, it’s completely focused on your pleasure, so it’s practically all he’s been giving you lately. Sometimes he holds you down and calls you a good girl, sometimes you’re riding his face and calling him a good boy, you seem to like it either way. It makes him unbelievably smug.
After dinner, he’s trailing you and your friends to your common room, just to make sure that you’re safe, nothing more. He’s a little careless, feeding you the same vision over and over, enjoying watching you blush and stutter from afar as you try to chat with your friends. You probably think you’ve been hit with a lust potion or something, as he isn’t letting you think of anything else. It seems you hadn’t lied when you’d told him you liked his hair in the ponytail, as every time he gave you the same vision from earlier, he noticed your thighs tense. This isn’t a reaction he gets from you often at all, usually, it’s so subtle that he can be convinced it was unrelated, but this vision, in particular, seems to have you doing this every time. He’d dropped his fork at dinner just to duck under the table to watch your thighs clench, the sight nearly making his mouth water. He wished he could get under your table and spread your legs, make that vision a reality, but sadly he could not. He would do it in a heartbeat if you asked, fuck the consequences, fuck who could see. Maybe one day, if he kept torturing you with this vision, you would come begging. He feels his cock twitching eagerly in his trousers at the thought. You disappear into your common with your friends, him watching from around the corner. He sighs in disappointment, deciding to leave you be for the night since he can’t delight in your lovely little reactions any more. He hangs around at the corner for a moment, debating whether to head outside onto the grounds to watch you through your dorm window like he often did. The mini telescope he had to buy for Astronomy had turned out to be a fantastic use of money, even if he did often see your roommates instead. He had seen them all in various states of undress by now, but he couldn’t care about any of them in the least, he only had eyes for you.
Over the next few days, he eases off a little, realising how reckless he’d been. He couldn’t risk you knowing what he’s been doing, he can’t imagine that would end very well, even if you had seemed to grow to like the visions he gave you. He didn’t stop altogether, because that would have arguably been just as suspicious. He keeps it tame, one or two a day, maybe a little more innocent than normal. He can’t help but continue to use the information about you liking his hair back, making sure every fantasy he feeds you has him that way. He keeps your hairband, pulling his hair back every day now, because it makes you look at him just a second longer, and he’s obsessed with it. Lucius comments on it, saying it looks odd, but he couldn’t care less. It makes secretly watching you harder too, as he can’t hide behind his hair so much, but he makes do, all for those extra glances. He continues his routines, waiting for you to emerge in the mornings from your common room by hiding around the corner, watching you at every mealtime, trailing you back to the common room in the evening and then watching you through your window whenever he feels the need.
One night, once he’s happy you’re safely back in your common room, he turns to leave but trips slightly over his feet. He glances down, realising with an exasperated huff that the laces on his oxfords have come undone. He crouches down to tie them, setting his other knee on the ground. He fumbles with them unnecessarily, frustrated with himself. He vaguely registers footsteps approaching him, but not enough to react before he hears a voice.
“Oh… Severus, what are you doing here?” your soft angelic voice echoes slightly in the empty corridor. You seem confused, and, arguably, you have reason to be. The only thing down this corridor is your common room, and he has no excuse to be here. He swallows, staring straight down at the ground, his mind working a mile a minute.
“Here to return the hairband,” he grunts, thinking fast. It’s the only excuse he has, even if you had told him to keep it. He looks up at you from his crouched position, you’re a lot closer to him than he thought. He realises how similar this position is to some of the ones he’s forced into your brain. He’s pleased to notice, from the flush on your face, that you make this connection too, without it being planted. He shifts slightly, lowering both his knees to the ground and facing you properly. He looks up at you, his eyes burning with barely contained arousal. You’re flushed and shy as you look down at him and he dares to invade your mind to see what you’re thinking. He can’t fight the twitch of his lips as he creeps into your mind, only to find you’re imagining him, just as he is now, pushing up your skirt and burying his face between your legs. He shivers, you’re thinking of this all on your own. There’s a nag at the back of his mind, telling him you don’t quite seem to want to be thinking this, but he ignores it, reaching up for your thighs. You yelp in surprise as his cold, long fingers press into the warm skin of your thighs and he pulls you forward.
“Wha- what are you doing?” you squeak, stumbling helplessly toward him. He doesn’t answer, he feels possessed, and he’s already salivating. He brushes his nose against the skin of your thigh, just under the hem of your skirt, making you gasp. You smell divine, a vague hint of your perfume, presumably stuck to the fabric of your skirt, a hint of something that he realises, with a growl, must be your arousal. You try to step away, but he grips you harder, keeping you in place. He knows you want him, even if you don’t seem to know it yourself. You whimper as he licks a stripe up your thigh, the taste is faintly salty and he groans in pleasure. He hears the old castle creak slightly, reminding him that the two of you are out in the open. He withdraws slightly. You look utterly dazed above him like you don’t understand what’s going on. You realise that he’s walking you to a cleaning cupboard nearby, and your legs just blindly follow him. You want to protest, but can’t seem to find it in you. You had been fantasising about this for years now, even if the reason for these fantasies never seemed to make sense. He brings you in, shutting the door behind you. He’s kneeling again in an instant, he almost looks crazed as he bunches up your skirt. He doesn’t even give you time to acclimate before his tongue is on you through the material of your underwear. You gasp out loudly as he tastes the small wet spot of fabric, when did you even get wet? He takes a long deep sniff, his nose nudging at your clit through the fabric. He licks at you desperately until the material is soaked through, both with his saliva and your arousal. You were shocked by just how intensely your body was reacting to all this. You let him slide down your underwear, figuring there’s no point stopping him now. You lean back against the wall as he buries his head between your legs, shaking his head slightly to get even closer, the movement making you moan softly. He’s undeniably eager, lapping and slurping at you, but it’s fairly clear he’s never done this before. This is all he’s ever wanted, and he’s determined to make the most of it, the scent and taste of you making him feel insane. He rubs you all over his face, wriggling his tongue against you, gripping the flesh of your buttocks to keep you in place. He’s mumbling against you, about how long he’s been picturing this, but you can’t quite hear him, which is probably for the best. He makes up for his lack of experience with his enthusiasm, the way he’s looking up at you like he’s desperate to please. You find yourself falling apart all over his face shockingly fast, biting your lip to stifle your whines.
“Thank you, thank you,” he mumbles over and over as he laps you all up. He pulls away and you go a little limp, sliding slightly down the wall as he stands. You barely register what’s happening as he turns you around pressing you up against the wall, your eyes widen as he pushes inside you, but by now you’re well past the point of no return, so you simply brace yourself against the wall. He humps you like a dog in heat, sloppy and fast, you’re glad he made you orgasm earlier because you don’t get the feeling you will be cumming from this. Not that it feels bad, in fact, it feels quite good, making you moan as he bullies against you. He grips your waist tight with his slender fingers. “This is perfect, everything I’ve ever dreamed of,” he whimpers in your ear. “Now that I’ve had a taste of you, I’m never letting you go, you’re mine now,” you know what he’s saying is worrying, but your fucked out mind can’t quite realise the true danger of what he’s saying and what your lack of protesting is solidifying in his mind. “All mine,” he growls, his hips stuttering violently. He buries himself as deep as he can. “Fo-forever,” he groans shakily as he spills deep inside of you. He holds you there for a long time, your body limp in his arms as he pants against the back of your neck. You feel lightheaded, you can’t believe everything that’s just happened to you. He kisses your cheek, over and over, as if it's some sort of compulsion. “Mine, mine, mine,” he mumbles repeatedly, the reality of everything starting to sink in for you. Maybe you should have believed the rumours about his mental instability, maybe you should have kicked him away when he first grabbed your thighs, perhaps you should be telling him right now that you’re not his, but instead, a string of words come out of your mouth, feeling like they’re only half your own.
“Can you eat me out again?”
And he happily complies, sliding back down onto his knees.
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Franks jealous about your date but he shows you what you’re missing.
You shut the apartment door behind you and kicked off your shoes with a grin you couldn’t quite suppress after your date.
You dropped your keys onto the counter.
The apartment was dark.
Quiet.
“Frank?” you called.
Nothing.
You shrugged and reached for the light switch.
The kitchen flooded with light.
“Jesus!”
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
Frank was standing against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.
Watching you.
His expression was pissed. extremely pissed.
Your hand flew to your chest.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You said a couple hours.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You said you’d be back in a couple hours.”
His voice was low.
Controlled.
Which was somehow worse than if he’d been shouting.
You glanced at the clock.
12:17 AM “…Oh.”
“Five hours.”
You frowned “Frank—”
“Five.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“No.” He pushed away from the counter “You don’t.”
The irritation in your chest flared immediately.
“You don’t get to interrogate me.”
His jaw clenched “I wasn’t interrogating you.”
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
“You disappeared.”
“I went out.”
“For five hours.”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t answering your phone.”
You rolled your eyes “My battery died.”
Frank laughed once. There wasn’t an ounce of humor in it “Right.”
The apartment suddenly felt much smaller.
The air tighter.
You folded your arms.
“Why do you even care?”
His eyes snapped to yours.
The question hung between you.
Because neither of you wanted to answer it.
Instead he said, “Because something could’ve happened.”
“There it is.” You pointed at him.
“That’s what this is actually about.”
“What?”
“You deciding every bad thing in the city is somehow waiting around the corner for me.”
His stare hardened.
“You came home after midnight.”
“I am an adult.”
“After midnight y/n!”
You threw your hands up.
“Oh my God.”
He stepped closer.
“So if somebody grabbed you—”
“No one grabbed me.”
“If somebody followed you—”
“No one followed me.”
“If somebody—”
“Frank.”
The word cracked through the room.
He stopped.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then he took another step forward.
Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion in his face.
The worry.
The anger.
All tangled together.
“You should’ve called.”
His voice had dropped.
Quiet.
Almost frustrated.
Not with you.
With himself.
You looked away.
“I’m fine.”
Frank’s eyes followed the movement automatically.
Then froze.
His gaze fixed on your neck.
The small mark just above your collar.
Your stomach dropped.
Oh. Oh no.
The silence stretched.
You looked back at him.
His expression had gone completely blank.
Which was never a good sign.
Neither of you spoke.
The realization landed at the exact same moment.
Date. Five hours. The mark on your neck.
Something flickered across his face.
Gone so quickly you almost missed it.
You’d known Frank long enough to recognize it anyway. Jealousy.
His jaw tightened.
You suddenly felt very aware of how close he was standing.
“You were on a date.”
The words sat between you.
“Yeah.” You swallowed.
Frank looked away. His jaw worked once. Twice.
Then he laughed under his breath.
The sound was sharp.
Almost bitter.
“Unbelievable.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “What’s unbelievable?”
He shook his head. “Nothin’.”
“No, don’t do that.” You pointed at him.
“Don’t get all weird and moody and then say ‘nothing.’”
His eyes snapped back to yours.
“Weird and moody?”
“Oh, come on.”
You gestured wildly around the apartment.
“You’ve been lurking in the dark like some kind of serial killer waiting for me to get home.”
His stare was flat.
“I wasn’t lurking.”
“You absolutely were.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
Gone as quickly as it came.
Then his expression hardened again.
“You tell me you’re gonna be gone a couple hours.”
“Because I thought I would be.”
“You disappear for half the damn night.”
“I was busy.”
His eyes flicked to your neck again.
You saw it happen.
Saw his face tighten.
And suddenly you knew exactly what this was.
Your irritation flared.
“Oh.”
Frank’s expression darkened.
“Oh what?”
You folded your arms.
“That’s what this is.”
“What?”
“You don’t care that I was late.”
His stare sharpened.
“I care.”
“No.” You shook your head.
“You care that I was with somebody.”
The room went still.
Frank’s face became unreadable “You got no idea what you’re talking about.”
You laughed “Right.”
“You don’t.”
“Then why do you keep looking at my neck?”
His jaw clenched so hard you thought you heard it.
Silence.
That was answer enough.
You scoffed.
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t.”
“No, seriously.”
You threw your hands up.
“What exactly is your problem here?”
His voice dropped.
“Maybe my problem is you went out with some guy you barely know and didn’t tell anybody where you were.”
“I told my friend where I was.”
“Good.”
The word came out clipped.
Harsh.
“Then your friend can come save you when something goes wrong.”
Your mouth fell open. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means this city ain’t safe.” He argues
“Oh, spare me.”
His eyes narrowed “Excuse me?”
“You don’t get to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” You jabbed a finger toward him. “Act like you own me.”
Frank went completely still.
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.” Your voice was rising now.
“You show up whenever you want.”
“You sleep on my couch.”
“YOU disappear for days.”
“And somehow I’m supposed to run every date by you for approval?”
“I didn’t say that.” Frank scoffs
“You’re acting like it.”
Frank took a step closer and you hated that your pulse reacted instantly.
“You think that’s what this is?” His voice was low.
You crossed your arms tighter. “What else would it be?”
A minute of dead silence passes before you finally get the strength to call him out fully.
“You’re jealous.” You scoff
Frank didn’t even react at first.
Then he actually laughed. Once. Short.
Unamused. “What?”
You tilted your head, watching him.
“You think I’m jealous?”
“It’s kind of obvious.” You shrugged.
That got a second laugh out of him.
Colder this time.
“Yeah?” he said. “Or maybe you just like thinkin’ everything’s about you.”
Your smile faltered a little.
“…Excuse me?”
Frank shook his head, already done with the conversation.
“Forget it.”
And then he turned away.
Walked straight into the living room like you weren’t even standing there.
Like the conversation hadn’t just split the air open.
You stared after him.
“Okay—no, no, no.”
You followed.
“Don’t do that.”
He didn’t answer.
He sat down on the couch instead.
Elbows on his knees.
Head slightly bowed.
Like he was trying to make himself smaller in a room that didn’t allow it.
You stopped in front of him.
“Frank.”
Nothing.
“Oh my God,” you muttered. “You are.” Still nothing.
You huffed, pacing once then you dropped down next to him on the couch, closer than he probably wanted.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t look at you.
Which somehow annoyed you more.
“Well,” you said lightly, leaning back, “although I had fun… I won’t be having a second date.”
That got him and his head turned slightly.
Not fully.
Just enough.
“Why?”
The question was immediate.
Flat.
You hesitated then shrugged.
“I don’t know. I just—”
You glanced at him.
“…I guess something was missing.”
Frank’s eyes shifted properly to you now.
“What d’you mean?”
You picked at your fingernail.
“He was nice. Sweet, I guess.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“But he wasn’t….like….you?”
Frank’s brow tightened slightly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You looked at him properly now.
Like you’d already decided there was no point lying.
“He wouldn’t kill someone for me.”
Silence.
It hit the room like something had dropped.
Frank went still. Completely still.
That kind of quiet he got when he didn’t know what to do with a sentence.
His jaw flexed once.
“You think that’s funny?”
Your eyes widened a little.
“What? No—I didn’t mean it like—”
But he was already shaking his head.
“That’s not—” he started, then stopped.
Because there wasn’t a version of that sentence that made it better.
You leaned in slightly, softer now.
“Frank…”
His eyes flicked to yours.
Something unreadable behind them.
You swallowed.
“I meant… he didn’t feel like he’d protect me if it came down to it.”
Frank looked away first like he always did when something got too close to real.
And for a second, neither of you spoke and the air between you wasn’t anger anymore.
The pad of his thumb brushed against your skin, feather-light, as he swept your hair to one side.
The motion was innocent enough, but the intention behind it made your breath catch. He was looking at the mark.
That purple-blue bruise that had appeared on your neck sometime between your second and third drink of the night.
Frank's hand moved again, adjusting the collar of your shirt.
His fingers were warm—warmer than you expected—and they lingered a second too long before dropping away.
"You let him do that?"
The words came out quiet, but sharp. Disgust colored his tone, made the question feel like an accusation.
You swallowed hard, your skin still tingling where he'd touched you.
"I didn't know he did it. We kissed a little but—"
"Okay, stop."
Frank shifted on the couch, creating distance between your bodies. His jaw tightened, and he stared at the television screen across the room instead of at you.
You watched him for a moment.
Studied the way his shoulders had gone rigid, how his hands rested on his thighs—fists curled loosely, but tight enough that his knuckles had gone pale.
"Does talking about me kissing other men bother you?"
The question hung in the air between you. Frank didn't answer. He just kept staring at the tv screen like it held the secrets of the universe.
"Well that’s not an answer," you pressed.
He shrugged.
A deliberate, casual lift of his shoulders that fooled no one.
"You're ignoring me."
Still nothing.
"Frank."
"What?" He finally looked at you, and something flickered in his dark eyes.
Frustration, maybe?
or Something he was trying very hard to bury.
You nudged his knee with yours. "Does me kissing other men bother you?"
His gaze slid away again.
"Oh my god." The realization hit you like a wave. "It does!"
"Shut up."
"Frank, admit it."
"No."
"Frank, Frank, Frank." You said his name like a chant, like a prayer, and something in his expression cracked. Just slightly. Just enough.
Before you could second-guess yourself, you moved.
You crawled across the couch cushions, swung one leg over his lap, and settled your weight on his thighs.
His hands came up instinctively, catching your hips to steady you—or maybe to push you away. He didn't push.
"Admit it," you whispered.
You pinned his wrists to the back of the couch. Your fingers wrapped around his pulse points, and you could feel how fast his heart was beating beneath the thin skin.
"Y/N, stop."
"Admit it and I'll let you go." You smiled down at him.
Watched as his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, as his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
His lips parted, then closed again.
"It bothers me," he finally said.
The words came out rough, reluctant, like he was confessing to a crime he didn't want to admit to.
You released his wrists, but you didn't move from his lap. Instead, you settled more firmly against him, feeling the hard muscles of his thighs beneath you.
"Why?" you asked.
He sighed. His head tipped back against the couch cushion, exposing the long line of his throat. You could see the tension there, the tendons standing out beneath his skin.
"Tell me why," you whispered.
You shifted your weight, dragging yourself higher until you were seated just above his waist. The new position made his breath catch audibly.
"Because..."
His voice faded.
His hands found your hips again, but this time they didn't rest there passively.
His fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt, bunching it against your sides.
"Because you want to do it?" you asked softly. "Is that it, Frank? You want to be the one leaving marks on me?"
He went still beneath you.
His eyes found yours, and you watched the conflict play out across his features. Uncertainty and wanting, fighting for dominance.
"That's not—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "We shouldn't."
"I didn't ask if we should." You leaned closer, bringing your face inches from his.
"I asked if you wanted to."
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Lingered there. His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you down against him with sudden urgency.
Through the denim of his jeans, you could feel him—hard and straining against the restrictive fabric.
"I've wanted to," he breathed. "For so fucking long."
Your whole body shivered at the admission. At the raw honesty in his voice.
"Then why didn't you say something?"
"Because you were out." His voice was strained now, tight with something that sounded a lot like jealousy.
"Because you came home with this mark on your neck. Because I'm the idiot who's been sitting here, pretending I don't care when every time you walk out that door with someone else, I want to—"
He cut himself off.
"You want to what?" You rolled your hips, a slow deliberate grind that made his breath stutter. "Tell me."
"I want to be the only one who knows what sounds you make."
Your pulse quickened. Heat pooled low in your belly, and you felt yourself responding to his touch, to his words, to the dark look in his eyes that promised things you'd only imagined.
"Show me," you whispered.
His fingers traced the curve of your waist "What?"
"Show me how much it bothers you." You leaned down, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth.
Frank groaned—a low sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.
His hand came up to fist in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing the column of your throat. The same throat that bore another man's mark.
"I'm going to cover every inch of you," he promised darkly, his breath hot against your pulse point. "By the time I'm done, you won't remember his name."
His lips descended on your neck, and your eyes fluttered closed. You forgot how to breathe.
Frank's hands clamped around your waist and in one fluid motion, he lifted you and flipped you onto your back.
The couch cushions sank beneath your weight, and before you could catch your breath, he was hovering over you—caging you in with those strong arms on either side of your head.
"Frank," you breathed. It was half protest, half plea.
His dark eyes bored into yours, searching for something. Permission, maybe. Or hesitation.
Finding neither, he lowered his mouth to your collarbone. Pressed a kiss there—soft at first, then harder. His teeth grazed the thin skin, and you gasped.
"That's better," he murmured against your skin.
You wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that you'd forgotten your date's name the moment his fingers had touched your neck.
But his mouth was moving lower, tracing a path down the centre of your chest, and words became impossible.
He pushed the hem of your shirt upward, exposing your stomach to the cool air of the apartment.
Then his lips followed, pressing kiss after kiss across your ribcage. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was memorising you.
"You have no idea," he said between kisses. "How many times I've imagined this."
Your fingers found his hair. Twisted into the dark strands and pulled. "Tell me."
"I'd hear you come home." Another kiss, just below your ribs. "Hear you laughing in your room with whoever you'd brought back." His tongue traced a circle around your navel. "And I'd lie in my bed, imagining what it would sound like if you were laughing for me instead."
"Frank—"
"Or moaning." His hands slid beneath your back, lifting you slightly so he could mouth at the curve of your waist. "Wondering what sounds you'd make if I were the one touching you."
A whimper escaped you. Your hips shifted restlessly against the couch cushion, seeking friction that wasn't there. Seeking him.
His mouth traveled lower still, hovering just above the waistband of your tights. You felt his breath through the fabric—hot and intentional.
He pressed one kiss to the inside of your hip bone, and your entire body jerked in response.
"Take these off for me," he whispered.
It took your brain a moment to process his words.
Then your hands were moving, clumsy and urgent, hooking into the waistband of your tights and dragging them downward.
You lifted your hips to help, and Frank shifted back to give you room. The fabric slid down your thighs, over your knees, past your ankles. You kicked the tights somewhere behind you—hearing them land on the floor with a soft thump.
Your underwear went with them. You didn't even think about it. Just stripped everything away until you were bare from the waist down, lying beneath him with nothing between you.
The sound of his pant zipper made your mouth go dry.
He pushed the denim down his hips. Revealed the sharp cut of his hipbones, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.
His erection strained against the thin cotton, and even from here, you could see the damp spot where he'd already leaked through.
He kicked the jeans aside and lowered himself back over you. Settled between your thighs like he belonged there.
"Y/N." His voice was rough. Frayed at the edges. "If I've crossed a line, tell me now."
His dark eyes searched yours again. There was genuine worry there—genuine uncertainty. Like part of him still couldn't believe you wanted this. That you wanted him.
You reached up. Cupped his face in your hands. Felt the scratch of stubble against your palms.
"I need you," you whispered.
Something broke behind his eyes. Something that had been holding him back, keeping him restrained.
"Ask me again," he growled.
"Frank, I need—"
"Ask me again." His hand wrapped around your thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise. He yanked your leg up, hooking it around his hip.
The new angle spread you open beneath him, left you completely exposed.
"Fuck me," you said. Your voice came out steadier this time. More certain. "Frank, please. I need you inside me. I need—"
His mouth crashed into yours.
His tongue pushed past your lips, tasting you, claiming you. His teeth caught your bottom lip, pulling it between them until you moaned into his mouth.
His hips rolled forward. Through the thin cotton of his boxer briefs, you felt him—hard and thick and pressing right where you needed him.
"More," you gasped against his lips.
He answered by reaching between your bodies. His fingers found you—found how wet you were—and a groan rumbled through his chest.
"All this for me?" He dragged one finger through your slickness. Pressed gently against your entrance but didn't push inside. "Just from kissing?"
"Frank, I swear to god—"
"What would you do if I made you wait?" His finger circled your clit—slow, teasing strokes that made your thighs shake. "If I touched you like this until you couldn't take it anymore?"
"I'd—ah—" His thumb replaced his finger, pressing harder. "I'd kill you."
He laughed against your throat. The sound was dark and pleased and entirely too smug.
"Good thing I'm not that patient then."
His hand disappeared. You heard the rustle of fabric—felt him shift as he finally, finally freed himself from his underwear. Then the head of his cock pressed against your entrance. He didn't push inside. Just held himself there, letting you feel the size of him.
"Look at me," he ordered.
Your eyes snapped open. Met his.
"I want to watch your pretty face," he said.
Then he pushed inside.
The stretch was overwhelming. He went slowly—inch by agonizing inch—giving your body time to adjust.
Your jaw fell slack. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, his back, anything you could reach. He filled you completely.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed. His forehead dropped to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut now, his jaw tight with restraint. "You feel—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to. You felt it too—the overwhelming tightness of him inside you. Like your body had been waiting for this without you even knowing.
His hips pulled back, slow and deliberate, until only the tip of him remained inside you. The emptiness felt wrong—like losing something essential.
Then he snapped forward again, filling you completely, and the sensation stole every thought from your head.
"Oh god—"
Your voice came out breathless, broken. Your arms wrapped around his neck instinctively, pulling him closer, needing to feel his weight pressing you into the couch cushions.
He let you draw him in, let your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, but his rhythm never faltered.
"Look at you," he murmured against your temple. His voice was strained, husky with effort. "Taking me so well."
His cock thrust into you again—deeper this time, angling upward—and your back arched off the couch.
A sharp cry tore from your throat before you could stop it. He swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing you hard and claiming while his hips kept moving.
This wasn't what you'd expected from Frank.
You'd imagined him—if you'd allowed yourself to imagine it at all—as someone who would be rough distant, maybe.
Someone who'd take what he wanted and leave you trembling in his wake. And there was roughness here, yes.
His fingers dug into your hip hard enough to leave bruises. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip when he kissed you.
But there was gentleness too.
His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in hot bursts across your face. One hand released your hip to cup your jaw, tilting your head back so he could watch your expression.
His thumb stroked your cheekbone—tender, almost reverent—even as his cock buried itself inside you over and over.
"Frank," you gasped. Your voice cracked on his name. "Oh my—please—"
"Please what?" He kissed the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then your jaw, his lips trailing down to that sensitive spot below your ear. "Tell me what you need."
"I don't—I can't—"
Words failed you. Your body was doing all the talking now—your hips rising to meet his, your legs tightening around his waist, your nails raking down the muscles of his back.
He groaned when you scratched him, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.
"There you go," he whispered against your skin. His pace quickened, each thrust becoming harder, more urgent. "That's it. Let me hear you."
A whimper escaped your throat. Then another. The sounds were embarrassing—needy and desperate—but you couldn't stop them.
Every stroke of him inside you pulled something loose, something you'd been holding tight without realizing it.
"That's my girl."
The words hit you somewhere deep. Your eyes flew open, finding his dark gaze inches from yours. He was watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip—a mix of possession and wonder that seemed at odds with the rough way he was fucking you.
"You are," he said, answering the question you hadn't asked aloud. "Have been for a long time. Just didn't know it yet."
His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck. He gripped you there—firm, controlling—and angled your head back until your throat was exposed.
His mouth descended on the column of your neck, kissing and biting a path from your jaw to your collarbone.
"Every time you left with someone else," he growled against your pulse point, "I thought about this. Thought about showing you what you were missing."
His teeth grazed your skin. Not hard enough to mark—not yet—but enough to make you shiver.
"Frank—"
"Thought about being the one to make you fall apart." His hips snapped forward, burying himself so deep you saw stars.
Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss. He rewarded you with a particularly brutal thrust that punched the air from your lungs.
The tension in your belly was building—coiling tighter and tighter with every movement.
"I'm close," you managed. The admission came out strangled, half-swallowed by a moan. "Frank, I'm—"
"I know." His rhythm shifted, becoming faster, more erratic. "I can feel you squeezing me. Feel how badly you want it."
You did. Your body was tightening around him instinctively, chasing the release that hovered just out of reach.
Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed.
He was beautiful like this. Undone and focused entirely on you.
"Come for me," he commanded. His voice dropped lower, taking on that dark edge that made your spine tingle. "Let go. I want to feel it."
His hand slipped between your bodies. His thumb found your clit—pressed against it in tight, deliberate circles that matched the rhythm of his hips.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. Your thighs began to shake. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps.
"Frank—Frank, I—"
"Let go," he said again. His mouth found yours, kissing you deeply, swallowing the sounds you couldn't contain. "Now."
Your orgasm crashed through you without warning.
Your whole body seized. Your back bowed off the couch, pressing your chest against his.
The world narrowed to nothing but the feeling of him inside you, the way he filled you completely, the pulse of pleasure that radiated from your core to your fingertips.
You were dimly aware of crying out—his name, maybe, or just wordless sounds of release—but your ears were ringing too loudly to hear yourself.
Frank groaned against your throat. His hips stuttered, losing their steady rhythm, and you felt him throb inside you as he followed you over the edge.
His hand tightened on your neck—not painful, just grounding. Holding you in place while he spilled himself deep within you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Your breath came in ragged gasps. Your heart pounded against your ribs—hard enough that you were certain he could feel it where your chests pressed together.
His weight settled more fully onto you, pinning you to the couch in a way that should have felt suffocating but instead felt safe.
Finally, he lifted his head. Those dark eyes found yours, still glazed with satisfaction. His hair was a mess—your fingers had done their work well—and his jaw was tight with the aftershocks of his release.
"You okay?" he asked. His voice was rough, but there was genuine concern beneath it.
You laughed. The sound surprised you—breathless and a little shaky, but real. "More than okay."
His mouth quirked. Not quite a smile, but close. His thumb stroked your cheekbone again, that same tender gesture from before. "Good."
He shifted, pulling back slightly. The movement made you both wince—the loss of connection acute and sudden. But he didn't go far.
He stayed hovering over you, his forearms bracketing your head, his body still tangled with yours.
"For the record," he said quietly, "that hickey is definitely covered now."
You tilted your head, trying to see your neck. "Is it?"
"Among other things." His eyes darkened again, that possessive glint returning. "I wasn't kidding about covering every inch of you."
A fresh wave of heat pulsed through you. Your body clenched around him—overstimulated but interested—and his breath hitched at the sensation.
"Frank," you started.
But whatever you were going to say died in your throat when he rolled his hips again, still half-hard inside you, and pressed a kiss to the pulse point thundering beneath your jaw.
Genre: Romantic comedy, smutty fluff, slow burn with chaotic truth spills light smut talk
Summery: George and Lee thought it would be funny to slip some truth serum into Fred’s butterbeer how could an innocent joke turn into such chaos
Ps: the truth serum lasts a lot longer than it realistically would 🤫
Part 1: The Joke That Should’ve Stayed a Joke
It began with a prank.
Like most terrible, brilliant ideas in Fred Weasley’s life, it started with laughter and ended in chaos.
“C’mon,” Lee whispered to George behind the broom shed, glancing down at the tiny vial of Veritaserum pinched between his fingers. “Just a drop or two. He’s been far too smug lately.”
George snorted. “You mean he’s been rubbing in the fact that he beat you at Strip Exploding Snap.”
“I wasn’t that naked.”
“You were down to socks.”
Lee scowled. “He cheated.”
“He always cheats.”
Which was exactly why they felt this was justified. A little dose in Fred’s butterbeer at dinner, a few cheeky questions, and maybe a public confession or two about how he once wet the bed in second year. Easy fun. Harmless.
They didn’t know.
They didn’t realize.
Fred Weasley was harbouring filth. Deep, obsessive, terrifyingly horny filth—and every single thought centred around you.
⸻
Dinner was uneventful at first.
You sat across the table from Fred, laughing with Ginny and Hermione, unaware that two mischievous bastards had slipped your longtime friend a potion designed to bypass every filter he had.
He was already three sips in when he locked eyes with you.
And then the spiral began.
She’s so fucking fit. That skirt should be illegal. Merlin’s saggy left nut, her lips look like heaven. I wonder if she knows I’d crawl through the Forbidden Forest just to lick her neck.
Fred’s face went pink.
“Fred?” you asked, noticing his expression.
He blinked, shook his head quickly. “Nothing. Fine. I’m fine. Dandy. Peachy.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You look like you swallowed a Niffler.”
“Probably deserves it,” Lee muttered, nudging George.
Then George, grinning wide, leaned in across the table. “Hey Fred, who would you say has the best… assets in Gryffindor?”
Fred’s mouth opened. “Y/N’s tits could end wars.”
Silence.
You choked on your pumpkin juice. Ron dropped a fork. Hermione’s mouth fell open.
Fred blinked, then smacked his own forehead. “Oh bollocks.”
Lee’s expression morphed into horror. “That was… not what I expected.”
George grabbed Fred by the arm. “We’re leaving.”
“I’d let her ride my face for hours,” Fred added as he was yanked from the bench.
“FRED!” Hermione shrieked.
You sat frozen in place, mouth slightly open, cheeks burning red.
What the actual fuck was that?
⸻
Part 2: The Escape Plan
“WHAT were you thinking?” Fred hissed in the dorm later that night, pacing like a man possessed. “Truth serum? Veritaserum?! On me?! Have you met me?”
“To be fair,” George said, trying not to laugh, “we thought we’d get you to admit to stealing Lee’s Quidditch socks. Not…”
“That I wank to the sound of her voice?!”
Lee winced. “Yeah, that was… vivid.”
Fred dragged a hand through his hair. “She’s never going to look at me again.”
“Well, she did look at you. Her face was redder than a tomato.”
“She probably thinks I’m a creep!”
“You are a creep,” George muttered. “But a very charming one.”
Fred groaned. “I need to avoid her.”
“What? Why?”
“Because if I see her again, I’ll say something worse. You don’t know what I think about.”
Lee raised an eyebrow. “Worse than wanting to be her human furniture?”
Fred gave them a haunted look. “So much worse.”
⸻
Part 3: The First Confrontation
You tried to corner him two days later.
He was fleeing the Great Hall like a man on fire.
“Fred!” you called, jogging after him. “Oi! Slow down!”
Fred turned a corner and ran straight into Peeves.
“Bugger,” he muttered.
That gave you time to catch up. You grabbed his sleeve. “Are you seriously avoiding me?”
“I—no—yes—I mean—don’t take it personally!”
“I am taking it personally!”
Fred backed into the wall, looking anywhere but at you. “It’s the serum. I didn’t mean to say all that.”
“But you did say it.”
“I didn’t want to!”
“But you meant it.”
Fred whimpered. “Merlin, yes, I meant it! Have you seen yourself?! Your legs go on forever and I’ve literally written poems about your arse in Divination!”
You blinked. “…What?”
“I once dropped a book on purpose just to watch you bend over,” Fred said helplessly. “You moaned when you picked it up and I nearly fainted.”
Your mouth dropped open.
Just then, George appeared.
“There you are!” he said loudly, grabbing Fred’s arm. “Come on, we’ve got detention, remember?”
Fred practically leapt away from you.
“I’LL WRITE YOU A LETTER!” he shouted over his shoulder as George dragged him off.
⸻
Part 4: The Confessions Escalate
By the fourth time, you weren’t even surprised.
You found Fred alone in the Astronomy Tower, hiding behind a tapestry.
He looked up at you with a guilty expression. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find me.”
“I always find you.”
He sighed. “I know. You smell like ink and sugar quills. It’s—ugh—it’s delicious.”
You bit your lip.
He stood slowly. “I’ve imagined you riding me in that chair in McGonagall’s classroom.”
“Fred.”
“In the library. Up against the restricted section. I’d lift your skirt and—fuck, I need to shut up.”
Your legs went weak.
“I can’t stop, Y/N. Every time I see you, my brain goes straight to filth. You make me feel like I’m thirteen again and discovering what a hard-on is.”
You opened your mouth—just as Lee’s voice echoed from below.
“Fred, come on! You said five minutes!”
Fred sighed in relief. “Saved by the bastard.”
You grabbed his sleeve. “One day, they won’t be around to save you.”
Fred’s expression changed. “And on that day, I’m going to ruin you.”
Fred avoided you for another week.
You couldn’t so much as glance at him without George or Lee flanking him like Aurors on guard duty. If you sat down beside him, one of them magically needed him somewhere else. Every time he opened his mouth, one of them interrupted.
And yet… the things he did manage to say?
They haunted you.
“You make me feel like I’m thirteen again and discovering what a hard-on is.”
“I’ve imagined you riding me in that chair in McGonagall’s classroom.”
“You moaned and I nearly fainted.”
You replayed them in bed. At breakfast. During bloody Charms. And worst of all: Fred knew it.
Because every time your eyes met across the Great Hall or a corridor, he’d flush deep red and mutter something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch.
And you were getting impatient.
Dangerously so.
⸻
The Breaking Point
It was late.
The Gryffindor common room had thinned out to just a few scattered students dozing near the fire. You were curled up in an armchair with a Transfiguration book you weren’t really reading.
And then Fred walked in.
Alone.
Your heart nearly exploded.
He froze when he saw you.
You didn’t even hesitate. “Sit down.”
Fred looked torn between bolting or throwing himself into the fire.
“Fred.”
He gave in with a heavy sigh and slumped onto the sofa across from you. His legs spread wide, one hand gripping the back of his neck.
“George and Lee aren’t here to save you this time,” you said.
“I noticed,” he muttered.
You closed your book. “Then tell me.”
Fred stared into the flames for a long moment, jaw tight, lips parted like he was catching his breath.
And then—
“I think about fucking you more than I think about food.”
Your entire body went still.
Fred didn’t stop.
“I wake up hard. Every morning. From dreams about you. Last week I came in my pants because I dreamed you were sitting on my face.”
Your legs pressed together instinctively.
Fred’s voice dropped, ragged and low. “You were begging. Grinding down on me. Your thighs shaking. I could taste you in the dream.”
You swallowed hard.
Fred ran a hand over his face. “Every time you wear that little skirt—the grey one—I imagine you bent over a desk. I’d lift it, pull your knickers to the side, and fuck you so hard the books fall off.”
Your thighs clenched.
“I want you to make those little sounds I’ve only ever imagined. I want to bury my face between your legs and not come up for air. I want your fingers in my hair while I make you fall apart.”
“Fred…” you whispered.
“I want to ruin every surface in this bloody castle with you. I want your nails down my back, your voice hoarse from screaming my name.”
Your breath hitched. “Jesus.”
“And it’s not just sex,” he went on, words speeding up like they were desperate to escape. “It’s you. It’s your laugh. The way you make me feel like I’m flying when you look at me. I love you. I’m completely, helplessly, humiliatingly in love with you.”
Silence.
Fred stared at you, chest rising and falling hard, like he’d just run a marathon. “And I wasn’t supposed to say any of that. I was supposed to keep pretending I was fine.”
You were on your feet before your brain could catch up.
You crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him.
It was fire. Messy. Desperate. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his hands gripping your hips like he’d die if he let go.
He moaned against your mouth, and it shot straight through your core.
You pulled back just enough to speak. “Fred?”
“Yeah?”
“Still under the serum?”
“Wearing off,” he whispered. “But I’d say it anyway.”
You kissed him again, harder.
Fred groaned, pulling you into his lap without warning, and you straddled him without hesitation. His hands dragged up your thighs, pushing your skirt up until his palms were hot against your bare skin.
“You’re even better than the dreams,” he mumbled, lips brushing your neck.
“Then make new ones,” you breathed. “With me.”
Fred’s grin was sinful. “Witch, I’m going to ruin you.”
‘Just before Christmas dinner at the Burrow, Fred and George decide it’s time to bring you in on an old, festive tradition of theirs: sharing a secret blunt behind the shed.’
It’s Christmas morning at the Burrow, the house still half-asleep under a blanket of quiet snow. The fire is crackling low, wrapping paper is strewn across the living room floor, and Mrs Weasley is clattering around the kitchen starting the epic Christmas lunch. Everyone else (Charlie, Bill, Fleur, Ginny, Harry, Ron, Arthur, Percy…) is dozing by the fire or playing games of Exploding Snap. Perfect opportunity for a special smoke break, the boys think.
Fred starts it by catching your eye from across the living room, a familiar mischievous glint sparking in his green eyes. He tilts his head toward the back door and mimes smoking a joint, thumb and index finger pressed to his lips. George, sprawled next to you on the couch with his hand drawing circles on your thigh with his big thumb, notices a second later and smirks. No words needed: you three have done this dance before. You slip out one by one so it’s not obvious. Fred goes first, pretending he’s fetching more firewood; George follows with a yawn and a “just getting some air”; you wait thirty seconds, then mumble something about joining him and duck out after them.
When you step out of the front door, the December cold hits like a slap but it’s exhilarating. Snow is falling in fat flurries, blanketing the long-grass field in perfect white silence. The twins are already waiting behind the shed, now reclaimed as their makeshift workshop for prototypes, backs against the weathered wood, scarves loose around their necks, and cheeks already pink from the chill.
Fred pulls a perfectly rolled joint from his pocket. “Not just regular stuff, either…. It’s something we worked on so you can still get high without getting a cough.”
“Couldn’t you just have baked edibles?” you ask.
“And stink the house out? Mum would kill us,” George laughs. Then, he flicks his wand with a quiet “Incendio,” lighting the twisted tip of the joint in a soft blue flame. Fred takes the first drag, eyes closing in satisfaction, then passes it to you.
“Your turn, pothead,” he grins. You smile and inhale slowly, the earthy-sweet smoke filling your lungs, warmth blooming instantly against the winter air.
“Beautifully rolled, boys.” You hand it on to George, who takes his pull and immediately steps closer, crowding you gently between them.
“S’freezing. Gimme your hands,” George says, cupping your bare hands in his mitten-clad ones. “Should’ve put your gloves on, numpty.”
You roll your eyes fondly. “Sorry, mum.”
“This is always the best part of Christmas,” Fred murmurs, voice low, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curls up into the falling snow. “Better when you’re here though,” he grind at you.
George leans in from the other side, his breath warm against your ear. “S’nice when it’s just us three. As much as I love the screaming gnomes and constant Celestina Warbeck songs… we have earned break.”
You laugh softly, the high already loosening your limbs, making everything feel softer, funnier. The three of you pass it back and forth in comfortable silence for a minute, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other under the pretense of staying warm. Once you finish the joint and stub it out, George shoving it in his pocket to dispose of the evidence, one of them cracks a stupid joke about Ron’s current haircut and you all keel over in tears. You try and make your way back to the house but you’re giggling too much and have to calm down, first.
When you finally wipe the tears from your eyes, Fred’s fingers lace with yours and George’s arm slides around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. Snowflakes melt on your eyelashes; the world feels muffled and perfect.
“Think anyone’s noticed we’re gone, yet?” you whisper, not really caring.
George chuckles, the vibration rumbling through his chest into your back. “Give it five more minutes. Then Mum’ll send Ginny to drag us in for lunch.”
Fred grins, “Plenty of time, then.”
He turns you toward him, cups your cold cheeks, and pecks your lips— tasting smoke and cinnamon from earlier cocoa. George doesn’t wait long before turning your face to him and claiming his own kiss, competitively. You groan, “oh, stop it, your noses are freezing!”
When you finally wiggle your way away from their chests, all three of you are flushed, eyes bright, giggling like first-years who got away with something.
Fred slings an arm around your shoulders, George takes your hand, and you trudge back through the snow toward the warm glow of the kitchen door —high, happy, and smelling faintly of mischief. “Don’t worry,” Fred reassures you, “we tweaked it to be odourless”
You get inside just in time for Molly to shout, “There you are! Lunch in five— wash your hands and set the table please, boys. Y/N, do you want a glass of Elven Prosecco, darling?” you nod enthusiastically and follow Molly into the kitchen. You then back and catch the twins’ eyes, sharing one last secret smirk, and step into the kitchen like nothing happened.
BigBrother!Voyeur!Choso / LittleSister!Exhibitionist!Reader / OneNightStand!Stranger (Who's Totally Into it)
Pairing: Choso x Fem!Reader x Stranger (No use of y/n)
Summary: Big Brother Choso watches over you as you sate your baser, more human, desires.
CW: Pseudo Incest, Sex With A Stranger, Club Sex, Public Sex, Dirty Talking, “Onii-Chan”, Dead Dove Do Not Eat
Choso watches you get fucked by a stranger in the club, but doesn't participate.
Word Count: 1.5k
➽──────────────❥
As his one and only little sister, Choso had always strived to take care of you properly. Despite everything, he wanted your life to be easy and happy. But, like the rest of your family, there were certain things that made that difficult. Like Choso, you were easily passable for human. But unlike him, you were often plagued by their baser instincts.
It was a constant source of struggle in your life, but you navigated it as best you could the same way you navigated anything else- with big brother Choso’s help. Sometimes, it was enough to handle on your own, having had so many years of practice. But sometimes, it demanded more than could be given by your hands alone.
So when the familiar heat began to stir and you recognized it for the oncoming inferno it was, you went to Choso. The two of you had a system in place for dealing with these instances, so you already knew what to do. And when you were standing in front of him in the thin, sparkly ribbon of fabric- he dropped what was he was doing and took you where you needed to go.
It was so much easier in the modern era, honestly. Humans built a number of shrines dedicated to their lust and it was nothing to walk into one. He leaned against the wall, the music pounding through his blood and the dim lights casting colorful shadows. He watched you move through the bodies pulsing together on the floor, losing yourself in the lull and the lust. You were a vision, graceful and tantalizing- your body honey to the flies that buzzed around you.
You danced around the men, letting some get closer than others. The ones up for consideration, you let very close. Let them rock their bodies into you, let them trail their fingers up your exposed thighs or down the low dip of your dress. If you liked them, you’d let them keep touching. If you didn’t- you’d simply twirl away with a teasing smile.
Choso always paid particular attention to those you rejected, watching for any signs of their desire melting into hostility- intervening if it did. Discretely, mind you. While you knew he was there guarding you by the wayside, Choso always took care to to enforce any boundaries without drawing your attention. This was your ritual and he’d have nothing interrupt it.
When you let one of them kiss you, he knew you’d made your selection. The man’s tall frame leaned down to kiss you harder, hands pulling your hips flush with his own, dancing devolving into a desperate grind. You broke the kiss and stepped back with a grin, tugging his hand to follow you. Choso followed as well.
You led him down one of the halls that surrounded the dance floor. Long red lit corridors lined with partitioned, open stalls. You passed multiple couples tangled in their cubbies, some kissing against the wall, some dropped to their knees, some pinned for the taking.
At the first open stall, you dragged your stranger inside and immediately his mouth found yours again. Back hitting the wall, his hands ran up and down your figure, feeling the curves of your body. He slotted a leg between your thighs and you rubbed yourself against him, letting the rough texture of his jeans slide over you. The dress bunched up around your waist with the movement. He glanced down, the sight of your naked pussy dragging against him had his dick straining.
His mouth found the hollow of your throat and began to suck, groaning as you tangled your fingers in his dark hair. His thumbs flicked over your peaked nipples and you adjusted the roll of your hips to grind your clit into the hard curve of his knee. He lifted his leg, your body coming slightly off the ground as he bounced you. Your head tilts back against the wall, fingers falling to grip his shoulders as you hump away at his leg. He takes a hand off your nipple and grabs your waist, forcing you faster and faster.
The first orgasm wets your appetite, pussy still clenching as your hands fly to the button of his pants. He helps you, popping the button and unzipping, hand going into them to spring his cock free. It pops out, thick and heavy and already dripping precum. There was no time wasted as his strong hands gripped your thighs and lifted you, pinning them open against the wall. In one practiced roll of his hips, he bottoms out and you squeeze his cock, cunt not willing to let go.
His pace is steady as he drives you into the wall and as your lidded eyes lift in pleasure, you smile locking eyes with Choso. The man notices your distant gaze and peers over his shoulder, pace not faltering. “Fuck off, man,” he growls.
Choso doesn’t respond, leaning arms crossed against the stall’s partition with an impassive expression. “Shhh, it’s okay,” you tell him, drawing his attention back to you. “He’s just going to watch.”
A cocky grin slides across his face then and his pace picks up. “Oh yeah? You like to watch, huh? This your girl I’m railing, man?”
Choso says nothing. You hum, “big brother loves to watch~”
The man’s thrusts stutter for a moment, trying to process what you just said through the heavy haze of alcohol. But he quickly rights himself as he spares another look at Choso and then back at you again. “Heh. Some kinky shit.” He steps closer into you, hands bruising your thighs were he held you apart while his powerful body plows between them.
You whimper as he his a more sensitive spot inside you. “Feels so good, onii-chan~”
“Ugh, fuck- that’s hot,” he groans. “You watching, bro? Watching me pump baby sister’s pussy?” You reach a hand down between your bodies and start rubbing your clit. “Yeah, baby, that’s it- touch yourself… Fuck, squeezing me so tight…”
You lock eyes with Choso as your rub yourself. The heat of his stare is intense, spurring your pleasure. “Feels better when you watch me,” you whine.
“Pussy’s so fucking tight,” he grits out, his own knees digging into the wall as he slams into you. “Perfect fucking body… Nasty little slut…” You squeeze him. “Ohh, you like that, don’t you? Being told how much of a whore you are? Disgusting bitch, letting her big brother watch her get pounded. Does he fuck you too? You let him put his cock in you?”
“Love you so much, Cho. Love when you fuck me. Gonna cum~ gonna cum for you, onii-chan~”
“Fuck yeah, fucking cum bitch. Baby sis gonna cream all over my fucking cock-“ he pumps you rough and hard and you push your fingers harder into your clit, vibrating with the intensity of your speed. “Oh shit, I feel it. Oh fuck, you’re cumming. She’s coming- fuck fuck fuck-“
Your moan deeply as you cum around the strangers cock, Choso’s eyes never leaving you. “Oh shit, sluts still cumming. Squeezing so hard- fuck- I’m gonna cum. Gonna cum deep inside your baby sister-“ The moment his dick spasms he’s ripped back from your body, cum shooting into the air and landing on the floor. He grips his dick as it spurts, hunched over, looking up in indignation- trying to process what the fuck just happened.
His face twists, “what the-“
“You’re done.” Choso tells him, placing his body between the two of you now.
The man looks up at Choso, prepared to tell him off but there’s a quick flash of sobriety and a spark of better judgment. So dejectedly he shakes his head and shoves his dick back into his pants, stumbling away. “Fuckin’ creeps.”
Choso turns his attention fully to you now, his expression finally softening. Gently he traces his fingers over your face, “feel better?”
You nod, turning into his hand and nuzzling his palm. “Feel better, onii-chan…” You reassure him, but your honest eyes betrays you. He knows you’re not completely satisfied.
“Are you lying to your onii-chan?”
You bit your lip, caught- eyes tearing up. “Need more…” you confess, pulling him closer to you. He leans in, kissing the side of your forehead, gently dragging the long sleeve of his loose shirt over the mess of your thighs- cleaning you up.
“We’ll get another one,” he promises, taking your hand and leading you back towards the dance floor in search of your next bedmate. But you both know it still won’t be enough. It never is. No matter how many cocks pump into you or how many times you cum, you won’t be truly satisfied.
Voyeur!Sanji / Oblivious!Reader
Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Fem!Reader [No use of y/n]
Summary: A two-way mirror in Sanji's resort room gives him a show of what's going on next door.
CW: Voyeur, DubCon, Peeping, Masturbation (Fem & Male)
Just a little thing that came to me after Sanji's comment in the last episode (¬‿͡¬)
Word Count: 1.5k
The Resort
Part One: Two Way [You are here!]
Part Two: Poolside [You really have no idea just how desirable you are to him]
Part Three: Wingwoman [You try assisting Sanji with the ladies in the bar as thanks]
Part Four: Walk of Shame [Sanji carries you to your room, and the situation gets sticky]
Part Five: Through the Looking Glass [Sanji watching you through the mirror]
Part Six: Save the Last Dance [A passionate dance says more than words]
Part Seven: Nothing Else in the World [Neither of you will ever be the same after tonight]
Part Eight: Walk of Flame [Bringing the earlier fantasy to life]
Part Nine: Not Going Anywhere [Sanji has been so hungry for you]
Part Ten: Wanted [Show him he's just as wanted as you are]
Part Eleven: Sweeter Things [The night turns a little sweeter]
Part Twelve: What About Tomorrow? [When the night ends, what happens tomorrow?]
➽──────────────❥
It’s a pretty rare occurrence that the crew gets such luxurious shore leave. But, after helping out the little island resort, the owner offered you all a free overnight stay. With all the amenities it had to offer. Which was certainly more than you were used to. Since it was apparently the resort’s “off” season, the owner had no qualms about offering it- even to a group of pirates- in thanks for the help.
You and the other girls had been off the boat faster than Luffy could whine he wanted to go to the next island. You’re pretty sure it was the buffet that made him change his tune. You, Robin, and Nami, however went for a much needed girls’ day around the island. Nami winked as she told both of you she was adjusting your allowances- just don’t tell the boys. The three of you had a blast together, but as the day crept on and your hands got fuller, you decided to take a break and meet back up in a few hours.
Everyone gets their own room- or, at least, gets the option for it. Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper are going to have a sleep over. You, however, eagerly snatch up the opportunity to have a space all to yourself. The rooms are separated by twos- a door conjoining each coupled room. For guests with larger groups, the owner had explained. The door connecting your room to Sanji’s is locked, but it doesn’t bother you. The room itself isn’t very big- a bed, a few chairs, a jacuzzi tub that you would definitely be using tonight, and a small connecting bathroom.
You toss your bags onto the bed and kick off your shoes, rifling through all the pretty new things you bought. The three of you were going to meet up at the pool later, so you need to decide which new suit you’re going to wear.
You strip off your clothes and grab the first one. A one piece, low cut with bows tying it together down the sides. Once you’ve got it on, you stand in front of the large mirror fixed to the wall across from your bed. You turn this way and that, admiring the way it looks on you- still just as happy with it as you had been in the shop.
Sanji exits the shower in a cloud of steam, one towel around his waist, the other he’s using to dry his hair. Suddenly he stops dead in his tracks. His smile brightened as he saw you, “Oh, what are you doing here~?” he asks, but you don’t respond. He steps towards you- you’re striking poses in a swimsuit he’s never seen you in before. He was about to compliment how beautiful it made you look when it occurs to him what he’s looking at.
He steps up in front of you and waves his hand, but you don’t acknowledge him at all. He reaches out, hand meeting cool glass. “Oh, shit.” It was a mirror- a two way mirror. He fists his hand to knock on the glass- to alert you to his presence… when you starting stripping the suit off. “Ohh shit,” he breathes, hand hanging in the air.
He should knock. He should definitely knock. No, wait- he should leave. If he knocks now you’ll know he already saw you. He should definitely-
You shimmy out of the suit, your breasts gently bouncing being released form their confinement. Sanji thinks his his heart will burst from his chest the way its pounding. You turn from the mirror, kicking the suit off the rest of the way and Sanji’s eyes are glued to the curve of your ass while you pick out what to try next.
A two piece with ruffly trim. Sanji’s body grows hot as you step towards the mirror- certain you’re going to catch him peeping on you. But you have no idea- you can’t see him at all. You place your hands on your hips and twist your body. One hand gathers up your hair and you flutter your lashes with a little pout that makes his heart flip.
Before you drop it back down with a frown and a shake of your head. It seems you don’t like this one as much. Though, Sanji has no idea why because you look like a divine angel.
You turn away and go back to the pile, stripping once more and tossing it to the side. Sanji’s cock twitches when you bend over low to reach for something on the bed. Straightening, he sees a new suit in your hands that’s nothing but string and a scrap of fabric. His body stirs in anticipation for you to put it on.
The bottoms are scant and show the delicious peak of your ass, but when you turn around- Sanji nearly hits the floor. Little blue triangles are bound tight over your nipples, but leave the gorgeous curves of your breasts mostly free. His eyes dip lower to a width of fabric that wouldn’t even cover the expanse of his palm. He’d never seen you in anything like this before, but it was more delicious than he could have imagined.
His cock twitches against his towel as you step up to the mirror, coming so close that he can see the shape of your nipples through the bikini. It took every ounce of strength not to drop to his knees to get a better view of your cunt. He wonders if he looks hard enough, if he can see the outline of your slit behind them.
Your eyes roam over your own body with a bashful smile. Then your hands follow, fingers trailing over your chest, gently grazing your own nipples. Sanji watches as they peak beneath your fingers and you start caressing them. His hand goes to his stomach, rubbing his own body. Your thighs press together and a small sigh escapes your lips.
“Maybe…” Sanji stills- air escaping his lungs as he hears your pretty voice. He wonders for a moment if you can hear him too, but then remembers he had already tried to call out to you. So clearly not. “Maybe, I could find someone on the island,” you muse to yourself. And as your hands slide lower down your body, so do his. “Just for tonight…” Your fingers slide over your barely concealed cunt and Sanji rubs his hard on through the towel.
If only he could go to you right now. If only he could be the one to give you what you were craving tonight- or hell- every night. He’d drop to his knees in front of you and press his tongue between your legs, lick you through that skimpy little suit. He’d let you use him all night long, however you wanted. He’d make use of every inch of that room and of your body- for hours until you physically couldn’t take it anymore. He’d make you cum more than you ever had in your entire life- he was sure of it. If you just gave him one chance, he’d prove it to you. He wouldn’t disappoint you. He’d be so good-
You moan, hand reaching up to lean against the mirror. Fingers pulling the crotch of your suit to the side and rubbing through your slit. Sanji places his palm against yours through the mirror and takes off his towel.
Precum drips from his cockhead as he strokes himself in time with your movements. When you buck your hips forward, so does he. When you start sliding a finger inside yourself, he rings his fingers and slips his cock through- imagining it was him going inside of you in that moment. You spread your legs a bit wider, trying to push your fingers deeper inside. The furrow of your brow told him you weren’t reaching as deep as you wanted.
But, he could do it. His long expert fingers could slide in to the knuckle and he’d find that sweet spongy spot inside and stroke it until you squirted in his hands. He wonders if you ever have before and his cock twitches with the fantasy of being the one to show you how.
You pull out of your cunt and rub your soaking fingers over your clit. Fast, hard, you work it back and forth- only focusing on reaching that high. Sanji strokes his cockhead fast and hard alongside you, hand slippery with his own precum. He watches your body convulse as the orgasm tears through you and he knows he’ll never forget that look on your face for as long as he lives.
With one last jerk of his cock, he joins you- cum shooting onto the mirror and he just can’t believe there’s only a few inches of space that separates you from being soaked with him.
You press your forehead to the mirror, trying to regain your breath. Sanji leans forward and touches his own forehead to yours through the glass. “Tu es belle,” he breathes and you pull black, blinking. His heart stutters at the confusion on your face as your eyes roam your reflection. Had you heard him?
You shake your head and let out a deep breath, dragging your clean hand down your face. "Just making up what I wanna hear," you mumble.
His heart tumbles. Did you want to hear him? Do you imagine his voice?
You go back to the bed and throw yourself onto it, laying amongst the piles of things he was looking forward to seeing you in.
He hopes you’ll model some more for him tonight.
➽──────────────❥
Translation:
“Tu es belle,” = You are beautiful.
➽──────────────❥
The Resort
Part One: Two Way [You are here!]
Part Two: Poolside [You really have no idea just how desirable you are to him]
Part Three: Wingwoman [You try assisting Sanji with the ladies in the bar as thanks]
Part Four: Walk of Shame [Sanji carries you to your room, and the situation gets sticky]
Part Five: Through the Looking Glass [Sanji watching you through the mirror]
Part Six: Save the Last Dance [A passionate dance says more than words]
Part Seven: Nothing Else in the World [Neither of you will ever be the same after tonight]
Part Eight: Walk of Flame [Bringing the earlier fantasy to life]
Part Nine: Not Going Anywhere [Sanji has been so hungry for you]
Part Ten: Wanted [Show him he's just as wanted as you are]
Part Eleven: Sweeter Things [The night turns a little sweeter]
Part Twelve: What About Tomorrow? [When the night ends, what happens tomorrow?]
this is because they write with their mind penis and have terrible childhoods and horrible luck, which seems to be the key factor in writing shakespeare level smut
SYNOPSIS — Helping the quiet TA, who shrinks himself down to avoid taking too much space, come out of his shell. You’re slowly understanding why he thrives in an environment where he’s told what to do — and he shows you why he’s hesitant to be in charge.
TAGS — MDNI (18 + only) nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Gentle Giant!Choso, Dork!choso, overly freaked out!reader. Nerd!choso, SIZE KINK, sub to top(M), Switchy. rough. making out. couch sex. lifting. mutual masturbation. Changing positions. Missiònary. excessive use of sexual innuendos, dacryphilla, inconsistent writing (?). Choso will do anything you ask. PWP. Teasing, Degradation (both). pet names. crack.fluff. reader is nice to him obv. but freaked out.
WC: 14k — art by k4eny on twt
a/n: Hello blog, IM VERY HAPPY W THIS ONE and i promise to not leave u high and dry! this is highly inspired by an augustinthewinter audio (im a #freak) — Also what if I release my drabbles HEH
75%
The score read on your last mock test for your Historiography class. Your worst subject for the semester by far. Next week was going to be your midterm. Now, since your professor, Mr. Gojo, knows his students a little too well, he facilitated a surprise mock text to see how much you all understood the lessons.
A chorus of curses and groans start filling up the classroom with each student receiving their results as they’re handed out.
“…Now I can assure you, if you guys are worried about scoring higher than each other, it won’t matter because theoretically almost all of you failed.”
Another set of groans and a little bit of laughter comes from the class. You’re back to looking down on your paper, flipping through the pages to check every question and each correction out of habit, noting down what you have to improve on. Then you stumble upon the last page with the words;
Feel free to ask for help :) You smile, knowing exactly who wrote this without them being in the room. You look up to double check and you’re right, it was just your prof still going on about Khaldun or something — you tune him out to make way for the giddy feeling rushing through your stomach.
Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.
It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you.
You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say.
The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”
He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”
You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?”
You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name.
Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head.
He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness.
“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk.
“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.
“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?”
You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”
He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”
You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“
“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks.
He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.
Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”
You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building.
You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breath caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.
Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face.
“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.
“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.
He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“
“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back.
His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.
“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful, “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”
“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”
“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words. You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was.
He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both.
Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude.
“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish.
“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds.
He’s so polite, you could just die.
You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.
You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.
But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.
He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.
You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.
You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both.
Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers.
You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure.
You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?
You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?
“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.
He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time.
A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations.
You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“
He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again.
“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.
“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now.
He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”
Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.
You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”
He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?”
You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.
“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.
You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place.
“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“
“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.”
Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.”
You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing how?”
For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.
“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one.
You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.
Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships. And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year.
But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.
His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again.
Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.
You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing.
So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.
Sort of.
Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage.
“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up, towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.”
He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”
You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”
“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.
You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself — but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe.
Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him.
“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer.
The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself.
You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—
“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.”
The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.
He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.
Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.
Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”
You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.
You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“
He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“
Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.
Choso all but freezes, “What?”
Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No.
“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.
You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.
“Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.
You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.
“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves.
A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”
***
It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”
You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top.
There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”
“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”
At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”
Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”
She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.
Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”
She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”
“I don’t have a crush on him!”
She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”
“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”
“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”
You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”
“Y’know I love you.” She starts.
“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.
“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“
“What would Muta think…?”
She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”
You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”
She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?”
You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“
“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”
She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”
You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax.
You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think.
“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.
You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her.
Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along.
“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat.
“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering.
“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.
You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.”
It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”
Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion.
She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”
She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face.
***
“—I think they never made any real contact.”
“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”
Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out.
If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic. At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.
“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”
“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say, completing her sentence.
“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.
She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table.
“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.
“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”
“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.
You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.
There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest.
There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?”
You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways.
You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”
It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him.
A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group.
“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him.
“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”
You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”
He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him.
“My brother by the way. Same year though.”
Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.
“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that.
“I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”
You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”
You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously.
“We don’t look related do we?”
Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“
“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”
“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”
“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features.
“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.
The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement.
***
It’s around 6:40pm when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you.
He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”
For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.
“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”
He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”
The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”
You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now.
“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.
Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.
“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.”
There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of. I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.”
You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”
After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.
“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”
You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.
“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”
At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”
He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”
“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip.
He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?”
Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it. No going back. Remember?
“I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.”
Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.
You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.”
“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed.
You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”
“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure.
“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”
“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”
Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”
“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.
You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.”
Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“
“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”
Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it. “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“
“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”
The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”
***
The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings.
Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away.
He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“
You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.
He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment.
It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor.
“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.
“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.
“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“
“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him.
It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.
He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.”
Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought.
On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.
He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face.
An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.”
You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.
He follows your gaze, “What?”
“You’re also thinking of something.”
His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”
You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”
Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.
Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.
“Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out.
He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out.
“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”
He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes,
“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating.
“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him.
“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“ You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough.
“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment.
He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.
“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.
You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But what I wanna know is,”
He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.
Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do…?”
He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips.
He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling.
His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.”
If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry.
His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.
Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“ He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.
“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.
You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.
You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him, mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.
He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.
You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors. Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear.
He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.
You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod.
You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”
His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.
He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.
“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”
He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.
He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him.
You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue, entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.
“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.
You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.
“Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.
You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,
“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?”
His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“
“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about.
Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“
You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um, anything.”
You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.
He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again.
“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck.
You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor.
You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.
“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.
His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.
You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster.
You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection.
You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.”
You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”
You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”
And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“
He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit.
He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements. He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.
Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“
“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up.
You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely.
You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”
Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off.
He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself. “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”
Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,”
Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.
You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast. You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”
Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“
“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“
He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.
And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”
His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?”
You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”
He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between.
He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”
You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.
Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material.
“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy.
You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.” He says, discouraged.
“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words.
He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.
He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant.
“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"
His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed.
The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully.
Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.
He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.
He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”
He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth.
He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”
You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more.
You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good.
But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,”
He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk”
It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.
Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.
You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea.
“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”
He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly. “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“
He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”
It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”
“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.
“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.”
The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“
He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“
He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.
“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina.
Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“
“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim. He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.
His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you.
Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”
His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.
He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.
The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.
He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”
You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.
Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.
He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you.
You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.
He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately.
A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum. Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face.
Your chests are pumping against each other, both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions.
You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.
“What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”
Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.
He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“
He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”
You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient.
You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”
He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”
it’s quiet at his place. not the empty kind of quiet. the comfortable kind.
the kind that settles into the walls, into the couch, into the space between you and meguru as you sit beside him, legs brushing, the tv playing something neither of you are really watching.
he’s different here. you noticed it the first time you came over.
still him, still restless in small ways, still tapping his fingers or shifting positions, but softer. slower. like the world outside doesn’t reach him the same way.
“stay,” he murmurs suddenly.
you blink, turning your head slightly. “i wasn’t going anywhere.”
he hums, like that wasn’t really what he meant.
“no, like—stay here,” he adds, shifting closer until his shoulder presses against yours. “don’t move.”
you let out a small breath, amused but curious. “okay…”
he leans into you more fully now, his head dropping against your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
for a moment, neither of you say anything.
you can feel his breathing. slow. even.
“…it’s quiet,” he says after a while.
you glance down at him. “the apartment?”
he shakes his head slightly against you.
“no. in here.” he taps lightly against his temple, then lets his hand fall to rest loosely on your thigh.
your chest tightens.
“…because of me?”
he nods.
“it doesn’t usually stop,” he admits, voice softer now, almost like he doesn’t want to break the moment. “it’s always telling me to move, to find something better. something more fun.”
his fingers shift slightly, brushing against your leg without thinking.
“but when you’re here…”
he trails off. you don’t rush him. you’ve learned not to.
“…it just stays,” he finishes.
your hand moves before you think about it, resting lightly in his hair, fingers threading through soft strands.
he goes still for half a second. then relaxes completely. like he’s been waiting for that.
“is that okay?” you ask quietly.
he nods against you.
“yeah,” he murmurs. “it likes this.”
you huff out a small laugh. “your monster has opinions now?”
“it always did,” he says. “you’re just one of the few things it agrees with.”
you shake your head slightly, but your fingers don’t stop moving.
the room feels warmer. closer.
he shifts again, turning just enough so he’s facing you now, his head still resting against you but his eyes tilted up.
watching. studying. not in a curious way this time. in a certain one.
“…what?” you ask softly.
he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize something.
“you make it easy,” he says finally.
“easy?”
“to stay,” he clarifies.
your breath catches slightly.
he lifts himself just a little, enough to be closer now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him more clearly, the way his presence fills the space without overwhelming it.
his hand shifts from your thigh to your wrist, fingers loosely wrapping around it, grounding but gentle.
“usually i get bored,” he continues, quieter now. “or it gets loud again. like i’m missing something.”
his thumb brushes lightly over your skin.
“but i’m not,” he says.
you swallow. “…you’re not?”
he shakes his head. “no.”
there’s something in his voice—something steady, something real—that makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t quite explain.
you lean into him this time. just slightly. but he notices. he always notices.
his grip tightens just a little, not enough to trap you, just enough to keep you there.
“see?” he murmurs.
you let out a soft breath, your forehead almost brushing his now.
“you’re very sure about this.”
he smiles. not wide. not playful. just… warm.
“yeah,” he says.
a pause. then, softer,
“it likes you.”
your lips twitch slightly. “and you?”
his eyes don’t leave yours.
not for a second.
“i told you,” he says quietly. “it’s not just the monster.”
your heart stumbles.
his hand slides from your wrist to your hand, fingers lacing with yours slowly this time, like he wants you to feel it.
to understand it. you don’t pull away. you don’t want to.
“stay,” he repeats, softer now.
this time,
it doesn’t sound like a request. and you don’t treat it like one.
“okay,” you whisper.
and for once, everything is quiet.
a/n : LMFAO is this a drabble? fic? idk, but atleast i made some bachira content. also i couldnt think of anything else for bachira, and the idea of his monster like his special someone like omg thats so cute. tysm for reading and other than that theres nothing more to add !!
