cyrus or cy✰ || over 20✧ || any pronouns☾ || INTJ❤︎
my reblogging acc: @cyrus-reblogging-shit
once again, this blog is nsfw and consists of mostly smuts so minors leave rn ‣ i will block minors or ageless blogs as well as blank blogs
dom reader blog only ‣ please do not request otherwise
𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: --closed for now (just until i get less busy and finish the ones i already have, read the rules)
𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬: --open (again, read the rules)
skz masterlist ‣ txt masterlist ‣ taglist
𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: --everything that i write is purely fiction. it is not meant to represent any real people. remember that you are reading works of fiction, about characters that are not the real person and it should not be projected onto them.
contains: crack, toji is in his late 30s, reader is in her early 20s
wc: 431
toji remembers when he realised he was dating a professional young hoe.
it was his first time in your home after you two had been on a couple of dates together. he'd told you about his life, and you'd told him about yours. things were going well.
but the first time he saw you cook, it gave him pause. and in that moment, he recalled something. perhaps he'd read it, or he'd heard it in passing.
'young hoes cook everything on high.'
he couldn't believe it. you were - allegedly - making pancakes, but the fire was so damn near licking at the sides of the pan, with the heat so high that the outside crisped up immediately, while the inside remained raw. in fact, the fire was so fucking high, that if you left it unflipped for even a second longer to allow the inside to cook properly, the pancake would've been burnt beyond saving.
"you tryin' to make 'em medium rare or somethin'?" asked the man gruffly as he resisted the temptation to scratch his head in perplexity.
"huh? oh, no, the middle cooks after a bit," you chuckled, as if he was being silly. "just gotta flip 'em every five seconds, so the outside-"
toji cut you off by holding a single hand up. "just...please lower the heat," he pleaded breathlessly.
the next incident was the first time he slept over after another one of your dates.
he had escorted you back to your place in the pouring rain, and you refused to let him go home in those conditions.
so, after he had showered and dried himself off with a towel you gave him to use, he entered your bedroom to find you clearing the bed of what looked to be all of your worldly possessions.
"uh..." he trailed off, confused. "you sleep with all that shit on there?"
"usually," you replied with an exerted huff as toji took note of the items you were throwing off your bed.
laptop, plushie, blanket, charger, empty pizza box (?), brand new left boot (??), chew toy (???)
"you got a dog?" toji asked warily.
"nope!" you replied cheerfully as you displaced the last of the unnecessary items. "bed's all clear!"
he was already worried.
before he laid flat on a warm extension cord, that is.
"babe, is that supposed to be-"
"i was looking for that!" you exclaim triumphantly, retrieving the active fire hazard from the confines of your beddings and immediately plugging your laptop into it.
"...right," toji deadpanned.
he could only pray the house didn't end up on fire by morning.
reaction. jjk men. their pretty ladies. wake up one morning. switched bodies.
master thesisssss
you can nut in them fr now, and enjoy the pleasures of having a dick BUT...that's also gonna be ur body again in a few days (or whenever y'all switch back)
(queue: her saying they're gonna hit w protection, and then nanami reminding her that this is HER body, she complains that she can never have joy in life(rawdogging it))
she also gets to learn how to piss while hard lol
i think that i, unfortunately, would be an actual menace if i had a real penis😔
(sorry for spamming ur inbox lately, i swear these ideas js keep coming to me, and your works are so amazing i keep on coming back🙏🙏🙏)
I think I'll be writing fics about this in the future 🙏🏾
-
Switch
warnings: bottom!jjkmen, they're in your body, you're in theirs, suggestive
i know I've only posted for Logan so far and 99% of my followers will probably not read this but the lack of Quaritch pegging fanfics was unacceptable!
Pairing: Recom!Miles Quaritch x human!Reader
Summary: Who would have known that the Colonel knew what pegging was! But the real question is, would he let you fuck him? (Yes he would ;))
Wordcount: 5.1k
Warnings/tags: porn w little plot, pegging, anal, strap-on sex, blowjob, dirty talk, praise kink, slight edging, belly bulge, kuru play, Sub!Quaritch, Dom!Reader, anal fingering, prostate milking, doggy style, handjob, missionary, english is not my first language ❗not proof read❗im so tired
No pronouns for reader, gender-neutral
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
Miles was fresh out of the shower, just a very oversized towel hanging around his slender hips. You were lounging on his large bed, the air warm, soft with the sound of late night humming tech.
You watched a few stray drops of water run down his sculpted chest, biting your lip in thought. Who allowed him to be build like this? The scientists back on earth really did wonders with his recom avatar. You'd have to thank them one day.
The longer you watched him, the more you thought about the recent idea that had popped in your head as you watched him and the other recoms train outside a few days ago. You needed, CRAVED to see him arch his back while you fucked his ass, his ears glowing bright pink and trembling while the Colonel broke apart underneath you, someone just half his size. It made you shiver with anticipation!
Your eyes continoued to rake over his blue body, and you couldn't help but sit up on the bed to ask then, without shame "Hey, Miles...have you ever heard of pegging?"
He froze mid step and you could see his adams apple bop heavily, his ears flicking back. He tightened the grip around the rim of the towel, where his hand would usually rest on his gear, not even turning fully around to face you. Trying to sound nonchalant, he said "...nope" poppig the p.
You cocked your head to the side, mocking him "Oh really? Then why'd you pause like that?" you smirked, leaning back on your arms. His tail swished under the towel in irritation. You knew he hated how his body betrayed him so easily now. He couldn't hide anything anymore, every emotion laid out before you by his twitching ears and flicking tail.
"Didn't." He grunted out with a frown, brushing a hand over his damp, cropped hair. Your smirk only grew wider at his short response. "You totally did" you taunted him, hopping off his large bed to step closer to him, your voice dropping low, teasing and sultry, despite having to look up at him "You sure you don't know what it is?"
Miles scoffed, brushing past you to his wardrobe to get dressed, his tail purposefully slapping your face in the process. And despite his protests, you saw something move under the towel. "Yeah. Sure." he muttered gruffly, pulling a tank out of a drawer and pulling it over his head.
You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms. "Well...I want to try it. With you."
He spun around to face you in just under a second, his ears flattened out, nose scrunched in horror "Absolutely not!" He growled, acting all defensive and...embarrassed. That was the answer you were looking for and your smirk turned fully evil.
"So you do know what pegging is!"
He opened his mouth, but closed it soon after he realized he had been caught. His ears twitched in irritation, anger and embarrassement, his tail flicking like crazy. He was too flustered for his own good and you were cheering internally. Everyone shat their pants at Hell's Gate if they just had to look Quaritch in the eyes and he didn't do much to hide if he was getting bored with a conversation. So his flustered state really, REALLY fed your ego.
You stepped in closer, your chin resting on his hip bone, softly nuzzling the velvety skin there. He looked down at you like you just ruined him and his reputation for good and hated how smug you looked about it.
"You've thought about it, haven't you?" you whispered, your breath tickling his v-line. "Getting taken apart by someone half your size? Letting go of control for once?" you ran a hand down his abs, watching as he shuddered and drew in a sharp breath, looking away from you.
He was fighting hard with himself, you could see it. But his patience and restraint were running thinner and thinner by the second "Just imagine it, Miles" you purred, biting your lip, two fingers hooking under the towel around his hips that did nothing to hide how aroused he was "You, on all fours. Me, behind you, fucking that cute ass until you cum"
He was hard. So fucking hard. And his face? A bright purple blush stretched all the way to the tip of his ears. He was gnawing at his bottom lip, fangs glistening in the low light of the room while he swallowed thickly. That was the most consent you would get from him right now and it was enough.
It all started with a kiss that let every bit of doubt fall away. You wrapped a hand around his long braid, pulling at it to make him drop down to his knees, which was surprisingly easier than you thought, before standing on your tip-toes and joining your lips together. It was desperate and needy, as if Miles had secretly waited his whole life for you to finally suggest this.
Reluctantly, he let you pull away so you could get the strap out of the closet and put it around your hips as if you had done it a thousand times before. Well, he remembered that, back when he was still a human Colonel, you told him about the experiences you had with some women on earth before you came to pandora. But how you were able to pull out a strap and toy from HIS room was still a mystery to him. But he was way too horny to care anyway.
You climbed onto his large bed and stood at the edge of it, while he was kneeling before you. Yes, it was a bit awkward like this, but it was the only way to have the silicon cock properly near his mouth so he didn't have to bend his back too much. Despite his new avatar body being about 20 years old physically, he still complained about his joints as if he was 50.
Trying not to let the awkward position ruin the mood, you bendt down slightly to scratch his ears, your fingers rubbing the sensitive base to which he shivered in delight.
Miles' eyes were half lidded, but his pupils blown wide like a dinnerplate as he stared up at you longingly. Your fingers playing with his sensitive ears slipped up the side of his head to fist his hair in a tight grip that earned you a low groan. "Suck it. And mind those teeth, baby" you purred teasingly, your thumb invading his mouth.
He sucked gently on the digit with a flustered hum, then he opened his mouth wider, his teeth flashing back at you. The pad of your thumb rubbed his sandpaper-like tounge, his mouth opening wider the further down you went, so you were able to guide the tip of the silicon cock to his lips, lightly smacking it against his tounge. It made him whimper, a sound you didn't know he could make.
He was still reluctant to take it in his mouth, so when you tugged on his hair, gentle but firm, he looked up at you as if he was still unsure, before finally closing his mouth around the head. He was acting shy with it at first, slowly moving his head, not taking it deeper than a few short inches and popping off the girth to kiss down the shaft instead.
You knew he could do better, that he was more experienced than he let on. You think it was all platonic when he was stationed with his marine team mates back on earth? Yeah, think again.
"Come on, baby. If you want to get fucked, you gotta earn it. Show me what a good boy my colonel can be, alright?" you cooed, your hand soothingly rubbing his jaw as a form of encouragement. The little pet name seemed to do the trick instantly.
His eyes glazed over, his mouth opening wider to slowly ease the toy down gis throat. He was humming softly, his ears trembling so cutely while tears were dwelling in his eyes from how deep he took it. "There he is" you cheered, admiring how his long lashes fluttered against his cheeks.
Though after a few moments, you pulled him off completely, an obsence pop sounding before he gasped slightly, a string of saliva connecting his parted lips to the toy. His piercing golden eyes looked up at you as if he was scared he had done something wrong, but instead you just rubbed the tip over his right cheek, dragging it along his plush lips and dipping it back into his mouth, just a few inches, then smearing the spit soaked length against his left cheek. He moaned in surpise, but so turned on by what you were doing.
He kissed down the shaft, holding eyecontact with you without blinking, almost as if he was in search of your approval. You breathed out a low 'fuck' as you looked down at the face he made, and for a minute you wondered just how fucking hot he would look with a load of cum dripping over it. The thought made you exhale shakingly, oh how you wished you could do that to him.
His tongue dragged slowly up the length, curling around the head before softly dipping it into his mouth, his striped cheeks hollowing out. His flat nose, made to hold many kisses on its bridge, crinkled as he took a deep breath to prepare himself to let the toy ease down his throat. His ears were practically glued to his head and softly trembling like a kitten that was nursing milk from a bottle. His pink nose brushed your pelvis as he swallowed the length all the way down to the base. Miles' eyelids fluttered softly and helplessly, his eyes teary and glazed over while looking up at you, waiting for your praise.
When you asked him if you could peg him, not even in a thousand years you would have imagined this outcome. If someone told you now, in your horny haze, that you were actually poisoned by some pandorian flower and experiencing bad hallucinations before ultimately dying, you would have believed them. And you wouldn't have wanted to change a thing about it, you'd die any day if this was the last thing you saw- the Colonel choking on your cock like a slut.
"You look so pretty like this" you cooed, your hand reaching down to cradle his face, to which his tensed facial muscles relaxed and he let out a cute little breath through his nose. "Such a good Colonel for me" your whispers made his spine tingle and eager moans rumbled in his chest like a motor. You felt the vibration of the sounds through the base of your harness. It made you grab the back of your head to pull him closer. He choked slightly, but didn't stop his suckling. He wanted to be good for you like you said, so good for you.
His hands came up to grip your thighs to ground himself, squeezing the fat and flesh between his long fingers while he was rutting the air unconsciously, desperate to get some much needed friction on his throbbing cock, which was already poking out and leaking from underneath the flimsy towel.
He was so fucking pathetic, you loved it. And he loved it too, though he would never say that. If any of this was ever made public, he would kill you himself. He had a reputation to uphold, he couldn't let his team know he was a whore for cock, artificial or not.
These thoughts crossed his mind for a moment. What would happen if Lyle walked in here right now? He knew the door was locked, that Lyles quarters were on the other side of the station and that he would never enter without permission, hell the whole base was probably asleep by now! So why was he so scared? Scared wasn't even a word someone would usually describe him with- or ever.
You quickly noticed his sudden hesitation and grabbed his face in both hands, making him look up at you. "Look at you. Sucking my cock like a desperate little bitch. You're a Colonel, you've got authority, but you just want to be used" a whimper slipped from his throat the moment a tear ran down his cheek as he processed your words. So beautiful.
You couldn't help it, you just had to rock your hips once, just enough to hear him gag around the toy. He moaned again, even louder and more pathetic this time, his cock giving a sad throb, a clear drop of pre-cum sliding down his shaft.
You pulled him off by the base of his braid with a loud, wet pop and he grabbed his throat, coughing wildly and gasping for air. Miles' chest was heaving for air while watching you stroke the silicon cock that was lubed with his spit, his ears straightening up to listen to the slick sounds.
You cocked your head to the bed you were kneeling on. "Get on, big boy. All fours"
You had never seen anyone scramble to their feet so quickly, especially not someone his size. In his urgency, the towel fell away, revealing his hard cock and fuckable butt. Damn if it ain't Mr. Bubble Butt over there, throwing himself on the bed in the speed of light. And as if this position was second nature to him, he spread his knees far apart, his chest touching the matress and lifted up his tail to reveal his puckered hole to you.
All this while his cock was leaking and throbbing between his massive thighs. Fuck. Fucking hell. Did you die? Was this fucking heaven? Jesus Christ.
"God damn you...fuck, I don't even know" you groaned at the sight, his ears pinned to his head, brows knitted together in an adorable horny frown. You were utterly speechless. Eywa might as well just blessed the fuck out of you.
Not trying to make him wait any longer, you crawled towards him, running a hand up the back of his thigh and grasping a handful of his ass, making him yelp softly. You gave it a smack, admiring the way the blue flesh jiggled and earning you a nasty glare from your Colonel. But his cock was twitching and dripping like crazy, so you knew he secretly loved it. "I didn't know our Colonel was this desperate to get laid. We just had sex yesterday" you mocked him with a hearty grin and a giggle, wrapping your hand around his tail and feeling the muscles twitch underneath the skin.
"Fuck you" he growled in the back of his throat, his eyes sharp with irritation. "Fuck you? Oh I will fuck you, alright" you retorted. Any other time he would have bend you over his knee for that, for being so disrespectful and sarcastic to your boss. But right now, he wasn't your boss. He was your needy little thing that begged to be filled. And you were gonna give it to him before he could tap out on you.
While Quaritch could easily snap you in half like a twig, or throw you off, he allowed your hands to roam over his bare body, worshipping his strength and smooth skin. His skin was like velvet under your fingertips, the only texture being the goosebumps your touch left in its wake and the sweat that clung to him. You had touched and studied him a thousand times before, you could easily identify him solely on the pattern his stripes created. You knew him inside and out, but you would never grow tired of it. Of admiring, worshipping, kissing and licking every inch of him. But someone else got fed up quite quickly.
You leaned over him, lips brushing his neck "Hurry up or we're not doing this" he warned you, his voice shaking slightly. You chuckled, a sound that made the hairs on Quaritchs neck stand up. "Patience is a virtue, Colonel. You gotta respect that fact every second of every day" you chuckled, using his words against him to see his ears pin to his skull.
Then, you held your hand out, positioning it in front of his mouth. He furrowed his brows in confusion, his frown getting even deeper as he watched you smirk. "Spit" you said, and he snarled in disgust. A snort left you "A minute ago you were sucking me off like a whore, but this is where you draw the line?" you taunted him with a raised eyebrow.
Miles opened his mouth to protest, but quickly closed it again after he realised he could play hard to get all he wanted, but you wouldn’t give up either. With a flustered grunt, he spat into your hands. That earned him a smile "Good boy" you cooed, making his tail wag softly.
You pulled back to settle behind him, your hand that wasn't covered in spit spreading his ass cheeks. He huffed out, turning his head into the pillow. He was so...bare. And vulnerable. It felt wrong and uncomfortable, but damn, he didn't have it in him to stop you.
You rubbed his spit between your fingers, bringing your pointer and middle finger to his puckered hole, circling the makeshift lube around the rim. He tensed up immediately. "Fuck" he muttered "This is so fuckin' embarrassing."
You gave his lower back a gentle pat to get him to relax. "Just trust me, baby. I'm gonna make you feel so good you'll forget your own name, let alone how embarrassing you think this is" you reassured him, or at least tried to. He groaned like he hated how much that thought turned him on.
"Now open up, I'll be nice and gentle" you prepped him slowly, keeping in mind that his avatar most likely never had anything up his ass. At least his tightness let you think that. But you managed to slip in the first finger to your last knuckle, wriggling it around his soft walls. Miles whimpered above you "feels...weird" he said, clearing his throat as if your touch wasn't affecting him in the slightest.
He tensed up as you added another two fingers, his breathing turning a little shallow with every thrust of your fingers. "How do you feel?" you asked him, moving your fingers as if you were in search of something.
And for a second, you wondered if Na'vi and Avatar even had prostates. But before he could answer your question, the pads of your fingers passed over a soft lump, that special spot you were determined to find, and he gasped and keened, hips bucking while his cock twitched helplessly beneath him.
It was like a lighting bolt struck his body when you touched his sweet spot "What the f-fuck.." he rasped, trying to look over his shoulder as if he could see what you just did that felt this good. "Ah, there it is!" You cheered, aiming at his prostate again. It was pretty far inside, with his size and all. "Where is what- oh! fuck!" he was cut off by a screamed moan, your fingers rubbing his prostate with more purpose now.
His mouth stayed open in a silent groan while you circled the nub in slow but firm motions. His body was drawn tight like a spring ready to snap. The pleasure was so new and nothing he ever felt, he wanted more but he couldn't move, only fist the sheets and bite into the pillow to leave holes.
Miles tail curled around your wrist, squeezing you with every thrust just like his puckered hole did around your fingers. You watched his sexed out face with a satisfied grin and a giddy feeling rose in your chest. Just how fucked out would he look if he came on your strap?
He already seemed so close to cumming, subtily pressing his ass back against your hand, his cock drooling non stop over the sheets and so did he, his salaiva soaking the pillow case.
He looked divine, his moans and whines music to your ears. "Someone is enjoying himself, huh?" you purred, applying just a bit more pressure. It had him babble out a cute, dumb "uh-huh" and made his cock throb heavily against his stomach.
When you deemed his hole to be wet and loose enough, you pulled your fingers out. Quaritchs ears shot up in horror- how could you just stop!? He started to regain his senses just enough to lift his head and wriggle his ass back to chase your fingers "Fuckin'...don't stop now" he panted, the words ending with a low little whine. He had already lost his dignity, so he didn't care how needy he sounded or how much you would tease him for it. He just wanted to cum.
You giggled at his eagerness and straightened up on your knees "Relax, big guy. I'm on it" you mocked, blowing him a rasberry to which he could only respond with a frustrated huff and settled back into the bed.
You lined your strap up with his hole "Trust me, this is gonna feel so much better than my hands. Pinky promise" and with that, you pushed the tip past the tight ring of muscle.
His whole body arched at the intrusion, a sound ripping from his chest, loud and unfiltered as you pushed forward. His nose was crinkled in a deep snarl, almost as if he was in pain, fangs buried in his bottom lip until it bled.
"F-fuck, fuck! it's big-" Miles gasped, the stretch making his body lift off the matress slightly, only to realise his arms felt like jelly and couldn't hold him up. "Bigger than you" you confirmed with a nod, thrusting forward an inch, a hiccup sounding from the recom below you.
Just a few more inches and you were nestled inside all the way. His thighs were trembling and you soothingly rubbed a hand over them, squeezing the strong flesh softly. His eyes were screwed shut tightly as he tried to adapt to the stretch in his gut, his ears pinned back, breaths deep and controlled. You smiled warmly "Now you know what it feels like. Its pretty similar when you dick me down, so its only fair."
You leaned in and murmured "Now we're even" before deciding he had enough time to adjust, much like he did when you two had 'ordinary' sex, and pulled out to thrust back in.
You went to set a brutal pace, grasping his slim hips to pull him against your cock with every harsh thrust you delivered. His moan was straight out of a porn video while he couldn't control the way his hips were rocking back to meet you "Shit- shit- oh fuck, don't stop, please-" Miles cried out to you, grasping the headboard tightly you were sure if it was wood, he would have crushed it under his palm.
The sound of wet skin slapping against each other echoed through the room, in sync with his adorable little squeaks. He sounded like a baby viperwolf while he got fucked, he wasn't able to hold back a moan even if he wanted to.
He tried to bite into his hand to muffle some sounds, knowing after this he wouldn’t be in the mood to get a noise complaint from the room next to yours. But you wouldn’t have that.
You reached around, grabbed his braid, wrapped it once around your palm before pulling, his head jerking back with a yelp. "Don't you dare hold your sweet moans back." you barked, your answer being a pained groan from Miles. "Don't act like you don't want others to hear just how good you're getting fucked. Do you think they'd be jealous?"
He didn't respond to you, even after a few seconds, he just couldn't find a way to speak with how hard you were pounding his ass. You pulled his braid harder and slapped his ass with the hand that was gripping hips. His cock throbbed eagerly at the painful sting "Answer me, Colonel" you growled. "Would. They. Be. Jealous?" you asked again, thrusting especially deep with every word.
His back arched, his chest pressed flat on the matress "Yyyes, yes, yesyesyesyeas-" he babbled, turning more and more incoherent the further you impaled him on your strap.
"That's it, such a good boy. Can't even speak properly. Feels too good, doesn’t it?" you cooed and he nearly sobbed, nodding slightly despite the tight hold you had on his hair.
Thats when you hit it again. His sweet, sweet spot. But this time, it took out his legs and he screamed "Oh god fuck! Fuck right there!" he howled, his body limp on the bed. You even had to let go of his braid so you could use both hands to guide his hips back onto your dick. You grinned wolfishly "Fuck you're so hot like this, baby. Wanna keep you like this forever"
A deep pressure formed in his abdomen every time you brushed over his prostate. He felt like he was about to explode, it was so much, so overwhelming, but he feared he'd die if you stopped now. "I-I..I think- m'cumming" he rasped out, his breathing starting to pick up as he braced himself.
His cock was pulsing, purple and swollen at the tip, getting ready to cum all over the sheets. Just a little more, just a bit more and-
You stopped.
Didn't pull out, just stopped.
The feeling started to fade almost instantly. He sat up on his hands, pleadingly looking over his shoulder with the biggest, watery puppy dog eyes you had ever seen. "Fuck, don’t do this to me, I was so close" Quaritch whined, rocking his hips on your cock again, his own edged dick smearing precum over his stomach.
You bit your lip, you could just cum at the sight. "I know, thats why I want you on your back. I want to see that beautiful face when I make you cum" you panted, feeling a slight burn in your thighs now that you weren't moving.
In a second, he was on his back, trembling, spreading his legs for you. His cock stood proudly, the tip angrily throbbing over his belly button. He was averting your gaze, a part of him still being rational enough to be embarrassed.
But you softly put your hand on his cheek, wiping the stray tears that managed to escape his eyes without him noticing. "Watch" you said, guiding his gaze downward to were you slowly pushing the tip of the strap into him again. He groaned softly at the sight, finally feeling full again after you had pulled out of him moments ago. To him, it felt like hours of being empty and denied.
When he took you to the base, he threw his head back. You stared. Stared at his stomach. You knew he was slim, but you could literally see a small bulge forming on his abdomen. You groaned, cursing under your breath and going back to thrusting into him at a fast pace, but not without pressing onto the bulge in his tummy for a while to feel yourself moving within him.
Miles easily fell back into the pleasureable rhythm of being fucked, the change in position hitting even more spots inside him that made him see stars.
Without even having to say anything, he lifted his legs up so his knees where near his face, giving you the room to fuck him even deeper mating press style. Every time you fucked into him, his tight ass squelched around the strap. If Eywa would grant you one wish, you'd wish to have a cock so you could actually feel him squeezing you, how tight and warm he was. And the best- you could cum in him. The thought and desire drove you to pound him even harder, putting everything you had into your thrusts.
With the way his cock was moving with every harsh thrust, you couldn't just not touch it. You wrapped your hand around it, jerking him off in the same rhythm as your movements. He growled deeply, his dick pulsing in your grasp and his thighs trembling around your face.
Thats when you noticed his braid over his shoulder, the tendrils at the end pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat. Without a second thought, you took his queue, looked him dead in the eyes, watched his pupils dialate as he registered what you were about to do and then let the tendrils wrap around your tounge.
He yelled. Straight up screamed with his chest. You sucked on his kuru, your wet tounge wriggling and swirling around it. He felt it in his head, in his whole body, the tingles and shocks your touch brought.
"Sweet Eywa- I- I can't-" he sobbed, his head tipping back before he couldn't hold it anymore. The abuse on his sweet spot, your hand stroking his cock at just the right pace, your tounge scrambling his brain- all of it made him lose his composure entirely.
The deep knot in his stomach snapped at last, cum shooting out his cock like a geyser. His vision went white and for a moment, he swore he was floating in Eywas realm, not caring that he didn't even believe in that stuff.
Ropes after ropes of thick cum painted his abs, his chest, even his throat and your face. He howled through his orgasm after his face had been locked up in the most pleasureable, eye-crossing expression you had ever seen, desperate sounds ripping from his throat.
His whole body was trembling and thrashing, the jerky movements nearly making you fall off the bed. You fucked him slowly through his climax, gently pulling out as you noticed his face scrunching up in discomfort.
Quaritch looked a mess. Covered in his own cum, his short hair sticking to his forhead because of how much he had been sweating, his braid tousled and coming undone at the end. He panted undern you, desperately trying to catch his breath.
You rubbed a hand over his trembling thighs, cooing to him. "You did so good for me. We gotta do that more often" you smiled and crawled up to him to kiss his lips. He barely had the strength to kiss you back.
When you pulled away, he grunted in agreement, a satisfied but tired smirk on his face. "Not bad for a civilian" he teased. Ah, back he was to being himself again. You almost missed the whiney man he was just moments ago.
You laughed, swatting his cum covered chest playfully. "I'll show you not bad" you giggled, climbing on top of him once more. "Let's go another round, shall we?"
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
Please take your time to like, reblog and comment! It means the world to me
This took so long only for no one to read it💔 I already know it won't do good bc Quaritch is sooo criminally underrated. Maybe the hype will come back when the third movie is out so i didn't just write this fic for me and the other four ppl
The concept of fucking Varang so good she starts praying to Eywa 🤭 I might have to add that in some fic of mine
okay tomorrow morning if my eye is not as swollen (i punched myself in my sleep) I AM EMPTYING OUT MY NAUGHTY VARANG DRAFTS AS A LITTLE CHRISTMAS SURPRISE but..moving on!!
she can’t even understand why she said it tbh, she wanted you to keep going but it felt so good that she wanted you to stop before she completely lost herself, she literally doesn’t know who to call on, because repeating your name isn’t doing much but fueling you to thrust into her faster. It definitely slips out on accident, making her pause and push you away from her because obviously you just put a curse on her???
your lips leave her neck, stopping all movements as your grin grows, teasing her sm about it she starts blushing n shit, slapping your arm in annoyance SHES SO ASHAMED
you push back into her with your little makeshift strap-on and all that hissing and whining about you teasing her goes out the window!! she immediately starts back up moaning, grabbing at anything she can, even grabbing at your skin, pinching the hell out of you.
Shes still so surprised, trying to wrack her brain as to why the hell she mentioned the one thing she doesn’t even believe in!! And it doesn’t help that you keep mocking her too, moaning out at the same frequency, even calling out to Eywa yourself
“Calling out to Eywa? Am I ruining you that good?” all she can do is roll her eyes in the back of her head and moan louder, the deity’s name on the tip of her tongue. omg you laugh in her face too EVIL AS FUCKKK
sorry this is so short!! i cannot see out of one eye
i fear i just watched the new avatar movie yesterday and am in desperate need of more sub avatar fics
of quite literally any of the characters
(side note why does quaritch have the sluttiest waist known to man in that damn movie --don't love his personality or his human form but damn big blue alien with slutty waist has me in a chokehold)
summary: the secrets out now and now everyone is guess where they stand, where to go from here and how things will ever return back to normal.
a/n: giving yall a relatively angst free chapter! and thank you all for the love on this series and those waiting sooo long MWAHHH ily and i hope yall like this part bcs i hate it lmao x not proofread
It settled into the air.
Not light or airy like smoke—it didn’t veil the room and drift between the space between you. No, it hung heavy, smog-like. Polluting—tangling around you, suffocating, smothering.
Inescapable.
Bouncing off the walls, pitched and frantic, like a cruel reminder of how they were ejected out of his mouth.
Love.
In love.
In love with. He’s in love. With you.
And Regulus didn’t look upset, didn’t look the slightest bit surprised, actually. His gaze just stayed on Barty, brows twitched up into concern, the sympathy in his eyes almost unbearable—and for a moment, it made Barty forget what he’d said.
Forget what he’d done.
Just for a moment, though. Because he caught that look on your face—wide-eyed, lips parted slightly like he’d just knocked the air out of you.
You could still feel the crack and fizzle his words left on your skin, the room suddenly feeling too small and too large all at the same time, overbearing—spinning.
Barty just stood there, chest heaving, words still whistling in the space between you, thick and terrible and irreversible. Hands trembling at his sides, nails biting into the meat of his palms in a desperate attempt to anchor himself—but it was useless.
So he turned.
With no noise, no warning—just the sudden pivot of feet against floorboards, spinning with all the grace of someone trying to outrun their own skin, reaching for the door. That bloody door again. Regulus' eyes caught it instantly, that same familiar ache flared in his chest—the sight of Barty leaving, again, always on the wrong side of it.
But this time, the door wasn’t given a chance to open wide enough.
It slammed shut.
With a sharp crack of magic that echoed like a whip across the room—startling and final. Barty flinched, breath catching in his throat as his hand flew back like he'd been burnt. He stilled. And then he turned.
You hadn’t moved. Not really. Just your brows—pinched upwards, your eyes wild with panic, locked on the floor with a sheen of something soft and terrible and raw blooming there.
Barty kept his face turned away, scrubbing his palms over his eyes harshly, like he could erase himself if he tried hard enough. His voice dropped to a tone, wrecked and shameful: “I didn’t want you to know...”
A whispered confession, one so soaked with guilt that it nearly burned when it left his lips.
It fell deaf on your ears.
Because you were still locked in the past—trapped in the moment he’d said those words.
Barty’s chest heaved as his gaze flickered between your face and the sealed door, the space between all three of you stretching taut like a string about to snap.
And then—softly, almost inaudibly—you breathed, “You love me.”
Not a question. Not quite a statement. More of…a recitation. A dazed echo of the words that still rang around the room like ghosts.
Barty’s spine curled inward.
It all cracked open again—splintering—his panic flooding back in a tide. He took one uncertain step forward, hands twitching, reaching halfway to yours before falling short. Hovering.
Unsteady.
Outstretched but not touching—as if breaking the invisible wall he’d placed between you would cause some natural disaster, a tornado, or tsunami of emotions that he wouldn’t be able to control, wouldn’t be able to keep a lid on.
Not that he was doing a good job of it now.
He was trembling almost; barely stepping closer, teetering on the edge of your space like you were some sort of wounded animal that would run away at the slightest wrong move—and everything Barty had done so far was wrong.
So wrong.
Because despite all his careful and fretting motions towards you, his mouth betrayed him. One again, spilling, spewing—purging all half-formed thoughts that entered his mind.
“No—I mean, yes—I didn’t mean to say it—I’m sorry—fuck—" His voice was a tremor of panic and confession, words tripping over themselves in a breathless, too-fast rush. "It’s not—I tried to stop it, I swear, I swear—You have to understand, Tres. I’m not trying to ruin anything, I wouldn’t— You’re with Reg, it’s you two—I know that—”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
The words landed quietly, even—soft, like the gentle snap of a twig—barely louder than a thought, yet enough to still the room.
Regulus.
If Barty’s head had whipped any faster, it surely would have spun off his neck—staring at his friend wide-eyed, lips still parted with the remnants of his hysteric rants. Even as he continued, Barty could only gape at him, like his words were foreign—of a different frequency that he couldn’t comprehend,
“It doesn’t have to be that way—just us…”
Oh.
Oh.
This was bad—unfair actually.
Because now Barty was waiting for your answer, for your reaction—praying it wasn’t negative, that you wouldn’t revolt and shun the idea. Shun him.
It was bad because now he was hoping.
And Regulus for all his level-headedness, had spoken on a whim—thrown out what he’d been thinking about since he’d noticed the way Barty looked at you, the way you looked at him—what he’d contemplated for weeks in Barty’s absence.
He wasn’t sure how you’d react, he wasn’t sure what reaction he wanted. This was completely uncharted territory. But all Regulus wanted was to fix this—correct the mistake that made everything unravel in the first place.
And for some reason, the idea of—whatever it was he’d indirectly suggested, didn’t seem so bad—maybe it was because it’s with Barty, maybe it’s because it was you. And quite frankly, Regulus would do anything for you.
Anything.
He’d burn the world—him with it—if that’s what you wanted.
You’d become somewhat of a parrot. Body still stiff as a board, but at least your lips moved, at least your eyes finally shifted from their seemingly endless bore into the stone you all stood on—flitting between them both before landing on Regulus.
“You want…?” you didn’t finish the thought, like the words had escaped you. Not exactly hopeful—it wasn’t a yes or a no, rejection or acceptance. It floated somewhere in the middle.
And Barty didn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure he could.
Hands still half-lifted between you, trembling faintly—ghosting at the edges of your presence without daring to touch. Not yet. Not until you gave him something-any emotion, a reaction, permission, forgiveness, anything.
You still hadn’t looked at him. Not fully.
Your gaze lingered on Regulus instead, as if whatever steadiness you had left was tethered to him—waiting for him to say more, tell you what exactly he meant, what he wanted, but he didn’t. And when you spoke again, your voice was quiet.
“I—Are you—you’re okay with that?”
He shifted slightly, just a flicker of movement like a breath passing through him. “It doesn’t have to be…messy or complicated—we don’t have to figure everything out right now either.”
“You’re serious,” you said—not a question, not a joke.
Regulus gave the smallest nod. “I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t.”
Another pause.
Shorter than the last break of silence, but just as thick and weighty with indecision, with a shaky exhale, you spoke again—turning your eyes to Barty—finally—slowly, cautiously, like he was something volatile. Eyes searching his face, and he let you.
Didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just stood there and let you look.
Hands just barely shifting away from you, curling in like the weight of the words—and your silence—was finally catching up to him.
“Do you hate me?”
Barty blinked. Shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What? No. No—I could never.” His brows arched high on his forehead, knitting together as he swallowed thickly.
“I-it was just eating me up. I didn’t want to ruin anything, Tres—I had to leave.”
Your hands were twitching at your sides.
A restless sort of ache, a tension that built with every breath Barty took—every word that slipped from his mouth, soaked in shame and frayed regret. Brows furrowed and drawn tight with a frown. It was too much. Too many unsaid things. Too many weeks spent wondering. And before you could talk yourself out of it, before hesitation could dig its claws in again—you were moving.
Arms wrapping around him.
Tightly.
No warning. No preamble. Just motion. Need. Comfort.
Barty sucked in a sharp breath, stunned, stiff—but then, then—he melted.
Completely crumbled into you like he'd been holding himself up for too long. His chest sagged against yours, hands still hovering, still unsure even as his body folded into the contact like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.
Your face pressed into the fabric of his shirt, words muffled and breath shaky.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered—pleaded. “I’m sorry, J. I didn’t—I didn’t know. I didn’t realise. I—”
The words were barely coming out fast enough—tangled in your throat, rushed from your lips, a breathless confession you hadn’t even known was building until now. “I should have—I should’ve just—Junior, I’m so sorry—”
He didn’t speak.
He just breathed. Finally, relinquishing all the air in his lungs as if to give it to you as a peace offering.
Eyes squeezed shut so tightly it hurt—because this. This. This was all he’d let himself imagine in the quietest moments, in the loneliest stretches of night. Your arms around him. Your warmth, your voice, close and real and right here.
He almost couldn’t let himself believe it.
So he just stood like that for a second longer—soaking in the weight of you, the heat your body radiated, the shaking vibrations of your voice against him.
Only then did he move.
Slowly, like he was afraid the spell would break if he wasn’t careful, like the moment would vanish into smoke and he’d wake up in a gasp of breath in Avery’s dorm. His arms rose from his sides, his hands hovering just an inch above your back—then resting there, curling gently.
For a while he just held you to him in a soft, gentle embrace—brows pinched high on his forehead as he relished in the first real contact he’s had in weeks.
You barely registered the tender brush of Regulus’ fingers over the back of your arm, or the sound of his receding footsteps. Like you couldn’t bear to spread your attention between anything other than Barty and how his arms were wrapped around your middle.
But he wasn’t just holding you anymore, he was squeezing, melting, grasping at the fabric of your robes as if to conjoin on an atomic level.
Neither of you spoke for a long while.
There was nothing left to say—not yet, not tonight. Words had run their course, stripped raw and exposed, and now there was only silence. Not the cold kind that, as of recent, graced the room far too often. Not the kind that pierced or burned, judged or waited with bated breath.
It was warm, yearning—yielding, overcome with unspoken forgiveness and fragile relief.
You let the embrace drag, neither of you moved much since wrapping yourself around each other—crumpling into a silent mass of limbs at the base of Regulus’ bed. Legs tangled, your head resting gently against his shoulder, while his hands fidgeted at the hem of your sleeve, softly grazing your skin like he was still convincing himself you were real.
That’s how Regulus found you—curled together on the dorm floor in the brittle afterglow of everything, footsteps muffled against the rug as he returned with a levitating tray in tow.
“Sweet-talked one of the cooks into letting me bring up some dinner,” he said simply, setting the tray down with a little clink of ceramic.
Tea and warm, slightly smushed sandwiches. Your stomach answered for you with a small, unmistakable grumble, and Barty huffed a quiet breath, the edge of a smile curling his lips
“We’re not eating on my bed, though,” Regulus added casually, already flicking his wand to conjure a small cloth on the floor. “I refuse to wake up with crumbs in my sheets.”
A huffed chuckle slipped passed your lips as you peeled yourself away from Barty—the three of you gathering around the tray on the floor, knees bumping, fingers brushing as cups were passed between you.
It wasn’t much. But it was enough, the room had settled into the habitual domesticity it had been deprived of for so long. You sat beside them, watching the way Regulus absently buttered a scone for Barty with extra without being asked, and the way Barty’s long limbs stretched along the rug like he’d never left.
Then the clock near Regulus’ bed—always five minutes too fast—blinked back at you accusingly, and your stomach dropped.
“Shit,” you muttered, pushing your plate away and standing quickly. “I’m gonna be late for my rounds.”
Barty blinked up at you, brow furrowed. “You barely ate.”
You crooked a faint smile, straightening your robes as you shrugged, “Happens more often than it should.”
Regulus was already dusting off his hands, rising with you. “I’ll walk you.”
But as he stepped towards you—because Barty didn’t move. He didn’t rise with you. Didn’t reach for his cup. Just sat there, legs still folded beneath him, gaze lingering on the half-empty cup.
And you saw it. That small flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his lips twitched, the way his shoulders curled inward like he was preparing for solitude to stretch across the room again. Before Regulus could reach for the door, you shifted slightly.
“It’s fine, Reg. I can go alone.”
Regulus frowned faintly. “Are you sure?”
You were still paused by the door, looking between them with a glint in your eyes as you spoke, lips twitching up at the corners, “Actually…maybe you can do something else instead.”
A small, soft smile tugged at your lips. “Go get your stuff,” your voice was soft, and yet the words were firm—convicted. “From Avery’s dorm. Bring them back.”
He just blinked up at you, lips slightly parted. “What?”
There was a short pause, holding your sights on him as your voice rung in the room again, in a quiet coaxing sort of tone. “Bring a bit of life back into the room.”
Barty stared up at you, wide-eyed for a moment before his features split into that smile—the one you hadn’t realised you missed so achingly until now. The one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and flashed the faintest edge of his pearly canines.
It was boyish, crooked—painfully him.
Regulus was already flicking his wand, cleaning up the dishes with practised precision. He smoothed the front of his robes with a lazy swipe and looked back at Barty with one raised brow.
“Well?” he said, dryly amused, holding out a hand. “Off we go, then.”
Barty hesitated—just for a breath—then reached up and took it, raising to his feet with an exaggerated groan. His smile didn’t fade; if anything, it threatened to grow, tugging at the corners of his mouth like it was almost too much.
This was the kind of normal he hadn’t let himself believe he could have again.
You were already at the door by the time they stood, hand resting on the knob. You looked back at them both, light from the sconces catching in your lashes, “I’ll see you both at breakfast, yeah?”
They knew who the question was really meant for—still, both nodded. Barty’s smile still pulled at his lips when he spoke, voice slightly rough around the edges, “Of course, Tres.”
─────────
The morning in the Great Hall was already buzzing when Regulus and Barty entered, side by side, voices low and drifting in and out of quiet laughter, no rush in their steps. They strolled in as casually as ever, unhurried in that way reserved for Monday mornings, where they stayed up far too late the night before.
And as they crossed the stone floor and made their way toward the Slytherin table, Barty slung his arm over Regulus’ shoulder like it was it’s rightful place, and Regulus let him, didn’t shift away or shrug him off. Like there hadn’t been a several-week-long silence, like Barty’s seat hadn’t almost collected dust.
They settled into their seats like their routine hadn’t been on hold the entire time, wordlessly.
And as subtle as Regulus tried to be in his instinctive searching scan over the table for you, he struggled to push down the twitch of his brows and the purse of his lips when you were nowhere to be found.
He was already in motion, pouring tea with the same exact precision he always had—no sugar, a large splash of milk—and Barty didn’t even ask before sliding the plate of toast toward himself, claiming a piece already smeared with far too much jam.
For a short while, it was just that. Low murmurs, lazy conversation, quiet clinking of china—Regulus’ eyes shifting to the entrance every so often.
Barty settled in as normal, animated in a way uncalled for so early in the morning, but it wasn’t in that explosive, wild manner that made Regulus roll his eyes and grumble out table manners.
It seemed Regulus’ face, that’s usually so bound ridiculously tight—especially early in the morning—that same face that had carried a near-permanent wrinkle between its brows for the past few weeks, had finally melted away. There was almost a softness in the tilt of his mouth now, in the way he let his eyes flick upwards to Barty every few sentences, like he was still quietly checking to see if this—if they were really back to normal.
Barty was mostly oblivious—all loose smiles and bright eyes—in a way that was warm and welcomed after so long without it.
Though the calm didn’t last very long—the short bark of laughter that left Evan’s lips from further down the table almost sounded involuntary. “Ah, so Junior’s tantrum has ended,” he drawled.
“We were starting to forget what you looked like with a functioning expression.”
Barty’s eyes had already narrowed, a scowl playing on his lips as he loaded up a response when you came bursting through the Great Hall doors in an uncoordinated flurrying mess of steps.
A whirl of robes and wild hair, tie half-formed, shirt collar skewed in the kind of chaos that could only come from having approximately five minutes to get ready after an alarm you’d definitely slept through.
Sleep still in your eyes and panic on your face as you moved, not even acknowledging the curious stares being cast your way as you made a beeline down the aisle.
Regulus, halfway through a sip of tea, froze with the cup midway to his lips. Brows lifting ever so slightly, the soft crease returning between them—in surprise more than anything. Because it’s really not in your nature to be so haphazard—barely awake, practically flying down the length of the Slytherin table.
And you didn’t even greet anyone, didn’t sit in the empty space that’s always reserved for you by Pandora, didn’t even seem to notice it.
Instead, you simply dropped yourself, without ceremony ot grace, in the closest empty space—beside Regulus.
The force of it jolted him slightly in his seat, tea sloshing dangerously close to the brim of his cup. He turned sharply, only to find you already half-collapsed over the table, face buried in your folded arms.
A beat passed. Two.
Then, muffled and grumpy, your voice came out: “Stop looking at me.”
You didn’t need to lift your head to know that there were far too many pairs of eyes burning into your slumped figure. Evan—ever the opportunist, leaned from two seats down the table, grinning wide and wolfish. “Rough encounter with the Whomping Willow, Potter?”
That earned a ripple of laughter down the table, even Regulus pursed his lips in mild amusement—because it was a painfully accurate description of your current state.
All that left you was a groan—one loud and disgruntled. Lifting your head just enough to give Evan the most exhausted glare imaginable, one hand fumbling to fix your mess of a tie with fingers that were clearly not working at full capacity.
“Very funny, Rosie,” you muttered, slumping again, eyes barely open, trying to blink away the fatigue like it physically hurt to keep them up.
No one pressed you for more. Not right away. The attention drifted off like smoke, and conversation resumed—buzzing low, scattered with buttered toast and the occasional clink of silverware.
Almost without thinking, you leaned into him.
Body tipping sideways, sagging softly against his, the curve of your shoulder meeting his arm, your temple brushing his robes. You didn’t even seem to notice you’d done it—leaning into Regulus with a familiarity that bypassed your brain entirely. As though it were the most natural thing in the world to feel the weight of you against his shoulder.
And he let you.
His body shifted slightly, enough to make the contact more comfortable, and his hand—without hesitation—moved from under the table to press warm and careful against your lower back. His fingers moved slowly, drawing lazy circles through the thin fabric of your robes, the motion soothing in a way that required no words.
You talked—well, rambled—about last nights patrol, the absolute mess that your brother and his friends had left behind, the Ravenclaw fourth-year who screamed at you, the way you’d only gotten to bed at four and then slept through your first three alarms. You talked with your face still half-buried in your arms, voice slurring slightly from exhaustion.
“…and I have a bloody headache now,” your rant finished with a huff, barely holding your head up.
Regulus listened quietly, intently—fingers slowing along your spine, and he felt it before he saw it. A pair of silent eyes.
Pandora.
He caught her eyes on him from down the table, brow arched high in silent, pointed curiosity—she didn’t say anything.
Just flickered her eyes from where his hand was frozen on your back, to his face before turning back to her plate. For a moment, he was completely immobile, spine rigid, before his hand jerked slightly before pulling away entirely—guiltily almost, like he’d forgotten himself. He cleared his throat and leaned slightly away, instead pretending to focus on something Dorcas was saying about tomorrow’s Defence class.
The conversation continued around him, fading into the background because, Regulus was never actually listening. He sat still, in that same sharp detached way only a Black could, skin still mildly humming, an awareness of being observed—watched, even if only for a second.
And yet, just as quickly as the tension had prickled across the back of his neck, jas quickly as he’d faded out of the conversation he never really partook in—mind calmed by the quiet sighs from you beside him and the slow rise and fall of your shoulders in their slumped position. Regulus just as quickly tuned back in—at the rough clattering of metal against glass from in front of him.
Of course it was Barty, another serving of toast and jam—well, more like jam with a side of toast at this point—he was using all his might to dig out every last drop of jam and lather it in excess over the wilting slice he held.
There was no attempt to hide the grimace that tugged at his lips as he watched—predictably—crumbs tumble from Barty’s overly enthusiastic bite, scattering across the dark wood of the table with no regard for neatness or basic decency.
He should be used to this. The unnecessarily messy way Barty ate, like he’d been starved his whole life and wasn’t sure when the next meal would be. And though his rattle and bang took him out of his thoughts the visual in front kept him.
Barty—lips shiny with the thick spread of jam, chewing with the satisfaction of someone who knew they were being watched and didn’t particularly care.
“Do you have to be so barbaric?”
He turned to away from Dorcas, mouth still partially full, and—Merlin—used his tongue to swipe across his lip, dragging it slow across the bottom, letting it curve over the top shamelessly to clean up the jam that had smeared there. A small, low noise hummed in his throat, self-satisfied, as he swallowed.
Then, just for good measure, flashed a grin—toothy and smug and boyish, all at once—because he knew. Knew Regulus was watching. Knew exactly what kind of chaos he was causing and how it bothered him.
And Regulus couldn’t not watch.
Even as he schooled his features into a look of distaste, pinched his brows, lips downturned into a frown. Even as he averted his gaze for a fraction of a second, trying (and failing) to pretend he wasn’t looking at the shine, at every movement Barty made—like he wasn’t fixated on the curve of jam-glossed lips, on Barty as he licked the tip of his thumb just to make a show of how unconcerned he was with Regulus' need for order.
He hummed through another rough bite, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What, this?” He waved the toast in the air for emphasis, a seed or two dropping onto the table as he did it.
Regulus actually winced. “It’s seeded, Junior.” Voice almost desperate, “There are literally two jars of seedless jam, but you picked that?”
Barty just shrugged, eyes glinting. He leaned in slightly, elbows on the table, the toast still in hand and his grin only stretching further across his lips—they still glistened, even now, and his words came out a little slower, like he was testing just how far he could push the line before Regulus looked away first.
“Mmm, I quite like the seeds. Gives it character,”
One thing Barty knew very well, was that his friend was stubborn, to a fault—and would not look away. Even as his ears tinged pinker beneath the neat curtain of dark hair, he kept his gaze steady, jaw ticking ever so slightly, mouth pressed thin—
Barty took another bite—slow, loud, seeds and all, jam spilling over the weakly curved edges of the bread, coating his fingers and dropping onto the table below in large dollops.
And, very calmly, Regulus took a long sip of his tea and muttered, “You’re vile,” he was only met with a jam-filled toothy grin from Barty as the bell rang, breaking the moment like a pebble tossed into still water.
The students around them began to gather their things in a flurry of rustling parchment and clinking cutlery. With an abrupt jolt—accompanied by the harsh scrap of the bench against stone you’re up again, panic back in your eyes, fumbling through your bag.
“What’s first—where’s my—shit, I forgot my History—”
“You have a free first,” Regulus said gently, reaching into your bag and pulling out your timetable, placing into back onto the bench. You blinked at him, shoulders sinking as you breathed out what seemed to be all the air in your lungs.
“Oh.”
You stood still for a beat, bench jutting out awkwardly into the walkway and pressing uncomfortably into the back of your knees, collar still partially popped on one side. And as much as Regulus knitted his brows together in a show of sympathy, the corners of his lips couldn’t help but join his brows—curving upwards in to a slight smile.
The smallest of huffed chuckles passed his lips as he took in the rare sight that was you—hair askewed on one side, the fabric lines of your robe indented into your cheek, a frown spread across your lips as you squinted at the mahogany of the table.
Completely and utterly out of sorts, like you’d been caught in a herd of first years.
It was sort of ridiculous, really—how someone usually so immaculately composed, polished to the point of precision, could look this dishevelled. You’re the type to show up early and leave late. Reviewing notes with breakfast, timing every action down to the second with efficiency that would make another head spin.
And now, here you were, half-dressed and fighting sleep while standing, looking like you’d just about survived a skirmish in the Forbidden Forest. It was endearing, in a way Regulus wouldn’t admit to even in the privacy of his room. Alarming, but mostly—just very, very human.
If he spent another minute surveying your disordered form—and though it would be a minute well spent, in his opinion—Regulus was going to be late. But as if on cue, Barty was already making a stand.
Toast hanging from his teeth while he slung his bag over his shoulder, he tilted his head at you, gesturing vaguely with the piece of half-eaten bread still between his fingers. “Alright, Sleeping Beauty. Let’s get your brain to catch up with your body, yeah?”
You groaned quietly in protest but swung your legs recklessly over the bench—Regulus tucking it in neatly behind you while your fingers continued to fruitlessly tug at your collar. Low moans and grumbling complaints about the morning still left your lips when Barty reached for your bag and hoisted it over his shoulder with a faint oof.
“You know,” he muttered as the three of you stepped out into the corridor, “you could keep a small troll in here and still have room left over for a cauldron.”
Regulus didn’t bother masking the smirk that tugged at his lips when you responded. “It’s called being thorough.”
“You’re a hoarder.”
As you approached the stairwell, Regulus left without a word, just a small squeeze of the elbow—turning and disappearing down the hallway before you could even register his absence.
Trudging.
That’s what you were doing back to the dungeons, not gliding like usual, not even walking. Heels scraping despite Barty kindly taking the burdening weight of your ridiculously heavy bag—you still dragged your feet across the stone like it was thick with sludge that prevented you from lifting your feet even for a second.
The journey wasn’t filled with chatter or uncomfortably silent, just quiet in the way you both liked—and for a while, it hung between you like worn-in fabric. Still, he spoke after a moment, flicking his eyes over your slumped figure.
“We could swing by Pomfrey, you know. Get you something for the headache.”
“No,” it was instant, you didn’t even look at him. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t press, just huffed lightly through his nose as he shifted your bag higher on his shoulder. The common room was empty when you reached it, echoing slightly with the soft click of the door closing behind you. You were already peeling off your robe and dropping your things onto the nearest table, sliding into the chair like muscle memory.
His lips turned into a frown. “What are you doing?”
“Revising,” you replied flatly, already pulling your textbook toward you and flipping it open with a sigh. “I didn’t get to last night. Mocks are around the corner.”
Barty stared at you like you'd grown another head.
“Right. Because what your splitting headache needs right now is Winogrand’s Wondrous Water Plants,” he said, snatching the book and reading the title with a flat look before closing it with a soft thud.
A scowl formed on your lips, immediately flinging his hand off the cover and opening it again with a stubborn shove. “I need to make sure I’m prepared. I’m not confident in Herbology.”
He rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “You’re not confident in sleeping either, apparently.” Hand already closing the book again, you shot him a glare, forcing his palms away from the spine—pointedly straightening the pages, retrieving your quill and ink.
And with that, Barty shut the book again—this time with enough force that it nearly clipped your fingers—before sliding it neatly under his arm. You took a breath through your nose, trying not to snap, knuckles whitening around the edge of the table. Instead of arguing, you reached for your bag and retrieved another textbook.
Barty scoffed, already pulling out his wand. Before you could so much as lift a hand to guard it, the book flew neatly out of your reach and into his other arm.
“You didn’t even see me get my wand out,” he said plainly, brows raised in challenge. “See? You’re in no state to study.”
You glared, lips parting for what would’ve probably been a biting reply, when the common room door slammed shut with a sharp bang behind you—someone else passing through. The sound echoed painfully through your skull and made you wince so visibly that Barty didn’t need another word of argument.
He’d already rounded the table, one hand reaching for yours. “Come on, Potter—up you get.”
You stared at him, hand still outstretched where he’d taken it, frozen for a beat. The lack of sleep, the pressure building in your skull, head still pounding, the heavy weight of your eyes—it all made the idea of continuing this particular fight feel like trudging uphill in wet socks.
So you let him tug you to your feet.
And he didn’t gloat—didn’t smirk or jeer or revel in his victory. Just held your hand loosely as he led you toward the boys’ staircase, your limbs heavy and reluctant, but not resisting.
The room was still, warmed by the late morning sun—fuller now. Robes flung carelessly over the edge of his trunk, boots with socks hanging out them, duvet scrunched in a pile on the left side of his bed—like he’d never left.
You were moving on autopilot now, shoes kicked off, tie discarded onto the desk as you climbed onto the mattress like your bones ached from the effort of being awake. He hadn’t even put down your bag before you were scooting over to one side of the bed, lodging his pillow under your head. The one you insisted was softer, that smelt of him—bergamot and freshly burnt oak wood—and faintly like your shampoo.
There was only the rustle of fabric and soft padding of Barty’s feet towards the bed, your eyes were already slipping shut, lashes fluttering low and breath starting to steady. He didn’t say anything, only moved to sit on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he reached for the duvet and tugged it upwards—though it ended up bunched awkwardly at your knees.
He didn’t fix it. Not yet.
He knew you slept a bit curled. Even now, worn down, your body seemed to be trying to hold itself together in sleep. One arm crooked under your pillow, the other slack between folds of sheets and robes. A furrow between your brows, like your mind hadn’t quite settled. He wanted to smooth it away.
So he did.
With soft, careful fingers—brushing once across your forehead, then pushing gently through your hair, letting his palm rest briefly at the crown of your head. He stayed like that for a while. Quiet—still. Just breathing you in.
And it was all so…normal.
Like he hadn’t spent weeks avoiding the place, storing his stuff elsewhere, sleeping in corners of the castle, other dorms or just not sleeping at all. Like it didn’t all spill out in this room the night before.
Barty tilted his head slightly, letting his gaze drift over your sleeping face—the soft rise and fall of your chest, the slackened line of your lips, the slight twitch of your fingers as your body fell deeper into sleep. Gods, did he want to freeze this, tuck it away—keep the moment still for at least a while. Memorise it—you—in the thousands of ways he already had—because somehow, it still didn’t feel like enough.
And though there was safety in this moment, in the quiet, calm of his room—it still burned in his mind, ripples of it, settling in the pits of his stomach, refusing to be suppressed. The uncertainty, that whatever this was—You, him, Regulus—it had blurred the lines, smudged them beyond repair.
Even how he’s looking at you now, how he’s holding you—fingers carding through your hair that’s splayed across his pillow, it was probably too much, wasn’t his right—not that that ever stopped him before.
So he didn’t move his hand, didn’t pull away despite the heavy weight that pressed beneath his ribs, he just kept brushing his thumb gently against the curve of your head, each motion steady and rhythmic.
Pushing the thoughts aside, telling himself that this was enough, that it would have to be.
─────────
Days were passing, thankfully uneventful. No drama, no tension—no cryptic silences or loaded stares. A comfortable rhythm was set between the three of you, one that hadn’t existed in a while, like things had finally fully settled.
Just long days, early nights, things felt manageable, a bit more solid again—peaceful. The quiet of the late evening air was no longer haunted by Barty’s looming absence or the harshness of Regulus’ indifference. It was nice to stroll around the castle on patrols that felt more like opportunities to enjoy the cool breeze and clear skies, and walks to stretch your legs than actual responsibilities.
Being paired with Regulus was a welcomed rarity, even after hours of watching him woosh around corners blazing after third years, it was still wildly entertaining even as your shift drew to a close.
Rounding the exit of the Faculty Tower, you made your way through the empty corridors with no disturbances—the clock chimed, signalling the end of your patrol just as you crossed the passed the South Wing. It was too tempting, really—the Courtyard bathed in moonlight—you were drifting, veering off towards the open space, padding across the stone before you could stop yourself.
A quick detour never hurt anyone, right?
“Where are you going?”
You could already hear the disapproval in his tone, could clearly envision his crossed arms and chastising gaze. But your feet didn’t want to stop, already angling toward the archway, and your lips were already shaped in a quiet, mendacious: “Nothing.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow, already sceptical. "Why on earth are you in the Courtyard?"
You didn’t slow, shrugging as you turned to face him—still pacing, deviating farther away. "There’s a full moon tonight. I want to see it."
He exhaled sharply. "We aren’t allowed in the courtyard during patrols, why would we be after?"
"So stop me, then," you said, a mischievous smile spreading across your lips, brows clocked upwards in challenge as you walked backwards. The was that glimmer in your eyes, of something impish and wild. Tonight rules were feeling like mere suggestions more than anything.
For a moment, Regulus stood his ground beneath the archway, watching as you continued your rebellion into the Courtyard, arms outstretched with a beckoning hand. And Regulus, despite his better judgment and deeply ingrained rule-following tendencies, couldn’t bring himself to deny you. It was the first time you had looked like you in weeks—alive, glowing. The moonlight dancing along your hair, your skin, welcomed, like it belonged there.
Like you belonged there, belong to the moon, to the night—bewitching in a way that even if Regulus was a stronger man, he still would have given in.
He scanned the hall behind him, muttering, "Merlin help me," under his breath as he followed you, and despite the withering look etched across his face, his lips twitched at the corners against his will.
Your grin splits further across your face in almost expected triumph, as he makes his way to your paused position, joining you near the tall tree in the centre. Surrounded by crisp air, clear skies and the moon—hanging low and heavy above you, full and lonely.
Almost too beautiful to look at directly. You tilted your head back, wind whipping some stray strands of hair across your cheek as you admired the skies above.
And Regulus, he never cared much for things like moonlight or stargazing, except for now—he was suddenly grateful to the moon for the scene it painted before him. Finding his eyes bound to you, watching the way your lashes caught the light with each flutter, the moonkissed glimmer of your skin, making his breath halt in his throat.
Like always, Regulus struggled to look away—like he knew he was staring but couldn’t bring himself to stop, and like always, you could feel his eyes on you, art-less and penetrating, and unsubtle in a way he should be embarrassed by.
“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” you said, eyes still set on the orb above.
There was no response, just the quiet rustle of the leaves behind you, but you didn’t mind. After a beat, you turned to him, shoulders brushing, lips curving at the edges. “Aren’t you glad you came?”
He didn’t shy away from your gaze, If anything, he leaned into it, rolling his eyes with exaggerated patience, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Maybe.”
You bit back a smug grin, watching as he turned toward the sky with a triumphant hum on your tongue. And for a moment you indulged, letting your eyes run along his side profile; the harsh ridges of his nose, the sharp edge of his cheekbones, the mass of dark curls reflecting the light like they were made to shine in that very moment.
Even as you took small, quiet steps backwards, you kept your eyes on him, heels crunching on the grass and fallen leaves until you felt a thick stump beneath your feet.
“Want a closer look?” you asked suddenly. And when you spoke, your voice was much farther away than Regulus remembered, much farther than he’d like. Words leaving before he’d had the chance to follow voice.
He frowned, confused. "What do you mean a closer—”
You just barely caught his eyes, already pivoting on your heel, stepped onto the hard root, gripping the bark and beginning your ascent. The sound of urgent footsteps followed as he rushed forward, standing at the base of the tree, neck craned up to watch you hastily scale the trunk.
If you were closer to the ground, he probably would have been clearer, instead his words sounded faint, whispered and hissed like he was trying to avoid detection—”What are you doing?”
The question hung in the air for a moment, before you decided to pause. Peering over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of his panicked expression, widened eyes and pinched brows. And despite his clear distress, you couldn’t help but smile down at him, palms digging into the rough bark as you spoke.
“I’m getting a closer look," you said flatly, like it was obvious, like it wasn’t completely and utterly insane.
His lips parted as he sucked in a breath, before shutting. And they opened and closed on repeat in shock a few more times as he stared upwards, arms outstretched acting as a makeshift safety net or if he was using his sheer will to bring you back to solid ground, you didn’t know.
It was still entertaining though.
You turned away from him, and pulled yourself further up, tights snagging on the coarse skin of the tree, laddering across your thighs when your foot just missed the groove you’d blindly aimed for. For a moment, he thinks your falling—his entire body stiffening like he was bracing for impact, breath halting in his lungs, fingers grasping desperately at the air to steady you.
Lips parting only to release a stifled yelp.
But you don’t fall, thankfully.
By the graces of the Merlin himself, you somehow catch yourself, and pause—and Regulus only hears a small, “Oof—!”, pass your lips as you readjust your footing, followed what he’s sure is a poorly suppressed giggle.
And when you turn your sights down in him, lips still stretching into the shape of an amused grin, Regulus can only gape at you. Face morphing into an expression of unadulterated distress, and he hissed out sharply, “Be careful!”
Your eyes are still on him, rolling as your fingers search for higher purchase—scaling up to branch that looks far too precarious for his liking. Words becoming more faint the farther up you got.
“Oh, don’t get your wand in a knot, Reg!”
Regulus only pursed his lips, biting back the urge to critique your general disregard for your safety, scold you for even dragging him out here, for acutely raising his blood pressure.
But as you seat yourself far out on the thick branch, flattening out your skirt, you lean forward—head peeking out over your knees in an incline that had his pulse skipping.
You flash him a grin, looking down at him like everything is right with the world, hair whisping over your face, and he visibly softened. Shoulders relaxing, features settling into a mild grimace instead of the pinched tormented expression it held before.
It took a significant amount of self-control for you to keep your lips from stretching further across your face in triumph—having a bird’s eye view of him losing his resolve.
“Coming up?” you teased, feet swinging back and forth, brows wiggling.
He blinked, still frozen in place, voice climbing in pitch, "What!?", brows knit in sheer disbelief.
You would think you’d grown a second head with the way he was looking up at you. But you didn’t say more, didn’t ask again, didn’t beg. No, you simply let your fingers trail over the empty space you’d left beside you, like you’d reserved it just for him.
Eyes like a silent invitation, whispering to him, catching the silver light like a charm had struck them. He hated how easily he folded. How right it felt to fold.
Regulus sighed, muttering curses under his breath as he began to climb. It wasn’t graceful. Not in the slightest. His purchase was unstable, his robe got caught on a branch, and he scraped his hands more than once.
When he finally reached the branch beside you and sat down, it wobbled ominously beneath your combined weight. He stiffened in an instant, arms out and braced like the branch might collapse at any second.
"Settle down," already biting back a grin. "It’ll hold.” you said, in that self assured way that made him want to roll his eyes. Your sights already set on the skies again, missing the withering, narrowed look Regulus shot your way, still, he leaned back slightly against the tree trunk after a few cautious seconds.
Slowly relaxing.
You both stared up at the sky, moonlight filtering through the branches above you. The breeze played gently through the leaves. When your sharp gasp reached his ears, and he was on edge again until you spoke.
"Did you see that?!"
"See what?!" he hissed, already half-rising with frantic eyes.
"I think it was a hippogriff," you whispered, pointing. He followed your gaze and let out a quiet breath as the shadow of the creature moved across the sky. A few more minutes passed in a companionable silence. You glanced over at Regulus and noticed the small scrapes well hidden by the dark stain of moss and muck covering his hands.
Without a word, you turned sideways, swinging your leg over the other side of the branch and leaning forward to take his hands gently in yours. As you shuffled over, he tensed up with each quake and jolt of the branch beneath you, wordlessly, you ignore his dramatics until you’re close enough to pull his hand off of his lap.
"Gimme," you murmured.
Regulus just watched silently as you focused, feeling the warmth of your skin mix with the soft radiating hum of magic beneath your fingertips—rolling over his palm in gentle waves as the scratches and scuffs healed.
With a sharp eye, you examined your work, holding his hand with a tender touch he still wasn’t used to, breaking the silence with a quiet mumble, “Still waiting for you to teach me how to do that,”
It broke your concentration slightly, had you lips curling at the corners as you hummed back in a tone that could only mean patience as you moved onto the next hand. And when you found a set of short thin scratches lining his fingers, a series of tuts left your lips.
"You were the one telling me to be careful," you added with a smirk.
He gave a scoff of offence, almost pulling his hand out of your grasp to cross them over his chest. "Well, sorry I’m not part monkey.” he said with a roll of his eyes, “When have I ever needed to climb a tree before tonight?"
You barked out a laugh, head tipping back slightly. "You mean to tell me you've never climbed a tree before? Not even in the summer?"
Regulus was already shaking his head before you could finish. Watching your face as you gave his hand another once over, a satisfied smile gracing your lips. But as he spoke, you didn’t relinquish your hold, fiddling with his fingers, running yours over his knuckles, stretching and pulling at the limbs.
“Never went outside much, burnt too easily. Besides my parents wanted to keep a close eye on me.”
You tilted your head slightly, a soft hum slipping from your lips, tracing idle patterns into his palm.
"How are you so good at it, then?"
"James and I used to climb anything and everything. He'd always chicken out halfway, and I'd just keep going.” You paused for a moment, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you continued, corners curving into a smile, “It was like…like flying before I had a broom."
Regulus watched you carefully, “Bet he hated that.”
“Oh, ‘course he did,” you smirked, leaning back on your hands, a huffed chuckle leaving you as your eyes scanned his figure, “Made him livid.”
─────────
The library was nearly silent save for the occasional flip of parchment or quiet shuffling of books slotting themselves onto the shelves. The early morning’s sun just about drapsing throught the window, illuminating the floating dust and casting the perfect light over your desk.
You’d been there since before the sun had fully risen—an untouched mug of gone-cold tea now well out of your reach, overshadowed by the ever-growing wall of open textbooks forming a around you.
All but caged by a fortress of volume after volume, tome after tome of parchment.
It was supposed to be a Saturday. One free of tutoring, meetings, Head-girl duties. But with the way NEWT mocks loomed over you, you couldn’t bring yourself to ignore it—to relent to the cries of your bones and stay in the warmth of your bed.
No matter how tempting.
For some reason you couldn’t quite shaken the restlessness from the week. So instead of sleeping in like the rest of the castle, you’d woken up at the ungodly crack of dawn, and claimed a corner table in the library and buried yourself in notes.
Time was passing relatively fast—students filtering in after the breakfast hour was finally up. And you’d become thankful of the warm light the sun was casting onto you, allowing you to enjoy the last whisps of the autumn sun despite being stuck in the castle. You’d built up a steady rhythm, reading through chapters, note-taking, practise questions.
It wasn’t until a soft thud sounded near the edge of your table that you noticed a figure standing on the other side. For a while, you ignore it—each time it moved a seat closer incrementally, almost like clock work.
Every thirty minutes or so until it was sat one seat across from you, casting a small shadow over your textbook.
Your lips pursed as the gentle, rhythmic tapping of feet sounded in front of you, and you made no efforts to disguise your fed up huff as your concentration broke—dropping your quill into the pot as you finally looked to see who couldn’t possibly find another seat in the Library.
Barty.
You swallowed the reprimand that was ready on your tongue. And Barty wasn’t looking at you, not exactly anyway.
He was sitting, foot jumping in that same pattern over and over, legs sprawled out in that familiar, carelessly deliberate way of his—eyes darting around the room like he was trying to avoid your line of sight, and somehow still watching from his peripherals.
You shook your head as you turned back to your books, lips fighting to curve a the corners.
Minutes ticked on.
A stack of fresh notes joined your pile. Barty occasionally tilted his head, tracking the movement of your quill or reading a stray heading upside down. He said nothing as he watched you underline something in Winogrand’s Wondrous Water Plants for what must’ve been the fifth time. Even leaning back at one point, arms crossed, observing you like you were the subject of a particularly strange case study.
Both sitting in comfortable silence, while the sun made its way across the room, shifting from where it had been warming you for hours. You ignored the way your hand was beginning to cramp and the way your stomach was grumbling in hunger, when he moved again.
Leaning forward suddenly, fingers that had been drumming against the wood coming to a halt. "Alright. That’s it.”
You paused, brows raised. "What?"
"It’s hours. This is inhumane. You haven’t blinked since breakfast."
"Because I’m revising," you said flatly, lifting your quill like a threat.
"And I’m thrilled for you, really, I am." He stood, walking around to your side of the table and planting his palms on your book as he leaned back. “But you haven’t had a sip of water in hours and I’m taking it upon myself to intervene.”
You squinted at him, peeling his fingers off the edges and taking it into the safety of your grasp. “I have to finish this section.”
"You don’t, actually. Not today. You can miss a paragraph or twelve without Hogwarts collapsing.” Barty was quick and sly when he wanted, pushing passed the blockage of paper you’d encaged yourself in and plonking himself gracelessly onto your desk.
"Junior—"
He was already closing the book in front of you. "Nope. No more Latin-rooted names of aquatic plants. No more tiny scribbles in the margins that even a magnifying glass wouldn’t help with. I’m invoking emergency intervention."
Before you could protest again, one by one the stack of books on your desk were whipping past you and showing themselves to the shelves behind you. Your lips were still parted, the start a sentence hanging silently in the air when you turned to him—shoulders sinking slightly in defeat.
And he just beamed at you, that victorious shit-eating grin that flashed almost all 32 of his pearly whites, before he hopped off of the desk with a pip in his step, taking your bag that was hanging off your chair and roughly stuffing your parchment into it.
You let your head fall against the back of the chair with a groan. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, still you love me.” He offered his hand with flair and dramatics, head bowed—one hand behind his back and a makeshift curtsey. You looked at him for a long moment, debating when he spoke again.
“Come on. There’s sun outside. Grass. Water.” You still hadn’t budged at any of his bribing suggestions and his voice dipped lower into honeyed coaxing tone. “There’s a bed…teacakes…Regulus…”
He was wiggling his fingers insistently until you took his hand and stood—the loud creak from the chair as you shifted was answer enough. And Barty only barely held in a bark of laughter as you dragged yourself to a stand.
Trailing behind Barty and out of the library—shoulders brushing with each trudge through the castle. Bag slung half-heartedly over your shoulder, grumbling beneath your breath about how much work you’ll have to catch up on, how crumbled your notes are because of him.
Barty just hummed along in agreement, just happy to have gotten you up and out of that rickety chair and back into civilisation.
Corner after corner, you found yourself standing at the door of the dorm, and he pushed open the door with a dramatic flourish, as if unveiling a grand retreat rather than the partially organised mess of shared books, robes half-draped over chairs, and a faint lingering smell of peppermint.
“Reg is tutoring,” he said over his shoulder, already heading for his desk. “So you’re stuck **with me for now, Tres.”
You only muttered back the pattern of his words in a higher, mimicking tone pitch, eyes darting towards the nearby armchair where he stood before drifting to his bed, half-made, pyjamas scrunched at the bottom, pillows astray by the headboard. You didn’t sit. Not yet.
And Barty only scoffed a laugh at your parroting, already digging roughly through the drawer of his desk, like a goblin seeking treasure.
“Got some things from Honeydukes,” he said, tone light. “You can thank me later.”
Clearly, his words went right over your head, because he was met with silence, the room filling with the sound of plastic and paper rubbing against each other as he rummaged. You wandered to the side of the bed, the back of your knees pressing against the edge of the mattress while you recited the effects of Dittany in your head.
After a few moments of rocking on your heels you broke your silence, “I should finish that chapter.”
He didn’t even look up, “You’re being uptight again.” The rummaging paused for a moment, and you could almost hear the sneer on his lips when he finished.
“I don’t know why you try so hard to be the smarter Potter.”
It’s almost like his goal was to irritate you today, the second interrupted study session of the week, the insinuation that was just as ludicrous as it sounded, like it you were competing with James of all people—you were—like he was competition at all—he definitely is.
The scoff was left your lips in a rush, like it’s one purpose was to be heard and debunk whatever Barty was implying. And your face scrunched with displease as you huffed, “I needn’t go to any particular lengths to beat my bonehead of a brother.”
There was another short moment of quiet before the rustling continued and you flopped onto the bed in partial disbelief and minor defeat. Because you couldn’t go back to studying now, not after that, not when it would make you look like a try-hard, not when it would prove Barty right.
You let your knees dangle off the edge of the bed, one shoe tossed towards where Barty still stood hunched over his desk, it didn’t hit him—although if it had, you’d have no objections.
The bedding relaxed around your form, fingers loosely laced on your stomach, feet swinging idly when the sound of several small clunks filled the room. When you craned your neck at the sound, it only continued as you sat yourself up onto your elbows—you found yourself looking at Barty’s body still crooked over the desk.
But now, his hips pressed awkwardly to the side of the open drawer trying to stop the spillage—boxes upon boxes of unopened chocolate frogs, practically leaping their way out and onto the stone floor.
“What all that?” you asked, peering toward the open drawer. “Are those…are those Chocolate Frogs I got you?!”
His body was as stiff for a fraction of a second before he began to scramble, stuffing the draw with the ones that were cliffing an exit—frantically dropping to the floor. Your eyes widened and your voice pitch in shock, he’d been stashing each ‘Congratulations’ frog.
“Junior—! You’ve been hoarding them?! Did you miss the edible memo?”
Even as he tried to stuff them roughly back into the draw, it refused to close—brimming with the gold and navy packages that seemed eager to escape. He hissed out his defence, “Not all ****of them!”
After a few more desperately aggressive and forceful slams, the drawer finally submitted, and his shoulders slumped in relief before he turned to meet your scandalised gaze. More justifications just seemed to spill out of his lips.
“They’re not for eating anyway,” he said quickly. “They’re—trophies.”
You all but gaped at him, brows pinching slightly in confusion.
“I—Well-”
“You wouldn’t understand,” he added loftily, like the idea of sentimental sweets was some noble calling. Before you could respond, he tossed a liquorice wand at you—it hit your stomach with a soft thump.
If the red tint that peeked out from beneath the collar of his top wasn’t enough indication the conversation was over, the way he whizzed around the bed, suddenly very interested in filling the room with anything but your voices, already fiddling with the record player in the corner.
He nudged the needle, adjusted the volume, and stood back with a proud little nod. No music yet, but his foot was already tapping in anticipation, like he could hear the melody before it started.
“Did you pick a song yet?” you asked.
“I’m building suspense,” he said, glancing at you over his shoulder.
You stayed where you were on the bed, still half-propped on your elbows, gaze drifting as he moved lazily about the room. The record finally crackled to life as he shuffled over in mismatched socks, liquorice wand hanging limp from his lips when flopped onto the bed beside you, sideways and upside-down, head hanging briefly off the side before twisting to look at you with a dramatic sigh.
“Why do you look like—like, physically tense. You need to un-clench before your bones fuse.”
“I am relaxed,” you replied flatly, though your spine did seem to ease into the mattress just a little more.
Barty snorted and lifted his wand with a casual flick, pointing it toward the ceiling above his bed. With a quiet swish, the wood-panelled canopy shimmered, then faded—revealing an illusion of the sky above, charmed just like the one in the Great Hall. The same light you’d both admired in the courtyard now glowed faintly overhead, with drifting clouds and a sun-tinged sky.
You blinked up at it.
“When did you learn to do that?” you asked, a little awed.
He smirked, not even trying to hide how pleased he was with himself. “Read it in Advanced Illusionary Theory. It was either that or a spell that makes your shoes bark. You’re welcome.”
“You chose correctly.”
“Obviously.”
The bed dipped slightly as he shifted, arm sliding behind his head, elbow grazing yours, knees resting over his where they hung loosely over the mattress edge. For a while you chattered mindlessly, both staring up at the enchanted sky, munching on sweet after sweet. Basking in a soft breeze wasn’t really there, but the ceiling gave the illusion of it anyway—clouds drifting, golden light dimming.
“I’m going to miss the hours of sunlight this winter.” you murmured, not really expecting a reply.
“Mhm.”
You turned your head to glance at him, wand spinning between his hands, feet tapping the air occasionally as he stared upwards.
He must have felt your gaze, because his eyes flickered to you—lazily from your face to where your hair spilled over the pillow between you, before they moved back to the ceiling. And without thinking, his fingers reached out and combed over a few strands, slow and unhurried.
Then brushed your temple, down toward the ends near your collarbone, and back up to your scalp moving in soft and rhythmic strokes.
You didn’t stop him.
Instead, you let your head roll slightly closer, just enough that your brows nearly touched. The air around you warm with magic, music spinning in the corner, the scent of honeyed sheets and sweet liquorice lingering between the blanket and him—the gap between you just barely a slither.
His fingers slowed where they threaded through your hair, but didn’t stop. You shifted slightly on the pillow, fingers still thrumming lightly against you stomach when you turned your face toward him.
Maybe you shouldn’t have.
Because he was already looking at you.
You almost flinched at the sudden eye contact, brows instantly drawing together at his expression. There was something in his eyes, almost solemn, like he didn’t want to be where he was and yet couldn’t bring himself to leave—a sort of resignation that was uncalled for, that made your lips fall limp into a frown, made your comfortable tapping halt abruptly.
Though neither of your looked away. Just held each others gaze, limbs still knotted, time suspended in several drawn-out moments of silence.
Until you cracked.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
It was meant to be a simple question, but for some reason it came out like an accusation, taut and defensive. Maybe it was the way the pits of your stomach were bubbling uncomfortably, that force your tone to shape something harsher than you’d have like—or that fact that you felt suddenly restless, picking at the fabric of your shirt.
For a moment, Barty’s hand froze in your hair, his thumb paused on your hairline before it continued its’ soft, soothing motion.
Still your face didn’t relax—if anything it wound tighter, creases hardening between your brows as he muttered.
“No reason.”
It was so dismissive, so painfully and obviously a lie, you weren’t even sure why he bothered saying anything at all. You were almost scowling now, the frown on your lips cemented deeper into your face, edged with something harder, meaner. You blinked at him, like you were giving him the opportunity to try again, to choose a different answer.
To tell the truth.
Still, you were met with silence, and that same sobering expression on his face that made your throat dry.
“Barty. You’re an awful liar.”
Your voice was shockingly serious, and your words lacked the lightness you weren’t sure they were meant to reflect. The sheets rustle slightly beneath you and his hand slipped from your hair as you shifted away from him, staring at him head on.
Even the way you moved away from him, it had only an inch, a matter of millimetres—and yet it felt oddly like a punch in the gut to him—he remained quiet, didn’t shy away from your scrutinising gaze. He watched, with his lips pursed together tightly, feeling the absence of your warmth from his side and fingertips—silently wishing to himself that your face would change, wishing he could find the words.
Truly, Barty hated that expression, the way your eyes were panicked and how you said his name—lacking everything that made it feel like it meant anything. Hated how he could feel the stress radiating off of you in harsh waves as if his silence was eating you up from the inside, hated how he could feel your breathing shallow and how stiff your body was, like you were bracing for impact or preparing to flee.
Hated how he was the cause.
Again.
“Spit it out.”
It was more of a plea than a demand, it lacked the bass it needed.
Even as he stared at you, wishing he’d looked away before so he didn’t have to witness the slight fear building behind your eyes like you’d done something wrong, wishing he could save himself the regret of what his next actions were likely going to cause.
Part of him wanted to shrink under the intensity of your gaze—retreat—but he knew you weren’t going to give up or let it go, it wasn’t in your nature. He stayed quiet for another moment, lips parting as he audibly sucked in a sharp breath.
“What is…this—?”
It’s like he was silently motioning to you, between you and your semi-tangled forms.
You knew what he meant, what he was referring to. The way you drifted together helplessly, too comfortable with your bodies intertwined—and you knew how he felt about you, how situations like this blurred the lines even more than they already were.
Crossed them, actually.
Lines that had yet to actually be set, lines that determined whether this was okay, lines that determined what this was.
He didn’t need to ask it again, or reiterate the question—but he did anyway. Not that you had an answer for him.
“What are we?”
Oh, how the tables have turned.
Your lips suddenly felt much heavier, weighed down. His words resigned you to simply blinking at him, no bark or bite left as your shoulders sagged. Folding in on yourself like every molecule of air had frozen in your lungs, no inhaling, no exhaling—even if you could breathe, you were sure the air would be completely unyielding to your will.
What exactly were you meant to say?
‘I don’t know’ definitely was not an appropriate answer. Were you meant to dismiss it, say you’ll ‘figure it out’ like Regulus had the first time?
Although you weren’t trapped, by any physical means at least—your body wasn’t moving as fast as you wanted. Like the mattress beneath you had become quicksand, softening around you, absorbing each move you made. And he could feel them, you—moving in slow motion, untangling your limbs with painstaking hesitance.
Barty used your silence to say more, to say what he wanted because you asked, because the ball was already rolling—spiralling down the hill, and he couldn’t possibly make it any worse.
So he moved.
Closer—shifting onto his side, matching the form of your sinking figure.
Just there.
A mere breaths length away. So close in-fact that the small specks of green in his eyes were visible, looking down at you as he spoke, voice low and laced with what you could only name as resignation.
“You don’t know.”
It’s like he stole the words you hadn’t dared to say right off your tongue. And frankly, there wasn’t much use in denying it—trying to water down reality. Because he was right, you didn’t know what this was and there was no amount of silence that would change that.
Still, he hadn’t stopped looking at you, watching you, frozen in his bed, sinking into his sheets. Brows pinched while your eyes darted across his face as he spoke again.
“Does it matter? Gods, I hope it doesn’t.”
That made you pause, made your sluggish attempt at an exit come to end.
You’d finally swallowed the lump in your throat, the word was barely even there—a poor excuse for speech, a pathetic use of your vocal chords—only just making it into the slither of space between you.
“Why?”
The seconds churned like days could pass between them. And the room was quiet for a moment, and then another and another, each passing slower than the last. Almost as if he was waiting for something, even when his lips parted and you could have sworn he was going to speak—end the anguish his silence inflicted, he waited some more.
Just to see if it would pass.
Barty was sure he should have stayed quiet, avoided the answer that rung noisily around in his skull like a bell over and over, because this really wasn’t the right time, or place, or—
“Because I want to kiss you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Each word he breathed seemed to travel slow motion, loitering in the space between you—curling its ways into your mind and echoed.
Neither of you dared to take a single breath, not yet. Not when he was so close, to you, to your lips—to taking everything he wanted, whether it was his to take or not.
You hardly noticed the gap between you getting smaller and smaller, really you couldn’t fathom focusing on anything but him even if your life depended on it—with the way your heart thundered beneath your ribcage, drowning out the music that still crackled in the corner of the room was not nearly as distracting as the way Barty looked at you.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking down to your lips just the once, like he was scared of it. Like that singular glance would ruin him, like he was resigning himself to an inescapable fate—drinking in their glisten and stain, coloured by the candied wand.
And it’s not like you’d never kissed before.
You had—once, it was nothing serious, far from it. Fuelled by fire-whiskey, messy and quick, your teeth had knocked into each other’s; a drunken dare that neither of your prides were able to ignore. That kiss didn’t count, it was long forgotten, meaningless.
This one?
This one did—it meant everything to Barty. Because he didn’t care if he had the right to anymore.
Even then Barty didn’t rush it, he wouldn’t dare. He savoured the blurred moment like he’d never get the chance to be this close again, each touch was slow and tentative—fingertips against your cheek, brushed tips of noses, his breath fanning across your lips.
It was a small kiss.
Just the simple press of his lips to yours—the warmth of his hand trailing down to cradle your jaw. No theatrics, no excessive boldness that might take away from the moment. From you and him and the soft, pillowy feeling of your lips.
A quiet sigh of contentment passed through his nose as he pressed closer, relaxed into you, pushed his lips against yours as if they’d supply him oxygen.
It wasn’t long before you pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, heartbeats ringing in your ears. Even for the short fraction, all Barty can do was look, watch, marvel at you like looking is drinking and he’s desperately parched.
Those mere seconds where your lips were but a breath apart, seemed torturous. His brows wound tightly together, high on his forehead, lips wet, irises swallowed almost entirely by the darkness of his pupils.
A chase had begun.
His blood practically vibrated in his veins, the surface of his skin set alight from this simple touch alone—like he’d been given the smallest taste of salvation and now nothing less would suffice.
He barely gave his lips time to shape your name before they found yours again, refreshing your mind of their honeyed taste before it even had time to settle. You found yourself reeling, palm pressed firmly against his chest, fingers curling in on themselves, tugging, pulling him in closer as if your bodies weren’t already flush.
Kisses slipped away from your lips—your skin burned and hummed under the trail he began across your throat. It was no longer soft and timid; no—it was anything but. Feverish and indulgent and all Barty knew how to be.
Like the air had condensed and buzzed with desire.
Each touch felt more like praise than the last as your hands found their way to tangle into the soft tufts of his hair. There was no stopping now. When he brought his lips back to yours; the palms of his hands hot against your waist, greedy and eager, as he pulled your lip between his teeth.
That earned him a sound, one not entirely foreign, because it was your voice and his name. But it wasn’t like normal, laced with playful exasperation or something of the sort, and it certainly was nothing like the way you said it last.
It was soft and breathy and moaned out in a gasp, and his head all but spun at the way it sounded on your lips. For a moment Barty couldn’t help but think how selfish Regulus was for keeping this to himself. It was all messy devotion—like the taste of your lips was the only thing keeping him sane.
The drag of your fingertips across the nape of his neck forced a groan to slip past his lips and onto yours—Barty was sure he’d died and had gone to heaven, willingly helpless to the push and pull, the endless tide of your lips that kept him from something as sweet as air.
You were entirely caught up in the moment, time had melted away with the tingle of your lips, the way he smiled against them and the dizzying hum beneath your ribs.
It was bliss that all came crashing down with a sharp, jarring knock at the door.
Loud. Impatient. Unfriendly.
Barty’s head whipped toward the sound, and you both froze, limbs still tangled, breaths still uneven. His hands firmly pushed into the fabric of your clothes, lips flushed and hair askew—a scene with only one explanation.
Another knock—louder this time. Followed by a very familiar voice.
“Barty. Open the door.”
it took all my might not to scrap this entire fic...lol i hate this
pairing: nsfw manhwa artist ! beomgyu x fem student ! reader
warnings: sub beomgyu, virgin beomgyu, dom reader, loss of virginity, hand job, beomgyu has sensitive thighs, kinda thigh kink, ear licking, marking, cum eating, grinding, riding, use of pet name ‘puppy’, degrading, praise, hand holding, hating men lol
synopsis: your favourite femdom manhwa goes on haitus, leaving you heartbroken. You join your uni’s manga club in hopes of finding something else fun to do. Unbeknownst to you, your favourite author is sitting amongst you.
word count: 6k
You’d recently joined your university’s severely underfunded manga club under the guise of picking up a new hobby. And whilst it was partially to pick up a new hobby, there was another underlying reason you probably wouldn’t tell anyone else about. You were grieving.
‘Rotten Peonies.’
The greatest piece of erotic femdom manhwa to ever grace the digital shelves, in your personal opinion. It was your favourite manhwa of all time and it was everything you could possibly ever want in a piece of media, as if it were a rare fruit hand picked specially just for you, that it was pretty uncanny how much it suited just to your own taste buds.
You waited eagerly every week to read the latest chapter and it was what kept you going when uni life and just every other aspect of life got too hectic, too stressful, too…much. It was your escape and you were so attached to all the characters by now, but mostly the male lead, Choi Taekbae. From his pretty character design with the shaggy wolfcut, brown doe eyes and rosy cheeks, to his funny, playful, golden retriever-esque personality, to the way he orbited around the female lead like a lovesick puppy, he was completely your type to the T. And the way he acted around and treated the female lead, submitting to them, letting them do whatever they wanted to him, never ceased to make you giggle and sigh out at your screen.
Taekbae was completely unlike how real men were and the manhwa was made totally catered towards the female gaze only: gorgeous art style and fashion, well thought out characters, real chemistry, and just the right amount of filthy. It understood what women actually wanted to see. Unlike all that other grotesque, borderline pedophilic slop men wrote. With the highly unrealistic female characters reduced to boobs ridiculously the size of hot air balloons, yet they always had a stick thin figure somehow, body proportions way off to be real. And of course, they always had to make them act child like too, always in need of saving by their ugly toxic, alpha man. That’s why you liked ‘Rotten Peonies’ and taekbae so much, it was refreshing. Real men will always end up disappointing you one day. You lived by that, you’d seen it happen many a times. They’ll let you down, they’re all the same, some just take longer to show their true colours. It’s only a matter of when it will happen, not if.
You didn’t know who the writer was, going under a pen name ‘CBG’, but you’re so certain it’s a woman because there’s no way in hell a man would ever have the capabilities to write such a masterpiece. A very cool, very feminist, very cultured, intellectual woman with impeccable taste. You admired her art and looked up to her so much.
But it wasn’t just how deliciously drawn the panels of Choi Taekbae were when he was getting fucked with pretty, teary eyes—which you meticulously saved to your camera roll—that you were drawn to by now, the plot was captivating and you were also incredibly emotionally invested and attached to the storyline as well. Surprisingly, the story was quite sweet and butterflies-in-your-stomach inducing, making you also read it for the cute, romantic moments between the main characters while cursing the universe for not handing you your own Taekbae.
Which is why your stomach had completely dropped, utterly devastated after you had eagerly anticipated the latest chapter like you usually do, giggling into your pillow and kicking your feet at taekbae until the very end, then biting your nails at the very tense cliffhanger. It’s alright, you just have to wait one week. You’d scrolled down to read the author’s note and thats when you saw the two words that shattered your entire world:
On hiatus !
‘Sorry I’m just not having much inspiration at the moment to continue anymore!’
No, no, no. This can’t be! What were you supposed to look forward to anymore?! Some series’ remain on hiatus for so long and never end up coming back. What if CBG never writes for it ever again? What if you never find out what happens next, what became of Taekbae and the female lead? What were you supposed to do without seeing new panels of taekbae anymore? Were you supposed to just keep on living? Without closure?
So, maybe you are being a little bit too dramatic, but it doesn’t matter, your beloved manhwa!
You were beyond distraught, completely devastated, which led you to joining your uni’s manga club in the mean time to cope. At least it would have you looking forward to something else every week. You also just wanted to learn about the actual process of making comics, since you always found it intriguing how your favourite author could even possibly make such art, could evoke so much emotions from you with a single panel. And who knows, maybe you could even create your own little stories and characters, your own world to escape too sometimes.
Being at the manga club had made you completely empathetic towards your favourite author. You could perfectly understand why they might have went on a hiatus now. And, despite there being not many members, it was very insightful. You were starting to enjoy it a lot, picking up a new hobby instead was actually really fun. Or, it would have been.
Choi Beomgyu.
“So do we get free snacks, or was that false advertising or something?”
“Theyre not technically free.” Kai, your club president, had explained politely, still giving him a friendly smile. “Everyone takes turns every week to bring in snacks or bake them for everyone else to eat.”
“Cool.” He’d leaned in, ripping open a packet of crisps with ill manners, not bothering to listen for the rest of the meeting.
That was your first impression of him, and you can’t say you’ve seen him in a better light, in fact, it only consolidated your thoughts about him. He’d joined around the same time as you and he was pretty insufferable. He was lazy, never took the lessons seriously like how you did, irritatingly, inexplicably handsome, and he made the most annoying commentary and jokes ever during the sessions. While the rest of you actually tried to analyse storyboarding techniques and ink shading, beomgyu spent most of the club meetings sprawled across the folded chairs, legs spread wide and munching on snacks obnoxiously loud, saying stupid things for attention like, “Do you reckon Shonen writers have a kink for dead parents or…? Like, why do they always have to add that?” You’d watched, eye twitching as his crumbs scattered over the stack of carefully arranged Shonen volumes on the table. Why he was here, at your nerdy little club, you didn’t know.
Actually, you were also absolutely sure he was only here for the free snacks, which it wasn’t like that was just a mere speculation anyway, the dead giveaway being that he’d eat and shamelessly pocket away half the snacks on the table.
He was exactly the type of man you hated in this world, that made you pray, hopefully, somewhere out there in this world, there was a choi taekbae.
Kai cheerfully clapped his hands today, earning everyone’s attention. “Alright, everyone! We’re going to pair up and try to create a short one-shot manga based on the shoujo genre. Doesn’t need to be perfect, it’s just for fun and to show to everyone else next week!”
You sat straighter in your chair, excited. Maybe you’d even make something inspired by Rotten Peonies, something worthy of CBG herself.
But, with you and beomgyu being the newbies, of course, everyone had already made their own tight knit group of friends, already pairing up with their best mates, which unfortunately left just you and choi beomgyu. And so, you were forced to partner up with him. This was going to be utter hell.
“Guess we’re partners.” Beomgyu smirks, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Don’t worry. I’m a creative genius. You’re in good hands.”
You scoff incredulously at him. “Yeah right.”
That’s how you ended up at beomgyu’s dorm, sitting cross legged on his bed, a notebook between you as you both tried to brainstorm ideas together.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” You ask, narrowing your eyes as beomgyu tapped his pen on the paper repeatedly with creased brows in exaggerated concentration.
“Yes,” Beomgyu says confidently. “Actually, I’m pretty experienced.” He looks up at you with infuriatingly self assured eyes, twirling the pen around his fingers, doing, admittedly, pretty impressive pen tricks. “It’s my passion.”
You don’t believe that. “Well, do you even know what shoujo is?”
“Yeah, Shoujo is catered towards girls-” He says, looking pleased with himself but then breaks off, frowning as if struck by a revelation, tossing the pen onto the bed and suddenly getting up. “Wait a sec.” Before you could ask what he’s doing, he hops off the mattress and disappears for a bit into the kitchen without another word. A few minutes later, he returns triumphantly with a pack of gummy sweets, chewing on them.
You raise a brow at him.
“What? I love gummies.” Beomgyu tilts his head, muffled with his mouth disgustingly full with them, cheeks all round and puffed.
“At this age?”
He shakes his head at you, tutting. “Wowww. You’re ageist. I’m going to twitter and I’m gonna cancel you.”
“They’re way too sweet for anyone who’s not nine.” You roll your eyes and retort.
He makes a deeply offended look your way and plops himself back down onto the bed, stuffing four more of the sweets into his mouth all at once, not even bothering to ask you if you’d like them too, or asking if you’d like to eat or drink anything for that matter. Some host he is.
“Right. Ideas?” You sigh, waiting for him to diligently chew the sweets he’d gobbled up at once before he can speak again, his mouth still full and frankly, looking like he was struggling.
Finally, beomgyu swallows with a cartoonish gulp and then brightens up instantly. “We should make a parody of shoujo tropes. It’s usually romance, set in high school, there’s holding umbrellas out for the heroine, someone gets sick and the other nurses them back, school trip to the beach, someone confessing during firework festivals, an annoying ex comes back from the dead, they’re locked in a storage room, there’s only one bed, blah, blah, you know all that stuff.”
He’s strangely pretty informed on this. You nod in approval, a parody could be a good idea. You’re a pretty competitive person, and whilst it’s not even being judged, you still have this need to be the best out of everyone else and to impress your club president. “Uh huh. Okay. We need character ideas.”
“Well, there has to be a hot guy. Girls love that.” Beomgyu draws a large, lopsided stick figure on the paper, labelling it ‘HOT GUY.’ He grins stupidly and shoves the notebook proudly towards you. “This is our male lead. This is hot guy.”
You stare at it, unimpressed. “I don’t think we can hand that in. I’m gonna be honest.”
Beomgyu rolls his eyes, “Obviously not. We just need to figure out who he is first.”
“A cliche bad boy?” You suggest.
Beomgyu dramatically scribbles ‘BAD BOY’ drawing out an arrow from the stick man.
You pinch your nose bridge. You don’t think you’ll get a lot done today. “Let’s give him a name then.”
“Timmy.”
“WE’RE NOT CALLING HOT GUY THAT.”
“What? Timmy is iconic. I’d swoon over him.” Beomgyu theatrically places a hand to over his chest in mock sincerity.
Shaking your head, you grab the notebook and pen out of his hand, ignoring the accidental brush of his warm fingers against yours. Clearing your throat, you cross out Timmy and write Seojun instead.
“I still think it’s a good name. Timmy…” Beomgyu mutters mournfully.
You ignore him. “Okay we need to give hot guy seojun personality.”
Beomgyu pouts but perks back up and contemplates, tapping his chin and looking up in deep thought. “Maybe everyone thinks he’s this bad boy but he’s actually not at all, what if he’s actually a scaredy cat? Shy? If it’s a parody, what if we reverse the stereotypical gender roles? Make the female protagonist the bolder one?
“Ooh. That’s kinda good.” You nod, eyes lighting up, slightly impressed that he could even form ideas like that. “Write that down.”
The both of you get excited now, beomgyu clearly very happy that you liked his suggestion, smiling with little crescent moon eyes. You draw out arrows, bouncing ideas back and forth, adding traits to your male protagonist, what he likes and dislikes, what he could look like. Once you were done, it was time to properly sketch hot guy seojun out.
“I’ll do it,” Beomgyu volunteers, snatching the pen before you could argue. You watch him fully skeptical, ready to mock whatever doodle he came up with. But once he’s done, you’re taken by complete surprise.
Because it was good, like, really good.
A very handsome man with messy hair, fox like eyes and a sharp jaw stares up at you from the page, a drawing exactly like how you’d expect a male lead in a comic to look like. His art style was surprisingly so pretty, it almost reminded you of CBG’s, but it’s probably a common style. Clean, expressive, precise. His linework had this polished look to it that you’d only ever seen in actual professional manhwa.
“…You can draw?!” You blurt.
Beomgyu tilts his head innocently, feigning offence. “Of course I can. I said I was experienced. This is my passion.”
“Why did you join the manga club?” You query, still in awe at his drawing skills.
Beomgyu shrugs, spinning the pen in his hand. “I like making comics in my spare time but I’ve been struggling with it lately. Thought if I joined I could learn more and get my motivation back maybe. What about you?” Beomgyu asks curiously, “Why’d you join?”
“My favourite manhwa series went on hiatus.” You confess. “I didn’t have anything else fun to do anymore so I joined the club because I wanted to learn about the process and maybe make my own.”
But you couldn’t refrain yourself, once you started talking about it, you couldn’t stop, couldn’t help but go on a long, passionate rant. “She left us on such a big cliffhanger! And the main guy, Taekbae, oh my god, he’s my favourite character ever, he’s literally perfect and so cute and funny and my type and-”
Suddenly beomgyu pauses mid pen spin, eyes going wide eyed. You were too busy, gesticulating animatedly to notice though. “You’re a big fan, huh?” Beomgyu asks carefully.
“I’m her biggest fan,” you declare. “I basically cried when I saw the hiatus note.”
A grin slowly spreads across his face, “Yeah, i’ll get to it eventually.”
You blink at him. “Huh?”
He leans forward, looking insufferably smug. “You’re talking about Rotten Peonies. I’m CBG.”
You stare at him. He stares back. Then you snort, incredulous. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious!” Beomgyu says, still grinning. “CBG. Choi. Beom. Gyu. That’s me. I drew it idiot.”
“No. No, you didn’t.” This was a very weird joke of his. But then again, you’ve never quite understood his type of humour. Although, you don’t know how he knew you were talking about Rotten Peonies, though saying taekbae’s name might have given it away. Still, why would he even know that?
“Yes I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“Did.”
“No.”
“I literally did!”
“Prove it!”
Exasperatedly, beomgyu flips to a blank sheet and in a minute, sketches out an exact perfect replica of a Rotten Peonies panel of takebae and the heroine. “Believe me now?”
You gape. “Okay…that’s…scarily accurate. But this still doesn’t actually prove anything. You just copied it out.”
Beomgyu sighs, getting up to rifle through a folder on his desk. Out came piles of drafts, storyboards, covers. He even pulls up his publishing account on his laptop, in which you can clearly see he was the author.
Your jaw hit the floor. “Holy shit—” You just blink at him, utterly dumbfounded, brain short circuiting.
He was CBG.
How was that possible?
CBG was a girl! Okay, it was never actually stated, but how can a man write so much emotional depth, actual good erotica? And most of all, Choi Beomgyu, the guy who manspreads and leaves crumbs all on the shonen mangas, who makes the dumbest commentary?!
Then, you grab his shirt in both fists, eyes wild, shaking him hysterically. “YOU MUST WRITE THE NEXT PART. I HAVE TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THEIR ARGUMENT ABOUT BEING MORE THAN FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS AND THE WHOLE SHIT WITH BAEKHYUNG!”
“Wha-hey! Okay, okay.” Beomgyu flails and yelps, slightly freaked out by you. “You’re…very intense.”
“I’ve been going insane!” You snap, still clutching onto his shirt, just accepting the crazy information you found out, your beloved manhwa was on the line.
Beomgyu sheepishly sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I’ve been struggling with the sex scenes. They feel… I dunno. Unrealistic? Like I’m not doing it right.”
You knit your brows, you’ve never thought that. “Why do you think that?”
“Because I don’t…” Beomgyu hesitates, cheeks blooming pink.
“Don’t what?” You pressed.
Beomgyu sighs again. “I don’t actually know what it’s like..” he winces, ears also going a very vivid, bright shade of red.
Your eyes go wide. “No way. You mean, you’re a virgin?”
“Shut up.” Beomgyu mumbles, completely embarrassed and averting your gaze.
You laugh so hard your sides hurt. “You’ve been drawing porn this whole time, and you’ve never even had sex?”
Beomgyu groans, burying his face in his hands which only makes you giggle even more at him. It’s quite cute.
And that’s when it hits you. The wolfcut. The shy, embarrassed flush. The way his puppy eyes dart away like he’d die of shame. You gasp. “OH MY GOD. Taekbae’s literally just a self-insert because you can’t get laid! You mean I’ve been thirsting over your self-insert this whole time?!
Beomgyu’s head shoots up, furrowing his brows in denial. “What-NO! Self insert?? No, he’s nothing like me.”
“You literally gave him your hair!”
“That’s a coincidence!”
You arch a brow, unimpressed, giving him a stern, deadpan look as if to say ‘come on, it’s so obvious.’
He deflates under your gaze. “Well, okay, maybe a little-”
You cross your arms, amused. “So…what you’re saying is that you’d write again, get inspiration, if…someone actually fucked you?”
Beomgyu opens his mouth then closes it, utterly speechless.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” You shrug.
“You’ll—what?!”
“I’ll pop your cherry. You better write that next part.”
You could tell he was nervous, practically hyperventilating, chewing on his bottom lip raw.
“Relax, beomgyu.”
“I am!”
“No…you’re not. I know I’m hot and all, but breathe.”
You sat behind him, your chest pressed against his back, your legs spread as he sat in between them, your breath tickling the side of his neck and making goosebumps arise on his skin and his whole body visibly shuddering. Beomgyu squeezes his eyes tightly shut.
You sigh, placing your hand onto his thigh thinking it’d calm him but it only makes him jolt. You try again, voice softer, rubbing slow circles on his skin. “If it’s too much you’ll tell me, okay?”
Beomgyu’s throat bobs, his sharp adam’s apple moving up and down and he nods, a little more relaxed, but still only a little. “Mmh.”
You bring your hand to hold his bare cock, thumb pressed on his slit, very lightly, only slightly, swirling your thumb around on his fat, pink, leaky tip. The effect is immediate, beomgyu sucks in a shaky breath, gazing down at what you’re doing to him, so flustered at the sight. You try to calm him down some more, trying to loosen him up as he sat so stiffly, so on edge, only keeping those light, slow ministrations for him to be able to get used to it. Your other hand combs gently through his soft hair, massaging his scalp as he leans into your touch.
“M-more…” beomgyu speaks up after a while, faint but needy, feeling a lot more comfortable now.
You stilled. “You sure?”
He nods so quickly you almost laugh, and so you slowly start sliding your hand up and down, smearing the slickness on his length. Beomgyu’s thighs tremble, a little closed whimper escaping from his mouth. Your free hand grabs onto his thigh again, digging your nails into the pretty plushness, partly to stop them from shaking, but also because you heavily enjoyed his reactions when you touched his thigh.
“Jesus, are your thighs that sensitive?”
Beomgyu attempts to shake his head, but you can see the way his eyes already glaze over just from your slow movements on his dick and your hand grabbing his thigh, “N-no-!” You rake your sharp nails down them, dragging and leaving a little trail of faint, reddened lines onto the skin that was once unblemished. A squeaky, startled noise leaves beomgyu’s mouth at that, bucking into your hand, hips jerking. You want to leave his thighs filled with all sorts of marks and scratches and bites and kisses, they’d look prettier like that.
You hold onto his thigh harder, bringing your pace on his dick a little faster and your hand wrapping a little tighter around his girth. Beomgyu clasps a hand to his mouth, eyes squeezed shut in overwhelming pleasure and trying to quiet down the loud loan he just let out.
“Why are you slapping your hand to your mouth? We’re at your dorm?”
“O-oh right…” Beomgyu removes his hand from his mouth, placing his hand down and balling it into a little fist on his lap instead, still trying to fruitlessly suppress all the noises he’s making, incredibly embarrassed and you can’t help but giggle at him. The next noise that spills out of him is a strangled whimper, caught halfway between embarrassment and overwhelming pleasure.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s just you and me here. No one else can hear.” You coo at him, bringing your hand to play with the soft locks of his hair once more, “I want to hear your pretty moans. Don’t hide them.” You ghost your lips over his neck, gently placing kisses on the delicate column of his neck, but of course, his neck is sensitive too.
You lick a slow stripe up the side of his dainty neck, watching the way he shivers as you chuckle, now sucking hickeys onto it, seeing how they slowly appear on his skin like ink blotches seeping into paper, violet and maroon and magenta, an assortment of colours on his porcelain complexion.
His fairy-like ears are so cute too, so red, and small, you catch his ear lobe in between your teeth, pulling and tugging and then licking a stripe along them too as beomgyu’s squirms and whimpers at the feeling, sucking nastily on his ear, watching him writhe.
You pick up the pace of stroking his cock, pumping him up and down, thumbing at the slit, twisting your fist at the base, and it’s all too much for him, breath faltering with every stroke. He throws his head back, resting it on your neck, succumbing into you and slumping onto your own body, you’re basically holding onto him, definitely not stiff anymore. His deep chesty, restrained moans, becoming breathier and whinier as times goes on, losing himself completely, “H-hahhh…” beomgyu pants as you whisper a mix of filthy words and praises into his ear.
Another grab at his thigh and digging your sharp nails deeper into them, and you feel the spurts of his cum reach your hand with a ragged cry. He orgasms fast, but that’s what you expected anyway, he’s a virgin after all. Beomgyu turns his head, hiding his face and panting into your neck, “Woah…t-that was…”
You scoop up his pretty cum onto your index and middle finger, bringing it to his face, “Open your mouth, puppy.”
Beomgyu widens his eyes, but the pet name clearly fries his brain, because he accepts, opening his mouth for you obediently. Of course being called puppy gets to him, it’s obvious, if not for the light pet play that appeared pretty often in the manhwa he wrote. Beomgyu’s tongue peeks out, letting you stuff your fingers into his mouth, he looks at you as he wraps his lips around them, sucking and licking his own cum clean off your fingers, doing it so well, moaning around your fingers, his eagerness and the way his eyes were fixed on you filthy and obscene but so sexy.
The sight was too familiar. You’ve seen this in Rotten Peonies with taekbae, his puppy eyes looking up at the female lead as he diligently sucks on her fingers, swallowing his own cum, you’ve saved it to your camera roll, added it to your hidden file. This was so strange. You can’t say you didn’t like it though. Especially now that you’re seeing the resemblance with takebae and beomgyu, god this freak was really just writing his own fantasies.
“You’ve been dreaming of this haven’t you, virgin?” You tease but beomgyu just nods, unable to say anything. “Pathetic.” You spit out, as if the sight of wasn’t making you so incredibly wet yourself.
You pull your fingers out of his mouth slowly, watching the connecting string of saliva from his and your fingers stretch. Then you grab his shoulders, pushing him down onto the bed and you crawl on top of him, straddling him. He immediately tenses again, getting nervous all over.
You take your bottoms off, leaving you in your underwear and seat yourself on his bare cock, sliding your clothed pussy on his sensitive dick. Beomgyu nearly chokes, breath catching in his throat.
You roll your hips lazily, moving and grinding against him over and over, your own lips parted as the friction bumps with your clit, your panties soaked by now and leaking onto his own wet dick. Beomgyu’s head falls back into the pillow, throwing his forearm over his face, other hand curling into the sheets tightly.
“Beomgyu,” you murmur, grinning at his fucked out expression. “Take my shirt off.”
Beomgyu freezes like a cute little deer in headlights. Slowly, awkwardly, he tugs at the hem until you help him yank it over your head. He stills when faced with your bra, staring dumbly, seemingly bewildered.
“And my bra.” You deadpan.
He reaches up, attempting to, nervously fiddling.
“Are you serious right now?”
“I’m trying!” Beomgyu protests and whines. And after far too long, the clasp finally comes undone. At the sight of your tits, beomgyu’s mouth falls open, flustered beyond belief and eyes completely glued to them in awe, like he’d never seen boobs in his life-which, you guess he hadn’t.
“You’re so hot.” He doesn’t even move, still staring and gawking at your tits in disbelief.
Rolling your eyes, you grab his hand and press it firmly to one of your breasts to which he lets out a gasp. “You’re allowed to touch, you know.”
“O-okay…”
Beomgyu cups one of your tits in his hand, still in awe, squeezing inexperienced, too timid, too unsure, just little presses and squeezes, bringing his thumb to slowly brush, feeling your nipple, and gaping. “It’s so soft…and squishy.”
You laugh almost fondly at him. He writes and draws all this filthy shit, and yet he acts like this? “You’ve drawn countless panels of porn, how are you so clueless?”
Beomgyu furrows his brows, his face on fire. “Drawing and doing are two very different things you know!!”
You giggle once more at his expression, voice dripping with mockery . “Come on, even taekbae knows this much.”
He just hides his face in his hands, whining as you continue to hump his dick, grinding down on him, sliding your clothed pussy along him.
“Aw, my dumb little virgin. You want me to fuck you? Do you wanna know what it feels like to be inside me, hmm?” you purr, leaning down just enough so your breath ghosts against his ear.
Beomgyu just nods along to your words stupidly like a bobblehead, moving his hips mindlessly with yours, speechless and unable to speak up, eyes half lidded and his thick long lashes fluttering.
You grab his chin in your hand, grinding down harder on him for emphasis. “Use your words, dumb puppy.”
“Please,” he blurts out immediately, voice cracking so high, “please, wan’ you to fuck me. Wan’ you take me.”
“You wouldn’t be cumming inside me within a seconds like a little virgin, would you?”
“No, nonono.” Beomgyu shakes his head wildly, “Promise I won’t. Wanna be inside you, please. Please?”
The desperation of his voice goes straight to your core and you lift yourself off him to rid you of your drenched underwear and discarding it carelessly. His eyes follow your movements like a starved, waiting dog, gaze snapping back up to you when your hand wraps around his cock. You grab his dick, using the head to rub your clit, drawing little stuttered gasps from his lips, sliding him over your entrance and folds, the feeling of your pussy actually on his dick, too much for him already, his hips twitching helplessly beneath you.
Beomgyu mewls, head thrashing against his pillow. “Ah, Ahhh—fuck—please—”
“Are you really sure, beomgyu?” You ask him again, gently, sincerely, scanning all over his face for any uncertainty.
“Yes, want it so bad.” Beomgyu whines needily, hips jerking up desperately just at the thought.
You inspect his face once more for any hesitation and then take a hold of his dick, hovering, just about to sink down on his tip, the head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, and suddenly he panics
“Fuck, fuck, shit, okay. I’m scared.” Beomgyu comically breathes in and out, his heart racing, bracing himself.
But you find it quite endearing and amusing, laughing softly. “Scared of what?”
“I don’t know!”
“Do you want to be inside me or not?”
“Fuck, I do.” Beomgyu whines, seemingly in a dilemma.
You lean down, staring at him assuring and serious, cupping his face, pressing his hot cheek to your palm and you feel him melt and relax instantly at your touch. “It’s okay gyu, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. You have to tell me though.”
Beomgyu nods, looking into your eyes too. “Y-you can do it.” he says finally, voice trembling but certain.
So you ever so slowly, sink down all the way onto his cock, inch by inch until he’s buried inside to the hilt. It knocks the wind completely out of beomgyu, gasping for air, throwing his head back so theatrically, moaning out so long and loud, it doesn’t sound like it could be real, straight pornographic, his entire body arched. “Ohh. oh my g-Oh my god…”
“Is this okay?”
“Y-yeah…ffuck.”
Beomgyu reaches his hand out like a man drowning, grasping and taking a hold of one of your hands in and interlocking them as if grounding him, holding onto it so tightly as he tries to catch his breath, panting deeply. You don’t move, waiting for him to get used to the feeling of being inside your pussy first.
“Shit, ‘m okay. You can keep going.”
You swivel your hips around him, then leisurely, for his sake, start riding him. Beomgyu reacts to everything, every roll of your hips, every shift of angle sending him spiralling further, literally so sensitive it’s unreal, every sensation so new to him, his appearance and the noises he makes are priceless, cute, deep, whiny little cries slipping past his lips.
As time goes on, and you quicken your pace, bouncing on his sticky dick, still holding his hand, beomgyu is long gone, not knowing how to endure being fucked. The most dumbest, debauched, dreamy expression taking over his entire face, genuinely drooling, dribbling down from the corner of his mouth and onto his chin. Apparently, you’d fucked him dumb already.
“Puppy, does it feel good?” You taunt, even though his expression was already answer enough.
It takes beomgyu a while for him to even register you’d asked him a question, and an even longer while to actually formulate an actual thought and and an answer.
Beomgyu’s eyelids droop heavily with pleasure, sweat beading his brow, slurring his words and his lisp fully coming out, “ughh is sso goood, ugh-ah, pussy sso perfect. It’s ssso…” he was meant to say more, but he doesn’t bother continuing, cutting himself off, his eyes flickering down, getting hypnotised, watching as your tits jiggle with every bounce right in front of his face, wonderstruck by this.
He looks just like how taekbae looks when he’s getting fucked right now, so delirious, he sounds so wrecked, definitely looks like it too. His messy, sweat ridden bangs of his brown wolfcut falling into his eyes. All you can see now is his glossy, glistening, plump round lips parted and stustained in the perfect shape of an ‘o’.
This entire predicament is still so crazy to you, you’re basically fucking your favourite character in a way. You can’t believe he’s still CBG who you looked up to. The annoying idiot from your manga club who scoffs all the snacks. You also can’t believe you’re seeing Choi beomgyu like this, and you never thought he’d be a virgin.
“Will you kiss me?” That cuts your thoughts off.
“Huh?”
“Please. Kiss me?” Beomgyu looks up at you with devastatingly vulnerable, sparkly, round, big, eyes, his voice small. He looks like he’d cry if you say no to him, pleading at you, needing the intimacy.
So you sigh, leaning down to capture your lips with his, kissing him softly but messily, tongues tangling together. Beomgyu whimpers sweetly into your mouth, closing his eyes and so into kissing you, his hand that has been interlaced with yours this entire time, refusing to let go, squeezing even tighter as you ruthlessly ride him. Wet, filthy sounds of you fucking him take over the room, as well as a plethora of beomgyu’s pretty, euphonious moans he emits into your mouth that you gobble up, increasing in volume and reaching an octave higher, music to your ears.
You bite at his bottom lip, dragging your teeth and he pulls away for air, “y/n…I’m soo close.” Incoherent words of begging and your name, falling past his lips, face contorted with overwhelming bliss and ecstasy. You clench around his cock so tightly on purpose, earning a mangled, raw moan from him and he cums immediately after, cumming so hard from being fucked for the first time and shooting a substantial amount of his load inside that it overflows, and when you pull yourself off, it all stickily oozes back onto and around his dick, his breath coming out in ragged sobs and gasps of disbelieved pleasure. “Fuckfuckfuck—” Beomgyu cries out, astonished.
He doesn’t last long again, you not even being able to have your own orgasm, but you can’t even be annoyed at him. His gorgeous reactions to everything and the way he was so sensitive was so much more worth it and rewarding than any orgasm, and even better than reading any of the manhwa panels, the images of beomgyu fully engrained in your head, it’s fine, you can get off to it later.
You let him ride it out, cooing soft praises for his first time, calling him a good boy and saying that he did so well as he clings to you. You pull him in for another kiss, thinking he’d appreciate it but he can barely kiss you back, his body literally limp and boneless. He still doesn’t let go of your hand, bringing his other hand up so he can hold your other one too, quietly whimpering into your mouth.
“Well,” you murmur when you pull back, still perched on top of his convulsing frame. “Was that inspiration enough?”
“Uh huh…” Beomgyu pants raggedly, a far away look in his eyes, half conscious.
So, perhaps there are real men like taekbae out there. Well, only one.
Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and disappointing when fics have such little reblogs. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write more :)
A/n: yipeee. I hope you guys like this 😭 idk if it turned out the way people were expecting but ! I think this would be a good series where they fuck so beomgyu gets inspiration and ideas for his manhwa 😭 but I’m not gonna write it loll.
