cw: smut. billie g!p. p in v. unprotected. hair pulling. choking. spanking. restraining. dirty talk. almost getting caught.
"billie!" i gasped quietly as she bent over me to put her mouth next to my ear. one hand was bruising into my hip, the other snaking up my stomach to fondle my tits.
"feel good mama?" she husked out as her black hair curtained both of our faces.
i had come over to have dinner with her family and to hear the new music she was working on. but billie had got this look in her eye during dinner and i knew where after dinner was headed.
and sure enough she had dragged me into her room, tent in her baggy shorts.
now i'm bent over, chest pressed to the mattress, as she destroys me from behind.
"ugh- billie!" a grunt came out as she pulled my hair gently. "feel s'good."
her strokes became long and deep, burying her tip all the way in. i could feel her breath shuttering as her arms lightly shook. i knew she was close.
"fuck i don't wanna cum yet," she slurred as she pressed her nose into my temple. i just moaned in response, too clouded by pleasure to say anything.
billie then shifted so that she was back upright, her hand letting go of my hair to wrap around my throat as she pulled me back onto her cock.
"oh my god!" i moaned out a little too loudly which earned me a harsh slap on my ass.
"be quiet baby," billie whispered, hand smoothing over the sting.
she began to drill into me, the sound of skin slapping was barely audible over the music she had put on earlier but i could still hear it. i began moaning uncontrollably into the pillow as my hands fisted into the sheets.
"god you look so fuckin' good baby," billie moaned out as she squeezed my ass. her thrusts became impossibly rougher which caused my hand to fly back to try to stop her. she grabbed my wrist and pinned it against my back. "nuh uh, take it y/n. take it baby."
"billie s' too much, fuck!" my words came out in a squeak as she mercilessly fucked me into the mattress.
"say the word, ill stop." she said through a smile, spanking me again. i stayed quiet. "that's what i thought."
just when she started to hit my spot repeatedly, there was a knock on the door.
billie's movements slowed and i turned around to look at her with wide eyes. her own eyes flicked to the door which was unlocked.
"stay quiet," billie whispered before her hand snakes around and covers my mouth. she keeps my arm pinned with her other hand as she begins to move again.
"billie?" finneas said from the other side of the door. billie rolled her eyes with a frustrated groan but didn't answer. finneas knocked again. "are you busy?"
"very," billie spits out over the music. she uncovered my mouth gently just to rest her hand on my ass.
"how busy?" he asks.
"i just said very busy," she groans again, hand digging into my hip to pull me back onto her cock. i can barely hear the conversation as the words blur in my ears from the pleasure of billie fucking me.
"i need your help," finneas stated loudly. at this point, even i was annoyed.
why can't he get the hint?
"it can wait!" billie yelled loudly, her movements stopping. i looked back at her with pleading eyes, my legs shaking from how close i was.
"i want to get this song done tonight because i will be gone this weekend." he continued talking even though it was very clear that billie doesn't want him talking anymore.
"his voice is making me go soft," billie huffs out to me, shaking her hair out of her face as her fingers bite into my ass. i gently rolled my hips back against her which caused her to curse under her breath.
"he's pissing me off," i breathed out a laugh against the pillow.
"finneas, i really need you to go away." her voice shook as she began to thrust forward again. i could tell if her demeanor that she really just wanted to cum.
"we need to fi—"
"finneas! i don't give a fuck!" billie practically screamed. theres was no answer, just the floor creaking as he walked away. "holy god!"
"billie, keep going." i whispered as i patted her arm to hold hands. she let go of my wrist and interlocked our fingers as she leaned forward again.
"you're so pretty y/n," she huffed out as her hand tangles back into my hair. "taking me so good."
she rolls her hips, causing her tip to hit my spot. i moaned out loudly and she weakly shushed me, even though she was letting out quite the loud sounds herself.
"i'm gonna cum," i cried out and before her verbal permission was given, i was finishing on her dick.
"fuck, me too!" her hips slammed forward into my ass until i felt her finish inside me. she kept going for a moment before letting out a long groan and pulling out. "lemme get the towel mama."
billie got up to grab a towel from her drawer and she turned down the music slightly when she got up. she then gently cleaned me up before she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me onto her.
"well that was embarrassing," i giggled against her chest, the smell of her lotion filling my nose.
"it was fucking annoying!" billie laughed while shaking her head. "i swear to go—"
"billie, i need to talk to you!" finneas's voice sounded through the hall and into the room.
"im gonna fuckin' kill his fuckin' bitch as—" billie started to cuss him out under her breath as she pulled a shirt on and her sweats. "get dressed babe."
i quickly pulled on a hoodie (her hoodie) and my leggings before billie yanked her door open.
"what could you possibly want?" billie spat as she stood in finneas's doorway and i awkwardly stood behind her.
"to finish this song," finneas huffed as he sat down in his chair harshly.
billie then reluctantly agreed to finish the song, me laying next to her the whole time. the rest of the night went smoothly until billie said,
"next time, dont interrupt my time with my girlfriend."
🏷️ Summary: Billie knows perfectly well that punctuality is non-negotiable for me. So, when she decides to defy me by brazenly touching me under the table during a dinner with friends, she thinks she has won our little power struggle. She has no idea that her public bratting has only guaranteed her a ruthless punishment the second we step through the front door.
Punctuality is one thing I never negotiate on, and Billie knows it perfectly well.
That’s why, when she tried to drag me back to bed twenty minutes before we had to leave for our vegan sushi dinner with the rest of the group, I had to put my foot down.
She whined, dragged her feet, and stared at me with those heavy, defiant eyes as she finished getting dressed. A petulant Billie is dangerous, but I didn't realize just how much.
Now, sitting in the restaurant's private booth, our friends' conversation flows all around us, but my mind is somewhere else. Specifically, on Billie’s hand, which has just slid down my thigh beneath the table.
She’s wearing a loose, oversized dress, but her arm stretches far enough. I look at her out of the corner of my eye.
Billie is holding a chopstick with a sushi roll, talking animatedly with Finneas.
She slides her left hand down my thigh with an excruciating slowness, moving her fingers upward inch by inch beneath the hem of my skirt.
I continue responding to a casual question from Claudia, keeping my voice steady, but my entire body tenses up completely when the tips of her long, cold fingers brush against the lace edge of my underwear.
“Yeah, the producer gave us a couple of interesting ideas...” Billie says aloud, while her fingers find the fabric of my panties, slipping shamelessly beneath the damp silk, searching for my clit.
She presses down hard, directly over my center.
I freeze, holding my breath. Her gaze slowly drifts over to me.
She presses the pad of her thumb directly onto my clit hood, rubbing it in a firm, heavy circle. I stifle a gasp in the back of my throat, digging my fingers into the wooden underside of the table.
When I look at her sideways, expecting to find a trace of hesitation, Billie simply tilts her head.
She holds my gaze dead-on, her eyes heavy, blue, and defiant, wetting her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue in a purely obscene gesture meant only for me to decipher. She is daring me.
She knows a single whimper would give away what’s happening, and she’s betting everything that my rigid composure won't hold up against the rhythm of her fingers.
“Are you okay, babe? You look a bit pale,” she tells me with an innocent smile that makes my blood boil.
The wetness of my own inevitable reaction coats her knuckles instantly.
Billie’s smile widens as she notices how slick I already am, and she picks up the pace, hooking her fingers upward, punishing my most sensitive spot with a constant, rhythmic, and merciless friction.
My thighs tremble under the tablecloth; I clench my teeth until my jaw aches, fighting off the waves of heat that threaten to make me arch my back in the middle of dinner.
Billie doesn't take her eyes off me; she enjoys seeing the cold sweat on my forehead, smirking with the smug satisfaction of knowing she owns my composure in this very second.
Her fingers begin to move in circles, slick with my own unavoidable slickness. I grit my teeth, digging my nails into my own thighs under the table to keep from gasping. Billie keeps her gaze locked on mine, defiant, licking her lips while she continues to touch me at a torturous pace.
She is so insolent. A little spoiled brat who needs to remember who is in control.
I place my hand over hers under the table, stopping her movement with a firm squeeze. I return her gaze, a cold, silent promise written into my eyes.
“Billie... stop,” I manage to murmur in a thread of a voice, gripping her wrist under the table with a squeeze meant to cut off the circulation to her hand.
Far from stopping, she uses her free hand to pick up her chopstick with total nonchalance while, down below, she frees her thumb to rub my center with a wild speed, using my own juices to undo me.
Her smile falters slightly, replaced by a dark gleam of anticipation.
The friction of her fingers through the silk of my underwear is deliberate torture. Billie knows exactly which strings to pull; she knows the rigidity of my jaw when my self-control begins to crack, and she enjoys every single millimeter of that resistance.
I hold her hand under the table, tightening my fingers over hers with a force meant to be a sharp warning, but she only widens her smile, defiant, and takes advantage of the space to slide two fingers directly under the wet fabric.
A choked gasp dies in my throat. Finneas keeps talking on the other side of the table about the frequencies of a synthesizer, completely oblivious to the fact that his sister is sinking her fingers into me with an implacable, sticky rhythm.
“Personally, I think the rhythm of the second half needs more... pressure,” Billie comments out loud, her voice drawling and perfectly modulated for the group, while her fingers deliver a sharp, upward stroke against my clit.
My nails dig into the edge of the wooden table. I stare at her with narrowed eyes, conveying the implicit promise of the consequences waiting for her the moment we step through the front door at home.
Far from being intimidated, the mischievous glint in her blue eyes intensifies.
Billie is a textbook brat when she wants to be; she gets turned on by danger, by the tightrope of public decency, by the power play where she thinks she has the upper hand just because her hands are dirty under the cloth.
“Don’t you agree, sweetheart?” she asks me, tilting her head.
Her fingers curl inside me, quick and firm, hitting the exact angle that makes me lose my footing.
I am soaking wet, and the subtle sound of her friction is masked by our friends' laughter and the ambient music of the restaurant. I try to maintain my composure, but Billie accelerates her pace, using her thumb to rub my center with exquisite cruelty.
My breathing becomes short, erratic. Heat rushes up my neck, flushing my cheeks.
She licks her lower lip, holding my gaze with a consuming intensity, feeding off my desperation not to fall apart right then and there.
“Billie...” my voice comes out in a dangerously low whisper, a tense vibration only she can catch.
“Tell me, my love,” she replies, sinking her fingers in completely while pressing her thumb down with ruthless force.
“Are you okay, darling?” she replies in an equally low whisper, her eyes shining with an insufferable arrogance. “Enjoy your dinner.”
That is the limit. The spasm shoots down my spine before I can even process it. My nails scrape the wooden underside of the table as the orgasm hits me with the force of a freight train. I close my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek until I taste the metallic tang of blood, choking back the scream pushing to get out.
My walls contract violently around her trapped fingers, milking them in complete secrecy while she behaves with unmitigated insolence.
Billie doesn't stop; she continues pumping her fingers a few more times, savoring the pulsing of my flesh, forcing me to swallow the overstimulation before slowly withdrawing her hand, licking her lips with a smugness that makes my blood boil.
When she pulls her hand away, she does it slowly, brushing against my swollen clit one last time before wiping the excess slickness onto the reverse side of my own skirt, looking at me with the self-satisfied smirk of someone who thinks she’s won.
The drive back home is a desert of words. Billie sits in the passenger seat, legs crossed with a triumphant expression she doesn't even try to hide, humming some random melody while staring out the window.
She knows I’m watching her.
She knows the silence filling the space isn’t one of submission, but rather the heavy calm before the storm.
The moment the front door lock clicks shut with a heavy thud, the atmosphere shifts completely.
I don't even reach to turn on the hallway lights; the shadows of the house envelop us immediately. I turn to face her. Billie takes a step back, her spine straight, trying to maintain the facade of the spoiled brat who just got away with it.
“Quite a dinner, right? The sushi was...”
I don't let her finish. I grab her arm firmly and slam her against the wall. The dull thud cuts off her sentence. My free hand snaps directly to her chin, forcing her to lift her face, squeezing my fingers with enough force to remind her who’s boss.
Her breathing, which had been steady a second ago, quickens noticeably.
The triumph in her eyes begins to dissolve, replaced by the delicious submission she always tries to hide behind her tantrums.
“Did you think that was funny?” I snap, my voice low, drawling, pressed against her lips. “Do you think you’re so clever playing the whore in front of my brother and your friends?”
“You... you were ignoring me,” she stammers, trying to keep a defiant tone, but the trembling in her voice betrays her. Her hands grip my wrists, not to push me away, but to cling to me. “You wanted to leave, and I wanted...”
“I don’t care what you wanted, Billie. I gave you a clear order before we left. I hate unpredictability, and I detest being defied even more when I’ve told you to sit still.”
“You were ignoring me,” she protests, narrowing her eyes, the petulant brat peeked out again. “You didn’t care when I begged you on my knees in bed.”
“And so you decided you could touch me under the table like an alley cat in heat, right?” My tone makes her gasp. Her pupils dilate until they almost erase the blue of her eyes. “Look at you. You’re shaking just because I’m speaking strictly to you. A spoiled girl like you needs to remember her place.”
I turn her body around without ceremony, forcing her to lean against the wall, her back to me.
“I gave you an order, you little brat,” I remind her, increasing the pressure on her jaw until she lets out a whimper. “And in this house, my time is not up for debate. If you wanted attention, you could have asked for it on your knees like the bitch you are, not by trying to get fucked under a tablecloth like an dog in heat.”
Billie lets out a muffled moan, pressing her palms against the wall, her head hanging low.
“You’re going to learn to respect my boundaries, Billie. And you’re going to learn to ask for things properly. Look at you. You’re soaked and trembling just because I’m speaking harshly to you. A spoiled girl needs to be reminded of the pain of disobedience.”
I raise my right hand and bring my open palm down hard against her right butt cheek. The sharp slap echoes through the silent hallway.
I pull the fabric of her dress and her hoodie up to the middle of her back, leaving her pale cheeks and her string thong completely exposed in the dim light.
Billie tries to arch her hips back—a defiant reflex, looking to provoke me again.
“Don’t move,” I warn her.
A sharp cry escapes her, but I reprimand her immediately.
“Shh. Silence. I didn’t give you permission to make a sound.”
Another strike falls, this time on the left side, leaving a red mark that begins to burn against her pale skin. Billie sobs, a small, broken sound.
My hand descends again, rhythmic, relentless, striking the soft flesh until her skin is hot and flushed. I spank her firmly, measuring the force to sting her pride as much as her skin, forcing her to shift restlessly against the wall.
Billie sobs, hiding her face against her arms on the wall, but her hips rock involuntarily with every impact, chasing the sting, feeding off the discipline she had provoked so hard.
I give her ten, ten consecutive slaps, increasing the intensity until the echo of the strikes drowns out her muffled whimpers.
“Please... Mommy, please, it hurts, I’m sorry,” she begs, finally breaking her defiant facade.
“What are you sorry for, Billie? Tell me exactly what you did wrong,” I order, halting the slaps for a second, pressing my body against her back, feeling the heat radiating off her.
“I was... I was a brat. I touched you when you said no... I’m sorry, Mommy, please.”
“Such a good girl,” I whisper in her ear, switching my tone to something dangerously sweet, praising her submission. “So soft, so easy to break. Look at me.”
I force her to turn around again. Her face is flushed, her cheeks red, and her eyes are flooded with heavy tears already spilling over her eyelashes.
I push her down toward the floor, leaving her on her knees in front of me.
Her face is a roadmap of vulnerability: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and thick tears streaming down her neck.
I grab her hair firmly, tugging her head back to wipe her tears with my thumb before giving her a clean slap across her right cheek that makes her let out a startled hiccup.
“Cry more for me, Billie. I love watching you fall apart when I put you in your place.”
I crouch down in front of her, dropping to my knees. Billie opens her legs instinctively, seeking air. I slide her underwear down to her ankles, leaving her intimacy completely exposed.
She is dripping; her own frustration and the punishment have left her more than ready.
I don’t use my fingers. I lean in and press my mouth directly against her swollen clit, licking her from bottom to top with an agonizing slowness. And then, without warning, I bury my mouth over her inflamed center, trapping her between my lips and sucking with wild force.
“Oh God, Mommy!” Billie tangles her fingers in my hair, desperately pushing my head down against her pelvis.
“I told you to stay still,” I growl against her flesh, biting her inner lip hard enough to make her cry louder. “If you move even one more time, I’m leaving you here all night.”
My tongue works in concentric circles, heavy and wet, sucking her center with a force that makes her wail uncontrollably.
Billie cries openly now, her head thrown back against the wall, tears running down her neck. Her thighs shake violently.
She is right on the edge; I can tell by the way her flesh twitches tightly around my lips.
Just when her body tenses and I know she’s a second away from ruining herself, I pull away abruptly.
“No,” I say, standing up and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“What? No, no, please, Mommy, it hurts, it hurts so bad,” she begs, her eyes wide, her pelvis suspended in the air, chasing the contact I just ripped away from her. She is completely overstimulated, hyperventilating.
“You’re going to stay like that. You’re going to endure that ache a little longer so you can think about what it costs to disobey me. You’re going to beg me properly.”
I walk toward the back bedroom without looking back, knowing she will follow me like a wounded pup. I hear her clumsy footsteps behind me, the wet friction of her thighs.
We enter the room, and I pull the black leather harness out of the drawer along with the long, thick strap-on we usually use when she needs to be completely filled.
I buckle it around my waist calmly, my back turned to her, listening to her messy sobs on the bed.
When I turn around, Billie is on her knees on the sheets, her eyes swollen, cheeks wet, her gaze locked onto the rigid toy rising from my pelvis.
“Come here, you little slut,” I order.
Billie crawls toward me without a second of hesitation, pressing her forehead against my thighs. I grab her hair firmly, pulling her head back so she has to look up at the toy.
“Ask for it. Ask for it like the desperate girl you are.”
“Please, Mommy... put it in, fill me, I beg you... I can’t take it anymore, please,” she begs, her voice broken by crying, her lips trembling.
“You’re going to swallow it first. Clean it for me.”
She leans forward with an almost religious devotion.
Billie opens her mouth and takes the tip of the toy, sliding down it with difficulty, using her spit and her hands to lubricate the textured plastic. Her eyes, locked onto mine through her tears, plead for the end of the torture. The wet sound of her sucking fills the humid bedroom.
When I decide she’s had enough mental punishment, I shove her back, forcing her to lay flat on her back. I pin her legs all the way up to her shoulders, exposing her entrance, engorged and slick with desire. I hold the toy right at her opening, teasing her clit one more time just to hear her scream.
“Mommy, please, now, now!”
I drive the strap-on in with a single, deep thrust, burying it all the way until the leather base slams against her pelvis with a dull thud.
Billie’s scream is devastating—a mix of pure pain, relief, and cataclysmic pleasure.
Her eyes roll back for a second, showing only white, and her entire body arches off the bed. I don’t give her time to recover. I begin to push into her with brutal, relentless force, our pelvic bones crashing together in wet, heavy thuds.
“You’re mine, baby. Who do you belong to?” I yell at her, delivering another light slap across her face to snap her back to the reality of the pain and pleasure.
“Yours! Mommy’s! Right there, God, right there!” she screams, her hands clawing at the sheets, her legs shaking violently.
The pace is savage. Every thrust drives her higher, the plastic friction hitting the walls of her cunt and pounding her G-spot with torturous consistency.
Her crying is no longer from sadness; it’s the physiological response of a body completely broken by pleasure and dominance. The overstimulation is so intense that Billie begins to babble incoherently, spit pooling at the corner of her lips, completely gone.
“Prove to me what a good girl you can be and ruin yourself for me right now, Billie.” I command her, accelerating my thrusts to the absolute maximum, driving into her mercilessly.
“Mommy! Fuck, I love you!” she howls.
Her body collapses. The walls of her entrance clamp down in violent spasms around the toy, trapping it with incredible force as her orgasm rolls out in endless waves.
Billie squirts again, soaking the sheets beneath her, her chest heaving in dry gasps while tears continue to pool into her temples.
I continue to thrust a few more times through her aftershocks, forcing her to process every vibration of her climax, until I finally stop, letting my weight drop heavily over her, pinning her to the bed.
Billie buries her face in my neck, sobbing softly, her trembling arms wrapping around my back. The heat of her flushed skin and the heavy scent of sex fill the room.
The punishment is over, and the little brat is right back exactly where she belongs: submissive, broken, and completely mine.
Billie’s collapse on the bed lasts for several minutes, a silence broken only by her erratic breathing and the echo of the last twitches shaking her thighs.
I stay lying on top of her, savoring the weight of her surrender, feeling her frantic heartbeat hammering against my own chest.
Her insolence has evaporated, but Billie's intensity never fully disappears; it mutates, transforming into a devotion that burns just as hot as her rebellion.
Slowly, I unbuckle the straps of the harness and set the toy aside, freeing her from the pressure. The moment I try to sit up to get out of bed and clean myself up in the bathroom, her hands—still shaking, her nails red from clawing the sheets—grip my hips with a renewed urgency.
“No... babe, wait. Don't go,” she begs, her voice raspy, a barely audible thread dragging out the words.
She hides her face in my neck, breathing in my perfume mixed with the sweat of our fight.
Her lips, hot and swollen from the bites she gave herself earlier, begin to brush against my skin with a softness that contrasts wildly with her screams from moments ago.
Billie pushes herself up with the little strength she has left, forcing herself to her knees on the rumpled mattress while I sit on the edge, watching her with a raised eyebrow, maintaining a dominant distance.
“Let me... let me make it up to you,” she whispers, looking up at me from below, her blue eyes still clouded by tears from the dacryphilia, her eyelashes clumped together from the moisture. “I was an insolent brat under the table, I know... I was terrible. But I just couldn't resist. I swear I couldn't.”
Her hands slide down my thighs, squeezing the flesh with a firmness that no longer seeks to challenge, but to worship. Her fingers, still marked with the evidence of her own climax and mine, dig into my skin devoutly.
“You look so fucking good in that red dress...” she continues, her gaze tracing the fabric bunched around my waist. “In the restaurant, under that dim light... you were glowing. You were the only real thing in that godforsaken room. You were ignoring me so beautifully, so perfectly composed, that it drove me crazy. I’m a mess for you, Mommy. A goddamn mess that only knows how to break when you look at me like that.”
She leans forward, resting her palms on my knees, lifting her face to beg for my approval with submission oozing from her pores.
“Let me clean you up. Please, let me lick you clean. Let me lick away the mess I made under the table and what you made here. I'm begging you.”
I hold her gaze for a few eternal seconds, letting the desperation build in her chest, before giving a slight nod and slowly opening my legs. That small concession is enough to make Billie let out a sigh of pure relief. She doesn't waste a single second.
She slides down the bed until she’s perfectly kneeling on the floor between my open legs, looking at me like I’m her only altar.
Her hands desperately unbuckle the harness, pulling the fabric of my panties away with an almost reverent care, exposing my thighs which are still vibrating from the exertion of her punishment.
Billie opens her mouth and presses her tongue to the inside of my left knee, working her way up with long, wet, hot laps, catching every drop of sweat, every trace of our friction.
“You’re so perfect, baby...” she moans against my skin, her voice vibrating directly into my flesh while her hands close possessively around my thighs, digging her fingers in, making it clear that even while submissive, her intensity remains a whirlwind. “You smell so good. You’re so fucking delicious for me.”
Her mouth continues its relentless, meticulous ascent. She reaches my center, which is still throbbing from the silent orgasm at the restaurant, and buries her face completely.
Billie uses the tip of her tongue to trace my labia with an agonizing slowness, tasting the heavy fluid that has half-dried on my skin. Her hot breath hits my clit directly, making me flinch.
“Stay still, Mommy... let me do all the work,” she whispers between my legs, using the tone of praise she knows turns me on. “You’re such a goddess. You were so strong under that table... taking my fingers without making a single sound while you fell apart. You deserve to be worshipped until you can't take anymore.”
She drives her tongue in hard, mimicking the rhythm of a thrust, sucking my clit with a hunger that forces me to throw my head back and bury my hands in her hair.
Billie moans against my sex, feeding off my reactions, licking and cleaning every single corner with absolute devotion, ensuring not a single millimeter is left without her wet mark.
When she decides my lower half is immaculate, she doesn't stop.
She coaxes her body up the edge of the bed, crawling over me like a hungry cat. Her mouth leaves my intimacy to trace a wet line up my abdomen, nipping at the soft skin just above my belly button, drawing sharp little gasps from me that she smothers with the sound of her own sighs.
“Look at you... you’re shaking for me now,” she whispers, sliding her fingers up my ribs to reach the edges of my dress, pulling the neckline down to leave my breasts bare. “God, you’re so beautiful. So firm, so commanding.”
She takes possession of my left nipple, trapping it between her hot lips and sucking hard, while her right hand roughly squeezes my other breast, kneading the flesh desperately.
Billie bites my areola softly—just enough to leave the sting of pain prickling my skin—before licking the area to soothe the ache.
“You’re mine... all mine,” she declares in a low growl, moving up my sternum to reach my neck.
There, where the skin is thinnest and most sensitive, Billie shows no mercy. She opens her mouth and sucks a generous patch of my skin right below my ear, digging her teeth in with deliberate pressure. A sharp whimper escapes me as I feel the biting sting.
She maintains the suction for several seconds, savoring the heat of my blood rushing to the surface, before pulling away with a wet sound, admiring her work: a dark purple mark standing out proudly on my neck.
“That way everyone will know exactly who you belong to when you wear that dress,” she whispers with a flash of caprichous possessiveness returning to her eyes, even though her body remains lax and surrendered over mine. “You’re mine. The only one who can break me like this. The only one who makes me beg.”
The contrast between her absolute submission and the ferocity with which she devours my body takes my breath away.
Billie isn't satisfied with just cleaning up; she wants to claim my pleasure in the same savage way I claimed her tears. With her hands dug tightly into the inner part of my thighs, she pushes my legs even higher, opening me up completely for her inspection.
There is no softness in her approach. She pins her mouth to my inflamed center and delivers a deep, violent suction that immediately forces my back to arch off the mattress.
A broken gasp escapes my lips. Her tongue, hot and expert, begins to move in long, upward strokes, punishing my clit with a relentless pressure that seeks vengeance for the minutes of denial I put her through.
“Fuck...” Billie moans against my skin, her voice muffled by my own wetness. “You’re so fucking wrecked. Look what you do for your girl.”
I try to maintain control, to dig my fingers into the sheets and remind her who’s in charge, but Billie knows my breaking points perfectly.
She uses two fingers to spread my labia wide while her tongue works in fast, heavy, concentric circles, right on the exact spot.
The pace is frantic, a soaking wet assault that drags me to the edge of the abyss within seconds. My thighs begin to shake violently against her hands, completely unable to resist the overstimulation of her mouth.
The orgasm hits me head-on, a wave of scorching heat that forces every muscle to contract.
“Billie!” I scream her name, losing every ounce of the composure I had defended so fiercely at the restaurant.
My vaginal walls squeeze in long, erratic spasms, spilling me completely over her face. Far from pulling away, Billie sucks harder, swallowing my climax, tasting every pulse of my flesh while I unravel on the bed, my breathing shattered and my vision blurred by pleasure.
When she finally pulls back, she crawls up my body with a feline slowness.
Her cheeks are flushed, the corners of her lips are wet, and a glint of pure smugness shines in her blue eyes. She stops millimeters from my face, watching me try to catch my breath, completely vulnerable under her weight.
“I hate you...” I manage to utter in a thread of a voice, my eyebrows knitting together as I try to reclaim a shred of my authority.
Billie lets out a low, husky laugh, completely stripped of her previous fear of punishment. She is in her element, knowing she owns the very air I'm gasping for.
“You love that I'm like this,” she whispers against my lips, with an insufferable certainty. “You love that I eat you up just as much as I love when you put me on my knees.”
Before I can even reply, she catches my lips in a final kiss. It is a slow, deep, soaking wet kiss, her tongue sliding shamelessly against mine, forcing me to taste my own trace—the flavor of my essence mixed with her saliva.
It is the definitive seal of our dynamic: a quiet war of power that always ends with both of us completely consumed, trapped in the exact space where discipline and devotion become the very same thing.
i have a request where reader is basically sick and is in the hospital, but despite billie being busy with her schedules, she still visits reader occasionally and bring her food, flowers and mostly spend their time together basically full of fluff. IM SO SORRY IM BAD AT EXPLAINING, hopefully you get the idea 💔
NO PRESSURE THOOO I LOVE YOU SO MUCHHH 🤍🤍
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ゛ Room 404 ⸝⸝ .ᐟ 𑣲 | @seaupee
The scent of sterile antiseptic was entirely masked by the overwhelming fragrance of fresh-cut peonies and lavender.
You leaned your head back against the plush pillows of your VIP hospital suite. It felt less like a medical ward and more like a high-end hotel room, complete with a panoramic view of the city skyline, a soft leather couch, and a private kitchenette. Billie had insisted on it the moment your fever had spiked and the doctor ordered overnight observation. You had tried to protest the extravagance, but arguing with Billie Eilish when she was in protective-girlfriend mode was a losing battle.
A quiet click of the door broke the silence of the room.
You blinked sleepily, turning your head as Billie slipped inside. The contrast was immediate. Just an hour ago, you had been scrolling through your phone, seeing pictures of her looking sharp and ethereal at a major radio interview. Now, she was completely dressed down: an oversized, worn-out vintage graphic tee, baggy gray sweatpants, and her hair tied up in a loose, messy bun. She looked exhausted, dark circles faint under her eyes, but the moment her gaze landed on you, her face softened.
"Hey," Billie whispered, closing the door gently behind her. "You awake?"
"Billie, you should be at your hotel sleeping," you said, your voice a little raspy. A fond, tired smile tugged at your lips. "I told you on the phone, the nurses are looking after me. I can handle a little fever."
"Yeah, well, I can't handle being away," Billie countered smoothly. She walked over, setting down a small paper bag on the bedside table and a beautiful bouquet of white chrysanthemums and white roses. "Brought you that soup from the place you like down the street. And flowers for my pretty woman."
"You're too stubborn," you teased softly, stretching out your hand.
"Look who's talking," Billie chuckled.
Billie lifted your hand to her lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. "How are you feeling? For real. Don't give me the PR answer."
"Better. Just tired. The medicine is making me drowsy," you murmured, your eyes already growing heavy just by having her in the room. "Your interview went well? I saw the pictures. You looked beautiful."
"It was fine. Just a bunch of the same questions," Billie dismissed it with a shrug, her thumb gently tracing circles on the back of your hand.
She leaned over to press a gentle kiss to your cheek, noticing the faint, clean scent of body wash.
"I took a bath earlier," you said proudly, gesturing to your clean pajamas and damp hair. "The nurse was so sweet. She helped me get up, walked me over, and just waited outside the door until I was completely done so I wouldn't slip. I feel like a human again."
"Thank god. You were starting to smell a little suspect," Billie teased, earning herself a playful swat on the arm from you. She quickly adjusted the rolling table, sliding it right over your lap, and began unpacking the container of mild ginger broth. "Since you've got some energy, you should try to eat some."
"I am hungry, actually," you admitted. You took the spoon from Billie, blowing on the hot broth before taking a cautious sip. The warmth hit your stomach instantly, making you sigh in relief.
Billie dragged her usual armchair right up to the edge of the bed, settling into the cushions. She reached out and wrapped her hand around your free one, her thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles.
"I talked to your family earlier," Billie said softly, keeping her eyes on you as you ate. "They wanted to come by, but I told them you were resting. They all miss you."
"I miss them too," you murmured, swallowing another spoonful of soup. "Two days feels like two weeks in here. I just stare at my phone or watch whatever is on TV. It gets lonely."
"I know, babe. That's why I'm here," Billie whispered, her thumb continuing its soothing motion. "Eat up. The faster you get your strength back, the faster we get you out of this room."
You smiled, the loneliness fading a little with every bite of food and every squeeze of Billie's hand. You finished most of the broth under Billie’s watchful, satisfied gaze. Once the table was cleared away, you leaned back into your pillows, the effort of the day finally catching up to you.
"I hated being there knowing you were here. I kept checking my watch every two minutes."
"I am okay, Billie. Really. You don't have to worry so much."
"I'm always gonna worry," Billie said softly, her voice dropping to a vulnerable register. She leaned forward, resting her forehead lightly against the edge of the mattress, still tightly holding your hand. "Just get better, okay? Scale back on work for a minute. Let me take care of you. I just want you to be okay and comfortable."
Your heart swelled. You squeezed Billie's hand back, using your free hand to weakly brush a stray strand of hair away from her forehead.
"I will. I promise."
"Good." Billie looked up, offering a tired but genuine smile. "Now close your eyes. You need to sleep."
"Only if you go sleep on the couch," you bargained, nodding toward the large, comfortable sofa across the room. "That chair looks terrible for your back."
"I'll move in a minute," Billie lied smoothly, squeezing your hand reassuringly. "Just close your eyes. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
You let out a soft sigh, the comfort of her presence acting sweeter than any sedative. Within minutes, your breathing evened out, your grip loosening as you drifted off into a deep, healing slumber.
Billie stayed completely still, watching the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. She didn't move to the couch. Instead, she just sat there in the quiet VIP room, holding your hand, waiting a long time to make absolutely sure you were sound asleep before she finally let her own eyes close, resting her head right there beside you.
Note : I didn't know how you'd like it but I loved making this :) Thanks for requesting, princess :^
summary: when a relationship that once seemed destined to last falls apart under the pressure of life, both you and billie try to move forward the only way you know how: separately. but, an unexpected reunion uncovers old feelings, lingering questions, and the painful realization that sometimes life can be changed by the words that never reach the person who needed them most.
a/n: i’m on an angst streak! i’m on a stupid long road trip so i have lots of time to write. i hope ya like it!
you and billie had a great relationship, until fame hit her like a brick wall. one day, things seemed like they were normal. date nights, relaxing times together at home, everything was perfect. the next, her life seemed to move at a speed neither of you could keep up with.
tour schedules stretched across continents. label meetings filled every free afternoon. interviews, photoshoots, rehearsals, flights, appearances… there was always somewhere she needed to be and something she needed to do. it wasn’t really anyone’s fault. success was something the two of you had dreamed about for years, and now that it was finally happening, neither of you knew how to complain about it without feeling guilty.
you understood her life. after all, you’d been a part of it for so long. long before the sold-out arenas and screaming crowds, before the awards and magazine covers, you’d been her best friend. falling in love with billie had never felt like a dramatic turning point. if anything, it felt inevitable, like the natural next chapter of a story that had already been unfolding for years.
but understanding why something was happening didn’t make it hurt any less.
missed calls became missed conversations. arguments lingered unresolved because one of you always had somewhere else to be. texts that used to get answered within seconds suddenly sat unopened for hours, sometimes days. eventually, you found yourself asking for attention that billie genuinely wanted to give you, but couldn’t seem to find the time for anymore.
the worst part was that neither of you stopped loving each other. you were simply exhausted. so after months of trying to force things to work around impossible schedules and growing frustrations, you both made the decision to end the relationship.
there wasn’t a dramatic fight. no screaming. no betrayal. just two people sitting across from each other and admitting that maybe love wasn’t enough to fix everything. you promised you’d stay friends. for a while, you even managed it.
you attended shows when you could. after-parties. birthdays. award ceremonies. whenever your paths crossed, you hugged, smiled, and slipped back into old conversations with an ease that made everything feel normal again. until it didn’t.
because every time you saw billie, it felt like her attention was already somewhere else. she was focused on improving the next show, planning the next project, talking with friends she’d met on tour. sometimes you’d catch her flirting with one of her openers and feel an ugly twist of jealousy settle in your stomach.
you hated feeling that way. hated what it turned you into. so little by little, the distance between you grew. and before either of you realized it, months had passed.
billie lay across the hotel suite bed after another show, staring at the ceiling while the city lights filtered through the curtains. the room was quiet in a way hotel rooms always were. not peaceful. just empty.
her body ached from performing, but sleep felt impossible. every time she closed her eyes, she thought about you. she missed your laugh more than anything. the loud, ridiculous laugh that always made her laugh too.
she missed your smile. your jokes that would make you giggle like teenagers. the way you’d skip ahead of her during date nights only to turn around and walk backward in the middle of the sidewalk because you couldn’t tell a story without seeing her reaction. she missed the flowers you’d bring home for absolutely no reason.
most of all, she missed moments like this. coming back after a show and finding you already curled up in bed waiting for her. your arms wrapping around her waist. the familiar weight of your head against her chest. sleepy kisses pressed wherever you could reach before exhaustion finally pulled you under.
god, she missed you. before she could stop herself, she grabbed her phone from the nightstand. your contact was still there. same photo. same conversation. same name. billie stared at it for nearly ten minutes.
her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting the same sentence over and over until frustration made her groan and toss her head back against the pillows.
finally, she typed:
hey.
12:20am
i know this is probably the last thing you want to see. but i’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.
12:21 am
another pause.
i miss you. i miss us. i think about you all the time.
12:27 am
i know we broke up for a reason, and i’m not trying to disrespect that. i just… idk.
12:31 am
i needed you to know that i still love you. i just think we made a mistake. i need you.
12:36 am
she hit send. then waited. hours passed. nothing. a day. nothing. a week. nothing. eventually, weeks turned into months. still nothing.
billie cried over it more times than she’d ever admit. but she respected what she believed was your answer. silence. she convinced herself you had seen the messages and chosen not to respond. so she left you alone.
what she didn’t know was that you felt exactly the same. your life had simply changed. a few weeks after the breakup, you landed a new internship. the company provided work phones, and eventually your old number was replaced with a new one. a new job. a new number. a new chapter.
and because of that, every single message billie had sent disappeared into the void. you never received them. you never knew she spent months crying over you. she wanted another chance with you.
she sat awake at three in the morning rereading old conversations and wishing she’d handled things differently. you assumed she had moved on. you thought her career had simply become more important.
it was the exact reason your relationship had ended in the first place. so eventually, you moved forward too. because what else were you supposed to do?
a year and a half later, you sat in one of your favorite coffee shops in los angeles.
ironically, it had always been one of billie’s favorites too. a frequent lunch date location. your laptop sat open in front of you while you worked at one of the tall side booths along the wall. the familiar chime above the entrance rang.
you glanced up, and froze. billie. black gym shorts. oversized white graphic tee. backward green dodgers cap. jordan 4s. mismatched socks. you’d recognize her anywhere. for a moment, neither of you moved. then she smiled, small and tentative.
“hi.” you smiled back. “hey.” she walked to the counter and ordered, her usual. ‘a medium iced vanilla oat milk latte’ you gathered as you read her lips.
while she waited, she glanced toward seat opposite of you at your table. “mind if i sit?” she asked, gently, not wanting to impose. you closed your laptop. “not at all.” she smiled and sat down. for a few minutes, conversation came surprisingly easy.
how you were. your friends. billie’s family, including shark. life. the tour. anything except the thing sitting between the two of you.
“you look good,” billie said softly. “thank you, you do too, bil.” something flickered across her face. then she looked down at the table. “you know,” she cleared her throat. “i texted you. was kinda sad you didn’t respond.” she played it off with a nervous snicker and hand thrown on the table. your stomach dropped, but you laughed it off. “no, you didn’t.”
billie’s eyebrows furrowed. “yeah.” she looked confused, still smiling. “i did.” you stared. “when?”
“like six months after we broke up. i was on the last leg of tour and it was late. thought you just ignored me, to be honest.” your smile vanished. suddenly your mind was racing. six months after the breakup. the internship. the new phone. the number change. your eyes widened.
“billie…” her expression slowly changed. “i got a new number.” silence. “what?” billie’s voice came out, quiet and unbelieving.
“i got a new number around that time. i got that internship i had told you about months before then.” your throat tightened. “i never got any texts from you.” the color drained from billie’s face. “you didn’t?”
you shook your head. “no.” for a moment neither of you spoke. because suddenly every missed opportunity. every assumption. every day spent healing. every attempt to move on. all came crashing down at once. a phone buzzed and without missing a beat, billie glanced down.
incoming call: nat ♥️
you recognized the name instantly. billie’s opener, now boyfriend. you had suspected it from the obvious flirting you’d witnessed backstage in the green room. her best friend’s brother. your chest ached, but you covered it with a grin anyway. “if you have to take that it’s okay. i understand.”
billie swallowed hard, containing what composure she had left after the bomb that was dropped between the two of you. you nodded, trying not to show any signs of the emotions brewing inside you. “i’m happy for you.” her eyes shimmered with tears, slightly pink. for a second, she looked away. and you couldn’t tell if it was guilt, regret, or grief. maybe all three.
“it was really good seeing you.” her voice cracked. “you too.” you echoed. billie stood and walked to the front counter, her tattooed hand grabbed her slightly-watered down iced latte from the front counter. looked at you one last time and smiled. the same smile you’d fallen in love with years ago.
“see you around, babe.” you both knew she wouldn’t. neither of you exchanged numbers. neither of you asked. some doors only hurt more when you try to reopen them.
billie turned and walked out of the café. the bell above the café door chimed softly as she stepped outside. you watched her disappear into the afternoon crowd. and for a long time after she was gone, you couldn't stop staring at the door. for the first time in a long time, the wound you’d spent years healing felt fresh again.
billie made it halfway into her house before she fell apart. her vision blurred. she ran to her room and gently sat on her bed, one hand covering her mouth as a broken sound escaped her chest.
"fuck." the word came out strangled. another breath. another. but it didn't help. because all she could think about was the look on your face when you'd told her you never got the messages. all those months. all that time. you hadn't ignored her. you hadn't rejected her. you hadn't decided you were better off without her.
you never knew.
billie hands slid down her face smearing the mascara she had put on that morning. tears streamed down her face unchecked. she thought about that night in the hotel room. the way her hands had shaken while she typed. the way she'd stared at her phone for weeks afterward waiting for an answer that never came.
she remembered crying herself to sleep, believing so many falsehoods as faith. that you had moved on. that you didn't want her anymore. god. you never even saw the messages. a laugh escaped her through the tears. except it wasn't really a laugh. it sounded more like grief. because suddenly every memory hurt. every moment she'd spent missing you. every relationship she'd thrown herself into trying to move forward.
times she'd told herself that things happened for a reason. all of it. wasted. not because the two of you had failed. not because you didn't love each other enough. because of a phone number. a fucking phone number. billie buried her face in her hands.
for a few minutes, she let herself mourn. not you. she'd been mourning you for years. she mourned the future she'd lost. the one where you would’ve answered. where she picked up the phone and heard your voice, the two of you would have met for coffee six months after the breakup instead of a year and a half later.
maybe it would’ve worked it out. she’d have learned how to balance fame and love. she’d come home to you. that version of her life had died before it ever got the chance to exist. now she was standing at its funeral.
eventually, the tears slowed. her breathing steadied. the ache remained. it probably always would. billie wiped her face with the hem of her shirt and looked down at her phone. three missed calls. all from nat. she stared at the screen for a long moment. then pressed call. it rang twice.
"hey, baby." nat's voice came through the speaker, warm and familiar. "everything okay?"
billie closed her eyes. for a second, she almost broke again. but then she pictured you sitting in that coffee shop. healed. moving forward. living a life that no longer had room for the two of you. she mumbled, “yeah i’m fine.” billie held back her sniffles so she didn’t spiral into a sob. she quickly wrapped up the conversation and hung up, wanting to be alone in her thoughts.
the silence carried on around her as if nothing had happened. like she hadn't just discovered that the greatest heartbreak of her life had been a misunderstanding, right when she had just healed from the pain and loss; after she buried the last remaining idea of what could have been. with one final thought towards you, billie had a realization, clear in her mind.
Pls pls pls a smut fic of Hopper!reader aka Hopper’s eldest daughter x Robin. I need girlfailure Robin fucking reader in secret 😔🙏
Because like— Hopper said no boys, but never no girls
NO BOYS
ROBIN BUCKLEY X FEM!READER
smut, plot? what plot, cunnilingus r!recieving, slight over-stim (i think? might be full idk)
luna yaps for the millionth time; bb, this took me forever and i fear it's still not good pls forgive me, ily.
masterlist requests
There were several rules that your dad had for both you and your younger sister, Jane. Of course, there was only one he put more strain onto. No Boys. This rule came courtesy of Jane and her relationship with Mike. Safe to say your dad wasn't the biggest Mike Wheeler fan, especially when it came to his youngest daughter. Now, you never had a boyfriend, but the rule stretched out to you, too. He was happy that you didn't complain about it. What your father failed to realize was that the reason you didn't complain was because you had no interest in boys, and in fact, you would never come to have a boyfriend.
Robin Buckley was in the eyes of everyone else around you, your best friend. Your dad actually grew quite fond of her after you brought her around long enough. Granted, he scared the shit out of her and she would always be on her best behavior, which most definitely granted her some brownie points. Somehow, you had gotten away with it. Robin had been your girlfriend for a little over a year now and not once did he suspect anything, or at least not that he told you.
"Alright, you girls lock up and if you need anything— of urgency—call the station and I'll come home early," Hopper says as the two of you stand at the door bidding him goodbye. He gives you both a small wave before getting into his car. You shut the door, hearing the familiar click of the lock as you turn it.
"Finally," the sound of Robin's voice is almost startling. Her hands grasp your hips, spinning you around. "Empty house." Her hands slide up your sides, "What could we possibly get up to?" She presses you against the door, close enough that you can feel her breath fanning your face.
"Well, you certainly waste no time," you tease her, watching as the smile cracks through.
"Don't act like you don't like it," she grins, finally leaning in all the way. To further prove her point, you kiss her back eagerly. One of her hands travels towards the back of your neck, pulling you closer, fingers just barely reaching into your hair. She tilts her head as the kiss grows deeper, her tongue asking for permission as it slides across your bottom lip. Your lips part and she spends no time hesitating, her tongue slipping into your mouth with ease. She's tasting you as if she'd never done it before, like this might be the last time she'll ever have your mouth against her own. Her free hand still at your waist tightens, fingers digging into your sides. You groan, feeling her push you further against the door. You only break away when breath is necessary. Her hand moves from your hip, making its way into your shirt. Her fingers are warm against your skin, making goosebumps appear under her touch. A slow dance up your stomach and towards your chest, your shirt rising up with the movment of her arm. Your breathing grows heavier, palms pressing against the door behind you as some form of grounding.
"Robin," you whisper, she hums in response waiting for you to answer but she doesn't stop her actions. Her fingers are teasing your nipples through your bra, hands gently squeezing as she leans in, you feel her breath against your ear. You feel the heat pooling between your legs.
"Please, let me taste you," her lips brush against your skin with every word. You're nodding before your brain catches up, almost whining at the loss of contact when she moves her hands, but the complaint is immediately removed from you when her hands are undoing your pants. She pulls them down along with your underwear, dropping to her knees in front of you. Her mouth waters at the sight of you bare in front of her. She looks up at you, her brows just slightly furrowed, her lips almost pouty, her eyes wide and filled with softness. "For me?" she's turning back to look at your wet cunt, a whimper leaving her lips. You don't even have time to answer before she's leaning up and taking small kitten licks at your center. Even the small act sends jolts through you. She moans in delight, before shoving her mouth on your cunt, her tongue attacking your clit.
"Shit," you moan, your back hitting the door harder as your hand grasps onto her head. She laps you up, running her tongue through your folds before teasing your entrance. Her hands wrap around your thighs, pulling you down onto her face further. Your grip on her hair tightens as another one of her moans vibrates through your core. Your legs almost give out. "Robbie.... Baby.... Fuck..." You say between breaths, feeling your orgasm building up. All it takes is a few more hard licks of her tongue. She drinks up every bit of your juices, sucking down on your clit once more. She doesn't stop, your brain already fuzzy from the momentary high of your orgasm, her continued licks make your legs wobble. She finds a way to bury her face even deeper against your pussy, her nose rubbing against your sensitive clit as her tongue clings to your entrance. "Baby- I can't, I-" you cry out, the grip you had on her earlier falters, but she knows you can. It wasn't the first time nor the last that Robin would drag another orgasm out of you. Her hands slides off your thigh, thumb rubbing against your clit as she holds you up. You're nothing but a moaning, shaking, mess. You're coming into her mouth for a second time. This time she lets you ride it out and catch your breath.
"God, you taste so good." She stands up, knees aching and red but the pain was worth it in her own opinion. Her hands never leaving you, helping you keep steady. You hold onto her, not sure your legs will even function at the moment. "Come on, princess," she teases you, helping you pull your pants back up and then leading you to your bedroom.
"Don't be a dick," you roll your eyes, finally feeling your back in reality.
"I am not," she laughs, kissing your temple. She grabs your hand, leading you into your own bedroom. "Plus, you love me anyway," she pulls you into her arms as she flops onto the bed. "Hm, maybe," you laugh with her, curling up with her.
✦ It’s not “forbidden love,” it’s literally her school bully.
He spent years tormenting Hermione for her blood status, turning that into romance feels less “enemies to lovers” and more “Highschool Stockholm syndrome.” Also, let’s call it what it is: it basically recalls racism.
I would never wish for a girl who’s been degraded because of her race to end up with her perpetrator.
✦ It flattens Hermione.
To make Dramione “work,” she usually gets rewritten into someone suddenly cold, suddenly conniving, suddenly forgetting every value she’s ever had. Or worse, written as this fragile thing with no backbone, shivering and crying all the time until Draco “saves” her. Hello..that’s not Hermione!
✦ It flattens Draco.
Same deal. He either gets “redeemed by love” in a cheesy way, or written as some broody vampire-wannabe who stares at her from the shadows craving to touch her. Draco is a clever, petty, dramatic little aristocrat, not a savior, nor a tragic gothic prince.
✦ The ‘fixing him with love’ fantasy.
No. Just no. Narcissa barely managed to keep that boy alive, Hermione is not about to swoop in and therapize him into being a better man. He needs therapy, not a Gryffindor savior complex.
✦ Canon chemistry? Nonexistent.
There isn’t a single point in the books or movies where Draco and Hermione share anything resembling romantic tension. None.
And yes, people love to point at that one scene in Half-Blood Prince where Hermione notices Draco looks sick. But let’s be real, that’s not a “moment.” That’s just Hermione being Hermione: observant, analytical.
Besides, Draco at that point was this close to throwing himself off the Astronomy Tower. Even the school portraits probably noticed.
✦ The smug fanon clichés.
Every Dramione fic inevitably gives us “Hermione floating around Malfoy Manor in silk gowns” or “Draco secretly adoring Crookshanks and binge-reading Muggle novels.”
... Bitch,please.
Draco was raised in purebred elegance, his idea of couple life is pouring you another glass of wine in your Manor, lips grazing your temple as you talk about whichever pureblood cousin from your families made a spectacle of themselves that week.
Hermione? Her version of couple life is mothers cooking together in the kitchen while fathers laugh about Muggle oddities.
They don’t even dream of the same kind of life, let alone build one together!
I am BEGGING for their reactions to reader texting them something like "I'm over this shit" and not answering for a while after and them panicking but she was just talking about something random and they thought she was offing herself
so over it
slytherin boys texts! warnings: strong language contains: theo, draco, blaise, tom, mattheo and enzo
masterlist
haaiii, guyss. thank you sm for requesting and for actually reading my stuff, it means the world. i’m sorry i’ve been a little slow with getting to them. sometimes my brain just blanks and it takes me a bit longer to figure out how to bring your requests to life. but i pinky promise i’ll get to every single one you’ve sent 🙏🙏
draco malfoy x fem!reader warnings: suggestive themes (18+) word count: 1.3K summary: draco malfoy couldn’t stand you… until you looked like that. A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS REQUEST @missbellie. hope you like it ☺️☺️
you were always there.
always that boring constant in slytherin. perfect posture in class, hand raised with answers, parchment neat enough to make hermione jealous (though she’d never admit it). you didn’t talk loud, you didn’t start fights, you didn’t sneak out past curfew. you were just there.
and to draco malfoy, just there meant invisible.
he never cared enough to remember if you were half-blood, pureblood, whatever. he called you mudblood once, not out of real venom, but because he didn’t care enough to know otherwise. you corrected him once in that clipped voice of yours: “actually, i’m pureblood, malfoy”, and he just rolled his eyes, muttering could’ve fooled me.
you were goody-two-shoes, the kind of slytherin who made professors proud but made draco grit his teeth.
because what the fuck were you even doing in his house? slytherin was meant for cunning, for sharp smiles, for ambition like claws; not for someone who practically glowed with.. goodness.
and then the party happened.
it was supposed to be casual. slytherin’s quidditch win against ravenclaw, someone’s older brother sneaking in firewhiskey, the common room alive with bodies and music that thudded in the walls. draco was leaning against the mantle, nursing a drink, pretending not to scan the crowd for pansy or anyone worth sneering at.
and then you walked in.
and it was like the whole fucking room tilted.
you weren’t in your uniform. you weren’t in your modest little cardigan or school robes. you were in a dress. short, tight, dark green that clung to you like it wanted to be worshiped. your hair was messier than usual, your lips glossed, and your eyes lined dark, making them impossible not to fall into.
draco nearly choked on his drink.
you.
the same boring, plain girl he’d never given a second thought.
you were the one making his chest feel too tight in his shirt.
“who the fuck let her dress like that?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. but theo caught it and smirked, elbowing him.
“jealous much?”
“shut up,” draco snapped, but his eyes didn’t move.
he couldn’t.
the way you laughed… loud, actually loud, for the first time he’d ever heard it. the way you danced, letting someone spin you in the crowd, hips moving in a way that made draco’s jaw lock so hard it ached. the way your hand slid down your thigh when you bent to pick up your drink.
his stomach flipped. his cock stirred.
when the fuck did you get hot?
you caught his eye across the room, just for a second. you weren’t even looking at him; just scanning lazily over the crowd, and when your gaze brushed over his, you didn’t stop. didn’t linger. didn’t care.
and that pissed him off more than anything.
because suddenly, he couldn’t stop.
draco couldn’t think about anything else the whole night. every time you passed him, the air seemed thinner. every time your perfume clung in the air, he felt his throat close. he hated it. he hated how bad he wanted to touch you, how badly he wanted you to look at him the way you looked at literally anyone else in the room.
at one point, when you leaned against the bar, sipping something pink, draco cornered you. his voice low, sharp, trying to steady himself when his pulse was all over the place.
“didn’t know you owned clothes like that.”
you raised a brow, barely glancing at him. “didn’t know you cared.”
fuck.
your lips curled, just a little smirk, before you turned back to your drink. dismissing him. dismissing him.
draco felt something snap inside.
he pressed closer, lips nearly grazing your ear. “you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“enjoying what?” you asked, coy, pretending innocence.
he scoffed. “all the attention.”
you finally looked at him, really looked, your eyes dragging over his sharp jaw, his hungry expression. and then you smirked wider. “maybe.”
draco’s dick twitched in his trousers.
he clenched his fist at his side, nails biting his palm, because merlin.. he wanted to ruin you.
you slipped away before he could say anything else, disappearing into the crowd. and that was the moment draco realized he was fucked.
the rest of the night was torture. every time someone touched your waist, he wanted to hex their hands off. every time you laughed at someone else’s joke, he burned. you weren’t plain anymore. you weren’t invisible. you were the only fucking thing he could see.
later, when you stumbled past him to head upstairs, draco grabbed your wrist. maybe it was the firewhiskey in his veins, maybe it was the way you smelled like sin, but he couldn’t help it.
“you think you can just…” his voice cracked. he swallowed, leaning closer. “…look like that? walk around like that? without consequences?”
you tilted your head, lips glossy, breath sweet. “what consequences, malfoy?”
draco’s hand tightened on your wrist. his other hand itched to grab your waist, to pull you flush against him and show you exactly what consequences he meant.
but he didn’t.
he let you go.
you just smiled like you’d won something, brushing past him, hips swaying deliberately, mocking him.
that night, draco lay awake in his bed, hand wrapped tight around his cock, biting his lip so hard it bled, because all he could see… over and over, relentlessly - was you in that green dress, smirking at him like you knew every filthy thought in his head.
In the dead of night, you and Tom Riddle descend into the hidden depths of Hogwarts, unlocking the Chamber of Secrets and confronting the legendary Basilisk for the first time. Awe, fear, and exhilaration collide as you witness the power that has lain dormant for centuries, now obedient to the Heir of Slytherin. With trust forged in the face of unimaginable danger, you and Tom stand together, holding a weapon that could reshape the world—and the pressing question remains: what now?
a/n:
When it comes to tom riddle this is basicaly fluff, so enjoy
The Chamber stretched endlessly around you, pillars looming like silent sentinels, serpents carved into the stone watching from above. The green light of the torches shimmered off damp walls, and for a moment you forgot to breathe.
“It’s…” you whispered, spinning slowly where you stood, taking it all in. “It’s magnificent.”
Tom didn’t answer, not immediately. His gaze was locked on the statue of Salazar, towering and watchful, its mouth forever frozen in command. His expression was unreadable—sharp, reverent, a predator scenting prey.
Your steps echoed softly as you came up beside him, unable to stop the words from spilling.
“So the snake,” you said, glancing at the enormous mouth carved into the stone. “The Basilisk. It’ll do whatever you tell it to, right?”
His eyes flicked toward you, narrowed in curiosity. “Yes. That is Salazar’s gift to his heir.”
A thrill ran through you, sharp and dangerous. “Then we could use it. Send it after anyone. Our enemies, the ones who’d dare stand in our way. It could do all our dirty work. And—” you tilted your head, lips curving in a smirk, “—if we’re clever, the kills could even strengthen our Horcruxes. Anyone we want, gone, and each death feeding our power, binding us further while the castle trembles at our feet.”
The suggestion hung in the air, echoing in the cavernous silence.
For a moment, Tom said nothing. Then, slowly, he smiled—thin and razor-sharp.
“You think like me,” he murmured, voice low with approval. “Cold. Strategic. Practical.” His gaze lingered on you, a glimmer of something dangerous, almost admiring, cutting through the shadow in his eyes.
He turned back toward the statue, his voice dropping to a hiss that reverberated through the Chamber like the rustle of scales on stone.
“And yes. The Basilisk will obey.”
The torches flared as if in answer, shadows writhing higher on the serpent-carved pillars.
Tom’s lips curved, dark and sure.
“We can make this castle ours.”
You couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at your lips, a sharp, eager thing. The Chamber itself was already enough to make your heart race—but the thought of the Basilisk, of seeing Salazar Slytherin’s monster with your own eyes, of it listening to Tom… that was power. Real power.
“Well?” you asked, your voice laced with anticipation. “Aren’t you going to call it?”
Tom’s gaze slid toward you, sharp as glass, studying the hunger in your expression. A corner of his mouth lifted. Then, without another word, he turned back to the looming statue of Salazar Slytherin.
The stone mouth yawned open in frozen command, a black pit stretching back into shadow. Tom stepped forward, his hand brushing the damp air as he raised his chin. And then, he spoke—no, hissed—a string of words so low, so serpentine, it felt like the air itself shivered.
The sound echoed through the cavern, carried like smoke along the stone pillars. And then—silence.
You waited, every nerve alight.
A sound broke it. A scraping, a low vibration rolling beneath your feet. Then a hiss, so deep it rattled the marrow of your bones. The ground trembled, and your breath caught as something vast, impossibly vast, began to move.
From the statue’s gaping mouth, scales slid into the green torchlight—gleaming, slick, ancient. The Basilisk’s body poured forth in coils that seemed to stretch forever, scales so dark they shimmered green-black, like oil on water. The weight of it alone made the stone floor groan.
And then—its head emerged.
The creature was monstrous, its jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole, fangs gleaming ivory white in the torchlight. Its eyes, vast and unblinking, glowed a sickly, venomous yellow. They swept across the Chamber, and instinctively you turned your face away, a hand flying to shield your gaze. Even without meeting its stare, you felt it—the raw, suffocating weight of its killing power.
The hiss that spilled from its throat was deafening, ancient, a sound so drenched in malice it almost wasn’t real.
But Tom stood firm, unflinching, like he had been born for this moment. His lips curved, and once again he hissed, the words curling through the air like smoke.
The Basilisk stilled. Its massive head lowered, bowing ever so slightly before him.
It was obedience. Total, absolute obedience.
Your chest heaved, adrenaline and awe tangling in your veins. You laughed softly, the sound incredulous, reverent. “Merlin’s beard… it’s real. You’ve actually done it.”
Tom glanced back at you, his eyes aglow with triumph, sharp and burning. “No,” he said, voice as smooth as silk, dangerous as steel.
“We’ve done it.”
The Basilisk’s hiss rolled again through the Chamber, as if echoing his claim, as if even it acknowledged the bond that had just been forged.
The Basilisk’s hiss vibrated through the Chamber, low and thunderous, as its vast coils shifted against the stone. You pressed your eyes shut, every instinct screaming at you not to risk even the briefest glance. Death was in those eyes—you knew it.
But then, beneath the roar of blood in your ears, you caught Tom’s voice, lilting in Parseltongue, smooth as silk.
And the sound of scales began to move—closer.
Your breath hitched. You felt it: the rush of air displaced by its massive body, the subtle vibration through the floor as it drew near. Closer. Closer.
“Tom—” Your voice cracked despite yourself, and you lurched forward, gripping his shoulders as you ducked behind him. “Stop it. I mean it.”
He chuckled. Chuckled. The bastard actually chuckled. “Scared, are you?”
“Of a bloody Basilisk? Yes!” You pressed your forehead to his back, squeezing your eyes tighter shut. “What part of instant death do you not understand?!”
The snake’s hiss deepened, sliding past your ears like ice water, and you tightened your grip on Tom as if he was your only shield. Because he was.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accused, voice muffled against him, the tiniest edge of fear threading through your usual defiance.
“Immensely,” Tom admitted, his tone smooth, almost amused. You felt the vibration of his words through his shoulders, steady as stone beneath your hands. Then he hissed again, a command, and the great serpent shifted—circling, its body brushing the air just behind you.
“Tom, stop! I swear—”
“Look.”
“Are you mad?!” you snapped, your voice pitching higher than you intended. “If I look, I die!”
His head turned slightly, just enough that you caught the edge of his smirk in your mind’s eye. “Not if I say otherwise.”
You froze, fingers curled tight into his robes. “What?”
“She won’t harm you,” he said simply, his tone laced with unshakable certainty. Another hiss slithered from his lips, directed at the Basilisk. The beast stilled, waiting. “She knows you are… mine. You’re safe.”
Your chest heaved. “I don’t believe you.”
His voice dipped lower, soft but carrying the weight of command. “Then believe in me.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse thundering in your ears.
“Trust me,” Tom murmured, the words like a spell, binding. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Trust. If we are to do what we’ve planned, we can’t flinch from one another. Not ever. Now… open your eyes.”
Every nerve in your body screamed against it. But your grip on him anchored you, and slowly—hesitantly—you let your lashes lift.
And there it was.
The Basilisk’s gaze met yours, vast golden eyes burning with ancient venom. They should have killed you. They should have ended everything in a heartbeat.
But instead—they blinked. Calm. Watchful.
You were alive.
A trembling laugh escaped you, incredulous and shaky. “You—Merlin’s sake, Tom, you lunatic. I thought—”
“That it would kill you?” His smirk widened just slightly, dark amusement glinting in his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder at you. “I told you. She won’t touch you. You’re safe, so long as I say so.”
Still clinging to him, you let out a breathless scoff. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he murmured, low and dangerous, “you trusted me.”
The Basilisk hissed again, lower this time, a sound almost like acknowledgment, and you realized your hands were still gripping his shoulders as though your life depended on it. Perhaps it did.
The Basilisk’s hiss faded into the vastness of the Chamber, settling like the rumble of distant thunder. You forced yourself to loosen your fingers, peeling them away from Tom’s shoulders one by one. Only then did you realize how tightly you had been clutching him, how near you had pressed in the moment of fear.
Heat prickled your cheeks, and you stepped back quickly, brushing invisible dust from your robes as though that might erase the closeness you’d allowed. Tom turned his head slightly, and though he said nothing, you caught the faintest flicker of a smirk tugging at his mouth. He had noticed. Of course he had.
The silence stretched, heavy, filled with the slow, steady sound of scales shifting across stone. The Basilisk lingered at the edges of the torchlight, its golden eyes fixed on the both of you, patient and waiting.
You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet Tom’s gaze, to focus on something other than the beast coiled in the shadows. The reality of it pressed against you—there it was. The Basilisk. Obedient. Alive. The weapon you’d only theorized, now at your command.
And yet…
“So,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended, just to break the tension. “We have a thousand-year-old serpent that could kill half the castle in a single night.”
Tom’s eyes glittered, dark with triumph. “Precisely.”
Your arms folded over your chest, steadying yourself against the pulse of adrenaline still thrumming through your veins. The truth of it hung between you, vast and dangerous. Finally, you drew in a slow breath, the obvious question spilling from your lips.
Pleaseee one in which they comfort her after her dad yelled at her i need some comfort rn🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼
comfort
slytherin boys texts! warnings: fluff :) contains: theo, draco, blaise, tom, mattheo and enzo
masterlist
hi, anon. i really hope this hits the spot :). i tried to make it as quickly as i could. hope it comforts you even just a little. trust me, you are SO loved. mwaahh 😚😚
Hello sunshine! Could you do one in which reader sends the boys a pic of themselves but she edited it somehow? Like i feel like mattheo would be so worried by seeing a photo in which his muscles look less big
Feel free to ignore it of course!! <3 Take care
photoshop
slytherin boys texts! warnings: strong language, suggestive themes constains: theo, draco, blaise, tom, mattheo and enzo
masterlist
haaaaiii, thank you sooo much for the request, anon ☺️😚. i’ve got a few more requests to get through, but honestly.. thank you sm for sending them. you guys are the best 💞💞. i’m gonna try my best to make them as soon as i can, so please bear with me 🙏🙏🙏
summary: you finally find the courage to visit the black family home years after the death of your boyfriend, to find letters he never sent to you.
warnings: grief/ loss, death
⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊
The house hadn’t changed.
Grimmauld Place loomed before you as it always had—silent, suffocating, its windows shuttered like eyes that refused to meet yours. The air inside was thick with dust, with the stale weight of years gone by, and a cold that seemed to seep from the stone itself straight into your bones.
You hadn’t set foot here since the day they told you he was gone. You’d avoided it the way one avoids a graveyard: not out of superstition, but because you knew what waited for you inside. Memory, sharper than any curse.
And you were right. Too much of him lingered here.
There was the chair where he used to sit, long legs folded carelessly, a book balanced on his knee. The spine of it still sat crooked on the shelf, as if he might return any moment to pluck it down again. The faint scent of his cologne clung stubbornly to the wood and fabric, faded but undeniable, like smoke from a fire long put out. Even the stairwell seemed to echo with him—every creak a reminder of his quiet tread, every shadow along the wall a suggestion of his lean figure vanishing around the corner.
The house was a mausoleum, and he was everywhere.
You paused in the hallway, your hand grazing the banister he’d once leaned against, fingers trailing over grooves worn by decades but still warm with memory. Each step you took forward pressed down harder on your chest, as if grief had been waiting patiently here all along, ready to rise up and devour you the moment you returned.
It struck you, then, how cruel time was. The world outside had kept moving—seasons passing, years turning—but inside Grimmauld, he was frozen. Preserved in every object, every trace, every silence. And now, stepping back into it, so were you.
It had taken you years to come back.
Even now, as you climbed the steps to his old room, your legs trembled beneath you—part exhaustion, part dread. Each stair groaned beneath your weight, the sound sharp in the silence, as though the house itself disapproved of your return. Your hand skimmed the banister, cool and dusty, and you thought of the countless times his fingers had touched the same worn wood.
The door creaked open.
The sight hit you like a curse.
The room was preserved in cruel stasis, a shrine built by neglect rather than intention. The bed was neatly made, corners tucked sharp, just as he had left it. Time had dulled the sheets, leeching their color into a lifeless grey, but the shape of him seemed imprinted there still, as though he might slip beneath the covers again at any moment.
Books lined the shelves, their spines cracked and weary, a patchwork of titles you knew by heart. Some leaned drunkenly against each other, mid-thought, as if his hand had placed them there and simply… never returned.
And the wardrobe. The sight of it unraveled you. His robes still hung inside, fabric draped and waiting, shoulders empty but commanding all the same. You could almost smell him—faint hints of smoke, of ink, of something sharp and clean that had always clung to him.
It was as if Regulus Black might walk back in at any moment, brush past you with that practiced grace, and fix you with that half-smile of his—sharp, wry, reserved just for you. You could almost hear his voice, low and amused: Caught you snooping again, are we?
But the silence that followed was absolute. And it broke something in you all over again.
You almost left.
Your hand had already begun to pull the door closed, ready to flee before the memories could crush you beneath their weight. You could feel the ache rising, pressing hot at the back of your throat, clawing at the careful scars you had stitched over the years. Leaving would have been mercy.
But your eyes caught on the desk—his desk—and the drawer that sat slightly ajar.
Something in you twisted painfully. You knew, bone-deep, that opening it would not soothe you. It would not heal. It would tear every half-healed wound wide open, unspool every defense you had so carefully constructed just to survive without him. Whatever waited inside would hurt you. And still, you could not look away.
Your fingers hovered over the drawer’s edge, trembling, as though some echo of him lingered there. You could almost feel his hand covering yours—warm, insistent, careless in the way he always was when it came to you. Regulus had never been able to keep from touching you: fingertips grazing your wrist when he passed you a quill, his palm on the small of your back when he led you through a crowd, his knuckles brushing your thigh beneath the library table just to remind you he was there. He had touched you like it was a reflex, a need, as though if he let you go for too long you might vanish.
Now, standing in his room with only ghosts for company, you imagined his hand guiding yours again—curling your fingers around the handle, urging you forward, whispering in that soft, sardonic tone: Go on, then. Don’t be a coward.
Against your better judgment, against the ache tearing through you, you pulled the drawer open. Inside lay a neat stack of envelopes, tied together with a length of green ribbon that had frayed with age.
Your breath stuttered.
For a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but that small bundle of letters. The dust, the silence, even the ache in your chest—all of it blurred until there was only your name, written in his hand. His script was precise as ever, elegant and sharp, each curve and line unmistakably him. Seeing it again was like being struck; your lungs forgot how to work.
Your fingers hovered above the stack, afraid to touch, as though the letters themselves might crumble to ash if you dared. Or worse—that they would open like a wound and bleed him back into the room.
When you finally reached for them, your hands shook so violently that the ribbon slipped loose, the knot falling apart in an instant. The green strip fluttered to the floor, curling against the dark wood like a snake shedding its skin. You thought of Slytherin, of Regulus, of the way he had once joked that his house colors would outlive him. You had laughed. Now, the sound of it echoed like cruelty.
The envelopes were heavy in your hands. Too heavy. The weight of words never spoken, of love that had been left behind in ink and parchment. You pressed your thumb over the first one, tracing your own name where he had written it, as if you could feel his hand beneath yours again—steady, controlled, always so careful.
It was unbearable. And still, you could not stop yourself.
The first letter unfolded easily, as though waiting for this moment.
My love,
If you are reading this, I am already gone. I could not bear to tell you what I was about to do. I was too much a coward, too selfish—I knew you would try to stop me. I could not let you. Not when the cost of hesitation might mean everything we have left to lose.
In another world, a kinder one, we might have had time. I would have given you everything I could not give you here: mornings without fear, nights without shadows, laughter without the weight of war pressing it down. I would have asked you to stay with me, openly, without secrecy or shame. I would have loved you in the light instead of the dark.
I know that words on parchment are a poor substitute for the life I promised you, but I cannot leave without giving you something. So I will write you the life we were meant to have. I will write you into every page, every possibility, because ink is the only eternity left to me. Perhaps in some next life, you will find me again, and we will make it real.
Do not grieve too long for me. Live. That is all I ask of you. Live for us both, if you can. And if ever you feel alone, open these letters and remember—I was yours. Entirely, irrevocably yours.
Always,
Regulus
Tears blurred the ink as you reached for the second.
In the next life, I will take you to Paris, as I promised. We will walk along the Seine in autumn, when the air smells of rain and woodsmoke, and the trees are painted in fire. I will buy you flowers from the street stalls, not because I need to impress you, but because I will want to see the way you smile when you tuck them behind your ear.
I will kiss you under a bridge where no one cares who we are. No whispers, no danger, no family name hanging between us like a blade. Just us. I will not hide you. I will not hide from you. I will hold your hand in the daylight, let the sun see what the shadows always tried to claim. And when people look at me, they will know you are mine—not in secret, but in truth.
I am sorry I could not give you this life here. Forgive me for being too much my mother’s son, too much my father's shadow, too much of a coward to walk away. I am trying, in these words, to give you what I could not with my hands. If I had another chance, I would be braver. I swear it.
In Paris, in the next life, you will know me not as Regulus Black, but simply as the man who loves you without condition.
The third shook in your hands.
In the next life, I will give you a home filled with light. No shadows of the House of Black, no whispers of war in the corners, no fear pressing against the walls when you wake at night. Just you, and me, and books scattered on the floor, spilling from shelves because you will always have more than any wall could hold. I will learn to cook, badly, just to hear you laugh when I burn the eggs, and I will never grow tired of hearing it. I will watch you curl up with a novel in your favorite chair, and I will sit nearby, pretending I am engrossed in my own reading while really memorizing the curve of your smile. I will stay. This time, I will stay. I will not let duty, or fear, or anything in the world pull me from you. You will never have to wait for me, never have to wonder if I am gone. This time, I am yours entirely, and nothing—nothing—will take me away.
By the fourth, you were sobbing silently, shoulders shaking as the parchment blurred with tears. Each word he had written clawed at your chest, leaving raw, aching hollows where hope and despair collided. You pressed the letter to your face, inhaling the faint scent of ink and old paper, and for a moment, it felt as if he were there—warm, breathing, whispering in that low, sardonic tone that used to make your heart stutter.
If only… the words seemed to whisper between the lines, the life he had written for you both stretching endlessly in ink: mornings with sunlight spilling across your sheets, laughter echoing through hallways that would never know shadows, tiny domestic victories—burnt breakfasts, scuffed floors, the quiet brush of his hand against yours.
And yet, the ache of impossibility was inescapable. Every imagined moment was a knife, every promise a wound you could never touch, never live. You rocked slightly on the floor, letters clutched to your chest, sobs muffled by the walls that had watched you grow up and watched him leave.
You pressed your forehead to the stack, wishing you could feel his heartbeat one last time. Wishing, foolishly, impossibly, that some corner of the world had been kind enough to let this imagined life exist—not just in ink, but in your arms.
In the next life, we will grow old together. I will hold your hand when your hair turns silver, tracing the familiar ridges of your knuckles as if memorizing them all over again. You will scold me for pretending I don’t need spectacles, and I will grumble, secretly thrilled that you still care enough to correct me. I will tuck you into bed every night, feeling your warmth against mine, listening to the steady rise and fall of your breath until sleep claims you. I will love you until my last breath—and longer still.
In this letter, I will tell you the words I could never say aloud in this life. I love you. I love you with everything I have, with everything I was afraid to give you, with everything I will be in the life I hope we have. I could not say it when it mattered, and that is my deepest regret. But know that it has always been true. Even when silence filled the spaces between us, my heart was yours. Entirely, irrevocably yours.
The last letter was unfinished.
If the Fates are kind, they will let me find you again. And when I do, I will—
The ink trailed off into nothingness, the quill having stopped mid-thought, mid-promise. Your chest tightened, a hollow ache that seemed to pulse with every heartbeat. You pressed the letter to your lips, inhaling the faint scent of paper and his presence, and your tears fell freely now, hot and unrelenting.
The stack of letters—five, maybe six, each one a fragment of the life he could not give you—lay scattered across the floor. Each one held a piece of him: his tenderness, his humor, his longing, his regrets. But this last one… this one cut the deepest.
Because he would never finish it. Because you would never hear the words that should have followed “I will—.” Because no corner of the universe would give him the courage, the time, the life to keep the promise he had begun to write.
You pressed the parchment to your chest, a broken sound tearing from your throat. All those years, you had thought he’d left without goodbye. That he’d slipped from your life with nothing but silence.
But here he was—his words, his heart, all the pieces he had been too afraid to give you while he lived.
Every line, every careful stroke of ink, felt like a ghost of him pressing close, brushing a hand against your shoulder, curling a finger around yours. The letters were impossibly alive, heavy with the warmth of a love that had never faded, even in the shadow of his absence.
You rocked slightly, clutching the stack to your chest as tears streamed freely, blurring the edges of the parchment. For a moment, you could almost hear him whispering, the faint echo of his voice threading through the silence of the room: I am yours. I have always been yours. I died yours.
You curled into his chair, clutching the letters against you as the chill from the open window he’d snuck out of enveloped your body. The wind tugged at the curtains, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke and something impossibly familiar—something that made your chest ache as if he were standing behind you, just out of reach.
And for the first time in years, you let yourself cry for him—Regulus Black, the boy who had loved you too much to stay, but not enough to leave without a promise for another life.
For the first time, you let yourself believe that even if the world had stolen him from you, he had left a piece of himself behind—so that, somewhere between memory and ink, you could feel him again.
