I Love The Poly Vibes In Thuyw And Was Reading Your Tags In The Last Post And , I Keep Thinking About

My friend told me this story about her going golfing with her fiancé and she was like omg he is so attractive the whole time so i assume that what reader feels like all the time being with Aaron lol

a little off course

OMG i'm continuing with the golfing concept because YES cw; fem!reader, established relationship, playfulness and suggestive content <3

"Next time you go golfing with Dave," As Aaron was lounging on the couch, your arms had wrapped around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. "Can I tag along? Please?"

A double take was necessary when you asked, the request far out of your character. You've never expressed interest in golf before, and he was exceedingly surprised. Maybe it was just another way for the two of you to spend time together. Maybe you thought it would be more exciting than it actually was. You were on some kind of agenda.

Regardless, the next free sunny Saturday, you were sat in the golf cart as he and Dave made their way through the course.

But, that's all you did. You had no clear intentions of playing; you plainly sat in observance, and Aaron felt your eyes following his every move. It was almost intimidating; he wanted to do well for you.

Little did he know that while he feared you were bored, you were thoroughly entertained; present for your own indulgences.

"Sweetheart." His eyes were squinting from the sun, Dave teeing off behind him. "Are you sure you want to be here?"

You offered him a smile, and he took a second to admire how cute you looked in your sun visor, casting a shadow across the bridge of your nose. "I'm absolutely sure."

"Since when are you into golf?"

"I'm very," You paused mid-sentence, watching him (or rather, his hands) as he fixed his glove, adjusting and retightening the hold it held. "Into golf."

Only, Aaron playing golf was what you were interested in.

He and Dave played a few weekends ago, and when Aaron returned home, you found yourself regretfully wishing you accompanied them. Just when you thought he couldn't possibly be more attractive; a new genre of Aaron was unlocked and never to be concealed again.

Crisp and clean in proper golf attire - fresh khakis, a polo shirt, a newly produced, light tan gracing his skin. And now being present, the way his broad back stretched and forearms flexed as he lined up for a shot, his chest heaving in a deep exhale after hitting. Could there be a better sight?

His eyebrows crinkled adorably. "But you're just staring at me?"

"Exactly."

"Oh, I see." Aaron's lips pulled into a combination of a smile and a smirk - he should've known. His hand was resting on the cart's overhead as he looked down at you. His voice remained low, to prevent Dave from overhearing. "You're just here to undress me with your eyes, aren't you?"

"Yes and no." You defended, failing miserably at keeping your caught smile at bay. "I'm here because I love you. The undressing is an added perk."

His furrowed brows relaxed in amusement. "Is it?"

"I'll jump at any opportunity to spend time with you. It's a beautiful day, you're within arm's reach." You reached out, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze. "And I get to swoon over you being sweaty and strong in the meantime. Besides, I'm also here to ward off any club members who think they may have a shot at you. You're on full display out here for anyone to see."

"Aren't you sweet." A breathless laugh escaped him - as if anyone had a chance when he had you. Aaron leaned down to kiss you gently, craning his neck slightly due to the obstruction of your hat. "Thank you, darling."

You grinned, crossing a leg over the other.

His stare hidden behind his sunglasses, Aaron's eyes involuntarily fell to your legs, seeing that your slightly-too-short skirt had slid up and exposed most of your thigh. Maybe you had a point.

"Do you want to give it a try?" He asked as Dave finished his shot, returning to the parked cart himself.

"Really?"

"Sure, I'll teach you." Aaron took your hand, helping you step off the golf cart before grabbing his driver from his bag.

He guided you to stand in front of him; his biceps were at your shoulders, his arms firmly around you and allowing little to no room for movement.

Caged in, you felt a flutter in more places than one, the weight of his chest against your back intimately familiar. Muscle memory.

A blush filled your cheeks. Not from the heat of the afternoon, but at the rate this innocent lesson (you were beginning to infer, this hadn't been innocent to begin with) had heightened. There was no way you'd successfully hit this ball now, even with Aaron's direction - being highly distracted.

"Hands here," he instructed with quiet command, moving your hands along the grip to the correct positioning. His lips were touching the shell of your ear. "Square your shoulders for me."

"Like this?" Only, you pushed your ass directly into his crotch. Aaron's hold on your wrists immediately tightened.

He barely managed a hum in confirmation, swallowing hard. "Just like that."

"Okay you two," Dave lectured from afar, a mix between amusement and slight disgust visible on his face. "Keep it PG on the green, please."

evil twin !

regulus black x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.2k

cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus!!, slytherin!reader, fluff, friends to lovers

summary: the potter twins, a marvelous duo split by the sorting hat. just like your brother you presence was addictive, drawing in the attentions of a particularly brooding black brother.

a/n: THIS IS THE FIRST OF HOPEFULLY MANY PARTS HEHEHE I HOPE YOU ENJOY MWAH!!! not proofread x

Dumbledore was convinced that both Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had carried out a divide and conquer tactic apon your arrival in the castle.

Individually, you and James were a force to be reckoned with—both incredibly charismatic, intelligent and hard-headed, with a knack for mischief. So together, Dumbledore’s head only spun at the thought of the havoc the pair of you would cause.

Luckily, on the fateful day of your arrival, you were placed in Slytherin and your beloved twin brother was placed in Gryffindor—separated for the first time ever. The moment still vivid in your mind, the second the sorting hat was on you, the way you flinched when it hummed, pondering—voice ringing loud in your ears as it announced—Slytherin.

James had frozen at the Gryffindor table, half out of his seat, hand still twitching against the bench where he’d been saving your spot—watching as your lip trembled, walking glossy-eyed to the Slytherin table.

That first night, the castle felt too big, dungeon walls suffocating, too many corridors between you and your brother.

Of course it was hard, for the both of you.

James had always been protective over you—infuriatingly so. Always reinforcing the fact that he needs to take care of his little sister. Like those three minutes made any difference at all.

It had been a slow shift—painful, even. You and James had always been a unit, bound by childhood games, matching jumpers, and the unspoken certainty that wherever one of you went, the other wasn’t far behind. But Hogwarts had changed that. The Sorting Hat had done more than divide you; it had distilled you. Pulled apart the blended pieces of your personalities and exposed them for what they truly were.

It gave you both room to grow.

Individually. Distinctively.

Earning names for yourselves outside of ‘the Potter twins’.

You’d both carved your names into the stone walls of Hogwarts in your own distinct ways—loud and clear, unmistakable.

James Potter was sunlight. A walking, talking explosion of brightness. He lit up corridors with that crooked grin and wind-mussed hair, bounding through the castle like he owned every inch of it. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, chaotic and loud and brilliant in all the ways that made people want to follow him into a duel or disaster.

He was the kind of boy who laughed with his whole chest, who spoke like everything he said mattered, arms slung around friends like they were lifelines. Always in motion. Always burning. A golden retriever in human form, all reckless energy and genuine joy.

And then there was you.

Cool where James was burning. Still water to his wildfire. But no less dangerous.

No less alluring.

They called you the evil twin—never to your face, and never with confidence. Not seriously. Not really. But the name clung to you like smoke. It suited you in the way all the best lies do: close enough to truth to be dangerous.

There was a calm to you, deliberate and composed, but it was the kind of calm that made people lean in too close, not noticing that they were slipping under the surface until it was far too late. You moved with the kind of grace that made people watch without realising they were watching, your smile soft, voice smoother still, and eyes always gleaming with something slightly wild.

They whispered about you long after you left a room.

Head Girl before your quill ever touched the application parchment. A perfect record—at least on paper.

Your charm was quieter than James’, more calculated, more disarming. Beautiful, brilliant, and just a little terrifying. You made people nervous, even when you were smiling. Especially when you were smiling.

There was a glint in your eyes that made hearts skip and stomachs drop, that whispered of games and secrets and consequences. A wicked sort of glimmer, like you knew every thought in their head and were already deciding what to do with it. Like the sea right before a storm.

Yin and yang, Dumbledore had once said, half in jest. Opposing forces in perfect balance.

You enter the Great Hall like a secret unfurling—quiet and unannounced, not so much walking as gliding between tables, untouched by the noise that fills the air.

Steps silent across the stone floor, a slip of motion through the chaos of breakfast—chatter and cutlery and laughter clanging off the walls. You pass the Gryffindor table without so much as a murmur trailing behind you, and still, not one person notices.

Not until your hand touches James’ shoulder.

He jerks so violently he nearly knocks his goblet over, a string of startled swears tumbling from his mouth as his fork clatters against the plate. Pumpkin mash splatters. Someone at the table yelped. Sirius choked on his toast, and Remus actually gasped as if someone’s just hexed him.

Every head turned.

And James was clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him.

“Bloody—! Merlin’s sake, you can’t just—!”

You tilt your head at him, ever so slightly, a small smirk twitching at the corners of your lips—eyes glinting with amusement. “Jamie,” you say in a sing-song lilt, sweet and syrupy, “You wouldn’t happen to still have the History of Magic textbook you borrowed from me, would you?”

A hush falls over the table—just long enough to make you notice.

“Er. About that,” he says, eyes darting like he’s working out whether to lie or apologise. “I might still have it. Might. Can’t say what condition it’s in, though.”

Your smile fades instantly, its replacing expressing shockly serious.

“James,” you say flatly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ruin my book?”

He winces. “Define ruin—”

“James.”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” he insists quickly, shoulders raising like you’re about to hex him in the middle of the Great Hall. “There was this—uh—Sirius spilled ink on the table and then Remus knocked it over and there was just a lot going on.”

You stayed silent, blinking at him, unimpressed.

“I’ll get you a new copy,” he says, guilt creeping into his voice. “Later today. You’ll have to stop by the common room, though.”

You sigh like it physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll try to come by around seven.”

He grins, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Poppet*.*”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches. Straightening, with a roll of your shoulders as you draw your hand away from him, letting it fall to your side. And when you glace up again, the stares hadn’t stopped.

Like they’d forgotten to look away, the silence hung in the air for barely a second, scanning the table momentarily—before offering a small smile—slow, sweet, almost smug.

The kind of smile that ruins people.

“M’kay, see you later, Jamie,” you murmur, then turn and slip back into motion.

Eyes follow you as you go—every turn of your heel, every soft shift of fabric, every second you exist within their line of sight. James barely registers it at first—too busy spearing his toast again, already halfway back into conversation. But then he pauses.

His eyes flick to Sirius. Then to Remus. Then to Marlene.

All three of them are still staring across the hall. Still tracking your path back to your table.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” James groans loudly, glaring. “Stop gawking at my sister.”

Marlene blinks, caught. “She’s terrifying,” she mutters, almost to herself.

“In a really…good way,” Remus adds, dazed.

Sirius only grins.

James lets out a strangled sound and buries his face in his hands.

The portrait swings open without hesitation, at exactly seven o’clock sharp, you’d been there enough times that even the Fat Lady doesn’t bother asking questions anymore.

James is already waiting on one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire, textbook in hand. You barely slowed as you approached. He tossed it up with a practiced flick of the wrist, and you caught it one-handed.

“New copy,” he says proudly. “Didn’t even steal it. Aren’t you proud?”

You hum in approval, flipping it open to scan the pages. “No ink stains. No food crumbs. No smell of dungbombs.” You close it with a satisfied snap. “Miracles do happen.”

Before he can retort, you’ve already turned toward the couch, where Lily is perched cross-legged with a steaming mug of something floral and her usual tower of parchment. She smiles when she sees you, shifting over to make space without being asked.

Tucking the textbook under your arm as you lower yourself beside her.

James raises a suspicious brow, but you and Lily are already whispering to each other, heads tilted close and expressions conspiratorial. It’s nothing terribly sinister—something to do with Hogsmeade, and getting Slughorn to move a test back a week—but it’s enough to draw curious glances from the far side of the room.

You feel them. The eyes.

But you don’t look. Don’t need to.

Sirius was pretending not to stare. Which is laughable, really, because his entire body was angled toward you, elbow propped on the back of the couch, fingers tangled in his hair in that careless way he probably thinks is charming.

And Remus was worse. He’s trying to read, bless him, book in his lap and everything—but his eyes haven’t moved from you since you sat down. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, chewing the inside of his cheek. You think you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

You say nothing. Keep your voice low as you murmur something into Lily’s ear that makes her snort softly behind her hand.

After ten minutes of easy conversation, you rise without ceremony, slipping the textbook fully under your arm and smoothing your skirt.

“Well,” you say lightly, brushing a hand over your robes. “This was fun.”

Lily smirks. “We’ll finalise tomorrow?”

“Perfect” You glance to James. “Thanks for the book, Jamie.”

“No problem, Pop.”

You turn, finally acknowledging the two boys across the room with a glint of something wicked in your eye.

“Goodnight, boys,” you said sweetly—voice soft as silk, almost melodic. The slightest edge of a smile curves your lips as you roll your eyes, and then you’re already walking toward the exit, the hem of your robes trailing behind you like smoke.

You don’t look back.

But if you had, you would’ve seen Sirius run a hand through his hair and lean back with a low whistle.

“Merlin,” he mutters. “I’d swear she’s half siren if it weren’t for you, Prongs”

James, who’s still watching the portrait door swing shut, scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”

“What?” Sirius grins, unashamed. “It’s not my fault your sister is—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—whatever that is.”

Remus doesn’t say a word. His book is still open in his lap—he’s not reading it.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, “if she weren’t your sister…”

“But she is my sister.” James rebutted, slouching back in his seat—swiftly ending the conversation.

The corridor curved with quiet shadows, lit only by the flicker of distant torches. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone, a soft rhythm in the stillness of the dungeons. It was late, you’d spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than you’d realised—most of the castle already asleep, save for the odd prefect or wandering ghost.

You turned a corner near the potions classroom and nearly walked straight into Regulus Black.

He stopped short, posture already impeccable, as if even in surprise he couldn't be caught off guard. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, hesitation—and then he stepped slightly aside, giving you room without a word.

“Burning the midnight oil, Black?” you asked, voice soft with the sort of casual familiarity that made his name sound like something you owned.

He glanced at you, dark eyes catching in the torchlight. “Prefect rounds. Took longer than expected.”

You fell into step beside him as naturally as breathing, and he adjusted his pace to match yours without needing to be asked.

“What was it this time?” you mused. “More Gryffindors smuggling sweets from the kitchens?”

“Fourth-years,” he said with a small exhale—amusement undercutting his otherwise smooth tone. “Said they were practicing for a future in espionage.”

“Ambitious,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Almost enough to make me proud.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but you felt the brief flick of his eyes on your profile, like he was trying not to look too long. Like he was trying not to seem too interested.

You didn’t comment, but you noticed.

By the time you reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, barely mumbling the password before the metal hinges whined, door opening slowly. Inside, the green-glass lamps glowed low, casting dreamy reflections against the water-like ceiling. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, golden against the dark velvet furniture.

Dorcas sat half-curled on the rug, absently flipping through a magazine; Evan was draped across a couch like he owned it, cards floating above his face; Pandora leaned near him, humming as she threaded a strand of starlight-colored ribbon through her hair. It was a tableau of sleepy elegance.

Without hesitation, you crossed the room and lowered yourself to the center rug near the fire. Your hand stretched toward the flames without thought. A spark rose up, obedient and curious, dancing into your open palm.

Twirling it between your fingers like silk, the heat never burning you, the flame curling comfortably around your touch. Pandora’s fingers stilled in her braid, watching.

Wandless magic.

Dorcas tilted her head, eyes bright. “You really have to teach me how to do that one day.”

You didn’t look away from the fire. “Of course,” you said lightly. “But there’s a bit of a learning curve.”

“Like what kind of curve?” Evan asked, not looking up. “Burn-your-dormitory-down levels?”

“More like third-degree-if-you’re-clumsy,” you replied with a grin.

“I could do it,” a voice said behind you, full of loud confidence.

Barty stepped forward from where he’d been balanced on the arm of the sofa, his hair tousled, shirt rumpled, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.

You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “Could you now?”

“First try,” he goaded, brows arched in light challenge. “Swear on my father's boring haircut.”

Regulus snorted, not even looking up from his book. “You’ll burn yourself stupid.”

“I’ll be fine,” Barty said, already striding forward. “How hard can it be?”

He reached toward the fire, trying to mimic the smooth gesture you’d used, fingers tense with focus and impatience.

A small spark leapt up—and immediately sputtered, flaring far too quickly. The flame caught his skin with a sharp sizzle before he could react, and he yelped, flinging his hand back with a curse.

“Bloody hell!”

The room erupted with laughter.

Pandora’s hand clamped over her mouth as if to shove the laugh back in, both Evan and Dorcas threw their heads back in sync, barking out a laugh—sound mixing with yours, loud and delighted, as Barty glared at the fire like it had personally betrayed him.

“Under control, was it?” you teased.

He cradled his palm like it was a war wound. “Minor setback. I didn’t even flinch.”

“You flinched so hard you almost somersaulted.”

“Semantics,” Barty grumbled.

“Let me see,” you said, standing and stepping closer.

He hesitated only a beat before holding out his hand, palm-up. A faint red welt bloomed across his skin, angry and hot. Your fingers brushed against his as you took it, and you felt the brief hitch in his breath. You didn’t comment.

A whisper of magic curled from your palm, cool and quiet, threading over the burn like mist. The redness faded almost instantly, leaving only smooth skin and the faintest echo of heat.

Barty stared down at your work like it was a trick he couldn’t quite understand.

From the couch, Evan leaned forward, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to hold her hand.”

“Shove off,” Barty muttered, pulling his hand back quickly, though not too quickly.

You shook your head, half-exasperated half-amused, and turned toward the hall. “I’m going to wash up.”

As you stepped away from the firelight, you caught movement in the corner of your eye. Regulus was still in his usual spot—half reclined in the reading chair by the window, a book open but forgotten on his lap.

His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.

You held it for just a moment, a soft smirk just barely twitching at the corners of your lips, before disappearing down the hall.

Unsurpisingly, both you and Regulus had more in common than you’d care to admit.

Both the less outlandish sibling, the ‘quieter’ ones—not necessarily in sound, but in presence. While James and Sirius blazed like bonfires, reckless and radiant, you and Regulus were something else entirely.

Subtle, magnetic.

You didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d both entered a room and the air seemed to still slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do.

Both of you understood what it meant to watch. To study a room before deciding what piece you wanted to play in it. You weren’t loud, nor silent just quietly unnerving. Regal, even.

There was a stillness about Regulus, an almost surgical precision to his movements and his clipped tone, like everything he did was measured twice before execution. He was painfully composed, almost uptight, his dry wit tucked behind an unimpressed brow and unimpeachable posture.

And where you differed—you were made of wild starlight and strange tides, chaos in your blood even if it rarely cracked your veneer, eventhough you rarely indulged. And where Regulus pulled inward, you leaned out. You loved a little disorder, havoc—a challenge; your eyes shining when something didn’t go to plan, smirking like you were always in on a secret.

There was a certain wickedness in your stillness—one that made Regulus look twice. Then three times. Then constantly.

Each thing he learned about you surprised him more than the last.

So he decided, quietly and with a calm sort of resolve, that he’d had enough of watching you from afar. He wanted a closer look.

The first time was in the library.

You were tucked into the corner of a row, arms full of books, hair falling across your face as you read the spine of a heavy tome. You didn’t notice him at first—or maybe that’s just what he told himself, though he should’ve known better. Regulus moved with the silence of a shadow, but when he was only inches away and just about to speak, your voice floated out, lightly entertained:

“Planning to sneak up on me, Black?”

He blinked, lips parting in the barest hint of surprise. “I wasn’t—”

Without sparing him a glance you handed him the book at the top, and he took it instinctively—letting his fingers linger on yours just that bit longer than necessary. And you held in a quirk of your brows, the squint of your eyes—making a mental note.

Because Regulus was nothing if not purposeful.

He didn’t say anything else at first, only helped, taking the weight from you and beginning to shelve them wordlessly. There was a moment—just before he reached for the last one—where his fingers paused. The cover was worn, clearly read many times.

Icarus.

A Muggle myth. One of his favourites, though no one knew that.

His hand hovered just a little too long, thumb brushing over the faded title.

“What did you think of the ending?” you asked suddenly, your tone soft but cutting through the quiet like a quill to parchment.

He almost stammered, nearly asking how did you know? But caught himself, clearing his throat before replying. “Tragic. I liked it.”

You tilted your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip—scanning his face—something glinting behind your eyes that he couldn’t quiet put his finger on.

The way the corners of your lips threatening to curve into a smile, had him struggling to swallow, voice honeyed in his ears—“Of course you did.”

And you were gone, just like that, leaving him standing—ears hot, brain playing your voice, your smile on loop.

Regulus prided himself in his ability to read a person, and yet with you—every interaction left him more confused, more intrigued, more captivated. There was some sort of riddle about you, something flickering in the depths of your eyes that made him want to unravel it—you.

The next time he saw you, you’d agreed to meet after his Quidditch practice to finish a joint assignment for Potions. Waiting just outside the changing rooms, arms crossed loosely over your chest, leaning against the cool stone wall with your bag slung over one shoulder.

The first person out wasn’t Regulus, but Barty—lips splitting into a wide smirk like he’d been expecting to see you there.

“Well, well,” he drawled, striding over with no shame, his hair a windswept mess and his jersey clinging to his frame. Immediately he closed in on you, arm slinging lazily over your shoulders, a light scent of cigarettes and oak filling your nose.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty?”

Groaning, your nose crinkling at the contact, you didn’t push him off though—”You’re sweaty, Junior,”

He only leaned in closer, grin wolfish, letting his breath fan over your jaw. “You love it.”

“I love showers, actually. You should try one.”

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes flickered across you face, the corners of your lips fighting to stay down—eyes glimmering with that twinge of defiance that had him only smirk even wider—“Only if you come with.”

Your brow cocked up slightly, narrowing your eyes as your plucked his arm off of you, placing gently back by his side—palms still wrapped around his wrist. He watched your movement eagerly, the smirk that was already etched onto his lips, adopting a positively wolfish quality when you leaned up into him—lips almost brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Junior,”

Pulling away just as quickly as you came in, leaning back against the wall leisurely, rolling your eyes at the way Barty scanned your figure—adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Then the door opened again, still not Regulus.

“Evan,” you called sweetly, “come collect your lost dog before he starts shedding on me.”

“C’mon, Crouch” Evan replied with a snort, catching him by the collar and dragging him off. “Leave her alone before you melt her into the floor.”

Barty turned just before they were out of sight, voice loud despite the distance—playful, “Miss you already, Treasure!”

For a few more minutes you waited, the corridor quiet now except for the flickering of enchanted sconces and the distant echo of voices. When Regulus finally emerged, his tie half-undone and hair damp around the edges, cheeks still reddened from the bite of the air—adjusting his uniform.

“Did you wait long?”

He’d already began the walk out, following after him, you hummed a small no—slipping through the hallways in the East Wing to find an empty classroom. It wasn’t hard task at all, settling in with the low scrap of the stool against the stone floor and opening your textbooks.

As he flicked through the pages of the book, your gaze dropped instinctively to his hands—his knuckles bruised and bloodied, red blooming like petals across pale skin.

Without hesitation, you scooted forward in your seat and took his hand in yours.

“We could’ve stopped by Pomfrey,” you said, brows knitting slightly as you examined the scrapes.

He didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze fixed on your hand, the way you held his delicately, and your fingers, the way they moved so gently across his skin.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll heal.”

A frown had etched itself onto your lips as you continued to inspect his hand, if you weren’t so engrossed in your assessment, you would have noticed the faint flush of his ears, or how his eyes flickered back and forth between your face and your hand.

Your motions were slow and attentive, pressing your palm along the bumps of his knuckles—the heat of your skin ghosting over his—the simmer of magic was so soft he almost didn’t notice it.

There was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as the wounds healed, but he didn’t flinch away.

And as your palm crossed over the edge of his hand, the final gash closed before his eyes, the skin was almost perfectly anew, as if nothing had happened—the only indication being a fading pink hue.

You continued to trace over the now-faint marks, fingertips ghosting along the healed bone, the tenderness of your touch leaving him slightly breathless.

“Better,” you whispered, half to yourself.

Regulus just stared at his hand when you let go, still feeling the echo of your touch, the whisps of your warmth. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual, lips still parted—stretching and rolling his fingers, watching the bones move comfortably under the skin, free of the light burning sensation.

When he looked up, you were already watching him—head tilted, expression cool—neutral.

Sighing out a breath his lips were moving before he could stop them, “I—how?”

A quiet hum escaped your lips, hands crossing over your lap as you leaned into the wood of your chair, “Well, James and I were really clumsy—more James than me, obviously,”

Recollecting, your lips curled into a smile, shrugging slightly as you continued, “Our mum got tired of us walking around bruised and battered when she was busy, so she taught me how to heal without a wand,”

The ghost of a smile almost twitched at the corners of his lips. Almost.

A short silence veiled the room as you fell into a working rhythm, mindlessly highlighting and note taking before the clattering of Regulus’ quill against the table broke your concentration. Eyes immediately shifting up to him—his lips pursed into a tightline but the words were already out. Blurted abruptly, cracking the silence just as his quill did.

“Teach me,”

Your brows raised into a suprised arch, confusion flickering across your face for brief moment, lips parting to respond. When he shrunk into himself slightly, shocked by his own outburst, muttering a small, “…please?” under his breath.

The response fell heavy on your tongue, lips stretching into an amused smirk and huffed chuckle bubbled low in your chest.

The wood of the chair scrapped and screeched loud against the stone as you stood, wordlessly making your way around the table. His eyes tracked your movements, just barely becoming frantic in their flickering when you sat beside him—knees brushing, so close.

Regulus breath caught when your gazes met, heat prickling at the base of his neck, hands curling into half-fists on the table, and you kept your eyes on him. Even as you leaned over closing his books, making space on the desk—warmth of your body vaguely gracing him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look away, tear his gaze from yours—as much as it made his stomach flip from its quiet intensity—the confidence that swam in your eyes. It sucked him in, making his adam’s apple bob in his throat.

All-consuming.

At the sound of a single galleon, lazily spinning on the table, you broke your stare—letting your sights fall onto the coin as it clattered to a halt. “Have you done wandless magic before?”

He sucked in a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill completely—using that time to regulate his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest—before pushing all the air back out, forcibly rubbing his palms into the fabric of his robes.

“Once—accidentally,”

With a nod, you hummed at his words, waiting for him to continue, eyes back on him—boring into the side of his head. “I—uh, got the lights to turn on when i couldn’t find my wand,”

His eyes shift between you and the coin as you picked it up, rolling it between your fingers as your spoke, “Okay, lets start with something simple, shall we?” The way you watched him made his mouth painfully dry, he couldn’t even trust his voice to answer, silently nodding at you words.

“Try move the coin.”

When he whipped his head towards to, lips parted in slight disbelief, protests creeping up his throat—Regulus clamped his mouth shut at the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners swimming with mischief as you leaned in. Placing the coin back onto the table with a soft clink, instinctively he held his breath, short-circuiting at the sudden proximity—so close he could smell you, a light vanilla scent with a twinge of maple and freshly burnt fire-wood.

You made him so nervous, he found himself a bit pathetic.

And the honeyed cadance of your voice did nothing but make his heart race faster than it already was, “Just breathe, Regulus. Focus on the coin and where you want it to move—relax,”

Easier said than done.

Gods, even the way you said his name—he almost lost the rest of your sentence, letting it echo in his mind over and over again.

When you reclined, leaning back into your chair, he felt the urge to mourn the loss of warmth—rolling his shoulders back, focusing his gaze. Or at least, he tried to.

The coin sat quietly on the table, unmoved, unbothered by the sheer force of his will alone. His jaw tensed, brows pinched together, fingers twitching slightly as if the movement alone might spark the magic into life.

Nothing.

With a breath that was equal parts frustration and surrender, Regulus leaned back and exhaled sharply.

“Can you—” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, —can you not watch me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then a quiet chuckle slipped from your lips as you raised your hands in surrender, the teasing edge of your smile tugging at the corners. “Alright, alright,” you murmured, “Sorry.” Voice light and easy, but your eyes still sparkled with that same mischief that made his stomach clench. “Didn’t realise I was that distracting.”

“You are,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear.

Still, you didn’t comment on it. Instead, leaning in again—slowly, gently—and placed your hand on his shoulder, the heat of you palm instantly radiating through his robes, hairs raising down his spine. His eyes flicked to the contact, then to your face again. You were closer than before.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you murmured, your thumb brushing once over the fabric of his robes. “And you’re not breathing.”

“I am breathing,” he argued weakly.

“Barely.”

You didn’t move your hand as you spoke again, your voice quieter now, velvet-soft and steady. “Close your eyes. Envision it. Just you and the coin. No pressure.” Regulus hesitated for a beat, then followed your instruction, lids fluttering shut.

A few moments pass before your voice reaches his ears again, “Can you see it?” and he nodded slowly, jaw tightening in focus.

“Alright,” you continued, tone low almost hypnotic now, “imagine it moving. Just a bit. Like there’s an invisible string tugging it toward you.”

He sucked in another deep breath, picturing it. The cool glint of the galleon. The subtle shine under the tinted light of the classroom. The gentle tug, like a current.

And then—scrape.

The softest sound of metal shifting against wood reached both your ears. His eyes shot open. It had moved—just barely a few centimeters, but undeniably there. His breath caught, disbelief flashing across his face.

When he turned to you, a bright beam had already split across your face, the sort of proud, delighted smile that hit him harder than the adrenaline from the magic—your hand finally slipped from his shoulder, leaving a coldness in its wake—fingers grazing the fabric of his robes. “You did it!” you said, eyes bright. “See? Easy.”

He let out a stunned breath, caught between awe and the bloom of success, heartbeat still rapid beneath his ribs. The warmth of accomplishment mingling with the quiet thrum of your presence, you. He was still processing when you reset the coin with a smooth sweep of your hand.

“Again,” you urged, nudging it into place. “Try further this time.”

He nodded, more focused now—confident. When he closed his eyes again, he could still hear the echo of your voice in his head. Could still imagine your hand on his shoulder, steading—warm.

And this time, it slid farther—too far.

The coin zipped forward, clattered off the edge, and hit the floor with a metallic clink that echoed around the empty classroom. You let out a short burst of laughter, delighted, as his head dropped, a sheepish huff escaping him. But the tension had melted from his shoulders, replaced with slow blossoming of something lighter. Pride.

He bent down to retrieve it, fingers brushing the cool metal before placing it back on the table. You were already settling beside him again, the warmth of your presence sparking something just under his skin. “This is the next step,” you said, tapping the surface of the table.

Regulus was still watching you.

Then you extended your hand, with a single finger, you hovered just above the coin—twirling it in a slow, controlled motion—and like it had a will of its own, the coin lifted.

Spinning, following the gentle twirl of your finger. A slow spiral, then faster, gathering speed until it hovered in the air, dancing in place.

He was entranced, gaze stuck on the coin even as it settled down, coming to a graceful halt—landing perfectly in the center of the table. He’d known magic, of course he did—but it felt different, raw and effortless. The same way the flame had danced between your fingers in the common room the other night—mindlessly intuitive, captivating. The coin spun like it wanted to please you. Everything did, it seemed.

He was still staring at the coin, hesitating—doubt creeping in through the back of his mind, like an unwanted invasive parasite—it barely flickered across his face. An almost imperceivable break in his expression, but you saw it.

Taking the coin again, you reached for his hand—laying your palm flat under his, eyes flickering to his face for permission before continuing. When he didn’t pull away, you placed the coin in the center of his hand, the warmth of your skin on his made the sharp bite of the metal feel that bit colder against his hand.

It lifted and spun confidently against his skin, puppeteered by the twist of your finger.

“Feel that?” Voice just above a whisper.

And he could feel it, a steady thrumming faintly circling in his palm, the buzzing with your magic. Swallowing before he spoke, a small “Yeah,” passing into the air between you.

“Now,” you spoke quietly, catching his other hand and bringing it to hover above the coin. “Picture that same feeling at your fingertips. Like it’s moving from your hand into the air—let it flow through you.”

He concentrated. You stayed close. Hand still gently cradling his from below, a silent encouragement, he started mimicking the slow twirling motion in the space above the coin.

For a few long moment—nothing.

Then, it happened. The coin jerked, slightly. Then again, shakily dragging to a stand. A tremble, stuttering before a spin. Jerky at first, but then it righted itself—smoothly gaining speed, falling into step with the command of his finger.

And your laughter, it rung through the room—soft, radiant—spilling from your chest with that same pride from before. He was too stunned to say anything. Blinking down at the coin with wide eyes, then looking to you, breathless, like he wasn’t quite sure it had actually happened. A smile—an actual, full smile—slowly curved onto his lips.

Rare and quiet, it lingered like a secret only the two of you shared.

The low buzz still resonating in his palm, the echo of your magic mingled with his own. The feeling of your hands—warm, steady, coaxing power out of him with nothing more than your voice and a bit of stubborn charm.

And even as the coin fell suddenly into his hand, all he could do was look at you.

Relish in the way your eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement, how your hands curved around his, jogging them slightly in enthusiastic joy of his accomplishment.

The coin was stagnant in his palm, Regulus flipped your hands, surrendering the cold metal into yours—and yet his hands lingering in your hold. He knew he probably should have moved his hands, the second he resigned the coin back into your possession; that was his cue. But he felt stuck, frozen under your sights.

Bewitched.

Even as your lips moved before him, the words almost fell deaf on his ears—taking a few seconds to let them echo in his mind, how did it feel? He responded with a sighing breath, as if relinquishing all remaining tension in his body, “…Good,” nodding his head as his continued, “really good actually,”

His small confession has your lips stretching even further along your face, and acknowledging hum rumbling in your throat as your touch slowly slipped away from his. Quietly tucking the coin into your bag before you started to pack up.

Just when you closed your notebook Regulus’ voice glided across the air, just above a faint murmur—if the room had any other sounds than the quiet rustling of papers, you wouldn’t have heard it.

“You’re a really good teacher,”

A small huff of laugh passed through your nose, tucking your notebook under your arm as you stood and offered a small, warm smile. “It’s easy,” you said lightly, “when you have a good student.”

Regulus shook his head faintly, a huff of something like disbelief leaving his lips—but the curve of pride hadn’t quite left his mouth.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence through the halls, your steps in sync. His hands tucked in his pockets, your bag slung over your shoulder. The dungeons were dim, washed in the dull blue of lantern light, shadows stretching along the stone. He kept glancing sideways at you, like there was something still lingering on his tongue he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to say.

Just as you reached the bottom of the girls’ dorm staircase, your hand curling loosely around the bannister, Regulus spoke.

“Wait—” His voice was low, tentative. Pausing, you turned slightly. “Hm?”

He stood a few steps back, one hand curled around the strap of his satchel, the other still shoved in his pocket. “Would you…” he paused, gaze dipping before finding yours again, more certain now. “Will you show me more?”

There was a beat of silence.

You tilted your head, watching him closely, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Blinking once, twice, reading the sincerity in his face, the open want—not desperation, harmless interest. He could see the cogs turning in your head just for a moment, before you murmured with a shrug, “Yeah.”

Descending the stairs again, you fell into step beside him as he led the way up the other staircase. The boys’ dorm was quiet when you reached it, the door creaking softly open under his hand. The warm scent of parchment, cologne, and something distinctly him met you in the space.

You paused at the threshold.

It wasn’t unfamiliar—you’d lounged across Barty’s bed enough times, lazily flipping through books while he tore the room apart looking for a missing assignment. You’d perched at Evan’s desk, rifled through his scribbled notes, borrowed a quill Barty’s nightstand. But never while Regulus was there. You’d never stepped into his space, not when he was in it.

He didn’t seem to notice your stillness. He moved through the room with ease, like you weren’t watching—dropping his books in a stack by the desk, slipping his robe off one shoulder, then tugging his jumper over his head. His shirt was rumpled beneath, sleeves already rolled up, collar slightly askew. You caught yourself staring.

He looked over his shoulder.

“You coming in?” he asked, voice a little lower now, pitched in that way it sometimes got when it was just you.

Without a word, you stepped in, toeing the door shut behind you and dropping your bag just beside the frame. You mimicked his motions easily, slipping off your jumper and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, fingers brushing absently along the edge of his desk as you walked further in.

It was a clean room. Structured, but not stiff. His bed was neat, the desk organised, quills and books perfectly aligned. But there were touches—human ones. A framed photo of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, a green ribbon pinned to the wall—a burnished Slytherin scarf neatly folded at the end of his bed, and a single piece of parchment stuck to the wall above his workspace.

With a soft exhale, you flopped onto his bed, letting your arms stretch out as you gazed up at the canopy. The hangings were dark, almost velvet black, and they made the whole space feel smaller, quieter. Private.

Regulus glanced over, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He returned to his desk, potion book in hand, eyebrows arched in mild disbelief.

“You make yourself comfortable wherever you go, don’t you?” he said dryly, a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.

You didn’t reply—just smirked smugly, twisting your head into the sheets below, stretching your limbs out, still gazing up at the dark, heavy curtains draped above the bed. The movement made your shirt shift, riding up slightly—just a touch above your waistband, exposing a sliver of skin, soft and warm under the low lamplight—the stretch of your abdomen and the small indent of your navel.

He was staring.

He didn’t realise how long until you sat up, balancing your weight on one arm, eyes still wandering lazily over the ceiling.

“You’d think your parents taught you it’s rude to stare,” you said lightly. “But you and your brother are just the same.”

Regulus cleared his throat, heat blooming high on his cheekbones, but he said nothing.

Your attention drifted to the stack of books on his desk—and the singular piece of parchment, handwritten in a precise script, pinned above it.

“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze. “A line from a poem.”

You hummed, intrigued. “What’s it say?”

He crossed the room, settling a book on his night stand before he sat on the bed beside you.

You didn’t meet his gaze right away—still reclined, your hair spilling over the edge of the bed like ink, one hand absentmindedly twirling the galleon between your fingers.

Stretching out onto his stomach, bringing his chin on his forearm to look at you properly. He watched you for a moment. The way the gold shimmered in your grip, the way your mouth twitched with unspoken thought. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t mention it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—gentle and low as he recited the line, something breathy and melodic in French. His accent was quiet but careful.

The coin fell still in your lap as you turned your head toward him.

“It sounds pretty,” you murmured. Your eyes traced his face, steady and curious. “What does it mean?” His gaze didn’t leave yours, sucking in a breath through his nose, the mattress beside you dipped as he promped himself up onto his elbows, words slow and hypnotising in your ears.

“Let night come on bells end the day, the days go by me still I stay”

You blinked at him, for a long moment, just letting the words rest heavy in the air between you, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you spoke, voice barely above a whisper, more breath than words—as if anything louder would crack the air as it stilled around you.

“It sounds extra pretty in your voice.”

Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. You were too close. Not close enough. The lamp behind you casted golden shadows across your face and your lips were slightly parted, just barely.

Before he could stop himself, the words were already tumbling out.

“I think you’re pretty.”

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him—blinks slowly as you took in each feature.

And then he was leaning in. Slowly, but not hesitantly—fingertips skimming along your jaw, guiding your face toward his with reverence more than boldness. He tilted your face toward him like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and as he got closer, you hummed, tone somewhere between amusement and a quiet gentleness, “Such high praise,” Gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips one last time before his mouth was on yours.

Regulus’ lips brushed yours with a delicate sort of caution, like he was afraid to startle the moment. His hand stayed warm at your jaw, thumb ghosting along the edge of your cheekbone, grounding himself in the quiet thrill of the contact.

When you kissed him back, slowly, deliberately, and it was like you lit a fuse under his skin. He moved closer, shoulders angling toward you, the hand on your jaw trailing down—fingers curling gently around your neck, not possessive, but fervored.

There was nothing rushed about it. Only the press of mouths and the occasional, breathless hitch of air as your noses brushed and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly—still cautious, still a little hesitant.

But then then he heard it—just barely there, a small breath of contentment through your nose as your fingers slid up the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.

That did it.

His lips moved with more intent now, more certainty, like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore. He tasted like peppermint and something you couldn’t quite place, and every time he pulled away even a fraction, he came right back—drawn to you like the pull of gravity.

Somewhere in the flurry of warmth and movement, the air around you shifted.

The curtains.

The ones above his bed rustled faintly, and then, slowly, they began to close—not all the way, but just enough to wrap the two of you in the hush of privacy. The dark velvet swept inward in a lazy draw, like someone had tugged gently at invisible strings. The air around you seemed to slow, thick with suspended magic and the soft scent of something like cedar and parchment.

Pulling back from the kiss, just barely, your lips brushing his as a breath of laughter escaped you. The kind of soft, genuine giggle that bloomed right in your chest and spilled out in surprise. Your forehead dropped back lightly against the pillow as you whispered, voice honeyed with delight, “Did you just—?”

He didn’t say anything at first. But there was the faintest flush at the tips of his ears, even as the corners of his lips twitched in a sheepish smile. You cupped his jaw gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek as you teased with a squint of your eye, voice low and fond, “Already showing off.”

He just huffed a laugh, dipping his head slightly—forehead pressing to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His hand found your waist again, sliding over your hip to pull you closer, until your bodies were all but tangled together in the middle of his bed.

Then he paused.

Looked at you.

Really looked at you—eyes searching your face, the softness of your features in the low dorm light, the flush on your cheeks, the swollen curve of your lips, still flushed lightly from his kiss. His thumb brushed your waist absently, reverently, like he was trying to memorise the moment through touch alone.

You blinked up at him, slightly breathless, lips curving into that small smile—that quiet, knowing one—that had his pulse quickening.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Voice just above a whisper.

A beat.

His answer was just as quiet.

“…Too long.”

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.

Because then his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time—hungry but still careful, still delicate. Like he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth with his own. His hand slid to the small of your back, curling to bring you even closer, your chest brushing his with every inhale.

Dinner came and went. Neither of you moved.

Body sprawled across the bed, head in Regulus’ lap, legs stretched out and one arm flopped over your middle lazily. His hand drifted idly through your hair, almost absentminded in its rhythm, as he spoke—quiet and thoughtful, voice lilting into stories you never expected him to share.

He told you about how he hated summer, because his skin burned too easily—how the Black family manor always smelled like dust and old magic. How he and Barty used to sneak wine from the cellar and sit on the roof, trying to name constellations. How his favourite book growing up wasn’t even magical—it was a Muggle text he smuggled in and read by candlelight.

You blinked up at him with a soft smile, utterly content, not interrupting—just listening.

For a man you’d once believed was of few words, he sure had a lot to say.

Not that you weren’t complaining.

There was something soft about him now—looser. Less controlled. Like the tightly wound strings he kept knotted around himself had started to loosen just enough to let you in, like he’d been waiting for the the chance to bare himself. And Merlin, he was affectionate. Not in the loud, boisterous way others might’ve been. But with soft hands and stolen glances. A touch at your hip, the gentle brush of knuckles down your arm. Aching for contact in any form, so careful about how he was gave and received it, like it could be torn away at any given moement—still so foreign, even in his own mind.

Your thumb traced slow circles into his knee as you murmured, “Can you read the line again? From the poem?”

Regulus looked down at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead before turning toward the parchment pinned above his desk. He recited it again in that soft voice—low and smooth, almost like a lullaby.

You closed your eyes, humming in contentment.

When he finished, you whispered, “Lemme show you something.”

And before he could ask, your hand curled into a fist. You held it up between you both. His brows furrowed slightly, watching with interest.

Then, you slowly unfurled your fingers—and from the centre of your palm, a small bluebell flower sprouted, delicate and glowing faintly with the magic that coaxed it into being.

“This,” you whispered, eyes flickering with warmth and voice like a secret, “is what I think of when I hear your voice.”

For a long moment, Regulus didn’t speak.

Just stared.

The shock in his eyes wasn’t loud. It was quiet and still, like everything else about him. But it was there. Etched into the way he looked at you—not just at the flower, but at your face. Your expression, the tenderness written across it with no ulterior motive, no mischief behind your eyes. No teasing lilt in your tone.

Just you.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

His fingers reached out gently, brushing the fragile petals like they might dissolve under his touch. And when he looked back at you, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“You really are something,” he said, with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Covering the sudden flutter of your chest with a scoff and biteless roll of your eyes. You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more, before you sat up abruptly, hair whipping slightly at your speed—movements fluid and unbothered as the mattress dipped under the concentrated weight of your knees.

Regulus frozen against the headboard, wide-eyed when your leg swung over his middle—settling on his lap in a straddle that was far too flippant. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to settle—eventually, they found your hips, fingers curling there hesitantly.

The small smirk on lips only widened—at his obvious flush, relishing in the way the blush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks.

“Relax,” you teased, brushing your fingers through his dark curls, tucking and retucking the strands behind his ear like you were sculpting something. And then, you nestled the bluebell flower in the space you’d created—right behind his ear.

“There,” you said with a proud grin, leaning back slightly to admire your work. Your hands slid down his neck, wrists resting lazily on his shoulders as you laced your fingers behind him, just barely hovering over his surely goosebump ridden skin. Tilting you head, you let your gaze rake over him like you were evaluating an art piece.

“I think blue might be your colour, Reg.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you subtly shifted in his lap—closer, pressing into him with purpose. Regulus huffed a small scoff, finally finding a bit of his footing again, though his voice was still slightly strained. “Must you always be this brazen?”

You shrugged innocently. “It’s fun having people on edge.”

He hummed lowly, eyes flickering with something darker now—his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “Really?”

You leaned forward with a smirk, lips brushing his as you replied in a hushed, mocking whisper, “Reaaaally.”

That was all the prompting he needed.

His mouth met yours with vigor, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been waiting to. Desperate, yet controlled. His hands squeezing at the flesh of your waist as he pulled you closer, chest pressing flush to his, heat blooming between you, smiling into the kiss.

Pulled back slightly, lips still grazing his, and whispered against his mouth, “You must like brazen then.”

And that made him grin.

Actually grin. Wide and rare and perfect.

His hands gripped your waist more firmly as he kissed you again, feverish now, all slow control forgotten in favour of something more frantic and yearning. The kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and made time slip sideways.

So engrossed in each other, you didn’t hear the door creak open.

Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of footsteps.

But the moment the familiar sound of Barty’s voice filled the room, everything stopped.

“I brought teacakes,” he called out lazily from the other side of the dorm, “because you missed supper. I figured you were sulking or something—”

You and Regulus froze mid-kiss.

Legs still straddled across his lap. His hands halfway up your back. The flower still behind his ear.

Regulus’ eyes flew open. Your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle a curse.

“I left extra lemon ones, since—wait.”

Barty’s voice was closer now. Suspicious—”…Why are your curtains closed?”

Regulus was already looking at you, panicked. You swatted his arm sharply when he didn’t say anything, eyes wide and insistent. “Was Potter here?” Barty asked, a little louder this time.

“She—uh—” Regulus stammered. “She was here. Earlier.”

Stammered.

You physically winced.

He never stammered. And now Barty definitely knew something was off. There was the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Then footsteps. Getting closer.

Barty’s voice was cool and skeptical. “So…she was here earlier…”

He paused just outside the curtain.

“…and just left her bag behind?”

Your eyes widened in horror. Your bag. You could envision where you’d left it—sitting in plain view.

A pained expression split across your face as Regulus turned to you with a look that screamed, what do we do??

But there was no time.

Because the curtain was already being drawn back.

Regulus didn't move. Neither did you.

Time seemed to stall between one breath and the next, and there was Barty—standing there with a half-eaten lemon teacake in one hand, his brows slowly climbing higher and higher as he took in the sight before him.

You, still straddling Regulus.

Regulus, pink-faced and looking about two seconds from imploding.

And the flower, still tucked delicately behind his ear.

A beat of silence.

He gasped—actually, audibly gasped, clutching his chest as if you'd physically wounded him. “Treasure,” he breathed, eyes wide and betrayed, “I cannot believe you traded me in for Black.”

You groaned. “Junior.”

“No—don’t you Junior me,” he said, stepping back like your words had scorched him, pressing a hand against the curtains pillar for support.

You slid off Regulus’ lap in a single, painful motion, trying to maintain any shred of dignity, which was difficult with your hair mussed and your shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had been clutching at the back of it.

Regulus didn’t even try to salvage anything. He just stared at the ceiling like he was mentally calculating how fast he could die and be buried—red down to the collar of his shirt.

“I thought we had something, Treasure,” Barty continued with a theatrical sniff, flopping onto his bed. “A shared love of mild chaos, midnight escapades, and morally ambiguous hexes.”

You just rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”

He stared at the ceiling, hand still on his chest. “I’m heartbroken.”

“You’re eating a teacake.”

“I’m grieving, let me be.”

And then, his voice softened a little, still dramatic but now with an edge of sincerity. “I mean… obviously everyone’s had a crush on you, but I didn’t think he’d be the one to do something about it.”

You blinked, head whipping to Regulus, eyes narrowing. “You’re not denying it.”

He just shrugged lightly, like he didn’t see the point.

Barty’s laughter was smug as hell. “See?” he said, sitting up.

Regulus groaned softly beside you. “Is this going to end soon?”

Barty glanced between you both, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me,” he said, casually now, propping himself up on one elbow, “is this a new study method? Because I must’ve missed this chapter in Advanced Charms.”

“Jun—”

“No, no—really, I’m curious,” he said, waving his teacake for emphasis. “Do you rate each other’s technique? Is snogging now a core requirement for N.E.W.T. preparation?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t help that Regulus looked like he was actively contemplating vanishing spells, dropping his head into his hands.

Then he softened again, leaning his chin into his palm as he watched the two of you. “For what it’s worth, Reg… you look good like this. Like an actual person instead of a walking anxiety spell.”

“I hate you,” he muttered, hands slipping from his face to reveal a withering look.

Barty beamed. “That’s more like it.”

With a smug little wave, Barty finally stood, sauntering backwards toward the door with his usual flair.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, to be fair, is a very short list. Night, lovebirds.”

HEARTS + BOWS | pinks 01.

──────── ⵌ HEART ...

──────── ⵌ BOW HEART ...

──────── ⵌ SMALL HEART ...

──────── ⵌ BOW ...

──────── ⵌ HEART STAR ...

okey, seriously, last one. happy Valentine’s Day everyone ! sending you all the warmest hugs heehee 🥰

please like, reblog, and credit if you use :)

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doctor, doctor

A/N: the things i have planned for them.............

summary: in which the doctor meets the doctor, a doctor meetcute if you will

cw: doctor!reader, fluff, flirting, hospital mentions, set during season 5x01 (spoilers ig)

wc: 1.07k

Spencer hates hospitals.

He’s not really sure who could like being in one of them, but it’s definitely not him. The hospital brings bad memories, near death experiences, a reminder of his impending mortality—things he already has enough of at work.

Yet work is mainly the reason he finds himself laid out on a hospital bed from time to time, waiting to find out how much of the unsub’s agenda is about to be scarred on his body forever. It’s how he finds himself right now, twiddling his thumbs as he waits for the doctor to come give him an update. Today’s incident, ironically, was him getting caught in the crossfire of a vengeful father out to kill the surgeon who couldn’t operate on his son. It was only his leg that suffered, but he knows the recovery for it is about to be a long and boring journey.

Spencer’s ears perk up at a group of voices most likely a few doors down, outwardly sighing knowing the doctor and their team are about to round on his case next. He just wants to go home. Emily had been texting him updates about Hotch who hadn’t shown up for the case earlier that day, and it only spiraled further when Penelope found out he had been dropped off at the ER on the other side of town with Derek’s stolen credentials. No one’s been able to give him an update since and all he can do is sit in this stupid bed while he suffers in agony.

A knock pulls him out of his head, “Good morning Mr. Reid, mind if I come in?”

He nods aimlessly without looking up just yet, adjusting his body on the bed so he can at least look respectful while sitting up to talk to the doctor.

“How are you feeling today?” you say as you click through his chart on the monitor next to him.

Spencer sighs, “I’ve been better. Oh, I’ve been having these chest pains and I was thinking it’s probably a side effect of the Dilitiazem. Maybe it might be better to switch to—“

The rest of the sentence falls flat on his tongue, because that’s when he finally gets a look at his doctor.

You’re not what he’s expecting out of a doctor, and he swears he means it in the least misogynistic way he can think of. Quite the opposite really, as he thinks he’s definitely discovered the living definition of brains and beauty. You’ve been in the room for all of two minutes, all you’re wearing is scrubs, and yet he’s enticed by every inch of you—by the way your fingers type quickly on the keyboard, your brows furrowed whilst deep in thought, how your lips move when you talk.

Wait, your lips are moving.

“Mr. Reid? Everything okay?” you wave a hand in front of his face, “Your chart didn’t say anything about a head injury, are you feeling dizzy?”

“Uh—Um, d–doctor.” he stutters.

You tilt your head in adorable confusion, his heart squeezes in love at first sight, “Yes, I’m the doctor…are you sure you’re okay?

Smooth, Reid.

“N—No, I um, I’m a doctor too.” he winces out.

“I see, good to know,” you smile, “what kind of doctor are you?”

“Oh, I’m not that kind of doctor,” He should have never learned how to speak. “I have three PhDs.”

“Three? Holy shit, that’s impressive.”

He blushes profusely, thankful the heart rate monitor hasn’t picked up his tell.

“What are they in?” you ask with a genuine interest sparkling in your eyes.

Spencer goes bashful, “I have PhDs in math, engineering, and chemistry. Also two bachelors in sociology and psychology…and I’m working on my philosophy degree right now.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, “Are you like a genius or something?”

“Or something. I have an eidetic memory.” he smiles sheepishly.

“Now that would be useful in medical school, surprised that’s not something you picked up while shopping around for those degrees.”

His face reddens deeper. You’re making jokes, and he’s thinking chapel versus courthouse.

“Just wasn’t interested in it, plus I’m sure the medical world is better off with people like you.”

You grin slowly, “Like me? You just met me.”

“I’m a profiler for the FBI, the behavioral analysis unit?” he says it like a question.

“Oh, I’ve heard of you guys! We see you on the news all the time.” you say excitedly, “What’s your verdict on me then?”

He takes a breath, “I think…you’re very good at what you do. The time it took you to get from the previous patient to my room was longer than average which tells me you’re well liked and respected. And I think I’d be more inclined to lie in a hospital bed if I knew you’d be my doctor.”

“Dr. Reid, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you might be flirting with me.” you say cheekily.

“Is it working?”

“Verdict’s still out.” You wink at him, he nearly flatlines, “So, you think the Dilitiazem isn’t working? What do you think we should switch to?”

“Um…Amlodipine?”

You grin, softly chuckling, “Good call, doctor.” You turn back to the monitor to put the prescription in and close out the chart. “Can I just check your lungs really quick?”

He nods and instantly regrets it when you step closer, the waft of gourmand overwhelming his senses. You unravel your stethoscope and lean down to press the face to his chest, “Deep breath.”

Spencer inhales as best he cans but he knows he’s about to be outed the longer you stand so close to him like this.

“Your lungs sound fine, but your heart's beating really fast.” you giggle as you stand up straight again.

“It does that.” Around really, really, pretty girls.

“Not sure if the Amlodipine alone will help that.”

“No I don’t think so either,” he shuffles awkwardly on the bed, “but…your number might?”

“My number? That’s awfully forward, Dr. Reid,” you beam, “but, if in your educated opinion you find it vital to your recovery and well being…” You scribble your name and number on a post it note, sticking it to the flower vase on the side of his bed. Clicking your pen and sliding it back into your pocket, you head towards the door.

“It was very nice to meet you, doctor.” you turn to him, “See you soon?”

He couldn’t hide his grin if he tried. “See you soon, doctor.”

Welcome To The Family - Series Masterlist

Nesta x Reader

Series Summary: You lost your family in the attack on Velaris by Hybern. Nesta lost her humanity and gained a tremendous amount of trauma. Together you find a grand romance between yourselves, and an unwavering commitment to help each other heal, no matter what the world says.

fluff 💖 | smut ❤️‍🔥 | angst 💔

Chapters:

AO3 Link

Get Cozy Since We're Both Lonely: You and Nesta begin your romance after she becomes a regular in your shop for months, due to a chance meeting at Rita's. 💖❤️‍🔥

Every Family Is A Butterfly - Your first dinner with the in-laws... Does not go well, to say the least. 💔💖

Sounds like something the black brothers would feel

✨️ my favorite harry styles smut one-shots ✨️

yeah, i'm reposting all my lists. so pleaseee reblog and like them.

@jarofstyles

waterfalls

crush

backstage business

watermelon sugar

cry me a river

helping hand

through my eyes

stacy’s mom

bad idea, right?

coconuts

allure

merlot + cabernet

dress

pierced through the heart

@lukesaprince

best friend’s brother - part 2 

don’t be greedy

eavesdropper - part 2

bad idea, right?

painted on your back

daddy does it better

ruin me

the other man

“that’s it… that’s my girl”

“aw it hurts? too bad...” - part 2

“be a doll and do a spin for me, won’t you?” 

@harryhitties

don't stop

somnophilia

dom!harry one shot

payback

fucking when your ex-boyfriend calls-blurb

a filthy fuck

behind the mask

delicate | king!sukuna x concubine!reader

a rough patch

summary: that one time you and the king get into a fight and you ignore him for a whole month. something you'll never forget about years later. side stories based off of defiance. genre/warnings: established relationship, sukuna and reader have a child together, mentions of suicide but it's a misunderstanding, papakuna, he is extra dramatic in this one, vomit mentioned once

wc: 2k

masterlist

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.” You grimace at the king, the baby in your arms is so blissfully unaware that her parents are arguing right now. 

He scratches the back of his head and holds back on a groan, wondering how he could convince you. “You can't just do that– Sumi’s going to be the queen one day, might as well expose her to this stuff now.”

“She’s a year old!” You snap at him. “She can barely talk and you want to start bringing her to hearings and witness your killings? Tell me, how old were you when your father started bringing you to them?”

“I won’t kill anyone.” He says in return, avoiding your question because he knows it’s a trap. You always do this to him, talking him through it and not in a way that arouses him. 

But unfortunately, you've been with this man long enough to know exactly what he’s doing. Conniving piece of shit, he’s the king of deflection. “How old were you when you started attending them?” You ask again, this time in a more demanding tone.

“Five.” He answered rather begrudgingly. 

“And with how much of a coward you claimed your father to be, it’s safe to assume he never yelled at others, let alone slaughter them, am I correct?”

He shot you a glare as you asked, it was seven in the morning, the last thing he needed was to argue with the mother of his child right now. “You are correct.” He answers in a snarky tone, before muttering ‘unfortunately’ under his breath. He doesn’t even know why he said that, probably because he hates losing arguments and wanted to get the last word in. “She’s my daughter too, you know.” He reminds you, making the room completely grow still. 

This would be the second time he’s pulled that line because things aren’t going his way. 

“Obviously.” You say, gesturing at your daughter's pink hair. It makes her giggle, cutting the thick tension between you two. She thinks you’re playing with her and her laughter somehow makes you and Sukuna grow even more annoyed at each other.

You sigh and begin to bounce her around a little bit, trying your best to hold your composure. You turn her away from her father, you don’t want her to see the look in his eyes right now. 

It’s a look that screams he’s 2.5 seconds away from massacring a village full of innocent people, one you know all too well. He’s eerily quiet now too, which is always worse than his angry outbursts.

“Not only that, you actually have more of a right to her than I do.” You say, this time in a calmer tone. “The only title I bear is a replaceable concubine, after all.” 

He drops the death glare after hearing the words come out of your mouth, “That’s not what I meant and you know that.” 

“And since you have a right to her more than I do–” You continue, ignoring whatever he has to say. “You will receive no pushback from me whenever you try to spend time with her.”

He scoffs at how formal you sound. “So what? You’re just going to ignore me now?”

“Yes. I will have one of my attendants put a bed in Sumi’s room, I will be sleeping there from now on.”

“No you’re not.” He thinks about grabbing your arm as you begin to walk away, but he refrains from doing so, that’ll just piss you off even more. 

“Yes I am.” You turn around and say. “You already got what you wanted, so leave me alone. Enjoy exposing your innocent child to the bloodshed that occurs behind those throne room doors.” 

No one dared to say it, but those who lived and worked at the estate knew how you got when things didn’t go your way either. You were just as stubborn as him, but admitting it would also be admitting he was stubborn too, and talking shit about the king was pretty much a death sentence. It didn’t matter how many kids he had or how in love he was, he was who he was. 

And you were who you were, which meant you spent the next month completely ignoring the man. 

It was blatant.

For an entire month, he didn’t hear you speak, you wouldn’t even talk to your attendants if he was in the same room as you. It got so bad that you’d be in the middle of laughing at something and you’d immediately stop and hold a stoic expression if he walked into your shared chambers. 

You wouldn’t even directly look at him when he asked to spend time with the baby, you would just hand her off and go sit in a bath or something. He actually tried to take that as an opportunity to get you to forgive him, but the door to the spa room was locked and barricaded, so the idea of seducing you and fucking an apology into you simply wasn’t an option.

At one point, he got fed up with sleeping alone and waited for you to fall asleep before carrying you back into your room, but he still woke up to an empty bed because you’d leave sometime before he woke up.

No, he never brought the baby to a hearing, not even once in that entire month. It didn’t even matter if he had a witness tell you that nothing bad happened. It was clear you didn’t want her in such a dark, sinister place– he realized that after taking the time to calm down and reflect on it.

He missed you.

He tried to talk to you, to try work things out, he really did. But you were dead set on the punishment you decided to give him. 

No amount of gifts or sweet words made you budge, he could tell you were enjoying it, watching him grovel over you. His voice cracked the other day when apologizing for the hundredth time and you laughed for a split second because of it, before you scarily went back to being serious.

You made him feel invisible– the worst punishment of them all for the man who basically lived and breathed for you.

And that was hard to think about when he had suddenly grown sick. The king didn’t really have that many stressors in his life, it made you wonder if your treatment towards him was the cause of it all. It was easy to believe, people could grow physically sick as much as they could mentally– it happened to others all the time. 

It started two days ago, when he had woken up sicker than you’ve ever seen anyone before, dry heaving and violently vomiting. He was hard to ignore at that point, but it was too late, he physically could not answer your questions. By noon that day, the doctor has ordered (more like requested) he stay in bed. But Sukuna obliged, he was too sick to do anything but that.

“I believe there’s been foul play.” The estates physician was sad to say, Sukuna paid him so much fucking money, he couldn’t imagine going back to his old salary now. “Someone must’ve poisoned him.”

He stood before you and one of the estate’s managers, Mariko. Uraume was nowhere to be found. 

You were in a state of shock, you never thought that poison out of all things could take the man out. Mariko was fucking pissed, she screens every single attendant, servant, and any other worker in between before allowing them to step foot in this place. 

“We need to conduct an investigation, now.” You urged Mariko. Though you had your doubts, whoever poisoned him could’ve easily ran off right after. But it was worth a shot, it’s only been 2 days– you’ve all kept his condition underwraps too. 

“I'm on it.” She says, looking like she was on autopilot at this point. Not only did she actually care for the king, but she also felt a deep sense of responsibility over the safety of those that resided in the estate. She always thought the man could fend for himself though, given the fact that he was probably one of the most dangerous people in this world, so hearing the news took a big hit to her ego. 

You went on to look for Uraume, who had a thousand yard stare the first time they saw the king in his critical state. They were in charge of preparing most of his meals, so they must have some information that could help you. Maybe one of the cooks has been acting strange lately.

It didn’t take too long to find them, since they were already in your sunroom, waiting to speak with you. 

They immediately bow the moment you step into the room. “Please forgive me.” Their usual stoic nature was replaced by one that was more suited for a mischievous child that had just gotten caught doing something bad. “I tried to talk him out of it.”

You were so confused at first, but it all made sense after they revealed the brief conversation they had with the king just 3 days ago.

—

“Uraume.” The king barged into the kitchen where they were preparing your family’s supper. The room was filled with the aroma of your favorite food, it slightly irked him since Uraume would rather feed you your favorite foods than his favorites.

His sudden appearance slightly startled his young assistant. He’s grown pretty soft after Sumi’s birth, so he isn’t really used to Sukuna’s temper anymore. “Yes, Sukuna-sama?”

“I need you to make poison.” 

Uraume nearly chokes on air, “What?” They sputter out.

“Oh don’t give me that look.” He says, making it seem like they’re the dramatic one, not him, who’s asking for literal poison. “It’s for me, not Dovey.”

“I am sure she’ll forgive you soon.” Uraume says. It was the first time they’ve ever actually showed their master any pushback. 

“Yeah? Well I don’t want forgiveness soon. I want forgiveness now.” He says rather stubbornly. “So get to it, and make sure I don’t actually die, I just wanna be bedridden for a day or two.”

—

You brush his hair back before leaning down to gently whisper in his ear. He wonders what it’ll be this time, he’s been loving the sweet nothings you’ve been saying to him since he put himself in this situation. “I am not above abusing the sickly, so I suggest you heal yourself right now before I slap the shit out of you.”

His eyes shot open at the harsh words, immediately healing himself. It was unbelievable– his skin was practically green just a moment ago and now it actually looks like there’s blood coursing through his veins, his dark circles were gone, even his lips looked plumper.

“What is wrong with you?!” You finally say after staring at the man in disbelief. 

He was quick to defend himself. “I had no choice! You wouldn’t talk to me even after all the times I’ve tried to apologize!”

“That doesn’t mean you can go off pretending to be terminal!” You began to scold him. He crosses his arms, trying to fight off the boyish pout that’s fighting to make its way on to his face. “Really Sukuna?! You asked Uraume to make a poison strong enough to kill elephants?”

“It was strong enough to kill an elephant?!” He immediately freaked out with you.

“Yes! They said that was the only thing capable of putting you down!”

“I am going to fucking kill that child.” He suddenly declares, but you stop him by making him lay back down on the bed. 

"You will not touch a hair on their head.” You sternly say. “You were the one who asked for this and they made it happen.”

“They didn’t mention needing to use anything that strong!” He argues back, averting his eyes away from yours since you’re glaring daggers at him.

“They didn’t get a chance to, you stormed off before they could! Don’t do that again, ever! You made me worried sick.”

And maybe you shouldn’t have said that last sentence, because like the piece of work the father of your child is, he clicks his tongue and smirks. “You were worried about me?” His eyes nearly sparkle as he asks. 

“Un-fucking-believable.” You mutter, trying to get up from the bed, but he stops you and goes as far as to pulling you into his embrace. 

“No, say it again!” He demands through his laughter, clearly happy that he finally got your attention back.

“I said I wish you were still sick!” You nearly hiss at him, this man was going to be the death of you one day. 

He sits up in bed, still holding on to you. “Fine. I’ll go drink the rest of that elixir.”

“You will do no such thing!”

All rights reserved © 2024 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

Cabin On The Mountain

in which . . . matt and reader decide to go to a cabin for a get away up on the mountains, secluded from everyone and everything else. what happens when they get snowed in their first night and matt decides on how to keep them busy?

content warnings : this is a short little mini series that will explicitly contain smut and mature themes. this whole thing will basically be smut with zero to very little plot whatsoever. this also skips a lot, so they are all different days and things they do each day. length also may very (they will mostly be short, but can be longer).

additional warnings : smut. slight fingering. matt uses the shower head on reader. praising. overstimulating. dirty talk. matt’s a little mean.

intro , one , two , three

SHOWER

day five…

steam curled around you as the hot water hit your back, rolling down in streams against your skin. your head tipped back, running your hands over your hair as you just stood there.

you could feel math behind you, watching as you just stood under the water.

your mind couldn’t help but to still think about his words and what he said, the thought making you wonder if he’d do the same in here—against the wall, pushing your face into the tiles as he fucks you from behind.

the thought had you weak, your thighs clenching without even noticing. but matt noticed with the way he was watching you. he smirked, stepping forward lightly as you were lost in your mind, slipping his arms around your middle, making you jump slightly.

“what’re you thinking about hm?” he whispered against your ear, letting his teeth nip a part of your lobe, making you gasp. you smiled, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder. “nothing.” you muttered, face reddening at the fact you may have just been caught.

“uh-huh.” he said, letting one hand move down lower as the other moved up toward your tits. “are you sure? y’look like you’re really enjoying your thoughts here.” and you nodded, not bothering to keep hiding it.

“mm thought so.” his hand came down between your legs, tracing soft patterns into the skin of your thigh. the other hand softly squeezing your tit. “wanna tell me what you were thinking about in your pretty head?” he asked, groaning as his fingers slid up to your pussy, his touch light, feeling how wet you already were.

you shook your head, feeling more shy than you normally would. matt hummed, pulling his hands away which made you whine, before slowly turning you around to face him. “no?” he asked, pushing you back against the tiled wall. you nodded, your body shivering as the cold tiles pressed into your back.

matt grinned, leaning close to you as his arm stretched up to grab the shower head. you hadn’t even registered that he had, your eyes laser focused onto him. “maybe i could do something to change that, yeah?” he whispered, bringing the shower head down between your bodies. “please..” you begged, not even sure what for, but whatever he had planned you knew you wanted it.

he chuckled, leaning away from you before getting down into his knees in front of you, his head tilting up to look at you. his free hand came out, wrapping around your right thigh before lifting it and hooking it over his shoulder—opening you wide for him. you squeaked, one hand reaching out to grab at something to keep you stable as the other came down to grab at his hair.

“mm look at you baby.” he groaned, moving his fingers to your folds, spreading you apart. “such a pretty pussy.” his words made you whine, your hips pushing forward for any sort of friction on your aching clit. matt hummed, his tongue poking out to lick his lips. “so impatient.” he teased before bringing the shower head down between your legs, aiming the stream of water to pulse directly onto your aching bud.

your whole body jolted at the pressure—quick and intense. “o-oh fuck!” you moaned, hips bucking as your fingers tugged on his locks. “that’s it baby, c’mon be as loud as you want.” the sight of you in front of him had his cock hard, his tip red and leaking. he watched the way you clenched around nothing, whimpers and moans slipping past your lips as he increased the speed slightly.

“matt—baby—“ you choked on a moan, feeling his fingers prod at your entrance before slipping in, his pace already fast and relentless. between the water and his fingers, you body was shaking, already feeling your stomach tighten with your impending orgasm. matt could feel it, the way you were clenching around his fingers like a vice.

your eyes fluttered closed, but only for a second before they opened again when you felt matt’s fingers retreat—along with the water. leaving you right on the edge, a frustrated whine slipping past your lips. “mhm not yet baby.” he said, trailing the water up and down your thighs. “gotta tell me what you were thinking about if you wanna cum.”

he was being so mean, but your need to cum overpowered your frustration. your breathing increased, feeling how your clit pulsed, your release fading away little by little. you gave in. “was—“ you paused, looking down at him as his blue eyes stared up at you. “was thinking about you fucking me against the wall in here..”

matt smiled, bringing the pressure right back to your clit as his fingers plunged back inside you. you gasped, back arching off the wall. “good girl. wasn’t so hard now was it?” he mocked, and you shook your head, grinding your hips down to chase the feeling of your orgasm that was quickly approaching again.

“look at you—gonna cum baby?” he asked, pressing the stream closer to your sensitive bundle of nerves. you nodded quickly, breathy moans filling the room. “yes, yes, yes—matt, m—“ your voice cracking into a sob as your orgasm crashed over you, so intense your knees wobbled, threatening to give out.

but he didn’t let up. just grinned up at you, shower head still working your clit while you gasped and begged and tried to squirm away. “aw is it too much?” he asked, turning the stream up just a bit.

you screamed—a broken, desperate cry that echoed off the shower walls. matt just smiled, eyes dark and hungry. “that’s my good girl.” he praised, pulling his fingers out as he kept the stream directly on you.

“let’s see how many times I can make you cum before the water runs cold.”

a/n : slowly but surely getting this done…i’m sorry it’s taking me so long haha

IF U WANT MY BABY—U KNOW IMMA DRIVE U MAD.ᐟ

꒰ა NANAMI KENTO X BIMBO!READER ໒꒱

꒰ა summary ໒꒱ : is it really baby-trapping if you both want a baby?

꒰ა cw ໒꒱ : heavy manipulation, heavy smut, edging, begging, breeding, baby trapping, slightly yandere Nanami, drugging kinda lol, cock drunk, pussy drunk, bunny/bimbo reader. ꒰ა a/n ໒꒱ : been getting alot of asks here and ao3 about p3 of the nursery. with everything going on, i dont have the focus to write it cause the next part is gonna be gaggy and theres alot of loose ends to be tied. but i've been thinking about baby trapping too much lately, actually non-stop and since i can't write toji baby trapping, nanami is the next best thing! ꒰ა wc ໒꒱ : 3073

Baby-trapping Nanami...so you don't care when he can't find the condoms that are usually in the bedside table—especially when your body is currently vibrating with the aftershocks of his skillful tongue from what seems like hours of tortuous foreplay.

Yet, ever the gentlemen, Nanami pauses, asking if you want him to stop and see if he left them downstairs.

Instantly, tears well in your eyes and you're sputtering, groping the air at him with grabby hands.

"J-Just forget 'em— n-need you b-bad K-Ken!”

Maybe a little too eagerly, you manage to sit up, hands reaching for the firm flesh of Nanami’s muscular hips—too broad to fully grasp in your small palms. Your sweat-slick fingers nearly slip off his skin as you weakly tug him closer, guiding him toward you with a soft, breathless urgency.

Fuck. The. Condoms.

To be honest, they weren't in the drawer anyway.

And you know that.

You know that because you're the one who tossed them outside earlier—into your neighbors trash bin two doors down of all places too, for good measure.

A fleeting thought occurs in this moment though, that you might have caused irreconcilable problems if either the husband or wife of the couple found them and accused the other of cheating.

But again, the thought truly is fleeting as holding a single thought is much too difficult when Nanami is tentatively dipping his swollen cockhead in and out of your pussy. Gathering up the syrupy nectar already flowing from your cunny, his thick bulbous tip swipes back up through your folds to forcefully push into your clit.

"H-Hurry n'put it in raw, K-Ken!"

Because that's exactly what you wanted.

TAP!

TAP!

TAP!

Yet the only answer you receive is the wet squelching slaps of Nanami continuously bullying your soaked puffy bud with his length. Each sharp, soggy tap making a random limb of yours twitch in pleasure, you stomach knots up in anticipation as you wither underneath the shadow of his hulking form over you.

Simply put: You're a mess.

Already teetering on the edge, your body thrums with need. You whimper, hips wiggling upward in a silent plea, hoping his slick, precum-slicked cock—already glistening with your juices—might catch on your fluttering entrance and slip inside. But to your dismay, one of his massive hands—easily strong enough to pin you down—holds you firmly in place, denying you even that.

"Aht-Aht... That's a bit reckless... don't you think, my sweet doll?"

The way your face immediately crumbs into a petulant pout causes rich, dark chuckles to spill from Nanami's lips which only deepens your dismay.

Fuck!

Your plan was to get him too turned on, too eager to sink into your open, wet, and willing hole that he wouldn't be the perfect-cautious-selfless boyfriend and just raw you. However, your plan spectacularly backfired—because now he’s just aching to take his time and ruin you thoroughly instead.

The sheets dampened dark with your arousal is proof enough. Instead, you're the one on your back, too wound up from his probing fingers causing your slick to overflow and pool on your thighs countless times already tonight.

You’re so lost in the pleasure-drenched stupor clouding your senses that you completely miss the sly glint buried beneath the stormy lust in Nanami’s eyes.

Nanami is well aware you are so desperate for his hard pulsing cock inside of you that protection is the furthest thing from your mind, even if he hadn't gotten you so spectacularly fucked out on foreplay alone.

Frankly, Nanami had known since last week that his deceitful, slutty little princess was trying to get pregnant. To his surprise, you’d been attempting it all on your own—sneaking extra prenatal vitamins behind his back like a brat.

Keyword: Extra.

Nanami who is also baby-trapping you...because he'd already been slipping you a daily dose of prenatals in your morning smoothie he makes you before you'd run out the door for work.

You hate breakfast so early in the morning, so Nanami makes you an extra caloric nutrient-dense smoothie in order to prepare your body for the baby. Breakfast, of course, is the most important meal of the day and what kind of responsible family figurehead would he be if he let you skip it?

However what frustrates Nanami is he'd truly have no idea how desperate you aref or his kids if he hadn't taken it upon himself to peek inside your weekly pill dispenser to make sure none of the vitamins you were already taking were harmful to pregnancy.

To Nanami's utter shock, you'd actually wanted his children.

You were sly, he'd give you that.

You never outright bought a prenatal vitamin.

But you had enough of the various individual supplements inside of one. Of course, it would simply look like you were just overly health-conscious to anyone who hadn't done extensive research on the nutrients and hormones needed to succeed in getting pregnant—which of course Nanami had done, going to the best pharmacist in the area for a special compound blend.

Nothing but the best for the future mother of his children.

Nevertheless, Nanami still relishes in this moment.

Drawing out agonizing cries from you with just his cock prodding in and out your twitching cunt that's desperate to be plugged and filled. Your fluttering muscles grip him eagerly, just short of being able to suck him in, thrills him just as your needy whimpers do.

"But K-Kennnnnn!"

"Shhh, now quiet, my love... you'll know I'll satisfy you even if its not with my cock."

Nanami's threats are empty of course, but you didn't know that.

You needed a taste of your own medicine.

Did you even know what you put him through?

This was your punishment.

How could you know badly he wanted to openly breed you?

How much he'd been fiending to throw you in to a mating press and repeatedly fuck his seed into you?

Nanami had always gritted his teeth to keep from growling the filth he truly wanted to say when your silky cunny gripped his cock just right, milking him like it was made for it. He wasn’t getting any younger—and the thought of how much seed he’d wasted in condoms over the last year gnawed at him. All that cum, when he could’ve been spilling it straight into your fertile little womb where it belonged.

But most importantly—did you know how much he'd beaten himself up for wanting to do it?

Nanami had debated for sometime now on broaching the subject of kids with you, but he couldn't be selfish when you are so excited for your new and already thriving career.

He was the older one.

The one whom by other's opinions probably should have already had a few kids running around by now.

Yet he'd never even wanted them—until he found you.

Nanami only wanted kids with you and he wanted them now.

He couldn't wait.

Now when his proverbial clock was so ticking loudly in his ears and the only therapy he needed to cease his fears of mortality was to fill your womb with his children. Now all Nanami can envision is how beautiful you would look, belly full, glowing even brighter than you do now—hot and needy under him.

Nanami's thoughts, which used to be filled with boardroom meetings and hedge funds, now race with how exactly to child-proof the 4 extra bedrooms in his home. For sometime now he's been building intricate plans on how to convert them into various children's rooms and a nursery.

He's been longing to do it together with you though, just itching to consult you on the wallpaper color schemes and wood types for the crib.

Sure he's being selfish.

But Nanami could provide—and isn't that what really mattered?

Nanami had already amassed a fortune from a very long and fruitful business. He'd gladly be a stay at home dad so you could resume your career, with zero pressures as to finances, as soon as you were on your feet again.

And you would be too, eventually—once you gave him at least 3 or 4 children to keep him young and on his toes while you were busy being a powerful career woman.

Yet now that Nanami knew his naughty bunny was purposefully trying to get knocked up—poking holes in the condoms for an accidental pregnancy simply wasn't doing enough anymore.

Not when his devious baby girl was already trying so hard to have his.

"Puhleaseeee K-Kento!"

Snapping him from his deranged daze, your smaller hand wraps around his wrist, sliding up his arm to scrape your kitten nails along his biceps. Nanami looks down at the well of tears now overflowing from your flushed cheeks. Your lip quivers as you're still begging, moaning pleas all the while for him to give you his cock. The very cock that is now drenched, dripping with your juices and his pre just from just a bit of mindless rubbing.

You're so close to falling to complete and utter pieces—and truly, that's Nanami's ultimate goal—to break you.

Nanami wants to push you beyond your limits until you're frantically confessing how much you wanted him to impregnate you all this time. Nanami could then keep you on your back, legs spread wide—forcibly chain to the bed, if necessary—until you were with his child.

Tease you until you begged him to dump inside of you over and over, however many times was needed, until his seed finally took.

You must think it's all your idea first after all.

It's the only way Nanami would be able to live with himself for wanting to trap you in the first place.

With not much warning besides a gruff grunt, Nanami swiftly thrusts forward—plunging his cock inside your suffocatingly slick warmth until he is hitting deep into the back of your cunt, fat tip squishing up against your cervix.

The very womb where his child would soon be growing.

You gasp out a breathless cry, the wind knocked from your lungs as your back arches off the bed, eyes rolling into your skull. Your legs coil around him tightly, clinging to him like you’re terrified he might pull away—still lost in that ecstasy-drunk haze that believes he might have second thoughts and pull out.

But little do you know Nanami can feel it—how your slick is thicker, richer, syrupy with ovulation. Your needy cunt practically melts around his cock, already creaming so much that it dribbles down his base to pool at his balls.

Clear signs that your body is ready to be bred.

The extra viscous drippings are stickier against both of your perspiring bodies that are slamming together at increasing frenzy as Nanami picks up speed.

He's usually one to talk you through it, gently build a pace so your body can adjust, but the feel of your ultra sensitive, quivering pussy along with the dense smell of sweet hormones in the air is driving Nanami into a wild frenzy.

You whine at the loss of body heat when Nanami pulls back slightly, but he has a primal need to see you impregnated in real time. The way your sweet pussy splits open so well on his girth, welcoming him and sucking him in deeper has Nanami groaning out nonsensical praises for you and your tight-soon-to-be-a-mommy pussy.

Nanami's big hands travel up your curves to press down on your belly causing you to keen sharply in pleasure. If you could pry your eyes from the back of your head, or register any other feeling than his massive length drilling into you—you may have noticed the way Nanami's hands are practically worshiping the flesh over your womb.

Cupping it, molding it and rubbing the soft chub of your stomach with his thumbs, watching your cute lil’ belly button dip and contract as he feels his own length through the walls of muscles plunging into you even deeper.

The room feels like a sauna now as hot sweat drips from Nanami's face onto yours and he's biting his lip in order to keep from drooling onto you and losing complete control.

The unintentional consequence of it all is that he’s riled himself up beyond reason—his grip on control slipping fast. He meant to fuck you into submission, but the moment he sheathed his cock in your fertile, gooey heat, he lost—completely pussy drunk.

So utterly obsessed with the way your body is already changing, softening, ripening to carry a child, he hasn’t even fucked a confession out of you yet and he just might cum any second now.

Yet Nanami can't stop to edge you now even if he wanted, it would be far more impossible for him—not when your womb is so ripe, so warm and fertile—is just begging to be impregnated.

You can feel Nanami's thick cock pulsing hard against your walls as he grinds deeper against your cervix, his hands finally leaving your stomach to grip your ass, angling your hips up off the bed in the most perfect way to directly shoot his seed into you.

Willing your eyes open, you catch a glimpse of just how pussy drunk Nanami is at the moment. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and using your pussy like a personal fleshlight. Squeezing down on him tighter you feel the blunt edges of his nails dig deeper into your ass cheeks.

Did your plan work after all?

He certainly didn't look like a man ready to pull out right now.

Wanting to seal the deal, you bite your lip, timing your finisher for the exact moment your orgasm crests—when your pussy clenches down around him, vice-tight and trembling with need.

Your hands hover instinctively over your womb, drawing his gaze as your squeaky moans grow needier, slurred with pleasure.

“S’ohhh g-good K-Kennn!”

One hand leaves the soaked bedsheets to trace a shaky finger down your sweat-slicked belly, circling right over where you want it most—right over your womb.

“C-Cum in me… right here D-Daddy, kay?”

And yeah. That did it.

Nanami growls as he cums hard—buckets spilling deep inside you, cock twitching violently with each pulse of white-hot fluids painting your walls and filling your belly.

You’d never called him Daddy before now.

Nanami suspected it sat on the tip of your tongue, but you’d always held back—too shy, too coy. Not anymore. Now, you’re debased, ruined, fucked down to your rawest instincts of procreation.

It’s not the full confession Nanami craved, but it’s close enough—for now.

Your own release detonates in pulsing waves from the pleasure of feeling him cum inside. Electric sparks shatter through you as stars bloom behind your eyelids. Heavily panting, your body is utterly spent beneath Nanami, still gushing around his cock—grasping his length so tight you nearly push him back out. 

Yet Nanami’s cock still nestled deep in your swollen, oversensitive pussy that is greedy for more, spasming and milking every drop of his load, your womb refusing to let a drop go to waste. You’re so deliriously happy at the thought of being pregnant from this—so absolutely cock-drunk—that if you could catch your breath, you’d giggle.

Nanami watches you struggle to even move, your chest rising and falling in uneven pants, and fuck, he feels it again—that deep, gut-level need to keep you here, keep you stuffed, keep you full. He already knows one load isn’t enough, not when you’re still squeezing around him, like your pussy doesn’t want to let him go either.

Yet relcutantly Nanami presses a kiss to your damp forehead before pulling out with a wet, obscene squelch, groaning as his cum leaks out of your twitching hole, pooling between your folds like it belongs there. He admires it for a moment, pushing a little back in before going to the adjoining bathroom to get a warm cloth to wipe you down. 

When Nanami returns, you whimper at the sensation of the terry cloth brushing over your still-hypersensitive skin. Nanami wipes you down gently, though a knowing smirk tugs at his lips when you squirm and swat his hand away the moment he dares to touch between your legs.

“No, m’too sensitive…” 

You pout, squirming away from the damp cloth.

In truth, it’s not just the sensitivity—you just don’t want him wiping away any precious lil swimmers that might still be making their way to your womb.

“Just my legs and tummy are fine, Daddy…”

Nanami suppresses a smirk, already knowing why. 

“No problem, my love.” 

Humming softly, Nanami kisses your ankle as he finishes and folds the washcloth away.

You smile a sweet sheepish smile at him.

“Oh and um, m’kinda hungry too…”

God, you’re spoiled rotten.

Nanami knows it’s sill much too early, even after a good fuck for you to be hungry.  You’re just trying to get rid of him. He knows exactly what you’ll do the moment he’s out of sight—he’s nearly walked in on you doing it before. Just like always, you’ll prop your legs up against the headboard, ever the superstitious little thing. 

Nanami huffs a quiet laugh, already picturing it: you, still trembling, your pussy leaking and twitching, wearing that blissed-out, cumdrunk smile better than the finest couture gowns he’s bought you. 

But you won’t do it until he leaves—you never do. 

So with one last glance over at his shoulder at your beautifully fucked out form on the bed, he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and heads toward the kitchen.

Nanami’s determined to feed you regardless of if you're actually hungry. If you’re planning to raise his child, you’ll need your strength—and any chance to nourish you, he’ll take it.

And you need your supplement too, just to give nature a little extra push.

It’s Saturday, so this time he’ll mix it into the pancake batter. Nanami will bring you breakfast in bed, making sure you eat every last bite—none the wiser—while sipping the fresh juice he always makes just for you. All the while, he’ll be stretching out your sore, well-used limbs beneath the sheets.

Because Nanami isn’t actually going to let you leave the bed anytime soon.

He’s going to fuck at least three more loads into you before noon, after all.

Plenty of time to drag that confession out of you—make you admit you’ve been trying to get pregnant all along.

And if you don’t? Well.

Nanami smiles to himself, flipping the stove burner on.

You’re not leaving that bed until you do.

꒰ა a/n ໒꒱ : wanted to get this out before i left but it didn't work out. im actually on the plane rn. sorry if there are errors I will fix when i get some downtime. landing in amsterdam then 4hr layover until we get to portugal! follow me over on my main/personal @punanami if you want updates on that.

please reblog and leave me nice comments to look at while im on vaycay <3