#smutfic

A/N: I didn’t know I needed both of these women at the same time until this request came in, now I can’t stop thinking about them. A special thank you to this request for the prompt:

✶ ───── ✶ ───── ✶

You didn’t actually intend on ending up at a bar together. At least, that was the story you’d stick to after tonight.

After a shift like this one - non-stop GSW trauma cases from Pittfest, all 25 ORs running nonstop, and everyone half delirious with exhaustion - someone had suggested drinks. And it wasn’t just you three, the entire surgical floor had gone, or at least, those who weren’t staying on for night shift. People had peeled off in groups as the night went on, heading home to catch some sleep. Until somehow it was just you, Dr. Garcia, and Dr. Walsh left at the table with a third round sweating on the wood. 

Dr. Walsh is halfway through recounting one of the more labor-intensive surgeries from earlier in the night when Dr. Garcia snorts into her drink.

“God,” Yolanda says to you with a shake of her head. “You should’ve seen Walsh in the OR tonight. If you think she’s intense during rounds, you have no idea what you’re in for with her as your teacher.”

Across the table, Emery lifts an eyebrow in offence. “Intense?”

Yolanda shoots her a knowing look. “That’s the polite word for it.”

You laugh, glancing between them. “Good to know I should start preparing now.”

While Emery scoffs, Yolanda laughs, “Her idea of teaching is throwing you into the deep end and seeing if you drown.”

Emery leans back in her chair. “And yet,” she says smoothly, “my fellows all seem to survive somehow.”

“Yeah, in spite of you,” Yolanda mutters. 

You smile, enjoying a much more friendly banter than you’re used to on the surgical floor. 

“Tell me something,” Emery says, her attention settling on you. “How do you feel about hands-on learning?”

You pause, confusion flickering across your face as you try to understand the question. It hangs in the air long enough for Yolanda to laugh.

“She means that literally, by the way,” she adds. “Walsh here is a big believer in demonstrations.”

“Careful, Yolanda,” Emery warns, though her tone is tempered with amusement. “If you’re volunteering to assist, you’re responsible for supervising the intern.”

You nearly choke on your drink, your head whipping back and forth between the two. 

Yolanda grins over the rim of her glass as she takes another sip. “I could do a lot more than supervise.”

You’re so focused on the implication of Dr. Garcia’s words that you don’t notice Dr. Walsh sliding into the booth on your other side until she’s pressed up against you.

“You hear that?” Emery asks quietly, leaning in so close that you can feel the warmth of her breath against your ear. “You have two surgeons offering to teach you.”

In the moment, you’re convinced this is all a joke. But neither of them is laughing.

Dr. Garcia tips her head, studying you like she’s waiting for some sort of reaction. Meanwhile, Dr. Walsh is just…watching.

…and that’s how you ended up here, naked and sandwiched between your attending and her fellow. 

“Dr. Wa-ah!-alsh!” You can’t get a single coherent word out; your brain is too fuzzy, too overwhelmed by sensation to form anything intelligible.

Emery kneels behind you, her mouth working at the sensitive junction where your neck meets your shoulder. One arm is wrapped securely around your body to keep you upright, the other hand busy between your thighs as her fingers circle your clit in slow strokes. 

Yolanda kneels in front of you, kissing your swollen lips over and over while her hands grip your ass with bruising force. One hand travels upward, settling gently around your throat as she holds, but doesn’t squeeze. 

“Emery,” the mutter comes from behind you, correcting you. 

“E-em…” you do your best to repeat, pulling away from Yolanda’s mouth long enough to try and get her name out. 

You barely notice Yolanda moving away from you on the bed, because Emery’s fingers suddenly press harder against you, two slipping inside you as she angles her wrist so her thumb can replace them on your clit. 

Your head tips back just as Emery bites down on the side of your neck hard enough to drag a cry from your throat. Her body moves with yours as you grind helplessly against her hand, chasing friction as your orgasm builds quickly. 

“Hurry up and get her off,” Yolanda says from somewhere off to your right. “I want my turn.”

Head lolling to the side, you’re met with the sight of her buckling on a harness so quickly it’s clear she’s intimately familiar with it. The sight sends a thrill through you, one that sparks a physical reaction as you practically gush against Emery’s fingers.

“Don’t rush me,” Emery snaps from behind you. Her fingers curl inside of you with a surgical precision worthy of her profession and the only reason you don’t double over is because you can’t, not when she’s holding you up against her, deceptively strong for her size. 

“OhmygodEmery -”

Release rips through your body, pussy spasming and your whole body convulsing under Emery’s hand. She slows her movements, pistoning her wrist to fuck you through the waves of pleasure until you’re shoving her hand away, chest heaving. 

When she finally releases you, you collapse forward onto your hands, panting.

Behind you, the bed shifts - lifting and then dipping again as someone climbs onto it. 

Hands settle on your hips.

You whip around, startled, only to find Yolanda settling behind you, the silicone length of her strap grinding slowly against the curve of your ass. 

“W-wait,” you pant. “I just came, I can’t -”

“Oh, I think you’ll find you can,” Yolanda interrupts with a smirk. “You’re learning from the best, aren’t you?”

Her hand presses flat between your shoulderblades, all but shoving your chest down onto the bed, causing you to let out the least sexy “oof” you’ve ever heard. 

“That’s it,” she coos, holding the base of the toy as she rubs the tip through your slick folds, coating it thoroughly. “Good girl, deep breath now.”

Your brain is so thoroughly melted that you don’t even question the command. You inhale slowly as she pushes inside you, splitting you open in a single, slow thrust. The stretch makes your back tense immediately. 

Yolanda bends over you, her breasts pressing up against your back as she whispers in your ear, “Relax.”

When she bottoms out, she pauses, giving you time to adjust to the intrusion. Surprisingly considerate for someone so controlling. But once she feels the tension slowly ease from your back, she leans upright again and begins to move. 

And oh, fuck, if you thought Emery’s hands were skilled, Yolanda’s expertise with a dick are unmatched. Between the slow thrusts that are somehow angled to hit your g-spot every time and the circular grinding motion she’s making when her hips meet your ass, you’re pretty sure whatever god is out there didn’t give her one of her own because she’d be absolutely insufferable about it.

A string of curses spill from your mouth, dissolving into pathetic whimpers that break into repeated cries of “ah-ah-ah!” every time she buries herself deep inside of you. Your moans split the room, jumping an octave when Yolanda decides she’s had enough of going slow and speeds up.

“Shhh.” You can practically hear the smirk still on her face as she leans back over you. “Don’t want my neighbors to hear you whoring yourself out to your boss, do you?”

“Don’t shush her.” 

Fuck, you’d almost completely forgotten about Emery. 

“Pretty soon,” she continues, “you won’t be able to hear those pretty little sounds at all.”

You lift your head just enough to see her standing at the edge of the bed, hands on her hips. A harness circles them now too. Her hand slides lazily over the dildo attached to it, stroking it like she can actually feel it.

“C’mere, baby.” Emery’s voice is light as she shuffles forward and takes your chin in her hand, lifting your head up further as she taps your cheek with her finger. “Open up.”

Your mouth falls open, tongue sticking out as Emery guides the faux cock past your lips. 

“Look at you, already learning.” The words are condescending and said with a satisfied smile adorning her face. 

Yolanda slowly resumes her thrusts, pulling you back by the hips to bounce off her. Every push into you shoves Emery further into your mouth and you gag as she hits the back of your throat, tears springing to your eyes. It only seems to spur the attending on, though, as her hand slides into your hair, gripping a handful at the back of your head to prevent you from going too far.

You whine around the silicone as Yolanda’s speed ramps back up until she’s driving into you with enough force that your cervix will probably bruise.

Emery, meanwhile, uses her grip on your head to hold you still as she bottoms out in your mouth and grinds her clit against the base of the strap. 

You can’t breathe around the silicone, the lack of oxygen causing heightened sensations all over your body and you can feel the build-up toward another orgasm climbing inside you again. When you’re so deprived of oxygen that you start seeing black spots in your vision, Emery withdraws from your mouth completely and you gasp for air.

“Flip her over, Yo-yo,” Emery demands, “I wanna see it in her throat.”

Yolanda pulls out from inside you entirely and you whimper at the loss of your impending orgasm. She pays your sounds no mind as she lifts one of your legs to turn you over until you’re lying on your back between them, your head hanging upside-down off the edge of the bed.

She slips the strap back inside you with ease this time, reveling in the squelching sounds your pussy makes as she sets a steady rhythm, just enough to keep you moaning like a whore while your mouth is empty. 

Your arms reach up above your head blindly, searching until they come into contact with Emery’s plush thighs and pulling them toward you. When she’s close enough to look up and see her face, you find her watching you with half-lidded eyes and her tongue poking out between her lips.

Your lips part as you pull her closer, desperate to have her back in your mouth.

“Fuck, baby, am I not enough for you?” Yolanda chuckles. “You need Walsh to fuck you too? So greedy.” She hoists one of your legs up over her shoulder and leans further so she’s hovering over you.

The slight shift angles you perfectly, her thrusts ramming your g-spot head-on with every movement. You can’t help but moan loudly in response.

Emery seizes the opportunity with your hands on her thighs and awaiting mouth, sliding inside with a satisfied little groan. “Look at that, so eager to learn.”

She watches your throat intently as you take as much of her strap as you can, obediently angling your head back to give her a better view. The outline of her cock against the inside of your throat has her biting her lip, one hand sliding gently over it to feel the movement.

“Doing so good,” Emery coos as you gag. “I think she deserves a reward, don’t you?”

You can’t make out what Garcia says in response, but she must agree because the next thing you know she’s lifted your other leg up over her shoulders, folding you in half underneath her, fucking into you at a ruthless pace that steals the air from your lungs.

Your orgasm quickly builds up again, amplified by the earlier edging, and spikes when Yolanda reaches a hand between you two to flick her thumb over your clit. The movement frantic but precise as she spreads your slick over the nub. You can feel every ridge and fake vein of her strap as it stretches you out, and Emery feels the moment your throat constricts around her strap, cries muffled by the toy in your mouth.

She pulls free from your mouth with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting your mouth to the tip.

Your back arches, and Garcia uses the leverage to latch onto your nipple, sucking harshly as she continues to bury herself inside you with fervor.

“Beg her.” Emery squats at your head and you keen at the order. “Come on, you want to cum, don’t you?”

You respond to her with a desperate nod.

“Then beg.”

“Ffffffuck, Y-Yolanda - please!” you gasp. 

Yolanda releases your breast, wrapping her free arm up under your shoulder to use as leverage as she fucks you with abandon. The silicone drags in and out of you relentlessly, driving you closer and closer to your peak.

The bed dips beside you again, Emery climbing up next to you and reaching out to tangle her fist in Yolanda’s curls, pulling her head back to meet her eyes. 

“Make her cum.”

Mouth agape, Garcia lets out the tiniest whimper, dragged involuntarily from her throat either by the force of Emery’s hand in her hair or by the commanding tone of her voice, it’s hard to tell. But that one tiny sound of submission to your attending has you toppling over the edge, your body writhing under Yolanda as her hand abandons your clit in favor of grinding the base of the strap against you.

When she releases you, sitting back on her haunches, chest heaving from the exertion, you’re boneless on the bed, still twitching from the aftershocks.

Emery appraises you and Yolanda with a satisfied glance.

“You need a minute, or are you ready for that reward yet?”

What?

Summoning enough energy to lift your head, you look at her incredulously.

She sits next to you, the smallest smirk on her face as she reaches over and lands a sharp smack right on your clit, causing you to yelp. “C’mon, this pussy’s got more in it.” She glances up at Yolanda. “What do you think?”

Yolanda pauses at the edge of the bed, hands resting on the straps of the harness, halting her removal. “I think she can handle one more.” She shrugs.

Walsh turns back to you, tongue wetting her lips playfully. “So, what’ll it be? You want a taste, or do you want to cum again?”

Your lips tremble as you gasp, looking between them as your cheeks heat. 

“Can I…can I have both?”

Emery lets out a half-scoff, half-laugh as she exchanges looks with Yolanda, who returns her smirk with her tongue in her cheek. 

“What did I say?” Yolanda teases, climbing back onto the bed. “Greedy girl.”

You reach both hands out, one on each woman as you tug lightly at the straps around their hips. “Want these off,” you mumble.

“Off?” Yolanda repeats, surprised. 

Your hips wiggle as you settle deeper into the bed. “Want you both to get off, too.”

The two surgeons exchange another look, then both shrug, loosening the buckles of their respective harnesses until they can step out. 

You reach for Yolanda, fingertips grazing her thigh as she climbs onto the bed. When she’s within reach, you grab at her hips, guiding her up toward your face.

“You sure, baby?” She pauses next to your head. “This is supposed to be your reward.”

You pout. “Then let me have what I want.”

Yolanda’s lips part with a chuckle as she glances back at Emery, who shrugs. She climbs up over your head, thighs bracketing your face, not shy in the slightest as she lowers herself down onto your waiting mouth. You lap at her reverently, eager to give back what she’s made you feel.

While you’re distracted, Emery shuffles to the other end of the bed, straddling one leg while lifting the other, opening you up to her. The muscles in your thighs protest the stretch, but the whine you let out is muffled by Yolanda’s pussy and cut off as your own cunt comes into contact with something warm and wet. 

“Oh fuck yeah, that’s it,” Emery’s voice drifts from behind Yolanda as she lowers herself between your legs. “So wet, baby.”

You groan louder, arms wrapping around Yolanda’s thighs so that your fingers can spread her open as you suction onto her clit.

She lets out a laugh, though it’s more out of surprise than amusement. “God, Walsh, her mouth is incredible,” she says, tossing her head back as her hands trail up to toy at her own nipples. “What a little munch.” She grinds against your mouth, panting heavily as your tongue flicks rapidly against her clit.

You whine, hips bucking up against Emery’s, but she lets go of your legs to pin your hips down with both hands as she tuts, “Nn-nn, this is a lesson, not a test. See one, do one, teach one, right?”

Her words may be teasing, but she’s grinding her clit against you desperately, the tiny mewls she’s letting out betraying her own approaching orgasm. 

A damp heat presses against your hairline and you open your eyes to find Yolanda bracing her palm against your forehead, holding you still as her hips speed up, moving rapidly against your mouth. You stick out your tongue obediently, flattening it to give her a solid surface to grind on. She lets out a string of curses, cut off by a strangled groan as she cums against your mouth. You lap at every drop, careful not to waste any even as it dribbles down your chin. 

With shaky legs, she climbs off your face, chest heaving. Though she doesn’t go far, shuffling down your body until she’s next to Emery.

“Intern,” she practically barks at you. “Another lesson, take note.”

You lift up onto your elbows, watching as Yolanda climbs behind Emery, her chin on her shoulder. Her arms wrap around Emery’s torso and hands plant themselves on the surgeon’s heavy chest, gently rolling her nipples between fingers. 

Emery’s hips falter and her head tilts back against Garcia’s as she lets out a dreamy sigh and you feel her pussy gush against yours. 

Up until now, they’d both been focused solely on you. But watching Yolanda tweak Emery’s nipples, slide her hands along her body, even gently grip her throat, it’s clear she knows exactly how to play her. The sight of them together - Emery using your cunt to get off while Yolanda nips at her earlobe - has you reeling as a third climax overtakes you, pussy clenching around nothing. Your body shudders through overstimulation as Yolanda whispers teases in Emery’s ear, meeting and holding your gaze over her shoulder. Emery’s shoulders fold inward, convulsing as she spills against you.

But it’s more than that, Yolanda holds Emery’s back against her chest, continuing to whisper in her ear and even as she stops moving, the fellow’s fingers are on her clit, rubbing gentle circles over it until Emery is jerking away from her touch. 

Emery exhales hard, collapsing forward until she’s lying next to you. For someone who’d spent the last hour acting completely in control, she suddenly looks thoroughly wrecked - her hair a mess, her chest still heaving as she catches her breath.

Yolanda drops down beside you a moment later, rolling onto her back with a tired groan before slinging an arm lazily over your stomach. 

For a moment, none of you move. The room is quiet except for the sound of three uneven breaths slowly finding rhythm again. 

You stare up at the ceiling, brain still fuzzy and your body pleasantly boneless. 

“…so,” you croak hoarsely. 

Neither of them responds immediately.

“…about a surgical residency spot next year.”

✶ ───── ✶ ───── ✶

Enjoy this? Check out my Masterlist.

You were unsure of how life came to be this way for you. You were sure your poor decisions slipped your conscious, ducking between the cracks of late rent and unsupportive family, but if you could have stopped yourself before it got this bad, you would've. You would have grabbed the old you by the shoulders and shook her.

You would have smacked the stolen bracelets and rings right out of her hands. When you were starting small, testing the waters, you would have stopped her. You would have told her that it wasn't worth it, that there were other ways. 

You didn't ever get the chance to stop yourself, though, so you only got worse. Less cautious. You felt the risk and reward of criminal life wash over you. Where you were just barely scraping by, you now had more than enough, and outside of even that, you had offers from real, powerful villains. Just teetering on the edge of something bigger for yourself, even if it was not the most noble path. 

Unfortunately for you, taking one of those offers was the worst decision you made in your short, crime ridden career. 

A villain had enlisted you for a heist of sorts. A sketchy man, but weren't they all? What business did you have judging him? His idea was not too far out of your wheelhouse, but it would be the first time you would had work on such a large scale. You were set to sneak into a jewel store at night. The plan seemed rather straight forward. Almost too easy. That should have tipped you off, but it didn't. 

Disaster struck, and fast. You had barely escaped the store with a small satchel of gems and jewels in your possession when a terrifyingly iconic figure stood only a few feet away. 

"Little thief in the night, huh?" Gamma Jack crossed his arms over his chest, back resting against the brick wall in the alley. "Cute. Very cute."

"We've got a couple choices here," he said, hand firmly pressing you against the wall by your throat. His other hand wandered slightly. Not suggestively, but with a quiet dominance. "You don't seem like a fighter, so I don't assume you're gonna try that. I could bring you down to the authorities, don't think you'll fight them either."

You were prepared for the consequences from the moment you saw him. You may have been a criminal, but you weren't blessed with any powers to fight against him. Hell, for all purposes, you were just a woman. A woman with criminal intent, sure, but still. You hadn't the skill nor the energy to resist arrest. You were willing to let him take you into custody, you'd deal with the rest from a jail cell, you supposed. 

That wasn't what Jack wanted, though. 

"Or, we could work out a deal."

You eyed him suspiciously. Handsome as he was, his face reeked of hidden motive. Nothing about a deal with him seemed safe, but you were in no position to turn him down. 

You spoke up finally, mouth dry. "What sort of deal?" 

He ran his free hand over your hair, smoothing it out with eerily gentle movements. It felt like he was coaxing something out of you. Luring you into a false sense of comfort—it was working, to an extent. His touch did feel quite nice.

"You just sit there and look pretty, doll. You won't have to move a finger for this, I might forget all of this," he tilted his head over to the spilled pile of gems in the corner of the alley, "if you shut those lips and let it happen."

You fell for his trap perfectly. Like a sacrificial lamb, too stupid to see the blade in its shepard's hand, too blinded. That's what you were. Blinded. Completely blind to the thin, porcelain mask of charisma Jack wore. 

You thought that his touch would remain soft, that this would be easy. That it would be worth it to just give in and be free. You would have rather served jail time than this, you were sure of it.

"If you weren't so pretty," he said hiking your leg up, pushing it against your abdomen to help deepen his thrusts, "I probably wouldn't be so gentle with you. You're a lucky thing, aren't you?"

Gentle wasn't the word you would have used to describe his actions. His hands were calloused and rough as they dragged over your body. You felt used to completion, yet he still took more from you. 

You had been pushed against the wall for uncomfortably long. The texture of the brick had started to imprint into your bare back. It scratched your flesh each time Jack fucked into you, but that wasn't nearly as bad as the crescent shaped divots his nails left over your tits and hips. They burned a soft pink hue, catching too deeply on your delicate skin.

What was worse than all of that, though, worse than every stinging touch and bloodying thrust, his words stuck you like needles. Thinly veiled insults wrapped as compliments were spat into your face. 

"With a pussy like this, you'd be better off a working girl. Could make some real money sellin' this thing." He forced his mouth against yours again, not minding how your teeth clashed with his. There was no passion nor tenderness. Just rough, pure desire. "I'd be your best customer, baby. Good thing I'm getting it for free now."

It hurt. He could just laugh off his little jokes, his mean spirited, sexual jabs. You would have let your self sniffle and sob if you didn't think it would get him off even further.

"You know what I like about dames like you? You're all so desperate. Look at you—startin' a life of crime and for what, baby? Must be on your last leg here."

With his tongue back down your throat again, you nearly gagged. You couldn't seem to escaped being penetrated by him. Not even your mouth was safe, and it was beyond humiliating. What was more embarrassing  was tight feeling in your stomach that started to grow. You really didn't want to cum, he didn't deserve the satisfaction of it, but it would likely be the only win you would get out of the whole thing. 

It was a degrading feeling—having you cunt betray you to clench over your momentary enemy like a vice. Gushing over his cock, painting it with sweet release. You shuddered at how his eyes dipped down between the two of you. They bored into the dimly lit scene, watching how your slick coated him so perfectly. 

If he were in the right headspace, he would have shoved his cock back in you when he came, but he lost control as soon as you finished. His dick twitched, the tip just barely kissing your ruined entrance, and he shot load just on the outside of your cunt. 

Surprisingly, he let you move your leg back down and out of his grasp. You tried to steady yourself, but you felt so weak. 

You bit your cheek, trying to hide how out of breath you were. "A deal's a deal, Jack," you said, avoiding eye contact with him. 

He let out a soft chuckle. "You can't really think I'd keep good on that, can you?"

"You—!"

He pressed his hand over your mouth to shut you up. "See, I was just going to kill you once we were done here, but we're not done. I think you'll be useful to me alive."

Your eyes blew wide. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, this wasn't what you agreed to!

The sanctuary was nothing like the halls of Asgard above. No gilded light, no polished gold, no ornamental fanfare. Here, the stone was veined with frost, and the torches burned cold blue. Shadows pooled in the corners like watchful things, and even the fire offered no warmth. It wasn’t meant for you. Not for anyone but him.

He waited

Loki.

Not the prince. Not the trickster god. Not the charming, sharp-tongued diplomat of court.

This was the monster they whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear.

Jotun.

Blue-skinned. Bare-chested beneath a cloak that was already falling from one of his shoulders, the fur-lined fabric slipping like snow off stone. The firelight danced over his skin like it was afraid to touch him. His body was carved in lines of ice and runes; taller, broader than he ever appeared in court. Inhumanly elegant. Power pressed into shape, barely restrained.

He didn’t speak.

He only watched. Red eyes aglow, tracking every breath you took. The longer he looked at you, the more your courage frayed, like silk caught on a blade. Every second stretched thin, reverent, dreadful.

You hadn’t expected to be chosen. Not really. They had said it was a duty. An offering. Something sacred. Something necessary.

Something to soothe the old blood in him. Something to keep him tethered to the court. To reason. To restraint. To keep the monster sated before he could become dangerous. Before the frost could creep down from the peaks of Jotunheim and into the heart of Asgard's Son. Before the whispers in the dark hallways grew into rumours, and those rumours became truth in the mouths of the fearful.

They needed something that would distract him, something warm and willing. A sacrificial balm to pour into the cracks of his fury, to soften the jagged edge of his cold. Someone to remind him of the flesh and breath and hunger of the living. Not duty. Not diplomacy. Not blood—stained oaths sworn by trembling courtiers. But desire.

And you had agreed. Willingly.

Because you had wanted to be more than a court petal trampled under polished boots. You had wanted to be seen. Desired. Revered, even.

But now, lying bare on the black furs at the centre of the chamber, your skin prickling from the cold, your chest rising and falling too quickly, you wondered if you’d been seen too well. The dress they had put you in; pale, delicate, ceremonial, now left pooled beside the furs, abandoned like the last scrap of modesty. Your fingers had worked the ties slowly, one by one, just as you’d been instructed.

You had followed every rule. Walk the path. Do not scream when you see him. Take off the dress. Lie down.

Those had been Frigga’s words, her voice soft and even, as if she were reading a bedtime tale rather than preparing you for this. She had kissed your forehead with a mother’s gentleness and tucked a curl behind your ear before stepping back.

You had obeyed. Ready to offer yourself to something far more than a man.

The silence stretched, heavy and glacial, until-

"You came willingly?"

You nodded, though your voice had fled.

He smirked, the expression slow and sharp, like frost forming on glass. "They always say yes so easily... so sure they can take it. So eager to be offered up like good little sacrifices," he added, the last part mumbled more to himself as he tapped two fingers against his temple, his face looking pained for a moment.

He didn’t move right away. Just stared again. Let you feel the weight of him. The way his presence swallowed the room, how the air seemed to freeze around him, heavy with intent.

A cold flicker of doubt slid beneath your skin. He hadn’t sent you away, but he hadn’t spoken either. For one long, agonising moment, you wondered if you weren’t wanted. If perhaps this offering,…you..wasn’t enough. If you had misunderstood everything, and he would rise and turn from you, leave you bare and dismissed.

But he didn’t. Content, at least for now, to devour you with his eyes first.

The shift was subtle. A stretch of his shoulders. A breath drawn deeper than the last. Then he rose from the low—backed chair he’d been sprawled in, the fur-lined cloak sliding from his remaining shoulder to gather at the crook of his elbow before sliding off complete.

All he wore now were dark leather pants that clung to the muscle of his thighs, low enough to reveal the ridged plane of his abdomen, the blue of his skin shifting as he moved, patterns like frost blooming beneath the surface. You could hear the quiet creak of his boots across the stone as he stepped forward, each stride deliberate, unhurried.

The fire behind him did not warm the room, only cast jagged shadows that moved across his body in flickers of ice-blue and black. It gave him the shape of something elemental.

He stopped just at the edge of the furs, gaze pinned to your body. You could feel the heat of your skin in contrast to the cold of the air. You’d laid yourself bare, and now you could only endure his gaze.

He knelt. Sinking down closer to your level.

Large, precise hands settled on your knees first. His touch was cold enough to draw a gasp from you, a sound you didn’t mean to make, but it slipped free anyway. The sharp chill of his skin contrasted so completely with the heat blooming beneath your own that it felt electric.

You flinched at the contact, your body tensing beneath his grip, but he only hummed, dragging those hands slowly up the length of your thighs. That reaction made him smile, slow, pleased, knowing crack that spread across his face.

 The pressure was firm, possessive, and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to explore you. His fingers spread wide, thumbs brushing the tender insides of your legs before his palms eased your knees further apart.

The movement left you open, vulnerable, and achingly aware of just how exposed you were beneath him. The cool air licked at your slick heat as he shifted closer, his hands sliding upward again in slow, reverent passes as if he was memorizing the shape of you. There was hunger in the way he touched. He wasn’t rushing. He didn’t need to. You were his for as long as he decided to keep you.

As he moved forward on his knees, the furs beneath you shifted under his weight, and the scent of him; snow, spice, and something wild. It wrapped around you as intimately as his hands.

His eyes didn’t lift from where your thighs parted. Not until his mouth was level with your chest. Then, finally, Loki looked at your face. Not with affection or restraint, but with the heavy, assessing interest of a predator sizing up something offered rather than taken. His gaze swept up your body again, slow and possessive, before locking onto your eyes proper, holding there.

You saw hunger burning in those red rubied eye.

He lent forward to run the edge of his nose along your cheek, then across your jaw. The cool drag of it raised goosebumps in its wake, making you shiver. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. His breath was cold as it ghosted over your mouth, lingering for a moment like he was considering it, like he wanted to taste your hesitation first.

You could feel your own breath hitch, heat rising up your throat. Your lips parted, expecting the kiss that didn’t come. He only watched your reaction, letting the tension spool tighter between you.

Hi trailed lower. His mouth dipped to your throat, placing a single kiss right over your pulse. It was soft at first, but then his tongue pressed there, lapping against your skin until he found the rhythm of your heartbeat.

He opened his mouth fully, sucking at the spot with enough pressure to make your breath stutter, enough to leave a mark. His teeth grazed lightly, a scrape of danger beneath the devotion.

“Make it beat harder for me,” he murmured, his voice a low command cloaked in silk.

His fingers teased between your legs as he spoke. Gentle at first. Circling. Testing. He found your clit and dragged two knuckles down either side of it, then rubbed it slowly with the pad of his thumb. The motion wasn’t hurried, but it made your hips buck, your thighs jump in response to the touch.

A soft gasp escaped your lips followed by a stifled whimper when he didn’t stop. “P-Prince-” you breathed, voice catching on the title.

He chuckled, a sound that rumbled in his chest and vibrated through yours as he leaned in closer.

“Not a Prince here,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges, his breath cool against your chest. “Don’t pretend I’m some courtly thing while you lay yourself open like this.”

He drew his mouth across your chest slowly, deliberately, before his tongue flicked over a nipple and sucked it in deep, pulling a breathy moan from your throat. His teeth catching enough to make you twitch before he released you with a wet pop.

You moaned again, higher, more desperate. Your back arched, searching for his mouth, for friction, for something.

“You tremble for me already,” he said, pleased. “Good. Let your body speak honestly.”

Loki dragged a single finger down your slit. It was chilled, thick, and unrelenting, sending a jolt through your oversensitized skin. He paused for a moment, pressing it firmly against your entrance like he was testing your readiness, gauging just how much you could take. Then he pushed inside, slowly, deliberately so you’d gasp, the air catching in your throat. The stretch was unfamiliar, the sheer contrast of his icy skin against your molten heat making you twitch, your walls fluttering around him in confused, needy response.

He curled his finger inside you as he withdrew just slightly, then pushed back in, twisting gently to feel every ridge of your softness. You clenched around him with no conscious thought, your body pulsing around the intrusion, responding as if it knew something your mind was still struggling to grasp.

He exhaled hard through his nose, nostrils flaring as his jaw tensed.

"So hot," he growled, voice thick and reverent. "You burn around me."

His words sank into your skin as he began to move again, slow and unrelenting, coaxing you open with each stroke. The friction built into a rhythm that sent soft wet sounds echoing through the chamber. You whimpered as your thighs fell wider, helpless to the way your body welcomed him in.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your chest as he added a second finger. The stretch widened, searing pleasure crackling through your core. He didn’t slow down, just adjusted the angle, his palm pressing down to grind against your clit while both fingers curled and dragged inside you with sinful precision.

You keened softly, the pressure, the fullness, the cool heat of him overwhelming everything else. His fingers didn’t stop, didn’t rush, not even when you bucked over the third that joined the others.

He kept going watching your face while his finger worked you open slowly, methodically. You felt the drag of them as he eased them apart, stretching you, testing the give of your body around as he pushed in all the way to his knuckles. The sensation was sharp, aching, filthy and it only deepened as those long digits reached higher up into you than you’d ever managed to reach on your own. Coaxing a strangled moan from your throat.

Loki dipped his head, his lips grazed the underside of your breast, then bit down just enough to make you jolt, the twin sensations leaving you suspended between pain and pleasure.

"So wet, so warm." he murmured, breath ragged. "All this for me?"

You nodded, swallowing the whimper that bubbled up, your own hands digging into the plush fur around you. Your breath caught again as he pulled his fingers slightly apart, easing the stretch wider, working you open bit by bit. The cool, slick pressure sent sparks dancing up your spine, the edges of his fingers reaching deeper.

The sensation made your hips jerked, your body caught between instinctive resistance and overwhelming need. You could feel it building, that tightening heat, the edge looming closer with every careful, purposeful drag of his fingers.

He growled again, a sound low in his throat, and pulled his fingers free with a slick, wet sound that made your walls clench in protest. You whimpered, a desperate sound of loss.

"Not yet," he said, as he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. "Just need you soft enough to take everything I intend to give."

You barely had time to brace yourself.

He sank back on his haunches, and the room shimmered with green light. Seidr curled over his hips, dissolving the last of his leathers in a quiet flicker of magic. He knelt above you now in full glory, entirely bare, his chest rising and falling with deliberate control, the muscles of his abdomen taut with restrained power.

Between his thighs, his cock stood thick and flushed a deeper, bruised blue, already leaking at the tip. The sight of him like this, unhidden, unrestrained, made your breath catch and your core clench in anticipation. He was beautiful and terrifying all at once, and the way his eyes drank you in from above only made your skin burn hotter against the furs beneath you.

You tried not to flinch as he knelt between your thighs, sucking air sharp into your lungs as he wrapped one large hand around himself and stroked once, twice, spreading the glistening slick of precum over the blunt tip of his cock. It was a threatening thing, thick, flushed dark, slightly curved, and long enough to make your thighs twitch.

He watched you watch him. Smirking.

"So sure of yourselves," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "Pretty little maidens to be fed to the beats hunger."

His fingers tapped once, twice against his own temple again, like he was chiding ghosts only he could hear.

You swallowed hard and nodded. You were here. This was what you were meant for.

“Fool.”

His hands came to your thighs again, colder now, rougher in their grip as he pushed your legs up and apart. You whimpered, the sound barely a breath, and dug your hands into the furs. He nudged closer, his cock dragging through the mess he’d already coaxed from you, wet and sticky as he slicked himself with your arousal.

When he pressed against your entrance, you gasped. His breath hitched too, sharp and sudden.

The pressure built slowly. Agonisingly.

Your body tensed, but he didn't stop. Didn't offer comfort or pause. He simply pushed, a slow, relentless glide that stretched you inch by inch. The thick crown breached you first, making you cry out, the burn of it forcing your hips up. He caught them with a growl, strong hands holding you steady.

"Shhh," he hissed behind clenched teeth, "You’re mine to shape. My offering."

The stretch was unbearable and exquisite. Every inch he gave you made you feel fuller than you'd ever known, like your body was being rebuilt from the inside out just to fit him. He growled something in Jotun under his breath, something guttural and low, as he bottomed out.

He groaned, transfixed by the way your body tried to take him. One of his large hands pressed down over your womb, feeling the fullness, the bulge of him deep inside. His hips ground forward, just enough to make you gasp and then whine, your fingers scrabbling at the furs. He stilled again, rejoicing the way your walls fluttered helplessly around him, stretched to your absolute limit.

You sobbed, a choked little sound, as a tear slipped from the corner of your eye, hot and unbidden. The fullness, the stretch, the overwhelming pressure.

It was too much, your body quivering with sensation.

Your vision blurred for a moment, breath catching in your throat as the tear rolled down to your temple.

"Take it, you must take it Little Flame." He shifted slightly, sitting tall above you in that L-shaped posture, his cock still buried to the hilt inside you. His hand, still resting on your lower abdomen, slowly dragged upward, fingers splayed, possessive, as if marking a path across your trembling skin, claiming every inch of you.

 He cupped your breast again, massaging with a slow, deliberate pressure, groaning as you clenched and writhed beneath him. The heat of your body welcomed him with every grind of his hips, slick and warm and yielding. It was like he wanted to carve a space for himself inside you, to etch himself into your being.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice deep, raw with veneration and greed, almost drunk on the feel of you.

You gasped as he rocked into you again, the movement slow and consuming. Each stroke dragged along nerves frayed raw, sparking pleasure that curled up your spine and spread fire through your limbs.

You cried out, eyes squeezing shut.

Loki shuddered, mouth parting in a breathless groan.

"That sound-yes, that sound-make it again."

When he moved, it was slow at first long, deep thrusts that stole the air from you each time his hips met yours. He shifted only slightly, adjusting the angle with a warriors precision until he found the one that made you cry out, back arching. The sound pulled a groan from his throat, low and rough, as though the noise of your pleasure spurred something darker in him.

Loki never looked away from you. Not once.

Your thighs trembled. Your fingers clawed at the furs beneath you. Each slow, deliberate stroke filled you past the point of reason, the stretch never easing, only evolving into something more intense. The dull ache became friction, became fullness, became a kind of overwhelming reverence. He was worshiping you with every snap of his hips, and still, it wasn’t gentle.

He was a creature of need and seidr, and now, unmasked in his hunger, the illusion of princely restraint had vanished. His long black hair had fallen loose, cascading around his shoulders in wild waves. Strands clung to his face, framing the sharp lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, the fierce heat burning in his eyes. The wildness in him showed now, unmistakable, written in every flex of his body, every ripple of muscle as he loomed over you.

His hand dragged down your side, large and cool against your overheated skin, until it gripped your hip with unyielding force. The next thrust rocked through you. You keened, eyes going wide, the pressure of it making your stomach rise.

"Meant for this," he growled. "Made to be filled."

Your cries were rhythmic now, rising with every thrust, every grinding roll of his hips. He adjusted again, dragging one of your legs high against his shoulder, the back of your leg pressed into his chest, the new angle devastating. You choked on stolen breath as he fucked deeper, harder and gods, you felt every inch of him. The stretch was obscene, the sheer size of him forcing you open, your body pulled tight around his cock as he pushed in and you. You could feel the ridge of his head drag along places inside you that had never known such reach. Your skin sang with sensation, every nerve lit, your core clenching desperately around his impossible girth.

“Nngh-guh..” a helpless noise coming from you. 

You felt it building. The burn at the base of your spine. The fluttering tension in your core. The way his cock dragged perfectly across the spot that made you unravel. You could tilt your head to see, to watch him take you back, you could do it. The idea of witnessing what you could feel made you dizzy, made your mind spin, before you felt heat sizzle in your blood despite the cool chill from his cock inside you. Yet your body had no choice but to accommodate him, to stretch and strain and swallow him whole. You were pulled open around him, every stroke pushing the limits of your flesh, every slide making your insides feel claimed. He'd make you come. You'd come for him. You'd sate his hunger.

"Aauh - Ah" 

Loki felt it, too. The way your body surrendered just that little bit more, opening wider, pliant and pliable, a trembling gift beneath him.

“Take it, feel it!” 

He pressed his palm against your belly again, groaning at the swell, the bulge he could feel under his touch, the exquisite pressure of his cock driving into you. The sight of your abdomen lifting with each deep stroke made his pupils dilate. His thumb traced slow circles around your navel before drifting higher, grazing the underside of your breast, then cupping it with a needy hand. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, coaxing another breathy pants from your lips.

"So greedy," he purred. "Chosen for this. Crafted for me. A perfect fit for my hunger, my claim."

Your moan cracked, your throat tight with sensation, drawn taut with the staggering fullness, the weight of being taken.

His pace shifted, quicker now, yet never rushed. It wasn’t frantic. Intentional. Like the fulfillment of something sacred. Every thrust carried purpose, a deeper assertion of ownership, of destiny. Designed to push you past the edge and make sure you never came back the same.

Your orgasm tore through you like a riptide, electric and blinding. Your body clamped down around him, fluttering, squeezing, your breath stolen, your mouth parting in a shattered, sobbing cry. You keened for him, the sound breaking into the air between you, sharp and wanting. Your limbs trembled, your hands grappling at the furs for purchase as the waves rolled through you, your walls milking him with desperate hunger, with need that felt etched into your bones.

Loki didn’t pull back. Didn’t let you catch your breath.

He snarled, the sound animal and ancient, and slammed home- hard.

You screamed.

The stretch was too much, your body trembling in the aftermath, but the heat of him, the twitch of his cock inside you, the raw presence of him, it was devastation.

Then you felt it.

The rush. The flood. The thick spill of him flooding your core in molten pulses, like you were being sealed, marked. Your cunt tried to flutter him out, to push him away, but Loki held fast. Stayed buried deep.

A long, broken groan tore from his throat as he ground his hips to the base, holding you open, driving his spend deeper inside until you felt him in every part of you.

You whimpered, body twitching in overstimulation, your nerves frayed, your walls still fluttering around the impossible fullness.

Loki kept going. Kept pressing you into that surrender, the kind that rewrote your body from the inside out.

Your body quaked, twitching with overstimulation. Your eyes glazed, not able to focus, mouth slack with the weight of everything he had wrung from you. Your limbs felt boneless, bonedust scattered in the aftershock of pleasure and ruin.

Slowly, Loki moved, the aching slide of him pulling out left your body shuddering. The emptiness bloomed inside you, your walls fluttering in protest, stretched and ruined, still clinging to the ghost of his shape. You could still feel the heft of him in your deepest places, the imprint of him left like scorched velvet.

It poured from you in thick, hot waves, so much that it ran down your thighs, soaking the furs beneath you. It clung to your folds, to the curve of your ass, your skin wet and sticky with it.

 He watched with pride, the sight of a prize he found worthy. His chest rose with each breath, the flicker of magic still crawling across his skin like the afterglow of lightning.

Loki sat back on his heels; eyes fixed between your thighs. Hunger warred on his face as he reached forward, spreading you wider. Two long fingers dipped into the mess, dragging through your folds, like he was worshipping at the altar he'd just desecrated.

"Look at that," he murmured, voice wrecked, darker. "So full you can't even hold it.."

You tilted your head down this time, eyes blurry but still managing to focus as he dipped his fingers into opaque cream dripping from your cunt. With curious car he brought it up to your abdomen and began to write. You watched, mesmerised, as he spelled out his name, each letter painted with his spend, glistening on your skin.

"Mine. Branded in seed," he whispered, voice thick with satisfaction, as though your trembling acceptance had awakened something even darker in him. 

He caught your gaze, saw the way your breath caught, your lips parting as you felt it settle, his claim, marked in your own submission. His cock twitched, swelling again.

"Again," he whispered. "You'll take it again. Until you wear me like war paint. Until you forget any life before me."

He kept your gaze as pushed back into you.

Your breath hitched, a mewl catching in your throat as the swollen head of his cock breached your entrance once more. Slick from the mess he’d already made of you, he slid in easier this time, so much easier. Your body welcomed him now, fucked open and trembling, stretched to its limits and aching to be filled again.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and into you, echoing in your bones. The ease of his re-entry, just that perfect hint of friction that made him groan.

Your broken keen, high and wrecked, your legs twitching around him. There was no resistance now, just the obscene slide of his cock as he sank into the hilt, claimed you anew. You could feel how big he still was, how you were split around him, the fullness turning to a pulsing ache that made your toes curl. And gods, he was already moving again.

This time, he didn’t hold back the mess. He wanted it. With every steady thrust, more of his spend from before spilled out around him, slicking your thighs, matting the fur beneath you in thick, glistening trails. The scent was overwhelming. Raw. Carnal. The wet, filthy sound of it echoed through the chamber, each movement lewd and deliberate, as if he were savouring the music of your ruin.

It let him move easier. Deeper.

His body curved over yours now, bending low until he caged you entirely beneath him. The chill of his skin contrasted with the heat of your own, steam rising where you touched. His breath was at your neck, sharp and cool between heated groans, while one arm braced just above your head, palm planted firm in the fur, pinning you beneath the full weight of him.

You whimpered, and he growled, a sound of dark satisfaction. “Good,” he rasped against your ear. “Give me those sounds. Let me hear how full you are.”

The sound was torn from your throat as your hands flew to his arms, anchoring yourself to the thick muscle of his biceps. He was relentless now. Slow, deep, each stroke angled to hit where you were weakest. He shifted slightly, one hand curling under your thigh again, folding you tighter beneath him, pressing you open like a bloom under frost.

Your body trembled. Your nerves were frayed to the edge. You were undone.

His voice came low and possessive against your ear.

“So wet. So full. And you keep taking it.”

You gasped, your voice thin and breaking: “Loki-”

He groaned, hips stuttering as your body clenched again, tight and fluttering around him. The sound of your voice, raw and breathless and his, sent him reeling.

Your climax hit you again, drowning you, tearing through your limbs. Slick and seed gushed around him, your back arching with a silent scream as you came undone again.

But still he didn’t stop.

Your body twitched with aftershocks, your limbs limp. He held you there, claimed you again and again, slow and unrelenting. The mess only worsened, his seed, your slick, all of it mixing and soaking anything it touched. It dripped from you in wet strings, his devastating cock pushing it back inside with each thrust. Your body singing for him, hot and heavy as everything else melted away.

You moaned wanton, your mind blurring under the pleasure of it all.

“You're mine now,” he growled into your throat. “Sacred and ruined.”

You were an offering.

Now, you were his.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Yours.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and reverent, but his hips never stopped moving.

“So good for me,” he murmured. “Sent to be filled. Made for this.”

The dorms were the worst.

The windows leaked cold, the corners smelled like mildew, the kind that crept back this time of year no matter how many scouring charms someone used. The scent of damp parchment lingered in the air, tangled up with the musty staleness of old socks and wet wool. It clung to everything.

It was good to be back. Still, the mood had shifted.

The holidays were over.

No more sugared puddings. No more Weasley twins detonating enchanted crackers over breakfast. No more sneaking kisses with Cedric under the mistletoe. No more evenings curled up in front of the fire with Ginny and Hermione, tucked under shared blankets, gossiping like our lives depended on it. 

It was all gone now, and in its place was coursework. And pressure. And that cold reality that came every January like clockwork.

Pages and pages of it.

Ancient Runes, a three-foot Transfiguration essay, and Snape's ridiculous demand for three more feet on bezoars. As if we didn't have anything better to do with our lives.

The only thing that stopped me from flinging my books off the Astronomy Tower was the promise of Hogsmeade weekend, the first one of the new year.

I'd bundled myself up in cozy winter clothes, wrapping that familiar black-and-yellow scarf tight around my neck. The same one Cedric had wrapped there after our first night together at the Burrow. It still smelled like him, cedarwood and amber and something warm and permanent, like home.

He'd insisted I keep it. Said it looked better on me anyway.

Most of Gryffindor was already scattered around the common room, slouched across couches, tangled in scarves and boots, waiting for the day to start properly. The fire crackled low in the hearth. The smell of smoke and damp wool drifted through the air. Everyone was bundled up and restless, like we were all waiting for something to snap us out of this midwinter trance.

I was curled up alone near the fire, legs tucked under me, Crookshanks making slow, deliberate biscuits into my thigh like I was the only thing worth kneading. The common room buzzed quietly in the background, but my head was somewhere else, drifting through the past two weeks, half-listening to the argument unfolding across from me.

Harry groaned from the couch, his body thrown dramatically over the cushions, looking like he'd lost a duel to gravity.

Hermione was mid-rant, of course.

"You've had weeks to figure it out," she said, tone clipped. "And now you're acting like the second task is years away. It's not."

"I've got until the twenty-fourth," Harry argued weakly, dragging a hand through his hair.

"That's in, like, five weeks," I muttered.

Hermione scowled. "Exactly. And the way you're going, you'll blink and it will be here, and you'll still be standing there with your mouth open and that egg screaming at you."

She had a point. February 24th had started feeling closer now that the holidays were behind us. Before, it lived in some foggy space after Christmas. Now it was looming. And Harry still hadn't figured out a thing about that bloody golden egg.

Back at the Burrow, I'd heard it enough times to haunt my dreams. Every night, Harry would drag it up to Ron's room, crack it open, and sit there listening. Waiting for it to sound different. It never did. Just the same shrill wailing, like thirty musical saws crying out at once. It scraped under your skin, got in your head. 

I'd tried to place the sound. Tried to think of anything I'd heard like it before. But there was nothing. It didn't sound like anything.

I'd even walked in on Harry once, just sitting on the floor with the egg in his lap, yelling at it like it might shut up and give him a real answer.

It didn't.

"But it might take weeks to work it out!" Hermione snapped. "You're going to look like a complete idiot if everyone else knows the clue and you don't. Maybe you should stay behind today. Figure it out while you've got the Tower to yourself."

"Leave him alone, Hermione," Ron cut in. He wasn't even looking up, just picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion with determination.

Harry glanced over at me. "Has Cedric figured it out?"

I shook my head slowly. "He hasn't mentioned anything."

Which wasn't untrue.

His silence said enough. I'd seen the way his fingers kept drifting toward his tie lately, the nervous habit he always fell into when something was weighing on him. He hadn't said a word about the egg, but I'd caught him doing it more than once this week.

I started straightening it for him before he could, smoothing the silk down without being asked. He never said anything when I did, but he always relaxed after. His hands would fall away. His shoulders would let go of whatever they'd been holding.

So no, he hadn't said it was bothering him. But I knew it was.

You wouldn't guess by looking at him. On the outside, he was the picture of calm and collected. Polished. The elusive Triwizard Champion. But he didn't need to say anything out loud.

I could see it anyway.

Fred and George wandered past just as Harry opened his mouth again. Clearly eavesdropping, they veered over without hesitation, each one dropping onto either end of the settee I was lounging on.

Crookshanks gave a grumpy meow and launched off my lap, clearly aggrieved by the sudden intrusion.

Both twins were smirking down at me like they'd been waiting for an excuse.

"I bet you've been keeping him very distracted," Fred said, waggling his brows.

"You little minx," George added, nudging me.

I rolled my eyes, cheeks warming. "Shut up."

It wasn't even worth pretending. More than half the school already knew about me and Cedric, and I hadn't exactly been subtle the night of the Yule Ball. And for the ones who missed that, the quickie on the train had filled in the blanks.

Hermione, sitting across, shot both boys a sharp look. She muttered something about "crude commentary" under her breath and went right back to glowering at Harry.

We were just getting to our feet when a soft chime rang through the common room, the hour bell that signaled the start of our Hogsmeade visit.

Students whooped and clapped. The low buzz of conversation spiked instantly, turning animated and loud as everyone scrambled to gather their things. Scarves were adjusted, boots stamped, bags slung over shoulders.

We filed through the portrait hole in a jostling blur of excitement and chatter.

Waiting just on the other side, like he'd timed it perfectly, was Cedric.

He leaned against the stone archway, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, his cloak hanging open like the temperature didn't bother him at all. His eyes found mine immediately, and the smallest smile curved at the corners of his mouth.

"Top shagger," Fred whispered as they passed him, clapping him on the back.

Cedric didn't flinch. Just offered a polite nod, eyes flicking down to the scarf still wrapped around my neck. His scarf.

When our eyes met again, everything else dimmed.

"Thought we could walk down together," he said, voice quiet, like it was just for me.

Like this really was a date, not a freezing, school-sanctioned field trip layered in thermal socks and Hogwarts-issue gloves.

Still. I liked the way he said it. Soft. Intentional.

Hermione greeted him first, giving a polite nod andtucking her hands deeper into her sleeves. Harry managed something that resembled a smile. Ron didn't even blink in his direction. The performance was almost impressive at this point.

The snow hadn't let up much. It still covered the grounds in a thick layer, the kind that crunched and collapsed under your boots. The sky hung low and dull above us, stretched in grey like wet paper. Every window we passed was fogged over, condensation trailing in slow lines down the glass. The castle looked like it was holding its breath.

We passed the Durmstrang ship on our way to the gates, its hull slick and dark in the still lake water.

Then a flicker of movement caught my eye, up on the deck.

"What the hell," I muttered.

Viktor Krum had stepped out barefoot and shirtless, wearing only a pair of threadbare swimming trunks. His skin looked nearly translucent in the winter light, a pale blade against the slate-grey water. He barely hesitated. Just stretched his arms once and dove off the side of the ship— clean, sharp, and gone beneath the surface in an instant.

"He's mad," Harry breathed.

"It must be freezing," Ron said, staring.

"It's January!"

"It's colder where he's from," Hermione said, a little quieter. "He told me the Black Sea in winter makes this look mild."

I glanced at her, catching how she was defending him without even realizing it. Her voice had softened the way it did when something mattered, even if she wasn't ready to say why.

I smirked. "He told you that, did he?"

Hermione's eyes snapped to mine too fast. Her cheeks flushed pink.

Back at the Burrow over the holidays, late one night in Ginny's room, buried in blankets and half-tipsy from Firewhiskey, Hermione had told us everything.

They'd kissed.

At the top of the marble staircase, just after the Yule Ball. She'd whispered it into the dark like it was a secret too delicate to say out loud.

"He just leaned in," she'd said, her fingers tangled in the hem of her pajama top. "And it was... it was nice."

Ginny and I had squealed. Proper squealed. We buried our faces in pillows to muffle it, but it didn't help. Hermione had blushed all the way down to her collarbones. She told us they'd exchanged a few letters since. Nothing romantic, just sweet. Book titles. Little thoughts. Quidditch scores.

Both too awkward to say what they actually wanted.

It was almost tragic.

And it was absolutely our responsibility to push her toward him again.

Now, watching Viktor resurface in the middle of the lake like some kind of folk legend, I made a mental note: we weren't letting her talk herself out of this again. Not when she still blushed like that.

"He's really nice, you know," Hermione added after a pause. "He's not at all like you'd think, coming from Durmstrang. He said he likes it better here."

Cedric and I exchanged a look.

"You should go say hi, invite him to the village?" Ced suggested, voice light but knowing.

Hermione shook her head instantly, pulling her scarf tighter.

We didn't press it.

Yet.

The path gave way to the slushy High Street, cobblestones half-lost under dirty snow and salt. The scent of baking drifted out from somewhere— warm sugar, cinnamon, vanilla.

And still, the stares started.

I felt them the way you feel wind shift. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. Boys elbowed each other. Girls scowled. The kind of attention that always came too fast, too loud.

After being intimate with Cedric, I didn't think it could get worse. But it had. If I had to guess, it was because I felt different. More sensual. Confident. Something had changed in me, something others clearly picked up on. The boys had more trouble containing themselves. And the girls? They didn't bother hiding their bitterness.

It was worse this time.

A Ravenclaw boy actually winked. Another mouthed something I didn't want to hear. I tightened my hold on Cedric's hand.

He squeezed back without looking. Like it was automatic.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

"I'm so over being looked at like this", I muttered.

His gaze swept the street once, slow and deliberate. "Let them look. Anyone crosses a line, I'll sort it."

"They're not exactly being subtle."

"They're not exactly worth your time."

I knew he was right. But part of me wanted to turn around and head back to the castle. And I knew Cedric picked up on that, too. We looked at each other, no words, just the kind of quiet communication that had been happening more and more lately. I was still amazed by how easily he could read me.

He paused a beat. Then added, softer, "Let's stay a bit longer, yeah? I want to ask Harry a few things about his egg."

I nodded, grateful that they were going to have that conversation and deciding not to let anyone ruin my weekend.

Soon, Cedric and Harry were deep in as we made our way around the village— careful, quiet talk about the egg and the task ahead.

Hermione and I walked a little ahead, arms linked, our boots crunching through packed snow.

Ron trailed just behind, scowling down at his own feet. Clearly still peeved about Cedric's presence.

I didn't pay him any mind. I was used to it by now, his sulking, his silence. The way he turned passive-aggressive into an art form anytime Cedric was around.

I was just glad Cedric didn't either.

Harry was the first to speak up as the village buzzed around us.

"Wanna head to the Three Broomsticks?" he asked us. "I could use something warm."

Cedric agreed before I could say anything, and I nearly pouted. I'd been selfishly hoping for time alone with him, even just an hour. But I understood. They were trying, both of them. And with the second task closing in like a storm, sitting down somewhere was probably smarter than wandering the streets collecting stares.

The Three Broomsticks was packed, as usual. Warm and loud and crowded, thick with the smell of butterbeer and roasting meat. Scarves were draped over chairs. Steam rising from mugs. The windows were fogged, the floor slippery with melted snow.

We pushed through the crowd toward the bar and placed our orders with Madam Rosmerta, who barely glanced up, she was juggling at least five drinks at once, her wand flicking wildly between trays. We lingered off to the side, waiting, pressed in tight among clusters of other students doing the same.

Cedric stood just behind me, close enough that I could feel the light touch of his arm against mine, hear every word when he leaned in to make some quiet joke under his breath.

Hermione nudged me suddenly, tilting her head toward the mirror behind the bar.

"Doesn't he ever go into the office?" she whispered.

"Who?" I asked, following her gaze.

"Bagman."

I looked.

Ludo Bagman sat hunched in the far corner, talking to a group of goblins. He looked twitchy— nervous. His hands moved constantly in tight little gestures, like he was trying to talk them into something they weren't buying. The goblins sat stone-still, unimpressed.

"He looks rough," I said.

"Same as he did after the Dark Mark," Harry muttered.

Before we could say more, Bagman looked up. His eyes flicked toward the mirror, landed on Harry, and he froze.

"In a moment, in a moment!" he said to the goblins, already standing.

A second later, he was cutting across the pub, far too cheerful for someone who'd just been cornered by a goblin negotiation.

"Harry!" he said brightly. "Been hoping to run into you! Everything going all right?"

Harry blinked. "Fine, thanks."

Bagman's eyes scanned our group, lingering too long on Cedric, then me, then Hermione and Ron.

"Oh, hello, Cedric... Miss (Y/L/N)... Miss Granger, Weasley," he said, like he was trying to remember if we counted as important. "You don't mind giving us a moment, do you?"

Cedric, Ron and Hermione looked at me. I gave a little shrug.

Just then, our drinks slid across the bar. We grabbed our mugs and peeled off without a word, leaving Harry behind as we moved to a table near the frosted windows. The cold from the glass seeped through our coats. Cedric pulled out a chair for me like it was second nature. Before he sat, he leaned down and kissed the side of my head.

My chest ached a little at that.

We'd barely settled, hands still wrapped around warm mugs, when the front door swung open behind us with a gust of cold wind. Snowflakes blew in with it, scattering across the floor before melting instantly. A group of Hufflepuff boys spilled into the pub— laughing, loud, their hair dusted in snow and cheeks flushed from the cold. Their voices rose above the steady din, cheerful and carefree.

One of them spotted Cedric almost immediately and lifted a hand, waving him over.

Cedric's eyes flicked to me. "I'll be back soon, alright?" he said softly, his hand brushing my knee. "Promise."

I nodded. He kissed my cheek and headed over to them, slipping into their orbit with a kind of practiced ease.

I watched him go, trying not to sulk about it.

Tried not to feel like the whole table had dimmed without him there.

He gave them his full attention— nodding, laughing, listening, though I could tell he was still watching me out of the corner of his eye.

I turned away, sipping my butterbeer. The whispers were starting again.

Girls, mostly. Clustered in groups. Heads together. Eyes flicking toward me.

Some weren't even whispering. They were just staring. Like I was something rare and strange and possibly cursed. Like I was going to explode.

I looked down into my drink.

"What's that about?" Hermione muttered, eyes tracking a cluster of Ravenclaws across the room.

"I don't know," I said.

But I did.

I felt it. Something was coming.

Fred and George chose that exact moment to swoop in, cutting clean through whatever Bagman had been saying to Harry. They cornered Bagman with matching grins and a very pointed reminder about the World Cup bet he still hadn't paid back. Before long, they had him squirming in his seat. He stammered a few half-hearted excuses, then bolted, muttering apologies as he hurried out the door. The goblins followed right behind, their expressions unreadable.

Harry returned to our table, looking vaguely annoyed. Cedric was still across the room.

Ron looked up. "What did he want?" 

"He offered to help me with the golden egg," Harry said, already bracing for the reaction. 

Hermione's head whipped around. "He what? He's a judge! That's completely out of line— Dumbledore would never approve. He's supposed to be impartial!"

"I hope he's offering Cedric the same help," I muttered.

"He's not," Harry said quietly. "I asked."

Ron scoffed. "Who cares if Diggory's getting help?"

I shot him a look, sharp and silent.

Hermione, ever the diplomat, tried to shift gears. "Those goblins didn't look too friendly. What were they even doing here?"

"Looking for Crouch," Harry said. "He's still sick. Hasn't been in."

"Maybe Percy's poisoning him," Ron said, smirking. "Figures he'd think that's the fast track to promotion."

Hermione gave him her best do-not-joke-about-death face.

"Funny, goblins going after Crouch," she said, stirring her drink. "They don't usually work with the Department of International Magical Cooperation."

"Thinking of starting a new cause, Hermione?" Ron teased. "S.P.U.G.? Society for the Protection of Ugly Goblins?"

I smiled into my cup.

"Ha, ha, ha," Hermione said flatly. "They don't need protection. Haven't you been listening to Binns about the goblin rebellions?"

"No," we all said at once.

Hermione huffed, but before she could launch into a history lecture, Cedric returned.

His expression was soft, but serious.

"(Y/N)," he said, "can I talk to you?"

I blinked. "Now?"

He nodded. "Just for a minute."

I stood, suddenly aware again of all the eyes in the room. This time they weren't just curious. They were cruel.

Someone near the bar snickered.

Outside the booth, Cedric reached for my hand. His fingers were gentle. Steady.

"Cho's saying things," he said quietly, scanning my face. "That you used Veela magic. That it's why I dumped her."

My stomach dropped.

"She practically enchanted him," someone said nearby, loud enough for us both to hear.

Cedric's jaw tensed. "I won't let them speak about you like that."

I swallowed hard, but before I could respond, the pub door opened.

And my stomach dropped again.

Rita Skeeter had just walked in.

She was impossible to miss.

Banana-yellow robes, heels clicking like warning bells, and nails painted an eye-watering shade of pink. Her eyes darted around the pub— quick, sharp, and twitching, landing on me almost immediately. Then flicking away. Then back again.

Her photographer trailed behind her like a trained parasite, camera already half-raised.

She wasn't even trying to be subtle.

She stopped by a Ravenclaw girl, touched her hair like she owned it, smiling, whispering something. But her eyes never left me.

That smile curled wider.

I felt the nausea rise in my throat.

"I need to find Cho," I muttered to Cedric, barely hearing myself over the blood pounding in my ears. "Before this gets worse."

Cedric's grip on my hand tightened. "Whatever you need," he said, soft and sure. "I'm with you."

We returned to the table. I downed the rest of my butterbeer in a single gulp. Cedric's hand pressed into the small of my back as I sat, his touch grounding.

"You okay?" Hermione asked, brows pinched. "You look nervous."

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

The whispering had stopped.

Now they were just staring.

Rita's Quick-Quotes Quill was already scribbling beside her like a smug little ghost.

"She's talking about me," I said quietly. "Cho started a rumor, I used Veela magic on Cedric. I guess it's spreading."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "You're joking."

"I wish I was."

Harry shifted beside me, already slumping. I could tell he'd clocked Rita the second she walked in. His whole posture changed, the kind of defeated slump you only see in someone who's been burned before.

The last time he'd mentioned Cho, he sounded hopeful. Said she'd been writing. She'd gone skiing with her family over break, nothing weird, nothing hostile. Just space.

But this didn't feel like space anymore.

This felt like sabotage.

The crowd shifted again.

Rita was gliding toward us.

Her photographer raised the camera like he'd been waiting for a red carpet cue.

Cedric slid closer to me. His arm draped protectively across my shoulders. I leaned into him without thinking.

Hermione went stiff beside me. Ron's jaw clenched.

"Trying to ruin someone else's life again?" Harry said suddenly, cutting the air like a blade.

Heads turned.

The room fell into that hush only a good confrontation could bring.

Rita's eyes lit up. "Harry!" she said, beaming. "How lovely! Why don't you come and confirm some comments made about your American friend," she added, her gaze flicking to me like I wasn't sitting right there. Like I was just another name to slot into an article.

I opened my mouth, rage rising like heat, but Harry beat me to it.

"I wouldn't come near you with a ten-foot broomstick," he said coldly.

A few people laughed. Rita's eyes blinked behind her jeweled glasses.

"Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am merely doing my—"

"Is that what you're calling it now?" I cut in. My voice was syrupy sweet. Mocking. "Funny, I always thought you just printed whatever bullshit got you off."

The pub went still.

"Answer the witch," George called from the corner, grinning. "You don't want to see a Veela upset."

Even Madam Rosmerta froze mid-pour, amber mead spilling over the rim of a tankard and soaking her fingers.

Rita's smile faltered for half a second. Then she straightened it again, snapping her Quick-Quotes Quill to attention.

"How about an interview, then?" she said, eyes turning on Cedric now. "Handsome boy. Triwizard Champion. Tell me, what's it like being enchanted? Or better yet, what's it like dating someone with... unusual influence? Would you say it's been hard to think clearly lately?"

Hermione stood so fast her butterbeer nearly spilled.

"You horrible woman," she said, voice shaking. "You don't care, do you? You'll say anything, twist anything, just to get a story."

"Sit down, you silly little girl," Rita scoffed. "Don't talk about things you don't understand. I'm a professional, sweetheart. I've heard worse than this. I know things that would make your hair curl, not that it needs it."

I stood, fists clenched, ready to lunge.

But Cedric was already pulling me back.

"Let's go," Hermione said through gritted teeth, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

We left, together. All five of us. And every pair of eyes in the pub followed.

Harry glanced back as we reached the door. Rita's Quill was already scribbling at lightning speed.

"She'll be after you next," Ron muttered to Hermione as we stepped into the cold.

"Let her try," she hissed. "First Harry. Now (Y/N). She's not getting away with it."

I didn't say a word. I couldn’t if I wanted to.

My jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

The wind stung my cheeks. But it wasn't the cold making me tremble. It was the shame, the heat of it. The rage. Knowing my name was already halfway to becoming some snide, pun-riddled headline.

I didn't want to cry in front of everyone. Not now. Not after all that.

"I'll meet you back at the castle," I muttered, stepping away from the group.

"Wait, are you okay?" Ron asked, surprisingly gentle. "You look—"

But I was already moving away from them.

Cedric followed.

He caught up without saying a word, crouching a little so we were eye to eye. He always did that, made himself smaller to meet me where I was.

I stared at the cobblestones between us.

"Where would she be?"

He didn't need to ask who I meant. His eyes scanned the square, sharp and quick.

"She likes Madam Puddifoot's," he said after a beat. "Used to drag me there."

I didn't respond. Just turned and started walking fast. Boots crunching through dirty snow, shoulders tight, heart hammering.

A group of boys leaned against a shop wall, laughing too loud. One of them saw me and called out, "You can enchant me anytime, (Y/N). I won't fight it!"

Cedric stopped in his tracks.

"Say that again and see what happens," he growled. Loud. Cold. Commanding.

The boy froze.

We kept walking.

I didn't speak. My jaw ached from how hard I was clenching it.

If I hadn't been so furious, I might've found it hot.

When we reached the tea shop, I spotted her immediately, Cho, sitting with a group of girls near the foggy window. Her posture was perfect. Her hair fell in neat, silky waves. Her scarf matched her lip gloss.

She was laughing.

Like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn't just kicked this whole mess into motion and wiped her hands clean.

I pushed the door open. The little brass bell above it jingled softly.

Cho looked up. Her expression shifted instantly, smile gone, brows lifted, eyes narrowing like she hadn't expected to see me again, much less like this.

"What do you want?" she asked, not even pretending to be polite.

"I need to talk to you," I said, steady. "Please."

She scoffed. "Why?"

"Because I'm asking."

She held my gaze for a second, then stood. One of her friends leaned in to whisper something, but Cho didn't respond. Her eyes flicked past me, to Cedric just behind, silent and watchful.

I turned to him. "Can you give us a minute?"

He hesitated, just a blink, but nodded and stepped aside to let us pass, his hands in his pockets.

I opened the door again, a small gust of cold air curling around us as we stepped outside. 

Cedric just inside the shop. He didn't sit or move far, just stood near the window, where he could see everything. Quiet. Present. Watching.

Cho and I sat down on the little bench just outside, across from each other. The chill bit through my coat. Everything felt sharper out here, colder. More exposed.

Cho sat like she had a wand to her spine. I could see the tension in her jaw.

"What did I ever do to you?" I asked quietly.

She didn't answer.

"I thought you and Harry were getting on," I said, keeping my voice even. "Cedric and I were happy for you."

Her eyes dropped.

"If you're not over Cedric, fine. That's your business. You two can talk that out. But don't drag Harry into it. And don't drag me into it."

Her throat bobbed. "I'm sorry," she said, voice tight. "About Harry. I didn't mean for him to get pulled in. He didn't deserve that."

I waited.

"But I'm not lying," she whispered, staring at her hands. "That's how it felt. Cedric and I... we were getting close. He invited me to his house. I was going to meet his parents."

She sniffed. It was quick, angry. "Then he just... got distant. I didn't know what I did. I went out with Roger. I flirted with Harry. But it wasn't the same."

Her eyes filled. She blinked hard, fast, but it was no use.

Tears started falling, quiet ones. No dramatics. Just wet cheeks and a broken kind of silence.

And the ache in my chest bloomed.

Because if it had been me, if Cedric had just turned cold, pulled away, I'd be wrecked, too. 

It would've ruined me.

Without thinking, I reached out and touched her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I said. And I meant it. "But Cho... you can't say things like that. My life's already turned upside down lately. I'm only just figuring out what I am. Fleur's been helping me, but... do you think I like this attention?"

She looked at me, really looked.

"I get harassed," I continued. "Girls glare. Their boyfriends stare. I feel guilty for just existing sometimes. For being... visible."

I swallowed hard.

"Like I'm some kind of monster. Like just walking into a room means I'm trying to steal something. I get looked at like I'm calculating. Manipulative. And I'm not. I never wanted any of this."

My voice cracked slightly. "I can't change what I am, but people act like I chose it. Like I'm using it. Like I'm dangerous just for being looked at."

Cho nodded, slowly. Her eyes flicked to the scarf around my neck.

The bell over the door jingled again.

Cedric stepped inside, cautious. His eyes went to me first, then Cho.

"Hi, Cho," he said.

She quickly wiped her eyes, blinking hard. Her voice was barely there.

"Hi, Cedric."

He stepped closer, slow. Careful.

"I didn't leave you because of anything you did," he said softly. "And I wasn't enchanted. I wasn't tricked. I just... wasn't the same person anymore. Things shifted for me, and I didn't know how to say it without hurting you."

He hesitated, then added, "Maybe this is all my fault. I should've been honest sooner. I should've communicated better, instead of letting you guess. I'm sorry, Cho. You didn't deserve that. Any of it."

His voice stayed steady, but there was guilt in his eyes. "I never meant to leave you with doubts."

He glanced at me.

Something in his expression softened, like he was seeing me all over again, not just as the person Cho had been comparing herself to, but as the girl standing there, still holding her breath through the aftermath.

My heart skipped.

Cho's eyes followed his, and I saw it, how it landed. How it confirmed everything she'd been afraid of.

She sniffled again, then ducked her head, wiping under her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. Her voice was small, uneven.

"Sorry," she murmured, not quite meeting my gaze.

She stood and turned without waiting for a response, her shoulders tight as she walked back into the shop. Her friends looked up, watching her rejoin them like nothing had happened, like she hadn't just cracked open in front of us.

I stayed where I was, stunned by the weight of it all.

Then Cedric moved. Quiet, certain.

He reached out, took my hand in his, and held it like it meant something. Like he needed the contact too. His fingers laced through mine, warm and steady, and for a second, I just let myself breathe again.

"I'm proud of you," he said softly, barely above a whisper.

And I believed him.

I stayed there for a moment longer, hand still in his. The cold didn't feel quite as sharp with him standing close, steady as ever.

Then he gently tugged me forward.

"Come here," he said, pulling me into his arms.

I let myself fold into him, face pressed into the front of his coat. He held me like he meant it, one hand at the small of my back, the other smoothing up and down my spine in slow, even strokes.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

I nodded against him, even if I wasn't sure. "Getting there."

We stood like that for a while, the tea shop's noise fading behind the glass, the cold wrapping around us but not sinking in.

Eventually, we started walking back toward the castle, boots crunching through the slush. Our hands found each other again without thinking.

I let out a breath and glanced up at him.

"Well," I said dryly. "That Hogsmeade trip was ruined."

He smirked, stopping mid-step, and reached into his coat pocket.

"Hold on," he said. "Got you something."

He pulled out a slightly crumpled paper bag and gave it a shake. "Fudge. From the tea room."

I blinked. "You bought me fudge in the middle of all that?"

"I had a feeling you'd need it," he said, grinning like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He reached in, pulled out a cube, and held it up between two fingers.

"Say ah."

I rolled my eyes, but leaned in.

He popped the piece into my mouth, eyes bright with that playful look he got when he was proud of himself for making me feel better.

I giggled, the fudge melting instantly on my tongue— warm, sweet, and stupidly perfect.

༻✦༺

The library was quieter after sundown. Most students were still in Hogsmeade or dragging their feet back from it, which left the corridors hushed and empty.

Cedric and I had claimed a table in the far back corner, half-hidden behind a crooked brass globe and a leaning stack of Divination books no one had touched in decades. We hadn't planned to stay long, but we'd sunk into the quiet. One small lamp glowed at our table, casting everything in soft gold. It lit the scattered pages between us, the curve of his knuckles, the lines of his face, warm and sharp all at once.

He was helping me study. Or trying to.

One of the perks of being a Triwizard champion was professors cutting you slack. The rest of us? No such luck.

Cedric sat across from me, scribbling something on my Arithmancy chart with neat, looping handwriting. He was left-handed. I hadn't realized that until tonight. He held his quill a little funny, crooked between his fingers like he was still figuring it out after all these years.

I was supposed to be reading.

I wasn't.

My textbook lay open in front of me, but the words had long since blurred into meaningless lines on the page. My eyes kept drifting, inevitably, shamelessly, to him.

Cedric sat across from me, bent slightly over my notes, brows drawn in concentration as he read. His quill moved steadily, the scratch of ink a soft, constant rhythm in the hush around us. He didn't seem to notice I'd stopped pretending.

I had my chin in my hand, elbow propped on the table, just watching him. The slope of his nose. The way his bottom lip curled slightly inward when he was thinking. How his hair kept slipping into his eyes, and how he never bothered to push it away, just leaned in closer to the parchment like the rest of the world didn't matter.

He looked calm here. Peaceful in a way that felt private, almost fragile. Like something only I got to see.

Not the boy on posters. Not the one whispered about in corridors or watched too closely in the Great Hall. Not Hogwarts' Golden Champion.

Just Cedric.

Mine.

He caught me staring and raised an eyebrow, a small curve of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"What?" he asked, voice low, teasing.

I blinked, tried to look innocent, but the grin was already tugging at my lips. "Nothing," I said, drawing it out. "You're just... really nice to look at."

He leaned back in his chair, slow and deliberate, arms crossing over his chest like he was preparing to interrogate me.

"I knew it," he said, mock-offended. "You're using me for my looks."

I snorted. "Please. I've been using you for your notes too."

He gasped like I'd wounded him, hand pressed to his chest. "Unbelievable. Objectified and exploited. Is nothing sacred?"

His smile finally broke through as I tried not to laugh, my cheeks already too warm to hide it. I reached across the table for the parchment he'd just written on.

He grinned and held it just out of reach, arm raised casually like he was playing keep-away with my sanity.

"Cedric—"

I swatted at him, but he only leaned further back, smug and entirely too pleased with himself.

Then, without warning, he stood. Walked around the table in that slow, easy way of his. And dropped the parchment right in front of me.

Before I could say anything, he leaned down and pressed a kiss just behind my ear, light, warm, and maddeningly precise.

My breath stuttered. The air between us shifted.

He didn't move away.

He leaned in again, closer this time, and his voice dropped just enough to make my stomach tighten.

"You know," he murmured, "you're not helping my concentration either, looking like that."

And then he kissed me.

Not on the cheek. Not a tease. A real kiss, slow and warm and entirely consuming, like he had nowhere else to be but here, with me.

His mouth moved to the corner of mine, then lower, brushing the curve of my jaw.

I tried to exhale like a normal person. "Not everyone gets exam extensions, Diggory."

"Mmm," he hummed against my skin, his lips trailing down my neck.

Still kissing. Still completely uninterested in studying.

"Ced."

"Hm?" He sounded occupied, intentionally so.

His fingers brushed my thigh under the table, feather-light, almost teasing. I turned toward him, trying to glare, but it didn't quite land.

"You're distracting," I muttered.

"You're beautiful when you're flustered," he said, like it was just a fact.

I narrowed my eyes. He looked entirely unbothered.

"We could take a break," he offered, nudging his nose along the line of my jaw.

"I haven't even made much progress."

He tilted his head, lips just shy of my skin. "We can finish it later."

And the way he said it— low, certain, lazy with intent, made it very clear that studying was no longer the priority.

"I've got an idea," he said, voice low now— careful, like he didn't want to startle the moment. "Only if you want to. But... there's a place we could go. Warm. Quiet. Somewhere we can stop thinking so hard for a little while."

He paused, then added with a small smile, "Worth hitting pause for. Promise."

I looked at him, skeptical. Not because I didn't trust him— I did, completely, but because I still had homework waiting in front of me. Things to finish. Things to worry about. The responsible choice was to stay and study.

But then again... I was dying to spend time with him.

Curiosity tugged at me, quiet but persistent. And underneath it was something else, something gentler. I wanted him to breathe. To forget about the tournament for a minute. I knew how much the second task was eating at him, even if he didn't say it out loud. It showed in the way his hands fidgeted, in the tightness of his shoulders he kept trying to hide.

He must've seen it in my face, because he didn't push. Didn't explain or try to sweeten the offer. He just waited.

Then, gently, he kissed the corner of my mouth. Not rushed. Not trying to change my mind. Just reminding me he was there. Steady.

"Could help us both relax," he murmured.

I hesitated another beat.

Then slowly, I started closing my books.

He reached out without a word and started helping, gathering my parchment into a careful stack, slipping quills and folded notes into my bag with that quiet focus he always had when he was trying to make things easier for me. His hand brushed mine once, and something in me stilled at the touch. Not because it startled me, but because it felt purposeful. Gentle. Reassuring in a way nothing else had been all day.

I stood before he could say another word.

"Lead the way."

We moved fast and quiet through the castle, keeping to the edges, through narrow stairwells and winding back halls, places only someone who knew the building like a second home would think to use. Cedric didn't hesitate once. I followed without needing to ask where we were going.

A few portraits muttered as we passed. One winked.

Fifth floor.

We stopped in front of a tall statue, Boris the Bewildered, still looking very much bewildered, his top hat on backward, arms frozen mid-gesture like he'd just forgotten what he was doing.

Fourth door to the left.

Cedric didn't explain.

He just stepped forward, leaned in close, and whispered something to the thick oak door.

"Pine fresh."

It creaked open.

And I stepped into heaven.

The Prefect's Bathroom was marble from floor to ceiling, sleek and shining, the white and gold catching the light from a floating chandelier that swayed ever so slightly overhead. The glow was soft and amber-toned, reflecting off the polished surfaces like candlelight. Everything gleamed like it had been scrubbed by hand just minutes before. No dust. No trace of anyone else.

The centerpiece was impossible to miss: a massive sunken bath, wide enough to swim laps in, rimmed with hundreds of ornate, jeweled taps. They glittered like gemstones in the low light, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, ruby, each one promising something strange and lovely if you dared to turn it.

Curtains hung from high, frosted windows, pulled just enough to let in the blue tint of moonlight. A soft mist drifted across the tiled floor, curling lazily in the warm air. The scent hit me next— vanilla, lavender, and something sweet I couldn't name. Like spun sugar or warm honey. Something meant to make you forget everything else.

Fluffy towels were stacked in neat piles, thick and inviting. Above them, a large stained window of a blonde mermaid snoozed in a shell-shaped chair. Her hair floated up and down as she snored, rising and falling like sea foam on a tide.

I took a few slow steps in, completely stunned.

"Merlin," I breathed.

Cedric grinned behind me. "Told you it was worth sneaking out for."

He set his bag down near the towels, and I caught a glint of gold inside, the egg. Its surface shimmered, catching the light in a quiet flash.

I knelt by the bath, curiosity pulling me in, and twisted a few taps at random. The pipes rumbled softly. Water poured in from three directions at once, one stream fizzed with pink and blue bubbles, another released violet steam that smelled like ripe plums, and a third spilled in thick golden foam, glittering and silky, like it had come straight from a dream.

I stared, then looked over my shoulder at him. "You're seriously allowed to use this?"

He shrugged, "Perks of the badge."

I shook my head and turned back to the bath, a smile already tugging at my lips. Everything felt lighter now. Warmer. Like the weight of the day had started slipping off the moment I stepped into this strange, hidden world.

Cedric handed me a towel, his fingers brushing mine. His eyes held mine for a beat longer than necessary— checking in, making sure I was still with him, still okay.

I was more than okay.

Then he started undressing.

Calm. Unrushed. Just a quiet rustle of fabric, the soft scrape of buckles and buttons undone with ease. His uniform fell away layer by layer.

Before I joined him, I dug through my bag and pulled out my Discman, tucked beneath books and parchment like a little secret. I flipped it open, slid in Cedric's CD, and hit play.

Music crackled through the tiny speakers. A sweeping overture, haunting and familiar. Opera House by Cigarettes After Sex. The intro bloomed through the steam, velvet-rich and echoing, as if the marble itself carried the sound.

Cedric glanced over, amused. "This one ours?"

His voice was soft, but his eyes were already hazy, already fixed on me, and said something else entirely.

I just smiled, slow and deliberate, feeling that flicker of power rise in my chest. 

He turned back to the bath and adjusted the taps again, testing the water with a sweep of his hand, making sure it was perfect for me. Water rippled golden, bubbles heaped like clouds, and a steady rise of vanilla-sweet mist curled over the surface like breath. It was nearly overflowing now— lush, glimmering, decadent.

His eyes then tracked me like I was gravity itself as I started to undress peeling off my clothes slowly, feeling the room's warmth curl around my skin as I did. The air buzzed softly, thick with steam and candlelight and the faint, sugary scent clinging to the mist.

Seductive, in control, sure of the way his gaze followed every move I made,I stood at the edge of the bath, completely bare now, skin flushed from the warmth in the air. 

One hand rested lightly on my hip, the other brushing back a damp strand of hair. I moved with intention, slow and fluid, stepping into the water like it was a stage and I knew exactly what I was doing to him.

The heat wrapped around my legs first, then higher, silken and golden. Bubbles lapped at my thighs. I sank deeper, every motion smooth, enticing, deliberate.

He didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

The look on his face, hungry, reverent, already wrecked, told me everything.

The heat sank into me instantly, wrapping around every inch of bare skin like silk. Like I was being held. I let out a soft sigh, eyes fluttering closed as the tension in my body eased.

Behind me, Cedric moved, slow and sure, crossing to me through the water and wrapping his arms easily around my waist, pulling me back into him.

I melted.

It was hard not to. 

His chest was warm against my back, solid and steady, the heat of his skin seeping into mine. Water beaded along his collarbones, gliding down the lines of his body, catching the light as it traced muscle and bone. Every angle of him looked sculpted, deliberate, like the bath had been built to make him look this good. His arm tightened around my waist, drawing me closer, and the movement alone made my breath catch.

His hands found my hips, fingers moving in slow, grounding circles, warm and firm, his thumbs brushing the curve of my waist with just enough pressure to make my breath catch. Every pass of his touch sparked heat that unfurled low in my belly, steady and sure, like he was drawing me back into myself, coaxing tension out of my spine with nothing but quiet reverence.

It wasn't just grounding, it was claiming, soothing and sinful all at once.

No rush. Just touch.

My head tipped back against his shoulder, and his mouth found my neck, just a brush at first, light enough to make me shiver. Then firmer. Slower. He took his time.

"Better than studying?" he murmured, lips grazing my skin between words.

I hummed, smiling despite myself. "Slightly."

He laughed— a low, soft sound that rumbled through his chest and settled into mine like a second heartbeat.

Then he turned me in his arms.

The water shifted with us, sloshing gently, bubbles clinging to our skin like silk. My knees bumped his beneath the surface. I moved without thinking, straddling him, drawn in by gravity or something stronger.

His hands slid to my hips again, fingers curling tight, anchoring me as he pulled me fully against him.

The kiss started slow.

Intentional.

Like he was memorizing the moment.

But it deepened almost instantly— greedy, consuming, the kind of kiss that stripped away the rest of the world. His mouth moved over mine like he'd been starving for it, each kiss laced with the kind of urgency that came from nights spent dreaming and days spent holding back. 

Yet beneath the hunger was a tenderness that made my chest ache, like he was trying to say everything he couldn't put into words, needing me to feel it in the way his lips moved against mine, deliberate and careful, aching with all the things he'd been holding back too long.

My fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer.

The heat between us coiled tighter with every pass of lips, every breath we shared. His hips rolled beneath me, slow, deliberate, maddening in the best way.

I gasped softly against his mouth.

And he kissed me deeper. 

Like he was hungry for it. 

Like this was the only thing tethering him to reality. 

And I kissed him back with the same wild need— mouth hungry, fingers pulling at his locks, thighs squeezing tight around his waist when he ground up into me with a slow, sinuous roll of his hips.

He swallowed my moan, deep and breathless, then chased it with his tongue, brushing against mine with a slow stroke that sent sparks down my spine. I was dizzy with it already, drenched in heat, soaked in want.

Then lower, his lips dragged down my neck, tongue tasting salt and steam, teeth grazing the soft spot beneath my ear that made my whole body flinch.

"Fuck, you sound so good," he rasped, voice low and filthy against my collarbone as his mouth kept moving downward. He worshipped every inch of skin he passed, hot breath and open-mouthed kisses leaving wet trails that had me squirming under his touch.

He paused just enough to look at me, eyes dark with want, water dripping from his lashes. His hands slid to my thighs under the bubbles, thumbs drawing slow, teasing circles that made my pulse thunder.

"You okay?"

I nodded fast, breathless. "More than."

That smile, the one that always undid me, spread across his face. Sin incarnate.

He kissed down my chest next, reverent and greedy all at once, taking his time, dragging his tongue along my skin. My fingers tangled in his hair again, tugging just enough to make him groan low against my breast.

Then his hand slid between us— no hesitation, just firm, practiced fingers finding where I was already throbbing for him. He circled once, twice, then pressed, slow and rhythmic. I choked out a sound, clutching at his shoulders.

"You're always like this for me," he muttered, mouth brushing back up toward mine. "Dripping. Needy. Fucking perfect."

I whimpered, biting my lip hard, as he found the exact pressure that made my thighs tremble.

"Tell me baby," he moaned. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," I gasped. "Yours, Ced. Always."

He made a sound, half-groan, half-growl, and lifted me like I weighed nothing. My back met the cool marble of the bath wall, water sloshing around us. One hand guided himself to my entrance, the other cradled my spine like something precious.

And then—

He pushed into me.

Slow. Deep. Stretching me wide, filling every inch until my breath caught and my fingers dug into his arms. He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead resting against mine as we both fought to breathe.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You feel unreal. So tight around me. Like you were made for me."

I nodded, jaw slack, eyes fluttering. And then he started to move.

Measured at first. Smooth thrusts that rolled through me like slow waves— each one deeper, heavier, more deliberate than the last. His hips rocked against mine in a rhythm that made my eyes roll back. His mouth hovered near mine, catching every whimper, every curse I tried to swallow.

"That's it, baby," he murmured. "Take it. Just like that. Fuck, you're gripping me so good."

I arched into him, nails raking down his back. The water lapped against our skin, thick with the scent of sweat and steam and sex. Music still played faintly in the background, but all I could hear was the wet slap of his hips and the desperate sounds he dragged from me.

He angled his thrusts slightly, hitting that spot inside me that made me jerk and cry out.

"Right there?" he asked, breath hot against my lips. "You want more of that?"

"Yes! Yes, Cedric, please—"

He gave it to me.

Harder. Deeper. Each stroke driving me closer to that edge but never letting me tip. My thighs shook. My back scraped softly against the tile. His hand found my throat, just enough pressure to ground me, and he groaned at the way I clenched around him.

"You're so close, aren't you?" he murmured, voice low and full of awe. "I can feel it, how your body's trying so hard to hold on for me."

"I-I don't want to yet—"

"Then don't. Hold it for me. I've got you. I could stay buried in this perfect little pussy forever."

He slowed, just a fraction. Long, dragging thrusts that let me feel every inch of him. His hand slipped between us again, fingers finding that perfect rhythm, synced with every movement of his hips.

I was shaking, sobbing his name.

"You're doing so fucking good for me," he whispered, voice rough with need. "Taking me so deep. Look at you, baby. My good little girl. Fucking gorgeous. All mine."

The pressure built again— hotter, harder. I felt like I was unraveling, held together only by the way he moved, the filth he whispered, the way his mouth claimed mine between every breath.

"Fuck, you feel so good, so perfect around me," he groaned, thrusts deeper now, voice wrecked. "My perfect girl. Can't wait to feel you cum, to feel you milk every drop out of me. Gonna fill you up so good, make sure you know who you fucking belong to."

And I broke.

The orgasm tore through me like lightning, sharp and endless. My body convulsed around him, every muscle clenching as I screamed his name into the mist. Cedric held me through it, hips stuttering as he followed with a deep, strangled groan, spilling inside me with a full-body tremor.

We collapsed into each other, panting, water rocking around us in slow, lazy ripples. My legs were still wrapped around him. My fingers dug into his back like I hadn't realized I was holding on so tightly. Every nerve in my body felt rung out, trembling, soaked in heat and something heavier, something holy.

I couldn't move. Didn't want to.

He held me through it, arms banded around my waist, one hand splayed against the curve of my spine like he was anchoring me to this moment. To him. His chest rose and fell beneath mine in steady, shallow swells, the rhythm of his breath syncing with mine as the aftershocks ebbed away.

He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along my temple, down to the damp curve of my shoulder, then lower, his mouth brushing the hollow of my collarbone like he was still tasting me. Still claiming me.

"Holy fuck," he whispered, voice rough and reverent. "You're going to kill me."

I laughed, hoarse and breathless, the sound barely rising above the shifting water.

Then he kissed me again softly, lips brushing mine like a benediction.

The bubbles had started to fade, collapsing in clusters around us. Steam drifted above the surface like mist over a still lake, curling and catching in the dim candlelight. The chandelier above us swayed gently with the warmth, casting gold across his skin, turning the droplets on his chest into liquid fire.

I tucked my face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in, soap and sweat and something sweeter, something that felt like him alone. 

His hand moved slowly on my back, drawing soothing circles, grounding me even now. His other arm wrapped fully around my waist, holding me there like I belonged, like I was home.

His cheek pressed to the top of my head. A hum rumbled low in his chest, soft and content.

"Definitely better than studying," he murmured.

I giggled, the sound slipping free before I could stop it, muffled by the curve of his neck. My whole body felt weightless and heavy all at once, boneless, satisfied, wrapped in warmth that went deeper than the bath. I could've stayed there forever, skin against skin, his breath soft against my temple, the water cradling us like a lullaby.

And so we did.

Tangled and trembling. Wrapped around each other while the world outside the tiles and steam and candlelight fell away.

Eventually, I stirred. Not because I wanted to, but because I remembered why we were here in the first place. We'd come to take Cedric's mind off the egg, to give him a break from the weight of it all, but watching him now, submerged and searching, I felt a sudden urge to help. Maybe if I looked closer, really studied it, I'd see something he missed. Something we both had.

"You brought your egg, right?"

He hummed against my shoulder. Nodded.

I shifted slightly, dragging my fingers lazily through the water. "Can I see it?" I asked, soft but curious.

Cedric groaned, playful, dramatic, not bearing to be away from me for a minute. But he was already leaning in to kiss my temple, warm and quick, like he couldn't help himself.

Then he waded away from me through the slowly cooling water, and I watched him go— watched his muscles shift under the candlelight, droplets tracing the clean lines of his back and shoulders. 

When he reached the edge of the bath, he bent to his bag and retrieved the golden egg, cradling it carefully in both hands like something sacred.

Even now, it gleamed like treasure, round and ornate and pulsing faintly with magic, its seams glowing gold beneath the softened light.

He brought it back to the center of the bath.

Instead of opening it himself, Cedric handed me the egg.

Carefully.

Like it might bite.

I took it with both hands, surprised by its weight. It was smooth and cold against my palms, surprisingly dense for something so beautiful. I turned it slowly, inspecting every curve, every etched detail. Gold glinted under the candlelight. I squinted, trying to see if there was some kind of writing hidden along the seam, some tiny mark or rune that might explain what it held.

Cedric watched me from across the bath, arms resting on the edge, his gaze calm but attentive, curious, amused, a little wary.

Without thinking, my thumb brushed over the small, almost-invisible screw at the top.

And I turned it.

The egg cracked open with a click.

And instantly, it screamed.

The sound tore through the air like a curse— high and piercing and shrill, like a banshee let loose in a cathedral. I flinched violently, nearly dropping it right there. Cedric winced, jerking upright, hand half-lifting out of instinct.

Even the mermaid in the stained-glass window behind us clamped her hands over her ears, her face twisting in disgust.

Panicking, I let go.

The egg slipped from my fingers and vanished beneath the surface with a soft splash, sinking like a stone into the golden water. The moment it disappeared, the screeching stopped, cut off as if someone had slammed a door shut on the sound.

The silence that followed was deafening in its own way. We sat still, breath caught in our throats, both of us blinking, the echoes of the screech still ringing in our ears.

Then, faintly, from somewhere below, the water began to hum.

Not with the sharp, violent wail from before, but with something deeper. Lower. Sadder. A sound that shimmered beneath the surface like a secret waiting to be heard.

A melody.

It tugged at the edges of my awareness, strange and sweet and aching, as if the bath itself had shifted into a portal. I turned toward Cedric, wide-eyed. His gaze met mine at the same moment. We didn't speak, didn't have to. The realization passed between us in a heartbeat, silent and charged.

He inhaled, deep and calm, and then he slid beneath the water.

One fluid movement, shoulders rolling forward, arms slicing down. Focused. 

I didn't think. I just followed.

The moment I dipped beneath the surface, the world changed.

Sound warped around me, soft and strange, muffled like a dream. Cedric's body moved ahead of me, shimmering in the golden light that filtered through the bubbles. He was already at the bottom, crouched over the glowing egg, hair floating like silk around his face, his fingers braced against the marble floor.

And then I heard it.

Truly heard it.

The melody was no longer just a hum, it had taken shape. 

A song, woven from currents. 

It filled the water like light, glowing with a magic that wrapped around my limbs and spine and heart, sinking deeper with every note.

"Come seek us where our voices sound, We cannot sing above the ground, And while you're searching, ponder this: We've taken what you'll sorely miss.

An hour long you'll have to look, And to recover what we took, But past an hour, the prospect's black, Too late, it's gone, it won't come back."

I stared, wide-eyed, the last notes still ringing in my bones. The water shimmered with the echo of the song, golden bubbles drifting upward like they too had heard something sacred.

Cedric burst through the surface with a gasp, water streaming down his face in rivulets, his chest rising and falling fast. His hair was slicked back, eyes bright with something wild, triumph and disbelief wrapped into one.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, panting, voice low and electric.

I nodded, stunned.

He blinked once, then his whole face lit up. It was like watching sunrise happen all at once. His smile spread quick and wide and completely unguarded.

Then he laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a polite little puff of air.

A full, loud, triumphant laugh that echoed off the marble like celebration.

And before I could react, he lunged forward, wrapped both arms around my waist, and lifted me out of the water. I let out a yelp, half squeal, half laughter, as he spun us in the center of the bath, droplets flying everywhere, bubbles sloshing over the edge in glittering heaps.

"Cedric!" I shrieked, holding tight to his shoulders, laughing so hard my sides hurt.

He kissed me, fast and breathless and smiling against my lips. Then again, slower this time. A kiss that said thank you. That said we did it. That said I can't believe I get to share this with you.

"I could kiss you forever," he whispered, forehead pressed to mine.

My smile softened, heartbeat still wild. "You just might get to."

And there it was again, that grin that broke through clouds. He looked at me like I was the whole reason the bath still glowed. Like the clues, the pressure, the looming second task, none of it could touch this. Not tonight.

Because right now, it was just us.

Wrapped in candlelight and steam, glowing water lapping at our skin, the echoes of an ancient song fading gently into silence.

The mystery had begun to unravel.

But in this moment, we weren't thinking about what came next.

We were just standing in the middle of it, laughing, soaked, kissed breathless and weightless.

And I knew, without question, I'd remember this night for the rest of my life.

♱ 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ♱

thank you so much for signing up! if you’d like to be added or removed, feel free to shoot me a message or visit the taglist form 💌

MC, who is so excited to have Ren as their cute boyfriend! They’re looking forward to experiencing all their first-times with him; First lunch dates, sleepovers, picnics, arcade dates, movie nights, first kisses, makeout. Most importantly, they want nothing more but to lose their virginity to him.

Oh...if only they were a little less nervous about the penetration part....

You remembered the day you blurted it out to him- admitting to him during the middle of your makeout session that you were an (embarassing) virgin. Even more embarrassing, was that you weren't ready to do it yet. 

Ren, sweet Ren, kissed your tears away and smiled at you so earnestly. He held you tight and reassured you that there was absolutely nothing to be ashamed of with your virginity. In fact, he felt flattered that you chose him out of all people! 

“Aww, baby. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“...Really?”

“Really, really.”

Ren agrees to take it slow with you to ease you into sex. The last thing he wants to do is make your first time feel awful and painful. He looked into your eyes as he told you that you both have all the time in the world for you to explore your sexuality with him.

Ren, whose idea of "easing you in" is by sloppily frotting his leaky cock over your hole.

for AFAB MC, this amazing idea was brought on after you reassured him that you were on birth control, so he wouldn't have to worry about knocking you up.

(AMAB MC!) Ren, who'd use his hand to pinch your cockheads together as he ruts all over you. You could only shiver as you feel the bump of his knot glide against your skin. He’d drool so helplessly as he watches how filthy you look, cock throbbing against his, sloppily kissing tips. 

♡ or...♡

(AFAB MC!) Ren, who would absentmindedly tap his cock over your glistening pussylips after losing count how many times he's rubbed and grinded against you. He’d use his fingers to tease and pinch your clit, growling low at how divine you look folded up underneath him.

Ren, who'd take the time to teasingly spread your cute asshole, watching it pulse and wink against him as he frots against you for the nth time. He’d praise you for being “Sooo sosososo good” through the haze of pleasure that wrecked havoc on both of you.

Ren, who would absolutely cum his pretty little brains out- thick globs of his spent drizzling over your groin and spilling over to your lower abdomen. He’d whine at the mess he’d made over you. 

But before you could sit up, he’d push you back down. His hands would knead the fat of your thighs as he bent down and took an obscenely loud whiff of the mess of hair that covered your pubic area. With that, he’d get to work cleaning you up, one lick at a time. 

MC and Ren who'd continue this ritual for days, weeks, months into the relationship.

But one afternoon. Ren couldn't take it anymore; you were wearing his shirt with nothing underneath, playing footsies with him as you played with your nintendo switch.

The Nintendo was tossed aside, and Ren bit into the shirt as he hastily pulled down his pants. MC, who'd mockingly place their hand over their hole if Ren tried to go anywhere near it.

But Ren would have none of that- he whacked their hand away, hastily pinning it above their head as he proceeded to desperately rut himself against their crotch.

MC, who realized that Ren's patience was running thin- but realizes it a moment too late.

Ren, who shoves himself into MC's hole for *the very first time* and swears that he died at that very moment. He’d been so patient with you before this, but the obscene amount of slick that accumulated between you both had made it so perfect. 

MC, who brokenly screams at Ren at the intrusion but could only arch their back as they felt themselves lose it.

Ren who pulls out, sloppily. He watches MC's hole weakly throb as thick globs of his cum oozes out, making a mess on the duvet.

"Ahh, shit. Sorry.." He'd half-heartedly apologize, running his hands over his hair. His cock still pulsing from the aftershocks of his orgasm.

MC who was rendered breathless and sprawled underneath Ren. Stars dancing all over their vision as the realization dawned on them; they're finally not a virgin anymore!

The sun was just threatening to set over the hills, painting a spirited glow of pinks and oranges over the early evening sky. The clouds dusted purple along the horizon, and it made the wide expanse look like a painting that belonged in some highborn’s Castle.

You were sat under an elm that knotted and stretched high above you, shading your eyes from the brightness of the sun's rays. Your fingers moved a needle deftly, weaving scrap threads through the hem of Ser Duncan's cloak to mend the tears that came from weeks on the road. Every so often, your eyes would glance up to watch as Duncan fiddled with the pot he'd set over the fire.

Duncan was a practical man, never bothering with the things that looked better than they served, so he'd protested when you'd offered to mend his cloak. It was still just as useful if not just frayed at the ends, so it seemed a frivolous thing to have you waste time on. You simply shook your head, ignoring his objections and fetching the cloak from his bag. Where he'd always been firm in his resolve toward anyone else, you had a way of softening his edges and getting your way more often than he would care to admit.

The smoke drifted easily up into the sky, the smell of the char mixing with the scent of the stew he'd put together for the night's supper. Tonight's meal smelled especially enticing, from a combination of the rabbit he'd caught earlier and the fact that you'd eaten the same bread and hard salt beef for some two weeks.

“Supper smells lovely,” you hummed, face still in your work. “I'll be a lucky woman if it tastes even half as good as it smells.”

Duncan felt a swell of pride at your praise. Ever the honourable man, he'd sworn to himself to always provide for you best he could. Even when the road grew long and the coin wore thin, he'd always kept you safe, fed, and warm, though not as comfortable or satisfied as he'd prefer. So when he was able to really pique your interest with something, even so simple as a better supper, he would beam with a masculine satisfaction that lit up his face for the rest of the night.

You glanced up for a moment, watching him smile to himself. The firelight caught the planes of his face soft where there were usually angles and tightened expressions. It felt good to see him really smile, to watch the tension in his shoulders drop a little bit. You always felt he was far too harsh on himself where he felt he wasn't harsh enough.

-

When the stew had finally bubbled enough for the meat to be tender, the sun had dipped below the horizon. Dunk had fetched the bowls from his pack, and set to serving you. He set the bowls down carefully on a rock near the fire pit, and picked up the blackened cooking pot with clumsy hands. Liquid spilled over the side as he poured, and a splash of scalding stew leapt up and burned his wrist.

“Seven fuck–” he hissed, trying not to drop the pot.

The sound tore your eyes from your now almost finished work to him, and you couldn't help but stifle a chuckle at the way his hands never seemed to do exactly what he willed them to.

“Are you alright, ser? Do you require assistance?” You asked sweetly. Dunk sucked his teeth.

“I need the bloody pot not to behave so poorly,” he groaned, and you laughed at the way he blamed it.

“I'm sure the pot didn't intend to cause you harm.”

“Mm.”

You set the cloak carefully to the side of you and leaned on the elm to help you stand. You dusted your skirt off with the heels of your palms and made way closer to Dunk, crouching beside him and picking up the bowl he had poured. Your fingers wrapped neatly around the worn, smooth wood and you brought the bowl under your nose to take in the smell of it.

“You must've been a cook in another life,” you said, looking warmly over your traveling partner. The tension in his face softened and he peered over at you.

“I've no use for it beyond filling your belly,” he spoke softly, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Then I shall count my blessings that my belly must be filled,” you replied, leaning in close and pressing a chaste kiss to the hedge knight's strong cheek.

The feeling of your soft lips against his weather-beaten skin made him flush with a desperate, unrelenting pink that coloured him up to the tips of his ears. You'd kissed his cheeks many times before: in thanks, in comfort, in sweetness he felt he had no business being on the receiving end of, but the effects on him remained the same always. It was endearing in a way, how his body betrayed his want for such affections when his mouth refused to speak it.

The two of you, bowls in hand, made your way back under the elm, sat close by but not touching. You sipped at the hot broth and savoured the way it felt running down your throat. Dunk sipped at his bowl all the same, and felt pleased with himself at his work.

-

The chill of the night began with the breeze, and it brushed against your arms with no mind not to touch a lady in such a way. You'd stayed sat beside Duncan for the better part of an hour, long after you'd finished your meals (and second helpings of them), just chatting about nothing in particular.

When the air nipped at you, you moved closer to him, pressing yourself firmly against his warm body. He stiffened for a moment at the contact, and willed himself to relax when he looked upon you and saw how it comforted you.

“Are you cold, milady?” He asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

“Mm,” you replied.

“Here then, sit up a moment.”

You did as he asked, only for him to lift his arm and gesture for you to come closer again. You did so without hesitation, pulling into his side and curling up against his body. When he saw you comfortable, he draped his arm loosely across your back and rested his large hand against your upper arm. His warmth enveloped you, and shielded you from the breeze.

“Better?” He asked.

“Much.”

His muscles, often hard with the strength of them, had given way to something more tender and weightless. He was truly gentle, where you were concerned anyway, more gentle than any man you'd known before him. He only touched you when you made clear you wanted for it, and never in ways undignified or dishonourable.

You stayed this way for some time, wordless for fear of frightening him off of you. When you gained a bit of courage, you brought your hand up and placed it on his chest. You could feel how such a simple touch made his heart thump against his ribs, and silently marveled at how little it took to get him going. He said nothing but didn't shove you away, so you took it as leave to keep touching him.

Your fingers traced patterns over his tunic, with a touch so soft that you barely felt the firm wall of his chest beneath. You brought your fingers higher, brushing against the bare skin that peeked above his collar, and felt him shiver. He stared off into the fire, jaw tight, trying to remain the stoic and unbothered knight he felt you'd needed him to be.

You were unrelenting. Your fingers danced higher still, grazing over the sensitive skin where his wide neck met his even wider shoulders.

His reaction this time was different. He shifted, and made a ridiculous little noise in the back of his throat. You cocked a brow and did it again. This time, he leaned his head toward your prodding fingers, and a giggle left his lips. It nearly took you aback.

You were tickling him.

A devilish smile spread across your face at the realization. This lumbering wall of a man, your strong and valiant knight, was ticklish. It was a delightful idea, and you wasted no time in using it against him.

Your fingers moved quickly, dancing across the other side of his neck, and the poor unsuspecting man let out the most beautiful, genuine laugh you'd ever hear him make. It drove you further into your evil scheme, and any deftness left you entirely.

You sat upright, pulling out from under his arm, and put your prodding fingers there before he had the chance to lower it.

“N-no! Milady!” He nearly squealed, another laugh tumbling from deep in his belly.

“Why Ser Duncan the Tall,” you teased, “are you ticklish?”

Your hands made quick work of him, poking and prodding and dancing over his body, leaping from neck to underarm to his ribs and back again. He howled with laughter, squirming under your attacks.

“No! M’n-not!” He gasped out where he found breath.

“Mmm, it seems you are,” you pressed.

In his disarmed state, it was easy for you to swing a leg over his thighs and straddle his lap. It would have been utterly shameful if he weren't so distracted by your ministrations.

“My my, who'd have thought it. The bravest hedge knight in all the seven kingdoms, ticklish.”

His breath came to him ragged, and he was dissolved into a fit of giggles and useless attempts to swat away the offending hands that were faster than he could defend from. His cheeks were bright red with the state of him, and the sight of him made your heart swell and your belly warmer than the stew had made it.

“Milady, p-please.. mercy! Have mercy on me!” He managed, and you finally accepted his pleas.

You let your hands rest still on his chest, feeling the way he breathed hard and how his heart hammered under his ribcage. He began to relax, looking at you suspiciously until he was sure you wouldn't attack again. He finally spoke when he found his bearings.

“Madness,” he said with a smile that met his twinkling blue eyes. “I make a delicious supper for you and I am repaid by an ambush.” His words were sweet and light, no true upset behind them.

It made you giggle, and he stilled further as he watched you melt into a little puddle of mischievous laughter on top of him. It made his heart beat even harder, and made the blush that already painted his cheeks burn hotter.

It was in this little fit of yours he realized the position you were in, and undignified thoughts invaded his mind before he could shake them away. You'd never been on top of him like this, though he'd let his mind wander to it a few times before. The honourable knight within him yelled in his head, taking the voice of Ser Arlan, to remove this insolent girl from him at once.

Dunk did no such thing. He couldn't bring himself to disturb you from your comfort, and so he sat as stiff as a board, and watched you.

When your senses came back to you, you noticed the way Dunk was rigid. Your brow tightened a moment, concerned you'd hurt him or made him uncomfortable. You looked down and removed your hands from him, fixing to get off of him, until you felt a strong hand at your waist.

Your eyes snapped back up to his, and he looked equal parts terrified and sure of his movement.

“Ser…?” You asked in a whisper. “I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I shouldn't’ve carried on like that, I won't do it again–”

“I liked it,” Dunk cut you off with a rumbling, scratchy voice.

“You… liked it?” You asked, your concern falling off your face.

Dunk gave a quick nod and squeezed his eyes shut, finding the courage to speak plainly the things he wanted to say.

“Aye. I like… it feels good when you touch me,” he spoke as though he was letting out a deep, long-held breath.

“Oh.”

You found no better words to say. Instead, you quietly brought your hands back up to his neck, softer this time, with no ulterior motives. Your fingertips traced the tendons in his neck to up behind his ears, where they worked little circles into his sandy hair.

Dunk’s eyes flew open and wide at the touch. He watched you look over him, watched the way your eyes studied his features. When your fingers moved into his hair, he let out a groan before he could stop himself.

His other hand moved to the other side of your waist, and he held firmly without pain. His fingertips dug lightly into your sides as yours moved against his scalp, now scratching. His breath hitched in his throat at the feeling of your nails raking ever so sweetly against his head.

You could see how he began to melt under your touch, and noticed immediately when his thumbs began to rub the skin just under your ribs. It was an absent-minded gesture on his part, born of a subconscious desire to show you the pleasure you gave him in a physical way.

You trailed your hands down to cup his face, and noticed his eyes flicker to your lips. His own lips parted, and his tongue poked out to wet them. When his eyes returned to yours, his pupils were wide. You leaned closer to him, your faces merely inches apart.

“I'd like to kiss you, ser,” you said. He felt your breath touch his skin. He gulped down his nerves and looked at you like a deer caught in the road.

“I'd like for you to kiss me, milady,” he said in a shaky whisper.

You moved slowly with a careful grace, in part with a desire to savour the moment and in other parts so as not to scare him. In this moment, he was putty in your hands, a nervous boy who'd never been kissed before and not the strong and careful knight you'd come to know.

When your lips met his, you paused, giving him the chance to change his mind. He didn't. Your lips moved against his, and his grip on your waist tightened. He didn't know how to respond to your kiss, and so he made great effort to mirror your movements. When your lips parted, so did his. When you took his lip between your teeth in a gentle nibble, he took yours in as soon as you released him.

The noises coming out of this normally measured and steady man bordered between adorable and obscene. Each moment of your mouth on his drew another gentle moan from his throat, and when you sucked at his lower lip, a groan emerged from somewhere deeper.

You were the one to break the kiss before it got deeper and took you both across a line that couldn't be uncrossed. His eyes searched yours for signs: signs that you regretted it, signs you wanted him gone, and signs you wanted more. He found tenderness where he searched, and a desire that made his heart clench and his belly ache.

“S’really nice,” he whispered, face still in your hands.

You nodded, never breaking eye contact. One hand moved to hold the back of his head, and the other moved to the crook where his neck met his shoulder. You leaned in again.

This kiss was far hungrier than the last. You wasted no time in telling him exactly what you intended without saying any words at all. Your tongue swiped the line between his lips, and he parted them with nothing but a gasp. Your fingers tangled into his hair as your tongues met, and you gave it a gentle tug.

Dunk's hands began to explore, rubbing up your back with a physical need to be closer to you. His body was moving in ways his mind wouldn't have dreamt to do, responding to your unyielding, wet kisses with instinct instead of know-how. He pulled you closer so that your small torso pressed to his, and the softness of it all seemed to awaken something in him that was previously left untouched.

At the feeling of his chest against yours, it was you who let a needy moan escape your mouth. You rolled your hips forward into his, and it was then that you felt the hardness of him pressed firmly against you.

You tried to pull away again, to let him breathe, to make sure he was alright to continue or to give him an out if not. It was no sooner than your lips left his that his hand was at the back of your head, pulling your mouths together once again with the desperation of a man starved. He rocked his own hips into yours, and his engorged bulge pushed against your sex.

He was absolutely wanton, blind to his honour with lust and the smell of your skin and the feeling of you. The friction against his cock was nearly unbearable, and the taste of your mouth drove him wild. All his passion and the pent up feelings he had for you made up for his lack of experience. His kisses, all open-mouthed and full of spit and tongue and something else you couldn't quite put a name to, felt equal parts loving and ridiculously hot.

Dunk broke the kiss this time, and before you had time to even look at him properly, he was lifting you off of him effortlessly and laying you in the grass. He moved over you, one thick leg at each side of your thighs, and his hands came to rest either side of your head, propping him up. He leaned in close, and in the light of the fire you could see the primal hunger in his eyes.

“Dunk,” you breathed, chest heaving under him.

He responded with only a low growl as his face buried itself into your neck. He planted kisses along it, from behind your ear down to your collarbone. The stubble on his face scratched against your skin as he worked, leaving nips and bites.

His hips bucked forwards, grinding his throbbing manhood into the apex of your thighs over your dress. The pressure on your mound felt incredible, and your own hips rolled up to meet his. His thrusts came in a steady rhythm as his face drew lower and lower, coming to rest a moment between your breasts.

“Let me take it off,” you whined, craving for more friction.

But Dunk didn't relent. He took the laces at the front of your dress between his teeth and pulled, undoing them with ease. It was an obscene, animalistic movement, lust in its most primal and basic form. Your breath caught in your throat, unable to even moan out for him, and he enjoyed every minute and every feeling he gave you.

You shimmied beneath him, lifting your skirt to expose your smallclothes beneath, and the dark patch of wetness that settled on the cloth between your legs. He grunted when he realized there was less between you than before, thrusting himself against you again in a way that left some of your dampness on the bulge in his breeches.

When he was satisfied with the amount he was able to undo your dress, he reached one strong hand down to pull at the hem, exposing your breasts to the open air. He licked his lips and wasted no more time, finding a taut nipple with his lips and drawing it into his mouth. His tongue flickered over the pebbled bud, causing your back to arch and a filthy sound to leave your mouth. It was music to his ears.

His rutting continued, and he grunted like a wild dog as the stimulation gave an electric pulse to every nerve in his body. His mouth left your breast with a wet pop and he kissed his way between the valley of your mounds to the other, finding the nipple and beginning again.

You could tell he was losing himself in it, in the sensation of you. It was maddening now erotic it was. You'd never known this side of him, and you wished more than anything that this feeling would never end.

You reached up and tugged his hair, and wrapped your legs around his waist. It was then that Dunk made a new noise, and then shuddered with near violence. You gasped, watching, waiting, unsure of exactly what happened. But it didn't take long to find out.

You felt a liquid heat form against your smallclothes, and Dunk's shyness returned as he looked at you, breathing still ragged. He had spent in his breeches, the stimulation simply too much for him to bear.

“Milady I'm.. I'm s-sorry I didn't mean to–”

“Did that feel good, pretty boy?” You cooed, cutting him off from his apologies. You didn't want for a moment for him to feel bad, and in truth you were flattered that this much pleasure came from you.

He just nodded quickly, relaxing into the moment and crawling off of you, laying next to you in the grass. His breathing came steadier now, and the flush in his cheeks only deepened. His hand found yours between you, and he laced your fingers together, pulling your hand up to plant a soft kiss upon it that made your heart beat faster.

“You've quite the appetite, it seems,” you mused, turning your head to look at him.

He looked back at you with a dopey smile, lids half-closed over glassy eyes.

“For you, yes.”

-

After ten minutes or so of laying in the cool grass under the stars, just recovering from the newfound pleasure and intimacy, Dunk's brows knit tightly across his face.

“You didn't finish,” he said plainly. You shook your head.

“I don't mind, really. I enjoyed every bit of it all the same.”

“S’not right,” he replied, rolling into his side and nuzzling himself into your neck, planting kisses over the bruises he'd left earlier.

You had no time to protest before a rough hand found your breast and began to knead. He was slower in his movements now, more methodical, driven by purpose instead of white-hot lust. He found your nipple and rolled it between his fingers, pulling at it with a pinch and making you gasp.

Your body responded in kind. Your nipples grew erect under his touch, and another wave of pleasure brought renewed wetness to your cunt. He kissed his way back toward your nipple, and his hand trailed slowly down your stomach.

Dunk truly had no idea what he was doing, but he was steadfast in his resolve to bring you to the height of pleasure nonetheless, no matter how much fussing it took him to get you there. His fingertips found the wet patch in your smallclothes and applied pressure, earning him a sweet moan from you. It told him he was doing something right.

He rubbed circles around the wetness, feeling how the sticky cloth clung to your sex, and dipped between the folds. It was enchanting, and he made a note to himself to explore you again when the sun was up so he could truly appreciate every bit of your body. You groaned and your hips bucked into his hand, searching for more.

Somewhere near the top of your folds, he found a little nub that caused a reaction from you every time he touched it. It seemed the right place, and so he kept at it. The friction of his fingers moving the rough cloth around your most sensitive place was near painful, and you held a hand out, grabbing his arm to still him a moment.

His mouth left your breast at once, and he looked at you with concern. You simply shook your head and removed the barrier, leaving the wet fabric in a heap beside you, before you guided his hand back to the place you wanted it most.

The slick softness of you was unbelievable to him. His fingers explored the tender flesh under the wet curls that framed your cunt, and he fell more and more in love with each sensation he found.

He found your hole with no difficulty, and noticed how it nearly beckoned him inside of it while you gasped and writhed under his touch. His fingertips dipped just inside of you, and the feeling nearly made his cock stir again.

“Gods, you are the softest thing ever made,” he whispered against your skin, in awe of you in all your glory. “You've your own personal river.”

His comments brought a redness to your cheeks. The honesty in his words was just as endearing as it was erotic.

His finger pressed further into you, and you felt yourself give way to his intrusion. He was thicker than you had expected, and even one finger felt a stretch. His thumb found your clit again and he rubbed it with no real rhyme or reason as his finger sunk deeper and deeper into your cunt.

“The way you pull me in is madness,” he breathed. “Pure madness.”

His finger explored you, and as your hips bucked against his hand, it curled up and hit a spot behind your pelvic bone that had you seeing stars.

You were a mess now, moaning loudly and squirming about like a bitch in heat. Your lewd display only encouraged him, and he redoubled his efforts, rubbing faster at your clit and curling his finger over and over into that same sensitive place. Your wetness was overflowing into the grass beneath you.

“M’gonna… it's.. Ugh.. don't stop,” you groaned.

“S’right, sweet girl. Come undone for me.”

That was all the encouragement you needed. Like a snapped coil, your pleasure washed over your body, hot and tingling and overwhelming. You were a mess in his hands, and you grabbed his arm and squeezed until the brunt of it subsided.

His fingers slowed but didn't stop, working you through your climax the same way he would come down from his own in his private moments. You found yourself impressed by the actions he took on instinct alone, and he finally let you free of the stimulation when he felt you'd had enough.

“That was.. you're something else,” he murmured, entranced by the entirety of the situation. It made you giggle.

“You're quite something yourself, handsome knight,” you replied, curling into his warm body.

He brought his finger up to his mouth, inspected how the slickness of you glistened in the moonlight. He brought the finger to his mouth, tasting it tentatively before deciding that yes, he very much liked it, and sucking all the juices off of himself. The lewdness of his actions made you blush.

“You taste so much better than the stew,” he said with a smile.