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cardansriddle · 6 months

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Sugar - (tom riddle x fem!muggle!reader)

Summary: Perhaps it was an accident. Or perhaps the fates were mocking him. He had not meant to venture into the little coffee shop and he had most definitely not meant to return. But he kept coming back and the waitress kept putting sugar packets near his coffee every damn time.

Warnings: Tom gets possessive halfway through so it's pretty tame for him. not proofread. oh also self-indulgent crime & punishment debate (got a lil carried away).

A/N: 5.5k words but it's kinda mehh. to the person who requested this, i hope you enjoy it at least a little <3

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Tom felt as if he was a solitary figure in a world hushed by the winter's harsh embrace. With each step he took away from the desolate building of grey against the pristine canvas of winter, he felt lighter. He did not cast a look back towards the orphanage looming behind him, instead focused on the sound of the snow crunching beneath his feet as they led him further into the dark street cloaked in a thick layer of snow.

The wizard knew if he spent another moment in that cursed place he would have lashed out and killed someone, so he had hastily thrown his coat and emerald scarf around himself before slamming the door shut behind him.

Two more years. He thought to himself. Then he would be out and would never be obligated to return again. Perhaps he would even burn the place to the ground if his plans worked out in his favour.

The air was crisp, and his breath materialized in front of him with each exhale. His eyes quickly scanned the narrow empty alley for a suitable quiet place where he could pass his time. There was nothing interesting, except for the tiny bookstore nestled in the corner of the street that emitted a warm, golden light through its window. Tom quickly decided it would do, and he strode towards the place with purpose. A small bell chimed as he entered the place, which he quickly realised was a bookstore with a cosy coffee shop tucked inside.

He inhaled the pleasant aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the scent of weathered books. Before he could lose himself entirely in the intoxicating symphony of scents, a sudden, loud thud echoed from behind the counter, jolting him from his reverie.

"Blimey!" someone cursed, their voice slicing through the tranquillity. Tom found himself rooted to the spot, curiosity piqued, as a figure suddenly emerged from underneath the counter.

It was a girl. Unabashedly, his eyes traced the lines of her features, noting the delicate curve of her jaw and the cascade of hair that framed her face. He assumed she was around his age if not younger and he stared at the girl as she rubbed her head, wincing when she hit a particularly soft spot before she realised that she was not alone in the shop. She froze like a deer caught in the headlights and he watched as her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

Tom, still an observer, saw more than just the blush; he discerned the subtleties of her response, the way her eyes momentarily widened before seeking refuge elsewhere, fingers fidgeting with the edges of her knitted cardigan.

She attempted to compose herself and met his eyes. "Oh! Sorry, sir. How may I assist you?" She asked cheerfully, resisting the urge to duck her head down to avoid his intense stare.

He crossed the small distance to the counter. "I'd like a coffee. Black."

"No sugar?" she inquired, to which Tom raised a single brow. Her blush deepened as she quickly averted her eyes from his face.

"Right, of course. You may take a seat while I prepare this for you." With a nod, she hurried to fulfil his request, leaving Tom alone with the lingering scent of coffee and old books that were now intertwined with a pleasant smell of vanilla and sweet—

It was her perfume, he realised with a start.

He hastily removed his coat and scarf before plopping down on the nearest armchair. His gaze remained fixed on the girl, absorbed in the rhythm of her practised motions as she prepared his drink, her movements seemingly both effortless and comforting. There was an almost lazy grace to her actions and he continued to watch as she sang under her breath so softly if he had not been staring so intensely, he would not have picked up on it.

He wondered how he had never noticed this place before. He had been passing through this little street for as long as he could remember but for some reason, he had only stumbled upon it today. His sharp eyes darted around, instinctively searching for traces of magic, half-expecting the discovery of a hidden passage to the wizarding world but he quickly realised the place was undeniably, disappointingly muggle.

Muggle.

He tore his gaze away from the girl at the mental reminder of what she was. He fished out a book from his bag and opened it to occupy his mind.

The subtle shuffle of her approaching steps drew his attention back to the present, and he met her gaze as she placed the steaming cup of coffee before him. A sugar packet sat innocently beside it. His eyes lingered on the packet for a moment before lifting coldly to meet hers.

She, however, was undeterred by the intensity of his glare. “In case you change your mind.” She smiled at him softly before turning on her heel and walking back.

His gaze lingered on her retreating figure, and then, almost involuntarily, it dropped to the innocuous sugar packet.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Tom did not know why he had returned. Truthfully, he had not even noticed his feet had led him here until he was in front of the familiar wooden door that led into the coffee shop. Perhaps he had thought more than he should’ve about the disgustingly soft smile of that girl for the last five months. She was an insolent muggle, yet here he was, walking into the place as if he had never left.

The seasons had blurred since he had last been here. Winter had long surrendered to the warmth of summer. He had to spend at least a month in the orphanage, and he was hoping Malfoy would invite him over for the rest of the summer.

The place was just as he remembered it. The only difference was the lack of Christmas decorations. He faltered only slightly when he took notice of the girl behind the counter, already staring at him. She had not changed much. Her face was the same, less pale perhaps, but the same, nonetheless. The oversized knitted sweater that once enveloped her had been replaced by a little white sundress, and his gaze involuntarily lingered on the exposed smooth skin.

“Welcome back!” She greeted him cheerfully, and he was not surprised she remembered him. “What can I get you?”

“Black coffee,” he replied curtly

She nodded as if she was expecting it. "Coming right up." Gently shutting her book, she gracefully moved towards the coffee machine. Tom's eyes couldn't help but trail to the volume she had been reading, and to his pleasant surprise, it was Dostoyevsky. He had not pegged her as someone who would enjoy Russian literature, with its weighty and morally morbid themes. In his mind, she seemed more likely to be a Jane Austen enthusiast, with her intricately written romances and flowery prose.

“It’s 'Crime and Punishment'." He suddenly heard her soft voice declare, and he looked away from the book to give his attention to the girl. Then feeling as if she had said something silly, she blushed and looked away quickly. "Though I'm sure you figured that. I just wondered why you look so surprised."

He replied before he could tell himself not to. "I did not imagine you as someone who would enjoy this."

Emboldened at his words, she turned to face him, a hand casually resting on her hip as she sported a cheeky smile. "Am I to presume you imagine me often?"

His sharp inhale was audible as he absorbed the unexpected shift in her demeanour. He had not expected this shy, timid girl to tease him so boldly. She was a little vixen.

But he did not give her the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him. A lazy raise of his brow was the extent of his acknowledgement before his gaze wandered towards the rows of bookshelves, feigning indifference. "Do you have another copy? Perhaps I shall like to reread this evening."

She frowned, walking over towards the table he had occupied last time to set his coffee down. He grimly took notice of the sugar packet placed near it. "I'm afraid not. But you can have mine."

"No, that is quite alri—" He began to decline but she had already crossed the small distance between them and was holding out the thick book. He hesitated for a moment before his fingers closed around the object, careful to avoid touching hers.

The girl smiled and walked away before he could even say thanks. Not like he was going to.

Settling back into the soft armchair, he opened the book only to freeze at the sight of a name scribbled on the front page and he knew it belonged to her. The wizard rolled the name around in his mind and determined that it suited her. He stared at her name for a minute longer before turning the page and delving into the content of the book.

He had been so immersed in the story that he had not noticed how the time had passed. The gradual hush of the coffee shop's ambient sounds finally penetrated his concentration, and he distinctly heard the girl approaching him.

"I'm sorry to disturb you but we're closing in five minutes." She looked at the book in his hands. "You may return it once you're done."

He hummed and looked down at where he had stopped.

"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."

He wondered if the universe was trying to tell him something.

Tom found himself caught in the silent narrative of this stranger's presence.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

He returned the next day.

She looked up to see him enter, the sleeves of his button-up shirt rolled up.

Tom placed the book on the counter.

"You finished it in one day?"

He shrugged. "I'm a fast reader."

She gave him a small smile, turning to make his black coffee before he could ask for it. "Every time I reread it it takes me a few days." She paused for a moment, turning to look at him over her shoulder. "The usual?"

He nodded. "The usual." He debated whether or not to voice his next question, and decided one conversation with the girl would not hurt.

"Why do you read it so often?"

"Each time I find new details that make Raskolnikov's character more complex. Each time I discover these small little things I missed the last time I read it becomes so much better. Plus I enjoy his moral dilemma."

He hummed, his curiosity piqued. He took his usual seat and watched as she brought his coffee and set it down in front of him. "Enlighten me." He gestured towards the seat in front of him. She hesitated only for a second before taking a seat.

"Raskolnikov is obviously a complex character. His actions are driven by a desire for power and superiority, a belief that he is exempt from conventional morality. However, one could argue that his internal struggles and eventual remorse suggest a more nuanced exploration of morality."

Tom furrowed his brows. "I see him as a product of his environment, a desperate man driven to extremes by the harsh circumstances he faced. His morality shifts to the other side of the spectrum."

She cocked her head to the side, and he could see her getting slightly frustrated. "But morality is not just a spectrum; it's a complex interplay of values, societal norms, and personal convictions. Raskolnikov's guilt stems from the clash between his actions and the intrinsic moral compass within him. It's the consequence of recognizing the weight of one's choices."

He scoffed before he could stop himself. "Morality is subjective. What is right for one may not be right for another. Raskolnikov was weak and he was an idiot. Guilt is a useless emotion and it is for the weak."

Her expression remained unwavering. "But perhaps it's that recognition of guilt that separates the morally discerning from those who lack empathy. The fact that you can't comprehend his guilt doesn't make it foolish. It makes it human."

Tom's eyes narrowed a glint of impatience in his gaze. "Human or not, guilt is a hindrance. It's a sentiment for those too feeble to rise above their actions. If I were to make a difficult choice, I would do it without hesitation, without remorse."

He only realised the slip of his tongue after the words left his mouth. He stilled, gauging her reaction yet her response was measured but firm. "Raskolnikov's guilt is a testament to his humanity, his ability to grapple with the consequences of his choices. It's what sets him apart from those who operate without remorse."

"But—"

"So what you're saying is you would kill and feel no remorse?" She cut him off.

Yes.

"You do not understand." He did not intend his tone to be so harsh, yet the words left his mouth coldly. She visibly withdrew and nodded stiffly. "Right. Enjoy your coffee."

He opened his mouth to say something but realised for the first time in his life he did not know what to say.

He was left staring at the cursed sugar packet she had left near his coffee again.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

He did not return the next day. Nor the day after. Or after.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Two weeks passed with no sign of him.

And then she saw him step into the coffee shop. He walked in with determination. He walked up to the counter, meeting her gaze with an intensity that mirrored the unspoken tension between them. "I'd like a black coffee," he said, his tone even, though a hint of something lingered beneath the surface.

She nodded, her expression composed but guarded. As she prepared the coffee, the air seemed charged with unspoken words. Her usual cheerful smile was notably absent. The absence struck him, and he realised he had enjoyed her smiles.

When she placed the coffee in front of him, there was a palpable pause. He glanced at the sugar packet, a subtle acknowledgement of the lingering disagreement. Without a word, he took it, his eyes meeting hers briefly before he poured the sugar into his coffee.

She looked at him, her gaze unwavering, before a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

He returned the next day. And the day after that. And for the rest of summer.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

The next time he stepped into the familiar place, winter had covered the city with a snowy blanket once again. It had been a year since he first discovered this little place. And he had not seen his little waiter since he left for Hogwarts in September.

When he walked in, her eyes lit up visibly. "Hi!" She waved at him with a bright grin.

"Hello." He greeted as he unwrapped his scarf and settled in his usual seat. In a matter of minutes, she was bringing him his usual order. She was back to wearing her warm knitted sweaters. "How did you enjoy the book?"

"Oscar Wilde never disappoints," he said. She hummed in agreement, pleased at his words. He watched as her hands dropped to fidget with the bottom of her sweater. "You wish to ask me something." He stated. "Ask."

"Do you study in a boarding school?"

Tom hesitated only for a moment before replying. "Yes."

"Oh. Well, that explains the months of not showing up."

"Were you expecting me?" He teased her with an amused smirk, taking delight in the way her cheeks reddened.

"I was just wondering that is all," she admitted, a hint of curiosity peeking through. Tom observed her, noting the return of the timid, shy girl from their first encounter. It amused him how a few teasing remarks could momentarily whisk away her fiery boldness. He couldn't help but wonder what it would take to awaken it once again.

"And do you wonder about me often, little vixen?" he added, a playful glint in his eyes.

She blushed harder at the nickname but then as if a thought had struck her, she straightened and Tom watched as she visibly mustered up her courage. "I actually was wondering your name."

He bristled, but she must have not noticed because she continued. "I suppose I have not given you mine either." She mused out loud and announced her name to him. "But I thought it bizarre that considering all the time we've talked we never got around to that. Friends who do not each other's names." The girl laughed at the last notion and only then she realised that Tom had remained unnervingly quiet throughout the exchange. She raised her eyes from the frayed edges of her sweater, and the sight almost made her take a step back. His eyes had darkened, and she could have sworn she saw them flash red. There was no warmth, no familiarity in his gaze.

"Are you alright?"

Suddenly, he rose from his seat, an ominous tension permeating the air as he advanced towards her with every word. "We are not friends. You dare to think I would be friends with the likes of you?" His words were sharper than the keenest of blades, cutting into her with merciless precision. "Foolish, little girl," He spat out before grabbing his things and storming out of the place. As the door closed behind him, the little coffee shop seemed to exhale, the echoes of his harsh words lingering in the hushed aftermath.

She stood frozen in her place, helpless against the storm of emotions and the tears that began to veil her vision.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Tom fumed for months after their last encounter. How dare the ignorant muggle insinuate that they were friends? He scarcely considered his Knights of Walpurgis as his friends, and she thought she would just appoint herself the title? Who did she think she was?

"Mate, you alright? You've been unresponsive for a while." Malfoy nudged him slightly, attempting to draw his attention back to the present.

Tom made a noise of acknowledgement before mentally shaking the image of his little waiter— no, not his, he berated himself— from his mind.

But no matter how he tried, he could not. He could not just banish her from his thoughts. He knew a part of him, a rather embarrassingly large part of him enjoyed her company, her passion, her conversations— just her.

And there, tucked away in the recesses of his trunk, lay her damned book— a taunting reminder of her. The temptation to burn it, to obliterate any remnants of her from his life, danced on the edge of his thoughts. He had shoved away, out of sight if only just to save himself the fury, the anger, (the longing).

He wondered if she was going through the same turmoil as him. He hoped she was. She had no right to make him feel this way and get away with it unscathed.

But she was too enticing to give up. He did not know what it was about her. She was a muggle, an ordinary, plain girl working at a forgotten little cafe. Sure, she liked books, but so did a lot of other people. Yes, she was pretty, but so were a lot of other girls. But none could even come close to stirring his emotions as she did.

Perhaps it was the ease with which she conversed with him. Or the entirely too cheery smiles. Or her endearing knitted sweaters— though he secretly favoured the sundresses.

He, of course, knew what it was. He had tried to deny the idea to himself, but there was no escaping it. Tom had never been able to be unequivocally authentic with another individual before. From his early childhood, he refused to allow anyone close to him. He never lowered his walls and rejected anything that would yield a genuine connection. It was refreshing with her. He had no cause to uphold a curated facade.

Had she not been a muggle, he would entertain the thought of her bewitching him. He would have been convinced the girl put some spell on him or slipped a potion into his drink.

It was maddening.

She was maddening.

He sighed upon realising that he had spiralled again thinking of her. He needed to return the book, and maybe that would ease his mind. Perhaps once he was rid of her possession, she would not haunt him anymore. (Though he knew he was only trying to reassure himself with the last thought.)

As summer loomed around the corner, it felt both too distant and too imminent, mirroring the paradox of his tangled emotions.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

The sound of her laugh rang out before he could even close the door behind him. His head snapped up so fast it was a wonder he did not get whiplash. But there she was, his little waiter, chuckling delightfully as some boy spoke lowly from behind the counter. Chuckles escaped her lips, and she bit down on her lip in a futile attempt to stifle the laughter, her hands deftly at work preparing a drink. Despite her efforts, laughter bubbled forth once more, forcing her to set the cup down to avoid any potential spills.

An immediate surge of anger coursed through him. Who was this boy? What business did have with her? What right did he have to elicit such genuine laughter from her? (Most importantly, how dare she replace him?)

Tom swallowed the lump in his throat, attempting to gather himself into some semblance of a composed, unaffected man that he most definitely was not at that moment. With a loud, purposeful cough, he sought to catch her attention.

She spun around, the practised smile reserved for customers settling onto her face as she readied herself to serve him. However, the smile swiftly vanished the moment her doe-like eyes locked onto him. She looked like a deer caught in headlights as she stared at him, wide eyes roving over his face as if to confirm that he was really standing there, in front of her, and was not a figment of her imagination.

Because despite their last encounter, despite the anger, and the hurt she had felt, she kept hoping he would return. She kept imagining him standing there, with his ridiculously fancy scarf as he spewed out an apology. She had delved so deep into her fantasies involving him that now that he was actually there, she did not what to do or to say. Her tongue was tied, and her brain was fogged. What was she supposed to say?

It seemed he decided to grant her mercy and be the first to break the tense silence.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

He shuffled closer, though his steps were unsure, unlike his usual confident strides that she was used to seeing. “I wished to return your book.” He declared yet made no move to reach into his bag for the said book. He allowed his eyes to drink in the sight of her, her eyes that always seemed to glisten, her hands that were always fidgeting, her little sundress that he was afraid would drive him to insanity, (and her lips that he wished he could press against his own just so he could find out what they felt like, tasted like.) He shoved the last one into a drawer in his mind and locked it away. He could not fantasise about her. She was a muggle. He could not stoop so low as to hold affections for a muggle girl.

“Did you enjoy it?” The girl asked tentatively as if afraid one wrong word would set him off, have him spitting more harsh words that would dig deep into her skin and remain there.

“As always.” He replied. Because every book she gave him held another meaning. She was a clever girl, choosing the ones that she knew would have him coming back with a strong debate prepared in his mind. They always seemed to stand on opposite sides of every argument that the books posed, ensuring that their discussion would get heated, exciting, and thrilling.

While Tom vehemently disagreed with her views, he found pleasure in the way her mind worked. He admired her quick-wittedness, her ability to counter every argument he posed. No one else had engaged him in such stimulating conversations. She was a breath of fresh air, a captivating force he wanted to inhale and never release. He yearned to suffocate in the essence of her being, to be consumed and to consume in return. He wanted to own her— that irrational desire to keep her for himself was always there in the deeper parts of his mind that he was scared to venture into.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She responded but he could detect the subtle undercurrent of uncertainty in her voice.

He hesitated. “May I have one black coffee?” He was extending an olive branch, and while it was not an outright apology, coming from Tom, it was a whole declaration.

“It’s five minutes until closing time.”

She would not be swayed so easily then.

Fine. Tom thought. He would make her come to her senses.

The boy who he had forgotten was still there suddenly came to stand next to him. Tom eyed him with disdain, his features curling into an unimpressed sneer, raising a lazy brow.

“I’ll help her close up, mate. You can leave now.”

“Daniel, that is not necessary.” She muttered, glancing between the two men nervously. Daniel? Tom clenched his jaw, enraged. In his absence, it seemed she had gotten on first-name basis with a boy. His mouth soured with the taste of betrayal at her blatant ignorance. How could she discard him so easily? Had she not suffered all these months at the mere thought of him? Had he been alone in his suffering?

“No,” Tom stated flatly. “You will leave.” He told the boy then turned to face his waiter. “We will talk.”

“Tom, I do not think—”

He cut her off with a hiss. “It was not a request.”

Daniel seemed wholly displeased. He opened his mouth to argue, but his girl beat him to it. “It’s okay, Daniel. I will see you some other time.”

“Whatever he has to tell you, surely he can say in front of me.”

She shook her head gently, trying to dissuade him. “It’s a matter between him and I. I would rather talk privately.”

Tom looked smug as he faced Daniel again, struggling to contain his smirk. He could see the indignation clear on the boy’s face as his eyes flickered dubiously between her and Tom. He knew the wizard was no ordinary acquaintance of her, he could feel the palpable tension in the air like a wolf.

Tom, of course, wished to push his buttons further, just to have the last word. “You heard her. Leave.”

Daniel scoffed. “I will see you tomorrow then.” He muttered and with one last long look, he squared his shoulders and left the café with as much dignity as his wounded pride could muster.

As the door shut with a final thud, they were left in pregnant silence, both unsure of the dynamics at play between them. The air in the café hung heavy with unspoken tension as if the silence itself had taken on a weight, pressing down on them both. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder than usual, each second echoing in the quiet space.

She was the first to cave. "Well? You wished to talk." Gesturing towards him with a hand expectantly. "Talk."

Tom inhaled sharply, and for the first time in his life, he did not quite know what to say. How to proceed.

"Who is he?" The question tumbled from his lips before he could stop it.

She raised a brow. "Seriously? After how you walked out of here last time I would think your choice of words would be different."

"Different? I hardly think the question was unfair."

She huffed impatiently, discarding her apron as she turned from him to put everything away for the night. "Of course. How foolish of me to assume that you have no business inquiring about my life when we are not even friends." She chuckled bitterly. "You made the notion quite appalling if memory serves me right. You wish to know who is Daniel? For all you know, he could be my fiancee. Would it matter? No. Because you and I are hardly acquaintances."

An unfamiliar feeling began coiling in the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly felt sick. She briefly turned to fix him with a pointed glare and froze at the look on his face. The dancing flames of the candles seemed to mirror the flickering emotions in Tom's eyes—flames of irritation, discontent, and an unexpected pang of jealousy.

Tom could scarcely believe his fate. How was it that he— the most powerful wizard of his generation— had succumbed to the pathetic disease of— what was it? Desire? Lust? Infatuation? Such mundane urges were beneath him, he had no wish to pursue anyone or anything that was not remotely related to his quest for power. Yet there she was. In her infuriating fucking dress and those innocent eyes. Did she even know what sort of turmoil she had caused him?

All of a sudden he felt exhausted, defeated. His shoulders sunk visibly as he ran a hand through his hair. He would use a hundred of her sugar packets in his coffee if it meant she would just grace him with her bubbly smile again and just— just what? Leave him be? He did not want that. Treat him as if nothing had happened? Maybe. Release him from whatever enchantment she put him under? Yes.

"What do you want from me?" He asked at last, frustration clear in his voice.

She regarded him with disbelief as she rounded the counter to stand directly in front of him. "What do I want from you?" She repeated incredulously. "I want an apology! I want an explanation! I want—" she sighed, cutting herself off before she could finish the thought. "You cannot just show up here demanding things and ordering people around after how you treated me last time. If you wish to continue this conversation, you will apologise to me."

"You want me to say sorry?" He took a step towards her.

"Yes!"

"Fuck your apology."

Before she could register what was happening, Tom closed the minute distance between them and caved into his desire. He grabbed her face, fingers threading through her hair, and pressed his lips against hers. The kiss was not gentle; it was a collision of pent-up tension and bottled-up desires.

Tom's lips moved fervently against hers, pouring his frustration into the act. It was a silent declaration that transcended the boundaries of his complicated inner turmoil. Tom knew that. But he could not pull away from her— not after having tasted how her lips feel like.

Her hands, which had hovered hesitantly in the space between them, found their way to his shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer.

She felt—tasted like God's favourite nectar, sweet and addictive and he knew he would never get enough of it. She might not have been a witch, but he was bewitched by her.

As they broke apart, breathless, the air between them hung heavy with the residue of their shared kiss. He dared not to ease his hold on her, only stared at her with darkened eyes, taking delight in the way her lips were bruised, and puffy, all because of him. But it was not enough. He needed to mark her for all to see.

He dove into the tender skin of her throat like a man starved, teeth sinking into her flesh with no warning, and a sick sort of satisfaction washed over him at the muffled moan that escaped her mouth. He sucked on the skin until he was sure there would be a purple mark blooming on the spot before running his tongue over the flesh to soothe the sting. He did not waste any second before moving to mark another spot.

"I do not even know your name." She managed to choke out in between her whimpers, hands moving of their own accord to tangle in his hair, and a particular tug had him growling deep in his throat.

"Tom." He whispered, pulling away from her neck only to return his lips to hers. "Say it. Say my name." He murmured in between the kisses, pushing her back until her back was pressed against the counter. He easily picked her up to place her on the surface, his fingers trailing along her thighs to her knees to nudge them apart so he could stand in between them.

"Tom." She breathed out in a daze, and he smirked in delight.

She was his. He had already branded her, and he would do much more to ensure she knew it was him she belonged to.

He leaned to brush his lips against the shell of her ear. "I hope you know there is no going back from this. From me." He whispered, fingers slipping under the strap of her dress and dragging it down her shoulder slowly. "You are my dirty little secret now. Mine."

She shuddered under the weight of his words but he was already snaking his hand around her throat as his lips found home on her own once again.

No going back.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

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1-800-kami · 6 months

Text

4:23 pm | the adventures of dad!gojo

content: 0.9k words, fem!reader, dad gojo, megumi is your son, silly crack fic

gojo satoru is a man with very little fears.

in actuality, people are afraid of him. a mere gaze from those cerulean blue eyes of his sends people running off to the opposite direction, so the adjective “intimidating” was quite the understatement to describe him. some might even say that he’s the strongest, so he possesses no fear at all.

despite that, gojo has one thing he’s deathly afraid of: you–his wife, when you’re angry.

“suguru, help me out here!” geto can physically feel his bestfriend’s panic through the phone. gojo explained the situation in a fast ramble–geto could barely understand what he was saying, but he thinks he got the gist of it: you went out to run some errands and entrusted gojo to take care of your two year old child, megumi, while you were out. gojo conjured up the genius idea of keeping megumi entertained by handing him a paper and markers–so that they could surprise you with megumi’s amazing artistic abilities once you came back home.

it had gone “so well”, gojo said earlier, picking up the paper and studying it. “i think this is a drawing of a cat? or a dog, i don’t really know.. still, it’s made by my son, and it’s the peak of art and i think everyone should see it!”

gojo was so busy trying to decipher what megumi had drawn that he didn’t realize that his son still had the markers in his hands. when he peers over to look at megumi again, he just about screamed.

“gumi- no- GUMI!” he shrieks, snatching the markers away from his son’s hold. megumi, not having a paper to draw on anymore, decided to use the wall as his canvas instead—sketching a poorly drawn house with a bright red marker. “you’re not supposed to draw on the wall! aw fuc-ahem, freak… your mom’s gonna kill me…”

“gosh suguru, some advice would help!” satoru’s never been so afraid in all his years of living. you’re coming home pretty soon, and he has no idea what to do. he’s already imagining the look on your face–and it’s pushing satoru to the brink of passing out. gojo satoru–the renowned sorcerer who’s fought the king of curses, been sealed away in a box and has had multiple near death experiences–all of these things have happened to him yet none can compare to the fear of facing his wife when she’s angry.

“hmm? what is it, nanako?” satoru can hear his bestfriend trying not to laugh over the phone. suguru knows an easy solution to his problem, but he thinks that leaving satoru in the dark is funnier. it’s rare to see the strongest sorcerer like this, so geto revels in it with pure amusement. “you’re hungry? okay… let’s see what i can make for you, yeah?”

“you heard her, satoru~ one of the twins are hungry. i’m afraid i have to go… good luck about the markers, yeah?” suguru hangs up before satoru could say a word. he curses under his breath, but feels his heart stop when he hears the door unlock.

you’re home.

“mama!” megumi yells, clapping his hands and slowly crawling over to the front door. you happily greet your son, placing the grocery bags on the table.

you walk over to your husband, kissing him on the cheek before noticing the piece of paper that he’s holding. “oh? what’s this?”

you grab the paper from his hands and satoru regains a little bit of his composure once he hears you coo at your son’s drawing. “thought it would be nice for me and megumi to surprise you while you were gone… it’s a drawing of a cat-”

“horsey!”

“...a horse. yup, that’s what i said!” he sheepishly ignores his son’s glare, mentally preparing himself to tell you about the wall.

“i love it! oh my gosh, megumi, aren’t you just a little artist?” you say, ruffling your son’s hair with a big smile. “this is definitely going on the fridge.”

“...there’s one small problem, though…” satoru refuses to meet your gaze.

“what did you do this time, satoru?”

“hey, it technically wasn’t me!” he says, this time being the one to shoot the glare at his son. “so hypothetically…what if i told you that gumi thought it would be a nicer idea to use the wall as a canvas instead of the paper?”

“...”

satoru perceives your silence as his death sentence. “look, i’m sorry! i was trying to figure out what he drew and i forgot that he still had the markers in his hands-”

“satoru-”

“and the next thing i know, he drew on the wall before i was able to take the markers from him-”

“toru-”

“and suguru wasn’t giving me advice either, but then-”

“satoru!” your final yell finally breaks him from his ramble. he’s surprised to see that no, you don’t have a look of murder on your face. in fact, you’re actually smiling—looking more amused than anything.

“satoru, they’re washable markers.” you take a baby wipe from your purse and walk over to the wall, wiping away the bright red marker strokes easily with a few swipes. you’re trying not to laugh at his dumbfounded expression. “did you not know that?”

now he’s the one stunned into silence. “...”

“no, no… i definitely knew that…!”

“yeah, sure you did.”

being a father is so difficult.

#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jjk #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru comfort #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #dad gojo #dad!gojo #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo

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futureman · 6 months

Text

dye this space red

pairing: mike schmidt x f!reader

summary: mike's a pretty sensitive guy, emotionally and otherwise, and there's a theory you'd love to test on his thighs

warnings: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, smut, pwp, marking, biting, hickeys, hair pulling, rough foreplay, thigh riding, touch-free orgasm

word count: 1.3k

You're convinced that Mike's thighs taste sweeter than the rest of him. They're softer than his stubbled jaw or the hard planes of his chest—a milkier shade peppered with barely-there freckles and sparse smatterings of hair. Thick and sweet, and begging to be bitten.

Or maybe it's the way he reacts when you're between them that's so delicious. His typically deep, monotone voice takes on a higher pitch the longer you suck, bite, and cover them in loving bruises, increasing in volume until it cracks.

Every harsh nibble is followed by a soothing swipe of your tongue and a gentle kiss until he's marked up to your liking and painfully hard, whimpering as he desperately bucks into thin air.

Sometimes you think he'd be able cum like that if you paced him just right. If you entertained his moaned instructions and let him guide you by the hair to where he needed you most, he'd probably cum untouched, longer and harder than he would even at his own hand.

So tonight, you test your theory.

He's fresh out of the shower with the fluffiest, towel-dried curls when you sit him on the edge of the bed and sink to your knees, smiling softly at the earnest anticipation on his tired face. Even after all this time, he still somehow manages to look so grateful every time you touch him.

Every groan and hitched breath sounds thankful, but he rarely asks for what he needs, always so eager to be your good boy and accept what he's given. But right now, you're encouraging him to take control. You want him to push and pull you to every spot that brings him closer to quaking with his impending release.

To see his cock pulse against his stomach, coating him in thick, heady spurts without ever being touched, would be your prize. You're so sure you can get him there, but you need him to show you how.

Taking his broad hands in yours, you bury his fingers in your hair and encourage him to pull you down, slightly lower and to the side of where he's already stiffening with interest. Your lips press into his warm, damp skin, and he inhales sharply, his fingers tugging tightly at your strands.

"Show me where it feels good," you murmur, licking away a stray droplet of water he missed when he was drying off. "I know you like it here...," you swirl your finger around a sensitive spot next to his knee, "...and definitely here," his leg hair tickles as you trail over to a patch of skin an inch or two away from his balls.

His lips part around a gasp, and he tugs your head back to his knee, holding you close. He's careful with his guidance, but his restraint is dwindling—quickly.

"H-here," he chokes out, massaging soothing patterns into your scalp, though you're not sure if that's for his benefit or yours. "Start here."

So, he's using you to tease himself. At the realization, your pussy dribbles uncomfortably down your thighs, and you clench around nothing in an attempt to dull the ache. It doesn't work, but it also doesn't matter. He's what matters tonight.

"Okay, baby. I've got you," you reassure him, meeting his eyes as you suck delicately to ease him into it, then a little harder to leave your first mark.

You swear you can feel the capillaries bursting against your tongue and painting his skin in rich reds and purples. The sweetest canvas for your selfishly possessive art. His hips jerk reflexively, and you can't help but smile after you finish soothing the fresh bruise.

A glance up at his lap tells you he's fully hard now and leaking tempting drops of precum you're not allowed to taste. His eyes are closed, brows furrowed in concentration, so you nip at him to pull his attention back to you.

"I'm sorry, I just...god, you feel good," he mumbles apologetically, tugging you inward and a smidge lower. "A little harder here, then—," he winces, his cock suddenly twitching, and you wonder if just thinking about it is getting him closer. "—shit. Then, work your way in."

You nod, kissing his skin wetly before doing as he asks, and his response is almost immediate. The further in you get, the rougher he is with his guidance, struggling not to yank you from place to place with his tensing fingers. He bucks clear off the bed when you lick a broad, curved line that grazes the underside of his thigh and has to hold you in place tighter to keep you from toppling backward.

As his cock bounces off his stomach and lands in a sticky pool of precum, he whimpers louder than he should with Abby playing just down the hall, and you give him a sharp warning slap next to a particularly abused patch of skin. It only makes it worse.

He outright groans, unable to keep himself from rocking upward steadily like he's imagining you bouncing on his lap.

"Do that again. Harder, do it harder," he grits out, and the demand sends another wave of heat crashing through you.

You fall into a rhythm: bite, slap; suck, then a harder slap. His abs tense and relax in time with each rough motion, and you can hear him muttering something dark and incoherent above you repeatedly. Wait, no—no, he's saying fuck over and over like it's the only word he knows anymore.

By now, he's littered with teeth marks and damp bruises, his tender skin tinged a pretty, rosy red, and his legs are trembling on either side of your head just like you wanted. There's a shuddered breath above you, and then he's dragging you to his favorite spot, a not-yet-tainted point just south and to the left of his balls.

"M'so close," he whimpers, sounding like he's on the verge of tears. "Babe, use your mouth. Now, ngh—now."

Bracing your hands on his thighs as well as you can with how frantically he's bucking his hips, you latch on exactly where he told you to, leeching with more suction than you have all night. Then, his fingers abruptly tense in your hair so hard it hurts.

"M'cumming...fuck—fuck, m'fucking cumming," he moans as it slams into him, and you peer up just in time.

His head lolls back, jaw dropping as the veins in his cock visibly pulse and he cums across his stomach and chest. He continues to buck into the air, simultaneously grinding into your mouth, and only slows once he's totally drained and twitching with aftershocks.

"Well, shit," he breathes out, heaving as he releases his grip to pet your tender scalp. "That was new."

You laugh, leaning up to kiss his softening length.

"Mm, but I knew you could do it," you grin, getting up from the floor and kissing his lips next.

He sighs contentedly into your mouth, coaxing it open to brush your tongue with his, and you melt into him, still a little shaky on your feet.

"C'mere," he mumbles against your lips. He splays his hands across your waist and leads you to straddle his leg. "Pretty sure my thigh owes you one."

Looping your arms loosely around his shoulders, you part from him and bury your face into the crook of his neck to muffle your whines, letting him guide your slick core up and down his leg. His five o'clock shadow is scratchy yet grounding against your ear as he works you to your peak.

"You sound so damn sweet right now, you know that?"

thanks for reading!

(divider by @saradika <3)

#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt imagine #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt #fnaf imagine #fnaf smut #fnaf movie #fnaf #five nights at freddy's

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mariahcarreyyy · 5 months

Note

i need some possessive lando brain rot omgggg i just feel like he would be the type to mark up his partner at any given chance!

i feel like i agree with everything yall say but like...hell yes he is nsfw 18+ under beware ⬇️⬇️

You had tried telling him to stop. Really, you did—but fuck, refusing that man while his pillowy lips kissed, sucked, and painted your neck in all sorts of reds has got to be given an award for being the hardest thing to do. The worst, and simultaneously best, part was that Lando 'fuckboy' Norris was not afraid of doing it in public. In fact, looking back on it, you think he does it more outside than in the confines of your shared apartment.

And holy shit, Lando can't stop if he tries. Not that he ever would. He's fully aware that you're his, and he's yours in every universe imaginable, but he's made it his life's mission to make sure everyone else did, too.

It wasn't something that would go unnoticed by the paddock, either. The number of times you'd caught someone's eyes glued to your neck, which adorned a beautiful canvas for Lando's touch, was downright embarrassing. Lando, that sneaky son of a bitch, on the other hand, took pride in it. He'd be right next to you, snaking a possessive hand around your waist no matter who you talked to, grinning at the visible discomfort on the person's face.

Your home, an event, a driver's dinner, the most important meeting of Lando's career—you name it, Lando's probably devoured your neck and jaw there.

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kaicubus · 1 year

Text

Show, Not Tell | Xavier T.

warnings ✩° : semi-nsfw, jealousy, slight possessive behavior, cursing, xavier being protective, hickeys//markings, manhandling, mentions of size difference, non canon character named marlon flirting with you.

pairing ✩° : boyfriend!xavier thorpe x girlfriend!reader

premise ✩° : xavier isn't jealous, not for the most part at least. until he sees how you talk with your classmate and his sparring partner, marlon. did you always smile like that with everyone or was it just marlon? doesn't matter. xavier’s pissed.

word count ✩° : 2.9k

authors note ✩° : guys i am sick. i cannot breathe. i miss the taste of food.

What was it about Marlon Acheron that made it so easy for you to talk to him? Was it the fact he was more popular than Xavier? Or was it his piercing red eyes, shaded with the dark lenses of sunglasses that intrigued you? Maybe it was the hair that was slicked back with a glossy finish from his stupid cinnamon scented hair gel. Or maybe it was all those things combined.

But Xavier is your boyfriend. Not Marlon. He knew his place in your heart, so why was it that every time his eyes scanned the room to find you, Marlon just so happened to catch you first and steal you away from him? Did you always smile like that with everybody or was it just Marlon? Didn’t matter. Xavier’s pissed.

At first, you thought you encouraged him to push though practice and were beyond happy to see him progressing so well. Even his instructor agreed he’s been on top of his practice and would soon topple Bianca for first place in rank. That was until you realized who his sparring partner was.

Marlon Acheron.

Marlon’s your classmate, not necessarily friend nor foe, and certainly not a guy you could call up and spend a few hours with at the Weathervane like any other of your friends. He was just there most of the time, in class and in the halls. But you did notice that he would give you some sort of special treatment.

Whether it was saying hi to you first when you entered the training room, striking up some hollow conversation just to stall you from going to see your boyfriend, or accidentally ‘forgetting’ something that he’d ask you to retrieve for him. It was always his glasses so you found it strange that he could forget something so important nearly every other day.

Being the sweetheart you are, you thought there was nothing wrong with how he was acting. Plus, you forget things all the time so it’s not so different with him.

But Xavier is the complete opposite. He knows exactly what Marlon’s intentions are, they're all so obvious to him.

“No one forgets their glasses like he does. Especially not a vampire.” Xavier says when the two of you are alone after his fencing practice, “He asks you to get his shit every day. Can’t he ask someone else, like why does it HAVE to be you?”

“I forget things too, Xavier. I’m sure he’s just got better things to worry about like trying to actually get a chance to beat you when you two go at it. It’s not like they're prescription anyways, he said his eye sight is fine.”

Your boyfriend rolls his eyes and goes back to etching charcoal onto the canvas in front of him. Recently, he’d come to his secret shed with you so you both can have alone time and so that he can draw. He’d never tell you but another reason for these ‘dates,’ as he called them, were partially because of Marlon.

“He doesn't leave you alone, Y/n. It’s like he’s stuck to you like a stupid dog. It doesn’t even make sense because he’s a VAMPIRE.” Xavier exhales sharply, blowing some excess black dust off his work space, “It’s past the point where friends do that. Not even I did that before we got together, which is saying a lot because I was way more obsessed with you before.”

You lean back on the extra stool next to his chair and give him a nonchalant shrug, “Yeah, you’re right. But what’s your deal with him? Why are you so mad whenever we talk to him or when you’re sparring with him during fencing practice? It’s like you’re trying to kill him out there, you could at least give him a break.”

“Give him a break?” Xavier scoffs and turns to face you, “He slacks off every time we practice and when he finally thinks it’s time to actually practice, you walk in like some angel through the doors and suddenly all of his attention is on you.”

You stare at him for a moment, taking a mental note of his tight lipped frown and a glimpse of irritation in his shaking legs, “What do I have to do with any of that? I come to watch you. Your instructor said I should keep coming because you do best when I’m there, so I can’t just stop showing up.”

“Oh come on.” His brows fall flat on his face as he moves his head down just a bit, expressing his disappointment, “Y/n, the guy’s head over heels in love with you. You don’t see anything wrong with the way he acts?” Xavier stabs the end of the pencil back to the paper and aggressively whisks his hand over the art, smudging the side of his hand black.

"I guess it’s weird, but it’s not like he’s outwardly flirting with me. You know? Like I said, he’s probably just forgetful. Extremely...forgetful.” Even you can’t excuse Marlon’s behavior. Your attempt, however, only sours Xavier’s mouth as he shrivels his expression in disgust.

Xavier sticks out his chin, unintentionally showing off his cutting edge jaw to the side, and groans, “Maybe you should stop talking to him. Just ignore him when you come visit. Y/n I am this close to bashing his brains out if he keeps on doing this shit,” he holds up two fingers that are just about to touch, “It pisses me off how he always steals you before I can even say hi. Next thing I know he’s basically on top of you, asking you all these stupid questions like, ‘Y/n what do you think of my uniform?’ ‘Y/n can you feel my helmet to make sure its on right?’ ‘Y/n say épée.’ It’s sad, actually.”

You let out a much needed sigh and slouch down, “I don’t want to stop talking to him, he’s nice. But yeah, I wish there was a way to get him to stop or to show him I’m not interested.”

He thinks for a moment, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek, while moving his leg in one place. “I guess...no...” He lets out a quick breath, “What would make Marlon leave you the fuck alone...”

“You know, I’m picking up some jealousy...”

Xavier shoots you a glare, “Yeah, right.” but then suddenly raises his brows, “I think have an idea.”

You watch as he puts up his pencil, postponing his continuation of his sketch, and prop himself up more on the seat. Confused, you massage the side of your neck and glance attentively at his change in posture.

“Sit here.” Xavier grins, tapping his legs, inviting you to take a seat, “If Marlon’s going to act like you don’t have a boyfriend, I’ll just show him who you belong to and why he can’t ever have you."

Body moving on it’s own, you make your way towards him and plant yourself directly on top of his waist, grounding yourself by shifting side to side to find the perfect balance.

“And how are you going to do that?” You’re almost scared to ask, but the look on his face suggests something you don't even expect before it comes out of his own mouth.

“We have to show him you’re mine, not tell him. He won’t get it otherwise.” Xavier looks at you with sly eyes, teeth poking just barley from his lips, “I’m just saying, people like him don’t catch hints too easily. So it’ll be a sort of, slap in the face when he sees his perfect Y/n with hickeys all over her neck and down.”

You quickly open your mouth in surprise, “Oh that’s what we’re doing? I kinda thought you were going to brand me or something.”

“I mean...” Xavier looks to the side and chuckles deeply, “Nah, I’m joking. I do however want to do the whole hickey thing. I think that way he’d get it.” He holds up a finger and touches the front of your neck with the end of his nail, sending shivers all throughout your body as he turns his head to get a full view of his new canvas. “Yeah,” Your boyfriend wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, “That’d work really good actually.”

When you scoot yourself further onto him, you can feel the both of his palms barley cushion the underside of your thighs as a small grin pulls the corner of your lips up. “Really?” You tease, “You sure this has nothing to do with you being jealous?”

“Oh yeah, positive.” Xavier jostles his knee beneath you to scoot you even closer, “You think I’d be threatened by Marlon Acheron of all people? I’m offended, babe.”

You give a small laugh before gently holding the sides of his face and caressing the back of his head, combing your fingers lightly through his long hair, “Yeah? Well you should be. I’m surprised you haven't told him off yet.”

“You see how I spar with him,” Xavier moves his head to the side and kisses your collarbone, “I want to kill him for it, but I figured you wouldn't like that all too much.”

You roll your head to the side, granting him full access to your skin, and smile, “Hard to believe when all you've been doing is just carelessl-ly, trying to cut him.”

As you talked, Xavier wasn't too focused on the words coming out of your mouth. He knew all you were doing was trying to irritate him more so that he could handle you more roughly, but he had a little more class than that. Or so he thought. Truth is, he is better than no man when it comes to you.

Before he knows it, tasting the softness and sweetness of your skin quickly becomes an addiction he isn't quite ready to quit. Everything taste from warm notes of light amber to the freshness of a freshly picked rose, he can’t get nearly as much as he wants from a surface level skin kiss.

So he kisses harder. Licking and sucking down your neck, grazing the tips of his teeth and sharp canines along you as well.

“Wait, X-Xavier—” You groan just barely audible and tug on his locks with an even tighter hold than before.

Too focused on you, he doesn't respond and just continues to thrust his tongue over the gradually building bruises. Even though at this point you begin to move away from him in an attempt to stop him from darkening the marks beyond repair, he pulls you right back into place and moves onto another spot of vulnerable, untainted skin.

“H-Hah...X-Xavier...” A satisfactory moan as well as his name escapes from your throat so you bite your lip to suppress it as best as possible.

There was no thought of sparing you from weird stares you were sure to get from classmates, Xavier just imagined what Marlon would say or what he’d look like if he saw you, his seemingly perfect Y/n with marks made by his sparring partner. Xavier grinned at the thought.

As you manage, unsuccessfully, to keep your back straight and hands from roaming his body, it becomes hard to ignore the fluttery feeling building low in your stomach. His hand placement just over your hips, the way his neediness has somehow manifested it’s way into his mouth, and his panting complete with your own are all telltale signs that if this goes on for longer, you both wouldn’t last.

His tongue rolls harshly over the side of your neck, generously saturating your thin and sensitive skin under his suctioned lips with his saliva. You can’t help but squirm in his tight embrace, his fingers digging so hard into your hips you're convinced that they'll leave a mark as well, trying to hold you down on one place on his thigh.

“Stay still.” You can feel him grunt against your skin, “I’m not done yet.” Though his tone is demanding, you can feel the effects of his desperation ricocheting against his teeth. Or rather, his tongue, judging by his heavy breathing and increasingly deeper and longer licks he does.

“H-How many more?” The question comes out in a fleeting pant, trying to catch your breath, “How much are you going to d-do?” It was already impossible to stay put, you don't know how much more you can take if he keeps it up at this pace.

“Enough so Marlon can lay off.” With that, Xavier roughly squeezes your waist and lifts you up enough so that you're higher up on his thigh now, both your legs locked in between his own kneecaps. For a brief moment, you're met with the chill breeze of the airy shed hitting your wet skin, but it doesn't last long as Xavier pushes himself right back to his original position, earning himself a surprised gasp from you.

With his lips properly latched onto your jugular, he continues at an even deeper force and runs the tip of his tongue back over the already sensitive areas he’d previously marked. His extra bit of attention sends your mind spiraling. Of course, hes not fair either and only applies a bit of pressure from just the tip of his tongue.

“Xavi-ier...don’t make them so dark...” You gasp out, “I still have classes to go to, remember?”

“So?” His breath fans against your damp skin, “What if I want everyone to see?” He bites harder and laps up the remainder your scent off of you, messily bruising you more so that blooms of his intimacy can be seen miles away.

Your face flushes, “A-Are you almost done?”

“Almost.”

When he finally plucks his mouth from your neck, making a quick ‘pop’ sound before wiping his sleeve over his darkened lips, he pulls away and just stares. Just by looking at him, you can tell he’s proud of his work. Not the actual work he was supposed to finish, but the dark splotches of red and purple that littered all from the start of your jaw, down to just above the start of your chest. They're like trophies to him.

Most of all, he’s proud of just how worked up he somehow managed to get you. Just by the sight of you, your heavily blushed face, glossy and squinted eyes, and parted lips due to excessive hard breathing made him want to mark you more, in other places. But the ones on your neck would have to suffice, even if hidden ones only he could see would excite him more than the ones he could show off to some insignificant person.

Before you could even utter a breath of relief, a smirk slowly appears on your boyfriends face, only making you more nervous, “That should do it,” Xavier says, “How do you feel?”

“Like my entire neck is purple.” You laugh, pushing up the hair that had fallen over his face.

He chuckles, shaking his head, “Unfortunately, it’s not. But I can do that if that’s what you want?”

You grab his face again and mash your lips together with his, “Nice thought, Xavier, but I think this is plenty.”

He hugs you tighter, “Whatever you say. We should uh, we should go show him, shouldn’t we?”

You grin, “Maybe later, I still have to tell you what Marlon said to me yesterday.”

Walking into the next practice of the fencing team, you strut down the well lit hall with your neck not nearly hidden as you’d hoped. Since everyone knew you were bound to show up sooner or later, no one really paid any mind to you walking in. Thankfully.

But Marlon and Xavier did.

When you look past Marlon and straight at Xavier, you can feel his eyes on you. This time, they weren't on your face or on your skirt like usual, instead they were plastered onto your neck and all of the hickeys that had remained just as dark as Xavier made them to be yesterday.

You can hear a small scoff from behind you, so you turn around and see Marlon standing, waiting for you to have some sort of explanation for the mockery of his affection.

“Y/n.” He holds his helmet between his arm and lodged against his hip, “Good to see you.”

Xavier watches as you walk up to Marlon, this time feeling more confident than ever. “Hey Marlon,” You smile, as per usual, “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Question, did you get beaten up by someone?” Marlon points at your neck.

“Oh no, no my boyfriend kinda...” Your voice trails slowly, searching for the much needed reaction for both you and Xavier, “...yeah...”

Marlon nods slowly, tucking his lips under each other and furrowing his brow, “Right. I just thought you know, you getting my glasses all the time and us having a ton of inside jokes, that we had something.” The vampire spits, “I guess not.”

“You know it’s really funny you say that, Marlon, because actually,” Suddenly, Xavier appears next to you and throws his arm over your shoulders, “We are most definitely a ‘thing’. Didn’t know if that really clicked in your head but,” Xavier points to his head, “We are.”

#wednesday #wednesday addams #wednesday netflix #wednesday xavier #xavier thorpe #xavier thorpe x reader #xavier thorpe fanfic #xavier thorpe x y/n #xavier thorpe x you #xavier thorpe fic #jealousy fic #jealous xavier thorpe #jealousy #kaicubus

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