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onlyswan · 7 months

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summary: in which jungkook is one of your greatest fears and you’re his achilles’ heel.

idol!jungkook x reader, est. relationship / fluff, angst / word count: 4.1k

content/warnings: i love you i want us both to eat well T_T sigh. oc has abandonment issues pls protect at all costs + oc is worried bc jk is working so hard :( + a worm (???) cameo. ily protective and hopeless romantic iw!jk <3 the ending 🥲💔 this drabble literally goes 📈📉

> in which masterlist!

note: *insert my melody mugshot scene* me if planting puzzle pieces in my drabbles + making oc cry (IM SORRY) were a crime. this was sm fun writing <3 i cried and laughed they’re so precious </3

—

“jungkook, baby?”

your silky voice fills the quiet apartment as you pad across the floor. you’re carrying your heeled mary janes by its straps, leaving you only in your white socks.

“babe?”

you frown as the seconds pass and you receive no response from your lover. there’s no music playing, no rustling somewhere in the kitchen or the living room. the lights are dim like they usually are, but the vivid colors are absent.

him? asleep at 9pm? jeon jungkook? it can’t be, but you’d be delighted to finally see him resting early if it was real.

and so, spurred by that tiny glimmer of hope, you carefully crack the bedroom door open, as if you’re fifteen again and you just came back from sneaking out of the house.

but you’re grown now; you live in a building with complete strangers for neighbors. you just got home from work, and you’re no longer used to sleeping alone because you share the bed with another person.

you find it empty. devoid of any creases, sign of life. as neat as a hotel room’s make believe that no one lived there until two hours prior.

the disappointment weighs down on your shoulders, causing them to drop.

he didn’t tell you he was going somewhere else after practice, you think to yourself as your lips permanently shape into a pout. what happened to going out with you for dinner?

agreeing, your empty stomach grumbles angrily.

maybe he got caught up at work. maybe he’s on his way home. maybe he’s on his way to the restaurant and he’s about to text you to come over. maybe he forgot about your plans and he’s having dinner with somebody else.

whatever the reason is, you’re too lazy and tired to whip up something edible on your own. with or without him, you’re going out and you’re stuffing your mouth full with rice and meat. after all, autumn is here, your dear old friend.

in search for a coat that will accompany you in your late-night stroll, you enter the walk-in closet and flip on the lightswitch.

you can count them with just your fingers— the amount of times you’ve felt this type of fear. absent eyes, melting spine, chills running to the top of your head down to your fingertips, mind racing with an overload of thoughts (it appears as a blank page, the same way that white is the presence of all colors of visible light). this fear… you associate it with impulsive mistakes, fire, police and ambulance sirens, and… empty closets.

jungkook’s side of the closet is empty.

clothes. shoes. bucket hats. beanies. belts. everything. gone.

but the floor is scattered with random pieces of clothing that look like they accidentally fell while someone was in a rush to pack them all in a bag. so in a rush that they didn’t even bother to pick them up.

your weak knees almost give way, but you force yourself to stumble backwards until your back hits the doorframe— you refuse to let yourself look like you’ve been carelessly discarded too.

not again. not again. not this goddamn vicious curse you thought you’ve already broken out of. not. again.

you blink away the tears threatening to spill as you scramble to open the zipper of your bag, but they spill anyway when your shoes clatter to the floor. you flinch at the thunderous sound, clutching your phone tightly against your chest. you keep your eyes closed throughout the defeaning silence that comes after.

the empty space mocks you. it knows your intricate design was not meant to live in an empty home.

you guess nothing much has changed. you’re still afraid of jungkook and his power to take away the sun, just as he did before, and you deeply despise being afraid. you don’t like it when the walls are closing in on you, poisoning your mind into believing that you’re small when the heart inside your chest burns with a fire brighter than that of the damn sun.

anyone would be foolish to leave you; it’s only jungkook who could have you mourning the death of the garden you’ve given the past five years of your life to.

—

jungkook returns to the apartment half an hour later. despite the long, grueling hours of dance practice he nearly didn’t survive, the excitement vibrating through his body is manifested through the lightness of his movements. he’s finally seeing his lover for the first time today… awake.

when he brought his natural body warmth along with him to the bathroom this morning, you sunk yourself further into mattress, beneath the thick blankets and against the soft pillows. by the time he had to give you your obligatory goodbye kiss before he leaves for work (or else you’d sulk about it for the rest of the week), half of your face has been hidden from sight. he was only able to press a loving kiss on your forehead, and then your eyelids that were fluttering as you dreamt.

night time comes and he is still deprived of the sight of your beautiful face? he somberly wonders as he finds you slumped over the dining table; he swears that there is a dark rain cloud hovering above you. your arms are thrown over the hardwood as they serve as a makeshift pillow for your vessel— his little firefly curiously bleak.

“baby? are you sick?” he asks, voice dripping with concern as he tenderly rubs your back.

the legs of the chair screeches against the tiled floor, neglectedly pushed behind.

“kook?” you manage to choke out, frantically sitting up once your muddled brain registered the familiarity of his touch on your bare skin.

his heart drops to his stomach as your tear-stained face comes into view. this isn’t how he envisioned your greeting; it usually came in the form of a bright light not harsh as the sunlight, a softness that begs to be held.

“are you crying?!”

your reply only comes out as a pitiful whimper. he stumbles a step backwards when you unceremoniously jump into his embrace, wrapping your arms over his shoulders. he gets a whiff of your sweet perfume, and then it becomes the air that he breathes, but he doesn’t have much time to revel in it.

“baby!”

he squeezes your waist taut against his body, affectionately nosing at your cheek before giving you a kiss. “did something happen? tell me- tell me.”

“jungkook,” your voice cracks as you utter his name, sounding almost like a plea, and then an endless string of heartbreaking sobs comes out muffled against his shirt. “where have you been?”

this sends him into a state of panic. seeing you in pain— it’s his biggest weakness. after all, you are his achilles’ heel.

“why? why, why, why?” you’re weak and pliant as he pulls your arms down, collapsing against his chest when he envelopes you in his embrace. he cradles your head in his palm, soothing you with gentle pats and shushes. “shh, shhh- it’s okay, i’m here now. everything’s okay, you hear me?”

his efforts prove to be fruitless, because you only seem to cry harder as he slowly rocks your bodies back and forth.

you shake your head, hands attempting to hold on to the back of his shirt to regain sensation in your limbs, but they miserably fail and fall on the sides of his hips.

“talk to me… please, mhmm?“ he hums quietly, pressing his soft lips to your temple. “tell me what’s wrong and your boyfriend will take care of it.”

from your sniffles to your hiccups, you remain unable to form any coherent response, and it leads his imagination to construct the worst possible scenarios. he feels his stomach turn with uneasiness, jaw clenching as he carefully pulls away to meet you eye-to-eye.

“did someone touch you? hurt you?” he spits out with urgency, and the unparalleled care he displays puts you in a daze, simply dumbfounded as he strokes your face. “huh, baby? just tell me and i’ll take care of the rest.”

now that you’re being reminded that jungkook could quite literally kill a person with his bare hands if they ever inflict harm on you, the fog is clearing up and you feel so incredibly… stupid.

but that’s more the reason why it’s difficult not to be sensitive when it comes to him; his absence proves to be lethal.

“shit, you’re scaring me.” he breathes out shakily as he taps your cheek lightly to bring you back to him, the distant look in your eyes triggering the emergency alarms in his head.

he unconsciously licks his lips and he tastes your tears; he doesn’t want anybody else to ever come this close.

“okay, okay- let’s put that aside for now. what do you need? should we go to bed and rest instead?”

“i thought you left,” you whisper as you hang your head in shame.

he blinks at you in confusion. “to where? my flight isn’t until next week, baby.”

fantastic! now you sound like the most dramatic, clingiest bitch to ever grace the planet. you bury your face in your hands to hide the battle zone between your heart and mind, but your boyfriend seizes your wrists because he can’t bear another second of it.

“is-is that why you’re upset…?” he asks with not a trace of malice or ridicule. he is only filled with guilt as it dawns on him then— how you’ve only gotten used to always having him around four years into your relationship, when he was taking a break from work.

the changes in his life are also changes in yours, but they still affect you in many different ways.

“then just come with me. i’ll make it work. maybe we can extend for a bit, spend an entire day by ourselves- there’s a lot of museu-”

“i thought you left,” you repeat yourself, exposed and vulnerable, vision swallowed by the darkness because you can’t make yourself look at him. “your clothes… they’re gone, and i was calling but you… you weren’t answering my calls so i thought…”

“my clothes?” he exclaims, eyes going wide as he realizes that they’ve accidentally slipped from his mind. “ahh, i thought about cleaning the closet while waiting for you so i moved everything to the other room!”

you open your mouth to speak, but much to your chagrin, no words come out. you purse your lips as your chin wobbles— the new wave of tears in your eyes mimic shiny crystals.

“____!”

and at the stern mention of your name, you know that you’re about to receive a (loving) scolding from your boyfriend. your lips curve into a frown before a sob inevitably escapes past them.

“why would you think that? why would i leave you? that doesn’t make sense at all, does it…?”

you shake your head, hugging him so tight, possibly tighter than you’ve ever done before. between your bodies, his heart is being unbearably wrung.

“i’m sorry, baby. seeing you cry like this breaks my heart…” he closes his eyes with a heavy sigh, resting his cheek on the side of your head. “but why would that be the first thing you think of…? i must be doing something wrong, right? have i been too busy with work? am i neglecting you?”

you’re breathless, a little dizzy— bloodshot eyes meeting his that are now gleaming with sadness. “no, it’s not like that! i just panicked, i couldn’t think straight.”

“are you sure?”

he looks at you skeptically, scanning your face.

“baby-” his voice breaks, then he pauses with his gaze still trained on you. “okay, i’m sorry. i… should’ve thought about what cleaning the closet would look like.”

“i was just being stupid.” you give him a small smile, rubbing your eyes to chase away the burning sensation. “sorry for scaring you.”

“stop, you’ll hurt yourself.” he tuts, pushing your wrists aside to cup your face in his hands, much gentler in comparison to your own self. his thumbs draw shapes on your soft skin, and then out of the blue, he curiously squeezes one of the space buns on top of your head. “wow, this is so pretty?”

“huh…? oh, thanks.” you mumble, still feeling out of it.

“this, too.” the white silk ribbon wrapped prettily around your neck, he means, which he hooks a finger on to tug lightly. it matches the lace straps on your shoulders that falls across the underbust of your dress, tied together to form a ribbon in the middle of it. that makes two, so clasically you.

and while it may be partly true that he’s trying to lighten the atmosphere, he just can’t defy the urge to express his admiration for you, even in a situation like this. he’s perpetually love-drunk.

“thank you.” you nod, shyly looking away to sniffle. “but you’re the reason why my makeup is ruined… need to wash it off before we go.”

“you’re beautiful either way, baby.”

“i know.” you scoff. “would you date me for five years if i wasn’t?”

he releases a throaty chuckle, capturing your lips in his with a smile of endearment that he fails to subdue.

“you’re so fucking cute. i love you-” he says with merely an inch of distance between you.

he grunts in melodramatic anguish, overcome by the insensity of his affections overflowing past the brim of his very being, leaning so close that the edge of the table digs into your lower back, surely to leave a temporary mark.

and he carries on to kiss you so many times that you lose count; you can only melt as you collect them in that bottomless pocket located somewhere in your soul, where all the love you’ve received across lifetimes is recorded to prove i was once here.

“i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you. i’m never leaving. you’re stuck with me and bam forever.”

if the time comes that the two of you break up, who would bam come home to? jungkook stubbornly refuses to have that conversation.

however, you still can’t let go of something, and you pout as you shove him lightly. unsurprisingly, his strong build doesn’t budge at all.

“but why didn’t you answer my calls?” at last, you gain enough energy to complain, but your face grows hot as the urge to cry returns. “i mean, what else was i supposed to think?!”

jungkook is struck by yet another lightning.

may the heavens have mercy, he’s been making you angry more than usual lately.

“shit, i forgot. i turned off my phone.” he mutters under his breath, feeling extremely regretful that he was not reachable when you needed him most to be. “i wanted to focus only on you tonight. what do they call it again…? leaving work at work?”

he winces guiltily.

“i’m sorry. maybe it wasn’t a smart idea.”

“no, i like that.” you almost interrupt him from talking because of how fast you are to brush off his apology.

he makes a mental note of it— the way you’re gripping at his shirt in small fists. you’re tense and overwhelmed; you need him to stay close.

“leave work at work. focus on me, and let me be your rest.”

unbeknownst to you, jungkook bites back his tears then. after all this time, he still gets mesmerized by the tenderness that naturally governs your every word and action; he thinks that he needs you more than you need him.

—

“just eat, baby. i’ll cook the meat for us.” jungkook coos at you as he cuts more meat into bite-sized pieces using a pair of kitchen shears.

“okay, then i’ll make sure that you eat.” you grin excitedly, dragging your chair closer to his.

you set down the tongs, grabbing your chopsticks to pick up a cooked piece of pork belly from the grill. you don’t forget to blow on it, mindful of burning his tongue.

of course, you don’t want to hurt him, but it would be especially painful for him as a singer.

“ahhh-” still busy with cooking, jungkook opens wide at your cue, catching the meat in between his teeth.

“rice,” he demands as he chews.

you scoop up rice from your bowl, and he devours it happily as he continues to flip the strips of pork belly lined up across the grill.

“mmhmm, it’s so delicious!” he dramatically says out loud. his eyebrows are knitted together and his legs are bouncing under the table, tell-tale signs of him enjoying the food.

witnessing this kind of reaction, any chef would be happy to slave away in the kitchen to serve him a meal. you recognize it in the smile of the owner after jungkook ordered more side dishes, and the way he dashed through the door to reduce the waiting time.

“yah, feed yourself, too!” jungkook chides you after you feed him meat three times in a row, but with an open palm that catches the juice that drips from the kimchi, you still tap your chopsticks against his lips. he spares it a glance before catching it using his tongue.

“i am!” you then rush to wrap a piece of pork belly in lettuce, dipping it into ssamjang before stuffing it into your mouth.

“good job, baby.” he grins in satisfaction, rubbing your back as praise. this makes you preen. “make sure to eat lots, got it?”

but then you’re back to spoiling him rotten, this time with an egg roll. so far, he has only touched his own chopsticks twice.

“i just told you to eat first!”

you glare at him, pouting. “but you worked so hard practicing today and you haven’t even eaten properly yet.”

he is too busy with work, and it’s not news that you’ve been worried sick about his health. it’s difficult to watch him work himself to the bone, but no one truly has the power to stop jungkook from doing what he wants, sometimes not even himself. and you find it impossible to fault him for it when you know that everything he does is done out of love. from the vigorous vocal and dance lessons, and to the deep cleaning of the apartment because his baby has been developing an allergy to dust.

“you need to make it up to your body. here, please?”

he loves being loved, jungkook thinks to himself as he eats the egg roll whole.

—

you were already prepared to go home after dinner, but your night owl for a boyfriend insisted on going on a walk at the park because he wanted to, and you quote, ‘see you awake for a little while longer,’ or whatever the hell he meant by that.

with his tattooed arm protectively swung over your shoulder, you’re engulfed in a wave of nostalgia. for the first two years of your relationship, before you started living together, you only met with each other at night, save for the very rare day-offs that he got. the only places that are still open after midnight are nightclubs, fastfood chains, convenience stores… and well, parks.

and he would always hold you close like this to make you feel safe, and the rest of you melts away while the side of your ribcage that he is pressed against remains to shelter your heart. on the contrary, you also remember how your bodies used to be so tense. you wanted to sacrifice more sleep and to walk to the other side of the park, of the street, to that other convenience store five blocks away because this one didn’t have the flavor of ice cream you wanted, anything… just… anything so you could be with each other ten minutes more.

and it was cold. it was always cold.

“what do you mean ‘it exploded’?”

“it seriously exploded! it was on fire! that’s why i went out to buy a new extension cord!”

“jungkook, it’s because you plug in too many things at once!” you cry out in frustration, your steps becoming heavy stomps. “i told you to stop doing that!”

“what do you mean? if it has six slots, doesn’t that mean six devices is the maximum?” he continues to stubbornly defend himself, and you can only hang your head in defeat. “otherwise, it’s a scam!”

“it is a scam! see…? they made you buy a ne-”

your sentence is cut short as your tongue gets paralyzed.

a dark and striped, long figure approaching ahead, slithering its across the grass.

your mind immediately registers it as the animal you fear most.

oh, no. no, no, no, no, no.

“jungkook,” you utter his name with a tremble.

the same fear you experienced only two hours ago holds you hostage once more, add all the hair in your body standing up and you’re as frightened as a cat.

“what’s wrong? yah! what are you doing?! baby, ba- fuck!” he sputters out as you forcefully pull him back along with you, displaying a type of strength and agility he doesn’t normally see.

the two of you continue to stumble backwards as you struggle to maintain balance, and somehow jungkook manages to switch your positions so that you’re the one who lands on top him instead of the other way around when you eventually end up as a heap on the soft earth.

he begins to feel his throat closing up at the sight of pure, genuine fear in your eyes.

“jungkook, snake- it’s small bu-”

you interrupt your own sentence with a high-pitched squeal, garnering looks from strangers moving and unmoving. in the blink of an eye, your boyfriend has swept you off your feet as if you’re light as a feather, driven by the instinct to protect the love of his life.

you cover your mouth in shock, your other arm coming up around his neck to keep yourself from falling.

you think you may have fallen for jungkook all over again.

“are you spiderman?”

he was too busy searching for the subject of your fear under dim lights, and so he looks at you in bewilderment to ask, “what was that?”

you shake your head with your wide eyes shining with faux innocence. you squeak. “nothing.”

he releases a sigh, followed by a chuckle of obvious relief and amusement as he squeezes your body closer to plant a kiss on your forehead. “aigoo, my ____! why are you so scared today? what am i going to do with you…? it’s just a worm.”

“are you sure? i swear i saw it raise its head!“

“i’m sure,” he lulls you. “i think worms can do that, too?”

your face twists in an expression of mixed bewilderment and distrust.

“that i’m not sure about, but it’s really just a worm! would i still be standing here if it wasn’t?” he clicks his tongue sharply. “we need to get your eyes rechecked.”

you roll your eyes with a huff. you’ve have had enough of his teasing before it even starts.

“uh?! i’m serious over here!”

this is new— you mean bickering with jungkook in a public place isn’t, but being carried by him like a bride while it happens definitely is.

“fine, i’ll go this weekend. happy?” you fake an obedient smile. “you can put me down now.”

he blinks, and then he adjusts the way he’s holding you to ensure that your dress won’t show what’s for his eyes only— for a split second, you were flying.

“i’ll go with you,”

“okay. now put me down.“ you tap his shoulder repeatedly to prompt him to heed your words. “babe, this is embarrassing!”

“nope,” he ignores your protest with nonchalance as he resumes to walk the path you’re on, evidently enjoying the attention he’s stealing and the way you’re curling yourself smaller to hide.

“oh my god! weren’t you just complaining about your body hurting?!”

“you were scared of me leaving,” he smiles, glancing down at you. “so now i’m gluing you to myself.”

that made you quiet for a while. inside your tote, the container of kimchi, wrapped in a plastic bag, rattles with his every stride. you noticed that jungkook loved it so much, so you ordered it to go when he went to the bathroom before you were to leave the restaurant.

“you know, we used to just hold hands,” you mumble with a childish pout. “like normal people?”

“this is very normal,” he argues.

the scenery becomes more familiar as he takes the long way home.

“some would even say romantic.”

a wave of nostalgia hits, and you visibly shiver.

you don’t know if he would remember, but he has said the same exact words once before.

you scrunch your nose, supposedly to give him a look of disgust, but a giddy smile betrays you. you are five years younger again, and the night ends with the moon bidding you an adieu.

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

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#jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook drabble #jungkook one shot #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts fluff #bts reaction #jungkook smut

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cherry-leclerc · 6 days

Text

cherry cola ☆ op81

genre: smut, humor, yearning, tiny bit of fluff, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, experienced!oscar, sub!reader (for a while!), dom!oscar (for a while!)

word count: 8.5k

After a painful break up, Oscar finds himself head-to-head with an enticing girl, filled with pure innocence. Also known as, his parents secret weapon, and his worst temptation.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...f!receiving, fingering, brief mentions of masturbation, face riding, missionary sex, doggy style

inspired by this !

cherry here!... hellooo anons, long time, no see haha sorry for the lack of posts, but hopefully this makes up for it, somehow? formal apology for my last post too while we're at it. though this fic is inspired by cola by lana del rey, it will not have a sour ending like past fics (iykyk). missed u all, so here ya go! enjoy :)

There is an apprehensive sensation that towers over him as soon as she walks in; shy mannered, tall, and firm with a hint of hesitation—it’s something he adores about her, but also something that has him feeling jittery. Oftentimes, her lips are his most prized possession, enjoying the way they move. All except at this very moment.

Everyone notices his bitter, broken, and quiet mood despite always laying low. He’s never been one to share his problems with others, and he most definitely was not going to start now. It should be the best moment of the season—his first win—but he doesn’t have the joy to celebrate it with anyone.

Oscar’s brown eyes are low and dull; empty. He’d be a damn liar if he said he didn’t see any of this coming. If he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt and misery. Should he have been more attentive, a better boyfriend, then he wouldn’t be regretting his life choices. Dramatic, but true.

“How are you spending your summer break? Are you and Lily traveling?”

The Australian tries to scoff at the innocent inquiry beaming from his teammate, but he settles with a wince, not being able to hide it. “She, um…we broke up, actually.” He’s never been a religious individual—has never even set foot inside a church—but for the first time in his life, he prayed no more questions would be asked.

Lando raises his thick brows, clearly surprised by the sudden confession. Sure, they were a private couple—likely the most in the entire paddock—but he never saw this coming from Oscar and Lily. Though he only met her a couple of times, simply exchanging a kind greeting, he would’ve bet his entire Rolex collection that the couple were smitten with one another. “Ah, I’m sorry, mate.”

The rude sound of his race suit being zipped up harshly makes the Brit flinch in the slightest. “Don’t worry about it. That’s life, no?”

Costa Rica—they were supposed to go to Costa Rica. Instead, now, he sits alone on a flight back to his home country. He’s ecstatic to be sleeping in his childhood room with outdated posters hung of all his favorite drivers, but the feeling lingers.

Sprawled like a koala, humid t-shirt pressed against his skin, he tosses and turns for an estimate of five whole minutes. He should be enjoying the beach, sipping on highly sweetened margaritas, getting the worst tan of his life, but he’s here. The hot summer air in Melbourne makes him spit out a string of dirty curses that would send his mum into a coma.

The brunette might as well be an only child since not a single one of his three sisters were here to keep him company, ditching him with his parents. He loved them, of course he did, but a full house was his ideal way to spend his break. His home gym isn’t even enough to help him forget, even for a second.

“Dinner is ready, honey,” Nicole announces, peeking carefully through the crack of the door. She grins widely. “There’s even pavlova—your favorite.”

He forces a polite nod, shaggy hair dangling just above his eyes. “Thank you. I’ll be out in a bit.” It actually takes a sum of thirty-minutes for him to jog down the stairs, a strong scent of apple expanding from his now washed hair. His dad hums as soon as he spots the McLaren driver.

“It’s rude to leave guests waiting, Oscar,” he warns with a deep voice.

The twenty-three year old assumes it’s a lame dad joke, perhaps, so runs along with it, taking a good look around the dining room. “Won’t happen again. I showered—”

“Where would you like to place the dessert, Mrs. Piastri?” a soft voice echoes down the hallway as he turns at the unfamiliar tone. You halt, caught off guard by the new presence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you would be here.”

“In my own home?” he finds himself squeaking involuntarily. The stern look that dances across his parents faces is enough for him to bite down on his tongue. He doesn’t even know why he said any of that—especially to a stranger.

They introduce you two quickly, though you’re just as fast as to say that you obviously knew about his existence. Do you follow my races? You shake your head, glossy hair shining. “I work for your parents, so…I sort of know. Plus, your sisters always talk highly about you when you’re gone.”

He blinks. “You work here?” Brown eyes flicker to his parents, confusion written all over. “What could she possibly do?”

“Oscar,” Nicole scolds. “I thought you left all the unnecessary questions back in junior high.”

Chris slides a large hand over her smaller one, calming her down just a tad bit. The older man sighs. “You know your mum, always looking for something new to do—”

“I wanted to grow a garden!” she squeals, delighted. “Like in all those magazines you get me for my birthday—oh, so lovely, honey. Only I realized, I don’t know anything about gardening.”

“And this lovely girl standing right here is a total natural. Her hands must be magic.” Oscar blushes hard at his dads choice of words. “She’s helping us out for the time being. Until we get back.”

The Australian's mouth opens, then snaps back shut, swallowing. “Get back from where?”

“Costa Rica!”

He gapes. “You’re using my tickets?”

Nicole winces. “Can’t let them go to waste, honey…”

His father butts in. “How is Lily by the way?”

The brunette groans, running his hands through his waves. “How should I know? Come on, you guys can’t be serious.” The tickets weren’t the problem; the fact that they were leaving was. He spots you awkwardly placing the pastry down onto the table. “Can you give us a minute?”

“Yes, of course,” you quip, glad to have a reason to flee far enough away from the premises. You turn to the Piastri’s who smile fondly at your understanding. “I’ll be out in the garden.”

As soon as you rush out, the twenty-three year old turns swiftly. “I guess I’m leaving too.”

“Don’t you dare, Oscar Jack Piastri—” He fumes. “Why not? You’re all going to be gone!”

“She won’t—you are keeping her company.” She’s not asking; she’s demanding. Staring back in shock, the McLaren driver avoids eye contact, fidgeting like a kid at their first day of school. His mum stands up, makes her way over, and pecks his soft cheek. “She’s a sweet girl. She won’t be a bother—she’s just down the hallway.”

That’s where Lily would always stay back when they first started their relationship; too afraid of making a bad impression on his parents. He found it adorable. He rolls his eyes and releases a heavy breath. “Fine.” He stares out the glass window, focusing on where you patiently sit on the wooden bench, delicate hands pressing your dress down against your thighs. ��Fine...”

The following morning, his parents wake him up at the crack of dawn, bidding goodbye. It comes as a total surprise, thinking he had a few more days left with them, but no. He’s barely registering any of it before they whisper inaudible nonsense and scurry out of his bedroom.

After some debating, he changes and decides to go on a quick run. The sight of Ms. Alleck watering her burnt grass makes him smile as he sets off. It would have been easier to not get as tired if it were a slight bit chilly, but it’s blazing hot. He cuts it short, dashing back home and immediately serving himself a glass of cold water.

“You’re up early.”

The brown eyed boy jumps in sudden surprise. Standing in a pastel yellow sleeping gown, you grin brightly. Long lashes lay flat, nose pinching rosy pink, and breath minty. “Yeah, my folks sort of woke me up. Couldn’t fall back asleep.”

“Oh.” You pout. “They left already?”

“You knew?”

“Yup. They mentioned it last night before bed.” A beat. “I hope me staying here isn’t making you uncomfortable…it’s just that they offered, and—”

“It’s not.” Lie. “Make yourself at home.”

Not much is seen or heard from him for the majority of the day; occasional glaces coming here and there. They put you in an uncomfortable spot yesterday—you had been working on the garden for a year now, damn it—but their son's demeanor took you by surprise. The pictures and stories were something you relied on as the only source of getting to know him: polite, tall, and swanky—boyish.

That was so far from the truth. Oscar Piastri has grown into his body; almost appearing to be a handsome giant. Despite his warm face, his attitude is a bit snarky. He has no problem in saying what’s on his mind. And he is most definitely not a boy.

He’s a man.

“What do you say?”

“Sorry?”

He chuckles, Adam's Apple dancing up and down. “Would you like to join me for dinner?”

It wasn't his intention to try and get close to you—not purposefully, at least—but he thought; why not? Who knows when his parents are coming back, when his sisters would, and he wanted to prove to you that he wasn’t some snotty guy. Summer is summer, after all. A friend to spend it with sounds quite nice.

Pursing your red lips, you nod, setting your book aside. The dinner table is already set up. Chicken and rice. That’s it. Given, it looks and smells amazing, but plain. You quirk a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to eat your greens? To drive quicker?” He burns up at you teasing tone.

“I didn’t want to risk burning the house down. We’re lucky I was able to get even this done.”

“Very well.” The refrigerator opens, colorful veggies staring back at him. You grin, slow and easy. “I’ll take care of it. It’s only fair, roomie.”

Oscar left home a few years ago, migrating to the United Kingdom for work, so it had been a while since he had stepped foot in his backyard. He faintly remembers his pirate treehouse, his sisters’ Barbie’s cluttered inside. It was a bone-chilling sight for baby Oscar back then, but now, the paint is chipping off, the wood looks a lot weaker. It’s a nostalgic feeling.

The new additions are stunning. A bunch of healthy flowers beam back at him and he swallows when he realizes he can’t name a single one. Waxflowers, Calamint, Dahlias, Peonies, Carnations, California Poppies. One by one, he admires with an open mouth. “They’re beautiful.” He turns to you with a proud smile. “You’ve done an excellent job.”

Pink feathers onto your already blushed cheeks, biting back a cheesy grin. You had decided to eat out on the bench, choosing to enjoy the now fresh air. Still humid, but less than before. The scent of coconut sunscreen makes his whiff constantly. “So…Costa Rica?”

He winces. It was too soon to talk about the situation, but something in your calm voice makes it easier to spit it out even though you probably already heard from his parents. All of a sudden, your savory carrots taste like complete shit. “T’was supposed to go with my girlf—my ex. My ex-girlfriend.”

You pout, sorrowfully. “Oh, I’m sorry, Oscar. I didn’t mean to…I had no clue.” And it’s genuine. Guess his parents were complete traitors.

“Tell me—how long have you been working on fixing the garden?”

“Since last summer,” you hum, chewing down on a piece of grilled chicken. “This is the first time I have actually stayed here, though. Your parents are sweet. As soon as they heard that you were coming back home, they insisted I kept you company.”

Sharp jaw clenches and he scoffs. You simply blink back innocently. Then, he notices it. The way it reflects against the yellow ray of the now setting sun. He knows what it is, so he doesn’t ask. Too busy staring off into the distance, you place your plate down. “Let me show you a few other things I’ve been working on.”

There’s row and row, further into the open area; every twist and turn makes his brows raise up higher, impressed by the noticeable updates. Coming to a halt, he spins his head around, brown locks hitting his temples. “Since when do we have a cherry tree?”

You beam, orbs shining with excitement. “Since last summer!” you repeat, cheerfully. You pick one, handing it for him to try. An embarrassing moan erupts once the sweet nectar slides down his throat. “Good?”

“Bloody amazing.” Every compliment makes you squeal with delight. “My mum is actually allergic to cherries, so how…”

“She was actually the one who brought it up. Said she knew how much I loved them, and that I deserved a little something for flourishing her garden. I couldn’t deny the chance to do so.” You bite down on your lip, sheepishly. “They are my favorite.”

Reaching for one makes him look away as soon as your dress rises up, soft legs poking through. Bare feet press against the wet grass as you tippy toe. He mustered a fake cough, but as soon as you bite down onto the bloody fruit, he clicks into a trance.

Plump lips; thick and juicy. Long lashes fluttering shut against your glossy cheeks. That could have been because of the summer heat, but it affected him just the same. The familiar sensation of attraction rushes to his cock as he stands stiffly—but also loosely. He was loose. So fucking loose.

Something hits his cheekbones and it rips him away from his drooling. A singular seed now lays by his feet; indicating what you had done. A crinkled, wobbly smile shines back at him, hands nervously flattening your dress back down. The Australian jokingly lunges towards you as you squeal, backing away.

“You were disintegrating! I had to get your attention one way or another!”

Oh, she definitely got his attention. Giving you one final scowl, he stops his steps. “Everything—all of it—it’s great. Thank you.” The wind picks up and you shiver. “...for doing this for my parents.”

Neat hair flies against the breeze, covering your eyes for a minute. Pushing it aside, you scrunch your nose faintly. “Anytime.”

Technically, what you’re getting paid for was to watch over the beloved yard; that’s all. But you offer to do more. Mow the lawn? Paint the chipped wall? Wash the windows?

“God no, darling,” Oscar’s mum laughs through the end of the line. “You are doing enough already. Please. Relax.”

But you can’t. Nibbling on your thumb, you brush the counter, strolling past countless family portraits. A smile slips when you spot a toothless Oscar. “I insist.”

So, here you are; decluttering the attic. After a bit of bickering with Nicole, she eventually gives in and asks for a favor. Clean and tidy the small room. Easy peasy.

“Ouch,” you hiss when a nail digs through your skin, gore immediately pouring out of you like a waterfall; you squeak. Just then, a certain brunette peeks their head through the entrance. “Oh good, it’s you. I thought we had an intruder.”

Raising a skeptical brow at him and the thin duvet, you quickly take it from him, pressing it down to ease the bleeding. “Holy crap, are you okay?” In one motion, he steps closer to you, analyzing the injury with worried eyes. You groan.

“It’s only a little cut. No biggie.” But the way your face is slowly losing color lets him know that your words aren't true. Brown eyes flicker, searching for a spot to sit, but everything about this is crowded. You were just about to start tidying; the mess was still there. Crouching onto a tiny stool, he takes a seat, somehow still towering over you. Or at least that's what it felt like, because suddenly, you felt suffocated.

His long legs are spread as you stand between them, hand out towards him as he winces at the brutal cut. “Ah—that’s pretty deep.” He gags when he notices the underneath flesh. You suppress a giggle. “We should go to the ER.”

You scoff, ripping away from his grip, tripping over a box. Regaining your balance, you drape the cloth over your hand once again. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be right back.”

After rinsing your hand with alcohol, covering the wound with the largest bandaid to ever exist, and balling your eyes out, you make your way back up. The Australian is drenched in sweat, huffing and puffing. “Got it,” he pants. Confused, you tilt your head to the side, but that’s when you pick out the nail in the palm of his hand. You blink, too bewildered to make sense of how he retrieved it without the help of a hammer. “I also found lots of old trophies. Extremely bittersweet.”

“Why’s that?” you hum, kneeling down next to him, reading through the labels. Each makes you more and more dazzled.

A minute passes by. “Because I grew up.”

“That’s…sad.” Shrugging, he digs for more. He laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Dear G—I forgot this even existed!”

Oscar’s 81 Things To-Do During the Summer [List]

Learn how to bike.

Learn the Australian National Anthem (Sophie will be beautifully impressed)

Get better at being more outgoing (Mum is worried)

So on and so forth. “You were an extremely creative lad. Eighty-one things to do…eh.” A tongue click. “Possibly buy a pet dragon?”

He cringes. “Not all were realistic. I actually never really got around to it. Mainly added, if anything.”

Crimson red flashes. “I, um, I could tell.”

69. Oscar Piastri, you know what I mean.

The brunette chokes on his saliva, yanking it away as fast as he can. Standing up to his full height, he rolls up the piece of paper and points towards the exit. “I think I should, um…yeah. See ya.”

“Yeah.” He dashes off. “See you…”

Eighteen-year old Oscar was a horny bastard. But every guy that age is, so it’s not really fair to feel bad about his list. The writing is obviously his, but the things jotted down made him almost feel like it wasn’t. Blowjobs? Hand jobs? What was he thinking?

And then, there was you—a curious cat. He had to be a virgin; he just had to. Why else would he be embarrassed? You weren’t one to judge, though. You knew nothing about the sexual world, having never partaken. The thin band wrapped around your ring finger is enough proof.

And no—you weren’t married.

It would have been absolutely diabolical to mention sex in your household growing up. Being Roman Catholics is no joke, believing religiously to wait until marriage. You never had a problem with that; you would wait. Doesn’t mean you didn’t know what any of the common terms meant. Sort of.

Only now—for the first time in your life—there it was.

Temptation.

The McLaren driver was no newbie. He has had his fair share of experiences; before Lily, with Lily. He knew just about anything and everything. His good-boy act was no facade. At times he didn’t like that about himself, but it’s who he was. Obeyed the rules. Never crossed the line with anyone he wasn’t romantically linked to. And yet…

There you were.

The flowers were perfect; only needing to be watered. The cherry tree was much more…complicated. The chances of animals recklessly hunting for the sweet fruit was high, the chances of the red drupes rotting also was. Therefore, you spent most of your time there.

Maybe you were avoiding him; you told yourself you were already horrified at the dirty thoughts taking over like the plague. And perhaps he was doing the same; he had only been locked in his room for the past three hours.

Golden hour. With your hands on your hips, you squint, admire the polished drupes, tickling with water. Walking back to the bench, you lay down, picking up on your reading, occasionally taking sips from your Cherry Cola.

Pacing the small bedroom, Oscar mutters to himself. Maybe she didn’t read all of it. Maybe she doesn't know what it means. Yeah—he was exaggerating. Clicking his window open, he gasped for needed air. As soon as he spots you reading, he grunts.

White skirt brushes down your smooth legs, challenging the sun to see who shines the brightest. Lips wrap around the glass bottle, puckering in the slightest. And he wonders; would you taste as sweet as the cool beverage?

He’s a grown man; an adult. There’s no need to be uncomfortable. Sex was a part of everyone's day to day life. He was the one making it a bigger deal than it actually was. Still, he slips on a pair of sunglasses, perched perfectly onto the bridge of his nose.

“Is it any good?”

His voice makes you flinch, dropping the book flat on your face. A tiny groan rings through the air. Flashing him a weak smile, you sit up straight, fixing your clothes. “Want one? There’s plenty in the fridge.”

He had noticed, of course he had. Never in a million years did he think he'd see his refrigerator stocked up with the sweet drink. He never cared enough to ask who they belonged to; figured they would just expire.

Wavy hair swings back and forth when he shakes his head. “Gotta keep in shape.” I see, you murmur, loopy eyes peeking over at him, taking another gulp. The sizzling feeling is utterly childish compared to what he’s making you feel. The burning sensation between your legs is annoying and painful, you almost want to plead for help. “I meant the book, by the way.”

“No!” You laugh, nervously. “I mean…it’s alright?”

After he stormed off and left you a breathless puddle, you biked and biked—until you hit the local bookstore. You weren’t looking for anything in particular, simply browsing, but as soon as you reached the section of Erotic Literature, you stopped.

So many—many—wrong choices. Still, humiliated, you paid and fiercely ran out. Maybe this was some sort of punishment for reading what you’re reading; had to be. And Oscar asking questions wasn’t helping. Licking your berry lips, you swallow a thick layer. “What have you been up to?”

Fuck, he moans, large hand sliding up and down his cock; more and more pleasure intensifying. Your tiny dresses. Your short skirts. Your angelic face. The way your lips would separate before every sentence. Your sweet scent that would have normally given him a headache, but instead made him chase after you like a dog.

Finishing all over his thighs, he shudders. White liquid never looked more sinister than at this very moment. After changing, he paces the room with regret.

Pushing the frames further into his face, he hums. “Oh, you know. Just… cleaning up my room.”

It’s been a week in a half now and you’re happy to announce that you have fallen into a routine. While Oscar did his daily workout, you would make breakfast. While you worked on the garden, he cooked dinner. Though, he was unbeknownst over the way you would drool over him when he would walk out the door; a compressed shirt hugging his built body tightly, arms begging to be kissed. You were unaware of the way he would rub his face in desperation when you walked out, banging his head purposefully against the cabinet; the way you would skip out with your book and infamous drink, or how you would prettily tie up your hair before you even got started.

It was a mess.

A mocking mess.

This afternoon though, you aren’t flying out the door to the yard, but rather frolicking over to Ms. Alleck, ready to assist. I try my best, but they always wilt! Could it be the humidity? Laughing, you toss your hair up into a bun, messy strands poking out as you cock your head to the side. “Could be, but don’t you worry. We’ll find a way to make it work. Promise.”

He had always known you were kind, gentle, soft spoken…pure. And you doing this only added to his attraction. It’s salad, spaghetti, and salmon that afternoon. Sweaty, you pant. I’m going to squeeze in a shower real quick. But you weren’t sweaty, like you believe; you were glistening.

“This is so cute,” you chirp, sitting cross cross in the old treehouse. A few spider webs make your blood run cold, but he quickly took care of it, apologizing. The brunette blushes.

“I wanted to use it one last time. Before we get rid of it.” Neat brows furrow. “It’s just that it’s old—only a matter of time before it plunges down.” “What?”

“O-obviously not now!”

After a bit more convincing, you finally relax and enjoy the way the crickets sing against the night. Small feet press against the wall, white tube socks turning slightly brown from the lack of sweeping. For a moment, he shuts his lids, breaths shallow, body loose. The high temperature almost made him feel as if he was cuddling into the warmest blanket; it felt nice.

Whoops, you mumble when hollow glass pounds against the wooden floor. He perks up at the sound, brown eyes burning with high alert. “You do shit on purpose?” he screeches when he detects scarlet blood. Wincing in pain, you curl your hand towards the hem of your dress.

“Help me,” you plead, slight annoyance written all over your face. He must’ve broken the world record of running into the house to retreat the first aid kit, and running right back to you. The way he sanitizes the skin, to the way he wraps your hand with a gauze pad, is honestly hilarious.

“What so funny?” he murmurs, attention never leaving the wound.

“Mmm. Nothing.” He snickers and you giggle harder. “It just seems as if I’m making you a professional. You ought to be ready if anyone else needs your help to treat injuries.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll tell them a certain klutz made me learn from day to night with all her clumsiness.” His voice drops, laced with concern. “Seriously though—you were just healing. You have to be careful.”

Plump lips part with the sound of his delicate voice, accent almost disappearing. Wandering eyes admire the way his brows are knitted together and orbs soften. Swallowing, you nod. “I will.”

“Good.”

The once vibrant room is now hazy and suffocating. Does he not know what kind of effect he has on you? The type of power he holds? Oscar doesn’t seem to, though, with the way he chugs down his entire glass of water. Stuck in a trance, your hand briskly reaches out for your own drink. He roars with laughter, clutching his stomach. “You just broke your bottle, you don’t have a drink anymore.” He picked up the Cherry Cola you had offered, but he had declined. “Take mine.”

You don’t put up a fight, simply allow him to open and give it to you. The sweet drink doesn’t do a great job at hydrating your foaming mouth, but it helps as a distraction. On the other hand, the brunette can’t seem to not watch the ways your lips suck in and out, eagerly. As if this were the only source of air. He shudders.

“We should probably head down…”

Wiping your lips with the back of your hand, you comply, already standing up. From the floor, he has a good view of your legs; long, soft, sweetly scented. He wonders if you use honey as lotion because that would explain his urge to nuzzle his face against them. Picking up the broken glass and plates, you turn back. “Coming?”

A sigh rings through the air once, and suddenly—he’s cradling your face with high intensity and lust, molding his lips against yours. Tomato sauce stains his shirt and your dress from the plates that still remain between you two. One second, you're wide eyed, and then the next, you're allowing yourself to kiss him back.

You want to cry with how pleasant the feeling feels and he wants to scream with how much he wants to fuck you. But alas, one of you pulls away first—you can’t really tell who— and you’re both left gasping for air. Completely winded and fucked.

You both are fucked.

The treehouse comes crashing down the day after your first kiss. Yes, first kiss. You would like to blame him and say that he stole it from you, but the arousal that was dripping between your thighs last night was a clear indication that you could never actually say so because you liked it so much.

The wooden house tearing down is something you take as a sign; you’ve sinned. Okay, maybe that was a bit too dramatic, but you were honestly thinking about it. That night you dreamt of the wildest things imaginable; his pretty face in between your legs, large hands squeezing your perky breasts, fingers swirling inside your velvety walls, cock tearing you in half.

It was unacceptable.

So, while Oscar worked on picking up the tiles with a hometown buddy, you marched right over to beg for forgiveness. Kneeling down against the cushion, you say a silent prayer.

I don’t want to think like this—not when I know I can help it, but God this is getting way too out of hand. And you know I’m not like this, you know that! But he just—AGH. Maybe it’s his personality that makes him so attractive, or maybe it’s his sudden growth spurt, but please let me get a hold of myself. He’s just a friend, he’s just a friend—HE’S JUST A FRIEND.

“Would you mind keeping your words to yourself, sweetheart?” an older lady whispers, two rows ahead of you.

Pink feathers onto your cheeks. “Oh, yes, of course! I’m so sorry…”

I don’t ever ask for much, no, that’s never been necessary, but I am now. So please. Hear me when I say: Push this desire I have, far, far, far away.

If you were to say, there was a ninety percent chance that you would walk away. Not even spare him a passing glance. He would call you out on it later, but whatever—too late. Ignored you, you say? No, really I did? I had no idea, I’ll make sure to not let it happen again!

If Oscar were to say, there was a ninety-nine percent chance that he would let you walk away. He didn’t need your company; he was doing just fine. But then again, that one percent tugs at him like the devil on his shoulder.

“Hey. You’re back.” Cool. Calm. Collected.

“Oh! I suppose I am.” Cool. Utter. Mess.

He grins, eyes crinkling like the leaves that hang upon the crimson tree. Signaling up, he cocks his head in deep thought. “Just finished. Cole said his uncle could shred…” A pause. “He owns a massive wood chipper.”

Blinking like a deer in headlights, you chew on your bottom lip, simply nodding along. “Sounds good? I think. No. Yes. Very good.” You wince at all the uncontrolled mumbo-jumbo. “I’m sorry I was no help, too. I had to…talk to the man up above.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. That must be why your pretty little knees are bruised.”

Your breath comes to a harsh halt, ears burning like a wildfire. The Australian just keeps his brown eyes set on the tree for a second longer before turning to face you. Quickly, you relax your muscles. “You could make up for it by helping me with something else.”

You gulp. Suddenly, your mouth is overflowing with hot saliva. “With what?”

Dark orbs glue onto your delicate figure, a slight smirk playing out. And it looks so unfamiliar, not his own, that you create a distance. And just like that, it’s gone. Vanished just as fast as it slipped onto his pink lips. “Get on.” He crouches down and your jaw drops.

“Wha—like onto your shoulders?” Rolling his eyes in a goofy manner, he nods, picks you up safely, and places you on top. You screech, dizzy by the sudden altitude. “Put me down!”

“You’re fine. Just help me reach those. Been craving them all day,” he murmurs, voice raspy. The twenty-three year old is still slightly sweaty from his hard labor, and that’s clear when you cling onto his brown locks. Other than that, you’re as high as a kite; both figuratively and literally.

You’ve known—seen—how tall and broad the Australian was, but being perched onto his wide shoulders was a sweet confirmation you couldn’t help but enjoy. “Move a bit forward.” He follows instructions, wide hands gripping onto your thighs to keep you steady. You giggle when a few fruits hit your face. “Watch it—and don’t you dare drop me.”

“Get,” he commands.

About three minutes pass by. You rip the cherries carefully, candy aroma filling the air, and plop them onto the basket. By all accounts, you’re well aware of your actions. The basket was full, now overflowing, really, and you could plant your ballet flats back onto the tall grass—but you don’t.

There’s something about feeling his touch; high electricity, shock waves nipping at your skin, soft pants. It’s pathetic how much you crave any ounce of physical touch he’s willing to give you, unknowingly.

“That should be good,” you whisper, meekly. He doesn’t respond, just swings you down as you let out a yelp. All of a sudden, you’re magically magnetic. And he wonders; if only. You hand the basket over, waiting nervously for him to thank you, at least.

“Thank you,” he feels himself saying. “What do you say we play a little game? No prize. Only bragging rights.”

“O-okay.”

A singular cherry is handed over. He grins. Can you tie a knot using your tongue? “Wait—are you being serious?”

The red fruit dissolves inside his mouth, spitting the seed somewhere far enough away. Then, the stem flips into his mouth. “Come on. I’ll give you a head start.”

With wary hands, you rip the stem away from your own drupe, fitting the thin stick into your suddenly dry mouth. He stares intently, clenching his jaw, “Go on. Ten seconds.” Quickly, your lips start to move, twisting and turning. Pouting, then sucking back in. Your low breaths become heavy after a few tries. You think you’re getting it done right, the sudden ball forming is enough for you to guess that you must be doing something correct.

The sound of his low mewls is what ends you. Doe eyes flicker up to face him, paying close attention to how his brown eyes wander up at the sky in concentration, occasionally squinting due to the bright sun. You can feel a thin layer of sweat hug you like a blanket as your movements slow down; a snail's pace compared to before.

For good measure, you fake your twists as you continue to simply admire. Too far gone, you blink hastily when he sticks his pink tongue out towards you, a stinking knot sitting nicely atop.

“I won.”

Gulp. “You sure did. Good job, Oscar.”

Long lashes flutter shut momentarily, head tossed back, sighing. “It wasn’t a fair fight. You weren’t doing anything. Other than staring at my lips.”

Flustered, you dig your hand into the bucket. “That’s not true! At all. At all, at all.” You munch harder, splitting a seed in half. You spit it out sourly. “You're just better at using your mouth than I am.”

It goes straight to his cock, your words. Opening his eyes, the brunette scrunches his nose. You’re avoiding his gaze. You’re good at doing that. A pro. But it leaves him to wonder some more. And that itself was dangerous when it dawned on him.

He doesn’t like daydreaming anymore.

“Fuck it,” he grunts, kissing you harshly, like the night before. And you thought that blew your mind, but this? This left you gasping and reaching out for him even though he was pressed right against you. You could feel him buzzing, pinching your hips against his large hands. It’s perfect.

You don’t really understand how you end up straddling him on the grass, green straining your knees as you grind harder onto him, forcing your skin to burn with each stroke. This—this—must be as good as it gets. There can’t be more, but you weren’t complaining. It was enough.

When his fingers dance underneath your dress, you halt, and everything comes crashing down. “No,” you pant. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Why is that, baby?” he mumbles, lost on sucking the side of your neck. Looking up, his straight brows drew in together with concern. “What is it?”

“It’s just that…I’m—” Why is it so hard to admit? Brushing a strand of hair away, you purse your lips. “I’m a virgin, Oscar. It’s odd, I know, but I can’t sleep with you.”

“You think I didn’t know that?’

You freeze. “What?”

His thumbs circle your thighs, gently, swooning with how soft you feel. “I figured you were. Your purity ring sort of gave it away.” You blush hard, rolling off of him, playing with the thin band.

“I wish I could do this—God, I really want to—but I can’t.”

Respecting your decision, he pats your hand with reassurance. The hot feeling remained between your legs and the pain between his. This was torture, you both know that, but what was there to do? It’s awkward for a while, that is, until he starts asking you about things that shouldn’t make you glow with happiness.

How was your day? I want to hear all about it. Do you think it’s bad to eat an entire bucket of drupes? Must be, right? In the long run? Hey, would you mind teaching me how to garden? You make it look intriguing.

That seems to do it for you. Everything you ever promised flies out the window as you climb back onto his thick lap, and this time, he’s surprised by your actions. Clumsy fingers try their best to unzip his pants, but he only stutters against your kisses. N-no, we don’t have to rush anything. I, you, we—

“Shit, o-okay,” he sighs when you finally touch him, even in the slightest. He may be touch deprived, but so were you, so how far would any of this go? Flipping you over to lay against the tall grass, he winks teasingly and that effectively makes your heartbeat quicken. “Relax, sweetheart. Do that for me, yeah? Can you?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

The McLaren drivers press a kiss on the inside of your thighs before licking them. You shiver, though try your best to even your breaths. You shut your eyes, maybe if you act hard enough, you could somehow convince yourself that this wasn’t a war itself. To see how long you’d last. No—you would last. You had to.

“I’ve thought about it.” He slips your panties down, inch by inch. “A lot, as of lately. If you would taste just as sweet as I imagined. As sweet as those Cherry Cola’s you're overly obsessed with.” And he dives in, licking your arousal clean as you pant, chest heaving up and down like an erupting volcano.

What were you supposed to feel—relaxed? In a frenzy? Most likely the latter because considering the way he was making your head spin said it all. The sounds he’s making forces you to involuntarily shut your legs around his face and his hand that now lies between you two. The stretch is a burning sensation that leaves you both gasping and moaning; it’s too much, but not enough.

More. Grinning up from in between your legs, he shakes his head full of curls, all thanks to the Aussie weather, and your dirty foreplay. “Does it feel good?” You whimper. “Good—good, baby. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Velvet walls clench around his long digits. “Hey, hey, look at me.”

Once your soft orbs connect to his intoxicating ones, his cock grows harder. “Okay, listen, it’s going to hurt a little bit, okay? But that’s completely normal; it’s like a…a stingy feeling. Do you understand?” I do, you pant. He grits his teeth when his calloused fingers brush against your g-spot and your head lolls back, exposing your sharp clavicle. He itches to mark you all over. “Do you want it, then?”

A zing. “Fuck, Oscar. I fucking want you.”

The brown eyed boy is all over you, kissing you up and down, gripping you tighter. It was an addiction in its truest form. For a split second, you frown when he slips out of you, but as soon as he starts unzipping his pants, you feverishly lick your lips.

It dawns on you that you aren’t scared, nervous, or anything; you’re bubbling with excitement. You watch carefully as he jerks himself off a bit, his already large girth growing bigger. How is that possible? “I’ll start with the tip.” Leaning down, he pecks your pouty lips and you smile. “Let me know if it’s too much, we’ll stop and take a break. Or do anything, really,” he adds, cheekbones flushing red.

“I’ll be okay,” you whisper. “I swear.”

You were being skinned alive, it was excruciating pain. You know he notices it when he starts brushing your hips, hoping to comfort you in some sort of way. Heavy breaths, numb lips from biting too hard, exposed breasts arching straight for him. He didn’t know whether to enjoy this or worry.

“Breath, darling, breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. There you go,” he congratulates, admiring your shaky breath. “You’re doing so good.”

“Osc, move…please.”

There was no more confirmation necessary that you were ready to go. His hips find motion, thrusting into you slowly. Nails scratch down his back as you moan loudly, almost yelping. “Y-you’re so big.” So, so, so, so big. “So good.”

Nearly animalistic, he releases a grunt, pounding deeper into you, getting lost with the way you hug him tightly. You mewl, pressing your naked chest against his, and he nearly slips from his hands being set on top of the cold grass, but it was beautiful torture, all at once.

From the way you tremble, to the way you look up at him, he loves it all. He realized it been too long, he’s missed this, he’s missed having a body undeaneath his, as fucked up as that sounds.

And he—he must be a saint, himself. There’s a sort of invisible halo that lightens up around him, nearly blinding you. There’s a gut-wrenching stare he’s gifting you, making your stomach churn with pleasure.

Wrapping his mouth around your sore buds, you let out a shaky sigh. Skillful tongue swirls the way one would suck on a lollipop; the heat intensifies. “Close?” But you’re not sure, you just know it feels good—ridiculously good. He must have known so, and must want to make your first experience the best you’ll ever have, because suddenly, you’re on all fours.

As he slips in and out with such ease, you grip harshly at the tall grass. You can hear the sad rips with every thrust and every tug, but how can you feel bad when he feels so good? His cock rapidly brushes the magic spot, and you’re left seeing stars. “Oh God. I feel it, Oscar, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Tell me. Describe it.”

Your jaw locks, and your arms give up, flying down towards the grass, round ass high up in the air as he continues his movements. He groans at the sight, slapping your sweaty skin. Whining, you look back at him, grinning from ear to ear. The Australian looks up at the open sky, trying his best to push back the feeling of his upcoming orgasm, but it's hard to ignore the fact that an absolute angel takes him like no other.

And an Angel you were.

“Can feel your cock, Oscar. The way it pulses—so thick, so veiny, so sweet.”

An Angel with a vocabulary of Heathen.

“God, fuck me harder, please, Oscar, please.” He’s pretty sure you’re half-gone, half-present, but it only adds to the lust he carries for you. Just then, you feel the fresh cherry pressed up against your lips. Open, he demands and you follow straight away, ripping it from its stem. You nearly choke on the seed when he suddenly speeds up, limbs and arms burning from holding upright. For a moment, you stare back with an open mouth, admiring over the way his abs contract with every brutal push.

“Now spit.” Two seeds fly out towards the grass, laying there to taunt you as you pick up on your moans, ringing through the air. If you squint hard enough, you can spot the stars that mock the daylight sky. It doesn’t make sense, but then again, none of this does. “So pretty, sweetheart.” You swoon, feeling his arms hold you down. “Again—open.”

You’re expecting another set of cherries, thinking this might be some sort of prize, but as soon as you feel the familiar stick, you pout. No, you cry out. He chuckles. “Yes.” A pause. “You only get to come until you tie a knot.”

“You’re not being f-fair, holy shit.” Long fingers rub slowly against your puffy clit, throbbing with pain, begging to come all of his numbing girth. You clench your jaw, eyes screwed shut.

“We don’t have all night, go on. Move that pretty little mouth of yours.”

It’s a mission, it’s a task, it’s a fucking wreck. It’s impossible. You’re not that surprised, though, not when he thrusts into with twice as much force, triple speed; what a man. Loose tongue swirls at a weak attempt, but then he pinches your swollen bud, and you’re back to square one. You’re nearly there, excited to prove to him how much you wanted this and how you were able to multitask, but then he’s pulling all the way back, only his rosy tip awaiting by your entrance, and he’s coming back down, full-throttle.

It was cruel.

But two can play that game, you suppose.

You pull away quickly, he blinks, and then you’re pushing him back, sprawled on the grass. He nearly whines from missing your warm cunt, but as soon as you climb to sit on his face, he grows more and more turned on. “Go on,” you push. “Use that pretty little tongue of yours.”

Dark eyes stare up at you, enjoying the way your body moves, hips rolling, riding his face at an impressive rate. The white nectar you're willing to spill out makes him lap at an embarrassing speed, desperate to taste the sweetness.

Meanwhile, you’re gripping his hair, trying to feign indifference with the way his nose rubs against your lips, the way he keeps you in place with his watch covered hand, the other playing with your clit. It’s even, this is fair, but you still needed to reach your end.

“I’m close,” you moan, head rolling back, but jaw continuing to tick. He hums and the vibrations cause you to squeeze your legs around his face. That seems to make him enjoy this far more. Unless you show me you’ve done it, then no, you’re not coming anytime soon. Your molars grind harder, white spots forming throughout your vision. “Shut up, just—fucking stop talking.”

“What do y’know? Miss Perfection has a potty mouth.” He pokes his tongue against your hole. “Dirty girl, eh?”

With one final suck, and one soft moan, you cum all over him. The Australian is quick to lick you clean, groaning pathetically deep. Gasping, you fall from your climax, slightly twitching with sensibility as he hauls you onto his lap. You giggle when he raises a teasing brow.

“You got away with it—this time.”

“There’s going to be a second time?”

He stiffens, trying to play it cool. “Well, not anymore, you didn’t do what I asked for you to do—”

Opening your mouth, you stick your red tongue out, displaying the most perfect knot. He gapes, sticking his fingers in to retrieve it. “H-how?” A beat, sharp and accusing eyes. “Seriously, how?”

“Does it matter?” you ask, wide eyes back on for show. “I did it.”

“I…yeah, yeah you did,” he repeats in disbelief. He laughs. “You’re wickedly talented. That's an art.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, slowly, mixed with a giggle. “I tried my best for you.”

“I see that.” The brown eyed boy pinches your hip. “How was it?”

Sighing dreamily, as if napping on a cloud, your eyes twinkle. “I get it now. Why people have casual sex, I mean. It was amazing. Thank you.”

Casual, casual, casual, yes. Of course this was casual, why wouldn’t it be casual? He’s not looking to have anyone new in his life, and you’re barely understanding what any of this is, so yeah. Casual.

“Was I bad?” you ponder, chewing on your bottom lip. “I know I’m no professional, but I—”

“You were perfect,” he reassures with a soft smile. “Best thing to come around, solemnly swear.” Swatting his arm, he snickers, catching your hand. You purse your lips. “I was right,” he murmurs when his lips graze over your own. You open your mouth, waiting for more.

“About?”

“You tasting as sweet as a Cherry Cola.” Then he connects your lips, and you’re left utterly smitten. You can hardly feel him slip your ring off, but you know so when your finger feels empty since the moment you first put it on. “Guess you won’t be needing this anymore?”

“Guess not, no. Keep it.”

“Could take it to a Pawn Shop, sell it for a couple dollars…”

“Hey! Be nice, you dimwit,” you warn. “You should feel special. Stupidly special.”

“I’m kidding. I’ll cherish it.”

“Creep.”

He groans, slapping your ass as you squeal. “There’s no right or wrong answer, it seems like. Very well, let's just leave it at thanks. So…thank you for trusting me.” You blush, looking away. Awkwardly, you reach for your dress, slipping it over your head. He coughs, dressing himself before choking back a much needed chuckle. “Looks like we got dragged through the mud.”

“Ah, ew, I can’t. I need to shower.”

Reaching your end of the hallway, you press your back up against the wooden door as you sheepishly giggle when Oscar does the same. “Okay then…see you around?”

“Around town?”

“Around the house.”

“In the garden?”

“In the attic, too, maybe. It still needs a good sweep.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do we still have time?”

“Before your parents get back from Costa Rica?”

“Yes.”

“Which is in—”

“A week.”

“Which is—”

“Seven days.”

“And roughly…”

“Enough time.”

“Enough time to do what?”

He laughs, eyes crinkling suggestively, and your heart pounds hard against your ribcage. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

“Yeah,” you ponder in deep thought before your lips stretch out into a bright smile of your own. He raises dark brows as you scurry over with bruised knees, a muddy dress, and an exploding heart. “Yeah, okay. Just until they get back.”

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire@alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious

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sadnymi · 2 months

Text

「 ✦ cloud nine. ✦ 」

Mattheo riddle x reader [part2]

Summary: The "jinx girl," as they call her, is said to bring bad luck. However, when Mattheo Riddle decides to get to know the school's most neglected girl and takes matters into his own hands, Y/N's life is turned upside down in a mere night.

Warnings:fluff,smut, angst

Words: 11.2k

The whispers followed me like a shroud, a constant murmur that swirled around the edges of my existence. "The jinx girl ," they hissed, punctuated by snickers and pointed fingers. Bad luck, they believed, clung to me like a second skin, a misfortune I carried wherever I went.

Hogwarts, a place that promised magic and wonder, had become a labyrinth of avoidance. Empty seats flanked me in Potions, desks strategically moved away in Charms, and hushed conversations abruptly stopped when I entered the room. I was a pariah, a freak, the girl who supposedly brought misfortune upon anyone who dared come close.

Every dropped potion, every sprained ankle, every lost Quidditch match - all blamed on me, Y/N Y/L/N, the harbinger of bad luck. Hogwarts, once a dream, had become a prison. Even the ghosts seemed to cower at my presence.

Professor Flitwick, a whirlwind of energy and charm despite his diminutive stature, announced a project for our Charms class.

"Partnering up for a Conjuring Extravaganza!" he squeaked, his voice a high-pitched melody. "Showcase your enchanting skills with a partner of your choosing!"

The room erupted in excited chatter, students scrambling to find their partners. I, however, remained rooted to the spot, a familiar ache twisting in my gut. Who would want to pair up with the cursed child? As if sensing my despair, Professor Flitwick's bright blue eyes twinkled in my direction.

"Don't worry, Miss Y/L/N," he chirped, "there's always a perfect match for everyone!"

His words offered little comfort. The pairings continued, each giggling duo a stark reminder of my isolation. Just when I resigned myself to another solo project, a voice cut through the din.

"I'll pair with Y/L/N ."

The classroom fell silent. Heads swiveled in unison, disbelief etched on their faces. It was Mattheo Riddle, the Slytherin prince with a reputation as sharp as his intellect .

Professor Flitwick, however, beamed like a firework had gone off in his tiny fist. "Excellent choice, Mr. Riddle!"

My jaw dropped. Mattheo Riddle? Partnering with me ? the jinxing girl ? It was as unexpected as a dragon hatching a pixie. A ripple of surprised murmurs coursed through the class. Did he just volunteer? Was this a cruel joke?

stole a glance at Mattheo, half expecting a smirk or a sly wink that would shatter the illusion of kindness.

But instead, he met my gaze with a genuine, albeit hesitant, smile. It was a rare sight on his usually stoic face, a flicker of warmth that sent a jolt through me. He sauntered over, his confident stride somehow softened as he approached me.

"Fancy working together, (Y/N)?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine. It was the first time he'd ever addressed me directly, to talk to , and the informality sent a wave of heat rushing to my cheeks.

"I... I uh, sure," I stammered, still struggling to process the situation.

Professor Flitwick launched into the specifics of the project, outlining the different magical creatures we could try conjuring. Mattheo, however, seemed more interested in me. He leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper.

"So," he began, his eyes twinkling with amusement, "what kind of magic are you most comfortable with love ?"he said, pulling up a chair next to me.

My heart skipped a beat. No one had ever used that term – "love" – with me before. It was a small word, but in that moment, it felt like a lifeline thrown across the chasm of isolation.

A hesitant smile tugged at my lips. "I, uh, I'm actually quite good with summoning charms," I confessed, surprised by my own boldness.

His smile widened. "Excellent," he said, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. "I'm more of a transfiguration specialist. We could combine our strengths."

Combine our strengths? The thought of working alongside Mattheo, of learning from him and maybe even teaching him a thing or two myself, sent a thrill through me.

A comfortable silence settled between us as we delved into the project details. Professor Flitwick's lecture faded into background noise . Mattheo surprised me with his easygoing nature, his sharp intellect tempered with a dry wit that made me laugh, a sound that felt foreign escaping my lips.

Finally, Professor Flitwick called out the end of class. "Alright, class! Dismissed! Remember, be creative, be precise, and most importantly, have fun!"

My heart still hammered in my chest, a mixture of trepidation and a strange, exhilarating thrill. Mattheo gathered his books, and as he turned to leave, he caught my eye “ see you around Y/L/N “

The crisp autumn air sent a shiver down my spine as I settled onto the worn wooden bench in the school gardens. pulled out the book I burrowed from the library earlier , determined to bury myself in its intricacies and forget the entire debacle.

The rhythmic crunch of gravel on the path drew my attention. I glanced up, bracing myself for another encounter with Pansy and her posse, only to find Mattheo approaching. His expression was unreadable, a mix of curiosity and something I couldn't quite decipher.

He stopped a few steps away, a silent question hanging in the air. Surprised, I stammered, "M-Mattheo? What are you doing here?"

A hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, his voice softer than I was accustomed to hearing from him.

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Was this real? "I, uh, sure," I managed, gesturing to the empty space beside me.

He sat down, our shoulders brushing slightly. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words. Stealing a glance at him, I noticed his gaze fixed on the book in my lap. "Studying for the Charms exam?"

I shook my head. "Actually, this is more of a personal read. It's about obscure magical creatures."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh? Intriguing. Anything interesting?"

Hesitantly, I explained the book's exploration of Fae lore, their connection to emotions and the delicate balance they maintained with the human world.

To my surprise, Mattheo listened intently, occasionally asking insightful questions that sparked further discussion. We delved into the complexities of Fae magic, debated the ethics of human interaction with these mythical beings.

A playful glint flickered in his dark eyes, and a hint of a smile danced on his lips as he listened to my passionate explanation of Fae lore.

"Why – why are you smiling like that?" I asked hesitantly

"You just look so passionate about it," he explained, a genuine smile gracing his features.

"Actually, it’s totally my uncle fault he was the one who got me into it," I confessed, a fond smile playing on my lips. "He used to read me Fae tales before bed when I was young. Now here I am, analyzing their magical properties."

"Are you close with your uncle?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"Yeah, very close," I replied, then hesitated, a shadow crossing my face.

He picked up on the shift in my mood. "Everything okay?"

Taking a deep breath, I blurted out the question that had been gnawing at me since the library. "Why are you doing this, Mattheo? Is this a dare or something?"

He frowned, genuine confusion etched on his face. "Why would you say that?"

"You know," I rambled, gesturing at the empty garden around us. "Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid of what?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes holding a hint of amusement.

My breath caught in my throat as he reached out, a playful glint in his eyes. He brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, sending shivers down my spine. "Me?" I whispered, barely a breath escaping my lips.

He smirked, amusement flickering across his face. "You look pretty cute to even scare a fly, love. Why should I be afraid of you?"

His words, laced with a hint of flirtation, left me speechless. His touch, light as a feather, lingered on my cheek, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

"You don't understand," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Look at the garden, no one is here because I'm here. They believe... they believe —"

He cut me off before I could finish my frantic explanation. "But I'm here, aren't I, love?" he said, his voice a husky murmur. My heart pounded like a drum solo, the world around us seeming to fade away.

"You shouldn't be," I managed, my voice small and breathless. "I don't understand why."

"I'm not playing games with you, I promise," he replied, his voice firm. I hesitantly nodded, closing my eyes as the weight of his words settled upon me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, a heavy sigh escaping my lips.

"Don't be," he said softly. "I understand. And you know what? I don't care what they say. And to be honest I don't even care if it was true..."

smiling , I looked up , meeting his gaze."So you're the first "

He leaned back, a playful smile dancing on his lips. "Let's just say," he began, his voice low and intriguing, "I know you weren't the reason Ronald broke his leg before the last Quidditch match."

A surprised laugh escaped my lips."And," he continued, his smile widening, "I also know that the explosion in Potions last year was entirely Harold's fault, not yours."

I burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the quiet garden. The weight of the whispers seemed to lift with each peal, replaced by a lightness I hadn't felt in years

"You were just there, like everybody else," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. "So why would you take the blame for that?"

He leaned forward, his face so close now that my laughter subsided, replaced by a nervous flutter in my chest. "You know what they say about what happened in first year," I began, voice barely above a whisper.

"It stays with you till your last," he finished the saying, his dark eyes holding mine. A grateful smile tugged at my lips.

"So when Charlie from down the street brought the rumors from our neighborhood to school, and then spread that story about me jinxing Seamus during his first Quidditch practice.. and let's just say Neville's unfortunate Gillyweed incident didn't help my case too so a that everybody seemed to believe it ," I explained, finally voicing the truth I hadn't thought anyone would ever be interested in hearing.

"That's not fair," Mattheo said, his voice firm.

"Yeah," I sighed, "but as my Nana always says, some children are born with tragedies in their hands." A bittersweet smile crossed my lips. "And by some children, she means me."

"She sounds like a cruel woman," he muttered.

I laughed, a touch brittle. "If you think my Nana is cruel, you should've met my mother then."

The words tumbled out before I could stop them, a confession I hadn't meant to share. My cheeks burned with a sudden, hot shame. Mattheo, however, didn't seem repulsed. In fact, his expression softened further.

My voice trailed off, the weight of the past suddenly overwhelming. Sharing a secret like that felt like opening a wound I'd painstakingly hidden for years. The air hung heavy with unspoken words, the setting sun casting long shadows across the quiet garden.

"I-I think I should get going," I stammered, pushing myself out of the chair, my resolve shaky at best.

A cool hand gripped my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. My breath hitched as I turned to face him , his gaze a storm of emotions swirling within its depths "Don't run away yet."

My cheeks burned even hotter, but I couldn't seem to tear my gaze away from his. "I'm not running," I mumbled, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't release my wrist. Instead, his grip softened, his thumb gently stroking a soothing circle against my skin. The simple touch sent a shiver down my spine, a stark contrast to the cold isolation I'd grown accustomed to.

"Then can I interest you in some Butterbeer tomorrow evening?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful charm. "Three Broomsticks, perhaps? We could continue our discussion about Fae magic, or maybe you could tell me more about your Nana and your… interesting family history."

A surprised laugh escaped my lips. The idea of spending another evening with Mattheo, outside the confines of a school project, sent a thrill through me.

A smile, genuine and unrestrained, bloomed on my face. "I'd like that," I replied, my voice a whisper against the backdrop of the settling evening.

Sleep that night was a distant dream. The events in the garden replayed in my mind on an endless loop. Mattheo's hand in mine, the warmth of his touch lingering like a phantom sensation, his unexpected concern for my story – it all sent butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

The morning sun filtering through my dormitory window found me wide awake, staring at the ceiling with a tangled mess of hair and a giddy smile plastered on my face.

But then came the most agonizing decision of the day – what to wear? My trunk overflowed with the usual witchy robes, all shades of black and grey. None seemed appropriate for a… date? Was it a date? My cheeks burned at the thought.

Finally, I settled on a compromise. A dark green skirt that swirled around my knees, a crisp black blouse , and my trusty black boots. It wasn't extravagant, but it felt… me.

The walk to the Three Broomsticks was a mess a disaster as I was trying to figure out the right direction . As I pushed open the creaky oak door,I tried to breathe and calm my self down, My eyes scanned the room, searching for Mattheo amidst the bustling patrons.

And then I saw him, tucked away in a corner booth, a solitary figure amidst the chatter and laughter. Relief washed over me, followed by a jolt of something warmer as our eyes met. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he gestured for me to join him.

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I walked towards him, a self-conscious fluttering in my stomach. Reaching the table, I slid into the booth opposite him.

his gaze lingering a beat longer than necessary on my face. "you..," he finally said, a low whistle escaping his lips. "You look..." he trailed off, searching for the right word.

My cheeks flushed a rosy hue . "I look?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Radiant," he finished, his voice a husky murmur.

My breath hitched. No one had ever used that word to describe me before. "Radiant?" I repeated, a nervous laugh escaping my lips.

"Absolutely," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Though, I have to say, for a second I thought you weren’t coming “

“ oh I’m so sorry I was just trying to find the way I, uh, I've never actually been to the Three Broomsticks before," I admitted, hoping to deflect from his unexpected compliment.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Never? But it's practically a Hogwarts tradition!"

. "I guess I've been more focused on the library and…avoiding crowds."

A flicker of understanding crossed his face. "Well, consider this your official initiation," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Prepare to be overwhelmed by sticky tables, questionable singing."

The waitress returned with our drinks, placing them carefully on the table.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, momentarily shattering our peaceful bubble. A boisterous group of students, their laughter echoing through the room, flooded in. My stomach lurched as I recognized them – Charlie Spinnet , flanked by his usual entourage of Crabbe and Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson, her face twisted in a sneer.

Unlike the usual sneer of Pansy Parkinson, Charlie's expression was a confusing mix of anger and… was that a hint of disappointment ? He locked eyes with me, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of something more complex in his gaze before it hardened back into a scowl.

Before I could decipher the meaning of it all, Pansy spotted us. Her voice, dripping with her usual malice, sliced through the warm bubble we'd created. "Look who is there," she drawled, directing a flirtatious smile towards Mattheo. "Hello there, Riddle."

Mattheo responded with his trademark icy drawl, "Parkinson. Always a pleasure."

She gave a curt nod before returning to her group. Charlie, however, didn't follow. His gaze remained fixed on me, an unsettling intensity in his eyes. I met his stare, a knot of unease forming in my gut.

"He's jealous," Mattheo said casually, leaning back in his seat. My jaw dropped.

"Jealous? Of what?" I stammered, completely bewildered.

"He likes you ," he replied with a knowing smirk.

A bewildered laugh escaped my lips. "He likes me ? Mattheo, the boy ruined my life" I interjected, my voice laced with a sharp edge. In truth, life hadn't been a cakewalk before Hogwarts either.

Just then, a loud shattering sound erupted from our table, sending shivers down my spine. My cup of butterbeer, which Charlie had probably targeted with a stray jinx spell , lay in pieces on the floor. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the pub as everyone turned to stare

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to control the spike of panic rising in my chest. This was exactly what I'd feared. when I opened my eyes again, my gaze met Mattheo's.

Unlike me, he wasn't angry. Instead, a mischievous glint sparkled in his dark eyes. he was smirking.

"So, you said this is your first time at the Three Broomsticks, love?" he asked, a playful smile on his lips as he stood up. I felt a pit forming in my stomach, unsure of where this was headed.

"Yeah," I mumbled, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Then let's make it unforgettable," he declared, his smile widening. He turned towards Charlie's table, his gaze locking onto Charlie's. Pansy, who had been watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and apprehension, suddenly looked terrified.

Mattheo strolled over to their table, a confident swagger in his step. Reaching down, he casually lifted Charlie's untouched butterbeer He held it out to me with a charming smile. "Here, love," he said, not sparing Charlie a glance.

Charlie watched the exchange, his jaw clenched. "Is there anything you want to say, Spinnet?" Mattheo asked, his voice deceptively calm. Charlie just shook his head.

"Do you like toads?" Mattheo asked again a question so out of place it left us all speechless.

"S-seems like I do," Charlie stammered, his voice barely a squeak.

"Good," Mattheo said simply.

Then, in a blink, it happened. A blinding flash of light erupted from Mattheo's outstretched wand, enveloping Charlie. Before anyone could react, the speechless Charlie had vanished, replaced by a , green toad hopping comically on the table.

My scream was lost in the cacophony of shouts and gasps. Pansy let out a bloodcurdling shriek, scrambling back in her chair. Crabbe, for once, looked utterly bewildered.

Mattheo remained calm amidst the chaos, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Ignoring the stunned patrons, he reached for his pocket and placed a couple of pills on our table.

"I would take him back to the castle if I were you," he said to Pansy with a chilling smile. "Unless you prefer the company of amphibians."

Pansy was speechless, her face pale with a mixture of fear and fury. All she could manage was a strangled, "Merlin's Beard!"

Turning back to me, Mattheo offered his hand with his usual nonchalant charm. "Shall we go, love?" he asked, his voice a gentle contrast to the chaos he'd just unleashed.

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, following the familiar path towards the Black Lake. Finally, we reached the water's edge, the gentle lapping of waves against the shore providing a soothing counterpoint to the earlier frenzy. Mattheo gestured towards a large, flat rock nestled under a willow tree. "Mind joining me?" he asked, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

I nodded, still processing the events of the evening. Charlie's transformation, Pansy's terror, it was all a bit surreal. Sitting down on the rock, I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me.

"So," Mattheo began, a playful lilt to his voice, "first date, and I turn your potential bully into a toad. Not exactly the charming introduction I was hoping for."

I glanced at him, surprised. "Date?" I stammered, a blush creeping up my cheeks.

His smile softened. "Well," he began, " we did ditch the project discussion for butterbeer and…, then turning someone into a toad… definitely not your typical Tuesday."

I couldn't help but laugh, My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "I… I never thought…" I stammered, completely flustered.

He reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch sent shivers down my spine. "Neither did I," he confessed, his voice surprisingly soft.

"Thank you," I said, taking a deep breath, " it's the first time anyone has ever defended me like that. Not since my Uncle."

Mattheo's smile softened. "Well," he said, his voice gentle, "consider me your knight in slightly-unconventional-Slytherin-armor then."

I laughed a blush crept up my cheek

Silence descended between us, broken only by the gentle chirping of crickets and the lapping of the lake.

"You mentioned your Uncle," Mattheo said, his voice curious. "Tell me about him."

"He's a bit of a character," I began, a smile playing on my lips. "He travels the world, studying ancient magic. He's probably in some remote location right now, chasing myths and legends he’s so brave ."

"Sounds fascinating," Mattheo commented, his voice laced with genuine interest. "But you're not close with anyone else in your family?"

The question hung in the air, and I hesitated for a moment, unsure how much to reveal. But something about the sincerity in his eyes, made me want to share a part of myself I rarely opened up about.

"Well, I'm not exactly their favorite," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "You see, my arrival wasn't exactly... welcomed."

Mattheo's brow furrowed in concern. "What do you mean?" he asked gently.

Taking a deep breath, I plunged into the murky waters of my past. "My mother ,she found out she was pregnant with me. At the same time, she learned about my late brother's… illness. He died tragically, just two days before I was born."

"She… she blamed me," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "She believed I somehow took his place, that I was the reason he was gone."

He squeezed my hand gently, as if offering silent comfort.

"And your father?" he asked, his voice low and controlled.

"My father," I said, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "He said I stole his son's place. He never showed me any affection, always seeing a shadow of my brother instead of me."

My throat tightened, and I struggled to continue.

"But then there’s nana … well, she is a healer," I began, taking a shaky breath"She believed in a strange kind of balance. She used to say, 'A soul for a soul.'" A shiver ran down my spine as I recalled the chilling words. "'Sometimes,' she'd say, 'life takes one thing and gives another’. She just wished it had been my brother who lived."

"Y/N," he said, his voice low and serious. "That's a terrible thing to say to a child. None of that is your fault. You didn't ask to be born, and you certainly didn't cause your brother's illness."

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision. The weight of their rejection, the constant reminder that I was somehow unwanted, had always been a heavy burden to carry.

Then, with a tenderness that took my breath away, he brushed his thumb across my cheek, wiping away a stray tear. The simple gesture, so full of empathy and understanding, felt like a dam breaking inside me. The tears that I'd been holding back spilled over, flowing freely down my cheeks.

Mattheo didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He simply sat there, his hand cupping my face, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that both scared and excited me.

In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "They don't deserve you , Not your mother, not your father, not sure your weird grandmother . They are blind to the incredible person you are."

His words, sincere and heartfelt, washed over me like a soothing balm.

"You are strong," he continued, his voice husky with emotion. "You are brave. You are kind. You carry the weight of their cruelty, yet you remain kind. That is a strength they will never possess."

His thumb continued to brush away my tears, his touch sending shivers down my spine.

As he spoke, the space between our faces seemed to shrink. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my lips, his gaze holding mine captive. The air crackled with a tension that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Then, before I could even think to stop him, Mattheo leaned in closer. The world around us seemed to fade away, leaving only the warmth of his hand on my face and the anticipation building within me.

His lips met mine in a soft, tentative kiss. It was a fleeting touch, barely a whisper, yet it sent a jolt of electricity through me.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching mine. A nervous smile tugged at the corner of his lips.," is this your first kiss? “ he murmured, his voice husky.

A slow nod confirmed his suspicion , he leaned in again, this time deepening the kiss. This kiss was different – moving with a rhythmic dance that spoke volumes of unspoken emotions.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and slightly dazed, a blush crept up my cheeks. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum solo echoing in the quiet night.The taste of his lips lingered on mine, a sweet and intoxicating sensation that left me craving more.

"So," he said, his voice slightly breathless. "Forget everything I said about first impressions being unforgettable. Maybe this is a better way to start things off."

The next weeks unfolded like a whirlwind. Mattheo became a constant presence in my life, his shadow seemingly falling across mine with an uncanny frequency. Whether it was bumping into him "accidentally" on my way to Herbology, finding him "coincidentally" seated across from me in the library buried in the same obscure text on Fae magic, or him "miraculously" appearing just as I was leaving the Great Hall, it was clear he was making a concerted effort to be around me.

His tactics, though slightly obvious, were nonetheless charming. He started leaving small gifts on my desk – a fascinating book on Veela lore, a single perfect white rose

No one had ever gone out of their way to make me feel special before. Mattheo was doing just that, chip by chip, breaking down the walls I'd built around myself.

His "accidental" helpfulness extended to academics as well. He started leaving me beautifully illustrated books on ancient magic, conveniently "forgotten" on my desk. During Potions, he'd mysteriously materialize behind me just as I was about to accidentally add Flobberworm mucus to my Amortentia potion (a near disaster that could have had…interesting consequences).

One afternoon, while struggling with a particularly complex Transfiguration spell, Mattheo walked in on my frustration. He didn't laugh or poke fun,Instead, he sat down beside me, his patience as impressive as his knowledge. He explained the spell with a clarity I hadn't experienced before, his hand brushing against mine as he pointed something out on my parchment.

By the end of the week, I'd not only mastered the spell but found myself drawn to Mattheo in a way I hadn't before.

Mattheo's efforts extended beyond "accidents." He started introducing me to his friends. Theo and blaise ,Then there was Enzo, Mattheo's half-brother. With his playful demeanor and infectious laugh, Enzo made me feel welcome within their circle. I found myself enjoying their company, their camaraderie a stark contrast to the loneliness I had grown accustomed to.

One evening, while studying in the common room, , Enzo, sauntered over , He slid into the seat next to me, ignoring Mattheo's glare.

"Hey there, love," Enzo said, his voice dripping with a flirtatiousness that made me feel uncomfortable. "Studying hard?"

Before I could respond, Mattheo spoke up. "Enzo, perhaps you haven't noticed, but Y/N is busy."

Enzo simply chuckled. "Relax, brother. Just trying to be friendly." He leaned in closer to me

Enzo whispered, "He can be quite possessive, don’t you agree?" I couldn’t help but laugh, which was Mattheo’s last straw.

"Back off, Enzo," the words laced with barely contained anger , Enzo smiled and with a shrug and a playful wink at me, he sauntered away.

The most surprising consequence, however, was the complete absence of whispers. The rumors that had plagued me since childhood seemed to vanish overnight. Not a single snide remark, not a single pointed finger. The silence was deafening, and yet, strangely comforting.

Was it fear of Mattheo, or something more? Either way, I didn't question my newfound peace.

The stolen moments with Mattheo became a cherished secret language.

One particularly rainy evening, after a long and tedious double Potions lesson, Mattheo found me huddled in the deserted library, desperately trying (and failing) to decipher a particularly cryptic passage in a dusty old tome.

"Having trouble with the love language of Goblins, love?" he drawled, his voice a welcome sound in the quiet of the library.

I looked up, startled, my cheeks flushing at the sight of him. "Mattheo, you scared me!"

He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Just offering my expertise in the finer points of ancient languages," he said, a playful glint in his eyes.

He pulled up a chair next to me, the scent of his cologne filling my senses. As he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as he attempted to translate the passage, a spark ignited between us.

Emboldened by the privacy of the deserted library and the frustration of the Gobbledegook text, I turned to face him, my lips brushing against his ear as I pointed to a particularly confusing line.

Suddenly, the air crackled with unspoken desire. Mattheo's hand cupped my cheek, his thumb gently tracing the line of my jaw. His gaze held mine, a storm brewing in its depths.

"There's another way to learn this language," he murmured, his voice husky with suppressed longing.

Before I could respond, he closed the gap between us. The kiss was different this time. It was slow, searing, filled with a raw emotion that sent shivers down my spine. It was a kiss that spoke not just of affection, but of a growing possessiveness, a silent claim on my heart.

We pulled away breathlessly, foreheads resting together. The quiet of the library thrummed with the intensity of the unspoken words hanging in the air.

"Maybe Gobbledegook isn't so bad after all," I finally whispered, a shy smile playing on my lips.

Mattheo chuckled, a deep sound that resonated within me. "Perhaps not," he agreed, his eyes lingering on mine for a beat longer than necessary.

One blustery afternoon, while seeking refuge from a sudden downpour in a hidden alcove near the greenhouses, we found ourselves alone. The air crackled with unspoken tension as we stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the rain drumming a steady rhythm on the stone walls.

He cleared his throat, his gaze flickering from my face to the storm raging outside. "This weather is something else, isn't it?" he said, his voice barely a whisper above the wind.

"Unpredictable, like magic itself," I replied, my own voice barely a murmur.

Suddenly, he turned to face me, his eyes a storm brewing within them. Before I could react, he cupped my face in his hands, his touch sending shivers down my spine. The space between us evaporated as he leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek.

"You're unpredictable too, Y/N," he murmured, his voice husky with something raw and primal. "In the best way possible."

And then, he kissed me. It was a kiss unlike any I'd ever experienced. It was fierce and passionate, filled with a yearning that mirrored my own.

I was hunched over a particularly dense text on Herbology, wrestling with the intricacies of magical plant growth, when a shadow fell across the page.

Looking up, I met Mattheo's gaze, a teasing glint in his dark eyes. "Lost in the world of Venomous Tentacula again, love?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down my spine.

I swatted playfully at his hand, a smile tugging at my lips. "These Bulbadox Bulbs are more stubborn than they look," I grumbled.

He chuckled, leaning closer. "Maybe they just need the right touch," he murmured, his breath warm on my ear.

Before I could react, he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against the offending passage. A jolt of electricity shot through me, my heart skipping a beat. He lingered for a moment too long, his touch sending goosebumps erupting across my skin.

"See?" he said, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Sometimes understanding comes from a different kind of connection."

His words were a playful jab, but the intensity of his gaze held a deeper meaning. I felt my cheeks flush, a secret smile spreading across my face.

"Maybe," I replied, unable to tear my gaze from his.

The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken emotions. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Mattheo leaned in further. His lips brushed against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a wave of warmth cascading through me.

It was a soft, lingering exploration. He trailed a finger down my neck, sending shivers dancing across my exposed skin. My breath hitched in my throat, and I leaned back into his touch, a helpless moan escaping my lips.

He chuckled against my skin, a low, throaty sound that sent a delicious tremor through me. "You should see the way you blush, Y/N," he murmured, his voice husky with desire.

My cheeks burned even hotter. This wasn't the stolen kiss under the moonlight, this was something more intimate, more raw. It was a secret shared between us, a confirmation of the growing connection that thrummed beneath the surface.

Suddenly, the library door slammed open, shattering the intimate moment. Madam Pince, the stern librarian, swept in, her beady eyes scanning the room. Mattheo and I both straightened up, a sheepish grin on his face.

"No hanky-panky in the Restricted Section, young man," Madam Pince barked, her voice laced with suspicion.

Mattheo, ever the charmer, flashed her a boyish grin. "Just helping a friend with her research, Madam Pince," he said, his voice dripping with mock innocence.

Madam Pince narrowed her eyes at us for a moment longer before muttering something about "frivolous students" and disappearing behind a towering bookshelf.

As soon as she was gone, Mattheo let out a low whistle, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Looks like we've been caught," he said, a hint of regret in his voice.

I couldn't help but laugh, the tension broken. "Maybe we should stick to the Herbology section next time," I teased, butterflies still fluttering in my stomach from his touch.

He took my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. "Maybe," he agreed, his eyes holding mine. "But who knows what secrets lurk in the Restricted Section?"

Suddenly, a voice broke through my concentration. "Y/N!"

I looked up to see Charlie Spinnet standing awkwardly in front of me, a hopeful smile plastered on his face. My stomach lurched, a flicker of unease coursing through me.

"Charlie," I stammered, unsure of what to say.

"Hey," he said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

Before I could answer, mattheo’s voice cut in, laced with a dangerous edge.

"Actually, she can't," Mattheo drawled, His eyes narrowed at Charlie, a dark glint flickering within them.

Charlie gulped, his hopeful smile faltering. "M-Mattheo," he stammered. "I just wanted to…"

"Whatever it is," Mattheo interrupted, his voice low and cold, "it can wait."

The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. My heart hammered against my ribs, caught between the awkwardness of Charlie's unexpected presence and the possessiveness radiating from Mattheo.

"But—" Charlie began, but Mattheo cut him off again.

"No buts, Spinnet," Mattheo said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Now, if you'll excuse us,"

He took my hand possessively, his fingers wrapping around mine with a force that left no room for argument. Before Charlie could stammer another word, Mattheo practically dragged me away.

We walked in silence for a moment, the only sound our hurried footsteps echoing through the empty corridor. My cheeks burned with a mixture of annoyance and a strange sense of… satisfaction?

"Mattheo, that was a bit harsh," I finally said, breaking the silence.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face me. His gaze was intense, a storm brewing within its depths.

"He shouldn't have bothered you," he said, his voice low and possessive.

"He was just trying to talk to me," I pointed out, a hint of defiance creeping into my voice.

"And what exactly did he want to talk about?" Mattheo challenged, his jaw clenched.

"I don't know," I admitted, shrugging my shoulders. "But I should have been allowed to find out, shouldn't I?"

Mattheo seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment, his emotions flickering across his face. Finally, he sighed, the tension slowly ebbing away.

"Look," he said, his voice softer now, "I just… don't like the idea of someone else getting close to you."

My heart skipped a beat. Was he… jealous?

"Why not?" I couldn't help but ask, a teasing smile playing on my lips.

He hesitated – a rare sight that sent a thrill through me.

"Because…" he stammered, searching for the right words. "Because maybe you mean more to me than I care to admit."

The words hung in the air. A smile bloomed on my face, wider than it had in weeks.

"Is that so, Riddle?" I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He met my gaze, his eyes filled with a newfound vulnerability. Leaning in closer, he brushed a stray strand of hair from my face with his thumb.

"Maybe it is," he murmured, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to mine.

Before we could explore that maybe any further, a loud cough echoed through the corridor. We sprang apart, startled, to see a smirking Enzo leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed.

"Oh please don’t let me stop you ," he teased, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Mattheo scowled, his usual bravado returning. "Get lost, Enzo," he snapped.

Enzo, unfazed, simply chuckled. "Just making sure you're not neglecting your studies, brother dearest," he said, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Professor Flitwick wouldn't be happy if he caught you missing his lecture because you can’t keep your hands to yourself those days "

My cheeks burned even hotter. "We weren't… ," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.

Enzo chuckled. "Whatever you say, sweetheart . But don't worry, your secret's safe with me." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Though, if you're looking for a more private place next time, I know a few hidden alcoves that are perfect for… well, you get the idea."

"Thanks, Enzo," I said smiling trying to get away from this conversation as fast as possible .

"Anytime," he replied, throwing a playful two-finger salute before disappearing back down the corridor.

Mattheo and I stared at each other for a long moment, the tension thick in the air.

"I think I need to go …" I began, unsure how to proceed “ see you at ummm….”

"...Great Hall," Mattheo finished my sentence, his voice laced with a hint of disappointment. Though his earlier possessiveness had surprised me, I couldn't deny a flicker of warmth at his reluctance to see me go.

"Yeah, the Great Hall," I confirmed, unable to meet his gaze for too long. The lingering confession, the stolen moment almost-kiss, hung heavy between us.

As I sank deeper into the worn armchair, a group of giggling Gryffindor girls approached, their chatter drawing my attention.

"Y/N!" Lavender Brown announced, her voice bright with excitement. "Did you hear? There's supposed to be a total lunar eclipse tonight!"

My heart skipped a beat. A lunar eclipse? A shiver of excitement ran down my spine. For the first time in years, I hadn't even been aware of such an event. But more importantly, they were inviting me.

Parvati Patil chimed in, her dark eyes sparkling. "We're all planning to gather near the lake to watch. It's supposed to be incredible! Are you coming?"

"I…" I stammered, unsure how to respond.

"Oh, come on, Y/N," Padma, Parvati's twin, nudged me playfully. "It'll be fun! We can all gossip and make wishes under the moonlight."

A lump formed in my throat. It was a simple question, but it felt monumental. An invitation to not just witness a celestial phenomenon, but to be included, to be a part of something.

For a moment, I simply stared at them, my mind struggling to process the shift. Was this real? Did they genuinely want me to join them?

"I don't know," I mumbled, looking down at my shoes. "Maybe…"

"Don't worry, Y/N," Lavender reassured me, sensing my hesitation. "It's up to you. But if you do decide to come, we'd love to have you."

With a warm smile, they turned to leave, their excited chatter fading as they descended the stairs. I watched them go, a wave of indecisiveness washing over me.

The rest of day went by quickly as I was still thinking about the invitation then mattheo I looked around searching for him

I spotted him by the courtyard, leaning against a stone pillar, his usual air of nonchalance masking a hint of concern. As I approached, he pushed himself off the pillar and met my gaze.

"Hey," he said, his voice laced with a question as his eyes scanned my face.

"Hi, Mattheo," I replied hesitantly.

"Everything alright?" he asked, his brow furrowed. He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from my eye with a gentle touch .

Taking a deep breath, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "There's a lunar eclipse tonight, did you know?"

He blinked, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. "A lunar eclipse?" he echoed.

"Yeah," I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Apparently, it's supposed to be the biggest one in years. Everyone's going down by the Black Lake to watch it."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Everyone, huh?" he said, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Well," I admitted, feeling my cheeks flush, "not everyone. But some people. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil invited me, and…"

I trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence. Did I dare ask him to join me?

"And?" Mattheo prompted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"And," I mumbled, looking down at my shoes, "I was wondering… would you maybe want to come with me?"

The playful smile vanished, replaced by a look of genuine surprise. "With you?" he echoed.

I looked back up at him, my heart pounding in my chest. "Yeah," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "If you want to, of course."

He held my gaze for a long moment, the silence stretching between us. Then, a slow smile spread across his face, warm and genuine.

"I'd like that very much, love ," he said, his voice a low rumble.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and pink, I made my way towards the Black Lake. The crisp autumn air buzzed with excited chatter as students from all houses gathered, blankets and snacks in tow, eager to witness the celestial spectacle.

A warm hand brushed against mine, sending a jolt through my system. Turning, I met Mattheo's gaze, a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. He wore a casual smirk, but the way his hand lingered on mine spoke volumes.

he breathed, taking in the scene before him. "Didn't expect the whole school to be here."

I chuckled. "Apparently, lunar eclipses are kind of a big deal."

We weaved through the crowd, Lavender and Parvati waving to us over Theo , Enzo even Blaise was there too that was really unexpected . We settled in, surrounded by the cheerful chatter and laughter.

As the moon began to cast its silvery glow, a hush fell over the crowd. Everyone turned their eyes skyward, captivated by the gradual darkening of Earth's natural satellite. Mattheo, however, seemed more interested in me than the moon. His hand brushed mine again, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

Leaning closer, he whispered in my ear, his voice husky and warm. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

I nodded, unable to tear my gaze from his face. "It is," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to mine. Just as I thought he was about to kiss me, his voice dipped even lower.

"come with me. "

The surprise on my face must have been evident. "Where?" I stammered.

he said, a playful glint in his eyes. "Trust me, it'll be worth it."

We walked for what felt like an eternity, the only sounds the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional rustle in the bushes. The air grew thicker the deeper we ventured, and a sense of unease gnawed at the edges of my excitement. Just as I was about to voice my concerns, Mattheo came to a stop in front of a section of gnarled oak trees, their branches intertwined in an almost unnatural way.

"Here?" I asked, eyeing the dense foliage with suspicion.

He smirked, his eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight that filtered through the canopy. "Here," he confirmed, stepping forward and pushing aside a thick curtain woven from the very leaves themselves.

To my astonishment, a hidden passage unfolded behind the makeshift doorway. A narrow path, barely wide enough for two people, stretched into the darkness, illuminated faintly by glowing mushrooms that dotted the damp stone walls.

My initial apprehension warred with the budding trust I felt for Mattheo. Taking a deep breath, I gripped his hand tighter. "What is it?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Just trust me," he murmured, his touch surprisingly gentle.

We walked in silence, the air growing colder and the earthy scent more pronounced. The path eventually led to a sturdy wooden door hidden within the rocky wall. Mattheo pushed it open, revealing a sight that took my breath away.

It was a small, circular room, but its crowning glory was a large, arched window that took up most of one wall. Through it, the eclipse was on full display, the shadowed moon hanging in the inky black sky. But unlike the darkness of the forest, here, the view was clear and breathtaking

I breathed, my surprise echoing in the stillness of the night.

Mattheo chuckled, a hint of pride in his voice. "Told you it was worth it."

"This is…" I stammered, searching for the right words. "Amazing."

Mattheo smiled, his hand moving to brush a stray curl from my face. “We found this place a while back," he explained. "It's kind of a secret."

He pulled me towards the window, his arm wrapping around my waist, stood behind me , gazing up at the celestial phenomenon unfolding above us. The darkness, once menacing, now seemed like a vast, inky canvas upon which the eclipse played out.

"It's even more breathtaking from here, isn't it?" Mattheo whispered, his voice warm against my ear. , his words laced with something more than just the wonder of the eclipse.

I could only nod, my throat suddenly dry. The beauty of the celestial spectacle was undeniable, but it paled in comparison to the feelings Mattheo was stirring within me.

A warmth bloomed in my chest, a response that surprised even me. Mattheo's presence, so close and unexpected in this hidden haven, sent a delicious shiver down my spine.

As if sensing my shift, his arm tightened around my waist, pulling me closer. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the crackling fire.

Then, his lips brushed against my ear again. This time, the words were different. Softer, more intimate. "You're even more breathtaking," he murmured, his voice sending shivers down my neck.

My eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze reflected in the moonlight filtering through the window. The eclipse, forgotten for a moment, seemed to cast an ethereal glow on his features, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.

Before I could form a coherent thought, his lips met mine. The kiss was tentative at first, a soft exploration that sent a wave of warmth through me. Instinctively, I reached up, my fingers finding purchase on his arm.

A contented sigh escaped his lips as he deepened the kiss, his hand finding mine and intertwining our fingers. The touch sent a jolt through me, a current of electricity that ignited a fire within.

When he finally pulled away, a breathless gasp escaped my lips. My cheeks burned, my heart hammered a wild rhythm against my ribs. A shy smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

His gaze never left mine.He leaned down again, his lips trailing a path of fire down my neck. He paused at a sensitive spot just below my ear, sending a jolt of pleasure through me.

Unable to hold back a moan, I arched my neck into his touch, a silent plea for more. His hand reached down, skimming the curve of my hip before settling lightly on my lower back as I felt the wall behind us

He was going to stop I know that he was going to hold back again "Wait," I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. Looking into his eyes, I saw a storm of emotions – frustration, amusement. It was a look that made my heart skip a beat, a look that made me feel a dangerous mix of power and surrender.

"I want to " I stammered, unsure how to articulate the jumbled mess of emotions swirling within me.

"You sure?" he asked, his voice husky with suppressed desire.

Taking a deep breath, I blurted out, "I want this, Mattheo. I mean…I've never done this before, but I trust you. And I want it."

"Let's take things slow, alright?" He whispered softly in my ear and i nodded, his lips finding their way back to my neck, tracing over the mark he had just left behind.

"Mattheo," I moaned when he nipped at the same spot again, his teeth sharp and his lips unyielding.

"God my name sounds like heaven from your lips" he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

"Have you ever touched yourself, love?" His question caught me off guard, my breath catching in my throat as I shook my head. I had wanted to try but never mustered the courage.

"It's okay, my love," he reassured, his hands sliding under my top, caressing my skin with a tender touch that sent shivers down my spine.Then he gently pushed me up, settling me on the nearest table. "I'll take care of you."

Pressing more kisses to my neck, his hands moved to my hips, his fingers digging into my skin as he lifted my skirt slightly. "Is this alright?" he asked, his breath hot against my neck.I smiled at him and nodded again

“I’m going to touch you now, Just tell me when you want to stop, and I promise I’ll end it,” said with determination, his fingers brushing my cheek i nodded leaned forward to kiss him instead of just responding.

He did as he told , his fingers sliding into my pants proceeded slowly, finding my most sensitive spot, eliciting pleasurable sensations that made me arch my back and cling to him.

slowly rubbing circles around it. He used light pressure, but it felt amazing. His gaze intently watched my response, figuring out what i like.

He picked up the pace and pressure, sending pleasurable shocks through my body. my back arched as the ache between my legs increased.

“God you’re so wet for me." he whispered, his voice filled with awe and desire. "Does it feel good?"

“ Yes , it feels so good.” I moaned softly, my voice barely audible as waves of pleasure washed over me.

"Can I?" he asked, seeking my consent.

"Yes, please," I begged, my desperation evident in my voice.

"It might feel strange at first, but I promise it will get better quickly," he reassured, and I nodded in agreement. With my consent, his finger slid between my folds, eliciting a soft moan from my lips. My hands found their way to his shoulders as I rested my head against them.

"Breathe, my love," he whispered, his voice a soothing melody in the midst of pleasure. I obeyed, inhaling deeply as a symphony of moans escaped my mouth, each one a testament to the pleasure coursing through my body.

"Mattheo," I moaned, his name a mantra on my lips.

"Yes, love. Talk to me," he encouraged, his movements slowing to allow me to catch my breath.

"There's something..." I tried to say, but pleasure engulfed me, leaving me speechless.

His lips found mine, his kisses distracting me from my thoughts as I succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure he offered.

"Just let go for me," he whispered against my lips, his breath igniting a fire within me that sent me spiraling into bliss.

His thumb applied pressure to my clit, sending electrifying waves of pleasure through my body. I gripped his shoulder tightly as he carefully added another finger, causing me to close my eyes in ecstasy.

"Don't close your eyes, love. Look at me," he urged, his voice filled with desire and a hint of command. I obeyed, locking eyes with him as his fingers found that specific spot inside me, unleashing a sensation I had never experienced before. It was so intense that I couldn't contain my scream of pleasure, feeling like I was soaring among the clouds.

He continued to target that spot, his gaze fixed on me as if he could read my every reaction. With a satisfied smile, he spoke soft words in my ear , reveling in my response.

His touch remained gentle yet firm, guiding me through the waves of pleasure until I reached the pinnacle, my body trembling in his embrace as I experienced a euphoric release unlike anything before.

"It's alright, I'm here," he murmured, his words a soothing balm as I surrendered to the pleasure that consumed me.

As I floated back to reality, I found myself in his arms, his gaze filled with tenderness and adoration. He leaned in, capturing my lips in a deep, passionate kiss that spoke volumes of unspoken emotions.

"Maybe you mean more to me than I care to admit too , riddle," I repeated his earlier words. But what I truly wanted to express was that, ,I think I'm in love with you, Mattheo Riddle.’

From that night onward, everything shifted, and my life transformed into a fairy tale. The intensity of my feelings for him grew so profound that a day without seeing Mattheo felt like an eternity, leaving me yearning for his presence. He cherished me as if I were the most precious gem in his life, and to say that I loved him would be an understatement; my emotions ran deeper than mere words could express.

Despite our unspoken declarations of love, we refrained from exploring further sexual intimacy after that intense encounter. However, the desire and longing between us only grew stronger, leaving me yearning for more moments of intimacy with him. Each kiss, touch, and gaze across the room spoke volumes of the love we shared, even if the three words were never verbalized.

The end-of-year party hosted by Slytherin was a legendary affair, whispered about in hushed tones by those who had attended in previous years. Despite hearing countless tales about the extravagant festivities, I had never been tempted to go, for me, it had always been an off-limits fantasy , one I didn't dare to try and make true.

As the "jinx girl", stepping foot into such a renowned event felt like a risky move. The thought of facing judgment, scrutiny, and potentially being ostracized by my peers held me back from even considering attending.

However, in those few months everything changed. I found myself shedding my inhibitions and fears, stepping out of my comfort zone and embracing new experiences. The bonds I formed with other Slytherins grew stronger, and I even made friends outside of Mattheo's circle, feeling more at ease and confident in social settings.

The Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry was as legendary as the end-of-year party itself. This year, however, a shared misfortune had united the two houses in a grudging camaraderie. Professor Flitwick, bless his innocent heart, had stumbled upon Blaise Zabini and a very surprised Gryffindor tangled together in a rather compromising position in a dusty basement corridor. Let's just say, both houses lost a significant number of points, paving the way for Ravenclaw to snatch the coveted House Cup in a landslide victory.

So, as the day of the party approached, a thrill of anticipation danced in my stomach.

"Mattheo," I said, catching his attention as I approached him and his friends. He gently guided me to sit next to him, holding my hands with a tender touch

“ yes love ? “

"Are we… are we going to the party tonight?" I asked, trying to gauge his reaction.

He looked up, surprise flickering across his face. "The party?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow. "You… you want to go?"

I felt a flicker of self-consciousness, but I held his gaze. "Yeah," I admitted.

“Honestly, Y/N," he said, "it's a bit… childish."

"Childish?" I repeated, surprised. "But everyone says it's a lot of fun!"

Enzo, chimed in with a shrug. "He has a point. It's mostly just first years causing mayhem."

There it was , that hesitation. Mattheo rarely said no to anything I asked.

He studied me for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. He glanced at Enzo, exchanging a silent communication that left me puzzled.I don’t really understand I know they used to go every year .

He looked at me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine. Then, a slow smile spread across his face.

"Alright then love ," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "If you want to, then we'll go."

The Slytherin common room was a whirlwind of emerald and silver. Green streamers snaked across the ceiling, enchanted banners proclaimed Slytherin victory in various forgotten contests, and a cacophony of music and laughter filled the air. My heart pounded with excitement, a delightful mix of anticipation and nerves.

The atmosphere was vibrant, filled with laughter and music. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to have me there, chatting and mingling as if I had been a regular attendee for years.

However, what struck me as odd was how Mattheo and Enzo never left my side. It was as if they were guarding me, anticipating something that I wasn't aware of. Despite their usual easygoing demeanor, there was a sense of alertness in their actions that left me curious and slightly uneasy.

As the night progressed, I couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched, not in a malicious way, but more like a protective gaze. Mattheo and Enzo's constant presence by my side felt both comforting and unsettling at the same time.

I tried to brush off my unease and enjoy the party, engaging in conversations and joining in on the festivities. However, the nagging feeling that something was amiss lingered in the back of my mind.

It wasn't until later in the evening, when Mattheo and Enzo exchanged a meaningful glance, that I realized there was more to their protective behavior than met the eye.

Chaos erupted in the common room as Charlie Spinnet, stormed towards Mattheo. "Get her out of here now ," he growled, jabbing a finger in my direction. "Or I'll do it myself."

Before Mattheo could respond, the room fell silent. A Slytherin seventh-year, Adrian Pucey, stood on a nearby table, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Hold on there, Spinnet ," he boomed, his voice cutting through the tension. "This year, we're doing something a little different… a play!"

A cheer erupted from the Slytherins, many of them eager for a change from the usual prank wars. Mattheo , however, remained unconvinced. He narrowed his eyes at Adrian, suspicion etched on his face.

As the play began, I couldn't help but notice the similarities between my name and the name of the girl portrayed in the story. It didn't take long for me to realize that the play was about a jinxing girl, and it described in vivid detail everything I had confided in Mattheo about my family and my troubled past at the lake that night.

Panic clawed at my throat. I stole a glance at Mattheo, but his face was a mask. He reached out a hand towards me, but I flinched back instinctively .

The room fell silent, every eye glued to me and the unfolding drama.

Onstage, the actress portraying me continued, her voice dripping with drama. "…driven by ambition, she stole her brother's place, but a terrible curse followed. Wherever she goes, misfortune befalls those around her. She's the jinx girl, a harbinger of bad luck!"

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Whispers erupted like flames, spreading fear and suspicion. I felt them scorching my skin, their judgment a suffocating weight on my chest.

Suddenly, a new scene unfolded on stage. A group of actors, portraying Hogwarts students, stood center stage. "Here's the dare," boomed one, a mock sense of bravery in his voice. "The boy who approaches the jinx girl and brings her to the party… wins!"

Suddenly, a commotion arose from the back of the room. Enzo and Theodore Nott , their faces grim, pushed their way through the crowd towards the makeshift stage. "Stop this!" Enzo said, his voice laced with fury. "This is out of line, Pucey!"

The actors scrambled off the stage, bewildered and slightly scared. The common room dissolved into chaos. Accusatory whispers turned into heated arguments. Pity and fear flickered in averted gazes. I even overheard someone mutter, "Did she really kill her brother?"

The roar of the party faded behind me as I sprinted down the Slytherin common room's hidden corridor, tears stinging my eyes despite my desperate efforts to hold them back. Mattheo's voice calling after me, pleading, only fueled my desperate need to escape.

"Y/N, please!" he shouted, but I ignored him, my feet pounding a relentless rhythm against the cold stone floor.

"Y/N!" he called again, his voice closer this time. Panic surged through me, lending me fresh bursts of energy.

Just as I reached the portrait leading out to the dungeons, a strong hand clamped onto my arm. I spun around, ready to lash out, but it was him – Mattheo, his face etched with a desperate worry I'd never seen before.

He tried to reach for my hand, but I recoiled violently. "Don't you dare touch me!" I screamed, my voice raw with hurt and betrayal.

He flinched, his hand hovering awkwardly in mid-air. "Y/N, love, just hear me out," he pleaded.

"Love?" I spat the word back at him, incredulous. "Don't call me that." The weight of everything that had just happened crashed down on me. The staged play, the public humiliation, the sickening realization that it had all been a dare.

"It's not what it seems like," he stammered, trying to explain. "I—"

"You what?" I interrupted, my voice rising. "It was all a lie, wasn't it? "

"No, no, I swear," he said urgently. "Everything that happened between us was real. My feelings for you…" His voice trailed off, his eyes pleading for me to understand.

But the damage was done. The carefully constructed trust – it had all crumbled to dust in the face of this cruel betrayal.

"Don't," I choked out, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. "Don't lie to me anymore."

A sob escaped my lips, and despite the anger burning within me, a part of me ached for the connection I thought we shared.

"Just give me a chance to explain," he pleaded, but I shook my head, unable to bear the sight of him anymore.

The truth, however distorted, was clear. "Wouldn't you deny it was a dare?" I challenged him, a flicker of defiance sparking in my tear-filled eyes.

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. For the first time, I saw a flicker of genuine pain cross Mattheo's usually guarded features.

"No," he finally admitted, and I felt a wave of numbness wash over me.

As I turned to walk away, he continued, "It was at first, but I swear that from that night at the Broomsticks, everything was real. I even forgot about that stupid dare. Everything that happened between us was real, you know that."

I scoffed, wiping angrily at my tears. "I don't know anything anymore," I said.

"Foolish me. That's why you didn't want Charlie to talk to me that day, wasn't it? Because he was going to expose you?"

""No, Y/N, I just didn't want you to get hurt __“

"You what?" I cut him off again, my voice trembling with fury. "How generous of you," I said sarcastically. "But look, you win now, Riddle. Won't you go celebrate? It was their dare,"

"I don't care about anyone else but you," he said fiercely.

I stared at him, incredulous. "Then why does it feel like you care about everything else more than me right now?"

He took a hesitant step forward, but I didn't back away this time. I met his gaze head-on, my heart a tangled mess of emotions.

"I can't lose you," he whispered, his voice filled with desperation.

"You already have," I said, the words like shards of glass in my mouth. I wanted to hurt him, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain I was experiencing.

"I ___ i love you," he confessed, the words hanging heavy in the air.

Love. The very word felt like a mockery.

I looked him straight in the eye, my voice surprisingly calm despite the storm raging within me. "And I hate you, Mattheo Riddle," I said, each word laced with the bitter taste of betrayal.

With that final declaration, I turned away, leaving him standing alone in the darkened corridor, the portrait swinging shut behind me.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅

#slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin boys x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle masterlist #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle imagines #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle angst

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teamatsumu · 2 months

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it was you all along. (bokuto koutaro x reader)

summary: you confess to him, and he’s confused because he thinks you’re already dating. for my valentine’s day event - theme: confessions.

word count: 1285

tags: @keiva1000 @kindnessspreads @msbyomimi @sleepyxxhead @priv-rose @nishayuro @kitas-tapioca @kakashineedstotouchgrass s @amisuh @avis-writeshq @samanthaa-leanne @akaashi-todorki @sp1ng @kur0obaby @bleach-your-panties @pinkiipeachiikeen @whippedbel

event masterlist

Careful hands tried to handle the cupcake as delicately as possible. You held your breath, lowering it into the box. When its base hit the cardboard, you finally sighed out in relief. You pulled back to admire your creation, feeling a smile creep up on your face at the sight of the four cupcakes, all decorated to the nines.

No doubt in your head that Bokuto would love this. After all, you knew his every like and dislike very well. You had known him forever.

Bokuto Kotarou had taken you under his ‘wing’ when you were in elementary school. Tiny-you had no confidence and zero capability to make friends, while Bokuto was your exact opposite. He had taken a liking to you and had bravely proclaimed that he would ‘protect’ you, puffing out his tiny chest and grinning wide. Over the years, Bokuto had not let you down even once.

It was no wonder that you slowly fell in love with him. How could you not? You spent every day joined at the hip. The only time you were apart was when he was on the court, and even then you were on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, managing the team while admiring how talented your friend was. So really, how could you not fall in love?

In your defense, Bokuto doted on you like crazy. He knew very little physical boundaries when it came to you, hugging and squeezing the life out of you, laying sloppy kisses on your cheeks, sharing food and stories and…. basically each other’s entire lives.

But today. Today was the day. Today you would tell him that you no longer wanted to be friends. That you wanted more. Your heartbeat sped up at the thought of how he might react. You weren’t an arrogant person by any means but you couldn’t imagine him reacting negatively. There’s no way Bokuto could be as affectionate as he was if he didn’t feel something for you. Hell, how many times had he told you he loved you? Every day. You had lost count.

You were careful with the box as you walked to school. Your very limbs were vibrating, and you were breathing deeply in and out to make sure you remained calm. You were optimistic in taking this step. In fact, all your mutual friends, including the team, had only encouraged you. They were all dead sure he would accept your confession and return your feelings just as enthusiastically. You were more excited than you were nervous. You couldn’t wait to see him.

You found Bokuto with his head buried in his locker, and you had to hold back a snort. He was muttering something under his breath, and you were sure he had lost something else now. His locker was a mess, and you had repeatedly scolded him to clean it up or else he would lose things. Once again, you were right.

You tapped his shoulder, biting back a laugh when he jolted and banged his head against the roof. Curses flew from his mouth before he ducked and pulled his head out, turning to look at you with a glare. You watched fondly when his scowl was replaced by the widest, brightest smile you had ever seen. Bokuto’s smile could give the Sun a run for its money.

He exclaimed your name loudly, opening his arms wide to pull you into a bear hug. You immediately held a hand out to push his chest back.

“Hold it!” You lifted up the box. “I’m holding something delicate.”

Bokuto’s interest was immediately piqued, and you giggled at his childish curiosity, grabbing his wrist and tugging him with you. He hastily slammed his locker shut and let you drag him down the crowded halls and outside, finding an empty bench overlooking the school track.

“What’s going on?” He finally asked, wide golden eyes peering into your own. You sat down and patted the seat beside you for Bokuto to do the same. He obliged, waiting for you to speak. Instead, you handed him the box.

Bokuto opened it up and gasped at the selection of four intricately decorated cupcakes, admiring each one separately. You felt your heart swell at his reactions.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “This one looks like a volleyball. And this one has my jersey number!”

Bokuto looked back up at you with stars in his eyes. “I can’t believe it. This is so awesome!”

You grinned wide, fiddling with your hands a bit. “I made them for a special occasion.”

Bokuto perked up again. “What special occasion?”

You took a deep breath. Finally, the time was here. “I love you, Kou.”

Bokuto blinked before a wide smile overtook his face. “I love ya too, babe.”

You stared at him for a bit. “No. I mean, I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Now, a small, confused frown formed between the boy’s eyebrows. “I heard you. I love you, too. What’s going on? You’re bein’ weird.”

You gaped at Bokuto, unable to even fathom what he was getting from this. Were you not being clear enough? Was he not understanding what you meant?

“Kotarou, I don’t want to be just friends. This isn’t a ‘friends’ kind of love. I wanna date you. I wanna be your girlfriend.”

Now Bokuto looked flabbergasted, slowly closing the box and placing it to the side. “What are you talking about? You are my girlfriend!”

Silence. “What?”

Bokuto nodded, though he still looked at you like you had grown two heads. “Y-yeah?”

“Kou-” You held up a hand as if calling a timeout, trying, but failing, to understand what he meant. You had anticipated requited feelings. Some part of you had even considered the possibility of rejection. But this? How was this even possible?

Bokuto looked like he was processing things too. He quirked his head to the side, staring quizzically at you. One of his hands ran through his hair, almost in thought. You felt a horrific laugh bubble up inside you at how ridiculous the situation was. This…. this was so on brand for Bokuto. Your confession going awry because this idiot thought you were already dating.

“But what about all the time we’re together? I always hug you and kiss you. We have sleepovers all the time. I sleep in your damn bed!”

“Well yes, but-” You shifted. “We did that as friends!”

Bokuto gave you a look. “You think I act that way with my other friends?”

“I thought I was special.” You mumbled, suddenly rethinking almost every interaction you had with Bokuto.

“You are.” His voice softened. “Because you’re my girlfriend.”

You felt your face burn hot. “But you never-”

He waited for you to continue. You fidgeted.

“We never kissed.”

Now, a shiteating grin was slowly spreading across Bokuto’s face. He wiggled his crazy eyebrows at you. “You wanna?”

You smacked his bicep hard, making him yelp and rub the sore spot with a little pout. Inside your chest, your heart was doing endless flip flops. You still couldn’t believe that all this time, Bokuto had assumed you were dating and not just friends. The very thought of it was both completely expected and also insanely shocking at the same time.

Bokuto was watching you closely, having calmed down a bit. He gave you a little smile.

“Since ya didn’t consider any of our dates as…. dates, can I take you out on a proper one now?”

A smile spread across your face at his words. You nodded jerkily, staring down at your hands. Bokuto clapped his hands in finality.

“Great! Now, I need to eat these cupcakes and talk about how great they are.”

You laughed.

#bokuto koutarou #bokuto koutaro x reader #bokuto x reader #bokuto fluff #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu fluff #hq fluff #bokuto koutaro x you #bokuto koutaro x y/n

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messylustt · 11 months

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౨ৎ ‧˚

𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐨 (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥) — 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐞𝐦

miguel o’hara x fem!reader. a lot of words.

fic masterlist previous part pt eight next part

violence + blood + injuries; making out; suggestive content; my god whew — miguel’s hand raises to…what? you don’t know, because the spider society’s alarm bell is ringing. mayhem, fire, fights…masked men. you only want to help. when miguel confronts you about your ‘help’ clearly displaying anger and well…worry, something unexpected happens…you both getting as close as you did before…maybe closer?

You’re still staring at Miguel, staying close. Closer than you probably should be. And just as his hand reaches up to…to what? What was he going to do?

Because now the alarms are sounding. Followed by the cries of spider-people. You quickly whip your head to the door. And at first Miguel doesn’t look away from you. As if the word ‘emergency’ isn’t registering in his brain. No. He keeps his eyes on you, his lifted hand having to drop away as you rush to the door.

Miguel clenched his jaw, cursing the whole idea of having an ‘emergency bell’.

You’ve reached the door and then the hallway seeing mayhem. Everyone is running (or more so webbing) around, as a fire had started in the centre.

Miguel is soon joining you, just as you spot Miles and Hobie running up. “There you are, mate.” Hobie sighs in relief, grabbing your shoulders as he goes to move you.

“Wh-“ You look around. “What’s going on?”

Miguel narrows his eyes on Hobie’s hands. He knows now’s really not the time to feel petty, but part of him wants to break his ringed fingers. Hobie moves you with him further down the hallway. “If they recognise ya, they’ll wanna kill ya, luv. So, let’s maybe go…ay?”

Your eyes widen. “Kill?! What? Why?”

Miles is hot on both your heels. Miguel not far behind him. Then Miguel notices Miles, brows slightly furrowing. “Why are you here?” He asks, making Miles glance back.

“Uh…I was invited.” He says slowly.

“Uh huh.” He eyed the kid. “By who? Gwen?”

Miles gulps at the look Miguel is giving him. “Yeah…”

“Mm.” Miguel hums, looking distasteful as he walks past Miles, catching up to you and Hobie. “Now we’re letting anyone in?” He mutters to himself with a small scoff.

“Hobie, what happened?” You ask, as he continues to move you, his grip staying on your shoulders. He brings you to the tech room, it appearing empty. You look behind you at the way you came. “I didn’t know you could get here through there.” You mutter.

“Lyla.” You hear Miguel say, her appearing by his shoulder. “What is this?” Though the look Miguel is displaying makes you feel as though he already knows.

“An attack on HQ.” Lyla says, beginning to tap away at her little screens.

“Okay, there are way too many of them.” You hear Pav say, running into the room.

“We held them off as much as we could.” Gwen is close behind. “But their strong. Like freaky strong.”

“Y/n!” Pav exclaims, bringing you in for a hug.

“Oh—“ You weren’t expecting the hug, everything happening so fast, as you slowly pat his back.

“Where were you?” He sounds concerned.

“I was just…” you drift off, licking your lips. “Gwen, whose really strong?” You quickly look to her.

“You remember the men who attacked last time? The one’s with the masks?” Gwen asks, to which you slowly nod, catching on.

“They’re back?” You ask. Gwen nods.

“But they look different.” Gwen’s says—her having seen the ones who attacked you and the tech room when they were in pools of their own blood, curtesy of Miguel. “They’re…”

“Bigger.” You mutter, picturing the masked men that were in Miles’ universe. “Better suits? Strangely taller?” You ask her.

“Yeah…”

“They’ve upgraded.” You mutter.

“Which means they aren’t here for a tiny thief job.” Miguel says, walking past you all to one of the only computers that didn’t get smashed. He pauses though, licking his teeth, as he mutters rather quietly. “Does anyone know the password?”

You hold back your amused smile, as you walk up to the computer. You lean down, tapping at the keyboard. The screen glitches a little, but for the most part it works.

“You’re looking for the security cameras right?” You ask Miguel, still staring at the screen. Lyla was clearly too busy to compute it, so you tap at more keys, bringing up roughly twenty different security camera images.

You zoom in on the middle three, displaying the fire and the masked men. Miguel leans over the desk beside you, staring at the screen. “They started the fire by smashing the tech there.” You point to a far spot on the screen, noticing the destroyed screens and machines.

Everyone had begun to surround the computer. “Why do they want to destroy tech?” Pav ask, as you shift your gaze to Miguel.

His gaze is focused on the screen, and more specifically on one specific ‘masked man’ . You narrowed your gaze on him. Where had he gone earlier? Has he met this guy? How does he recognise him? They all look the same to you.

Green woven—now metal—suits, but still those handmade masks…except now with added metal elements scattered randomly. “Miguel.” You say, making him shift his gaze to you.

You tilt your head, silently communicating that you know somethings up. The raise of your brows asks him why he isn’t voicing anything.

Miguel’s teeth are grinding as he stares at you, silently communicating back. You narrow your eyes upon understanding his expression as one showing he’s not going to voice anything. If he doesn’t have to anyway.

Hobie stares at you two for a moment, blinking. “Can you two read each others minds now? Is that what we’ve been missin’?”

You shift your gaze to Hobie, who’s standing, arms crossed. Then a rather loud scream makes all your heads whip to the computer. A masked man is holding up a spider-person by the throat. But what makes you want to puke is the way his claw is beginning to stab into the spiders chest and running down, tearing skin and other bodily flesh.

Hobie, Gwen, Pav, and Miles are quick, rushing out of the room and assumably to the lobby, where the guy’s screams are easily heard. Other spider-people are trying to fight back, but the masked men seem to be knocking them down a little too easily. How are they doing that so easily?

You swiftly turn your gaze to the screen, eyes darting, as your chest heaved. “One of them took it, Miguel.” Lyla says, making you shift your gaze to him.

He’s moving away, most likely to get to the action to help as well. He meets your gaze. “Don’t you dare move.” He warns, before he’s slipping through the secret entry.

What did Lyla say? One of the masked men took what? You look back to the computer, wincing every time a spider-person got hit. Hard. You take note of one guy, his hits extra painful to watch—the one Miguel was staring at. You wanted to help. You wished you could help.

Then you hear the shuffle of metal making you spin. But your heart slows upon seeing Peter and Mayday. Wait…mayday?!

You rush forward, seeing Peter’s frantic expression. “Y/n, Thank god. I didn’t—I didn’t know what to do.” He gesturing to Mayday.

“Peter why is she here?!” You’re extremely worried.

“I didn’t know an attack was gonna happen! I would have left her home.” He’s looking behind him, clearly knowing he has to help, but still holding tightly onto an unbothered, babbling Mayday.

You quickly grab her, pulling her into your arms. “Go.” You say. “They need you out there. Go.”

Peter looks hesitant, and you understand why. “I’ll hide.” You say, knowing he’s skeptical because you’re well…human and could barely fight back against those men. Especially if spider variants are getting knocked out.

“They won’t find me. They won’t find her.” You hold Mayday close to you, as she rests her head on your shoulder, her smile still present.

Then Peter is nodding. He trusts you. He knows you’re not one to be stupid. “Go.” You say again, and he moves, rushing out towards the action.

Your heart is beating on overdrive. Holding Mayday tightly, you turned back to the screen. None of your friends were knocked out, injured or…dead. But just as you go to find somewhere to hide—as you had promised, you noticed something.

A small machine, with a switch, it’s almost unseeable through the screen, but you catch it. That isn’t the spider-society’s tech. That’s from the masked men.

No. It suddenly clicks. Why all the spider-people were getting knocked out easy, why they could never sense when a masked man was l close. It was as if someone switched off their spider-sense and strength.

You felt Mayday lean away, using her own spider webs to attach to a farther desk, yanking you along the ground. “Mayday.” You hold her back. Now was not the time. Why did Peter give her her own webs?

You rip the web, pulling her back. “Mayday.” You say making your look at you, hair curling around her face. “You have to stay still. Okay? Just stay in my arms. Then how bout we play a game after?”

Her face lights up. You’d played these games with her, the main two being learning fun handshakes, and the other was hide and seek. “Alright?” You ask gently. She excitedly jumps in your arms. “You gotta stay still, though.” She stills, wrapping her arms around your neck.

You sigh, turning back to the screen. You can spot Gwen looking confused, clearly feeling the effects of not having a spider-sense. Then you spot Miguel. He seems unaffected by the change, noticing the masked men a lot quicker than the other spider people. Then you shift your gaze back to the switch.

The spider variants didn’t know. Shit, shit, shit. You had said you’d hide, to keep Mayday safe. But you can’t just do…nothing. Then you decide something incredibly stupid, like beyond a seeable level of stupid that could turn out terribly.

But you had to try. Because they weren’t winning out there. You pull Mayday away, making sure she caught your gaze. “Okay, Mayday…we’re gonna a play a game now. How’s that?”

She nods quickly, clapping her hands. “Alright…you remember hide and seek?”

She again nods at you, slightly playing with your hair. “I’m gonna count. And you’re gonna hide. Somewhere good. Really good.”

She begins to try and get out for yours arms, eager to play. “Mayday. Find somewhere really good.” She’d always been very good at choosing a hard hiding place. It always took you forever to find her. And you were counting on that.

Then you reluctantly let her go. You wouldn’t be long. You wouldn’t be. “One…” you pretend to cover your eyes, as you watch her waddle away through the cracks between your fingers.

You were stressed. This plan couldn’t go wrong. You wouldn’t let it. “Two…”

You were gonna reach that switch. “Three…”

And now you can’t see Mayday, knowing what direction she ran in, and roughly where she had hid, so that you could rush back to her. You had to be quick.

You ran towards the secret exit, grabbing a loose pipe. You’d rather go out there with a weapon. Loud sounds reach your eardrums when you made it outside the room, but you continued to run.

You couldn’t slow, or take your time. You rushed past spiders, thankful none are noticing you. Just stay unnoticed—you keep repeating to yourself. You reached the middle of the mayhem. And god was it hectic.

You couldn’t let Peter see you. You couldn’t let Miguel see you. You couldn’t let any of them see you. It’s as if you never came here. You ran, skirting past broken tables and machines.

Everything felt hot, the fire still partially there. You held back a scream as a tumbling, fighting duo nearly barrelled into you—it managed to knock away your pipe, but you couldn’t stop to dwell. The switch, the switch, the switch.

You slid to your knees, rushing under a table. You’ve almost gotten punched, and you’re sure a cut is bleeding. But you run, you can now see the switch, and also your friends. They look terrible.

You grit your teeth moving quicker. You’re so close. And just as you think relief is near, a body hits you, knocking you down. You wince, looking up to see a masked man. He tilts his head, blood coating his entire claw along with his suit.

You shuffle back along the floor, trying to get to your feet. But his boot comes down onto your chest, making you wheeze. “Aren’t you that chick who got away?”

“Different chick.” You wheeze out, scrabbling to get his foot off you.

“Nah, I remember the poster they put up in the lab. Your face is recognisable.” He presses harder against your chest. Your hand scrambles to the side, against the dirty floor. Find something. Anything.

Your hand finally clasps around a loose peice of metal. You tighten your hold, the sharpness cutting your palm. You swing your arm across, stabbing it into the guy’s calf.

It goes in deep, resulting in him lessening his boots hold. You manage to roll away, swiftly getting to your feet. He goes to lunge for you again, but your arm shoots out in a punch, right across his face. He stumbles slightly back.

But you seem to be more hurt then him. “Mother fu—“ you hiss, holding your now bruised knuckles. “Shit…why did I do that?” You mutter to yourself.

But you try not to dwell on the pain as you run past him and the others, finally reaching the switch. One hand is bloody while the other is bruised and you’ve never felt more relieved. You push the switch, a small whirring sound reaching your ears.

Then suddenly you catch sight of all the spider-people’s spider-senses turning back on, practically animated. But your relieved smile drops as practically all the masked men shift there gaze to you. Shit.

With all the turned heads, you catch Hobie’s turn as well. His spider-sense now taking note of you. His eyes widen in a mix of confusion, worry and anger? Wow you’ve never really seen him angry before.

Miguel takes note of you now as well now, as you shift your gaze to him, pressing your lips together as you breathe through your nose. Miguel’s expression is downright terrifying. You watch as he snaps one the masked men’s necks as he moves towards you.

You gulp, noticing some of the masked men move to you as well. You swiftly grab the small switch machine, and begin to back out of the room, or at least try to.

And just as a claw reaches for your face, an orange web yanks you aside, nearly making you tumble, but a tight hand wraps around your upper arm. “What the fuck are doing here?” Miguel lowly hisses out.

“Miguel— I have to go.” Mayday. You had to get to Mayday.

“No, no you can’t just go anywhere. You were already practically an enemy to these guy, but oh now they want to kill you.” He says this while slicing his claws across one of the guys throats—having tilted his head back to display the guys bare neck.

“Miguel.” You hiss. “Let go. I have to go.” You rush these words out.

But Miguel didn’t want to let go. You were bleeding, bruised, and almost dead. “Why didn’t you stay put? Why didn’t you stay goddamn put?” He growls.

You’re breathing hard. You had to go, and you didn’t have the time to explain. So you do the best thing you can think of. “I’m sorry about this...”

Your hand had reached for something on the a table, a plate, another peice of metal, whatever it was you knock it across his face. Not to cut, or harm, just so that his grip would loosen around your arm.

And it does, leaving you room to run. And god did you run—fast. You skirted past fighting people, the spider variants finally knocking some of the masked men down, now that the switch was off.

You reached the secret entrance, rushing into the tech room. You kept the switch machine close to you as you rushed to Mayday’s hiding place. You tried to slow your breathing, not wanting to freak her out. You wiped your bloody hand on your pants, wincing as your cut rubs against the material.

You didn’t want to scare her.

You reach the small cupboard type thing, having to lift yourself up. She had clearly webbed herself towards it. But with you being taller than her you managed. You took a breath. Pretending that you had been playing the entire time.

“Oh, Mayday.” You sing songed quietly. “I wonder where you are?”

You neared the closed cupboard door, hearing a faint giggle. You sigh in relief at the fact that she’s still here. You whip the doors open and you hear a small squeak. You scoop her up.

“Found you.” You said softly, earning now huffing giggles from her. She was okay. She was okay.

But then your heart drops. You hear heavy scuffing boots enter the room. No. Please no. Without thinking you rush into the cupboard, shutting the door.

Mayday begins to babble on about something, but you put her head into your neck. “Shh.” You shakily whisper. “Shh.” You stroke her hair. She moves a little, but luckily she begins to relax in your arms.

You can hear the taunting boots near. And you hold your hand over your mouth, quieting your heavy breathing. Please stay quiet Mayday, please stay quiet—you think to yourself, holding her closer to you, as you slide to the floor of the cupboard. It only just fit you both.

Then the door is getting harshly pulled open and your eyes widen. No, no, no. But then just as the masked man comes into view, his body is getting harshly lifted, his feet raising as blood bleeds out from his stomach. Your eyes widen.

Then he falls to the side, revealing a heaving Miguel. Your head knocks back against the cupboard back wall, as you hold Mayday tighter to you. You couldn’t let her see. Any of the blood, you wouldn’t let her see.

Miguel meets your gaze, just as Hobie, Pav, Gwen, Miles and Peter rush to a stop beside him, all staring into the cupboard.

You begin to shakily stand, still holding onto Mayday for dear life. You were scared. Your adrenaline slowly disappearing.

Peter rushes forward taking Mayday from you. He notices there isn’t a scratch on her and Peter is beyond relieved. “Make sure she doesn’t…see.” You say, sounding somewhat out of it as you blink, so your eyes would stay open.

Then Hobie is slipping his arm around your midriff, supporting your legs, as you gulped down arising tears. You wouldn’t cry. Not in front of everyone.

“What the hell was that?” For once there is no joke in Hobie’s tone.

Your eyes a blurring, but you wanted to stay awake. You hated how much your body could exhaust. “You were supposed to stay up here.” Miguel is saying, his breathing still heavy.

You know that you arriving back to the tech room, alerted that now dead masked man of where you were.

For once Miguel doesn’t mind that Hobie is holding you. He’s helping you. And though Miguel would rather help you, his hands are covered in blood—Hobie having used his surroundings and web to mainly fight them, his hands being rather clean from the red.

You half heartedly chuckle. “You can just say thanks.” You meet his gaze, a small smile edging your lips.

“Are they…” You drift off, Gwen filling in.

“They left. They aren’t dead. Some of them are. But the others…left.” She says, making you nod.

“Thank god.” You mutter out, the pain finally feeling like it can catch up to you. “And fuck…” You slightly push off of Hobie, shaking your bruised hand. “When were any of you gonna tell me that punching someone really fuckin’ hurts.”

“Well, usually punching someone with a metal head tends to hurt.” Pav says, raising his brows slightly.

“Eh.” You chuckle, continuing to flex your hand.

;;

Miguel didn’t leave your side when you went to medical, you getting stitched, and mended.

“Don’t sleep in here.” He says, gazing around at practically every spider person. The medical was of course packed.

“But the fire reached my room—“

“Not mine.” Miguel says, already slipping his arms around your body—though he keeps his hands, for the majority, off of you. His hands were still covered in blood, though dry, meaning the blood wouldn’t taint you, he still couldn’t.

“That’s fine—“

“Shut up, and move.” Miguel wasn’t looking for your acceptance, taking you to his room.

;;

Once inside, he shuts the door, leading you to sit on his bed. As you did, he had slightly begun to pace the length of his room.

“What are you doing?” You ask, watching his stressful state. “Can you stop?”

He shifts his gaze to you, semi stopping. His body was still tense, his jaw clenched. “Sit.” You say, gesturing to the chair. You narrow your gaze until he obeys, moving the chair to face you, as he took a seat.

Glass still slightly littered the ground, the slight scratch marks on the chair staying easily visible.

You noticed for a moment that he couldn’t look at you. His gaze instead getting caught up with his wrist. You glanced down at it, noticing a thin…bracelet? It was covered in blood, and he had begin to fiddle with it, making your brows furrow.

“What’s that?” You ask. But he still doesn’t meet your gaze, clenching his hand into a fist.

“Nothing.” He says. But it wasn’t nothing of course. It was your bracelet, the one he had found in your rooms doorway, back in your universe when you had went missing.

“I didn’t know you were one to wear jewellery.” You speak light heartedly. But he barely reacts. “Miguel.” You say, sighing. “Can you at least look at me?”

And it’s the slight sadness in your voice that makes him. He looks up and you’re shocked to see a million different emotions swirling in his eyes.

“Why did you do that?” He asks, now not looking away from your eyes.

“What?”

“That.” He hisses lowly. “You were supposed to stay in the tech room.”

“Miguel you do realise that I couldn’t have just stood there and literally watched…right?” You ask, seeing his gaze flicker everywhere on your face. “I saw something important, and thought i should help.”

“But you shouldn’t have.” He says.

“Yes, I should have…” You stand up now. Miguel moves to stand also, but you hold your hand out, making sure he stayed seated. “I want to help Miguel. I want to be of help.”

“Yeah, well you being of help nearly got you killed.” He snarls.

“Exactly the same as all of you.” You say, stepping closer to his seated self. “You guys go through so much dangerous stuff all the time. And finally when I can actually help you hate me for it.”

“Because you’re—“

“A weak human, yeah I got it. But I wanted to help. And It worked…none of you guys are dead!” You exclaim, breathing heavy.

Miguel stares up at you, his breathing close to matching yours.

“That is all I’ve ever wanted to do, Miguel.” You say. “Help.”

“You almost died out there.” His voice had begun to soften.

“And so did you!” Yours hasn’t yet, though.

He couldn’t resist. Slipping his hand under your thigh he pulled you towards him, making your body tumble. He caught you by a second grip on your other thigh, making sure you landed in a straddle over his lap. His legs were still a fraction spread, which made yours naturally spread further around him. This satisfied Miguel’s want to keep those legs spread. Wide and open for him.

He pulled you even closer, your body sliding along his thighs, right up against him. Your heart was beating like a drum in your ears. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t speak. All you could do was breathe and stare. Stare at Miguel’s piercing red eyes that now practically told you everything he hadn’t voiced yet.

Miguel stared at you, his eyes seeming to hood over on their own. You were yet again, so close. He could taste your breath. And he wanted to. God did he want to.

He’s sure it would taste so sweet. You would taste so fucking sweet. His clawed hands stayed wrapped around your thighs, as he began to lean in, his eyes focused on your freshly wet lips, your nervous habit. You were nervous. He met your gaze once more, before darting his eyes down again. He couldn’t stop leaning in.

Your heart has stopped, having been beating rapidly in your ears. You want to gulp down your nervousness but Miguel is now so close to your neck.

His warm breath fans over your skin as his mouth opens a fraction. His hands ran up your body, to grip around your waist. Then he leaned in, his lips attaching to the side of your neck. You heard him hum, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine.

His hands begun to slip under your shirt, the feel of your bare skin making him go practically insane. He couldn’t believe it. He began to slowly litter small kisses—at first—his breathing growing heavier and heavier.

Your chest was heaving as he pulled you tighter to him, his lips now pressing harder against your skin. When they turned open-mouthed you could feel the drag of his fangs, his tongue coming down to soothe forming bruises.

Your head had begun to roll back, your hands tightly gripped onto Miguel’s shoulders. “I couldn’t let you die, cariño.” He whisper-groaned into your neck. His panting breath only occasionally felt, because he couldn’t back away from your skin.

His kisses began to lead up to your jaw. You were flushed, your body hot, everywhere. “Miguel—“ you breathe out.

“Shh, I just wanna…I just…” but he couldn’t even finish the sentence as he reached to hover over your lips. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, his claws embedding themselves into your hair, as his other hand tightened a fraction around your waist.

Now you’re breathing hard, your eyes slightly glazed over, your mind utterly dazed as you stared at Miguel. “I just want to…”

You gulp. “Want to what?” You quietly asked, your own eyes flickering to his lips.

“I— carajo.” Was the last word he managed before his lips found yours, your head knocking back. Miguel wrapped his lips around your bottom, breathy groans easily escaping him, as he pulled you impossibly closer. His heart was beating on overdrive, nearly at a concerning tempo as he lapped at your mouth.

And god did you taste sweet. So fucking sweet. And he gets to feel you—have you. He doesn’t have a care in the world as long as you stayed this close. Right against him letting him keep you this close. Your tongue dragged across his bottom lip, soon finding his tongue. His head moved to push further against yours, as he swirled his tongue around your mouth.

Then your body slightly jolts. His hand that was gripping your waist had tightened to a point that his claws had cut you a fraction. Miguel immediately let your waist go, realising that his body’s reaction—tightening around you, was to make sure you wouldn’t leave. “I’m—“

But you’re cutting him off with another kiss, slightly raising on your knees, so that his head had to tilt up to stay kissing you. His hands slipped to wrap around your raised thighs. “Tell me you weren’t gonna apologise.” You spoke to his lips, leaning away a fraction.

But Miguel eagerly chased your mouth, managing to pull your head back down, with a swift grip to your hair. “Miguel—“

He shook his head, his lips brushing against yours. “If I say no, will you keep kissing me?” He tilted his head, lips still lightly brushing yours, as his tongue came out to lick your top lip. “Mm?”

“Yea—“ but Miguel cuts you off, kissing you hard as one of his hands stoked up and down your thigh. “Then I’m not sorry at all.” He muttered between kisses. He was addicted. That’s the simplest way to put it. Utterly addicted. “Dios…I’m not sorry.”

Your hands slipped around his neck, beginning to play with the ends of his brown hair, your fingers soon sinking to softly grip the strands. A breathy moan escapes Miguel’s lips at the feeling of your fingers, his mouth opening against your own. A small forming smile edged your lips at the reaction.

“Shut up.” He whispered, smashing his lips back to yours. His kisses had grown even more heated—if possible—spreading across your cheek, his nose brushing against your hair. “Dios, y/n, can I touch you…mm por favor…?” He asks, trying to pull your thighs back down onto him.

But you held your own, staying just out of reach—legs either side of him on the chair. When Miguel would much rather you pressed against him. Of course he was hard, aching almost painfully. “Y/n.” He lowly growled out.

You grabbed his chin, lifting his head up, as you teasingly pecked his lips. “I’ve never seen you beg, give me a moment to enjoy it.”

Miguel clenched his jaw as he harshly pulled your thighs further apart, making you gasp, landing right on top of him. He moved his hands to your hips, keeping you still, as his head slightly leant back at the feeling. “Mm…that’s it…” He whispered out.

You could feel his bulge right under you, making your core ache. Now you felt hot. And as you looked at a breathless Miguel, his chest heaving mismatched you couldn’t help but begin to slightly move your hips.

Miguel’s breathing hitches, his hands gripping your waist. “Y/n…”

“Shh.” You partially mocked, earning a small growl from Miguel. “Didn’t you say I had to do anything for you?” You moved your hips along him, grinding torturously. “This seems like it would certainly help.” Your tone is breathy, as your hips movements sends jolts through you both.

“For a…mission.” Miguel remembers the start of the deal—the conversation—correcting you, through heavy breaths. God, what were you doing…keep doing it.

“Which loosely means for you.” You copy his previous words.

His head slightly falls back. “Mierda, cariño…”

You go to place your hands on his chest, when his head comes back up, his grip slipping from your waist to your hips and managing to stop you. He leans towards your ear. “But do you really think I’m gonna let you grind on me like that? Make me pathetically reach my high with clothes…still on?”

Your breathing hitches. His hand reaches up your shirt again, but pauses by the side of your waist. Then before you know it, Miguel’s holding your thighs—wrapped around him—as he stands. You quickly wrap your hands around his neck thinking you would fall.

Miguel chuckles at the reaction, instead, effortlessly walking with you towards his bed. He leans forward, resting you down as his hands came to cage you in. You’re resting on your elbows, pushing a little higher up. Miguel leans even more forward, so that you’re forced to lean back with him.

“Lie back…eso es (that’s it)…that’s ma’ girl.” Miguel breathes, as your head rests back against his sheets. My girl. His girl. All of Miguel’s previous loud voices, the ones that had quietened when you hugged him have become one. Repeating the words—my girl, my girl, my girl.

my god, that was a trip. and finallyyyy! AHHH — I hope this is what you guys expected and hope you all liked it

I promise promise promise, I will carry on this smut on the next part <33 it was just getting so long—I couldn’t stop writing (I’m sorry guys I gotta keep eedging ya)

plus since it’s the last part (part 9) next, everything will be concluded, and all mysteries solved! coz that’s just plain cruel if I utterly leave you guys hanging

taglist: @dangerousdreamkitty @ale-maral @inosukesweirdwife @flooftoof @cynicallyaestetic @silassinclair @mariiyoushi @ilovedilfjake @toastlover21 @wlellsl @k1rbbo @bitchotine @guacam011y @blnk338 @wolfiepirate @kurxxmi @corpsebridenightamare @ohantonia @yunonaneko @irenered-20 @z3r0art @sunflowercandie @perilous-pasta @gloriouskryptonitecrown @whyamistillhere78 @ritzzzsblog @mm1sta @tealcoloured-murder @aweebsimp101 @livelaughlaurv @s0dium @roguepancake @sunshiines-stuff @internal-soundtrack @oscarisdaddy69 @clairacassidy @captainquake42 @nanaloverz @ilyless @sindulgent666 @shine101 @thebadasssass @hibeejibees @nirishin @ily2lia @lillunna @cinnamoncattie @futuristicpandakid @maroonobserver @thatsopanu @edgyficuselastica @kittekat420 @stararctic @maxi-ride @renn-pumkin-head @scaraza @justanotherkpopstanlol @fauxizs @cloudsandrenoswife @ilmovor @larissa-lolll @elliemm @httpkiyoomi @j2warren @arquiiva @ilovemiguelohara @a-monster-can-filled-with-cum @fandom-gal44 @elwyn7 @albiebright

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teatreeoilll · 4 months

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w/c: 750 Part I - A drabble - headcanon thingy of our favorite king of red flags curses, set in a Heian-era village. i dunno anymore. | Part 2 here

Childhood!FriendSukuna who first met you as he stood at the brink of death.

"Mom, hey, mom." You tugged at her sleeve, directing her gaze at a frail boy, about seven or eight, on the verge of collapse behind the village market stall, "Can I give him an apple?" It's a bad month, she thought, glancing at the contents of her basket; this kindness might cost an empty stomach later on.

"No dear, he'll be fine." But you already ran off with an apple, your tiny legs making their way to the sickly boy.

"Here," you held the apple in front of his face, to which he narrowed his eyes, extending a scrawny arm to smack it away.

"I don't need your trash." He barked, his voice harsh as he gathered saliva in his mouth, spitting at your feet, “Peasant.”

As soon as your mother dragged you away, he picked up the apple, eating it whole.

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna who didn’t mind the insults the villagers threw at him while he was knee-deep in mud, plowing the fields for a cup of stale rice in the evenings.

"That brat is cursed," the whispers would grow amidst the village's council meetings, "If we stop feeding him, he'll leave."

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna, whose malnourished limbs betrayed him as he fell face first on the rice terrace with the hot sun still ablaze on his back.

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna who woke up almost a day later under an unknown ceiling, fever gnawing at his head under a wet cloth.

"Mom! Mom!" You shrieked from the corner of the room, "He's awake!" and a woman came in with a warm cup of tea, the taste of which lingered on his tongue as he drifted back to sleep.

"Let me die, brat." His hoarse voice was still weak when he came back to his senses as you placed a fresh, dampened cloth over his forehead.

"My name's not 'brat,'" you informed with a scoff, "It's (Name); what's yours?"

Too ashamed to admit he didn’t know the answer, he turned away and closed his eyes.

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna, whose mouth hung agape when you pressed a chaste kiss on his forehead one night while muttering, 'mother told me that a kiss can heal any sickness'.

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna, who disappeared as soon as he found the strength to walk again, returning to the fields only to find that the farmer's wife would no longer spare him dried-out rice when he finished a day's work.

"They should have let him die," he heard the farmer's wife proclaim through the thin walls of the cabin, "That self-righteous linen maker and her irritating daughter. That brat probably cursed them, too."

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna who killed the farmer and his wife, unleashing a torrent of power he never knew resided within him; some kind of strange magic, he thought, wondering if the whispers of curses were more than the village gossip. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood, and for the first time, he could breathe.

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna who disappeared after the crime, only to emerge a decade later, leaving a trail of chaos in his wake as he razed and burned each village in his path - laughing as he watched the terror-stricken villagers bow at his feet, crying and begging and dubbing him devil.

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna who spared you as the village you once called home turned to ashes around you.

"I owe no debt to you now." He announced.

Tears pooled in your eyes, and a scream escaped your lips as you broke down on your knees before him, "I should have listened," you wailed, fingers clawing at the dry dirt beneath you, "They said you were cursed," you hurled a mass of dirt at him, hitting his chest, "They said the devil came to the village the day you were born."

ChildhoodFriend!Sukuna who passed through the village again the next day, just to see you lying between the rubble, limbs sprawled on the dirt and ashes.

"I've extended you kindness." He said, covering the sun with his frame as he loomed over you, "Leave."

And you laughed, shaking and howling until the sides of your body started stinging, and the words came out as mere gasps; "And go where?"

"Wherever you wish."

"Home," You declared, locking eyes with his confused expression, "I want to go home."

You weren’t sure what sick thoughts ran through his mind when he leaned down to press a chaste kiss on your forehead, so you smiled, his face still a mere inch away from yours; "It's my fault." you confessed, "So, the next time we meet, I'll fix it, okay?" A deadpan expression took over as you added, "I'll kill you myself."

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vagabond-umlaut · 1 year

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every rose and its 'twin prickles'

Or: you and the two fearsome monsters, your knightly husband must wage a war against everyday, for the sake of a glimpse of you.

▸ dad!gojo satoru x mom!reader; 1.45 wc; fluff, fluff, gallons and gallons of fluff; a pair of cute, possessive and too-wise-for-their-age babies who love their mama wayyy too much; poor miserable deprived 'toru; sprinkles of humor too added in there; implied no curses!au

▸ i dump the blame of this on @afortoru's shoulders. A, look what you made me do ▸ writing this genre for the 1st time! characters, image or divider used aren't mine. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

Do you know what’s the best thing about work?

Every evening it ends early.

Do you know what’s the best thing about home?

Every evening you’re there.

Walking into the barely-lit flat, a soft smile lights up the expanse of Satoru’s face as the quiet sounds of snoring float over from the bedroom. Dumping the bag on the sofa and shrugging off the coat, the man moves silently further into the apartment – weary mind conjuring images of you in an oversized black tee [of his], curled into yourself in the king-sized bed, the cutest little pout on your lips as you babble in your sleep – then pauses, a hand on the doorknob.

Two pairs of blue eyes sparkle at him from the almost-darkness of the room.

Satoru closes the door behind and slumps against it.

Two matching grins aim at his heart from the human blanket over your form.

Sharp. Shrewd. Cruel.

You wrap an arm round each of those two monkeys – the latter back here from their grandparents', two days before schedule.

Ten years ago, were anyone to tell Satoru there would be a day in the future when he would have to fight for you, only to taste defeat, again and again and again, the man would have emptied his glass of champagne on their clothes, then kicked them out of the reception party.

Yet, now... as he trudges closer to the door and extends a hand to brush a few wily wisps of hair away from your forehead – only to have it slapped away harshly by a little palm – he can’t help but wonder what sin he committed in his previous birth, to have received an angel like you as his wife, but two demons like them for his children.

Sachiko, the older of the twins, glares up at her father. “Papa, no!! Mama’s sleeping,” She whisper-yells, eyes darting from him to you than back to him, lips tugged down in a scowl, the likes of which he has only seen in a mirror. On your other side, a mop of white hair nods, albeit not without a tiny yawn – Sachiro’s definitely inherited your sleepiness in a rainy weather.

Satoru lifts an eyebrow in return. “I can see that, you two. Now go, play with your toys or something. I wanna cuddle with my wife.”

“But we too wanna cuddle with Mama,” Sachiko retorts as she slips out from under your arm and sits up on the bed. The tiny ponytail on her white head stays in a complete disarray; your husband watches your daughter tug at it a couple of times, frowning, before she gives up, returning her glower to him as she continues, “So, you can’t cuddle with her. Mama is ours now.”

Your son again gives a small “yes” at her words, followed by a yawn – a reaction which Sachiko doesn’t deem to be enough, apparently, given how she throws a glare his way next. “Hey, whose team are you on, dumbo? Mine or Papa’s?”

The answer arrives in an instant, in the most matter-of-factly voice possible from a five-year-old. “Yours, obviously. I don’t want Papa to steal Mama away. She’s ours.”

The smug grin directed his way next makes Satoru want to flick two foreheads pretty hard – but he doesn’t. Any rash or impulsive action can only do him more harm now, driving him further away from his goal.

So, cogs whirring in his brain, he crouches down to his kids’ eye level and smiles.

“What do you think of a compromise, kids? Why don’t you make a deal with me?”

Two pairs of blue clash with the original pair of blue for a while, suspicion in one, suspicious curiosity in the other, while challenge swirls in the last; before a huff breaks the staring contest and your daughter folds her arms across her chest. Exchanging a glance and a nod with her, your son too sits up and announces, “Okay, we’re interested. What’s the deal?”

Your husband lets out an internal whoop of victory.

“Belgian chocolates in exchange for a cuddling session with my wife.”

“Bleh!” Sachiko makes a disgusted face – something which takes him back to his younger days when Suguru and Shoko used to imitate his expressions – and whines, “They are so bitter, yuck! Suggest something better.”

“A doll house for you and a car for Sachiro, if that’s the case.”

The latter is the one to turn down this time. Tone brimmed with disappointment – something he can only ever learn from you – he says, “But you just bought us one last month, Papa! Mama always asks you to save money... why don’t you ever listen to her?”

A knife of guilt lodges itself into his heart and twists. Satoru sighs. “I do... I try to, always, but you two make it so difficult for me to! Why are you like this? Is it so unfair to want to spend some time with her? She is as much my wife as much she’s your mom.”

“We know,” The addressed two answer in unison with sage little nods of their head. The girl continues with a grave expression matching her brother’s, “But we can also ask you the same, Papa. She is as much our mom as she’s your wife. Is it so unfair to want to spend some time with her?”

“Besides, you spent five extra years with her, before we were born. We just want to make up for the time lost,” Sachiro chimes in with a pout. “Tell us, Papa,” The two again speak in a heart-wrenching chorus, “Is it so unfair to want to spend some time with her?”

“The kids are right, y’know?” A mumble pops the gravity of the situation at hand, and Satoru looks down to find you awake, cracking an amused smile at them. He huffs, rising from the floor and plopping on the bed next to you, arms folded against chest.

“Can’t believe I am so unloved and unwanted in this world. My kids don’t love me. They don’t listen to me. My wife too doesn’t love me. She never supports me. Welp, got to be the unluckiest to be in my shoes right now, I guess.”

Your husband pauses, giving a small break for the words to sink into everyone, before you let out a long exhale and send him a minor twitch of your lips. Sachiko moves to pat his head, the same moment Sachiro reaches over to clasp his small arms around his neck. You too rise and embrace him from behind, placing a small kiss in between his shoulder blades.

“Y’know, it’s not like that,” You say, placing your ear on his back, “Just ’cause the kids love me more doesn’t mean they don’t love you. And it’s not even your fault – my personality is so awesome, everyone can’t help but adore me the moment they see me – isn't that right, babies?”

“Right, Mama,” A pair of wonderstruck voices ring out in reply to your jocular question – you continue in the same note, with another kiss, this time on the nape of his neck.

“And because your awesome Mama’s asking you now, will you two be good babies and let Papa too sleep here with us? Look at him: he’s so tired and sad. You don’t want your dearest Papa to be sad and tired, right? You will let him cuddle with us, won't you?”

Satoru watches the twins look at each other for a second, then the younger acquiesce, “Papa can cuddle with us. That’s okay, maybe.” The two then proceed to shoot a particularly sharp look at him; one he responds to with a cheeky smirk, which disappears into a soft smile when he feels you manoeuvre his face towards yourself, a light grasp on his chin.

“See, the kids agreed. Now, are you feeling loved and wanted?”

“Infinitely more,” He replies with a peck on your lips – however, before he can deepen the kiss a tad more, you bring him into a sleeping posture beside you, the kids immediately piling on top of the two of you. You offer him something between a cute pout and a sorry smile, which earns a wink from your husband.

Turning to one side, Satoru drags you, Sachiko lying on top of you and Sachiro lying in between him and you, into himself, letting him be lulled to sleep by the melody of your laughs and your kids’ half-hearted harrumphs.

Do you know what’s the best thing about life?

Every tiniest bit of it he gets to spend beside you, the light of his life, and the two imps, your and his love brought into this world – even if he knows he’s going to get kicked out of bed the very microsecond you fall asleep again.

▸ masterlist

#dad!gojo x mom!reader #dad!gojo #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo fluff #gojo fic #gojo satoru #jjk fluff #jjk fic #jjk fanfic #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #kit posts 📝

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bunny584 · 3 months

Text

OBSESSED: FUSHIGURO

A/N: OH. MY. GOD. Anon. I love you and hate you for this request. This was…hard. I told myself I wouldn’t publish it unless it was fucking perfect (you should see the scalpels I took to each goddamn sentence before this version).

SECOND: I will square up with Gege for writing the most enigmatic, LAYERED, complex, muddled character to exist. I wanted this to be Megumi. Through and through. His darkness, his light, his reservation, his crazy, all in one. And IDK. I think I did it? This one is purely to prove to myself that I can write for characters that are hard to write for (*cough* yuta im glaring at you *cough*)

THIRD: if you do read this (I get people feel things about aged up characters etc), I implore you to listen to this. Guys. I heard this at 0200 IN THE OR during a 6 hour case and the entire concept for this came to me. Meg is sophisticated and unruly, selfless and selfish, etc. So this has some NSFW but definitely probably more on the poetic, long ends of my works.

CW: Aged up characters (20+), college AU, fluffy/raunchy/dark romance-y because LOOK at him. He takes after Gojo AND Toji. Mature, 18+

“You like it when I’m rough.”

Megumi’s melody rings crystal clear.

Low.

Precise.

An F-14 Tomcat fighter jet, flying dark. Below enemy radar.

The piano keys float beneath his tone. His long, slender, deft fingers effortlessly execute the sheet music before him. It’s his GPS system, a personal flight map.

Little Beethoven, his advanced music theory professor calls him.

Truth is, Megumi is a prolific pianist and vocalist. He can tame any note, any melody, any harmony faster than any of his Shikigami.

Speaking of…

Megumi pulls off the piano and tortured love song in an instant. Just as the grade 3 curse creeps through the open door.

The part between his right long and ring fingers is automatic. His left hand grips the web space between his right thumb and index finger.

“Demon dog.” Megumi summons.

Low. Precise. Decisive.

“Eat it, boy.”

A small, approving smile tugs on the corners of his lips. Low level curses are the nothing more than chew toys to his divine dogs. With a tiny wave of his fingers, his technique buzzes inward.

Megumi’s eyes float to the ancient analog clock on the wall.

13:50

10 more minutes until you’ll meet him for your date.

No. Not date.

Study. 10 more minutes until you’re meeting him to study.

Your thought blooms within him like wildfire. It sets his normally cool, porcelain skin ablaze.

Megumi whips his body around to face the piano. To exorcise the feeling. The keyboard has always been his outlet. His life blood. Playing, singing, musing in and out of written songs is his catharsis.

Words don’t come easy. They never have. But lyrics do.

And when he gets to ride lyrics with his voice, his runs..?

The words he can never find on his own are suddenly out there. In the atmosphere. Coating empty rooms in a mist of his thoughts, his feelings.

No certain promise that the person the words are destined for will ever catch them. Or ever walk through the room and be kissed by the remnants of his musical trail. But Megumi has said (sung, played) them. And that’s enough.

“Sorry if I come across a type of way.”

“I’ve been trying to get out of my way…”

His fingers dive into the keys. Angrily. Earnestly.

“I know it doesn’t seem like I care, but you know I care—“

“Wow Meg, you sound incredible.”

You bring him to an abrupt stop. Your voice is maple syrup trailing down Megumi’s neck, leaving goosebumps in its candied wake.

Pitch fucking perfect.

A soft, ethereal C, gliding down Heaven’s staircase. You infuse sunlight into his name, whichever way you choose to say it.

And it’s hell. It’s cruel. To have as keen hearing as he does. To listen to you sing his name and have nothing else follow.

“Fushiguro.” Megumi shoots up from his seat, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

“What?”

“Fushiguro.” He repeats, eyes briefly meeting yours before settling above your head. He’s at least a head and shoulders taller.

“Nobody calls me Meg.”

You throw your head back. Feather light crescendo in your laughter. It’s pretty. Tantalizing in the way chandeliers twinkle when they capture a beam of light.

His eyes dart down to catch the feminine column of your neck. Curving into your delicate collar bones. How are your lines so seamless?

So cinematic. Like he’s watching a figure skater land a triple axel. Or a prima ballerina en pointe. It’s not fathomable.

Gorgeous.

You are gorgeous.

“I call you Meg.” You retort with a smile that liquifies all of his joints.

You double your walking speed to keep pace with Megumi’s long strides. Both of you exit the sound engineering building. Heading straight for the campus library a couple blocks away.

“Who were you—oh,” Megumi’s glacial hand along the small of your back steals your voice away.

Your eyes and feet follow his gentle push, shifting you to the other side of him.

“Walking on the wrong side.” He mutters, monotone. Matter-of-fact. Obviously.

He’s a gentleman. Of course he is going to walk on the traffic facing edge of the sidewalk.

Of course he didn’t feel the electric currents wire through his fingers to clench — suffocate — his heart.

No, he didn’t hear that punched out, falsetto gasp when his hand cradled your perfectly tapered waist.

Or notice how well you fit into his hand. How light you are under his touch that had none of his real strength behind it.

You’re made of alluring lines. Intoxicating sounds.

What would it take to coax a pretty melody out of your pouty lips?

His fingers?

They’re long. And smart. Cold. Remarkably patient. You’d like them.

He could make you love them.

Crave them. Need, whimper, whine, and cry out for them.

“So who was it?” You tether him to reality.

“Who was what?” Megumi counters, leading you to a private study room.

“The way you were singing earlier.”

Hairs along the back of his neck stand at attention. Blood runs Siberian cold. Megumi’s gaze on you is subzero.

“It had to be for someone.” You lower down into a seat in slow motion.

The sweetheart neckline of your sundress is mean. Your supple mounds tilt and ripple with every micro movement. Megumi has forgotten why he’s glaring at you.

“You sound too…pretty. It can’t be wasted on thin air.” You continue.

“She must be—“

“Let’s just get started, okay?” He sharply redirects the conversation.

And promptly shifts gear to low autopilot. He’ll speak when spoken to, answer questions intermittently. But his mind’s true coordinates are a galaxy away.

Megumi retreats to his shadow garden.

Watching you.

Drinking you in.

Savoring each detail on his tastebuds like dessert.

The pencil eraser leaves an indent on your bottom lip where you’ve been pressing too hard.

Megumi wants to roll your bottom lip under his teeth. Until it flushes rose and swells beneath his relentless pull.

His eyes fall to your bracelet, far too big for your dainty wrist.

He could hold both of your wrists in one hand above your head or behind your back for hours. Without breaking a sweat.

His other hand would take its time.

To stroke you. Pet you. Learn your sheet music. Then play your body like a harp until you’re a chorus of beautiful, soprano whimpers and moans. Begging and pleading so prettily, enticing him to give in.

But he won’t.

Not until you’re soft enough. A babbling, warm, ruined brook beneath his fingers.

Then he’ll take you, gorgeous.

Searing pain from his sharp swallow and nails digging into his thighs rip him down to the present.

Vision a little fuzzy. Head a revolving door of vulgar scenarios. A dull, demanding ache between his legs draws his eyes to his lap.

Fucking hell.

His jeans are uncomfortable. He’s stiff and needy. Not nearly enough strength in his pants to hold back his drunken arousal.

Not to the mention, the—

swarm of shadows growing at his feet?

Is his…innate domain materializing around him right now?

Megumi aggressively slices through the air at his hip level. Below the table, but you don’t miss his sudden stirring.

“Meg? You okay over—“

“Going to the bathroom.” He gruffs through a clenched jaw. Megumi places his forearm over his crotch before hurrying out of the room.

He can barely recognize the man in the mirror. Flushed to his ears. Volcanoes threatening eruption in his eyes. Api Biru. Pure, triple distilled, blue lava coursing through his veins.

Snap out of it, Fushiguro.

The splash of cold water does nothing for his internal heat. But his milky complexion returns to its effervescent state.

But then he turns a little too quickly to leave. And his painfully hard length drags along his fabric. It’s blinding.

A feeble moan tumbles out of his tight lips.

“Fuck.”

Megumi slams his eyes shut. He needs to readjust. But if he touches himself now, he might not be able to stop.

A slow, steadying breath fills his lungs.

“Just adjust, don’t…” His voice trails off. Icey fingers around his hot, angry base is enough to rip the carpet from beneath his feet.

“Oh, fuck.” Megumi mumbles through one quick pump up his shaft.

He shakes his head as if to tell himself enough. He rests his erection along his thigh before zipping up. Still painful, but tolerable.

A tornado obliterates any remaining resolve in Megumi’s mind on his walk back to you.

You are a dream.

Or a nightmare? A curse?

It doesn’t matter. He couldn’t care less.

Megumi would follow you. Deeper than the crypts of his 10 shadows. Into hell if it meant he could have you the way he wants you.

The way he craves you.

Because fuck the cost.

He’d pay anything.

You’re working on an elaborate concept diagram on the white board. On the tip of your toes. Lip curled under your teeth. And you are just irresistible.

So, he won’t resist.

“Meg! Took you a bit, you okay?”

Megumi is silent. Unblinking. Sauntering toward you.

“Megumi?”

You lower to the soles of your shoes. Neck craning to look at his face. Your eyes widen at his persistent silence. Rosy heat dusting your cheeks.

Pretty little doe, rooted in place by his wolfish glare.

Megumi takes the marker out of your hand and tosses it behind him in one swift motion.

“Hmm,” a tiny acknowledgment of his name. Just because it sounds so sweet rolling off your tongue.

Megumi corners you against the wall. Both of his hands casually in his pockets.

He watches you shift. Flicker your eyes in every direction. Fiddle with your thumbs.

His quiet.

His presence.

It flusters you. Well before he’s gotten the chance to run his hands along the lazy curve of your waist and hips.

“So…so blue.” You stammer. Your warm eyes metronome between his.

“They are.”

Megumi steps impossibly closer. His eyes drop to your chest. Dainty, nervous heaves. Up and down. Up and down.

“You are so,” you swallow thickly, dropping your gaze. “hard to read.”

Megumi snakes his large, graceful fingers into your nape. The temperature difference between your warmth and his cold startles you deeper into his grasp. Your head evanesces into his pull.

A beautiful, shocked gasp escapes you. Just as Megumi’s lips trace the shell of your ear.

“I want you.”

His breaths collide with yours, now. Heat welling deep in his groin. His cock thunders against his thigh.

“Can you read that?” Megumi rasps. Ensuring his voice vibrates down your spine.

A new sound tumbles from your lips. Like you choked on your last swallow. How pretty. You gurgling and gagging like that.

“W-want me? Megumi wh—“

“I.” Megumi nudges his thigh between your legs. His steel pipe erection digs into your dewy, hot core. He angles his leg slightly upward, inching you on the tip of your toes.

His prima ballerina, en pointe.

“Want you.” His lips ghost against yours. Free hand cups the flesh beneath your thigh. Pads of his fingers twitching to dig in.

The two of you drink in this lock-in-key fit. Megumi revels in you. Like this. At his complete mercy.

The prodigal son, born with more power than he knows what to do with.

Ten shadows. Ten Shikigami. It’s been centuries since the last head of his bloodline had power buzzing beneath his fingertips like him.

And somehow he’s never felt more powerful than this.

With you, heaven’s most precious angel, cradled in his arms. Drowning in sinful ecstasy. He brands this freeze frame into the most permanent part of his memory.

Then, he free falls off your cliff edge.

Megumi takes your lips with unfettered greed. Hunger woven into the way his tongue traces every corner of your delectable, soft mouth. His fingers push your head deeper into him. Sucking and nibbling on your warm muscle.

You shower him with airy, choppy little pants. Moans and whines so light they crescendo to fairy dust. You can’t keep up with his bruising kiss. His other hand palms your thigh, kneading little bruises into your silky smooth skin.

Marking what’s his.

“Oh my god.”

You breathe into his mouth when he lets you up for air. Megumi’s eyes dart down to the meeting point of your sex and his muscular thigh.

Did you really think he wouldn’t notice how you’re rutting your pretty little cunt against his leg like that?

Crimson high on your cheeks. You look away when he tries to catch your fucked out gaze.

“Don’t hide from me, gorgeous.” His hand traces up to your hips. You preen into his firm grip.

“Megumi.”

“Don’t stop, pretty girl.” He forcefully moves your hips in more dramatic, languid, deep rolls against his thigh. He’s not paying any mind to the pool of his precum soaking through his pants.

You bury your head in his neck. Fingernails digging pretty crescent moons into his back. You take over the pace. Undulating against him. Shameless. In complete heat.

“You feel s-so…so good.” Your lips smear against his dampened neck. Megumi responds by circling your puffy, slick bud with his fingers.

And fuck. The slurred, broken whimper that rings in his ears.

The way you hump him even more sloppily.

He could finish from that alone.

Your hand flies to your mouth. Empty huffs spilling. Whines ascending in pitch. You are close.

“Such pretty sounds, baby.”

“Megumi…meg..I-“

“Let it out.” He grips the back of your neck. Feeling dangerously close to his own nirvana. Drunk off your precious melody.

“Sing for me.”

“F-fuck, GOD.”

You bite down on his neck. Waves of pleasure crashing into you like hurricane winds. He grips your waist steady. Feeling every involuntary twitch and jerk of your doll-like frame.

Blessing or curse?

He doesn’t know.

But he will follow you to the end of his lifetime and the next.

“God, Fushiguro. That was…” The lusty haze from your peak settles around you. The once shattered world, slowly pieces itself back together.

“No.” Megumi pulls you out of his neck. Dropping his lips to yours, so he can breathe the air directly from your lungs.

“Meg. You call me Meg.”

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wonderlandwalker · 28 days

Text

First Impressions | Eddie Munson x Reader

Stranger Things Masterlist / Inbox

Summary: Eddie learns that Dustin has a recently reunited sister, and from the moment he meets you he's a goner.

Content Warnings / Tags: Pure fluff, henderson!reader, tiny mention of a fight but nothing descriptive, not edited, no use of y/n

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Eddie brain rot cause I couldn't keep it in. Don't know if this is my best work but I'm planning to write more chapters on this so it's just a start, hope you like it

“You need a ride home after this?” It was more of a formality than an actual question, he always drove Dustin home after a session.

“Oh that’s okay, my sister is picking me up.” Dustin didn’t even look up from packing his things away, but Eddie’s head shot up.

“Your- you have a sister, since when?” As far as he knew Dustin was an only child, but now he was wrecking his brain trying to think if he had ever mentioned you before.

“I know you’re bad at math Eddie, but I just told you she’s driving so try and put the pieces together.” Dustin was looking up at him now, challenging him.

“Alright smartass, it’s time for you to shut up.” He told him as he ruffled through his hair, leaving behind an agitated Dustin trying frantically to fix it.

The others had already gone home, but Dustin stayed behind late to help Eddie finish up, a habit that became more and more common as the two grew closer. When they finished packing up Eddie locked the door behind them, and while walking to the parking lot decided he wasn’t quite done interrogating Dustin.

“If you have an older sister, how come I've never seen her around before?”

“I mean she’s been around during holidays before, she lived with dad though but they had a big fight so she’s moved here.” It seemed like a sore topic, so Eddie dropped it for now.

As they got to the entrance of the school and felt the cool air on their skin Eddie indeed noticed another car in the usually empty lot, and you were sitting on the hood of it, a book in your hands as you patiently waited. The last rays of sunshine graced your figure as if the heavens themselves were blessing you, and Eddie had never been so sure he’d seena goddess in his life. It was just like the tales he knew so well, the ones he still devoted his life to, it was as if they were becoming true. You looked up when you heard them approach, smiling at the sight of them and giving Dustin a quick side hug as they reached you.

“It’s nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot of good things.” You held your hand out for Eddie to take, but all he could do was look at it, staring ahead as if hitting pause in a game, he stood still. He wanted to react, to not make the most horrible first impression possible, but the longer he looked at you the worse it got, getting lost in sight of your smile. “Alright, not a fan of handshakes, notes.” You chuckled as you withdrew your hand, and Eddie cursed himself for not having taken the opportunity to feel how soft your skin must’ve been. You looked at him again, your eyes piercing straight through his soul and he wondered if maybe he had found himself in one of his fantasy worlds, he must have. But the next second he shook himself out of it, because you were real, you were real and in front of him and expecting him to say something.

“I’m Eddie.” he said, nodding his head as if to confirm his own statement.

“So I’ve been told.” Another giggle slipped past your lips, and Eddie wasnt sure if it was from nerves or entertainment, but he was dying to hear more of it, even if he had to make a fool of himself to do so.

Dustins head kept going back and forth as if watching a tennis match of idiocracy. He had never seen Eddie so flustered, so used to the man flaunting with every opportunity that presented itself that this seemed quite out of character. In full disclosure, it was kind of freaking him out to see Eddie so beside himself, and it was freaking him out even further that he couldn’t figure out why. It was probably blatantly obvious to anyone else, but maybe it was for the best that Dustin couldn’t place where the tension originated from, either way, his patience had run out

“Can we go home now, I still have to call Mike to discuss our net strategies” You tore your eyes from Eddie, deciding that maybe it was for the best to head home.

“Yeah alright, maybe I’ll see you around Eddie.” You gave him one last smile as you got in the car with Dustin and drove off, but it took him another minute to pick his shambled ego up from the concrete ground as he berated himself for not being able to utter one coherent sentence. As he got in his van and drove home as well he decided he’d have to grill Dustin for more information on you the next time he’d see him. As he got to the trailer he grumbled a hello to Wayne before disappearing to his room, ignoring the backhanded comment he got about his grumpy disposition.

He wondered if he’d ever be able to convince you he was cool, whether he’d be able to get you to agree to see him again, but after what just transpired he figured the odds were slim. Not that he’d give up so easily, he didn’t have much of a reputation to lose and if he’d be able to get you to laugh again that would be more than enough. But he didn’t get to wonder for long as Wayne knocked on his door, he was ready to tell the man to leave him alone, but the next sentence was one that confused him immensely

“Someone on the phone for you.” Wayne held the phone out to him, expecting him to get up from the bed and take it, but Eddie didn’t move an inch.

“For me, you sure?” He was still not quite sure what to do. “Unless another Eddie is living here I’m pretty sure.” He moved his hand again to accentuate the phone that was still on hold, but once again Eddie just sat there.

“If you want I can tell her to call back-” That’s when he sprung into action, snatching the phoen out of Wayne’s hand

“No! No, I got it. Thank you.” The old man simply chuckled as he left again, closing the door behind him to give his nephew some privacy.

Eddie cleared his throat once before picking up the line put on hold.

“Hello?” he asked, still not quite sure what to do.

“Hi, Eddie it’s me, just wanted to see if you were doing alright.” your sweet voice blessed his ears once more. He doesn’t know what he did to get the universe on his side like this, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

“Yeah I’m good, listen-” Eddie figured this time he shouldn’t waste his chance, and he probably had some making up to do. “- I’m sorry if I freaked you out earlier, just never seen anyone that pretty before.” You were giggling again, and it brought the biggest grin onto his face. “You didn’t weird me out at all, it was kinda cute. I had to bribe Dustin to let me use the phone so I don’t have much time but I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go out this weekend?” Maybe he should’ve waited a beart before answering, but he was too eager to care.

“Go out, as in a date?” It got him blushing, the red creeping up on his cheeks as he wondered if that’s really what you were asking

“I mean, kinda, if you want to.” He could almost see you blushing on the other side of the line as well, and he decided it was now or never.

“I’d love to.”

“That’s great, I’m still kind of new around here, do you know any good places?” Your smile was present as you spoke, and he was already looking forward to seeing it again, now knowing he wouldn’t have to wait long.

“How about I come and pick you up, we can go to the mall.” His confidence was growing with the minute now, absolutely elated by the turn of events.

“Im looking forward to it” He wondered what you’d wear, knowing whatever it was it would look beautiful on you, and he knew he’d spend the entire date amazed at your presence.

“Me too” he said before the both of you hung up the phone, he had already started planning the most amazing evening out, and maybe, he thought, maybe this year really would take a turn for the better.

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victoryverse · 2 months

Text

soap and gaz's reaction to you going commando on a celebratory dinner>>

soap:

johnny would be...flabbergasted 😂 eyes would be blown wide and mind going a million miles per minute as he actually takes in the situation in front of him.

theren you are, having vodka shots in your cute little dress, when there' nothing on underneath, and one blow of wind, or something, and yo would be exposed to the entirety of his team.

he would come up behind you, pressing his hard cock to your ass, and you would immediately straighten up, the curve of his bulge fitting perfectly between your cheeks.

he would whisper in your ear, "aye, bonnie. you've got it all naked underneath, ain't it?" in his accent.

you would shiver, nodding, "yeah", a small whisper

"shall i bent y'over and show everyone how desperate ye're for m'cock? hm? " with a subtle press forward, that has your pelvis pressed up against the pool table.

"no--no, johnny" you would mumble, but your wetness pooling between your thighs would tell a completely diff story: wetness dripping out of your pussy, getting uncomfortable and wet.

"bet ye're dripping down there, aren't ya? creaming all over those pretty thighs of yours? hm? bet you want me to fuck you nice and good, so good there's cum dripping out of y'cunt, and you're a mess, all tears on y'face from how good it feels?"

you would audibly moan, eyes widening in surprise as soon as you would realize what happened. no one is looking at you, though. the music is loud enough, and everyone is drunk enough.

"see? they can't hear, wouldn't even notice if I bent you over her and fucked you bloody raw, lass. unless, of course, you make noises for me, yeah? pretty moans and whimpers and mewls, all the while your tiny, tight pussy clenched m'cock like it owns it? hm?"

gaz

gaz is the pretty boy, would get red-cheeked and immediately sober up.

"wh-what? you're-you're wearning nothing underneath? oh m'god-what if someone sees?"

red cheeks with the most innocent look, you would just reply with, "let them, wouldn't you want to show off your pretty girl? hm? fuck me here, kyle, please? put your thick cock in me and fuck me till I can't even speak"

"shh! someone could hear" even though his cock would be struggling in his boxers. he would gulp down, seeing around. no one has their gazes on you, everyone's busy with their own. then,he would get up, grabbing your hand and taking you to the bathroom stalls

would push you in one, getting after you and locking it good.

"oh fuck. thought I would cum right then and there"

you would look down at his crotch, his cock tenting in his pants. his eyes would be droopy, pupils blown out and full of lust.

you would smirk, getting down on your knees in front of him and quickly undoing his pants, pulling his cock out, precum oozing out the tip that you immediately lick off

his hand would slam at the wall beside him, his legs going week as you would take him down your throat.

"feels good? hm?" you would ask, whilst choking around his dick. he would nod, head thrown back and adam's apple bobbing as his mind would go empty with the way you're sucking his cock

you would use your hands to fondle his balls, massaging them while his cock hits the back of your throat, drool and spit all over your mouth as you try to make him cum in record time.

and that he does. 4 minutes and a few more seconds to be exact. his salty release inside your mouth while you gulp it down, and his legs almost give out.

"fuck, goddamn it, jesus, fuck" continuous mumbles of curses, while you pull his pants back up to the way they were.

he would immediately look into your eyes, asking "what about you?" without actually saying it.

"my dress and thighs and pussy are ruined anyways, all sticky and creamy. so you should just take me home and ruin me then."

you would slap his bum while walking out, and the shocked look on his face would be enough to say that he will be giving you back so many of those later.

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 months

Note

If you're doing the smut blurb evening, what about Steve having to sneak away with reader during a party bc her outfit's driving him crazy <3

18+

Steve has been pawing at you for hours.

Needy, impatient, almost too bold- considering the house was full of people looking to drink cheap beer and find someone to have a good time with. Robin had already scoffed at you both, leaving you in the corner with your touchy boyfriend as she went in search for Eddie instead.

“You’re disgusting,” she’d told her best friend. “She’s going home with you, you know.”

Steve had made a face at her, childish and immature but he’d stopped his hands from travelling further up your skirt all the same. It wasn’t his fault you looked this good.

One his old basketball shirts, cut off around your midriff with a pair of blunt scissors. And if that weren’t enough skin on show, the skirt you’d paired it with was almost indecent. Any way you moved, more bare skin was flashed at him. He lost all sense of composure and decency when you leant back against him, stealing his cup of lukewarm beer and his hands went to your thighs. He barely needed to move them before he could feel the heat of your cunt on his fingers, the skirt was just that short.

You’d laughed at Robin’s comment, pushing yourself back further into your boyfriend when she left and Steve broke.

“C’mon,” he tugged at your hand, taking away the half empty cup and abandoning it on a coffee table.

You didn’t argue when he led you into the first available room, a tiny bathroom, both of you barely fitting in the space. The door was locked behind you, your back already against it and the bass thudding your through spine as Steve wasted no time.

“Need to touch you,” he groaned, head dipped so he could kiss and nip at your neck, his nose drawing a line across your jaw as you gasped at his desperation. “Been driving me goddamn mad all night, babe.”

“I have?” You laughed through a moan, Steve’s hands returning to his favourite spot beneath your skirt, his thumb pressing into the front of your underwear, finding your clit with almost annoying precision. “I didn’t notice.”

“This fucking skirt,” Steve cursed, pushing it up, showing him the way your cotton underwear was sticking to your wet folds. He could see the way your pussy gave way to his thumb, how the fabric gathered around your swollen clit. He pinched it, grinning when you whined. “Been thinking ‘bout bending you over all night, d’you know that?”

You shook your head, playing dumb, head half empty with the way he kept you pinned between his body and the door. He could’ve done whatever he wanted to you, you wanted to say, you would have let him put him manhandle you like this in the middle of the kitchen if he asked nicely enough.

“Oh yeah, honey,” Steve drawled, his voice catching on a groan when he finally shoved his hands down the front of your underwear. The cotton gave way, stretching out over the back of his hand. He used two fingers to spread you, letting a line of spit fall from his lips to his cupped palm, pushing his digits against your slick cunt. “Wanted that skirt flipped up and your ass out for me. Could’ve got down on my knees right there, been wanting it so bad.”

You choked on a moan, head dropping forward to rest on Steve’s shoulder, your fingers clutching at his T-shirt. You nodded, whining his name for him, hips bucking into his hand so your pussy slid over his fingers, fucking yourself down onto his touch.

“Yeah, baby?” Steve sounded as wrecked as you felt. His lips were pressed to your cheek as he spoke, his breath warm and shaking. “You want me to show you?”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington smut #Steve Harrington fanfiction #Steve baby blurb

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macfrog · 4 months

Text

the sweetest con cowboy like me chapter fifteen

well. this is it. we made it, kids. thank you so, so much for reading for all this time. for all your patience, and kindness, and loyalty. i will carry this pair, their story, and all of your love for them with me forever. love you guys. xx

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: every cowboy deserves his ride off into the sunset.

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), lotsa guilt from reader, dreamy love sequence & mention of unprotected piv/creampie, more greys anatomy spoilers, reader's dad is either Bald or has a Receding Hairline (you choose), more sex - this time reader and joel sixty-nine, face sitting, oral (f and m receiving), more (inferred) unprotected piv, making dirty, hot love ALLAT, cursing, a little smut n a lotta fluff n a droplet of angst at the end

word count: 10.8k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡

“How the fuck did this take you three minutes? Three?”

“I’m telling you. I’m a genius.”

You snort. “Shut up. You only passed Math ‘cause you were fooling around with that nerd – Thomas? Was it Thomas?”

“Timothy. And you don’t need math to do a sudoku puzzle, loser. You just need brains. Logic.” Anna taps two fingers against her temple, tilting her head.

“Logic,” you murmur, shaking your head.

Sal’s is quiet today. He’s out of town for his father-in-law’s funeral and made the genius decision to leave the two of you in charge. Since opening at nine, you’ve had four customers. The to-do list left for you was completed by ten, and since then, you’ve been hunched over your phone at the cash register, messing around on some puzzle app Anna made you download.

It's a Wednesday. Nothing exciting ever happens on Wednesdays.

Anna’s behind you, tearing apart and flattening the cardboard boxes you spent all morning emptying. “That level,” she clicks her chewing gum wetly between her teeth, scent of mint over your shoulder, “that ain’t even the hardest one. Ooh, no, babe. Three goes –”

“Shh!” You bat her arm away, curving your hand over your phone screen. She snorts and wanders off through the back, wad of cardboard under her arm.

Anna wasn’t your closest friend in high school, and you sure didn’t stay much in touch past the odd Facebook post update when you left. But working with her, and her dad being your dad’s buddy – she’s sort of become one of those people you just can’t shake.

Like a stray puppy. Or…an annoying hangnail.

She’s nice enough – talks a lot of crap sometimes, but she cares for you. You’d go as far as saying you two have grown pretty close since you came home. Still, the acidic sting of resentment sits on your tongue, anytime you think of her involvement in the unravelling of your little lie. Think of your dad calling hers, Hank asking her where you were.

Think of the fact that, if she hadn’t been honest with him – I don’t know where she is, Dad – nothing would’ve gone wrong.

That’s not fair. If you’d never touched Joel in the first place, nothing would’ve gone wrong.

It’s just – she had a hand in pushing the first domino.

The bell above the door jingles and you lift your eyes from tiny numbers and blank squares to meet a familiar pair of hazel. An Alanis Morissette T-shirt under a denim jacket. She tucks her thick, soft hair behind her ears and smiles, then skips around the counter and links her hands at your tummy; her ear flat against the nape of your neck.

“Why so clingy?” you ask, and Sarah straightens up.

“Just excited to spend some time with my favorite person. That allowed?”

Your eyes scan her up and down as she leans against the counter, stealing a gummy from a jar beside the register. “Been staying with you for nearly three weeks now, you ain’t sick of me yet?”

She shakes her head, jaw chewing, cheeks swollen with a grin. “Are you done yet? I wanna make sure we get good seats.”

“We will,” you assure her. “It’s only, like, three p.m.”

“But it’s Barbie,” she says, “and I wanna get some snacks before we head in.” She holds the decapitated gummy worm up, eyebrows high, before pulling it between her teeth until it snaps. She drags the withered red tail over her tongue.

“That thing you just mauled,” you gesture to the masticated shape in her fingers, “candy. Snacks. Just take some of that.”

“You won’t even buy your date movie theater candy? Damn. Mom’s a cheapskate. Wish I could say my dad’s a lucky guy.”

You shove her off, disguising your laugh with a shake of your head. “You are on thin ice, I’m not even kidding.”

Sarah’s laughing, reaching for another worm. “You know what that sounds like?”

“Hm?”

“What you just said.”

“What’s it sound like, Sarah Miller?”

“Something a mom would say.”

“Alright,” you stand, “get out. Get outta my store.”

The door opens when you point to it, Texan heat sweeping in to swarm the one rickety fan you have in here. The brass bell trembles, and beneath it, a man in a tucked shirt and jeans, glum face and tired eyes.

You blink at him and he blinks back, and no words are spoken between you, but your dad understands to move, to keep walking – and you understand to let him.

“Shoot,” Sarah whispers, twisting her gummy around her finger. “That was awkward.”

Three weeks of staying with them – Sarah and Joel – also means three weeks of zero contact with your dad. The most you’ve heard from – or, rather, about him is that, last week, Joel bumped into Hank at the gas station, and the old man mentioned that he and your dad had grabbed a beer the night before.

What’d he say? you asked Joel, dragging a dish towel around the rim of a glass.

He shrugged, flicking his hands dry over the sink. Said the Rangers aren’t doin’ too good. I said, Yeah, that’s cause a’ –

No, Joel. What did he say about me ‘n my dad?

He waited a second to let the offense of your interruption soak in. Took the towel from your hand, replaced the glass on the draining board. Nothing, he said, I don’t think he knows.

It sat with you the entire night. The three of you watched a movie, occupying either side of Joel’s couch, though you’re sure you don’t remember a word of it. The image of him sat center-stage in your mind until you pulled yourself against Joel’s body in bed that night. Sat in his recliner, flicking through TV channels, the only sounds in the house that of Ice Road Truckers, the ticking of the kitchen clock, and his own fucking breathing.

Alone. Not even Hank to talk to about – well.

You’ve done your best not to think about him. And it works, most days, when you’re with Joel. Helps to go do stuff: ride shotgun while he picks up supplies for work or grabs groceries. Helps to play pretend like his house is yours, too. Tidying when he’s not home, lighting candles and sinking into a bubble bath for him to find you in when he finishes. Helps to be at Sal’s, with Anna. Sudoku and her fucking Tinder account to keep you both occupied.

Most days, you forget to consider the lonely shape of your dad at all – but that seems to hurt all the more. Like forgetting to tend to an open wound; instead, letting the infection blister and bubble so that, when you do bump it again, the pain feels sharper. Hissing at you, poison seeping from flesh.

His showing up, waltzing straight into the store – feels less like a bump, and more like a pair of hands diving straight into the gash, tearing it wide open again. Blood and poison gushing all over the checkered floor.

Anna materializes between two aisles, hands on her hips when she stands behind you. “Y’all still not really talkin’?” she asks.

You and Sarah shake your heads. The three of you watch the shape of your dad’s skull over the shelves, bobbing from bay to bay. Door hinges to fence paint. He painted the fence last summer. He doesn’t need fucking fence paint.

“Nope,” you reply. “’s been, what, two and a half weeks now?”

“Yeah,” Anna mutters, the slope of sympathy in her voice. “My dad’s been talkin’ to him about it. They’ve spoken, like, almost every night on the phone.”

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, head falling into your hands. “Are you serious?”

“Not about you and Joel. Just about the fight.”

Your jaw slowly slackens, eyes thinning as your gaze slides over to your friend, a saddened expression on her face.

Sarah nods, like an accessory sat on the dash of a car. Bobbing bobbing bobbing, until her brows drop and she turns to you, finally realizing. “Wait, what?”

Anna blinks between the two of you. “What?” she asks, lips pressing together.

“You know?” Sarah asks, glaring at her.

Anna snorts. Neither of you break. She quickly quietens and clears her throat, bending to stuff more cardboard under her arm. “Well…” She sucks in a deep breath. “At rodeo night, when you left your phone on the table, me ‘n Kara wanted to leave a bunch of selfies for you to find later. But when I went to grab your phone, you had a text from him. Joel. Something about someone winning you over like he did, or something. I can’t remember. But that was the first thing.”

Sarah’s face sours at the mention of her dad’s flirty text, scoffing as she swipes another gummy from the jar. “Real fuckin’ subtle, Dad,” she murmurs.

You sharpen your gaze at Anna, blurring the brown curls and low brows from your peripheral. “Uhuh…?”

“Then, there was the lying to your dad about where you were. That Monday – you said you were at mine. You weren’t. Your dad called my dad to ask, ‘n my dad asked me why the hell you’d lie. I figured, What a weird coincidence, right?”

You slip off your stool, legs feeling more liquid than bone. “Oh, Jesus…”

“But then…then, I saw how you were when he called on the way to Frank’s. In the car. You were…fucking weird. And then Joel punched that dude – that basically confirmed it. I don’t think either of your dads would do that for me. It felt…it felt personal. He took your hand ‘n dragged you outta there, and it felt like…somethin’ else.”

You’re leaning against the counter, head in your hands. Struggling to even listen to her piece it all together. Were you this fucking obvious, the whole time?

Anna answers for you. “Yeah,” she says, nodding, “I didn’t catch two fucking boyfriends cheating on me, and not pick up some detective skills, babe.”

You stand straight, composure slowly building over shame. “And your dad doesn’t know? My –” you flick your head across the store, lowering your voice, “– my dad hasn’t told him?”

A laugh spurts from somewhere deep in her chest. “Hell, no. Are you tryna give him a second heart attack? No. He just thinks you were somewhere you didn’t want your dad to know – a boy’s or something. Which – well, I guess you were.”

You nod, half-appreciation, half-resignation. Alright. Now shut up about it, would you?

“But listen,” Anna says, apparently not as good at mindreading as she is at secret-revealing, “y’all gotta work on being sneaky. You’re, like, really bad at it.”

“Yeah,” you sniff, “thanks, Anna.”

You grip the edge of the counter and try to draw your eye away from your dad; a little angry that he’s here, and yet, a little more thankful that you’ve had at least a tiny glimpse of him. Desperate for him to come over, to acknowledge your mutual existence in the same room, and yet – petrified that he does.

He keeps his back to you, though you notice him turning every so often, looking at you from his peripheral. Nope – your black shirt and blue jeans are still behind the counter. He turns back to the shelf.

“Hi, sweetie.” A woman in a pink blouse approaches the counter. She lays down a couple pairs of plyers and you ring her up, asking if she found everything okay. Choking a little when you inhale the scent of her perfume.

“Beautiful day for you to be in here workin’, huh?” Her rosy cheeks fill as she hands you the cash.

Oh, yeah. It’s a beautiful day to be stuck selling plyers to pink women in pink blouses smelling of pink perfume, while my dad – still reeling from the revelation that I’ve been sleeping with his best friend, by the way – pretends to peruse the store.

“I’m almost done,” you reply, blunt enough to deflate her expression only a little, sliding the paper bag stamped Sal’s back across the counter.

She nods in thanks and slinks off, suffocating aroma following her. And like a magician, when she disappears off to the side, your dad stands in her wake. A few feet from you, keeping his distance, watching carefully before he dares to move. Waiting for your go-ahead.

When you lift your chin, beckoning him forward, Anna takes Sarah’s arm and yanks her away, shoving some shredded boxes into her arms. “You wanna help me?” she asks the nosy Miller, tossing something of an alarmed glance back at you and your dad.

There’s a funny feeling behind your eyes when he steps up, empty hand resting hesitantly on the counter. “She coverin’ up the smell of a dead body or som’?” he asks.

The air pushes from your lungs, a laugh barreling with it. Your hands clasp on the surface opposite his. A scorch of white heat at the nape of your neck. “Very vibrant, huh?”

“Very.” He clears his throat, shakes his head a little, and takes a deep breath. “I figured this might be as good a place as any to find you. I didn’t want you to think I was…cornering you, or anything, if I showed up at Joel’s.”

“I wouldn’t – I mean, maybe. But, y’know…this is fine.” Your arms cross defensively, the baggy material of Joel’s shirt wrapping snug around you.

Your dad seems to know. Evidence being that it’s you, in a shirt all too big – a shirt he’d likely see his best friend in, too. It forces your arms tighter, sucking in the scent of Joel to combat the dizzying feeling of nerves.

“I’m glad to see you’re alright,” he says eventually, fingers drumming awkwardly. “I just wanted to know you were fine.”

“I am fine. I promise. Just – working a lot.”

He nods, looking down to his feet. Twists the toe of his boot into the linoleum.

“I’m glad to see you’re alright, too,” you offer, the words fluid and spilling from one to the next – something forceful in their nature.

Your dad’s eyes lift at the same time that his cheeks do. Relief. “Thanks, kiddo. I actually – I was hopin’ that maybe we could talk. If you’re free. I don’t know what time you get off today.”

“I finish in ten minutes,” you say, and hope seems to paint across his face – washing away instantly when you add, “but I’m going to the movies with Sarah.”

He’s nodding again, eyes fixed back on his boots. “Right, right.”

“…But maybe once we’re done I can swing by?”

“Oh, well – I’m workin’ late again. I’ll be out by the time…Yeah. Sorry, hon.”

“That’s okay.”

“Late one again tonight.”

“This, uh – what’s his name again? Kel–?”

“Kelman, yeah. Yeah. How ‘bout I call you tomorrow ‘n we can work somethin’ out? You and Sarah, you enjoy your night.”

You lean back from the counter, slowly more confident in your ability to hold yourself upright. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

His lips press together in a flat attempt at a smile. “I’ll leave you to it. You mind if I…give you a hug?”

And then you’re the one awkwardly, forcedly smiling. Your teeth gritting behind taut lips. “Not at all,” you whisper, and wander carefully around the counter to where he stands.

He opens his arms and pulls you against his chest, your head tilting to rest your ear on his shoulder. You hook your arms under his, feeling his wrists crossing at your spine. Like two statues, two figures of stone fixing their crumbling bodies in an embrace, suddenly disjointed and ill-fitting. Your heart hurts beneath layers of rock, swelling in attempt to reach for his, shrinking back crestfallen when he feels too far.

He kisses the side of your head, pulls away, and taps your cheek once. “You know,” he says, letting you withdraw from his grasp, “I really miss you.”

You nod. “Miss you, too.”

“Let’s talk soon, alright?”

“Yeah.”

And then he’s leaving, drifting back out into the summer sun, rock disintegrating as the light catches him again. More human, less monster-under-your-bed. He’s just your dad again, just that swaying, bumbling man who used to sprinkle rainbow flakes over your ice cream and double-knot your laces.

The shadows of Sarah and Anna appear at your elbows, the three of you watching your dad sink into his car. You still feel made of rock, splitting somewhere down the middle as you stare at his figure.

“Well?” Sarah asks.

He turns right out of the parking lot, disappears behind a hedgerow.

“Yeah,” you reply, turning in a daze. “We’re gonna…gonna talk.”

“That’s good, right? That sounds…promising.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

Sarah places a gentle hand on your arm, drawing your attention to her kind eyes and infectious smile. “We should probably get goin’,” she says, and you agree.

“What movie are you seeing?” Anna asks, filling your spot behind the counter as you turn, making for the back of the store.

“Barbie,” Sarah tells her.

“Nice. She paying?”

“Obviously. Mom duties.”

You kick the door closed on their giggles.

Two days pass without a word from your dad. No text, no call, no visit to Sal’s when you’re on shift the following day. By Monday, you’ve convinced yourself that the entire thing was a dream, a hallucination conjured up by your imagination in attempt to rid you of some of the guilt still chewing at your heart. Bat it out of your brain, like swatting the rear end of a wild animal let loose indoors.

Guilt which is only remedied, only soothed by Joel. By the feeling which overcomes your chest when you look at him – lungs faltering, heart leaping. The peace of falling asleep in his safe embrace, the heat from his body enough to keep you comfortable all night, and then waking up tangled in his sheets – the smell of bacon and eggs twirling through the house, the distant sound of his humming drawing you downstairs to his side.

Late nights on the porch, watching the sun bleed heavily into the sky. Your ankles in his lap, a guitar over his thigh. Thumb gentle on the strings, soft timbre of song lulling you to some place far from reality: the same rosy, dreamlike state you’ve mostly occupied since he dragged you through his front door, kicked your shoes and all of your worries to the side, and made you forget that anything bad had ever happened.

The most comfortable you’ve ever felt in your life, the most loved – a world where your every word is heard and weighed, rolling around Joel’s palms and slotting carefully into his back pocket. A world where his lips on your neck as you make dinner, where the crook of his arm catching you as you pass by, is all normal. Where I love you and I love you, too become the last words your sleepy ears hear at night, right before you sink into a shared sleep.

All of it becoming as natural as the pale moon switching for her golden sister at dawn. As instinctive as breathing.

“Have you ever made love to anyone?” you ask him one night, the aftershock of an orgasm still soaking into your skin.

Joel pauses, hips slowing between yours. “Yeah,” after a couple beats, “sure.”

“What’s it feel like?” you ask, honestly. Combing his dark hair through your fingers. “I’ve never…No one’s ever…”

“Baby,” he says. “We’ve done it. I’ve done it to you.”

Your body tenses and then melts around him. One blink and suddenly the world softens, seems to bow into the background – the only sharp object Joel, the twinkle in his eye piercing through the haze like blinking white stars in thick, dark clouds.

You whisper, “Can you do it again? So I can feel what it’s like?”

He pushes himself up, one elbow planted by your ear, the other hand lifting your thigh. Hooking it over his waist, lowering his arm again to cage you under his body. He nudges your chin with his nose, lifting it to line your lips with his, hold every part of your body as close to his as he can.

Deeper, in every sense of the word. Slow, hard. Eyes on you the entire time, watching the way your face contorts and your jaw slackens, holding the shape of your head in his hands, swallowing his own moans and grunts to make space between you for yours.

“Look at me, baby, eyes on me,” he says, and by instinct, your eyes roll forward, focusing or half-focusing on the slick hair at his forehead, the red flush climbing his neck, seeping into the skin under his beard. “You feel it? Feel where I’m goin’?”

And yeah, you whine, you do feel it. Feel him dragging you further away from this world and into the next – somewhere a plain away, somewhere new and different to anything you’ve ever known before. Where physicality is a language, a fluid conversation between the melding of his body and yours; where there are a million words swirling around his pupils, hypnotizing and entrancing and drawing you in until you’re tumbling headfirst into the inky pools.

Where I love you sounds like the groan Joel can’t hold back, feels like the pulsing flood as he snaps between your legs. Where making love is as simple as the squeeze of his hand around yours; the shove of his plate over the kitchen table, offering you the last bite of grilled cheese or simply admitting that it was yours before he’d even taken the first. That addictive laugh of his when you stall the fucking truck for the fifth time: You asked me to teach you, baby, I’m tryna teach you. Foot on the gas, c’mon. You got it. That’s it – now, slow. Slower. Try to feel it. No, really feel it.

Feel it. Really, try to feel it. Can you feel it? Do you know the difference yet? The difference between everyone who was before, and the one who is now? Do you finally get it?

“I feel it,” you cry out, and his frame holds yours together as you fall apart.

It feels like – you.

How did I ever know anything before I knew you?

“That one’s nice,” Joel says, his voice jumping the short distance between his lips and your ear.

You tilt your head, body moving with his when he lifts his hand to swipe through some more of the images. The spacious living room, newly refurbed kitchen, the view of downtown Los Angeles.

He adjusts the blanket draped over your legs. “Washer dryer, walk-in closet,” and then, leaning in closer, whispers, “a balcony. That’s cool.”

“Hm,” you turn to face him, your body shelled by his in the corner of his couch, “I bet you like the balcony, cowboy.”

He smiles plainly in response, squeezing your nose between two knuckles. Yeah. Lots you can do with a balcony.

A sharp gasp from across the room pierces the sweet moment. You and Joel turn in its direction, its owner wide-eyed and blinking at the TV.

“Wait a second,” Sarah yelps. “George is the John Doe?” She gasps again when Meredith announces the same news to her friends onscreen. “Shut – the fuck – up!”

“Language,” Joel clips, chest rumbling between your shoulder blades.

“Oh, like you didn’t have the exact same reaction. George is the…Oh, that sucks. Are you kidding me?” She fishes her phone from the waves of blanket surrounding her, thumbs rapidly typing, eyes shooting from screen to screen.

You snort, turning back to your own phone in your hand, when a text appears at the top of the screen.

Dad: Hey kiddo. Sorry to keep you waiting, work been hectic. Off the rest of today if you’re free to come over.

Your thumb latches onto the message, holding it for Joel to read, too, before letting it disappear off into your notifications.

He tightens his hold on you, burying his nose into the cotton of his own hoodie over your shoulders. His breath pushes heavy and thoughtful across the material. “Still seems as calm as the other day.”

“Too calm,” you admit, “it’s freaking me out.”

“What can he do, you know? You’re here, he’s there. Your dad ain’t an idiot, baby. He knows stayin’ angry about it’s only gonna push you further away.”

“Sure made ‘im feel like an idiot…”

Joel catches the comment and pockets it before it gathers enough weight to bruise. “Well,” he clears his throat, “it’s up to you. I ain’t letting you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Mhm,” you reply, and wait for more words to fall to your tongue. An answer, a response. A decision that you know you don’t feel equipped or even rightful to make.

“Do you want to go talk to him?” Joel asks.

“I…I want to make things right. I wanna fix it.”

“Okay. And will talking to him do that?”

You turn to face him, frowning. “I don’t fucking know,” you mutter. “Will it?”

He smiles sympathetically. “Wish I knew, darlin’. Would it help if I came? Sat outside in the truck, waited for you? It gets too much, you decide you wanna leave – we leave.”

“You ain’t scared to be near him again?”

He gulps back a laugh, Adam’s apple bobbing awkwardly before he allows himself to answer. “Only thing scary about your dad is the sunlight reflectin’ off his damn head. No, I ain’t scared.”

You study him a minute longer, eyes roaming from the lips you could sketch every score of from memory, the beard you’re sure has forever altered your prints from the number of times you’ve run your fingers over the bristles. The eyes which know every secret, every whisper, every thought behind your own.

You sigh, smiling dumbly as he wraps his arms tighter around you. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Joel pulls up by the curb, parking politely at the end of your driveway rather than alongside your dad’s car, like he usually would. Like he used to.

You crane your head, looking past the shape of him to survey the unassuming house. Quiet, still. No sign of hurricane or earthquake, no tremors of rage or words like rocks raining down on the truck roof. Your thumb plunges into the buckle of your seatbelt, the webbing whipping over your shoulder.

“Sure you’re okay?” Joel asks, watching your fingers lift to the door handle.

“Mhm,” you reply, distant. “’s just my dad, right? What’s the worst that could happen?”

His eyebrows lift, agreeing. He takes your hand in his and holds it to his lips. “Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your fingers, “if it happens, you come straight back out here, you hear? I ain’t moving.”

The urge to stay exactly where you are and let him carry you off back to his place overwhelms you for a brief second. To stay in the safety of the truck cabin, stay within touching distance of Joel. And as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. Overcome by the memory of that stony hug in Sal’s, the vacant, lonely eyes boring into late-night TV.

A sharp chap over your shoulder shocks you back to life. You twist in your seat, looking down at a face wrinkled by curiosity and wisdom, sheen of lipstick curved in a mischievous grin. You roll the window down, mirroring her smile.

“Joel Miller,” Rita calls, lowering her ring-adorned fist and pointing over to her car. “Help me with these groceries.”

“Afternoon to you, too, Rita,” he calls back, and she raises two thin, penciled eyebrows. His sigh trickles into a chuckle as he snaps the door open, leaning into you. “I ain’t moving,” he mutters, swinging out of the truck.

“Sure looks like you’re movin’,” you call back, letting Rita pull on your door to let you out.

“How are you, darlin’?” she asks. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

You hop down beside her, helping her tug the shawl around her arms back over her shoulders. “Yeah, I’ve, uh…I’ve been busy.”

She nods, and then her eyes drift to somewhere behind you. “They go in the kitchen, son.” She points to her house. “I’ll come help you unpack ‘em.”

Joel’s face twists, eyes wide, hands outstretched. You swallow back a laugh when he looks to you, an almost teenage expression which asks, You seein’ this? as he turns back to the Nissan.

“I better go,” Rita says then, giving your arms one last squeeze. “You take care, now. Tell your dad I’m askin’ after ‘im.”

“I will, Rita.” You turn on your heel and saunter around Joel’s truck, giving him one last twirl as he hoists two bags under his muscled arms, rolling his eyes as you spin.

You pull the weight of yourself up your drive, passing past versions of yourself as you near the front door. She’s stumbling towards her dad’s car, a bucket of soapy water sloshing around between her knees. She’s sat on the curb, waiting for Joel’s truck to roll up, praying she never hears another Marty Robbins song again.

She’s naïve, still. Knows no better, knows no worse. Chasing a high, chasing the thrill of being caught and the thrill of nobody ever knowing. A relationship built entirely on lies and deceit. A love woven with dark threads of shame and anger, a tattered mess in one corner where the edges fray and loosen.

And you think: you’ve never felt more jealous of anybody your whole life.

The front door clicks open easily, like the building welcomes you home with a relieved sigh. You follow sunlight into the hallway, feeling it easier to walk through than before – less dense, less suffocating. Less guilty. An honest thief, back to return the bleeding heart she dragged out the door with her.

Secrets like shards of broken glass on the floor, debris from that day. And as if he hears the crunch of your footsteps, your dad appears at the bottom of the hall.

“Hi, hon.”

Eyes wide with a misplaced shock, you say, “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“’m good.”

“Good. Come in, come through.” He beckons you forward, a smile only half-forced on his lips. “You want a drink or anything?”

You follow him into the kitchen, politely accepting a glass of water when he offers it.

He turns with two steady palms on the island, watching as you drag a chair free and sit at the table. “How’s Joel?” he asks, swallowing roughly.

The words come delayed, your open mouth lying in wait. Your body selfishly trying to hoard the information, protective the second the image of that six-foot, two-hundred-pound man crosses your mind. “He’s fine. He’s out front.”

It sounds like a warning, though you don’t mean for it to. Just conversation. He’s helping Rita with her groceries. She’s asking after you, by the way. But your dad seems to sense the natural amber tone of it – the sparking of a flame, daring to catch. He’s waiting for this to go south.

He nods, accepting the fact of it. His own failed attempt to separate the two of you only drove you closer together. Only made you want Joel more.

But then he’s nearing you again, pulling out the chair opposite yours. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, settling with a sigh. “Glad we’re…we’re talkin’ again, at least.”

Your head angles. “Are we?”

His body jerks, flinching from the sting of the question. “Well,” his head wobbles, jowls quivering, “I sure hope so. I was takin’ it as a good sign that you’re here.”

“I’m here,” you repeat, “but that doesn’t mean I’m staying.”

“No, I know. I know. Joel’s out front, ‘n all that.” He looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. Holds his tongue behind his front teeth, waiting for the next turn of conversation.

You lean forward, elbows on the table, softening your voice. “Dad?” you say, and he looks up. “This whole entire thing – I think…I think we oughta try and understand each other, a little better. Hear each other out.”

“I am tryin’, hon. I’m really tryin’. You dealt me an awful lot to hear out ‘n understand.”

You rock back, sinking against the hard chair. Tracing the wood grains in the table, nails digging between. Shame coiling like a snake beneath your tongue, taking up too much space in your mouth. Its venom dripping between your teeth, acrid and sour; tendons in your neck jumping with the bitterness of your dad’s tone.

He sighs. “Be honest with me a second.”

“Huh?”

He waits a beat, watching you carefully. Opens his mouth, pauses, and then speaks. “Who instigated it?”

Your finger pushes harder into the surface. Digging new divots. “Um…kinda both of us. Was sort of a two-way thing from the get-go.”

His lips twist, almost imperceptible. He looks behind you to the patio outside. You can’t read what’s in his eyes. It makes you say more, say things you reckon you’ll regret later – but something to fill the silence between you. Something to let him sink his teeth into.

“There was flirting. Lotta flirting. And then it…it just sort of snowballed.”

“Snowballed.” He looks uncomfortable, lifting his hands to cup over his face. “I just didn’t take him as the type,” he says, muffled into his palms.

“As what type?”

He drops his hands, hitting his thighs with a slap, and looks you dead in the eye. Sad, almost. “Arthur Kennedy type.”

“He’s not.”

You say it instinctively. Your ears hear it at the same time your dad does. He looks at you blankly.

“He’s not,” you repeat, a little looser. Less hasty. “Look,” you sigh, “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but…everything that we ever did, I wanted to do. I already told you. There ain’t nothing we did that I didn’t ask him to. I swear to you.”

You think back to the cookout, how angry Joel was at the thought of Arthur Kennedy hanging over you. How pissed he’d be, hearing your dad line him up against that old leather boot of a man. Comparing, contrasting. Here’s how you measure up, son. How much of a phantom Arthur Kennedy has been, your whole life, and how much of a sanctuary Joel is in comparison.

Your stomach twists at the thought. A tight knot, wound by a desperation to clear the name of a man whose worst offense was doing exactly what your dad would’ve told him to: leave.

“This whole thing,” you go on, “it’s a mess, alright? It’s – totally fucked. And we shouldn’t’ve lied, shouldn’t’ve been keeping things from you, but then…what did you expect?”

Your dad cuts in like a bullet: “I expect the two of you not to do what you were doin’.”

“No, I know that. But we did it, right? It’s done now. I meant, did you really want us to sit you down in the living room ‘n say, Hey, Dad – guess what?”

He grimaces at the thought.

“Didn’t think so. We didn’t even know what it was. We had no idea what it’d turn into. But you gotta hear me out: it wasn’t just…some fling, or whatever you’re thinkin’. I swear, Dad, it wasn’t.”

He still doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t lift his stare from the table. You feel like a little kid, desperate to make him love you again. Desperate to make him listen. The space between you fills with the bored tick tick tick of the kitchen clock. Each second hurting a little more than the last.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry I let you down, but…I’m not sorry that I did it. If I could go back, knowing everything I know – I’d do it all over again.”

The words roll across the table to him like billiards. You lean back again, watching them as they rattle from his side to yours – your sentence delivered back into your ears. You nod, a sure thought in your mind.

I’d do it all over again. All the covering, all the hiding. The aching, the wishing and wanting. Staring at Joel’s empty hand, dying to slot yours into it. Dying to put any part of yourself near him; your head under his chin, your arms linked around his waist. Knowing you two would feel, knowing everyone else would see, just how perfectly you fit together.

The chasing your own tails: Did you lie well enough? Do they suspect anything? Did we leave any evidence? Disturbed sheets, a collar still upturned. Can they hear us? Have they noticed we’re missing? We’re always fucking missing.

You’d do it all over again. You know what it cost, now, sat directly opposite the price. His polite smiles like veneers over rotten teeth. The tremble in his lip when he opens his mouth to speak.

And it was worth it. Joel. He was worth it all, in the end.

All over again.

“Do you know that every time I look at you, there are…probably four versions that I see?”

You frown. Did he hear what you just said? All ov–? “What?”

Your dad laughs to himself. “When you walk outta that door, I see a little pink backpack over your shoulders. Gym bag in your hand, maybe. I see missin’ front teeth, I see those little clip-on earrings you used to love so much.

“And – and when you’re mad at me, when we fight, I see you at fourteen. Growing pains, y’know? I still remember you slamming your bedroom door in my face, all ‘cause I wouldn’t let you go to that girl Molly’s birthday party.” He looks up, smiling at your perplexed expression.

“I don’t even…remember that, hardly.”

“Long time ago now. My point is,” he continues, “you’re twenty-three. You’re grown. And I just can’t figure out how to make those other versions…grow with you. You still feel like my kid. Still that little girl with the pink backpack.”

“But,” you clear your throat, trying to swipe her from your own memory, “I’m not. I’m not her anymore, Dad. And I think maybe you gotta give me the space to be someone different, now.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, nodding. “I know, I know. I just didn’t think this new version of you would…y’know. Be with Joel, ‘n all. That is something I did not see comin’.”

“You think I did?” You spit a laugh. “If you told me when I came home that this is what was waiting for me…that I was gonna fall…”

Your teeth close around the sentence, dropping your dad’s eye. But it’s too late.

He stares back at you like the sun. “…Fall in love with ‘im?”

And you cower. You wince, almost. The last secret. The last thing he doesn’t know. “I don’t…I don’t know, I –”

“You love him. You do, don’t you?”

Your thumbs run circles around one another, fingers locking until your knuckles hurt. “I don’t know,” you mumble, wishing for the tenth time since you sat down that Joel was beside you, in front of you, around you.

“’s what Anna seems to reckon.”

Your eyes flit up. “Anna?”

He hums. “She is her father’s daughter. A damn meddler. She called here, last night.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you groan, head falling into your hands. “Ignore her, please. Ignore all of it. She doesn’t –”

He holds a palm up. “Now, hold on. You don’t even know what it was she said.”

You huff a sigh, twisting your hand in the air. Go on.

“She reckons you do love him. Reckons he loves you back. More, if that’s even possible, she said. Told me all about the way he stepped in front a’ that boy at Frank’s. About your face when he picked you up from rodeo night, how ecstatic you were. The difference she sees in you.”

“Difference,” you scoff, glancing out to the backyard. “What difference?”

“Same difference I see, probably. Same difference Bill said he saw, too: you’re happier. Even I can’t deny it, hon. It’s damn hard – you never make nothin’ easy on your old man – but…but I am willing to try.”

The hurt begins to slowly fizzle away. Cooling, washing from your skin like foamy waves. Curiosity left to shine through.

“You may not understand this ‘til you have kids of your own – if you have kids of your own – but there ain’t a thing in this world that I love more than I love you. And when you love somethin’ that much, you’ll do anything to stop it from getting hurt. Anything. That’s all I want you to know.”

A silence falls between you, thoughtful and waiting. The clock’s ticking grows sharper again. It seems to consider the same as you: there should be more to this. More to be said, to be convinced. More yelling, even.

But you arrive at the same conclusion, at near enough the same time: there is nothing more. Cards flat on the table, eyes pouring all over them. To question it, to second-guess any of it, would be to tempt fate.

“Anyway,” your dad sits forward, clasping his hands on the table, “tell me what’s goin’ on. What’s been happening in your world?”

You shrug. A little, shy thing. “Work. Been hanging with Sarah a lot. And I, uh, I had a job interview last week.”

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

You shift awkwardly in your chair. “For, uh…that one in LA. They called to offer it a couple days ago.”

A smile pulls across his lips. Growing, growing, growing until he’s grinning back at you. Pride, little bit of surprise. Whole lot of amusement and joy. “You take it?” he asks, figuring he knows the answer already.

“Not yet,” you reply. “Think I’m going to, though. ‘s too good to say no.”

He lifts his eyebrows in agreement, looking down at his hands. Shoulders lurch some under the weight of your news. “There goes that little backpack,” he mutters to himself, and you smirk.

“Can’t hold her back forever.”

“I never had a hold on her in the first place. You were walkin’ on outta that door the minute you found your own two feet.”

You snort. “Good! Good for me. Let me go out into the big ol’ world; let me go fuck it all up ‘n come home for dinner once I’m done.”

“I intend to,” your dad says, nodding along to every passionate word you say. And then he asks, “How’s Joel feelin’ about it all? About LA?”

Your shoulder jerks in a half-shrug. “He’s fine, I guess. Says he’ll miss me, but then – we haven’t exactly had the most typical relationship up until now. Survived a lot I reckon would break any normal couple…”

It’s the first time you think you’ve ever said it. Couple. You’ve thought of it – flicked through the words you might use to describe him. Your boyfriend, your partner. None of them seem to fit exactly who he is to you. None of them strong enough to carry the weight of what’s shared between you. He’s Joel. He’s your Joel. Nothing will ever come close.

Your dad hears it, too. The newness of it. The crisp shape of the word, not yet thawed to this new world. Your tongue still learning how to pronounce it, how to pair it with the image of Joel.

“Guess he can fly out ‘n visit whenever, right?”

“Yeah,�� you swallow, “and I’ll be back here, too. Christmas ‘n all.”

Your dad smiles. Relieved, assured. Light slowly returning to his eyes.

“We’ll be fine,” your chest swells, “so Joel says. I trust ‘im.”

You both quieten, sitting back in your chairs. What once felt like a room ablaze, flames tearing the skin from your body as you dragged your heels through it – now feels like a gentle warmth. Waves wrought with enough power and force to destroy you, now seeping off with the change of the tide. Bumps on the horizon.

“Speaking of,” you say, making to stand, “I should probably get goin’.”

“Yeah. Yeah, hon.” Your dad follows, arm on your shoulder as he walks you down the hall.

The sun intrudes, tosses herself into your arms as you pull the front door open. In her golden-rayed wake sits that dark truck, same as always. The same dark tee, the same dark-speckled-gray hair. Arms folded, stood against the body, waiting. Eyes on the house, on your figure as you step down onto the doormat. Joel straightens when your dad follows you out, chest sucking in a ragged breath.

They look at one another, and that’s about it. Something of a nod from Joel – not quite returned by your dad. You figure that might take some time to come back around. And that’s okay. You can make peace with it.

You turn back. Your dad’s looking down at you, hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

“You know,” you take a deep breath, “the only times he’s ever hurt me, are the times he’s left. The times I haven’t had him around.”

And then you step back, the magnet in your chest telling you it’s time to return to its partner.

In high school, your English teacher tasked the class with writing a short story. Any genre you wanted, any word count up to two thousand. The boys mostly dicked around, wrote action-packed, blood-and-guts garbage. One girl wrote something you’re sure you’d seen in a Hallmark movie before.

But you – you spent two weeks straight, writing. Awake until all hours of the night, hunched over your laptop, sunbathing in the blue hue of an open document. Fingers hammering rapidly into your keyboard.

A man and a woman meet in Central Park. She – hair the color of rust, spilling down her shoulders and lifting at the ends, twisting around the fingers of the blustery wind. A red glow around her third finger where gold once lived. Sat on a bench, alone. Hiding, perhaps. And he – sharp suit and tie, clean-shaven, a steel-blue gaze that might cut glass. Missing the city traffic by taking a walk through the park on his way home. Fleeing, perhaps.

He notices her trench coat first. Bright red, a poppy swaying in the breeze. A little hopeless, a solemn wilt to it. The quickly dampening fire of her hair in the rain, the opaque sheen of polish chipping from her nails. And he thinks he recognizes the constellation of freckles painted across her cheeks. Thinks he might’ve mapped them, once, in some kind of past-life.

She looks up and realizes she recognizes the cut of his gaze. Piercing through her, splitting her in two. Thinks she might’ve felt it before, the opening of her soul to someone who looked just like him – a little more baby-faced, a little more spirited. In some kind of past-life, too.

She stands, and he slows, and they meet somewhere in the middle. Words exchanged; body heat transferred through hugs. Is that really you? You look so different. It’s been years. He doesn’t ask about the lack of jewelry on her third finger. She doesn’t ask about the gray circles beneath his eyes. Just, You wanna grab a coffee? and, Yeah. Yeah, I do.

They sit at the window, watch the yellow taxis and the black umbrellas and the trembling traffic lights. They talk about life then, life now, and silently agree to forget about the part in the middle. They look at each other the same way they must have before they lost one another, before life and love and everything else got between them.

They agree to meet again in a week. They swear that they will not fall back in love.

They know as well as each other that they’re really promising to do just that.

Love – twisted and turned over and over, until it’s a different shape altogether. We started as one thing, and we watched it shift into something completely different. Clay in the potter’s hands. Didn’t you think it might fall apart? There was a moment I thought the heat of the kiln might break us. I’m glad it didn’t. I’m glad we’re made of tough stuff.

I’m glad I found you again, in that park. The pissing rain and the wind so strong I felt it lifting the sense from my mind. In that hardware store, in that bar filled with weed and bad intentions. I’m glad you split me open, glad you could see the good that was still inside. I thought I’d lost her for a minute. Thought she’d forgotten her way home.

Let’s go get a coffee. Let’s pretend it’s always been this way.

Let’s fall in love. The rest will take care of itself.

It takes three weeks in total to properly pack up your things. Two days after you accepted the job, you bought boxes and tape, and began to dismantle the identity you’d spent twenty-three years creating for yourself, a little bit at a time. Taking apart the pink-walled museum of your life, artefact by artefact.

Joel has helped as much as you’ve let him. Laid back on your bed when you’ve dismissed him one too many times, raised his eyebrows and laughed with you whenever you come across some old, forgotten piece of memorabilia. Something ceremonial to it, something innocent and fun. Like a little graduation for all the parts of yourself.

Soon, as the last of the summer sun dampens outside, your room lies vacant. Empty of any real evidence of your being here. Bedsheets and pillows folded, packed away; framed photos and posters unpinned from the wall and wrapped up safely. Drawers and closets barren, left with a selection of your less-loved, less-worn clothes. A wardrobe built from stuff you’ll only ever wear when you come back home to visit, if even then.

Joel’s sat on the bare mattress, looking around your room. You’re stood opposite, leaning against your half-empty dresser. The sun filters feebly through your turned shades, averting her eyes.

You look over at him. Golden, like the sunlight outside. Warm, like the breeze through the trees. Yours. Yours yours yours.

“What?” Joel asks, his eyes having finally found their way back to you. He smiles at your focused expression.

“Nothing. I don’t know. Just…”

“Talk to me. Tell me.”

“You are – this is…” You sigh. “This is good. I think it’s good. Not just all the stuff we did. But you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “You’re good for me.” You grip the wooden lip tighter, swaying nervously when you add, “But I think it was always gonna go this way, wasn’t it?”

He sniffs. Shoulders jerk in a weak shrug. “Yeah, I think so, baby.”

Your eyelashes flutter, soothing the prickling feeling of tears forming. “I don’t – I don’t know if I want it to.”

“Yeah,” Joel says through a groan, pushing himself up, “you do.”

You shake your head as he approaches, and his hands cup your cheeks.

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling your body tight against his. Your face buries in his chest; your tears wet on his shirt. He shushes you, rocks you gently back and forth with a hand on the back of your head. “Listen to me.”

“Joel –”

“Listen to me.” He pulls you back, swipes the tears from your cheeks as quickly as they fall. “We’re fine. We are going to be fine.”

“I don’t want to leave you –”

“I know, I know. But you want to go do this. And that’s okay. Both of ‘em, at once.”

Your head shakes again. Like an instinctive reaction to the thought of being separated from him.

Joel smiles softly. “I am going to miss you like hell. You got no idea. But,” he pulls your head back to face his, tucks your hair behind your ear, “I want you to go. You gotta go after this. Right?”

“I know,” you whisper, lungs lurching for breath. “I just – wish it didn’t mean leavin’ you.”

“Darlin’…” Joel coos, pulling you in again. “You know how much I love you? What do I keep tellin’ you? We’ll be alright. It’s you ‘n me, right?”

You nod, salty tears slipping between your lips onto your tongue. When you look up, you notice the same expression on Joel’s face. He blinks his own away before they fall.

“’s you ‘n me,” you repeat, and he pulls your lips together.

You roll your tongue onto his, letting him taste you – all of you. Your mouth, and your thoughts, and your tears, and your pain. You let him take it all, let him hold it for this moment as you breathe him in, let his body fill yours in every way.

Your hands are in his hair, your chest pressed against his; he’s every thought on your mind and every beat in your heart. He’s the blood thrumming through your veins, he’s the oxygen filling your lungs; he’s the words between your teeth and the flesh around your bones.

And he pulls you, and you follow, his shirt in your fist, over to the bed where he lays you gently and falls on top.

“When’s he get back?” he asks, taking your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Later,” you mumble, your fingers picking at the hem of his shirt.

He pushes back, letting you tug it up up up over his shoulders at the same rate he peels your tee from yours, both tossing each other’s clothes to somewhere else in the room. Jeans undone, shorts dragged from your hips, underwear discarded until you’re naked under him, and he’s naked over you, and there’s nothing and no one between.

Joel cradles you, holds you close as he presses a palm roughly against the underside of your thigh, opening your body to him in a way only he’s mastered. In a way you only would, for him.

His hand cups your sex, fingers nudging between your folds, pushing in when your jaw slackens and a wanton moan echoes from your throat across Joel’s tongue.

“Yeah,” he coos, wrist jacking between your legs, “’s my girl. Gotta get you warmed up, huh? Get you nice ‘n wet.”

Your back arches, arms linking around his neck to pull him closer, pull him deeper. Hold him tight enough to you that your bodies feel one, feel connected at the meeting of Joel’s hand and the most intimate part of you; the meeting of your tongues between teeth.

And you gasp, the nudging of his fingers against the deepest part of your body, the messy circles of his thumb on your clit. The shape of him, solid and warm against the seam of your thigh.

You reach down for him, wrapping your fingers around his cock, and his breath hitches. Teeth bump into yours. You’re fucking irresistible to him.

“Darlin’,” his voice is low, daring you to keep going, “you wanna cut this short ‘fore we’re even started?”

You breathe a laugh into his jaw, hot and needy. “You get to play with me,” you whine, “I wanna play with you, too.”

Joel growls, seizing his movements, leaning back in what you take as him granting full access to his body. But then he says, “Turn around,” in a strict voice you’ve come to know as meaning one thing, and you pause.

You peel your eyes from his dick to blink up at him. “Turn –?”

“– around, now.” He takes your waist, hoisting you up until you’re straddling him, holding you inches above his body. “Turn.”

“What the fuck are you –?”

“Many times do I gotta tell you? You said you wanted to play.” He twists your waist until you follow his movements, swinging one leg over the other. He grabs your hips, tugging you back towards his face. “So, play,” he mutters, lowering your cunt down to his lips.

You gasp, falling forward and hitting the mattress between his legs. “J– fuck me. Are you s-serious?” You moan, hips rocking against the feeling of his bearded chin at your clit. “You’re like – a fucking – horny teenager. Oh, fuck.”

Your head falls forward, hands splaying out over his thighs, before your eyes refocus and you notice the hardened shape of him, tip oozing precome all over the hair-spattered plain of his groin. Your hand lifts, shakily taking hold of him again, and you lean down.

Elbows hooked over his thighs, you bring his tip to your lips, letting a thick bead of saliva fall and drip down the length of him, meeting your closed fist to be dragged up and down.

Joel’s hips almost buck. He holds it, manages to catch it, but you spot it. You’ve done this too many fucking times not to notice the reaction you draw from him.

“’s good,” you whisper, circling your hips on his face, tongue slipping across his cherry-red tip. “Feels so good.”

He responds in the form of a deep groan, rattling from his chest through your clit, shocking like lightning up your spine until the very same noise is thrown from your lips. You push down, tongue molding around every vein and the slow curve of his cock until your lips meet the thick brush of hair at his base, his tip kissing the very back of your throat.

Your throat which jumps, jolts at the feeling of something intruding – before you’re retreating again, pulling him from your body, warm, wet spit linking the two of you when you come up for air. And then you sink back down, head moving up down up down up down as his stomach tenses beneath your chest.

Joel’s palms keep a heavy hold on your ass, his tongue lapping between your folds like they’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted – like he might die if he doesn’t get his fix of you. And you think, they are, and he might, as your cheeks hollow and you bow down over him again.

You establish a rhythm, two waves swirling between one another: your hips rocking, Joel’s lifting ever so slightly as you suckle on one another. Your hand fisting the parts of him you can’t quite reach, not without choking; Joel holding you fixed to his jaw, letting the tip of his tongue hook around your swollen clit, then dragging it down until he’s letting you ride the wet muscle.

The approach of your first orgasm, a tiny spark catching to life in the pit of your belly, incites you with a need to open up further for him. Your throat taking more of him, your thighs slackening as you drive your cunt harder against his mouth.

“’m so close,” you whimper, lips curving around his cock. “So – fucking – ah, keep doin’ that. Right th-there.”

His hands hook around your thighs, tongue darting across your clit. His nose nudges somewhere between your folds, quickly becoming coated in the slick you’re leaking all over him.

“Joel,” you say, fists pumping his cock. Your voice a warning: it’s coming. You’re gonna – Fuck, you’re gonna come.

His voice is looser, more of a shrug of the shoulders when he pulls away from you. He inserts two fingers, curls them like before, like he knows drives you fucking insane. “Let go, babygirl,” he murmurs, lips immediately returning to position. And then, muffled and rough: “Come all over me.”

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, hands squeezing around his cock, feeling that same spark ignite into flame, your entire body bursting with heat.

Your high rips through you, battering through each vein in your system, each nerve electrified. You collapse between his legs, his rough pubic hair sticking to the sweat on your chest, hips rutting wildly against the sharp cut of his jaw.

The mattress absorbs most of the desperate moan which streaks across your tongue, nails digging hard into the flesh of Joel’s thighs. And you hear the deep sound of his voice, the thud thud thud of a chuckle against your clit: the cocky fucker laughing to himself as he unravels you for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Alright,” Joel says, more to himself than to the fucked-out shape of you between his legs. He sits up and shifts you carefully down the bed, settling you face-down on the mattress and lifting your ass to meet his hips. “Okay?” he asks, kneeling behind you.

You feel his tip between your legs, slotting happily somewhere in your opening. Waiting for your response. A response you don’t feel able to give, as much as you’d like to; your lips puffy and confused, words jumbling behind them in a tangle of bliss and love.

“Baby,” Joel says, hand slinking down your back, pressing gentle circles into the nape of your neck. “You okay?”

Your head lifts, glancing over your shoulder to see his hairy torso, his thick arms caging over you. He lifts your chin with two fingers, cranes your neck up until you’re looking into his eyes, heavy lids blinking dumbly.

“Just fuck me,” you whisper, and Joel slips his tongue into your mouth.

You used to dream of coming back home. A few years away, doing whatever you wanted, wherever you wanted. Dreaming things up and then chasing them until they happened. Tiring yourself out, lungs gasping for breath and eyes always searching, always looking for a new target to pin up. But always coming back.

Austin, Texas. Its jagged skyline, the streets lined with a vibrant glow and star-spangled bunting. The river like a silver-bellied snake slithering through. Home.

You dreamt of living out your days here, once your blood had slowed and your mind settled. A quiet life in the country, a big wooden house with a wraparound porch. Two little rocking chairs, so you and whoever your husband turned out to be could sit and watch the sky fade from red into orange into white and then dull gray into deep blue.

Breeze kissing your cheek, his lips kissing your knuckles.

Joel.

Home.

You tell him, and he smirks. “That so?” he asks, wrapping his arms a little tighter around your naked body.

You nuzzle your cheek into the palm of his hand, breathing in the sweet scent of sweat and sex sitting in the air. “Mhm. You could play guitar until the stars come out.”

He hums in agreement. “Sounds like a pretty good dream. Tell you what: you go to LA, do what you gotta do. By the time you come back, there’ll be a big ol’ farmhouse, wraparound porch, rollin’ fields for the dogs. Coffee ‘n sunsets. How’s that sound?”

“And you’ll be there?”

He smiles. Scoops you in one arm and rolls you onto your front, chest to chest with him. His fingers ghost down the curve of your shoulder. “Baby,” he whispers, “I built the damn thing.”

It forces a laugh from your chest, something you’ve gotten used to by now. Joel and his ability to steal a giggle from you, the dumbest moments seeming the funniest. “You’re gonna build me a damn house?” you ask, chin resting between his pecs.

“That what you want?”

Your head rocks left to right, considering. “I just want you. That’s all.”

“Then you got me. I’m all yours.”

In his hazel eyes lives every moment you’ve ever shared. Every conversation, every kiss, every fight. Every minute he’s spent looking for you or at you, every minute you’ve spent looking back at him. It’s all in there. You see it like a movie reel, frame by frame.

It lands like a slot machine on that first night. Cleaning up after pizza. Shoulder to shoulder by your kitchen sink. You wish you’d just kissed him. Even with your dad right there. Wish you’d lifted your heels and put your lips on his, just for the fucking hell of it. Just to condense all of it, every second of longing and hurt and pain into one fleeting moment.

Wish you’d pulled him into you, against you, the weight of his body like an old friend. Welcomed it with open arms, like you’d spent your entire life missing it, waiting for it to come back to you. Let yourself feel your own heart, peeling between the cage of your ribs, reaching out for his. Always reaching for him.

Wish you’d looked him in the eye, tears softening the tufts of graying hair, vignetting the smirk only you can tell is there. Looked at him in that knowing way, that language only you two know; the glint in your eyes translating a thousand messy words into three. Just three – the simplest, lightest words you’ve ever known.

I love you. Let’s skip to the good part.

#welp i didn't cry when i hit post. me? no. no way #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #joel miller smut #cowboy like me

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