#Hook x Silver | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cloudwisp · 2 months

Text

𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 · 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦

contents: smut. minors dni 18+. reader wears a nightgown to subtly get the message across. attempt at seduction. lots of teasing and kissing. first time with him. size difference. fingering. borderline overstimulation. vaginal penetration. mostly sweet lovemaking but implications of leading to rougher sex. sylus has a huge dick (he is standing at 6’2 after all). 2.9k wc.

꒰ note ᰔ based off of this arranged marriage sylus x wife!reader post but can be read as a standalone. smut writing is never one of my strengths but I had fun with this one!! and I can only hope it’s an enjoyable read to those who were anticipating a sequel 🤍꒱

“Doing a little late night reading?” Sylus glances at your form through his peripheral as you enter his bedroom with a light skip in your steps. He’s perched at the end of his bed with a high profile report in hand, and with a tilt of your head and prying eyes you hover over the document between his fingers as you stand before him. You skim through a few lines before he tosses it aside, murmuring that it’s nothing of importance when something more interesting happens to catch his attention and you feel the heat of his gaze doing you a once-over.

Your cheeks warm and you feel a tad shyness wash over you when he quietly appraises your body clad in a gorgeous silk slip with lace embellishments. He hums in appreciation, a slow smirk curling on his lips before he reaches out to grasp your waist and pull you forward onto his lap. He secures one arm around you to keep you in place and his thumb sweeps over the delicate sleepwear and the bare skin of your thigh in a soft, languid motion. “You’ll catch a cold in just your nightgown, kitten. Or did you wear it for me?”

“Maybe I just wanted to change into something a little more comfortable.” You respond with a coy smile and playful shrug of your shoulder which causes the thin strap to fall from just a whisper of movement. He enjoys your little display and act of innocence if this is your way of telling him that you want to deepen the relationship through shared intimacy like normal marital couples do during this time of night. And truthfully, he’s been waiting far too long for this moment to come but he didn’t expect you to offer yourself on a silver platter. What a sweet and precious wife you are.

“I’m sure you could find something more suitable than a flimsy nightgown.” His knuckles brush up along your arm and hooks the fallen strap around his finger to slide it back into its proper place. “But then, perhaps you wanted to tease me, too?”

You click your tongue in disappointment. No matter what you do he was always two steps ahead of you—it’s thoughtful yet infuriating especially when you want him to act more surprised. “Nothing ever gets passed by you, it seems.”

His large hand slips under the lace trimmings of your nightgown and moves closest to your backside for a firm squeeze. “You should know by now how badly I want you, sweetheart. And with you sitting in my lap, looking breathtaking like that. I’m tempted to just rip this little thing off of you.”

You purse your lips into a small pout that’s adorable to him and grunt in disapproval. “What if this night dress is one of my favorites? Don’t I get a say in what you can and can’t tear?”

He arches a brow as though to challenge you by putting the theory into practice. You keep forgetting that he could read you like an open book, and he loves nothing more than proving you wrong at every chance. “Are you saying you wouldn’t enjoy it if I did? I’ll buy you new ones. Better ones.”

You mull over at the thought. “Sounds troublesome. I’ll have to keep making these frequent shopping trips.”

“I just mean the nightgown is in the way of me seeing all of you. You’re more than welcome to wear it any other time, but right now… I want it off.”

“Well, it’s only fair you make the next move.” He groans lowly when you shift your weight in his lap and rest your head against him. You drag your manicured finger down his chest and gently flick at the silver chain looped between his collar. “I did come all this way just for you.”

He understood your meaning and leans down close enough so his warm breath fans over your lips when he tilts your chin to look at him. “If you want me to take off my clothes, you’ll have to undress me yourself.” The soft spoken words in his deep voice send a tingle to the back of your brain, and the lingering kiss he places on the corner of your mouth adds a fluttering sensation in your stomach.

“Still making me work for it? And here I thought I would be cherished and wouldn’t even need to lift a finger.” You bring yourself upright and shove him down onto the bed to climb over him and straddle him. He gives you a knowing smirk at the sound of your cute gasp when you feel just how hard he is for you against your clothed cunt. You make quick work of undoing the underlay of buttons tucked beneath the thick fabric of his tailored dress shirt and remove it entirely to reveal every bit of lean muscle. His build akin to that of a spectacularly sculpted marble statue down to the details of his veins on his strong arms.

“Making you work for it is half the fun, kitten. But just remember who will be putting in the most work tonight.” His hand wanders up your thigh again and moves along the curve of your waist, the expensive silk bunches under his touch and he gropes the fullness of your breast. You feel the strap loosen around your shoulder once more. “Are you liking what you’re seeing? You’re allowed to mark what’s yours, you know. But I’d like to be able to mark you as mine too, wife.” His hungry eyes slowly roam over your matching panties and midriff before he returns your gaze.

Your smaller hand covers his knuckles meanwhile his thumb brushes across your nipple and he revels in the feeling of the bud hardening over the material. “You’re just always so straightforward, aren’t you?” You sensually wrap your finger around the other strap that’s perfectly intact and at your cue Sylus glides his hand down to the small of your back and watches as the dress cascades down to your midsection.

“And you’re so beautiful.” You’re a heavenly sight to behold with the way his amorous stare commits your very existence to his memory, particularly the swell of your lovely breasts that’s heavy with lust and begging for more of his attention. He gently reaches for your wrist and his fingers smooth under your palm to bring your hand up to his face. His thumb runs over the wedding band that binds you to him laying a light kiss against your knuckles, then places your hand over his shoulder waiting for your next move.

You don’t waste another second closing the distance between you two and crash your lips against his for a needy and desperate kiss. Your fingers tangle into his silver locks and your heat grinds against him hoping for some semblance of relief from the ache that’s building inside you. You feel him envelop your breasts fully with each caress and tender squeeze and a little bit of nipple play.

Sylus tastes faintly of sweet, tannic notes from the lingering aftertaste of red wine as your tongue meets his through parted lips. His arms and hands alternate between hugging your body and grip tightening on your hips, bucking himself up into your heat. You feel yourself needing more, wanting more and being closer to him so you hurriedly unbuckle his belt and suddenly the sound of fabric tearing reaches your ears.

You muffle in surprise against his lips and push him back just enough to see him wearing a smug expression. “I should’ve known you’d go against my wishes.” You scoff in disbelief and yet there’s a grin playing across your features that betrays your earlier words. You hate to admit he was right from the start—that you’d find the ripping more attractive instead of being carefully unwrapped like you both have all the patience in the world.

Sylus discards the now ruined piece of clothing aside. He lifts you with ease and your back embraces the cool sheets when he drops you down on the mattress and returns to his full height. “I was never one to follow rules. Besides, you look perfect like this.” You support yourself up on your elbows to follow his movements, and any smart comeback you have dies in your throat when he picks up where you left off by unfastening his belt and stripping out of his trousers. His boxer briefs follow suit and he thinks it’s adorable how you look mesmerized from this performance alone.

Your eyes settle on his huge cock. Almost gawking at it and you unconsciously clench your thighs together. It’s perfectly proportioned to the rest of him—long and notably thicker with an upward center curve and a few prominent veins here and there. He flushes a pretty shade of red that’s gradient from the head down and his pubes are neatly trimmed.

“You don’t have to look so scared, kitten.” He rasps an amused chuckle, and he feels you tense slightly when his hand scales up along your knee to your inner thigh and he dips his fingers between your legs. “I’ll take my time with you so you can handle me.”

Your breath hitches when he feels how drenched you are through your panties. He offers a gratified hum, his handsome face and broad shoulders become your main focus as he closes in on you. “Spread your legs wider.” He murmurs into your ear, and as soon as you give him more access he delves into your mouth for a bruising kiss and chases you down onto the bed. His ministrations on your clit feel absolutely sinful yet so wonderful and your arm wrap around his back meanwhile your hand explores the muscled panels of his upper body and the areas that are within your reach.

A string of saliva connects you both then disappears as your lips come apart. But he doesn’t stray far when the exquisite look on your face is a breath away and he pulls your panties aside to collect your arousal with two digits sliding through your puffy folds. Your lustful sounds escape in a warm exhale as soon as he slowly inserts his thick fingers into your tight pussy, and you’re quite the vision arching your back so tastefully.

“Mmh, that f-feels so good, Sylus.” Your eyes glaze over when he steadily pumps in and out of you, curling so deliciously at your sweet spot and he marvels at the way your cunt is greedily sucking in his fingers. There’s nothing else like him, the way he stretches you and reaches the deeper parts and hits the bits you can’t yourself. He adores the breathless sighs and mewls of his name when he pushes you to the edge even more while kissing you senselessly.

“You sound beautiful. I love the way my name tastes on your lips.” You can feel him smirk against you, but you’re too immersed in your pleasure to respond in words that aren’t broken syllables. He trails open-mouth kisses down to your jawline and along the column of your neck, grazing his teeth and softly sucking on your skin until hues of velvet purple form. Your head burrows into the soft cushion of the mattress, hips squirming as your hand clutches onto his forearm from tension coiling inside you.

“M’gonna come soon, Sy—!” Your pretty moans and pants grow heavier each second, and he loves feeling your body quiver when you’re pressed under him. He’s still knuckles deep inside you with every intention of bringing you up to heaven and back down to him. After all, he doesn’t believe in doing things halfway but can’t pass an opportunity to tease his darling wife.

“You’re getting so close already? I barely got started with you, sweetie.” He chuckles lowly yet his cock twitches as precum oozes and leaks down from the slit of his tip. “Don’t hold it in now. Let go and come for me.”

He’s met with your gorgeous o-face when the euphoric bliss courses through your entire body as your walls tighten around his fingers. Your moans turn into squeals and you try to shove his hand away to soften your orgasm but he doesn’t budge from being much stronger than you. The feeling is more than you can handle when your thighs clamp together to stop his movements. But you don’t want the addictive sensation to leave just yet when he borderline overstimulates you, turning you into a trembling and writhing mess.

You barely have a moment to catch your breath when a chortle escapes you from watching him bring his fingers coated in your cum to his mouth for a curious taste. “Mm. Sweet, just as I thought. You did great, kitten.” He leans down to plant a chaste kiss on your forehead, and the first wave of your drawn-out release slowly ebbs away. “Don’t you think you deserve one more?” Sylus pulls your soaked panties down your legs and casts them aside, leaving you completely bare under his gaze.

“I should hope so. Been wanting for you to stuff me with your fat cock tonight.” You’re still a little breathless when your finger glides down his toned chest in a sensual and playful manner. He makes a content hum at the sound of that with an upward quirk of his lips.

“What a bold and resilient wife I have on my hands. As long as I have you, I’ll never be bored again.” He gladly hoists your leg to wrap around his waist and spits down, giving himself a few strokes making it slick before aligning himself to your dripping cunt. His precum mixes with the remnants of your previous climax with the heavy drag of his tip from your opening up along your clit. He revels in the way your body responds with a little spasm. “I won’t have you going back on your words now.”

The flutter of your lashes steers away from his deep and enigmatic eyes, a nervous gnaw of your lower lips as you anticipate the painful stretch from taking him. “Go slow, okay? Because you know…” He knew you were implying about his sheer size, and you feel him grab hold of your hand and press your interlaced hand against the bed beside your head.

He captures your swollen lips that feel entirely too sweet and intimate, replacing your worries with a gentle tangle of his encompassing love and adoration that seeps into your soul. “I wouldn’t dream about hurting you. That’s a promise. But you have to let me in first.” Your breath hitches when his aching tip probes your entrance, yet the tension doesn’t leave your body until he tells you to focus on him with the exchange of kisses laced with a growing insistence. “You’ll let me know if it hurts, kitten? I want to make you feel good.”

With that said, your sharp nails dig into his shoulder blade and draw red lines at the burning stretch that feels too much yet so good at the same time. Your soft sighs and whimpers fill the hazy room and he’s fucking you slowly with just the tip to help ease the initial discomfort. He searches your face every now and again making sure you’re okay before he continues, letting out a guttural moan when he slips in a little more with each thrust until he carves his way into you completely.

“You’re in too deep—hah. Feel so full and good.” You shudder when he stills his movements, throbbing cock nestled inside you to the hilt and kissing your cervix. There’s a carnal desire brewing in his stomach seeing you pinned under his weight keeping him nice and warm. He wouldn’t mind spending the entire night with you, any plans and commitments he had prior be damned the moment you swayed in through the double doors. “Want you to m-move, please.”

The sound of your polite begging makes him twitch involuntarily, and he could only imagine what desperate pleas you have in store for him tonight and he’s looking forward to it. When your pretty lips implore him to fuck you faster and harder he won’t be able to hold back. After all, he has always been ready and waiting to give himself to you that aligns with your willingness to accept him. There is no love purer than his, this craving he has reserved only for you. “You know you only have to ask, and I’ll give you everything you want. Just be careful what you wish for, sweetie.”

Sylus chuckles at your cute whine shortly after—such a needy little thing you are. He falls into a sweet and slow rhythm that makes you feel each thrust, the head of his dick down to its shape and following the shaft that caresses the underside of your pleasure endings so incredibly good. Your legs wrap around his back and you pull him in deeper because close just isn’t close enough for you. You need to feel the heat of his body sear against your skin as you hold him, and in turn you feel him squeeze your interlaced hand. “Tonight, you’re all mine. Forget anyone else in the world but me.”

#ᨳ ₊˚ 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐩.𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 #sylus #sylus x reader #sylus smut #l&ds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #sylus love and deepspace #lnds sylus #sylus lnd #sylus l&ds #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace

3K notes · View notes

theragethatisdesire · 1 year

Text

scary dog privilege - best friend!eren x reader one-shot, 18+!!

hellooooo i have had this in my wips for like two entire months and i am giddy and ready to share it. this hopefully will just be a one-shot, but you guys know i love to create a universe for each of my erens so god only knows where we'll end up with this one. best friend eren appears to be my angstiest, broodiest one yet, and i love him lol. wanted to make some use of classic fanfic tropes, so here we get best friend eren and fake dating!! woohoo!!

beware: this is absolute, pure filth once you get into it lol

pairing: eren jaeger x afab reader

wc: 9.1k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

CWs: smut, consensual hook-up, rough sex, biting, dirty talk, oral sex (fem!receiving), alcohol use, cussing, squirting, penetrative vaginal sex, swearing, use of names (baby, pretty baby, my girl), crying, multiple orgasms, eren being a menace per usual, jean's an asshole (i'm so sorry you guys know i love him but it had to happen)

have fun ;)

This is a terrible idea, and it had been from the start. You know it and so does he, but you had insisted. Now that you’ve made your bed, you have to lay in it, you suppose. You press your forehead to the cold, tinted window of Eren’s ridiculous muscle car, ignoring the vibrations from the rock music he’s blaring and the consistent fluttering in your stomach, and think back to your conversation earlier that week.

“Come on, Eren. It’s just one night!”

“And what about after? When you run into Sasha at the coffee place or Armin after work? Did we just suddenly ‘break up’?” Eren scoffs, pushing past you to grab a Red Bull out of the fridge. You collapse into one of the barstools in his kitchen, having prepared yourself to accept defeat from the moment you posed the question.

“I just can’t face him alone,” you sigh, “it’s only been four months and Sasha told me he’s hooked up with not one, not two, but three girls already. I haven’t even had a drunken makeout at the bar.”

“So? Just because Jean’s been whoring around doesn’t mean you have anything to prove.” Eren's tone is thoroughly unimpressed as he pops the tab to his energy drink.

“You’re my best friend. I just need one tiny favor.”

“Who would even believe us? It’s not like it’s a huge party- we know everyone going.”

You cock an eyebrow. “How many times have Annie and Mikasa tried to con us into a double date? Connie’s been teasing us for years, not to mention the waiter at lunch the other day–”

“Fine!”

“Fine?”

“Fine. I’ll be your date for one night. But all of the explaining is up to you. And,” Eren takes a sip, leveling a glare at you over the top of the can, “I’m going on the record as saying that this is a bad idea.”

He may be reckless, arrogant, and a bit of a brat, but if Eren Jaeger is one thing consistently, he was right. You chance a glance at your “date”. He’s in his typical uniform: black hoodie, black jeans, the little silver chain he never takes off, key swinging over his chest as he turns the car. He looks good, appealing even. If Jean dares to show up with a girl, she won’t consider you to have downgraded, that’s for sure.

You consider your own outfit, an anxious fist tightening in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jean for the first time as an ex. He would have hated it. Your nothing-to-the-imagination outfit is all thanks to Sasha.

You had clued Sasha in on the plan; you hoped having one more agent in on your secret would help sell the act. Sasha had gone all out, lending you an incredibly low-cut black top and some black leather pants that would have caused at least a twenty-minute argument with Jean. Had he not dumped you, you remind yourself bitterly. Sasha had insisted you borrow her all-black outfit to match Eren’s typical attire “just to be cute”. In hindsight, her enthusiasm about this whole situation should have been a red flag, but you’ve already gotten everything lined up, and it’s too late for regret.

It’s far too late for hindsight, too; you’re already ten minutes into receiving the official girlfriend treatment from Eren. He had worn you down on picking you up, opening the car door, the works. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled out a bouquet of roses at this point. You can hear his obnoxious tone now: Even if you’re my fake girlfriend, you’re getting the full package. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Eren parallel parks smoothly on Armin’s quiet street, unusually busy with the buzz of a house party and lined with your friends’ cars. It’s Connie’s birthday, but Armin always hosts. It’s an unspoken rule at this point; you aren’t sure why he keeps volunteering, especially after Sasha had projectile vomited all over his bathroom at the last get-together, but again, dig your own grave and lie in it. You and Armin are in the same boat there.

When the car switches off, Eren takes a moment to consider you, wrapping and unwrapping his long fingers around the steering wheel, a nervous tic he’s had since high school. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you sigh, reaching for the door handle. Before you can wrap your hand around it, Eren leans over and pinches you harshly on the thigh. “Ow!”

“I open the door, remember?” Eren says, visibly annoyed.

You roll your eyes at him.“Isn’t this a bit much?”

“You think I’m going to be caught dead letting my ‘girlfriend’ open her own door? I have a reputation to uphold.”

You decide to bite back a snippy comment about the many girls who cried over Eren in college and cross your arms over your chest, pouting instead. “Fine.”

If Eren can be dramatic, so can you.

As naturally as if he had done it a hundred times, Eren slings his arm over your shoulders on the walk up towards the door; the weight of it, both physically and mentally, is heavier than you’re willing to acknowledge. When you catch sight of Bertholdt, Reiner, and Annie peering through the window, a flutter of nerves erupts your stomach; you reach a hand up to play with Eren’s fingers, absentmindedly spinning one of his rings and trying to sell the look as best you can. “We better pull this off.”

“It’ll be fine, just follow my lead.” Eren pulls you closer, kissing your hairline. Goosebumps rise all over your body; not at the action itself, but how disturbingly easy the affection seems to come to him. As Eren knocks on Armin’s bright red door, you pack that thought away and shove it to the back of your mind to collect dust.

“Hi…guys?” Armin’s friendly smile upon opening the door falters in confusion as he takes you in, absorbing the sight of you two intertwined on his doorstep. Armin’s wide, blue eyes flick between the two of you, and you can see the gears churning in his head, trying to make sense of how awfully close you and Eren are. Pitting your fake relationship against Armin’s intellect is the perfect first test; a nervous sweat breaks out under your skimpy outfit.

“Sup, ‘min?” Eren smiles back, the very picture of nonchalance, extending his free hand to shake Armin’s shoulder.

“Come on in.” Armin, ever polite, turns to allow for plenty of room for Eren to pull you inside. He doesn’t outright ask why Eren’s holding you, but his eyes betray his suspicions. It seems like your plan, as terrible as it is, is working. One down, a dozen or so to go.

Never dropping his arm from around your shoulders, Eren steers you into the living room where one of Connie’s favorite bands is already blasting from the speakers. Annie and Mikasa are curled up together in Armin’s recliner, hands interlocked as usual; Sasha and Connie are positioned at Armin’s bar cart, violently shaking two cocktail shakers apiece; Reiner, Bertholdt, Marco, and Jean are on the couch, arguing over something sports-related. With a sinking stomach, you notice that there’s only one unoccupied seat left in the room.

“My two favorite lovebirds!” Sasha cries, abandoning her cocktail shakers and rushing over to give you a hug. Upon Sasha’s impact, Eren drops his arm and grabs your hand that’s closest to him as a substitute, never taking his hands off of you. His actions are pointed, purposeful; every pair of eyes in the room looks between the two of you in surprise. You can practically feel a hazel-tinted laser beam burning a hole into your forehead. “You guys are so late; honeymoon phase gotcha already?”

“Laying it on a little thick, Sash,” you whisper into Sasha’s ear, cheeks burning. To your chagrin, Eren only curls his mouth in response.

“What?” Connie frowns, still shaking his drinks. “How long has that been a thing?”

You pause, your heart nearly stopping. You should have made up a story, you realize, something to explain–

“Just a few weeks.” The still-strange weight of Eren’s arm around your shoulder returns, and his jade eyes rest on you, adoration beaming through his always-cool gaze. Against your will, butterflies start dancing in your stomach; apparently Eren’s quite the actor.

“Yeah,” you jump in, grateful for Eren’s lead, “we just wanted to feel it out before we told everyone, that’s all.”

“Sasha knew.” Mikasa raises a suspicious eyebrow. Annie smirks at the two of you, a knowing look on her face.

“It’s about time.” Marco appears from the kitchen with a huge bowl of tortilla chips in one hand and salsa in the other. “Good for you guys.”

You can’t help yourself, finally meeting Jean’s eyes. He’s openly scowling at you, which is to be expected; where Eren is a criminally smooth liar, Jean wears his heart on his sleeve. You recognize that face all too well: anger to mask heartbreak, the same face he wore when you used to fight. For the first time, it occurs to you how cruel this plan might be, how Jean might react to you moving on with a mutual friend. Guilt washes over you, cold and heavy.

“Thanks for giving me a heads-up before you moved in on my fucking girlfriend, Jaeger,” Jean snips, taking a long swallow of his beer.

The guilt drops away from you as quickly as your jaw; you’ve forgotten what a prick Jean can be. Eren has been slowly guiding you over to the singular remaining seat throughout the conversation, and after Jean’s comment, he tugs you down firmly onto his lap. He rubs a large palm over your thigh, a blatant gesture of ownership.

“Not your girlfriend anymore, Kirschstein.” You can hear the distinct note of pride ringing through his voice, hear the nasty look leveled at Jean without turning to face him. It’s been fifteen minutes of fake dating, car ride included, and you can already feel the friendship line blurring. Your head spins.

“Anyway,” Armin, ever the gracious host, interrupts, breaking the awkward tension that has settled over the room, “what bar does everyone want to head out to later? Connie gets the first pick, being the birthday boy.”

The conversation in the room picks back up into a familial bickering over the evening’s next destination. All of your friends have become accustomed to the occasional awkward moment over the years now that some of you have begun to couple up; Mikasa and Annie especially are notorious for bickering like an old married couple, no matter who’s around.

“I need a drink,” you murmur to Eren, moving to stand.

“Do you mind getting me one, babe? Don’t want to lose our seat.” Eren pecks you on the cheek, smiling up at you as if everything about your situation right now is normal, natural for him. Jean’s eyes follow you every step of the way, and your face burns.

Over the years you’ve been friends with him, it’s never been lost on you that Eren’s attractive, not after the dozens of women he ran through in his college years. Peeking over your shoulder now, however, feels like you’re seeing him for the first time, seeing him the way the world sees him. Heavy-set dark brows frame his bright eyes beautifully, his jaw’s grown sharp and severe, and his lips are soft and pouty, stretching into a wicked smirk with sharp canines. He had grown into a heartbreaker, and he’s your best friend and now fake boyfriend– you swat away your private admiration as soon as it comes, taking a deep breath to center yourself and rifling through the bar cart in a daze.

“Want me to make you one?” Sasha waves a bright red concoction under your nose. “Connie and I made them- it has three different types of liquor in it, and you can’t taste any of it!”

One sip of the tiny cocktail straw has your nose wrinkling in disgust. You’ve worked behind a bar since the day you turned twenty-one, and the drink Sasha’s offering you tastes like an overly-syruped nightmare. “Um…no, that’s okay Sash. I’ll probably just stick to beer.”

Connie sticks his tongue out at you. “Boring!”

Predictably, Sasha pouts. “Okay, but we’re definitely making you take a shot. We can chill it in the kitchen, want to help me get some ice?”

Holding up a bottle of tequila, she cocks her head toward the kitchen and wobbles her eyebrows madly. You almost laugh; anyone who can’t pick up on a hint from Sasha is walking around with earplugs and their eyes closed.

“Fine. Let me just grab Eren a beer, and I’ll meet you in there.”

“Ugh, couples,” Connie rolls his eyes, wandering over to fiddle with the dusty karaoke machine that Armin claims broke years ago. You’ve always been dubious as to the truth of that, but knowing your friends, you can’t blame him.

Opening the cooler, you smile to yourself; Armin remembered your favorite IPA from the brewery down the road and stocked the cooler accordingly, nestling a few Hazy Daze’s between Reiner and Bertholdt’s domestics. You pick your way through the haphazard seating arrangements back over to Eren, holding a cold Budweiser bottle towards him. He pauses in his conversation with Reiner, grabbing your hand that holds the beer and removing it from your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips, brushing them over in a light kiss. He looks you up and down lecherously as he does it, a dangerous curve to his lips.

You return a weak half-smile, doing your best to not appear outwardly shaken by Eren’s behavior and keep the what the fuck? thoughts from showing plainly on your face. Eren waves you off to the kitchen with a light pat on your bottom, innocent as ever.

“How’s it going?” Sasha asks, safe now in the privacy of the kitchen. Her face is already full-flush with excitement and that awful cocktail she was sipping.

“I mean, it seems like everyone’s buying it. Jean looks pissed, though.”

“What were you expecting? He’s always thought Eren had a thing for you.”

“Everyone thinks Eren has a thing for me,” you roll your eyes, “at least it’s working in my favor now.”

Sasha fixes you with a glare, wobbling slightly. “If you don’t think Eren actually has a thing for you, you must be blind. Deaf, too.”

“Sasha–”

“I mean, even if you hadn’t told me, I would have fallen for it. Is it not, like, weird for you guys? That it’s just natural for you two to–” Sasha burps, interrupting herself, and giggles. “Just makes ya think.”

“Sasha!” Connie calls from the living room. “Let’s do Eye of the Tiger first!”

“Woo!” Sasha shouts, abandoning you and running into the room to take part in the newly-revived karaoke festivities.

You stand alone in the kitchen, shell-shocked by Sasha’s observations. The truly irritating thing is that she’s entirely right. Not only do Eren’s little kisses here and there, the constant touching, even the pet names come naturally, it almost feels…nice. It’s as easy for you to receive his affection as it is for him to give it. You peek around the corner, grimacing at Sasha and Connie’s amplified wailing, just wanting to look at him. Really look at him.

Kicked back, beer in hand and jacket thrown over the back of his chair, Eren oozes charisma. Even doing nothing but holding a conversation with Mikasa, the room gravitates around him. Jean’s angry glare never leaves him; Armin has switched to drinking Budweiser, even though you know he hates it; Annie’s nodding along with whatever Eren’s saying; even Sasha and Connie are angling their performance around him, alternating between singing together and holding their microphones towards him, trying to elicit a reaction. He has this undeniable magnetic force, one that you aren’t exempt from.

You’d met him nearly a decade ago, in high school, and initially couldn’t stand him. His hair-trigger temper had hardly cooled with age, and his ego had gotten unthinkably larger, but you grew to find both of them charming– to a degree. One thing led to another, and before you knew it, Eren was the one cleaning you up and getting you drunk after every bad breakup, introducing you to all of your favorite sports teams and lending you jerseys for the games; hell, he even read that smutty fairy fantasy series you’d been obsessed with in college. Had the man you attempted Star Wars marathons with until you both fell asleep really looked like that the entire time?

He catches your stare, beckoning you over with one long, crooked finger. As his girlfriend for the night, you have to obey, even though you would much rather roll your eyes at the cliche.

“Missed you,” he mumbles as you sit back on his lap, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

“You too,” you respond accordingly, wrapping your arm lovingly around his shoulder. Eren’s eyes flit down to your cleavage, but knowing him, it’s impossible to discern if it’s part of the act, or Eren being himself.

His hands rest comfortably over the casing of your pants, one on your thigh and one on the small of your back, one thumb rubbing circles into your soft flesh. Reveling in the drag of his rings over your clothed body, you couldn’t help but wonder how they’d feel on your bare skin, on your throat, on your–

Surprising yourself at the dirty direction of your thoughts, you swallow your beer too quickly, coughing. Eren, who had coincidentally been taking a sip at the same time, laughs at you mid-sip, choking beside you and spraying beer out of his nose.

The entire room bursts into laughter; Eren regains his composure and joins in good-naturedly. You giggle along, relief coursing over your body. Sure, Eren might look a little extra handsome tonight and be a bit touchy because you asked him to, but he’s still Eren.

“They’re practically in sync already.” Hitch, Marco’s girlfriend who had apparently joined the party while Sasha and you were in the kitchen, rests her face on her hand dreamily.

“It’s a little freaky,” Annie observes with narrowed eyes, but the slight curve of her lip betrays her. Not only were they believing your little farce, but they were happy for you. That’s enough to make you flush a little, realizing how naturally everyone’s just accepted your fake relationship. Everyone but one person, at least.

Jean suddenly stands, ripping a beer from the cooler and storming into the kitchen. The laughter dies as quickly as it had come, everyone exchanging nervous looks.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Eren offers, nudging you off of his lap. You blanch.

“Eren, I don’t know if you should-”

“It’s fine,” Eren drops a soft peck on your forehead, walking away before you can stop him. You meet Mikasa’s eyes, wide and concerned. To everyone else, Eren’s walking calmly, not a hint of aggression in his gait. But you know him, know him well enough to catch the anger simmering in his eyes, quiet, but there.

Jean and Eren have always been friends, albeit reluctant ones at first, but too similar where it counted not to get along. That had abruptly come to a halt when you had fallen for Jean. At first Eren had been confused, but over time that confusion had melted into constant irritation. Jean and you were wrong for one another, you know that in hindsight, but at the time, you had chalked all the fighting up to a passionate relationship. The constant tears had driven Eren nearly to a breaking point; multiple times you had begged him not to bring his frustration to physical blows. And now, your fake-boyfriend slash best friend and ex-boyfriend with the two worst tempers out of everyone you know are “talking”. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep the worry in your chest.

“Are you alright?” The question comes from Armin, who’s placed a steadying hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry that Jean isn’t taking the news well.”

“There’s no news,” Mikasa says low enough for none of the others to hear over the music, now standing directly behind Armin.

A neat little cross appears between Armin’s eyebrows. “They’re-”

“Faking,” she interrupts Armin, “they aren’t dating.”

Armin stammers, trying to correct her and apologize to you for her at the same time, but you just sigh. “How’d you know?”

“One of you would have told me,” she shrugs, “or at least I’d like to think you would.”

“It’s just…I couldn’t bear to show up alone, not with Jean here and apparently sleeping around since the breakup.” You cross your arms over your chest, grabbing your own shoulders tightly. It’s your fault, you know it is, but you had only wanted to feel a little less pathetic, a little less heartbroken. Drama had been an unfortunate and unexpected side effect.

“Why would Eren agree to that? It seems silly,” Armin muses, noticing your glare and immediately turning bright red, “I- I don’t mean you’re silly, just, you shouldn’t-”

“You know.” Mikasa bumps him. The slightest hint of a smile plays on her face, a knowing look directed at you. You frown, trying to look confused through the pink rising to your face.

A loud crash from the kitchen catches all of your attention, saving you from an uncomfortable line of conversation but making your heart beat that much faster. Dashing to the kitchen door, the entire house party hot on your heels, your thundering heart sinks.

Eren has Jean pinned up against Armin’s cabinets, forearm tight against the other man’s neck. Jean’s still seething at Eren, raw ego washing against the cool anger blazing in Eren’s eyes.

“Need to learn how to watch your fucking mouth, Kirschstein–”

“Eren!” Your voice is surprisingly firm, given the nauseating mixture of embarrassment, confusion, and panic swirling in your stomach. “Let him go!”

“Do you want to tell her what you said, or should I?” Eren hisses, nudging into Jean further. Jean’s eyes dart to you, back to Eren, and for a fleeting moment, you have hope that maybe this all can be resolved peacefully. And then Jean makes a fatal mistake.

He spits directly in Eren’s face.

Just as Eren swings, Reiner collides with the two, just barely catching Eren by his forearm before he can make contact with Jean’s cheek. Bertholdt, as always, is Reiner’s shadow, grabbing Eren by the shoulders and wrenching him away from Jean. It takes Connie, Reiner, Marco, and Bertholdt to restrain both of them, Armin standing in the middle and shouting how ridiculous the fight is above the curses.

“It’s my fucking birthday, Jean, come on bro!” Connie growls, pinning Jean to the cabinets with his back.

“Jaeger- back off!” Reiner manages to pull him back a few inches, hardly able to contain Eren, who’s struggling furiously, in his massive arms. Jean finally relents, slouching into the multiple arms holding him back. After several seconds, Eren does the same, never taking his eyes off of Jean. Into the shocked silence, Armin bravely speaks first.

“Maybe we should leave,” he suggests awkwardly, “take the party elsewhere.”

You pity him, poor Armin and his hosting inclination. Eren finally turns to face you. The wrath laid bare in his eyes sends a chill over your body.

“We are,” he spits, sparing Jean one last threatening glance before storming over, grabbing you harshly by the wrist, and practically dragging you towards the door.

“Eren, wait–” you try to reason with him and dig your heels in, but it’s fruitless. Eren’s strong, stronger than you, and you don’t stand a chance stopping him now that his mind’s made up.

He doesn’t drop the act at the car, ripping your car door open, waiting impatiently for you to step into your seat, and slamming the door behind you. As soon as he turns the ignition, the same angry rock music you had listened to on the way over blasts from the speakers; Eren makes no move to turn it down and neither do you. After so many years together, his temper rarely scares you anymore; it’s more of a nuisance than anything when it flares. You stare out of the window, seething with anger, arms crossed and foot tapping.

Five minutes into the drive, you realize Eren isn’t taking you to your house, but to his. What he’s thinking, you can’t be sure, but you go ahead and start making your plans to give him an earful and call your Uber the moment you get there. You just can’t wrap your mind around why he would attack Jean and embarrass you like that– Eren may have been a hothead, but rarely did he let his temper escalate to that degree, especially against a friend.

Eren whips his car into the driveway, parking with such force you nearly knock your head against the headrest. You reach for your door handle, ready to throw it open, but Eren’s faster. He hits the child lock button and slams his own door behind him, storming around the car.

“The fucking child lock button?” You leap out of your seat once he’s opened your door, glaring up at him with your fists curled by your sides. “Is that what I am, Eren, a child?”

“Come inside.” Eren’s voice is low, dangerous. You’re too angry to indulge his temper.

“No,” you snap, “I’m going home.”

No sooner have you pulled your phone out to call an Uber than Eren snatches it from you, sliding it into his pocket. He repeats himself, more forceful this time. “Come inside.”

You stand rooted to the spot for a beat, so angry you aren’t sure what you want to do more: run home, punch him, or kick his precious car headlight in. Eren simply glares down his strong nose at you, face unreadable as ever, rage still glittering in his eyes.

“Come inside, please,” Eren repeats himself again through gritted teeth. You decide you’ll indulge him and go inside, hear him out, and then punch him. At least it’ll catch him off guard, and you’ll have a better chance of getting your shot in. Without another word, you stomp up the walkway to his house, into the house, and into the kitchen, shoving your shoes off. Stupid fucking kitchens, you think to yourself, kicking your bare foot against the base of his kitchen island. Immature, but the little burst of violence feels good.

Whether Eren’s house smells like him or Eren smells like his house you’ve never been able to decide. The distinct scent of him envelops you: a boyish, sharp smell, laced with a hint of the weed he kept in the living room. Ordinarily it’s a comforting smell, but tonight, it nearly makes you sick with irritation. Fighting with Eren is something you do rarely, but you know the both of you well enough to buckle down. Arguing with Eren means you have a long, nasty, and emotionally gutting night ahead of you. You’re more than ready, fists shaking by your side.

“What the hell was that, Eren?”

He doesn’t answer, swinging the fridge open and grabbing a beer. He twists the top, tossing it aside carelessly and taking a healthy swig, bun bouncing on the back of his head, making no move to acknowledge your presence.

“Answer me!” Your voice rattles the cabinets. “Yeah, was the fake dating a stupid idea? Sure, fine, it was stupid, but starting a fucking fight with Jean on poor Connie’s birthday–”

“You didn’t hear what he said,” Eren says simply, still chugging his beer and avoiding your gaze.

“What could he have said to make you do that? What was so awful that you had to–”

“It was about you.” Eren finally brings his eyes to yours, staring you down through the little hairs that have escaped his bun with such intensity that it nearly knocks you clean on your ass.

Your heart stutters. “You– what did he say?”

“Told me if I wanted to taste your ‘slutty pussy’ so bad, I could just smell his breath. S’why he spit in my face.” Eren’s fingers wrap and unwrap around the beer bottle anxiously.

Your mouth drops agape, tears immediately springing to your eyes. No, you set your resolve, praying your body cooperates. “He…he said that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been fucking him?” Eren spares you another scalding look. Your temper flares at his anger, one fire against another.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Eren snaps, “this whole thing was your idea. What am I to you, just some toy you can dangle in front of your pussyboy ex boyfriend? How long have you been fucking him?”

“I haven’t been fucking him,” you hiss, “he lied because he was jealous. And you’re not some toy, you’re– you’re my best friend. I needed you.”

Eren freezes, eyeing you across the kitchen. His expression has changed, infinitesimally so, a pinch of the fury fading from his face but none of the heat. It strikes you that in the years you’ve known him, he’s never looked at you like this before, not once. “Say it again.”

“You’re my–”

“The other thing.”

“I needed you.”

“Again.”

“I needed– fuck, Eren, what is this? Some kind of game?”

He stalks toward you, silhouetted by the light behind him and looking sinful, closing you in. He’s forceful and shameless as he backs you into the counter, as quintessentially Eren as he can be. “Say it one more time.”

“I…needed you,” you indulge him, brain slowing down to pick up each little detail. His cologne– when did he start wearing cologne?– musky and thick in the air, one of his tattoos peeking above the collar of his shirt, the tangible sensation of emerald eyes dragging along every inch of you.

“I like the way you say that,” his tongue darts out, wetting his lips. You stare blatantly. His mouth is red, pouty, and full, bottom lip a little chapped from where he was chewing it in the car. “That you need me.”

Words are lost on you; even if you could gather something to say, it would probably get stuck in your throat the moment it materialized. His presence is choking you. He brings one of those massive hands up, cupping your jaw, running a thumb over your lip. His posture, looming over you, is demanding, almost hungry.

“Do you still?”

“Still?”

“Need me.”

You blink, eyes still watery. “How?”

“You’re a smart girl,” Eren murmurs, hot breath laced with beer fanning over your face, “you know. You’ve always known.”

You do know. When he ghosted a hand over your thighs at the bar, when you fell asleep on his chest watching a movie, the way he had kissed your head, nearly fought Jean, protected you at every twist and turn. You had kept it relegated to the recesses of your brain, slid a hand between your legs and allowed it to simmer to the surface, maybe for a moment, before pushing it back down. You had always known. He has you on the edge of a cliff, and with a thin gasp, you understand him now: he wants you to jump. And so do you.

“I still need you. Now.”

Something critical snaps in both of you. The countertop digs into your lower back, a beautiful, aching pain blooming up your spine to meet the sting of his teeth sinking into your bottom lip. He’s kissing you; this magnetic, maddening man is kissing you, hard. It’s all tongue and teeth, fingers wrapping in hair, hands exploring familiar places in a new way. Greedy, demanding sounds slip through his teeth as he paws at your clothes, squeezes your curves through the silken shirt Sasha had lent you.

“This shirt is ridiculous,” Eren pants into your mouth, “wish I wasn’t about to rip it off of you.”

A little whimper leaves your mouth at that, and your knees buckle. Eren catches you, grabbing you by your torso and lifting you up onto the kitchen counter; you use the extra height to wrap your legs around his hips. A groan from deep in Eren’s chest rumbles against your lips as he rolls his clothed cock insistently against you. The low, simmering heat in your stomach catches fire; he’s big, even through both of your pants, rubbing himself into where you need him most. A hand creeps up your neck, grabbing a fistful of hair and forcing you to look up at him. It hits you how large he is; six feet and some change of taut, corded muscle, bad intentions, temptation.

His voice is quiet and controlled, so close to your face that his nose moves against yours as he speaks. “I’m going to take you to my room. If that’s not okay with you, I need you to say it right now.”

You nod urgently, relishing the burn in your scalp where he holds your hair tight. “I want it- want you.”

Eren slides you off of the kitchen counter and holds you firmly around his waist, making a beeline for his room. You mouth at his neck, enjoying the little grunts he makes against your ear. You drop unceremoniously onto the bed, left to watch as he tears off his shirt.

Oh, and do you watch. It’s difficult to comprehend that your best friend is the man standing above you. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, but not like this: chest heaving, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, muscles flexing as he reaches for your shirt, ripping it from you and tossing it away. Your eyes draw towards the defined v leading down beneath his jeans, and you wonder how it might taste under your tongue.

Your bra comes next, Eren moving down to take your lips in his again as he deals with the clasp. He pushes you onto your back, kissing down your neck, sneaking harsh bites in between the gentle presses of his lips.

“Careful, Eren– you’ll leave marks,” you gasp, pulling at his hair.

“Good,” Eren replies against your neck, emphasizing his point with another deep bite to your neck, “you wanted everyone to think I was your little boyfriend, didn’t you? Let them see.”

Your panties grow damp and hot against your core at that; you have no other response than to choke out a stunted moan.

“Fuck, you have no idea,” he growls, traveling down, teeth scraping the top of your breast, “what you do to me. How long I’ve wanted you.”

Your mind falters, caught in the crosswires of Eren’s confession and the way you’re clutching his head to your breasts, fingers desperately threaded in his dark hair and pulling him as close as you could get him. His mouth is so hot it burns, even against your feverish skin.

“Remember…” Eren muses, mouthing his way down your stomach, “remember college? When you’d wear those slutty little dresses out?”

“I remember,” you breathe, impatient and urging him towards your lower half.

“Used to come home from the bar and jerk myself off, thinking about this sweet little cunt,” Eren tears your pants down your legs, panties following, “could practically see it in those short ass dresses. I’d cum thinking about how you’d sound when I stuck my tongue in it.”

A lewd whine rips out of your throat before you can stop it. Eren’s pressing your thighs open now, and his words and the quick little swipes he’s making across your clit are making you dizzy.

“Fuck…” Eren trails off, eyes wide, “got such a pretty pussy. Just look at you.”

“Eren, please,” you’ve never been the begging type, but the bright green eyes peering up at you from where your legs are propped open by broad, strong shoulders take your sense away.

“I’ve got you,” he shushes you, grinning as he leans into your center. A thick stripe of a lick up the center elicits a groan from you both. “So fucking sweet. Knew you would be.”

Eren hooks his arms around your legs, dragging you down the bed to be flush with his face. Eren’s no amateur when it comes to women, you know that, but you had never dared to let yourself imagine what that might translate to in practice.

He licks little figure-eights around your clit, not quite hitting it; he’s teasing you, the antagonist that he is. You tremble under him, little gasps and whimpers puffing out of your lips. Eren smiles contentedly against your pussy, nose flush with your clit, nudging against it rhythmically as he licks through your folds, circling your entrance. You bring your hands down your body, grabbing a fistful of dark hair and pulling him closer to you; you don’t even know what you want, the singular word more ringing in your head like a church bell.

Eren chuckles. “You need something?”

“Stop fucking with me,” you breathe, inwardly cringing at the desperation in your voice, laid bare for him to see. You brace yourself, looking down to meet his eyes, and instantly regret it. The anger has faded entirely from his face, replaced by an unyielding hunger. A wet, wicked smile plays at his mouth; you can physically feel your cunt dripping just at the sight of him.

“You want me to stop fucking with you?”

“Please, Eren, I need you–”

“That’s all you had to say.”

And then, like he does with everything else in his life, Eren licks into you like his life depends on it, like he’s trying to drown himself in you. His tongue pushes in and out of your hole, swirling around your clit, and you can distantly hear the most obscene sounds you’ve ever heard slipping from your mouth. He’s so good, better than you’ve had in years; you throw your head back against the bedspread, hardly able to focus on breathing.

Just when you think it can’t get any more intense, Eren slides one long finger inside of you, curling it against a spongy spot in your walls that makes you see stars. He chuckles at the loud, long moan that you let out.

“My girl likes being full, doesn’t she?” He pumps his finger slowly, testing your limits. Your walls clutch down on him, begging.

“M-more,” you stutter, barely able to form a coherent word through your panting.

“What was that?” You can hear the shit-eating grin on his face.

“I need– fuck– I need more.”

“Magic word?”

“Please, Eren, fuck!”

“Good, good girl,” he coos, pushing another finger into you, “so sweet and needy for me, yeah?”

Your eyes fly open at the stretch, the fullness of his fingers moving inside you. His other hand comes up to push on your lower stomach; your head snaps up, and you frown at him, panicked.

“W-what are you– oh,” you hate yourself for it, but you can’t even speak as he applies pressure onto your abdomen. You feel strange; it’s just right and too much all at once. The familiar bubble of an impending orgasm swells in the pit of your stomach, but it’s more intense, wetter than you’ve ever felt it.

“Close?”

“Mhm,” you force out through gritted teeth. Eren moves his elbow slightly, just enough to bear down on your hip bone where you’re pushing your hips up towards him unwittingly. “But it- it feels weird…I, I can’t–”

“Sh,” he murmurs, mouth back against your clit, “you can do it, just for me, I know you can. It’s going to feel so good, you’ll see.”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you teeter on the precipice, blood roaring in your ears. You want to, you need to–

“Cum all over my fucking face baby, give it to me.”

The band in you snaps, your eyes rolling back into your head. You can feel your cunt spasming around his fingers, pushing something out. Liquid sprays from you, all over Eren’s face, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can’t even hear the lewd sounds coming out of your mouth, too surprised at the gushing orgasm. It finally winds down, and once you gather the energy, you shove insistently at his hand still pumping in and out of your sensitive pussy.

“You have the messiest little cunt,” Eren chuckles at you, wiping his face and kissing his way back up to your gasping mouth, “knew you were a squirter.”

He lands a few gentle taps against your sore pussy, and you flinch.

“I–I’ve never…” you take a shaky breath in between every word, “never done that before.”

Pride illuminates his face. “Really? I knew you could do it– just for me, right?”

You nod, sitting up on trembling elbows. “Your cock, I– I want it in my mouth. Please let me.”

You reach down to fumble with the button of his jeans, but Eren grabs your wrist, pulling your hand up to kiss it gently. “Next time. I’d never forgive myself if I busted before I got to fuck you.”

Too overwhelmed to answer, you simply nod again, sitting back as he shimmies his pants off. Once you catch sight of it, your mouth waters. He’s big, bigger than you thought, wide enough to where your fingers wouldn’t touch if you grabbed it, and long enough to make you gag. The thought goes straight between your legs, cunt still throbbing and clutching around nothing, and a rush of anticipation washes over you.

Eren flips you over onto your stomach, shoving a couple of pillows underneath your hips to prop your ass up. “Christ,” he exhales, landing a sharp smack to your ass.

“Please, Eren- oh!” You jump; Eren’s circling your asshole, using the mess you’ve already made as lube to pop the tip of his thumb in. “Eren…”

“You’d let me fuck you there, one day, I bet,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, you think. Your body tenses in response, the memory of your first glance at his cock fresh in your mind. Eren swears under his breath. “Maybe next time, then.”

You hear him spit, hear the slick sounds of him lathering himself up. You have a brief moment to think to yourself, with the last glimmering shreds of consciousness in your orgasm-dazed mind, that this is Eren. This is your best friend, pinning you to the bed by the back of your neck, rubbing your lower back, admiring you, fucking you. And then the head of his cock is pressing into you, and that last little bit of hesitation gives way.

“Oh, baby,” Eren bends over you to growl in your ear, “never gonna forgive you for keeping this perfect pussy from me all these years.”

“Eren, it’s so– oh my god,” you trail off, eyes rolling back into your head as a few more inches of him sink into you. The way your body stretches for him, the way he fills you, is unbelievable, sweetened by just the slightest burning sensation.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pressing his forehead into the back of your neck, “you feel so fucking good. Best I’ve ever had.”

You whine at that, pushing your hips back into his and forcing him to bottom out. Eren swears against your skin, nearly collapsing on top of you. Your cunt pulses around him, desperately trying to hold him. You can hardly fathom the weight of him inside you; you’re just so full, the word runs through your mind on a loop.

And when he rolls his hips into yours– you nearly start praying. He drags against your walls so nicely, you nearly cum again then and there. He works up a torturously slow rhythm, grinding his hips into yours. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, trying your hardest to suppress the obscene groan about to leave your mouth. You taste blood.

“Never giving this pussy up,” Eren grunts above you, “never letting you give this to anybody else again. It’s mine, isn’t it?”

You nod into the pillow beneath your head, tears pricking at your eyes. He’s picking up the pace now, and the exquisite push-and-pull rhythm of Eren moving inside of you coupled with the fact that it’s Eren moving inside of you is destroying any semblance of intelligent conversation you can muster.

“Say it’s mine,” his face is beside yours now. A hand grabs your hair, turning your face towards him. You know how dazed you must look, mouth open in a permanent gasp, eyes watery and full of hearts. “God, you look fucking incredible. Say it.”

“My…my pussy is,” you swallow hard around the delicious knot of shame in your throat, “yours. It’s yours.”

“That’s my girl,” Eren sits back up, thrusting even faster, “my pussy, my girl. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you pant, canting your hips back against his, feeling your next orgasm approach embarrassingly fast. Eren understands, already knows your body as well as he knows you, and moves the angle of his hips just so to hit that spot he had found so quickly with his fingers earlier. You keen, drooling into the pillow, letting him fuck you stupid.

Eren shoves you over the edge for the second time that night. It’s toe curling, almost violent in nature, the way you cum around him, listening to him hiss as you tighten around him, vice-like. He fucks you through your orgasm for just long enough to see you through it, and flips you onto your back the moment you begin to twitch and shove at his hips, desperate for a break.

You slowly blink your eyes open in surprise, letting the tears roll down your cheeks, expecting to see Eren lining himself up, ready to fuck you senseless once more. Instead, he’s studying you, wiping a tear from your face, licking it off of his finger. There’s a moment happening here, an important one, one you don’t have the mental capacity to absorb right now.

“I want to see you now,” Eren says quietly, “need to see your pretty face when I cum, m’kay?”

You nod dumbly, not knowing how to respond to him in the thick air hanging between you. Before Eren can get any more words out of his open mouth, a loud ring startles you both.

Your phone is buzzing on the floor where it fell from Eren’s pocket; the name on the screen nearly stops your heart. Jean.

You stare into Eren’s eyes, a long, silent beat passes between you both. Your hazy mind is scrambling, grasping at anything you can say to take his mind off of the awkward interruption, but to your surprise, Eren cracks a grin. It’s a wicked grin, prettier than the devil himself and twice as evil.

“Your other boyfriend calling? Checking up on you?”

“He’s not my-”

“Better not be. Not after what I did to you tonight,” Eren’s voice drips with ego. Something in his eyes is territorial, carnal.

You find your words, but they come out quiet. “He’s not. Never again.”

Eren’s grin grows darker. He’s nudging your knees apart with his own, reaching down and pulling one of your legs to wrap around his waist. He’s pushing himself in now, the ringing of your phone fading into the background as the all-encompassing stretch of Eren inside you takes over your thoughts.

“Such a good girl,” he coos, thumbing at your bottom lip, “such a good mouth. Always telling me what I want to hear.”

You nod again, urgently this time, pulling your other leg up to hook them around his waist, hold him inside you, make sure he never leaves again. You’re addicted already; addicted to the pressure in your abdomen, addicted to the way his tip kisses your cervix, addicted to the taste of his sweat as you lick a strip of it from his face, cheekbone to temple.

“I…” you aren’t sure how to articulate how good it is, how good he is. A defeated laugh of your own making interrupts you. “You feel so fucking good. I feel so fucking good right now.”

“God, just look at you, all fucked out for me. You love it, don’t you?” Eren kisses your forehead, face to face with you after propping his elbows on either side of your face. “Love how I fuck you like a whore, don’t you? Tell me, baby.”

“I love it,” your voice is quivering, and you’re vaguely aware of tears streaming down your face. You’re overstimulated, you at least know that, but he just feels so good that asking him to stop seems more painful than letting him keep hammering into you.

“My pretty baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” Eren rambles, “so pretty when you cry for me.”

You can’t break away from his gaze, not through the tears or the rapid-fire speed of him fucking into you. Your legs are shaking so badly you can barely hold them up; Eren’s letting a flurry of little grunts and groans fly out, grabbing onto your cheek with one hand.

“Gonna cum soon,” he huffs, hips still pistoning into you hard enough to hurt, “gonna cum in your pussy, really make it mine, okay?”

“Okay,” you whimper, clamping down on him at the mere thought of it.

“Fuck, you like that don’t you?” He seethes against your forehead, thrusts beginning to falter. “You want to be mine? Want this pretty cunt stuffed full of my cum?”

You can feel him getting closer now, sloppy thrusts punching into your cervix, the ache of bruises forming on your inner thighs as he uses you, chasing his orgasm. You force your eyes open, meeting bright, hypnotizing green. Your voice is going to break, you know it, you hate it, you love him for it. “I– I want to be yours. P-please cum in me Eren, I need it.”

He slams into you one last time, holding his hips as tightly to yours as he can manage, cumming deep inside you with a breathless curse. You arch your back, relishing the feel of his cum in you, warm and filling. Even in your fucked-out mind, you know it’s a lot; you can feel the drip of it, seeping out around his cock and down onto the sheets. The leaden collapse of his body into yours, the gradual softening of him inside you, grounds you, pulling you down from the clouds and back into the bed.

It’s Eren on top of you, sweaty skin clinging to yours, his cum that you begged him for leaking out of your abused pussy. Your eyes shoot open. He’s incredibly heavy, your breath still coming out in short puffs as you try to catch it. He slides out of you; one last pitiful whimper leaving your lips as you find yourself empty.

“Holy shit,” Eren breathes out into the tension, a humorless and exhausted laugh punctuating his statement. As he rolls off of you, you’re overcome with the urge to smack him.

“That’s one way of putting it.” You scrounge around in the bed, trying to find the edge of the sheets to cover yourself with. Eren lays beside you, arm tossed over his eyes, as if the entire axis of your friendship hadn’t just flipped on its head. After a beat, you speak your mind, testing the waters. “I should probably call Jean back.”

That catches his attention. Eren sits up, scowling at you. “Why?”

“Maybe he wants to apologize.”

Eren snorts, rolling off of the bed and pulling you up with him, bridal-style; you aren’t sure where he’s taking you, but all the fight’s been fucked out of you, and you melt into his arms, eyes falling closed. “Who fucking cares?”

“I might,” you answer quietly, adjusting to the heat radiating off of his body. When your eyes open, you realize he’s carrying you to the bathroom to clean you up. Your heart thuds sadly in your chest, overcome with so many emotions you couldn’t begin to name them if you tried. You almost want to cry again, for a different reason now.

Eren sits you on the toilet, not responding to your small confession. He drops to his knees before you, reaches a long arm behind him over to the fixtures on his obscenely large bathtub, pushing the plug in and turning the water on. You draw your knees up to your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. Satisfied with the water temperature, Eren turns back to you, one hand placed firmly on each of your kneecaps.

“You don’t need him,” he says, solemn as you’ve ever seen him, “and from what I saw tonight, you don’t even want him. You know that now, right?”

There’s something about the way he says it, a hidden thread of pleading woven into his words. Your exhausted brain holds onto that, but your heart refuses to believe in it, broken and beating wildly in your chest.

“I just–”

“I meant it, you know,” Eren avoids your direct gaze, eyes flitting over every feature on your face, “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Meant every word of it.”

You pause, wondering absentmindedly if he can hear the pounding of your pulse. “Really?”

“We don’t need to get into it now,” he shrugs, “but you know that. You know I’d do anything for you. You know I’d treat you well. ‘M not a bad guy.”

Your chest aches. “I know, but Eren–”

“So that wasn’t the best sex you’ve ever had in your life?” He fixes you with a singular, raised eyebrow, so serious that you giggle in his face.

“You might have me there.”

“Better than horseface?”

“Watch it.”

The light returns to his eyes; it loosens a hard little piece in your chest, flooding you with warmth. It hits you just how much you love that little sparkle amongst the green, just how much you would give to see it as often as you can. “We won’t talk about it, for now at least. I’ll get us cleaned up, and we can go watch–”

“Mamma Mia,” you blurt, hopeful.

“No fucking shot. But we can watch something else of your choosing, if you let me eat you out again.”

“Eren!” You smack his shoulder, scandalized. Both of you laugh; your fake outrage is twice as funny considering the state of you right now, smeared makeup and bruises on your neck.

He grins crookedly back at you. “That’s not a no.”

#aot x reader #eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren jaeger smut #eren x you #eren yaeger x you #eren yeager smut #aot fanfiction #eren jaeger fic #eren jaeger fanfiction

17K notes · View notes

theostrophywife · 3 months

Text

HEART ON MY SLEEVE

home | writing | inbox

🤍 pairing: mattheo riddle x reader.

🤍 song inspiration: friends by chase atlantic.

🤍 author's note: the duality of man. this fic serves both cute, fluffy matty and jealous, possessive mattheo.

For his upcoming birthday, Mattheo Riddle had one simple wish: for his best friends to get along.

It shouldn’t have been such an ordeal except for the fact that you and Theo absolutely hated each other. If it weren’t for Mattheo, the two of you would have no reason to cross paths. Theo was an arrogant, pompous, quidditch playing prick with a terrible nicotine addiction while the closest you’d come to physical exertion is carrying your weekly stack of books from the library to your dorm.

Needless to say, you were not a fan of Theodore Nott. You thought he was a bad influence on Matty, while Theo labeled you as the buzzkill, often talking your best friend out of doing things that would either land him in detention or the infirmary. You got the feeling that Theo hated the fact that he had to share Mattheo’s attention with you. Never mind the fact that you were friends with him first.

The origin of your friendship started long before your days at Hogwarts. The first time you met Mattheo, his father invited you and your parents over at Riddle Manor to celebrate a successful business deal between your families. Even at a young age, you remembered recognizing the coldness and distance in the Riddle household. The elder riddle, Tom Sr., was a stern and unforgiving man who kept his family under his thumb. Tom Jr. played the perfect heir; cool, calm, and collected as he stood by his father’s side. Mrs. Riddle had a severe and somber air about her that sent shivers down your spine as she flashed an empty smile at you.

Mattheo was different from the rest. There was a warmth to him that radiated outwards, pulling you in with his cheeky dimpled smile and soft bouncing curls. He marched right up to you, bowing at the waist like he was taught to, except he nearly tripped over his feet and gave you a crooked little grin before correcting himself.

“Hi, Y/N. I’m Mattheo, but you can call me Matt.” There was a mischievous glint in his brown eyes that you didn’t recognize as trouble until much later. “Do you want to play with me?”

As it turns out, his definition of playing meant chasing each other through the hedge maze out on the manor grounds and absolutely dirtying up your pretty pink dress as you rolled around in the grass. You laid side by side on your backs, giggling as you tucked a flower into Mattheo’s curls.

“You’re going to get me in trouble, you know,” you stated matter-of-factly as you rolled over on your elbows. “My dress is all dirty.”

“Don’t worry, we can ask Tom to help us. He knows lots of spells and hexes.” He leaned in conspiratorially, holding his pinky finger out. “But you have to keep it a secret, okay? Can I trust you, Y/N?”

You hooked your finger through his, not knowing that such a simple secret would forever solidify your friendship. “You can trust me, Matty.”

In the years that followed, the two of you were as thick as thieves. Most days were spent at either the Riddle manor or your estate, which Mattheo tended to prefer since it provided him reprieve from his father. As of late, his parents had made it perfectly clear that he was expected to follow in his brother's footsteps. Despite it being Tom's first year at Hogwarts, he was already proving to be a gifted and talented wizard. When his father wasn't outright ignoring him, Mattheo was forced to practice hexes and spells that were beyond the knowledge of an eleven year old. Without his older brother to protect him, Mattheo felt the walls closing in in his grand yet inhospitable home.

You were the only silver lining in his otherwise dreary days. Mattheo thanked Merlin that his father allowed visits to your estate. Unlike Riddle Manor, your family home was warm, lovely, and full of life. During the summers, the two of you would venture out to the edge of your property and set up camp at the creek. The sunny days were spent swimming, climbing, and picking flowers from sunrise to sunset. On one particular day, you sat cross-legged on the picnic blanket, absentmindedly picking at the sandwich in your lap.

Beside you, Mattheo nudged you with his knee. “What’s wrong, Y/N?”

You blinked, trying to savor the sunshine for as long as you could. “I don’t want summer to end.”

“We’ll only be apart for a year,” Mattheo said softly, correctly guessing the cause of your apprehension. You weren’t surprised. He always seemed to know what was on your mind. “You’ll be joining me at Hogwarts before you know it. By then, I’ll be an expert so I can show you the ropes.”

“A lot can happen in a year,” you stated. “What if you make other friends and forget about me?”

“I might make other friends, but I’d never forget about you. You were my first friend ever. That makes you the most important.”

You looked up and found yourself face to face with Mattheo’s earnest expression. The corners of his lips tugged upwards as he nudged you again. “Besides, you know I’m going to write to you every week. Now that I’m in the same castle as Malfoy, I can finally crack the great mystery of whether or not he bleaches his hair.”

“There’s no way that’s natural, right? Maybe Lucius has a special shampoo or something.”

Mattheo grinned and draped an arm over your shoulder. “I don’t know, but I promise to find out for you.”

“You’ll really write to me every week?”

“Of course I will,” Mattheo declared, holding his pinky finger out. “You trust me, right?”

You smiled and hooked your pinkies together. “I trust you, Matty.”

When the next year finally rolled around, you were so excited that you convinced your parents to take you to King’s Cross at least an hour before your departure. You hadn’t seen Mattheo since the previous summer because his family had been away on holiday in Spain, but he stayed true to his word and wrote to you every chance he got. You loved reading about the friends he’d made, the antics he got up to, and most importantly, the fascinating classes that awaited you at Hogwarts.

As you passed through Platform 9 ¾, you were nearly knocked off your feet as Mattheo ran full force into you. He had grown much taller since you last saw him, so much so that he now towered over you as he pulled you into a bear hug.

“Hi, Matty,” you giggled against his chest.

“Hi, Y/N.”

Mattheo pulled away, grinning as he tugged at your hand. “Come on, I want you to meet my friends.”

You looked back at your parents who merely smiled at Mattheo’s excitement. To his chagrin, your best friend remembered to properly greet them and asked if you could board the train early. After much fussing, they eventually said their goodbyes and allowed you to go with Mattheo.

The first friend that you met was Enzo. He was sweet, if not a little cheeky as he hinted that Mattheo couldn’t stop talking about you all year. Draco and Blaise needed no introduction given that your families were all fairly acquainted ever since you could remember. To your delight, Pansy was amongst the group as well. The two of you used to take ballet together, so it was a relief to have another girl to bond with. The older boys, Tom and Regulus, briefly greeted you before returning to their own cabin.

Last, but not least, was Theodore.

Whereas the others welcomed you with open arms, Nott was not as warm in his reception of you. The two of you clashed right off the bat. You weren’t quite sure what the root of your disagreement was. Perhaps it was his snarky comment insinuating that girls couldn’t be proper quidditch fans in reference to your Chudley Cannons scarf, perhaps it was your biting retort that he could stick his misogyny up his arse. Either way, the interaction set the tone for your strained relationship.

Being sorted into Gryffindor only contributed to the animosity between you as well. Given the longstanding rivalry of Slytherins and Gryffindors, Theo was determined to view you as his enemy. The harder you fought, the harder Mattheo tried to repair the rift. You were the two most important people in his life and he couldn’t stand to see you two tear each other apart.

For the most part, you tried to grin and bear it. While you couldn’t for the life of you understand how or why he was even friends with someone as unbearable as Theodore Nott, you tried to be civil for Mattheo’s sake. Tried being the key word. With Theo’s snark and your temper, the two of you became known for your infamous fights. Still, it didn’t stop your best friend from trying.

Over the years, Mattheo concocted countless plots and schemes to get the two of you to bond. If his favorite band was playing in town, he would magically have two extra tickets to bring both you and Theo along. If there was a book release you were dying to attend, Mattheo would invite Theo along to check out the record store next door. If the castle was dead during the weekend, Mattheo would suggest a trio trip to Hogsmeade.

As much as you cared for Mattheo, your patience only stretched so thin. Without fail, every outing that the three of you went on almost always ended in an argument between you and Theo.

“I don’t know how you’re friends with both of us, Mattheo,” Theo joked as he gulped down his burger. “I’m fun and Y/N is —”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll stick my fork right through your hand, Nott,” you threatened with a sickly sweet smile.

The hostility wasn’t anything new, but you supposed that after dealing with it for years and years on end, Mattheo had finally reached his breaking point.

Your best friend pushed his plate away and sighed. “Let’s just go.”

You nodded in agreement, gathering your things and following Mattheo’s lead. Theo trailed after, obnoxiously squeezing his way through the door of the Three Broomsticks and letting it close behind him. You yanked it open, nearly pulling the bloody thing off its hinges.

“How very mature of you. Though I’m not surprised that you don’t know how to hold a door open for a lady.”

Theo looked back, craning his neck behind you. “As far as I’m concerned, there aren’t any ladies around. Just an infuriating little Gryffindor who can’t handle not having the last word.”

“I’m infuriating?” You huffed, crossing your arms. “Clearly you’ve never suffered through the pleasure of your own company. Spoiler alert, the snarky arsehole bit stopped being funny in third year.”

“Well, the uptight and bossy bitch bit wasn’t ever funny to begin with.”

“Enough already,” Mattheo yelled. You reeled back in surprise. Usually, your best friend just let you and Theo fight it out until you both got tired of it, but he wasn’t having it tonight. “You two are the most important people in my life, but you’re acting like bloody toddlers. I’m tired of feeling like I have to choose a side, so either you two find a way to get along or risk losing me as a friend.”

For the first time since you met him, you and Theo were both stunned into silence. Mattheo took one last look at his closest friends and marched off into the castle without a word.

The next day, you woke up feeling weary. You hardly slept last night given Mattheo’s ultimatum. Your best friend wasn’t the type to make declarations like that lightly, so you knew he meant it. Especially since he went straight to his dorm without coming over to watch a movie or talk late into the night like the two of you often did.

The suspicion was all but confirmed when you sat through a particularly awkward and tense breakfast. Mattheo briefly acknowledged you with a nod, not bothering to speak as he cranked up the music on his headphones. As the Smiths crooned, you looked up at Theo who shook his head at your inquisitive glance. You knew that Mattheo had most likely given him the silent treatment last night as well.

Despite the fact that you and Mattheo had very similar schedules, he managed to avoid you throughout the entire day. By the time the last class rolled around, you knew that he was serious about you and Theo making up. It was a hard pill to swallow. Truly, you’d rather ingest a pill the size of a hippogriff than make amends with Nott, but it wasn’t like you had a choice. You didn’t want to lose Mattheo.

Deciding to be the bigger person, you went to the one place that you knew Theo frequented. You found him sitting alone in the Astronomy Tower, long legs dangling below him as he smoked a cigarette. Biting back a comment about the death trap pursed between his lips, you cleared your throat.

“Mind if I sit?”

Theo tensed as he looked up at you. He wore the sneer that he solely reserved for you, but his eyes were dull and dim. The argument with Mattheo obviously left him feeling lost as well.

“Do I have a choice?” You glared in response, but took a deep breath to calm yourself. Theo winced. “Sorry. Force of habit. Sit, I guess.”

Gingerly, you settled in the spot next to him. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“He wouldn’t talk to me last night,” Theo confirmed as he ashed his cigarette. “Just put on his headphones and went to sleep facing the wall.”

“He’s been avoiding me all day.”

Theo sighed. “What are we going to do?”

“Look,” you started, trying to muster up the strength to propose your next statement. “Obviously, we hate each other, but Mattheo’s important to me and I know he’s important to you, too. So for his sake, can’t we just put all this animosity behind us and try to get along?”

“What exactly does getting along mean?”

You shrugged. To be honest, you had no idea how to approach the situation, but you figured you had to start somewhere. “I don’t know. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat. Make polite small talk. Try not to strangle each other in the process.”

“I guess I can do that,” Theo conceded. “Why don’t we go to the new pub in the village? I heard they have fried pickles.”

You perked up. “You like pickles? I thought I was the only one.”

“I don’t just like pickles. I love them,” Theo stated.

“Me too,” you grinned. “Mattheo always gives me his cause he says —”

“They taste like feet,” he finished with a chuckle.

You nodded, laughing along. “Well, what are we waiting for, then?”

Theo watched as you stood, smoothing the front of your skirt. You offered a hand out to him, both literally and figuratively. To your surprise, Theo took the peace offering and let you pull him to his feet.

An hour later, the two of you were squeezed into a tiny booth by the makeshift stage. The pub was lively tonight and nearly packed to the brim, thanks to the happy hour deal on their drinks and appetizers in honor of their grand opening.

The pickles didn’t disappoint. You ate a good amount, but Theo scarfed the whole thing down like he hadn’t eaten in months. As he finished a sandwich and gulped the meal down with his second butterbeer, you gaped in surprise.

“Honestly, where do you put it all?”

Theo patted his stomach, which was unfairly flat and probably housed perfectly sculpted abs despite his eating habits. “I’m a growing boy. I need to eat a lot to offset the energy I expend. Especially when I’m sparring with you.”

“Oddly enough, I’m flattered by that.”

“You should be,” Theo quipped. “I’ve never had to put so much thought into insulting someone until I met you.”

“I bet you were pissed when I took your crown as the sassiest and bitchiest person in our friend group.”

“I’ve never experienced such heartbreak,” Theo said sarcastically as he placed a hand over his heart. “I mean, to be dethroned by someone who can’t even reach the top shelf in the cupboard was truly the most humbling moment of my life.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have assumed that I knew nothing about quidditch just because I’m a girl.”

“I was a dick for that,” Theo admitted. “But I was also twelve. I didn’t even know what misogyny meant. I thought you were describing a disease.”

You snorted. “Well, the past is in the past. Even though I clearly won that argument, we should put it behind us.”

Theo rolled his eyes, but clinked his butterbeer against yours. “Cheers to that, Y/N.”

Surprisingly, you found that you and Theo had a lot more in common than you initially thought. When he wasn’t being a prick, he was actually quite nice to talk to. In a single conversation, you learned more about Theo than you had in years. The two of you possessed a knack for potions, preferred foreign literature, and shared a love for horror movies.

As the live band went on, Theo mumbled an obscure reference to an eighties muggle band that your mum used to blast when you were younger.

“I can’t believe they’re covering this song,” you shouted over the music. “I haven’t heard it in years.”

Theo’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know this song?”

“Of course I do,” you retorted. “Mattheo says I have the music taste of a divorced country club trophy wife.”

“You and me both.”

By the end of the night, you found plenty of common ground with the boy you once thought of as your enemy. It was quite alarming to realize that you hadn’t argued once all night and even more so when you found yourself actually enjoying Theo’s company. Maybe Mattheo was right after all. When you stopped viewing Theo as competition, he was actually not that bad. You now understood what Mattheo meant when he said that you and Theo were more alike than you cared to admit.

On the walk back to the castle, Theo pulled out a spliff but glanced at you before lighting it. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Knock yourself out.”

The moon was silver and bright against the cloudless sky as the two of you sauntered through the beaten path. You listened to Theo recount Tom’s disastrous attempts at asking Chloe out, all the while giggling to yourself because he was a bigger gossip than you and Pansy put together.

“Don’t let Tom hear you talking about his love life,” you teased. “He’d probably feed you to his basilisk.”

Theo grimaced. “Half of Hogwarts would weep at the loss of such a handsome face.”

“However will we survive without your wit and charm, Nott?”

He chuckled as he blew a ring of smoke up into the sky. You watched it float before holding your hand out. “Care to share?”

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Who do you think taught Mattheo how to roll his first blunt?”

Theo stared in disbelief as you took the spliff, inhaling deeply. You held the smoke in your lungs effortlessly before blowing rings of smoke in quick succession.

“Damn,” the brown haired boy exclaimed. “Who the hell are you, Y/N?”

You smirked as you tapped the joint. “Someone much cooler than you, Theo.”

After that night, you and Theo got on more and more. The banter and bickering was still there, but it was more playful now. Mattheo was glad to see his two best friends getting along so well. Since first year, it was all he had ever wanted.

The days of forcing you two to hang out together was long gone. Now, you were practically as attached to the hip with Theo as you were with Mattheo.

When Mattheo went up to the Astronomy Tower for a smoke break, he would find you sitting cross-legged across from Theo as he filled you in on the catfight between Lavender and Cho. When Mattheo visited you at the library during his free period, Theo was already there working on his History of Magic homework beside you. When Mattheo arrived at the Great Hall for assembly, he slid into the seat next to Theo as his friend craned his neck to peer at the crowd.

“Looking for someone, mate?”

“Yeah, Y/N said she was running late,” Theo answered distractedly. “I saved a seat for her.”

At first, Mattheo loved the fact that you put your differences behind you and became such great friends like he always knew you would, but as time went along, your best friend noticed that you and Theo were becoming a little too close.

On one occasion, Mattheo briefly excused himself from the common room party for a smoke only to come back to find you and Theo annihilating Draco and Blaise at butterbeer pong. He walked in right as you made the winning shot, witnessing Theo picking you up and twirling you around as Malfoy stomped off, grumbling something about an unfair play. A cheat of sorts.

Mattheo couldn’t help but agree. Seeing you in Theo’s arms felt like cheating. The whole thing made him feel strange. It didn’t help that every time the three of you hung out, Mattheo noticed that you and Theo now had little inside jokes and references that he didn’t understand. Being jealous of his best mate was ridiculous, but yet he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that only grew stronger with each passing day.

As you grew closer, Mattheo felt stranger. One morning, he nearly smashed his muffin to pieces when he saw you wearing Theo’s hoodie.

“Why are you wearing that?” he asked through clenched teeth.

You looked down in surprise as though you’d forgotten that you were wearing another man’s clothes. “Oh, I was cold so Theo let me borrow his hoodie.”

Mattheo frowned before pulling his sweater over his head. “Here, wear mine instead. It’s warmer.”

The gesture was confusing, but you merely shrugged and exchanged Theo’s hoodie for Mattheo’s sweater. “Thanks, Matty.”

Later that week, Mattheo found you in the stands in your usual spot before the game. He smiled when he saw his number painted on your right cheek. The brief moment of happiness was shattered when you turned and revealed that you had also painted Theo’s number on your left cheek. Mattheo nearly fell off of his broom. He was used to seeing his and only his number on you. First the hoodie, now this?

The green monster reared its ugly head during the game itself, motivating him to play as brutally as possible. The Hufflepuffs weren’t safe from his rage and neither were his teammates. As he soared around the goalpost, he hurled the quaffle as hard as he could, fully knowing that Theo was within the ball’s radius. Thankfully for him, Theo ducked at the last second before shooting a baffled glance at his friend. Mattheo simply ignored it and kept playing.

Despite their sweeping win, the bad mood failed to lift. Mattheo frowned as he slipped into the booth next to you, glaring at Theo’s head as the two of them sandwiched you on both sides. Across the table, the rest of the team sipped their celebratory milkshakes.

The waitress set down a vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate milkshake in front of the three of you. Mattheo watched as you and Theo tasted your drinks before promptly taking out the straw and switching flavors.

“Told you that you’d like strawberry more,” Theo said with a fond eye roll.

“But vanilla sounded good.”

“Everything sounds good at the moment, but you always go back to your favorite.”

Mattheo clenched his jaw as you stuck your tongue out at Theo before turning towards him. “Aren’t you going to drink your milkshake, Matty?”

“I don’t really have much of an appetite.”

“Maybe it’s just the chocolate. Do you wanna try mine?”

He shook his head, crossing his arms. “No, that’s Theo’s milkshake.”

“Oh, well if you want the vanilla one instead, I can switch back.”

Mattheo wrinkled his nose. “No thanks, Theo’s mouth has already been on it.”

“Consider it a privilege,” Theo butted in. “Most girls and boys at this school would kill to swap spit with me.”

“I’ll pass.”

You cocked your head at your best friend, looking concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay, Matty?”

He nodded rather unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”

As weeks passed, Mattheo only grew more jealous.

Granted, he was fully aware that he had no right to feel this way given the fact that he had practically pushed you and Theo together, but he just couldn’t help himself. The closer you grew, the more he regretted giving the two of you an ultimatum in the first place.

Before you became friends with Theo, Mattheo never had to share you with anyone. He realized now how much he had taken it for granted. Your best friend missed the times that the two of you spent alone. He missed having you all to himself. Mattheo was determined to get it back one way or another.

When Saturday night rolled around, Mattheo made his way up to Gryffindor Tower, glaring at anyone who balked at the sight of him on this side of the castle. After shoving McLaggen out of the way, Mattheo made his way up to the highest turret and let himself into your dorm.

You were perched in front of the vanity table, swiping your signature cherry lip gloss on in the mirror. Mattheo made himself at home, sprawling out on your bed. He knew you had plans tonight, but he was hoping to convince you to hang out with him instead. Mattheo eyed your dress, his gaze sweeping along the red fabric like a lover’s embrace. You flushed at the intensity of his stare as his brown eyes flickered back up to your face.

“Why can’t you hang out tonight?” Mattheo asked with a pout. “Are you going on a date? Is that why you’re leaving your best friend alone to perish?”

You shook your head in amusement before leaning over and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be so dramatic, Matty. I’m not going on a date. Theo and I are just checking out this new band.”

Mattheo stiffened as you sprayed perfume on your wrists. “Why didn’t you invite me?”

“Theo did. He said you weren’t interested in listening to country club wife music.”

While that may be true, Mattheo would’ve gone if he knew you were coming too. “He didn’t tell me he was going with you.”

“Probably because he knew you’d feel obligated to go,” you responded. “But it’s alright, we won’t make you suffer through it. Theo will keep the creeps away.”

Mattheo did not like the sound of that. It was his job to watch over you, not Theo’s. Besides, he never thought of it as an obligation. Even if he wasn’t a fan of the music, he loved watching you jump around and have the time of your life. Spending time with you was the only reason why he insisted on coming to every concert. Keeping the creeps away was just an added bonus.

Now, Theo was taking away both. The realization put him in a foul mood, but he couldn’t let it show. He wanted you to have a good time, even if it wasn’t with him.

“Okay, but can we at least watch a movie and cuddle when you get back?”

“We’re going to be out pretty late. I don’t want you to lose sleep because of me. I know you have a Charms exam tomorrow morning, but I promise we can have a movie night tomorrow.”

Mattheo only nodded as you patted his curls and kissed his cheek again. He watched as you left your dorm, frowning into the mirror as he touched the two cherry gloss marks on his face.

The kiss prints were already fading, serving as some sort of sick metaphor.

To your credit, you did make good on your promise on movie night. It had been a while since the two of you hung out alone, which is definitely the only reason why Mattheo felt needier and clingier than usual. While his touchiness wasn’t anything new, he seemed determined to make it obvious to those around you. Especially with Theo.

During breakfast, Mattheo silently laid his head on your shoulder and placed your hand atop his curls. Across the table, Theo continued gnawing away at his croissant while you told him about the new horror movie that had apparently been banned in twenty countries.

“I wanna watch it,” Mattheo mumbled as you scratched his head.

“But you hate horror,” Theo responded.

“So? I still want to see it.”

“I’ll ask my mum if she can send me a copy this weekend,” you said as you playfully tugged at his curls. “We can watch it in your dorm, okay?”

He leaned in, nuzzling against your neck. “Just the two of us?”

“Of course, Matty.”

Mattheo brightened at that, happy with your response. Perhaps it was petty of him, but he didn’t care. He wanted to send a message. You and Theo could be friends, but he’d always be the most important person in your life. Mattheo was your person, just like you were his.

The others were beginning to pick up on things, despite his constant denial. It was sort of a moot point anyways, given the fact that he was single handedly proving them right with his actions. Nowadays, your friends would find Mattheo lounging on your lap, wedging himself in the small space on the common room couch just so that he was next to you instead of Theo.

Every time you went out to Hogsmeade, he’d make a point of holding your hand and carrying your bags. Mattheo would stop mid-conversation and rub your cold hands in his, blowing on your fingers because he knows how cold you get even in the heated pub.

“Your hands are cold. Let me heat them up, princess.”

As you blushed, Enzo would shoot Mattheo a knowing look, which he deflected by focusing all his attention on you. Even Tom made a passing comment at all the sickening nicknames Mattheo had taken to calling you lately.

“Hi, sweetheart. Is this seat taken?”

“Morning, love. Do you want to go for a walk with me?”

“Here, give me your bag. I’ll carry it for you, darling.”

Though his older brother might disagree with his methods, Mattheo was quite convinced that it was working. Until it wasn’t.

During the last week of December, you and Theo began acting strangely. Every time he walked into a room, the two of you would fall uncharacteristically silent. When he tried to bring it up, you evaded his questions and changed the subject instead. The secrecy didn’t sit well with him.

After the last class of the day, Mattheo usually walked with you to the library, but every time he tried to find you that week, you had all but disappeared.

“Berkshire, have you seen Y/N?”

“Oh yeah, she left with Theo a few minutes ago. Seemed urgent.”

“Did they say where they were going?”

Enzo shrugged nonchalantly. “No clue, mate.”

Frustrated, Mattheo walked away before succumbing to the urge to throttle his friend. It wasn’t Enzo’s fault that you and Theo were acting so weird. Throughout the week, Theo would be out of their dorm for hours and hours. Sometimes he wouldn’t even come back until the wee hours of the night.

When Mattheo checked your dorm, you were also nowhere to be found. He was trying his best not to spiral, but the nagging suspicion that the two of you were hiding something from him was too big to ignore. It was all but confirmed when he caught you sneaking out of the dungeons one night.

You poked your head out from behind a marble column, watching students pass. Clearly, you didn’t want anyone to know that you were down here. Unfortunately for you, Mattheo had already seen you.

“What are you doing here, Y/N?”

His voice startled you, making you jump a step back as you glanced up at him with a nervous expression. “Oh! Hi, Matty. I was just — I was just, um, walking back to my dorm.”

“I can see that, but what were you doing in the dungeons?’

“Just…hanging out…”

Mattheo could feel his blood boiling. “With Theo?”

You gulped, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, he had my book.”

“So where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Your book.”

“Oh,” you said softly, avoiding his gaze. It was a tell-tale sign that you weren’t being honest. You always looked away when you were lying. “I guess I forgot.”

“You forgot the thing that you came down here for?”

“Hm? Did you hear that?” You mumbled, despite the fact that the corridor was silent. “I think Pansy’s calling me. I gotta go, Matty. See you later!”

Your best friend watched as you sauntered off to Salazar knows where with a frown. Confused, Mattheo walked back to his dorm and found the answer to his dreaded question. As soon as he opened the door, the familiar scent of strawberry and vanilla filled the air. Mattheo felt downright murderous. That was your perfume. He’d recognize it anywhere.

Mattheo glared at his best friend, who was laying in bed with a book perched on his chest. He eyed the rumpled sheets and Theo’s disheveled hair while trying not to assume the worst.

“Is that the book Y/N lent you?”

“Huh? What book?”

Though he wanted very much to punch his mate’s teeth in, Mattheo restrained himself. “The book she came down here to get.”

“She wasn’t here for —” Theo closed his mouth before nodding reluctantly. “Oh, right. Yeah. This is Y/N’s book. I should — I should return it.”

“You’re acting weird, Nott. Both of you are.” Mattheo narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

“Blase? Yeah, be right there, mate! I’d love to stay and chat, but duty calls. See you later, man.”

Theo hightailed it out of the dorm, responding to an imaginary summon. Y/N and Theo. Theo and Y/N. His two closest friends. Sneaking around. Lying to him. Fooling around in his dorm. Mattheo didn’t know how to feel. He was angry, he was sad, but most of all, he was hurt. His girl and his best friend? It was the ultimate betrayal.

Never mind that Mattheo had spent the past decade denying his feelings for you. Anyone with an ounce of common sense could see that he’d been in love with you since you were children. It was clear as fucking day.

When Friday rolled around, Mattheo decided that enough was enough. He was going to confront the two of you. After quidditch practice, he followed Theo through the castle. The git buggered off to some dark, secluded area of the school that Mattheo had never stepped foot in. He kept a safe distance, peering around the corner when he heard whispered voices.

“I’m telling you, he’s getting suspicious,” Theo whispered frantically. “He asked why our dorm smelled like you. I didn’t know what to say, so I bolted!”

His heart dropped when he heard you sigh in frustration. “For Merlin’s sake, Theo! You couldn’t make up an excuse?”

“Me? You were the one who got caught sneaking out of the dungeons. It’s not like you’re an expert on stealth, either.”

“You know I can’t lie to him,” you exclaimed. “I’ve never been able to, ever since we were little. He knows all my tells. But, Theo, he absolutely cannot find out about this!”

Mattheo didn’t need to hear the rest. His heart had already been crushed into a thousand pieces. He couldn't believe it. The two of you were supposed to be his best friends, yet here you were keeping this terrible secret from him.

For the rest of the night, he sulked in his room. He was in the middle of brooding while listening to the Smiths when he heard a knock.

“Piss off!”

“It’s me.”

Part of him wanted to send you away, but a bigger part — the stupid, idiotic, part of him couldn’t. With a sigh, Mattheo peeled himself off the carpet and opened the door. Since the secret rendezvous with Theo, you had apparently found time to get dolled up and changed into a pretty party dress.

Mattheo frowned and crossed his arms. “Theo’s not here.”

You frowned, cocking your head in confusion. “I’m not here for Theo.”

He scoffed in response. “You don’t have to lie to me anymore. I know.”

“You know what, Matty?”

“I know that you and Theo are…sneaking around. Lying to me. Hooking up behind my back.”

“What on Godric’s green earth are you talking about?”

“Don’t try to deny it. I heard you in the corridor upstairs. I’ve had my suspicions all week. The two of you have been acting weird and avoiding me. More than that, you have your own stupid little inside jokes and you take him to concerts and you share milkshakes! Those are things we used to do together, but now you’ve gone and replaced me.”

“The only reason Theo and I became friends is because you asked us to., Mattheo.”

“I know that!” Mattheo exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I regret it so much. I wanted you to get along, but not like this. Now Theo’s making you laugh and walking you to class and doing god knows what else with you in our dorm!”

Your features softened as you tried to reach for Mattheo, but he took a step back. “Don’t try to deny it! I know you were in here the night I caught you sneaking out of the dungeons. I could smell your perfume.”

Realization flooded you all at once. “Are you…are you jealous, Matty?”

Your best friend crossed his arms and huffed. “Of course I’m jealous! I don’t want you doing any of those things with Theo. You’re my best friend. Mine, not his. I had you first. I loved you first.”

The confession stunned you into silence. You blinked, processing the information before holding your hand out. “Come.”

Mattheo looked like he was about to argue, but you just stared at him with determination. “Just come with me, Matty. I promise it’ll all make sense in a minute.”

The logical side of him wanted to refuse, but he knew it would be futile. Mattheo would’ve ripped his heart out of his chest if you asked him to. You were his weak spot.

Following you out into the corridor, Mattheo staggered a few steps back as you slipped into the dark and empty common room. With a snap of your fingers, the lights came on and voices echoed in unison.

“Happy birthday, Mattheo!”

Startled, Mattheo blinked at the sight before him. The common room was decorated with streamers and confetti, complete with a bright birthday banner that covered nearly half the room. There were tables filled with food and drinks, all of which were his favorites. All of his friends were present, including Tom, who stood to the side with his arms crossed. The pretty blonde beside him — Chloe, the girl Theo swore his brother was in love with — elbowed Tom, who sighed and flashed Mattheo a rare smile. Now that was something he needed to revisit at a later time.

For now, one shocking revelation was enough to deal with.

“Surprise!” You exclaimed beside him as you pulled him into a hug.

At first, he was too stunned to return the gesture, but eventually he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in for a bear hug. With everything going on, Mattheo nearly forgot his own birthday, but he knew that you wouldn't. You did all of this. For him.

When you broke apart, Theo clapped him on the back. “Happy birthday, mate.” Relief washed over his friend’s face as he spoke the words. “Thank fucking Salazar that Y/N pulled this off. Hiding this from you for a week has been absolute hell.”

“So…this is what you two have been up to?”

You nodded in confirmation. “Mhm, Theo and I spent all week planning it. We wanted everything to be perfect.”

“But it was hard because you were being such a nosy little git,” said Theo.

The pieces started to click together. All that secrecy between his two best friends hadn’t meant what he thought it did. “So you two aren’t…you haven’t…you’re not hooking up behind my back?”

You and Theo stared at each other in horror.

“Ew!” Theo dramatically exclaimed. “Y/N is like my sister. You don’t hook up with your sister. That’s gross.”

“But I thought…you were hanging out together so much and you had all these jokes and it seemed like…”

“Please,” Theo scoffed. “Anyone with half a brain cell can see that you two are clearly in love with each other.”

“Surprised you figured it out then, Theo,” you quipped.

The brunette rolled his eyes at you before breaking out into a shit-eating grin. "Wait. Is that why you've been acting like such a twat lately? You thought I was making a move on your girl?" Theo's eyes widened as Mattheo shifted uncomfortably. "I'm right, aren't I? First of all, I'm flattered that you felt threatened by me."

"Threatened is a strong word," Mattheo countered.

"Please, you nearly took my head off with a quaffle." Theo wiggled his eyebrows. "Second of all, I'm quite frankly offended that you'd think I'd ever go for Y/N. I would never break your trust like that."

"I know, I know." Mattheo said with a sigh. "I was being stupid, but for a second I was truly convinced that something was going on between you two. I mean, you've been hanging out so much lately..."

“Matty, do you even know what we talk about when we hang out? You. It’s always about you. You were right that we both have a lot in common. We were just too stubborn to see it, but the main thing that brought us together is that we care about you so much.”

“Well, Y/N cares for you a lot more,” Theo teased with a smirk. “She’d like to care for you all night long.”

You flushed as deep and red as your party dress. “Oh my gods. Shut up, Theo!”

“My work here is done. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to hit on that Ravenclaw who looks like she wants absolutely nothing to do with me.”

“Sorry about him,” you said as you turned back to Mattheo. “And sorry that we’ve been acting so shady all week. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t suspect anything.”

Mattheo chuckled. “Well, consider me surprised.”

You wrinkled your nose in disgust. “I can’t believe you thought I was hooking up with Theo.”

With a boyish grin, Mattheo pulled you to his side and kissed your temple. “I’m sorry, princess. Jealousy just got the best of me.”

“There’s no need to be jealous. If it wasn’t already obvious, I’ve been in love with you since we were kids.”

“I’m a bloody idiot.”

“Yeah, but you’re my idiot.”

Mattheo beamed and kissed the tip of your nose. “Thank you for doing all of this for me.”

You smiled softly, cheeks heating as he stared at you with bright, brown eyes. “Course, Matty, I just want you to have the best birthday.”

With a smile, Mattheo leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against your lips. There was something familiar about the gesture, like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. Kissing Mattheo was as natural as breathing. It felt like coming home.

“Wish granted, princess.”

Later that night when he blew out his candles, Mattheo didn’t bother wishing for anything. You leaned into him as he hooked his pinkie through yours, making a silent promise. Even if it took a little jealousy for him to realize it, Mattheo embraced the truth wholeheartedly. You were his person and he was yours. As the flames died out, he smiled.

Mattheo Riddle had no use for wishes now that he had you.

#need him in my bones just inject him straight into my veins idgaf #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fluff #slytherin boys

2K notes · View notes

sweetiecutie · 10 months

Note

dilf!konig who wants to teach you how to properly kiss, muttering about how all your past boyfriends could never kiss you like him ????

somethin along the lines of that... ❤️

Pairing: dilf! König x fem! Reader

Warnings: mdni, age gap, making out, grinding

- Just relax baby. Don’t do anything, - König murmured against your lips, his hot breath brushed against your flushed cheeks. His huge hand was cupping the angle of your jaw, long fingers tangled in your soft hair while the other one wandered up and down your way smaller body, caressing the dip of your waist and plumpness of your ass with heavy touches.

You let your mouth fall open slightly, doing as König told you to. Your hips seemed to live a life of their own, squirming and humping against prominent bulge in your daddy’s pants; back arching at the pleasure small friction provided, pushing your chest flush against König’s heaving one.

- That’s it, just do what your intuition tells you to, don’t follow some complicated scheme in your head, silly girl, - he chuckled, his lips brushing yours as he spoke so condescendingly. You whimpered small uh-huh to indicate that you understood, too eager to feel König’s chapped lips against yours once again.

Contented sigh escaped your lungs as König finally kissed you. Your eyelids fluttered closed, tickling his cheeks with long lashes. Your trembling hands raked up and down man’s shoulders and wrapped themselves around strong neck, small fingers tangling in short curly hairs on his nape. It started out as soft suckling and nibbling on each other’s lips, but soon König was licking his way into your mouth greedily, forcing his nimble tongue into your hot cavity.

Wanton moan tore through your chest as König’s hips thrusted upwards, his hard cock nudged your clit just right, even despite layers of fabric separating you two. You tentatively moved your tongue against König’s, swirling around and toying with it. He was actually kissing you, caressing your lips with his, muddling up your thoughts and turning your brain into sparkly mush, not just showing his tongue as deep as it would go into your mouth like those pathetic frat boys you hooked up with before meeting him.

- Mmmmhm, see? See how good I can make you feel just by kissing you? - König murmured, breaking your kiss; a silver string of shared saliva connected your lips still, breaking and falling onto your chin in cold strip. He licked it up, gathering cooled liquid on the tip of his tongue before nudging it back into your mouth for you to suck it off. - Now lay on your back Schatzi, I’ll show you what other things I can do with my mouth <3

Feedback is very appreciated! Askbox is open, feel free to send in requests<3

4K notes · View notes

sturnioz · 3 months

Text

‘CRUSH’ — MATTHEW STURNIOLO

pairing. drummer!matthew sturniolo x reader genre. band au, smut, fluff

word count. 10.1k

❝let me take you backstage. just you and me, yeah?❞

content warnings. explicit content, alcohol usage, mentions of weed, unprotected sex, backstage sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, praising, creampie,

authors note. fake bands are mentioned in this. if there is a band with the same name out there, im sorry lol

Despite his love for blending in with the crowd and remaining mysterious and unseen, Matt is anything but unnoticeable. The singular stripe of red dye in his black hair, the black eyeliner that smudges at the corners of his eyes, the tattoos that decorate his arms, and the oversized graphic clothing that drowns his frame… he stands out.

Matt—admittedly—sticks out like a sore thumb.

It isn’t exactly his fault. (It is, but he won’t admit it).

Matt loves tattooing his skin with crazy and memorable designs, wearing clothes far larger than his usual size, and stomping around in heavy boots. Matt also loves filling his waterline with black eyeliner and accessorising with silver jewellery.

Painting his nails is another favourite of his too, though he usually goes for a chipped, all-black look.

It also doesn’t help that Matt is in a band alongside his brothers and childhood best friend. While the band isn’t huge, they perform almost every weekend at a popular bar in their hometown, attracting a crowd over 100 people that try their best to cram themselves in just to see them whenever they manage to book a gig.

So, maybe it is his fault.

But he never expected the level of attention it would bring him—eyes ogling from every direction, hushed whispers whenever he enters a room, and a constant stream of compliments filling his DMs on social media as well as being said directly to his face.

Matt secretly loves the attention, but he has never been the one to make a move when girls throw themselves at him, hinting for a quick hook-up or even a relationship. He just wasn't interested enough—no one has ever truly captured his attention.

That is until he saw you at one of the band’s gigs.

You were sitting in a booth with a friend, sipping a Coke through a straw and taking in your seemingly unfamiliar surroundings. Matt was instantly captivated by your presence, wanting nothing more than to gather the courage to walk over and strike a conversation—to learn more about you.

“Starin’ makes you look creepy.”

Matt’s bandmate and childhood best friend, Nate, remarks, hardly even glancing Matt’s way. His attention is instead confused on his own reflection in the mirror backdrop behind the bar, standing on his tiptoes to see better over the rows of liquor bottles, trying to restyle his newly dyed hair, the sweat on his forehead causing his bangs to stick.

Nate continues, “Go talk to her. Work that so-called ‘Matt Magic’ I hear Chris yappin’ about.”

“Trust me, it’s real.” Chris declares, suddenly appearing and throwing himself down into the seat beside Matt.

He slams a tray of multicoloured shots onto the bar counter, spilling half the contents and leaving the bartender cursing under his breath as he wipes up the mess, glaring at Chris who just grins cheekily, avoiding confrontation.

“I’ve seen it with my own eyes, alright?” Chris continues. “It works like magic—makes the ladies drop to their knees in an instant.”

Nate’s brow raises in amusement, “In the many years I’ve known Matt, I’ve never seen him hook-up or flirt with anyone…” Nate pauses, a teasing grin sliding onto his lips. “Got some problems goin’ on down there or what?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Matt grumbles, swatting away Nate’s hand as he tries to reach out and pat his cheek.

Nate cackles, shaking his head as he grabs one of the shots that Chris eagerly hands out to the group. He then calls out to Nick, who emerges from backstage, adjusting the leather jacket on his shoulders as he settles down beside Chris.

Chris hums as he tugs the collar of Nick’s shirt down, “Nice marks, kid. Who was it this time?”

“None of your fucking business.” Nick answers with a hiss, running his fingers through his blonde hair.

“You’re always in mine,” Chris shoots back, causing Nick to gape at him. “Don’t give me that look, kid. You’re always yappin’ in my ear about the sisters.”

“Oh, Thing 1 and Thing 2,” Nick grins at the mention of the twin sisters that Chris frequently hooks-up with. “Who was the one that was here last time?”

“Zoe,” Chris answers, but the blank look on Nick’s face causes Chris to sigh in annoyance before clarifying, “Thing 1.”

“I thought Thing 1 was Chloe?” Nate chimes in, pulling a confused face.

Chris is quick to jump to Zoe’s defence, arguing that she’s number one, but Matt tunes out the rest of the conversation, rolling his eyes as he picks up the shot glass and downs it quickly before bringing his beer bottle up to his lips.

He then turns his neck slightly to look over at you once again, spotting you this time smiling at your friend and clinking your simple glass of Coke to her colourful cocktail.

Matt can’t help but continue sneaking glances your way. He is, undoubtedly, interested in you. This is unfamiliar territory for him—he’s never felt this drawn to someone before.

He’s not scared or nervous, and he really would walk on over to you to begin a conversation if it wasn’t for the fact you weren’t alone. Your friend was glued to your side… and he hated it.

Matt inwardly curses, wishing he could just get rid of your friend and have you all to himself for the night, but you two seem inseparable. He takes another swig of his beer, his mind racing with ideas. There has to be a way to separate you from your friend, even if it was just for a moment.

He can’t let this opportunity slip away, he’s going to have to find a way to get you alone. Or he’s going to have to wait for the right moment.

“I think he’s staring at me,” Talia whispers across the booth to you. She straightens her posture and runs her fingers through her hair, fixing any stray strands as she takes a quick glance at her reflection in her phone screen. “How do I look? Do I have something in my teeth?”

“You look fine,” You reassure with a nod, sipping your Coke through the straw. Your eyebrows knit together in curiosity as you watch Talia fuss over her appearance, pulling the neckline of her dress lower to show more cleavage. “But who’s staring at you?”

“The tattooed guy with the red strand in his hair, sitting at the bar behind y—The fuck? Don’t turn around!” You ignore Talia’s feeble attempts to redirect your attention as you spin around, easily spotting the man sitting at the bar surrounded by other similar-looking people.

You snort at the sight, but can’t help but notice his attention doesn’t seem to be on your friend. Slowly turning back to face Talia, you see her shoulders sag in defeat.

“He was staring. He looked away as soon as you turned around.”

“I believe you,” You tell her, getting comfortable in your seat as you observe the way she takes quick glances behind you, holding her head high with confidence. “Who is he, anyways?”

“You’re kidding,” Talia baffles, her eyes going wide. She takes offence when you shake your head. “It’s Matt. The guy that’s on my Instagram feed. His band is playing tonight—he’s the reason why we’re here!”

You frown at that, “I thought you wanted to hang out?”

“I do!” Talia quickly says, but you’re less than impressed. She exhales deeply, “Listen… Matt is the drummer in the band that performed earlier, and I haven’t been able to have much free time to see them play. On top of that, we haven’t hung out in a while and this is the only weekend we seem to be available — so I’m basically hitting two birds with one stone here, can you really blame me?”

“Guess not.” You sigh, even though you’re still not impressed with what’s going on.

You felt a little bit used and lied to, especially when she burst through your dorm room earlier and rambled excitedly about how she’s looking forward to spending some time with you tonight.

Your mood turns sour when it dawns on you that you'll most likely be heading back to your dorm room alone tonight, knowing that she will probably blow you off to go blow off some other guy—literally.

You wish you were the type of person to be selfish — to tell her that you’re not happy with her possibly leaving you to go hook-up with some guy, and demand her to stay with you all night to catch up and go home together with a takeout bag full of junk food, and watch a shitty old movie on your small laptop screen.

But you’ve never been that way.

You have never been selfish.

“I need to go pee,” Talia announces, her face twisting in discomfort as she pushes her empty cocktail glass across the table and awkwardly shuffles out of the booth. She picks up her handbag and rummages through quickly, pulling out her purse and shoving it in your hands. “Go get us another drink, and no more Cokes for you either.”

You don’t even get the chance to say anything as Talia waddles away in a rush towards the bathrooms and you push yourself out of the booth with a huff, clutching her purse in your grasp as you weave through the crowd of people blocking your path to the bar, seemingly busy with their conversations to even make room.

The grip on Talia’s purse tightens as you finally reach the counter, watching the bartender lean in to chat up some customer with a flirtatious smile.

You debate on going back to the booth and waiting for Talia so she can work her charm to get you both more drinks. But you decide against it, instead hoisting yourself up onto a vacant barstool, so focussed on the bartender and his cheesy pickup lines that you’re completely unaware of who is sitting next to you.

Matt struggles to contain himself when he feels your shoulder brush against his as you sit down beside him at the bar. He steals a quick glance your way, his heart racing, but you’re focussed intently on the bartender, seemingly oblivious to Matt’s presence.

Matt knows Brent, the bartender, all too well—he’s notorious for getting distracted as he flirts with customers, leaving others waiting, so you won’t be getting served any time soon.

This could be Matt’s chance to finally talk to you, to have the conversation he’s been yearning for since he first laid eyes on you. But the words catch in his throat, and he finds himself unable to face you directly, especially with his bandmates mocking him from the corner of his eye.

Chris makes obnoxious kissing noises, causing Matt to snap his head in that direction, but Chris doesn’t back down from his teasing as he grins and nudges his shoulder.

“C’mon, kid. Show us that ‘Matt Magic’,” The wiggle of Chris’s eyebrows makes Matt want to fight, his knuckles turning white from the grip he has around his beer bottle. Chris quickly throws his hands up in defence. “Just want you to have some fun, man.”

“As much as it pains me to admit it—like it actually hurts me—Chris is right,” Nick chimes in, his eyes flitting between Matt and yourself, who is still wrapped up in your own head to hear the conversation that’s going on. It surprises him. “You’re surrounded by very beautiful women who clearly show interest in you, and you don’t give a fuck. At all.”

“Maybe Matt does have some problems goin’ on down there…” Nate drawls as his eyes dip down to Matt’s jeans, tilting his head to the side teasingly. Matt rolls his eyes at Nate’s comment and reaches out to kick him, but Nick intervenes by pushing Nate to the side while Chris grins, amused by the situation.

“Look,” Nick sighs. “As much as I would love for you to get out there, it’s all on your terms. Don’t let these fucks peer pressure you into doing shit.”

Matt doesn’t feel pressured, not one bit.

But all he wants right now is for his brothers and friend to give him some space so he can be alone with you. It would be the perfect opportunity, and he wouldn’t have to worry about the others making grand gestures behind his back or worse, interrupting the conversation.

As if reading his mind, Nick grips the back of Chris and Nate’s shirts, hauling them away from the bar, though they don’t stay too far—still within reach of their drinks and shots.

It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do.

Matt takes a deep breath, gently tugging on the earring dangling from his ear as he finally turns in his seat to face you… just in time for the bartender to finish his flirting.

Fuck.

“Sorry about that,” The bartender apologises to you with a faint chuckle as he stands in front of you, running his fingers through his dark hair and adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose before resting his hands on his hips.

It gives you a full view of his all black sleeveless shirt that’s tucked into a pair of dark jeans, and you can’t help but notice the white name tag that stands out against the outfit, identifying him as Brent.

Brent gives you a charming smile, “What can I get for you?”

You hesitate for a moment, trying to remember the name of the cocktail Talia had ordered earlier. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you scan the drinks menu above the bar, pointing to the cheapest options and you’re about to speak up until a voice suddenly interrupts you.

“Can I have a beer, a cosmopolitan, and a Coke?”

You whip your head to the side in annoyance, ready to give the rude customer a piece of your mind for cutting in. But the insults die on your lips as you realise who exactly it is.

It’s the tattooed arm and the flash of red in his hair that lets you know who it is—the guy that Talia has been non-stop talking about, and has been so fascinated with the past couple of months, and even the main topic of tonight's conversations.

Your eyebrows raise in slight shock. You’re beginning to see the appeal… Matt is really pretty.

With Matt seated so close—shoulder to shoulder—you have the opportunity to really take in every detail of his appearance. Though you’ve basically heard Talia rave about him, you’ve never seen him up close and personal before.

The smudged eyeliner and subtle black eyeshadow around his blue eyes give him a slightly intimidating look, but there’s a certain allure to it that makes you sink back into your seat, captivated.

You can’t help but notice the tattoos decorating his arm, the flash of vibrant red in his hair, and the small hole on the side of his nostril that makes you wonder if that’s where a nose piercing once was. The redness around the area suggests he or someone else may have attempted to pierce it recently — perhaps even today.

“That’s what you’re both drinkin’, yeah?” Matt’s question snaps you out of your captivated staring, and he shifts in his seat as he turns to face you fully, the chains on his all-black outfit jingling with his movements.

As he drums his fingernails against the bar as he waits for your answer, you notice the black chipped nail polish, some definitely more chipped than others, but the look suits his edgy appearance perfectly.

“Yes—yeah, I think so…” You answer quickly, realising you’ve been quiet for far too long. But then you pause, your face twisting in confusion as you glance between him and the drinks being made. “How did you know that?”

The corner of Matt’s lip curves upwards in amusement, and he shrugs his shoulders. “I guessed.”

“Here you go, gorgeous,” Brent interrupts as he slides the cocktail and Coke glass in your direction with precise aim, managing to not spill a drop. He then settles the beer bottle down in front of Matt next. “That will be—”

“Wait, can I get another one of those?” You cut him off as you point to the pink-coloured concoction in front of you, and Brent sends a wink your way as he turns on his heel to prepare the drink.

You give him a small smile as a thank you and you turn back to look at Matt who’s already looking at you with his eyebrow raised, and you suddenly feel the need to explain yourself.

“It’s for me.”

Matt nods slowly, “Had enough of the Cokes?”

“No, not exactly… She told me earlier not to get another one,” You say as you glance down at the full glass of Coke in front of you with pursed lips. “But I’ll still take this, you know, just in case I don’t like the cocktail.”

Matt smiles at that, and he reaches for the beer bottle with one hand while the other dips inside his pocket as soon as Brent returns with your newly made drink. He gives you the price and your eyes almost bulge out at the numbers, swallowing down the lump in your throat as you tell him you’ll pay by card.

You’re already mentally preparing yourself for Talia’s reaction when she finds out about the cost. It makes you grimace just thinking about the consequences as you dig through her purse to find her card, but the sound of a machine beeping brings you out of your search, and you lift your head to see Matt with his arm outstretched, his own bank card in hand and pressed down on the card reader.

Did he just…?

Your mouth repeatedly opens and closes in shock, unable to fully process what just happened even though it was the most simplest thing.

Brent’s giving Matt an amused look, his tongue prodding at his cheek to hide the obvious smirk on his face as he shoves the card reader back beneath the bar, and he flutters his fingers at you for a quick goodbye as he serves another customer — you briefly overhear him compliment their hair, but you pay him no attention as you’re meeting eyes with Matt who seems nonchalant about paying for all of your pricey drinks.

“You didn’t have to do that,” You protest quietly. “I had the money, I—”

“I wanted to,” Matt cuts you off, bringing his beer to his lip and taking a sip all while keeping his eyes on you. “I haven’t seen you around this bar before, so think of it as a welcome gift… from me to you.”

“That’s… sweet. Thank you,” You show him your gratitude, warmth spreading in your chest at his unexpected gesture.

Matt nods his head and reaches over to gently clink his beer bottle against one of your cocktail glasses before taking a sip. You decide to follow suit, bringing the reddish-pink cocktail drunk to your lips.

But the second the liquid touches your tongue, your face twists in an unexpected reaction to the flavour, the taste catching you by surprise which causes the involuntary expression that flashes across your features.

Matt watches your reaction intently, an amused glint in his eye as he takes another sip of his beer while you place the cocktail back down on the bar to quickly grab your glass of Coke, washing down the taste with something you’re a lot more familiar with.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s different,” You admit with an awkward laugh. You feel slightly embarrassed at pulling the most unattractive face and not enjoying a drink that he bought out of his money. “But it’s still a gift, so I’ll drink it.”

“Nah, you don’t have to do that,” Matt shakes his head, the amusement still sparkling in his eyes as he reaches for his card. “Let me buy you another—”

“No!” You immediately interject, not wanting him to spend any more of his money on the expensive drinks. Matt seems a little surprised at your sudden burst, and he reels his hand back to his lap. You cringe at your tone before adding. “I will drink it.”

“Yeah?” He hums, his eyes flitting down to the cocktail on the bar before meeting your gaze again. He tilts his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you sure about that?”

Your heart thumps at the intensity of his stare, a look you’re unfamiliar with. You nod, doing your best to sound confident as you mutter, “Very.”

“Was there a queue at the bar or something? You took so long,” Talia frowns as soon as you arrive back at your shared booth with both cocktails in hand.

Your tongue pokes out in concentration, careful to not spill anything as you hand one over to Talia who takes it in her grasp.

“Thanks, babe. But did you not use my card? I didn’t get the notification on my phone that my card was being used—did you get us a cosmopolitan?! Do you realise how fucking expensive these are here?!”

“Relax, I didn’t buy these,” You tell her as you slide into the booth, sliding Talia her purse. She stares at you, confusion written across her face, so you clarify; “Courtesy of your favourite drummer boy.”

“Matt bought me a drink?” The look that plasters across Talia’s face is priceless, and you bite back the urge to add on how he bought your drink too. But you let her live in her moment as you nod your head, watching as she takes the information in with wide, excited eyes. “Holy shit. He totally likes me—I fucking knew it. Did he say anything?”

“About what?” You ask, your brows pulling together and Talia points at herself. “Oh, no, not really. He was just talking about alcohol, you know… considering we were both at the bar.”

Talia sighs dreamily, “My type of guy.”

“Yeah, he seems interesting.” You find yourself agreeing, pressing your lips firmly together as you glance over your shoulder in a somewhat hopeful manner that you’ll see Matt still at the bar, sipping his beer or maybe even watching you from afar. But when you don’t see him, you feel an unexpected pang of disappointment.

It’s strange — you’ve never spoken to Matt before today, and your interaction was brief. Yet there’s something about him that has piqued your curiosity, leaving you wanting to know more.

You struggle to explain this newfound fascination. It’s completely out of character for you to be so preoccupied with a near-stranger, especially one that is your best friend’s crush. Normally, you would shrug something like this off and focus on the evening with Talia.

But now, there’s a heaviness in your chest, a restless energy that has you craving another encounter with Matt.

Was it the intensity of his gaze that captivated you? The confident, almost flirtatious yet mysterious way he carried himself? Or was it simply the unexpected gesture of buying you a drink — a gesture that, for whatever reason, has left a lasting impression.

You’ve never been like this before.

So why now? Why all of a sudden?

“What are you thinking about?” Talia’s voice yanks you out of your thoughts and you turn your head back in her direction. You quickly shrug your shoulders and shake your head to silently tell her that it was nothing, but she doesn’t seem convinced. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not thinking—”

“You were staring at the bar,” Talia points out before she decides to follow your gaze, her lips pursing in deep thought as she scans the surroundings. She suddenly smiles, “Are you staring at Brent? The bartender?”

“I said I’m—”

“You should go for it. I heard he gives really good head and honestly—no offence—you need it. He could definitely loosen you up and give you a good time.”

You deadpan, “Are you saying that because it’s the truth, or is it because you’ll feel bad that I’d have to walk home alone while you’re getting laid?”

“Both.” Talia sends you a sly wink, and she clinks her cocktail glass to yours before taking a sip.

You exhale softly with a roll of your eyes, reaching for your own cocktail until your hand stops halfway when you realise you’ve lost the Coke you had left at the bar — it’s likely been snatched up by another customer that got excited over a free drink.

You really don’t like the flavour of his cocktail, and you find yourself wishing you had something to wash it down with. It pains you.

You consider being a bit dramatic, holding your nose to avoid tasting it, or digging through your purse for some gum that you know is pooling at the bottom somewhere. But you decide to just suck it up and drink it without making a fuss.

After all, it was a gift.

Just as you’re about to bring the glass to your lips, another is suddenly placed in front of you — a fresh, bubbly Coke with ice and a red straw that faces towards you..

Talia’s the first to respond to this stranger, her hand flying to cover her mouth to stifle her reaction as she chokes on her drink, her eyes strained and watery. You check on her to make sure that she’s okay before you glance up, slightly taken aback when you see Matt.

“You forgot your drink at the bar,” He tells you in a low tone. His eyes flick down to the cocktail in your hands, and his eyebrow raises slightly. “Are you sure you’re goin' to drink it?”

“I was going to.” Your reply in a whisper. But before you can say anything else, Matt is taking the cocktail from your hands and replacing it with the fresh Coke he’s brought over.

He holds the stem of the cocktail glass between his fingers, eyeing the brightly coloured drink for a moment before sliding it over to Talia, who is still uncharacteristically speechless. She quickly regains her composure, grasping the drink and pulling it close to her chest, as if it’s the most meaningful thing anyone has ever done for her.

“Enjoy this one instead,” Matt murmurs to you, and just as he begins to turn away, you find yourself calling out his name.

You’re not entirely sure why you’ve done so — perhaps it’s a reluctance to let him go so quickly, a desire to indulge the growing fascination you’ve developed for him. Or maybe it’s because you can see the gears turning in Talia’s head as she tries to figure out how to start a conversation with him—to flirt with him.

You’re a good friend to Talia, you always have been.

You always put her first.

“Do you want to join us?” You offer with a friendly smile, and you gesture towards the empty seat opposite you—beside Talia. “You’re welcome to come sit with us and hang out, unless you have somewhere else to be?”

Matt is quiet for a moment, his eyes darting around the bar as if he’s searching for something, but then he nods and takes you up on your offer. Talia’s beaming ear to ear with excitement, shuffling to the side to make space for him on her side of the booth.

But to your surprise, Matt sits down beside you instead, his shoulder knocking heavily against yours as he settles into the small space. He apologises quickly, lifting a hand to gently rub the sore spot.

You find yourself glued to your seat, sandwiched between the wooden barrier on the right and Matt’s body pressed against your left. The heat radiating off him envelops you, but you try not to pay too much attention to it, especially when you see Talia eyeing the two of you with a slightly wrinkled nose and an upturned lip.

However, Talia’s expression soon shifts to a grin as she turns her attention to Matt, “Thank you for buying the drinks,” She gestures towards the cocktail in front of her. “I’ll get your next one.”

“I appreciate that,” Matt replies, dipping his head in gratitude.

He takes a quick sip of his beer, and you notice Talia watching him carefully, her eyebrows furrowing as she tilts her head, trying to read the label from her seat.

Matt seems to pick up on this, and he comically and slowly rotates the bottle in Talia’s direction. “It’s new — Brent got it delivered today.”

“Lost Boys? He got a drink named after one of your songs?” Talia teases playfully, and Matt simply nods in response. You fight the urge to snort at that fact, finding it a little amusing.

“You should try it,” Matt nudges you softly, offering you a taste of his beer. You are about to decline, to shake your head and say you’re fine with the Coke, but the smile that dances across his lips is enough to make you slowly change your mind. “I think you might like this better than the cocktail.”

You don’t question it further, and instead take the beer in your hands, taking a tentative sip. You’re a bit hesitant on the initial taste, rubbing your lips together firmly as Matt and Talia watch you, waiting for your honest opinion. you just take the beer in your hands for a sip and you’re hesitant on the taste that hits your tongue, rubbing your lips together firmly as the pair watch you, waiting for your honest opinion.

You swallow thickly, but are pleasantly surprised. “It’s actually really good.”

Matt hums, “Told you.”

“Let me try,” Talia chimes in, reaching out for the beer. You happily hand it over to her, but then you realise your mistake, turning to look at Matt with a slightly apologetic look on your face as it dawns on you that you’re sharing around his drink.

Matt’s already watching you when you look at him, and you go to apologise, but Talia’s already handing him back his beer with a satisfied expression.

“I like it too—it’s sweet.” She confirms.

“That can be the next round of drinks then, yeah?” Matt says, his eyes briefly darting down to Talia’s purse beside her.

Talia’s smile falters for a moment when she remembers that she was the one that offered to buy him his next drink. You can tell she’s thinking about the dent these drinks are going to put on her bank account, but she quickly musters up another smile and nods her head, excited at the thought of buying Matt something.

Before Talia can respond, you decide to come to her aid as your hand slips towards your own purse. “You don’t have to buy the next drink. We can go in halves—”

“Don’t offend me like that,” Talia cuts you off with a playful flip of her hair. “I have the money. I’ll get it.”

You wince at that, unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Totally,” Talia smirks. She then turns to face Matt, who has been quietly sipping his beer. “Your set earlier was fucking amazing, by the way. The band is so—”

“DID SOMEBODY SAY SHOTS?!” An unfamiliar voice screeches at the top of their lungs as a tray of multicoloured shots is suddenly thrust onto the table in front of you all, causing some of the liquid to spill over. A quick hand reaches out to try and recover them despite half of the liquid pooling around the tray.

As your eyes trail up the arm of the person who brought over the shots, you’re surprised to see an identical-looking guy to Matt, but with a backwards cap on his curly head of brown hair. His cheeks are flushed—a clear sign that he’s had quite a bit to drink already.

Standing on one side of him is another identical-looking guy, but with blonde hair, and he’s cursing under his breath and scolding the backwards capped one for the mess he’s created.

The capped guy is trying (and failing) to scoop the spilled alcohol back into the cups using just his pinky finger. It’s a comical sight, with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in pure concentration.

“This is the second fuckin’ time this has happened,” Matt informs with a sigh, but the chuckle that escapes him shows he’s not as annoyed as he’s letting on. “Chris also spilled them earlier.”

The backwards capped guy, who you now discover is named Chris, snaps his head up in offence at Matt’s comment and stops his failed attempts at trying to scoop the alcohol back into the shot glasses.

“I tripped over your fuckin’ dumbass shoe actually,” Chris hisses through his teeth as he knocks his foot against Matt, who doesn’t seem fazed at the attack at all. “Anyway. Scoot up, let us in.”

“Are you joining us?” Talia’s eyes twinkle at the thought of her favourite band joining the booth, and you couldn’t help but feel happy for her, knowing that she’s been waiting for this moment to happen.

However, you can’t help but feel a bit confused and slightly worried about where the others would fit, especially inside the cramped booth. It could fit four people at most, but you weren’t sure about the six. You’re already feeling a bit squished beside Matt and the wooden barrier.

“Of course we’re joining you, that’s the reason why we got shots.” The blonde-haired guy, who you found out is called Nick, scoffs as he makes a quick gesture to Talia to scoot up, creating just enough room for him and the other bandmate, Nate (who funnily enough has a name tag written across his chest), to squeeze in on her side of the booth.

“Excuse me, kid.” Chris grunts as he clamps a hand down on Matt’s shoulder to push himself up, placing his shoe on the smallest bit of booth space between Matt’s legs before climbing over you both, muttering how he doesn’t want to sit on the end.

Matt’s arm slides around your middle in an instant as he moves to the edge of the booth, pulling you along with him to let Chris sit at your other side, allowing Chris to be squashed between you and the wooden barrier instead. He weirdly seems okay with it, although he does wince when he feels your purse dig into his side, and you’re quick to move it with an apology, but he dismisses it with a wave and a kind smile.

Now you’re pressed right up against Matt, his arm bringing you even close to him. After a few moments, he lets you go, his fingers brushing against the exposed skin of your back as he gently pulls your shirt that had risen up back down, keeping you decent before his arm falls back into his own lap.

The brief touch sends goosebumps crawling up your skin, and you involuntarily shiver. You straighten your posture and tear your attention away from Matt’s wandering eyes, missing the small grin that tugs at the corners of his lips.

What you don’t miss is Talia staring at you, and as soon as you meet her gaze, her lips pull into a tight smile which you return back, grabbing your glass of Coke to distract yourself from what just happened.

“You. Nuh-uh—no way, kid. Put that down,” Nate points a finger at you and shakes his head with a tut. “We’re taking shots before we continue anythin’. You pick first.”

Reaching for one of the spilled shots that has the least amount of drink in it, you go for the easiest option. Nate’s mouth drops and his eyebrows knit together, as if you’ve just outwardly offended him, but he doesn’t say anything as he and the others quickly pick their own shots and clink their glasses together, eagerly downing the drinks.

You’re pleasantly surprised at the fruity taste that slides down your throat, but you can’t help but wince at the burn it leaves behind, similar to Nick, who starts to complain.

“What the fuck was that?!” Nick fake retches and rubs his throat, his other hand quickly reaching for his beer to wash down the taste. “What flavour was that—What did you fucking get?!”

“I dunno—a whole bunch of different shit,” Chris shrugs as he picks up Nick’s empty shot glass, taking a sniff. His eyebrows raise in surprise. “That’s passionfruit, kid. I had that too. We matched.”

“Oh, I hate it.” Nick gags again, bringing his beer bottle to his lips again to take a few hefty gulps, clearly trying to rid himself of the unpleasant taste.

“I think me and Matt had strawberry,” Talia announces, staring at the red stain on Matt’s chosen shot gloss. She grins, “We matched.”

Matt nods, then turns to you, “What did you have?”

“Raspberry,” Nate answers for you as he winks at you from across the booth, signifying you matched shots with him.

“Oh! So not only did I have a disgusting flavour, but I matched with Chris?” Nick scoffs, eyeballing every single one of you with irritancy. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“So, what brought you both here tonight?” Chris asks you and Talia after a few more drinks, courtesy of Talia who had promised to buy the next round.

Originally, the next drinks that were bought by Talia were supposed to be for just you, her and Matt. But with the others joining the table and their constant pleading, she ended up purchasing more than she had planned.

You feel bad, especially knowing how pricey this bar is, and make a mental note to pay for half of the drinks bought at the end of the night — even though Talia keeps giving you side glances, letting you know that everything is fine.

This is her favourite band after all, and she would do anything to spend a few more minutes with them… or even just Matt.

“Just to catch up over some drinks,” You tell him, glancing over at the stage where a few of their set pieces are still laid out. “We came to listen to your band too.”

“Yeah?” Chris grins, leaning back into his seat, his legs spreading wide beneath the table. “Are you a fan of our music?”

“I’m a huge fan,” Talia gushes, and you allow her to take the lead in the conversation. She leans forward, elbows on the table, causing her cleavage to almost spill out of the top of her dress in a deliberate gesture.

You admire Talia’s confidence, even though you want to tell her that she doesn’t need to try so hard to get their attention — she’s gorgeous as is.

Talia continues, “I’ve pretty much seen every single one of your shows here.”

“Have you been to any of our shows?” Matt asks, and it takes you a moment to realise that he’s talking to you, as everyone at the table is now staring and waiting for your reply. The corner of Matt’s lip curls upwards slightly as he tilts his head. “This your first time?”

“She’s never been,” Talia answers for you. “She doesn’t listen to this type of music. I practically had to force her out of her—”

“Is there something wrong with our music?” Nick asks you with mock offence, pressing his hand against his chest like you actually wounded him. Chris tuts with a shake of his head, making a joke about how much of a fake you are while Nate stays silent with a grin, watching everything unfold.

“No, nothing is wrong with your music,” You laugh softly. “I just really like the band ‘Solarz’.”

“You like Solarz?” Nick gapes at you, the mock offence look dropping from his face as his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. You nod your head to confirm, and he breathes out, “I think you might seriously be my favourite person ever.”

Nate and Chris laugh at that while Matt remains quiet with a small grin on his face, keeping his eyes locked. You start to feel a little stuffy and nervous, especially with how his body is pressed against yours.

“Solarz is incredible,” Talia chimes in above the laughter, and you smile at her, grateful for the times she’s cleared her schedule to go to their concerts with you. You really do owe her. “Matt, do you like Solarz too?”

“I think they’re great,” Matt nods, his answer short and to the point. Talia smiles, but before she can speak again, Matt turns to you and asks, “Is this really your first time watchin’ us?”

“Yeah,” You nod, glancing over at Talia, who seems a little dejected. You don’t want to see her upset or left out, so you gesture towards her, hoping to bring Matt’s attention to her. “But, like Talia said, she’s a huge fan of y—”

“I think you should let me show you what’s backstage…” Matt cuts you off, leaning forward to whisper to you, even though his words are heard by everyone in the booth.

He stares at you through the strands of hair that have fallen in front of his eyes, waiting for your answer. You struggle to respond, feeling all eyes on you.

Talia is clearly not impressed by Matt’s sudden invitation to you. Her mouth is hung open in shock, and her eyebrows are pulled together in a clear expression of displeasure. You can’t blame her, given how she’s been trying to flirt with Matt this whole time, only for him to disregard her advances and ask you instead if you want to see what’s backstage.

The phrase itself seems to hold a deeper meaning, based on the reactions of the others. Matt’s brothers and Nate all look quite shocked, some more smug than others, subtly nudging each other under the table. Chris even wiggles his eyebrows as he mouths the words ‘Matt Magic’ to Nick and Nate, the former gasping in response.

You feel conflicted as Matt’s hand slips into the gap between the table and your own, his palm facing upwards as he laces his fingers with yours. The warmth of his hand is a contrast to the cold metal of his rings, and you find yourself curling your fingers around his in a gentle grip.

“What do you say?” Matt asks, his gaze unwavering as he looks at you. “Let me take you backstage. Just me and you, yeah? Come with me.”

You are aware of how stupid you must look right now, not speaking a word while the others are staring at you. You’re unsure of what to say, especially when a big part of you wants to decline for Talia’s sake — she’s the dedicated fan, and deserves this more than you do.

But another part of you is tempted by Matt’s invitation, drawn to him. The part wants nothing man that for you to grip his hand tighter and allow him to drag you wherever backstage.

You’ve always been unlucky with situations like these, always the one that’s left behind during hangouts at a bar while others had fun with boys or getting drunk — which, to be fair, is all on you. You never were the one to go home with some complete stranger or let yourself indulge in alcohol until you were able to function, it was never your thing.

You nod your head just as Talia calls out your name, and your head immediately snaps in her direction, meeting her wide eyes with your own.

“Talia, I—” You start to say, but the words catch in your throat as Matt is already sliding out of the booth, his fingers tightening around yours and pulling you along with him.

You barely have time to react, hurriedly grabbing your purse as you’re whisked away from the group. You send an apologetic smile Talia’s way, wishing you could explain yourself to her, but the noises of Nate and Chris’s hollering and whooping drowns out any chance you have.

You tighten your hand around Matt’s as he pulls you through the crowded bar, and you duck your head low to avoid the stares of strangers who watch you with him — wishing that they were in your position. It gives you a slight confidence boost, knowing that people are jealous of you, and you dwell on that feeling for a moment.

Soon, Matt is leading you down a vacant hallway, heading towards a red door that reads ‘BACKSTAGE. STAFF AND BAND ACCESS ONLY’ in bold lettering.

“Here we go…” Matt mumbles under his breath as he pushes open the door, allowing you to walk in first.

The backstage area is a sight to behold. Fancy string lights hang from the ceiling, their bulbs flickering as Matt flips a switch to turn them on, bathing the room in a warm glow. The colour scheme is a combination of red and black — the walls are painted a blood red, adorned with various posters of bands, while a plush black carpet covers the floor, littered with instruments and clothing.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to a pair of light blue panties thrown across the arm of a leather sofa, and Matt seems to follow your gaze.

“One of Chris’s girls was in here before the show; Zoe,” The name doesn’t ring any bells, but you nod anyway, watching as he unzips a backpack with Chris’s name on it and shoves the panties inside as he mumbles under his breath, “At least Nick fuckin’ cleans up after himself.”

“Cleans up?” You can’t help but ask, and Matt responds with a grin, gently kicking the backpack to the side, out of your curious gaze.

Your eyes scan the room, taking in the various items scattered about — a few zip lock bags on the glass coffee table, some filled with pre-rolled joints and others with just the marijuana.

“Chris and Nate,” Matt whispers in your ear, causing you to jump slightly at his sudden closeness. They like takin’ a hit before goin’ onstage, calms their nerves.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then ask, “What about you?”

“Sometimes, but not tonight” Matt moves to stand directly in front of you, his hand coming up to caress your cheek, his rings gliding gently over your skin as he meets your gaze. “You know the reason why I brought you here, right?”

“Apparently not just to see what’s backstage,” You respond with a lighthearted laugh, though you can’t deny the nervousness bubbling within you. You swallow thickly, your palms sweaty and clammy. “I don’t—I don’t do this type of thing.”

Matt hums, “Do what?”

You feel a surge of embarrassment as the heat rises up your neck, and you can’t bring yourself to look Matt in the eyes, instead focussing on the horse necklace hanging around his neck. You wish the ground would swallow you whole this moment.

Suddenly, Matt gently grasps your chin, using his fingers and thumb to tilt your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze once again.

“Hey, if you’re uncomfortable, I can take you back out to the back right now,” Matt tells you, his tone sincere and honest. “Just say the word and we’ll leave — I’ll take you back to your friend and even call a cab for you to go home if you don’t want to stay.”

“That’s the thing…” You pause, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you grapple with your inner turmoil. “I do want to stay. You’re… you’re interesting.”

“Me? I’m interesting?” Matt can’t help but chuckle, a grin spreading across his face. “Sweetheart, it’s actually you that interested me. You caught my attention the moment I laid eyes on you. I’ve never seen you around before, and yet you make me feel like I’m goin’ crazy. I just—” He stops, voice huskier as he stares at you. “I want you so bad. I want to play with you.”

“Play?”

“Will you let me play with you?” Matt asks you sweetly despite the dark look in his eyes. “I can make you feel good… wanna make that pretty pussy of yours ready for me.”

You let out a shaky breath and nod your head, “Okay.”

You gasp as Matt instantly turns you around, your back now pressed to his chest with his lips grazing across your shoulder, his teeth nipping at the skin as his hands slowly slide down the strap of your purse, letting it drop to the floor with a thump.

Your heart beats wildly in your chest as his tentative touch, trying your best to steady your breathing as his fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt, his knuckles brushing your sides as he lifts the shirt up, bringing it over your head and letting it pool to the floor.

Matt’s teeth snag at your earlobe and you crane your head to the side, allowing him to nip and suck at the area as much as he pleases, eliciting a satisfied hum from you. He pushes his hips forward, his bulge rutting against your lower back while his hands come down to rest at your hips.

You fight the urge to laugh when you feel his fingers drum a beat on your skin, a similar pattern to the one that was playing earlier when he was on stage performing, but the urge to laugh soon disappears when he bites down on the junction between your neck and shoulder, your knees almost buckling from shock if it wasn’t for the grip he tightened around you.

“You’re so fuckin’ sensitive,” Matt murmurs against your skin, his tongue flattening over the area he bit down on. “Are you sensitive in other places too?”

“Matt…” You whisper his name when you feel his blunt fingernails dig into your hips to turn you around, his nose brushing over your own before he leans in to push his lips to yours for the first time.

The kiss is soft at first—a few second lip lock that causes your body to tingle with nerves that soon slip away when you feel the intensity grow, and your hands slide around his shoulders while his come up to cup the sides of your neck, his head tilting to the side as his tongue parts your lips.

You grip the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him as close to you as possible, and Matt follows, his body flush against yours with his hands secure around your neck, taking control of the passionate and heated kiss.

It makes your head spin and lungs burn—desperate for air, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to part away from him so soon. His kiss is intoxicating.

Matt breaks away from the kiss as he pants, “Need you–need you to—” He cuts himself off only to reconnect your lips, unable to finish his sentence until he has to force himself back. “Fuck—I need you to lie down f’me.”

You immediately drop down to the carpet with no further questions, not daring to lay across the sofa after seeing the underwear one of Chris’s girls had left behind on the arm of it.

Matt drops down carefully to sit at your waist, his knees planted on either side of your hips. You watch as he takes off his oversized graphic shirt, messing up his hair even more than it already was as it’s tugged over his head.

You’re in complete awe at his body, your hands reaching out to trace the happy trail that leads down to his jeans, making your mouth water.

His horse chained necklace glides across your skin when he leans down to litter kisses across your body, paying extra attention to your breasts that he’s eager to rip free from your bra—he doesn’t even apologise once he tears the material.

Your head tips back with a gasp as his tongue rolls over your pebbled nipple before it’s sucked into his mouth, his teeth grazing against the sensitive bud which elicits a moan from you, unable to control the subtle twitches of your body.

“Pretty—fuckin’ pretty…” Matt praises, his tongue swirling around the opposite nipple as his fingers knead the plush skin of the other. “You’re so sensitive. So easy to play with.”

“Matt—”

“Shhh, sweetheart…” Matt shushes you as you moan a little too loudly, peering up at you through hooded lids as he pulls your jeans and panties down your legs, discarding them somewhere to the side as he pries open your thighs, his gaze flitting down to your glistening folds.

Your heart races as he stares at your pussy, feeling shy and too exposed. You debate on closing your legs so he couldn’t look anymore, or telling him to hurry up so you don’t feel hot under his gaze.

Matt moves down to lay between your legs, his mouth trailing kisses over the skin of your inner thighs. You almost lose yourself as his tongue presses between your folds, his nose rubbing against your throbbing clit that’s been begging for his attention.

“Matt…” You whisper out his name pathetically, your back arching off of the floor as his hands join, two fingers pushing through your entrance and curling, drawing out a long moan from you.

He’s sloppy with his tongue, licking you in all the right places that has your toes curling over his shoulders, and his fingers that fuck into you has you wailing. You’re loud now — too loud to the point Matt’s free hand moves up your body to press over your mouth, keeping your noises muffled by the palm of his hand.

Your cunt clenches around Matt’s fingers in desperation, and the vibrations of his satisfied hums sends your eyes rolling to the back of your head in pure bliss, unable to watch the mess of hair between your legs no more.

His fingers stroke your gummy walls, the cold metal of his rings (that he really should’ve taken off) sends shivers down your spine.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” Matt compliments before his lips wrap around your clit, and you moan beneath his palm, your thighs shaking on either side of his head as he fingers you faster and harder — the wet, sloppy sounds of your cunt making you want to curl up in embarrassment, but your orgasm is rapidly approaching and you want nothing more than to come undone around his fingers.

He repeatedly whispers praises and compliments as he continues his ministrations through your orgasm; his nose nudging your little bundle of nerves, leaving messy and sloppy kisses on your cunt, and his fingers curling to graze against the spot deep within which is enough to make you tear up, becoming far too sensitive.

You’re pushing him back with your foot, and Matt chuckles as he finally lets you go. He moves to kneel between your legs that have fallen from his shoulders, and he watches your chest rise and fall rapidly as you try to catch your breath.

“Doin’ so good for me, sweetheart.” Your heart warms at Matt’s praise, and you peel your eyes open just in time to see him bring his two fingers to his mouth, covered in your arousal. He keeps eye contact with you as he pushes the digits past his lips to suck them clear, and you find the sight unbelievably attractive.

He pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a pop! before his hands drop down to the belt on his jeans, unbuckling with one hand and pulling it through the loops. He’s quick to get rid of the rest of his clothing, moving them out of the way with a hard shove so it wouldn’t cause any interruptions between you both.

Matt’s hand locks around your wrist to tug you upwards, forcing you to sit up, and your forehead almost knocks against his chest from the force.

His head dips low to kiss your lips softly before he orders you to turn around — to get on your hands and knees in front of him. You do as you’re told without question, flipping around onto your knees with your ass in the air and face resting against the plush carpet.

“Shiiit… wish you could see yourself from this angle.” Matt curses, his fingers gripping the flesh of your ass, giving the skin a few hefty slaps. He moves forward on his knees, and his fingers wrap around his cock to tap the head against your puffy folds, collecting your arousal with a low groan.

“Please, Matt… Please.” You manage to pathetically plead out, and Matt nods with a hum. His tongue licks across his bottom lip before tucking it between his teeth, watching as he pushes his thick tip into your cunt.

Your eyes widen at the stretch—the burn—fully understanding how big he is even without seeing it for yourself. He stops for a few seconds to let out a shaky exhale, his hands rubbing at your hips as he feels you tremble beneath him. It sounds like he’s mocking you, but you pay no attention as you wiggle your ass back onto him, begging for him to move.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Matt hisses through gritted teeth at the go ahead, and he moves his hand from your hips to your lower back, thrusting forward to push himself in deeper, bottoming out completely.

A choked gasp rips from the back of your throat, your nails scraping across the carpet in search of anything to grasp onto to keep yourself grounded as Matt’s hips press against your ass, his cock buried deep within the warm of your walls. He’s panting while you’re unable to make a noise, mouth stuck open wide as Matt pulls his hips back before rolling them forward, thrusting back into you.

His deep strokes have you struggling to speak, wanting to let him know how good it feels as he’s angling his hips, hitting a particular spot inside of you that has you squealing, almost sending you flying forwards if it wasn’t for his grip.

“Easy, girl. I got you,” Matt laughs between grunts, his hips slapping against your ass. “Am I makin’ you feel good?”

“S’good.” Your words slur, mind too blank to come up with a functioning sentence. He laughs again before finding a good rhythm to work with—a rhythm that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, moving too fast for you to register.

“I’m gonna cum in this tight cunt of yours—fill you up. Gonna fill you up with my cum, make a fuckin’ mess.” The way his tone sounds and how he rambles his words indicate how close he is to cumming, and you’re not far behind.

You wish you could move back against him. You wish you could do more than just bend over with your ass in the air and take what he gives you. You want to make him feel good too, but you struggle to find your strength and your mind is too clouded with lust and pleasure to even begin to move.

You’re stuck as a moaning mess for Matt to use — not that you’re complaining.

The only thing you can do is tighten your cunt around his cock in hopes it will do something to make him feel as good as he’s making you feel, and he gives you one big thrust before he stills, his cock pumping long spurts of cum deep within your pussy as he hits his climax.

The feeling alone sets you off into your last orgasm of the night, your body tingling at the warmth that spreads through you. He’s panting heavily behind you, slowly rolling his hips to ride it out, and he grins when he feels your body convulsing.

Matt takes his time pulling out of you, stroking your lower back tenderly. Once you’re free, your body flops down to the carpet, the air knocking out of your lungs from the harsh impact, leaving you gasping for air as you try to regulate your erratic breathing.

You grimace a little when you feel Matt’s cum drip out of your pussy, making a sticky mess between your thighs and the carpet below you, knowing you’ll definitely have to go home after this and shower.

Mustering up enough of your strength, you try to turn your head to peer over your shoulder to see if Matt is okay, but a gasp fleets past your lips and your body stills when you feel Matt’s hands run up the backs of your thighs and to your ass, kneading your asscheeks before pulling them apart.

He leans down, leaving a kiss on your leaking pussy from behind. “Thank you for lettin’ me play with you.”

#©sturnioz #☆ drummer!matt #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets x reader #sturniolo triplets smut

1K notes · View notes

peachesofteal · 5 months

Text

Ghoap x female reader / 18+

Everything was fine.

Your phone was quiet, but that didn’t mean anything. You would wait. You’ve waited before.

Sometimes it took a while for them to ring. They had a life together, a home, things to take care of. They had lives to rebuild every time they touched down, got home, got out of their work clothes. Pieces to patch, blood to wash clean.

You weren’t their girlfriend. They aren’t beholden to you, there’s no sacred vow tethering the three of you, no promises or pledges. You don’t know Johnny’s middle name, or Simon’s, anything about their families, their private lives. You barely knew about their jobs, only holding the scraps tossed to questions lobbed back and forth across pillows. They leave little marks across your mind, little spots of scars, knowledge scratched into your skin, sunk into your body, but never too much.

You weren’t a part of their life, really.

You were a part of the dark hours. The soft ones. You were in the orange rays of sunlight cresting over the city, and the emerald abyss of pitch black night. You were the flickering yellow street light, the grey blue smoke of Simon’s cigarette. The in between. Here in the moment, gone with morning.

For months, you had spent their time home pressed between them, folded beneath them, balanced above them. They made you sing. Made you scream, made you cry.

But most of all, they made sure-

you understood the status quo.

“Say it.” Simon cradled your jaw, thumb and finger full of steel, like he was oblivious to Johnny beneath you, his cock sliding in and out of your body, his fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, your back to his chest, eyes wide and mouth agape, Simon did not flinch.

“I- I’m not-“ a gasp, a groan, words bitten off when Johnny strokes faster, curved deep against the spot that makes you see stars. Sweat builds across your skin, slicking down your spine, and Johnny chases it, tongue sweeping salt clean. You swallow to try again. “I’m not- not yours.”

“Not ours.” Simon’s fingers wrapped around the engorged length of his cock, stroking leisurely, eyes half lidded. “You’re not ours, sweet girl. But we’ll take care of you, when you’re here.”

So, you fell into it. Fell into them. Got comfortable waiting for the phone to ring, going weeks or months at a time- holding your breath. You got into a rhythm, syncopated behind the swell of their voices, their bodies, their souls. Along for the ride. A passenger.

It was fine. You weren’t looking for anything serious anyway. Maybe someone to hang out with here and there, grab a drink, have some fun. All of these things, they gave you. All of these things were provided. Granted, you only went out with them to a dive around the corner, a dark, bottomless place with tar licked floors and worn away wooden bar. The kind with dusty stained glass pendants swinging over pool tables that have seen better days, wrought iron back patio furniture that squeaked when Simon would pull you onto his lap and hook the hem of your panties to the side to stare at your pussy, hungry and desperate glint in his gaze under the silver glow of moonlight. He’d flip up your dress and stroke you with the back of his knuckles, just the down the seam, cooing, telling you how lovely you look, asking how much you missed them.

They never took you out for meals, or dates, or anything like that. They kept you in bed, buried beneath them, wrung out, drained dry. They took and took and took until you had nothing left to give. They’d feed you, make you come, fill you up and put you to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

And it was all… fine.

Even tonight was fine. Johnny had emailed, said they were back in service range and they’d be around soon, if you weren’t busy. Typically, a phone call came later. Late, in small hours, when half the city slept.

So when you fell asleep to nothing, you weren’t surprised. They’d catch up with you.

They always did.

You didn’t hear from them the next day. You forced it away easily, didn’t let the unease nag at you, pasted a smile on your face for your friends when you agreed to meet them for dinner.

No strings. You’re not their girlfriend, you’re not theirs. You’re cool. It’s cool. You’re fine.

Besides, your friend had gotten a reservation at a very nice restaurant in one of those shiny new hotels that just went up.

You shoved the boys from your mind.

You were the cool girl. You were unaffected.

You’re fine.

“So how’s work?”

“Oh, it’s fine. You know, same shit different day.” You roll your eyes, touch light on the thin stem of a wine glass. The red is a shade darker than your nails, and your lips, and it tastes like sweet cherries soaked in acid. Stringent. Sweet. You’re about to reciprocate the question when the bulk of a man catches your eye, handsome width of a shoulder you’d know from a mile away.

Interest in your friend’s conversation evaporates, and your tongue turns tarnished, sticking in the back of your throat like an overgrown thorn.

It’s Simon. Your heart pounds, and you drink in the sight greedily, elated to see him outside of their flat, or in the bar. Thrilled to get a glimpse of him in the real world, in a restaurant, a real, tangible place, in a real, tangible moment.

“I’ll… be right back.” You manage, slipping from the both to the wall, openly gaping across a room full of diners. As he moves, you mirror it, coming closer and closer to a hallway, a lead off down to the bathrooms.

“Simon.” His name slips from your lips without permission, a build up of excitement and anxiety, all twisted into one heap that darts out in front of your intentions, your resolve. Not cool.

You expect him to be surprised, certainly. You expect to see that small spark, the little fire burning behind his irises, expect him sweep the length of your body.

You don’t expect the surprise to be blanketed with the white fog of indifference. The grey slab of a stone wall.

It confuses you. Startles you. And when you take a step-

Johnny turns the corner, an arm slung around the waist of a pretty, thin, blonde.

His lips part, brows knitting together in slow motion. The girl, their date, it seems, is oblivious. She only bats her eyelashes at Simon and then gazes up at Johnny, sweet and hopeful.

You turn cold. Your fingers go frigid, ice cracking through your veins and attacking your heart, slowing your pulse.

The room spins.

And you’re alone in it. Dining room chatter falls away, drowned out by the thrumming between your ears.

You’re alone. Alone, staring at them, trying to piece it all together, trying to breathe, trying to be-

Cool.

“I uh…” You teeter, precarious in your shoes that now feel like a mistake, like your dress is a mistake, being here is a mistake, getting up from the table-

You’re not their girlfriend. You’re not theirs.

“I’m just gonna… go.” You begin to backpedal. Johnny says your name, says it quietly, and takes a step, lurching forward, an animated corpse seeking its last meal.

“Bonnie, ye-“

“I’ll see you around.” You blurt, stepping back out of reach. Johnny’s fist clenches, and he casts a dubious glance towards Simon, who’s tense and focused on you. “See ya.” You croak, and then spin on your heel, trembling all the way out the door and into the cold, crisp air.

Very uncool.

#Ghoap x reader #angst #lmao #john soap mactavish #peaches writes #simon riley #thinking about the cool girl monologue #phone writing #I know there are mistakes in here

2K notes · View notes

talesofesther · 1 month

Text

I'll crawl home to her

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Tales of Aemond's love for you.

A/N: In Ewan's words; the only thing that can beat Aemond is love. If you like this story, you'll like my ongoing series too. ;)

Masterlist

Aemond loves you behind closed doors.

He loves you with the way his pinky hooks around yours under the tables, during supper and council meetings.

He loves you with subtle looks and barely there smiles across rooms filled with people where he can only see you.

He loves you when he comes back tasting of heartache and guilt, with raindrops or tears staining his cold skin and clothes clinging to his body. When he stumbles into your room whispering sins against your embrace only for you to kiss the words, kiss his cheeks, kiss his scar, kiss the tears away. He clings to your body, your nightgown nearly ripping with his desperation.

But it's alright, because there's only you and him and the soft light of the candles in your room. It's alright because you cradle his head, fingertips burying between wet silver locks. It's alright because you whisper forgiveness into his ears, even if he feels undeserving.

And maybe war is now inevitable, but for a fraction of a moment, Aemond feels entirely at peace.

He loves you when you watch him from afar and notice the stiffness of his shoulders, the tapping of his fingers on the table. And then you'll find an excuse to call his name and get him away from the crowds, asking for some help with something mundane. You lace your fingers together, loose and yet so present. You take a familiar route through a lone hallway, you open the doors to the library hidden away in the confines of the Keep, pull him in, and close it again.

Aemond falls to you, his forehead is leaning against yours, his eye is closed, and he can breathe. You feel like fresh air. He nuzzles his nose to yours before asking for a kiss, it's all timid and bashful, he's not sure how to love yet, all he knows is that he feels it, insistent and warm; all-consuming.

But you hold his cheeks, you guide him, you teach him. Your fingers are in his hair and your soft lips touch the corner of his mouth; all delicate and devoted, Aemond doesn't know what to do with this much love, he might crumble.

His hands are around you, all over, and he's almost afraid to hurt you; even if you promise time and time again that he could never. Aemond sighs against your lips, and it sounds a lot like; "I am yours."

He loves you because there is no need for words with you. When he holds himself back from going to you all day—between planning for a war he's fighting alone and hearing his own mother talk of him as if he were a monster—the arrival of the night feels like a reprieve. It's the moment he waits for the most, for he can lay down his armor.

Aemond walks by the garden, picking up a single blue flower. He hides it away as he walks to your chambers, no one needs to know—even if everyone already knows anyway. He gives you the blue flower, with pink on his cheeks; he feels like a young boy in love—perhaps he is.

You kiss him, sweet and soft and tasting like the blueberries you stole from the kitchen earlier. And Aemond could cry, because if he has you, he's not alone.

You're the one who takes off his eyepatch, and then his coat, and his pants, and pulls loose his hair—you brush your lips over his shoulders when you do it, and he knows no one could love him the way you do. There's nothing sexual about it even if you're the muse of all his desires. He simply lays with you in bed, his head on your chest, and you trace the outlines of his body as you speak about your day. There are goosebumps on his skin, and he loves to hear you speak, about anything and everything, it soothes his troubled soul.

It's quiet, and Aemond falls asleep with the feeling of you braiding his hair. It'll be a little curly in parts when morning comes. He never minds it.

And he loves you with the way he won't be able to speak the three words. But he'll trace and kiss them on your skin every single night. And you understand, because you always say them back.

He loves you because of the way you sometimes hold the tip of his fingers with yours behind your backs.

He loves you with the way he'll threaten death to anyone who looks at you wrong.

He loves you with the way he could burn the whole world and yet not let a single flame touch your skin.

He loves you because you'll kiss his lips even if he tastes of blood and war.

He loves you because you'll hold his pieces together when everyone else is trying to tear him apart.

He loves you because even in the darkest of days, you're always there in the end.

He loves you because you are the one who taught him what love feels like.

He loves you because even if you exchange nothing but glances when amidst other people, you'll embrace his very soul in private.

He loves you because you wait with bathed breath when he takes Vhagar to the skies, and never think twice about mounting on a horse to gallop towards the woods outside of King's Landing when you spot the dragon's large silhouette bringing him back.

You jump from the white horse, Aemond jumps from Vhagar, and you meet each other in the middle. He holds you close in a needy embrace, as if each minute could be the last. And when you pull back, you don't ask questions or make demands, you simply run your thumbs over his cheekbones and breathe easiness into his skin. The feeling of you is always like coming home.

Amidst a world of war, you're a safe haven.

Aemond loves you behind closed doors. Wholly, truly, passionately. And with all of him that no one else is allowed to see.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

I no longer make taglists. You can follow @talesofesther-library and turn notifications on to know when I’ve posted a new story/chapter.

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond imagine #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd x reader #aemond x you #aemond x fem!reader #imagine #fanfic #angst #fluff #aemond targaryen x reader #my story #aemond one eye x reader

1K notes · View notes

dudadrawings17 · 6 months

Text

Maleficent: I just hope these little goblins inside of me decide to be born very soon! I can't take this pregnancy any longer! Ursula: enjoy while you can, darling! After your babies are born, THEN you'll wish you'd still be pregnant! Cruella: at least you have Chernabog doing everything for you. Ursula: who would guess the Disney version of Satan would be such a soft papa, right? Maleficent: why, just because we have horns, like black and green colors, and we're both related to evil and Hell, we can't be good parents?? Wow, rude!

— x — x — x — x — x —

Frollo: you know... You remind me of someone... Gothel: oh yeah? Who? Frollo: your raven hair, your emerald eyes... Are you single, my dear? Gothel: I'm a single mother. Is that a problem to you. Frollo: not at all. I'm a single father too.

— x — x — x — x — x —

Cruella: say it again, darling! Clayton: I ~kill~ animals. Cruella: oooohh yeah, babe! What else? Clayton: I ~sell~ them for riches. Cruella: oooh you evil man! Clayton: now tell me, my darling. What animal you desire the most? A coat made of leopard fur? Shoes made of crocodile skin? An elephant head to decorate your living room? Say it, and I shall have whatever pleases you! Cruella: I want... A ~dalmatian~ coat! Clayton: ... Say what?

— x — x — x — x — x —

Silver: are you sure about this, James? Hook: about what, John? Silver: I don't know... It's the very first time we're leaving Pietra alone with mr. Smee... Hook: oh, don't worry, my dear. Smee knows he better take good care of our daughter if he doesn't want his ass to be kicked.

— x — x — x — x — x —

Jafar: (on the cellphone) Hades, where are you? Hades: I left earlier, Jaffar. I'm tired. Jafar: what?? Where are you going?? Hades: home. Jafar: are you kidding me?? Get your ass back here! You drunk too much! Hades: relax, will you? I took a cab! Jafar: WE WERE DRINKING IN YOUR HOME, YOU ANIMAL! Hades: ... Then where am I going??

41 notes · View notes

mooishbeam · 1 year

Text

『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity.

DING DING DING

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium.

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf.

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!”

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it.

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe.

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you.

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching:

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!”

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy”

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss.

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.”

“Then why is this happening?”

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice.

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily.

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life.

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest.

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect.

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished.

“Hm? Who’re you?”

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.”

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this.

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly.

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you.

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked.

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist.

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.”

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.”

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.”

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?”

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours.

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this.

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear.

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.”

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response.

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring.

“Wriothesley! Times up.” He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you.

“Two minutes.”

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe.

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest.

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.”

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line.

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads.

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette.

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand.

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.”

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you.

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand.

“No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy.

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.”

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.”

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him.

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze.

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips.

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips.

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction.

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl.

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile.

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence.

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head.

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair.

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone.

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle.

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant.

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face.

“Why are you being annoying-”

“Who were you talking to” he chides.

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.”

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.”

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.”

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel.

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word.

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners.

Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course.

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone.

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face.

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you.

He promised.

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address.

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again.

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.”

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly.

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse.

“What? I don’t know.” “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response.

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy.

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-”

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-”

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab.

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-”

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes.

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-”

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there.

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts.

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds.

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside.

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask.

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid.

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face.

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body.

“Can we talk?” You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology.

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.

“So, um.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably.

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts.

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes.

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you.

“Sorry. For what I said.”

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit.

“You know I didn’t do it, right?”

“I know.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.” you reassure.

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention.

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy.

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours.

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house.

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw.

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge.

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom.

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness.

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks.

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance.

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can.

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest.

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

“Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?” he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.”

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.”

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

#genshin smut #genshin au #wriothesley smut #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley genshin #wriothesley headcanons #wriothesley #fontaine #genshin x reader #genshin impact

4K notes · View notes

lqveharrington · 9 months

Text

Winter Gala | C.S.

summary: Coriolanus’ first winter gala as Panem’s President and your first winter gala as First Lady.

pairing: young, president!coriolanus snow x fem, first lady!reader

includes: literally just fluff and kissing. (and some hints to reader being pregnant.)

a/n: some winter love for my favorite (aka coryo bb)

“Don’t you look gorgeous, my First Lady.” Coriolanus wraps his arms around your waist as you clip your earrings on, smiling at him through the mirror.

“You look pretty handsome yourself, Mr. President.” You turn in his arms and lace your own behind his neck, eyes flickering around his face. “First winter gala as the President, Coryo. That’s exciting.”

He lowers his arms down to your hips, placing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Let’s give them a night to remember.”

You let one hand drift to his lips, wiping some of the lipstick off. “Perfect.”

Truly, everything in the Snow Manor was perfect. The help decorated the walls and halls with the lights you deemed the best, and the cooks made the most delicious foods for those to come eat. There were christmas trees present in almost every room, with waiters holding champagne glasses on silver platers. Coriolanus and yourself made sure everything was perfect for the first winter gala as President of Panem.

All of those who held status in the Capitol were invited, along with the past district mentors whom you both attended classes with. There was press inside and unwanted paparazzi outside, immediately becoming the talk of those who arrived to the manor.

As the Snow manor filled with distinguished guests, you were hooked around Coriolanus’ arm like a beautiful trophy, conversing with only those you wanted to.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Livia.” You give her your best smile, removing yourself from your husband to give her a brief hug. “I’m sure Festus has been a pain, as usual.”

“Don’t say that.” She quietly laughed, giving her own husband a glance before looking at the manor in awe and grabbing two champagne glasses of a server’s plate. “Here.”

“Oh no, thank you.” You decline politely, folding your hands together.

“Suit yourself.” She placed one back onto another plater. “The place looks wonderful. The lighting is everything.”

“Thank you. I do love a—“

“Excuse me, ladies, but could I borrow my wife for a bit? It’s time for my speech.” Coriolanus cut in, sneaking an arm around your waist.

Livia nodded, gesturing toward you. “Of course.”

You give her one last smile before following Coriolanus. Sure, you wanted to converse with old classmates, but as the most popular couple in Panem, you had other duties to tend to.

“See Tigris yet?” You murmur in his direction as you ascend the stairs, Coriolanus’ hand placed on the small of your back.

He shook his head, “She didn’t show. She called and said she was busy with work.”

“That’s too bad. I was hoping to speak to her about an important matter.” You frown and mumble the last bit, your ringed hand lightly moving to your stomach. “Anyway, you must mention how you were delighted to see everyone come here today.”

“Of course, I will. You think I don’t remember that, beautiful?” He kissed your cheek as you reached the balcony looking over the foyer. “Ready?”

“Always.” You lace hands with him.

Coriolanus instructed someone to shut the main lights off and flash the spot light on you both, earning awed noises from the crowd below.

“Thank you all for coming to our first winter gala!” Coriolanus started and got applause from those in the audience.

He went on to thanking everyone who came and spoke about his time as President, calling out those who helped him win the election.

“And of course, I would not have done this all with my lovely wife. Give it up for her, yeah?” He spoke, your name flawlessly living his lips. You flush from the praise but wave to the people below, squeezing Coriolanus’ hand.

“Want to say anything?” He murmured as the applause quieted. You shook your head, resting your hand on your stomach again.

Coriolanus kissed your cheek once more before wrapping up his speech, raising his glass as a final gesture. Everyone else followed suit, your own glass of water being lifted.

“Wonderful speech, my love.” You show your pearly whites as he whisked you away to a hallway.

“That’s because you wrote it, darling.” He met your lips, feeling your grin widen in the kiss.

You let one hand rest on his chest while the other comes around to his neck, Coriolanus’ hands firm on your waist.

“I love you.” You mumble in between kisses, holding your urge to not slide your fingers through his slicked back hair.

He squeezes your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. “I love you more.”

read more about coriolanus here !!

2K notes · View notes

tojisun · 11 months

Text

biker!simon (ghost) riley x fem reader

!! smut - minors dni; mask kink; D/s; off-screen scene discussion (like power play); dacryphilia; extended foreplay; petnames; mean simon // 2.6k words

biker!simon mlist

it is carnal. desperate. pawing hands finding each other, trying to get rid of the leather.

you fall on the bed with a huff, body bouncing as the mattress ripples, soft sheets tickling your bare skin. you look up, blinking past the haze, watching as simon gazes at you – clothed. helmeted.

there is something that stirs in your stomach at seeing the disparity – you, naked and bare for him; him guarded. shielded. like he is a mere spectator of your body. like you are made to have you served on a silver platter for him to nip at your flesh and to etch his passions on your skin. like all that you are is his to enjoy – a one-sided servitude.

you tremble with need, watching as he fiddles with his belt, metal clanking together when he goes to unbuckle it. you bite your bottom lip in anticipation, following the way his thick fingers pinch his zipper to tug downwards, giving you a glimpse of his black boxers. then, he reaches for his helmet.

“no!” you yelp, scrambling to stop simon from removing the gear. you don’t even register what you did or how the word ripped through your lips until it resonated in the room, your chest heaving when the realization struck.

simon’s head cocks to the side slowly, looking animated with his helmet. it makes you clench your thighs close, putting pressure on your throbbing clit, and you watch with bated breath as simon’s head dips down to follow the length of your legs.

there is something in not seeing his face that has you aching, desire creeping in from the base of your spine to the tips of your fingers. something that simon must have felt too because he unhooks his hand from his chin strap to continue shucking his cargos just low enough that you can see the chub underneath his boxers.

“like what you see?” he asks, his crooning voice muffled by his helmet.

your legs squeeze tighter, your arm unconsciously coming up to cover your tits. you do not answer him, too caught up in watching as he slowly palms himself through his boxers, cupping his hand around his tent like he’s reminding you what he’s packing.

like he’s showing you what he promises he’ll give you.

but your silence makes him snarl, his hand falling to his side before he stalks towards you. his shins bump the edge of the bed, then he bends forward, his big frame towering over your trembling figure. you feel like a prey caught before him, naked and grappling with the desire that chokes you because there is something addicting at being so powerless before him.

simon laughs, something faint and mean, like he knows what got you spiralling. like he understands.

he reaches a hand out and pushes your hair away from your face. “i should’ve known that y’r a slut for this.”

the words are whispered, barely breaching the mouth guard of his helmet, but they pierce through the building static between the two of you and you couldn’t help the whimper that falls from your lips nor the willowy gasp of his name.

simon breathes in sharply before surging towards you, his gloved hands reaching to tug your arms away from your body so he can see you again. you resist with a little pull on your end, your mind buzzing with a building fog, but simon’s hold only gains strength as he tightens his fists around your wrists.

“show me,” he grunts, pulling you towards him.

you glide across the sheets easily, simon’s overwhelming strength stirring your desires even more. shamefully, you feel your cunt dampen, slick gathering at the lips of your pussy just at having been manhandled by your lover. you want to press your face on the inside of your arm and hide how affected you are by simon’s display of dominance, but his hands are already sliding down your sides, hooking by your hips, before stopping just at the meat of your thighs.

you tumble backwards, head falling to the mattress when simon kneels between your legs, slotting himself there like that is his rightful spot; like that is where he has always belonged.

then, he stops. you think you know why.

“oh, sweetheart,” he croons, folding himself towards you just enough to make it easy for him to peer at your glistening heat. “look at you leakin’.”

you tear your eyes away from the ceiling to peer down at him, your cheeks burning at the attention he pours into your cunt, only to freeze, your breath getting stuck in your lungs.

because how could you even forget?

the expanse of your wet cunt is reflected on his visor, the details stark and clear, and you hiccup, ripping your eyes away from the image and thrashing to curl into yourself. shame unfurls in the pit of your stomach, snuffing out the rumbling want that had just overwhelmed you, but simon holds you down to make you stop.

“you have nothin’ to be shy about, kid,” he says, easing his hands away from your wrists to grip your hips. “look at me. i said look at me.”

you sniffle as you gaze back at him, flinching when all you see is your face reflected back. simon pauses at your reaction, his hold on your hips going lax.

“do you want the helmet off?” he asks, genuine concern now lining his voice.

you blink, twining your hands together now that simon isn’t holding them. yes please tickles your lips but you hesitate, battling with yourself because-

because you still want the thrill of this – the brief imbalance of power between the two of you where you are simon’s prey, and all that you are is at his mercy; the temporary display of his darkness, stretching over the horizon as he bears down onto you, diminishing your very being into nothing but his to use for pleasure.

because you ache to feel small.

so you shake your head slowly, steeling yourself as you continue to look at simon’s visor, trying to see past your reflection as though you can catch a glimpse of his eyes if only to show him that you still want this.

but more than your want, more than the hunger you have for simon, you want to show him that you trust him.

and when you feel simon’s hands spasming from where they are gripping your hips, you know he understands.

“okay,” he says, nodding. his bobbing head almost makes you giggle. “but tell me when you want to stop, alright sweetheart? remember your safeword?”

“mhmm,” you hum, writhing on the bed to get closer to him, sighing when your greedy hands finally get to rub along his abdomen. “cake pops.”

he cups your cheek, the leather smooth against your skin. “that’s right. cake pops.”

—

“please,” you sob, trembling in desperation as simon continues to tease his fingers along your slit. he has yet to give you a taste of what you want even when his cock weeps, staining the fabric of his boxers. you want to commend him for his self restraint but you know he is doing this to tease you. to drive you to insanity.

simon remains unmoved, pushing down on your stomach when your squirming turns erratic, before scooping out a glob of your slick and rubbing it along your hardened clit to make a mess out of your weeping cunt. you squeal, clawing at the sheets when his fingers pinch your clit, the muted pleasure razing into something that stings.

and yet it is still not enough.

“simon pleasepleaseplease,” you babble, blinking bleary eyes at him and shivering when all you’re met with is the sight of your tear-stained face.

you look like a wreck with your hair sticking to your damp face, your lips swollen from the way you have nibbled on them to bite down your sobs and whimpers whenever simon ripped his fingers out of your cunt every time he felt you tighten up.

“no cumming without my permission, doll,” he crooned, all mean and playful.

then he’d repeat the process – fucking his thick fingers into your pussy, pumping them with a broken tempo so that you’d never get use to the stretch, crooking them just right until your back arches off the bed with a broken scream, only for simon to push you back down again with a faux disappointed sigh.

“stay put or y’r not cumming.”

it isn’t like it mattered anyway if you had followed his commands, not when simon’s too familiar with your body; attuned to the way you react when you’re near your orgasm. and you know this is all a play to him – something that gets him off as he pulls you to the edge of your euphoria only to drag you back down from your high, crooning words lilting and fading into the background as your ringing ears struggle to grasp the sudden loss of your peaking orgasm.

he plants his hand on your belly, rubbing soothing circles as a sob racks your body. “y’ve been so good f’r me,” simon murmurs. his other hand swipes at your cunt again. “gonna reward you now, princess. gonna give you what you need.”

you sigh, a happy contented sound, and simon laughs at your reaction before lifting his hand up to cup your jaw. the action is tender and soft even when his thumb traces along your bitten lips, wiping away at the thin sheen of spit that pooled at the edge of your mouth.

you watch it all through his visor, feeling breathless at the image you make. at the image that simon reduces you to.

simon notices. of course he does.

“pretty, aren’t you, baby?” his head falls closer to you as he says this, purposefully encompassing your full visage so that your teary eyes could see your wrecked self.

you feel faint watching as his thumb finally dips into your mouth, pushing past your plush lips until the pad of it bumps into the front of your teeth. you move to suck at his finger even when he doesn’t ask, cataloguing the way your lips wrap around his thumb or how your cheeks hollow when you begin suckling.

you look erotic. sinful.

simon groans like he is thinking the same thing, his helmet bumping your forehead.

“christ, sweetheart. y’ve ruined me.”

you giggle softly as he nuzzles his helmet on your sweat-stained forehead and squeezes your jaw for the last time before pulling away. he leaves you there on the bed, your eyes blown wide as you watch him tug at his boxers to finally free his pretty, pretty cock.

the moan that leaves your lips is pornographic and carnal, and simon jolts, his hand coming up to fist his cock as the sound ricochets in the room. you see his chest heave and, had your mind not been reduced to a needy mush, you would have realized that he’s gripping his cock to stop himself from cumming just from the sound you made.

“spread y’r legs f’r me, baby,” he growls, his hand still gripping his cock.

and you do as he says: your hands ball on top of your chest as you spread your legs spread apart, the soles of your feet rustling against the sheets. cool air hits your dripping cunt and you mewl, feeling and seeing how exposed you are before simon.

“so pretty,” simon groans as he shuffles close, lining his cock against your cunt. “an’ it’s all mine, yeah?”

you nod, you think. you honestly don’t know. not when your attention is rooted to simon’s visor, watching with stuttering breaths as he moves to rub his cock along your folds. the first touch makes you squeal, the rush of pleasure jolts you into closing your legs. it’s only simon’s hand pressed on the inside of your thigh that stops you from doing so, the pressure he’s putting on your leg gluing your muscle onto the bed.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he croaks, still slicking his cock along your folds, the sounds so filthy as they filter through the air. “so fuckin’ wet f’r me.”

god, this is torturous. you need him so desperately, it hurts.

you break into sobs as you reach out to grasp at his arms, feeling untethered as your sanity slips under the fog, feeling it grow taut like a band that’s about to snap when simon’s cock rubs against your clit. he tilts his head up just enough that you know he’s watching you, his beautiful eyes roving over the devastation on your face.

knowing that he’s looking eggs you on – desperation clawing underneath your skin, needing to be itched. “inside, please! simon, please-!” you hiccup. “i wan’ feel you! i wan’-”

you scream, your words petering into a garbled wail when simon finally sinks his cock in you. your head falls back to the pillows, your eyes rolling back to your skull. but he keeps on sliding, keeps on thrusting in – his cock is so long, it feels endless.

you’re babbling, moans slithering into a noiseless squeal when simon’s pelvis finally bumps the inside of your thighs.

he’s in. you realize with a tremble. all of him, in you.

your ecstasy bloats, peaking, and your toes curl when it explodes, razing through your sanity until all you can feel is a buzz. you go numb, your ears ringing with a growing static and you fall lax on the bed. a marionette with strings cut.

“fuckin’ hell, princess,” simon hisses, almost like a happy purr. a muted thump somewhere beside the bed tickles your ears. “you jus’ squirted.”

what?

he laughs, the sound so giddy as it spills from his lips. lips which, you realize amidst the satiated thrums spreading throughout your body, you can see.

oh, you think with a start. his helmet’s gone.

“si?” you murmur, voice hoarse and rugged.

“i’m here, sweetheart,” simon replies, burying his face on the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. “y’came so good f’r me. so perfect f’r me.” he presses a kiss on your skin as he says this.

time stops becoming a blur for you and it trickles back to you in bits, starting from the buzz underneath your veins and the satisfying weight buried in your cunt.

oh-

“simon, i’m sorry-”

simon kisses your lips and devours your apology, his tongue licking into your mouth, claiming with such ferocity. you moan, feeling the expanding warmth running from your throbbing lips to your fluttering cunt; not yet satiated. needing more.

you gasp when he finally pulls back just enough that his lips hover above yours, ghosting a touch. clingy even when you are wrapped around him.

“y’came like a good girl,” simon murmurs, his breath tickling your spit-smeared lips. “my good girl.”

you let out a happy sigh when simon draws out, the drag of his cock slow and delicious, before he’s pressing it back in, filling you up once again. you feel the wet patch on his pants and his boxers, and your cheeks burn when you catalogue it as your mess.

but god, you want more.

“harder, si,” you mewl, weak hands coming up to tangle in his messy hair. “i want it harder.”

simon braces his arms on either side of your head, his nose rubbing along your damp cheeks until he’s pulling back just enough that you see the way his eyes are blown wide with his lust.

“anythin’ for you, sweetheart.”

he kisses your cheek – the last of his gentleness for the night.

“anythin’.”

#suns.f #biker!simon #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley smut #ghost smut #simon riley smut #suns #giggles and runs away in shame #his bike isnt mentioned at all im sorry 😭

2K notes · View notes

b00tyliciousbabe · 19 days

Text

waves

pairing: surfer!bf x THICC!male reader

summary: oh, how i need a tall, curly headed goofball…

notes: HOPE MY LOVELIES ARE DOING WELL. trying to get through my requests, but this was a personal one of mine. slowly but surely y’all! as summer is coming to an end, it was SO necessary for me to feed my hot girl delusions at least a couple more times. also, enjoy the new style i have been experimenting with!

song rec: they. - diamonds and pearls

album rec: sabrina carpenter - short n sweet (my girl sabz ate so hard with this project, i just wish it was released in early aug so she could’ve rly CONQUERED summer 2024) THEE POP PRINCESS!

brief background:

your boyfriend was raised with a silver spoon; he’d never had to work a day in his life and everything he ever wanted, he got. well, everything except you. throwing money to impress people had worked on all of his other childhood crushes, but not you, which made him all the more determined to prove to you he wasn’t just some fuck boi the media painted him out to be. his family owned the richest resort in the carribean, and had hotels in every mega city worldwide. but wherever they travelled to, your man was never too far from a beach. call it fate, but the sea would always lead you back to him. it was where he first laid eyes on you; reading a very lengthy novel as you laid on the sand, watching your friends play in the water. after their surf practice, your mutual friends introduced the two of you and you were SMITTEN - but you couldn’t show your interest too soon. he too was whipped, and didn’t take nearly as much effort to hide it, practically drooling whilst staring at you. his mates would constantly ridicule him for his dazed expression around you, and he could never hear the end of the new nickname ‘bambi boy’ you gave him because he looked so cute when he was flustered. after weeks of regular conversation and a couple walks on the beach, he officially asked to be your boyfriend and you said yes.

when it came to finally introducing you to his family, they loved you almost as much as he did. he was the youngest of six and so he got the privilege of this. his parents especially were wishing y’all would stay together. they believed you were the perfect match for their goofball of a son.

core memory sfw:

the first time he said ‘i love you’ with TRUE meaning; you were always worried that you were just one fuck away from being forgotten, but your man made sure to constantly affirm his love for you. he brought you the biggest bouquet of your favourite flowers, and stood outside in the pouring rain, playing a mixtape he’d made for you. it was genuinely a scene out of a film, he was your knight in shining armour (a hawaiian shirt and matching shorts) and it was then that you knew that you guys were endgame.

core memory nsfw:

to say your bf loves your body is an understatement. the way he’s hooked on your body, some might say it’s borderline unhealthy. he’s so handy and keeps his hands on your ass all the time. whether it’s a spank, watching it jiggle as you walk away from him, or a full on grip as his pulls you onto his dick, he’s a man that would gladly die between your cheeks. one time during dinner you wore a wrap skirt paired with a tank top, paired with a thong that was peeping out enough to make your man’s eyes pop out of his head like a cartoon character. as his jaw dropped, practically salivating at the sight of your body moving closer to him, you picked it up and giggled, stroking his chin endearingly. for the entire meal he was practically sat right next to you, breathing in your luscious skin. ‘boy, you better calm down, we have company.’ you giggled. ‘fuck bby, how can you say that when you look good enough for me to eat?’ he whispered into your ear, trying not to bring too much attention. before you knew it you were face down, ass up and your thong was pulled to the side, as he used it as a pseudo leash keeping your pussy bouncing on his cock.

your favourite thing about him: his oddball nature.

as much as it can annoy you that he’s always cracking jokes, leaving no room for respite, your bf never fails to bring joy to your life. as the life of the party he’s always bringing that much needed energy to the dull world of his mostly corporate family. whether it be seeing you hollering at some unhinged thing he’d said, or watching him (ironically) fuck the smile onto your lips, you can tell that comedy is who he is, and you wouldn’t change your weirdo for anything.

his favourite thing about you: how artistic you are.

almost impossibly, it makes your boyfriend fall in love with you even more seeing your creativity flourish. you’re always making him jewellery out of the shells and stones you find. he loves to wear them, it gets you going when you see the necklace you made for him swing back and forth as he fucks into you. or when you feel the cold of his rings and bracelet on your waist as he holds you in position to fuck you even harder. he’s so proud of you.

his insta post: mostly just him showing off his good looks (we love a cocky man around here) and his beach flix.

surfer!bf my face is his favourite seat.

y/n: that big dick is a very close second though.

tinashe replied: @y/n, you a nasty girl fr.

sabrinacarpenter replied: @y/n girl, need you on that bed chem remix. about to do some damage…in a good way x

your insta post: almost always pictures of your creations; you like to keep your relationship with him private, that’s YOUR man, and you can get very possessive.

y/n feel free to add to your pinterest boards.

surfer!bf: baby you’re so talented 🩵

viviennewestwood: so excited to see your next collection!

surfer!bf: i love you.

y/n replied: @surfer!bf aw, i love you too babes!

plans for the future!

being with one of the greatest surfers in the world, definitely came with some amazing perks.

marriage:

oh, he’s 100% thought about it, and would definitely be the one to propose. the free spirit in him doesn’t need a piece of paper to prove that he loves you, truly. But would totally be your husband if you let him x

children:

your surfer!bf ABSOLUTELY WANTS TO HAVE A FAMILY WITH YOU! sees himself as the best father and y’all would have the cutest kids ever.

tag list:

@gayaristocrat

@multireese

@malereadermaniac

@lysanderplume

@ghostking4m

#gay #bottom male reader #smut #gay male #gay reader #male bottom #male x male #gay love #gay smut #male bottom reader #male x male fluff #male reader #bottom reader

546 notes · View notes

kamaluhkhan · 25 days

Text

LONG HOT SUMMER NIGHT

pairing: luke castellan x fem!poseidon!reader word count: 8.4k chapter summary: it's the summer solstice and olympus is throwing a party! thalia notices the tension between you and luke, poseidon gives you some relationship advice and you punch the god of desire in the face. warnings: angst! jealous reader. lots of drinking. complicated relationships. reader dealing with ptsd + survivor's guilt (post-titan war). mention of injuries + blood. creepy guy pushing reader to hook up. ending is a bit steamy but no actual smut. spoilers for the entire pjo (book) series. no betrayal (au where chris was the one who sided w kronos and led the titan army) so slightly ooc luke <3 also reader is in a band called the midnight sirens and is born on the summer solstice! author's note: thank you so much for all the love for part 1!! summer is almost over and this is very much a summer series BUT summer's not over yet !!! hope y'all enjoy this one too and thanks 4 reading 💙

part 1 | series masterlist

♪: long hot summer night by jimi hendrix

mail to:

Luke Castellan Camp Half-Blood, Half-Blood Hill 3.141 Farm Road Long Island, New York 11954

LUKE!

I’m sitting in my kitchen right now, watching Percy make us blue blueberry pancakes and hoping he doesn’t burn down my kitchen while doing so. I caved and agreed to take him to Disneyland while he’s here and breakfast was part of the deal, but I think I might regret it later.

We went surfing yesterday. It was Percy’s first time, but he was (unsurprisingly) amazing at it. I still can’t get over how beautiful the beaches are and the waves — gods, the waves are unreal. You’d seriously love it here. It’s like every day is summer. You have to come visit. PLEASE come visit!!!!

- [your initial]

P.S. The band and I are working on some new music, which means I won’t make it to camp again this summer. I’m sorry ;( Fingers crossed I’ll make it next year.

P.P.S. hi luke! happy to report that i did not burn down my sister’s kitchen. anyways, can’t wait to kick your ass in sword-fighting this summer. xoxo, percy

THREE YEARS LATER

the first time you visited olympus, you had been sent on a quest to retrieve zeus’ stolen lightning bolt, bringing luke and charles beckendorf along with you. you had missed the summer solstice deadline, but still tried to reason with the king of the gods when presenting the symbol of power, maybe calling him out once or twice along the way. before zeus could strike you down for your boldness, poseidon stepped in. the war between them was averted in fear of a much larger, looming threat; an ominous introduction for what was to come in the next chapter of your life.

another time, the gods debated whether or not they should kill you, some seeing you as a threat to their future. that was the day you accepted your destiny, not wanting your brother percy or your cousin nico to deal with the weight of the great prophecy.

your last visit to olympus was on your 18th birthday, after helping to defeat kronos and his army. you made the gods swear to stop neglecting their kids and to allow all demigods, regardless of whether their parent was an olympian or not, to have a home at camp half-blood; to treat their children as children rather than heroes as pawns in their twisted games.

needless to say, it’s quite strange, being back here under very, very different circumstances, where the gods invited camp half-blood’s senior counsellors and staff to join in their summer solstice festivities.

it’s not every day you’ll be invited to a party on olympus; you’re determined to have a good time, to have fun. there’s already an abundance of music, dancing, food, or alcohol, and the night is just getting started.

you’re happy to be there with new and old friends, but you’re ecstatic when you see that thalia grace is there, too.

“immortality looks good on you, t!” you compliment, raising your voice slightly over the music.

thalia preens, and you bask in her silver glow.

“bet you wish you took the gods up on their offer, huh,” she teases. then, her eyes widen. “oh - shit! it’s your birthday! happy birthday!”

thalia tackles you with another hug; even after all these years, she still smells like pine trees. she grabs two goblets of honeyed wine and hands one to you as you catch up. you eagerly gulp the sweet drink, until you’re reaching for another while listening to her stories about adventures she’d been on with the hunters of artemis.

about halfway through her story about fighting off a manticore during a snow storm, a nymph appears with a platter of the ripest of fruit – sweet plums and fresh figs, tantalising pomegranates, succulent grapes and crisp apples.

“oh my gods, this is the best apple i’ve had in my entire life!” thalia exclaims after indulging in a taste, herself giddy from a few goblets of wine. “where’s luke? he’s gotta try this — he’s always reminding us to eat more fruit. luke!”

you hadn’t kept track of luke, at least not on purpose. you assumed he’d been off partying with van or his siblings, and, probably, avoiding you. wherever he was, thalia calls his name twice more and, like a ghost, luke appears.

“i’m here, t.” luke’s voice is a deep, steady rumble floating above the music. his cheeks are slightly flushed, either from the heat or the drinks. likely both. “what’s up?”

“you need to try this.” thalia shoves the apple in his mouth before luke can respond.

luke takes a bite, and some juice drips down his chin. you, in a honey-soaked haze, think about running your tongue over to catch it, but he beats you to it, wiping it away with the back of his hand.

probably for the best.

“holy shit. yeah, it’s good.”

thalia, a sparkle in her eyes, urges you to try it as well. from across the makeshift triangle the three of you had formed, luke tosses the apple your way. you catch it effortlessly, and sink your teeth into it.

you’ve almost overwhelmed by the burst of flavor. the fruit is just the right amount of tart to balance out the sweetness, and it’s damn near the best crunch you’ve ever experienced.

“good is an understatement,” you say after another bite. a distant memory crosses your mind. “i wonder if these are the same ones we almost got killed by a hellhound for.”

thalia shakes her head, laughing in disbelief. “all because luke said we needed more vitamin c.”

“i was just looking out for us!” luke guffaws. “how was i supposed to know that persephone owned an apple orchard in connecticut?”

you pat his shoulder, the three of you smiling at the memory. “let’s call it an honest mistake.”

“well if annabeth had been with us by then, i’m sure that she wouldn’t have made that same honest mistake.”

“okay, but she’s the daughter of athena —”

you let luke and thalia slip back into their playful bickering as if no time has passed. you listen and continue eating that glorious apple, enjoying how the golden glow of your shared past fills whatever distance might have grown between the three of you.

somewhere down memory lane, luke’s amber eyes flick towards you.

“hey, you’ve got some….” without another word, luke suddenly reaches over to brush away a trail of juice with his thumb before sticking the finger in his mouth to savour the taste. he holds your gaze as he does so, and you feel a familiar kind of heat rush through your body — not from alcohol or summer sun, but from luke.

it’s such an intimate gesture that you almost forget that you’re at some extravagant party on mount olympus, where gods and half-bloods and a whole bunch of other mythological creatures are celebrating the start of summer by essentially getting drunk together, until thalia clears her throat.

“okay, well, seems like the two of you might want some alone time.”

luke’s cheeks grow more flushed than before, and his eyes widen as if realizing what he’d done.

“oh, we don’t need —”

“we’re not —”

you and luke both stumble over your words; thalia just smiles knowingly.

“i’m gonna go flirt with that nymph,” she announces, pointing across the grand marble pavilion.

“i thought — doesn’t artemis sort of frown upon that sort of thing?” you ask.

“she makes exceptions on holidays. besides, i’m her favourite. you guys have fun.” thalia winks at you and walks away.

you glance at luke and, gods, there’s so much history between you.

the time you jumped into an ocean full of sirens to save luke from drowning? you have a scar running down your forearm where one of them scratched you as you struggled to get luke towards the surface.

or when you took turns holding up the sky while on a quest to save lady artemis and defeat the titan atlas? it’s evident in the matching streaks of grey that you each have running through your hair. whenever you see your reflection in the mirror, you remember how you couldn’t save your cousin bianca di angelo earlier that day, and how nico has had to grow up without a sister because of a promise you broke.

how about when you, luke, and one of your best friends were sent on a mission to destroy the princess andromeda, the headquarters of kronos’ army? only the two of you survived, and sometimes you can still feel luke squeezing your hand pike he did during charles beckendorf’s burial shroud ceremony while you both cried.

or when luke took a sword between the ribs for you because he, somehow, knew the one spot the curse of achilles left you vulnerable? he can only slouch for so long before the bones there start to ache.

so, yeah. there’s way too much history, and so many tangled threads, and now really isn’t an ideal time to unravel it all.

“i’m gonna go find my dad,” you blurt out and disappear into the crowd with no real intention of finding your father.

the once sweet apple now tastes rotten on your tongue; you rid yourself of it in exchange for some more wine. you’re determined to have fun — no pain or heartache or grief.

you’ve all had enough of that for three lifetimes.

summer — age 14

“sorry your birthday was ruined.”

luke exhaled sharply when you pressed a disinfectant-soaked cloth to the wound on his leg.

“hold still,” was all you mumbled in response, brows knitted together as you wrapped the cut in gauze.

once you were done with his leg, you moved on to luke’s hands, burned by poisonous acid. the four of you had run into a hydra earlier that night. you managed to wound it enough so you could all get away, but not before a few injuries were sustained.

you were uncharacteristically quiet as you worked. you only met luke’s gaze to warn him before pouring some nectar on his wounds. you let luke hold your hand, tightly, as the liquid dripped through his fingers and down to yours, first right, then left. the pain was instant, seering almost as much as the hydra acid, but it was over quickly. the last thing you did was bandage each hand before getting up.

“i’m…i’m gonna check on thalia and annabeth. i’ll take first watch.”

luke caught your hand before you got away.

“wait. you’re bleeding.” he pointed to the cut on your brow. you had been so preoccupied in making sure everyone else was safe that you let crimson liquid drip down your face. it probably stung, too, based on your grimace.

luke wiped away the blood with his sleeve, used nectar to disinfect the wound, and dressed it with a fresh bandage, working silently as you did.

“it’s still your birthday,” luke finally said once he was done. “you get some rest; i’ll take first watch.”

you gave him a small, strained smile before checking on the others.

later that night, you stayed up with luke anyways.

seemingly out of nowhere, you handed him your portable cassette player. luke stared at it for a moment, unwilling to comprehend just what you were offering and, more importantly, why.

you and luke had grown accustomed to sharing things: flannels, socks, makeshift beds and scavenged food. but this —

it was your aunt’s.

you never met your mother, who’d left you as a baby, and of course, poseidon was too busy tending to his underwater kingdom to step in as a parent. your aunt raised you as her own. and then you lost her, too.

you kept her cassette player buried deep in your bag with some mixtapes she had made and ones you’d stolen throughout the years. when it wasn’t your turn to keep watch, luke would sometimes catch you with headphones on, looking up at the stars.

luke liked to think he knew you well; all those subtle elements that made you — the crack of your knuckles, the cadence of your voice, the slope of your nose, the dreams of your childhood. engraved in his own personhood. bones and all.

and, still: he didn’t know you, not entirely.

you’d only allowed luke to listen with you once, maybe twice. he’d never forget what it was like: knees pressed together and heads just as close to keep the wires from stretching too far; you gushing about the magic of jimi hendrix, recounting memories that echoed through gentle guitar riffs; luke yearning for one more song to play, for another a wistful smile of yours to appear. luke, wishing to linger in your private oasis a beat longer before you pushed him out again and closed the door behind him.

the one lock luke couldn’t crack: your grief, and how you carried on so buoyantly despite its weight.

well, there you were, presenting the key to luke as an offering. a sacrifice for something luke would never ask of you.

“this….” luke swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to look at you. he turned the device over in his bandaged hands, the metal smooth, though well-worn. “you can’t just —”

leave. you can’t just leave. you can’t just —

“hey.”

your hand over his, forcing him to stop spiralling and look at you.

right away, luke regretted it. a small sliver of him, however delusional, had hoped that you were joking.

you weren’t. behind you, there was an empty space where you had previously wedged your sleeping bag. your backpack was already strapped around your shoulders, fully packed.

“i need to leave, luke. we can’t stay together. it’s too dangerous.”

“you don’t need to —”

“there’s more of us, now,” you interrupted, pulling your hand away to rest on your thigh. “four demigods together isn’t ideal. we’ve been attracting more monsters. more deadly monsters.”

“that would happen, anyways. it always has whether it’s the four of us, the two of us, or….”

luke stopped his sentence short, not even wanting to give you the idea to go out on your own, even though you’d probably been thinking about leaving for some time.

you made reckless decisions sometimes, but this didn’t seem to be one of them.

“well, it’s happening more.” your voice was steady, too steady. luke imagined you rehearsing just what to say to counter the inevitable backlash.

luke shook his head. “i’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“you almost died because of me,” you clipped. you lifted a hand to touch the bruise on luke’s jaw, but let it drop just as quickly. “you know that children of the big three cause more trouble. maybe we managed it when it was the two of us, but now, there’s more to consider. a child of poseidon and a child of zeus, travelling together. it’s like we’re asking to be killed. it’s too dangerous.”

“that’s our life,” luke snapped. “you can’t just run from it.” from us.

you faltered, looking back to where annabeth and thalia were sleeping peacefully.

oh. he must have said that last part out loud, too.

“you know i’m right,” is all you said.

luke could only shake his head again. because, fine, you weren’t entirely wrong. it was more dangerous — but it was danger luke hoped you’d all face, together.

“i’ve made up my mind,” you added, an anchor in the sand.

“don’t leave.” luke’s words came out as a prayer. if he offered something, maybe you’d stay.

you paused to take a shaky breath. “this isn’t goodbye, luke. i swear to poseidon…fuck, i swear to all the gods that this isn’t goodbye.”

luke couldn’t speak. there were tears bubbling in his throat, threatening to spill.

“so, keep this for me,” you whispered, once again placing your hand on top of luke’s. his fingers gripped your cassette player tightly, like it was the only piece of driftwood leftover from a shipwreck, keeping him from sinking into the cold, dark nothing. “you’ll give it back when we see each other again.”

a promise.

“fine,” luke conceded, though he wanted to scream at you. he wanted to argue like little kids — petty, loud, meaningless, back and forth until tears streamed down cheeks and throats were raw.

but, you were leaving, one way or another. luke didn’t want this shared memory to be tainted if it might be your last.

“you have to take this, then. give it back when we see each other again.”

luke removed the chain from around his neck, the one that held the key to his childhood home. he placed it around yours, instead.

he didn’t need the key now, but his mother had given it to him when he was six. before he knew what it meant to be the son of hermes, god of thieves.

call him sentimental, but luke had kept it. just in case he ever got lost.

“if you’re ever back in connecticut, you have a home.”

“yeah, okay.” you smiled softly.

it fell just as quickly.

“take care of them,” you told him. “of yourself, too. i’ll see you again when it’s safe.”

luke didn’t ask when it would be safe, because the truth is that it might never be.

“because you want your cassette player back?” luke joked, instead trying to lighten the mood, to capture one last moment of brightness.

you laughed softly to not wake the others.

“yeah. that too.”

you pressed your forehead to his, something you hadn’t done since you were kids.

“i’ll see you again,” you repeated.

without another word, you got up and jogged away. luke shut his eyes, refusing to see you become nothing but a shadow.

(you looked back several times, but he couldn’t see through the darkness.)

now

call the gods out on their bullshit (you encourage it), but if they have one thing going for them, it’s that the olympians know how to throw a party.

the night grows darker, yet somehow becomes more lively. demeter and persephone had supplied a generous amount of fresh, decadent fruit, and dionysus an even more generous amount of wine. apollo starts a karaoke corner and you’re just tipsy enough to agree to sing a duet with him in order to break the ice. apparently, he’s a big midnight sirens fan and had seen your band when you headlined at glastonbury festival. you smile to yourself, imagining your bandmates’ faces if you told them that the god of music had watched you perform.

as you hand the microphone to a giggling dryad, the sound of your name washes over like gentle waves on a shore.

“if it isn’t my sweet, summer child!” your father brings you in for a hug and an ocean breeze engulfs you — salt and sand and sun.

“hi dad,” you exhale as you pull away.

you hadn’t seen each other in a while, but poseidon looks the same. he’s dressed in a turquoise hawaiian shirt and birkenstocks with a crown of seashells on his head. there’s a cocktail umbrella in his glass, a slice of pineapple wedged onto the rim. you’re about to ask him how he managed to secure a pina colada and where you might find one, too.

“that was quite the performance!” poseidon takes an eager sip of his drink, green eyes sparkling like sea glass in the sun. “i must tell you: your newest album is all the rage in atlantis. the nereids and merpeople can’t seem to get enough of it and, truthfully, i find myself playing it on repeat as well. you’re quite talented.”

you try not to let your shock slip through, instead smiling and asking how things are in his underwater kingdom, but you’re….touched at your father’s unexpected praise.

the gods aren’t perfect, and your father is no exception. they’re divine beings who have time to conceive children, but not to raise them. there’s a long history of them abandoning, mistreating, and manipulating their own offspring. of course, being the prophecy child, it became practically impossible for your father to ignore you; you’re sure that being dubbed the saviour of olympus gives him bragging rights with his immortal family. even with their sworn promise to change, it’s impossible not to resent the gods in some ways.

still, you feel comforted by your father's presence at times — when you catch the perfect wave on your surfboard, for example, or when you sit on your fire escape during a storm after a bad day. it’s been like that pretty much all your life: poseidon there in spirit, not in practice. despite everything, he’s watched over you, and percy, throughout the years.

and here poseidon is now, grinning at you like you’re his pride and joy.

“enough about aquatic politics.” he pats your shoulder enthusiastically after telling you about the struggles of keeping humans from overfishing. “i came over to wish you a happy birthday. and to give you this.”

poseidon reaches into the pocket of his shirt and hands you something you’d long thought gone: a leather cord with several clay beads and a silver key.

“i found it off the california coast,” he explains. “i kept meaning to get it to you, but i suppose time has a way of getting away from us, immortal or not.”

a warmth grows in your chest as you run your thumb over your old camp necklace, bright and full. it had fallen off one day when you’d gone surfing, and you assumed it was lost to the ocean. you'd been given a fresh leather cord when you arrived at camp earlier this summer, but it felt empty. hollow.

“thanks, dad.”

you smile at him as you put on the necklace; it feels like coming home. your father then asks you about your summer so far.

you tell him all about your life as of late, until you catch a glimpse of luke with van on a marble bench at the other end of the pavilion. van is sitting in luke’s lap, and they lean over to whisper something in his ear before kissing his cheek.

you freeze mid-way through your sentence.

sensing the shift in mood, poseidon frowns. he turns his head to follow your gaze.

“ah.” poseidon turns back to you and clears his throat. “now, i don’t mean to pry, but i saw you earlier with the castellan boy.”

you flush at the fact that your moment with luke was witnessed by your own father. “dad —”

“did you know in ancient greece, throwing someone an apple and having them catch it is considered a marriage proposal?”

“i’m pretty sure that was disproven,” you scoff.

poseidon raises an eyebrow at you, clearly amused. “which one of us was actually there, hm?” and though you roll your eyes, you can’t argue with that. “i just wanted to know if there was a wedding happening in the near future.”

you almost choke on the last remnants of your wine. “dad.”

“i’m kidding. i’m kidding! mr. castellan seems otherwise occupied.”

“yeah, it does seem that way,” you grumble.

poseidon puts a hand on your shoulder, firm but reassuring. “regardless: if you find someone who would go to tartarus and back with you, someone who would fight alongside you every step of the way, you hold on to them. there’s only so much time you mortals have on this earth.”

you sigh — easier said than done — but your father is trying, so you manage a nod.

“i’ll keep that in mind.”

“now, i better go — ” poseidon looks over your shoulder, where the air behind you starts to feel staticky. “it seems a disagreement is brewing between zeus and hades. they always get into it whenever dionysus makes the wine a bit too strong. brother, put away the lightning bolt —” and he rushes away to prevent another divine conflict from arising.

left to your own devices, you venture over to the food table, finding an array of fresh and dried fruit, breads, cured meat, fresh oysters and, of course, more wine. you grab a goblet and a few dried figs.

“careful, i heard dionysus made the wine extra strong tonight,” someone warns, creeping up beside you. the voice is soft and alluring, and you feel something tug at your heart.

you do a double take when you turn to them; the person is devilishly handsome, a golden aura paired with a golden smile.

(you will soon find out that the god flirting with you is the son of ares and aphrodite, the latter of which takes the appearance of whoever the onlooker loves. as it turns out, her son appears in the same way.

all this to say: it doesn’t mean anything that this god looks like luke castellan to you.

it doesn’t mean anything at all.)

“i’m eros.”

“hey. i’m —”

“i know who you are, savior of olympus.” eros winks at you. “i just never realized you were so beautiful.”

your cheeks heat up as you take a sip of your drink.

oh, shit.

okay. the literal god of desire and pleasure is flirting with you.

you’re flattered, really, and maybe the wine has gotten to your head, but you’re not eager to turn him away.

“well, i’ve definitely heard about you, and the rumors do not do you justice,” you quip, painting on a flirtatious smile.

eros puffs out his chest, clearly pleased.

over the next few minutes, you decide that eros can hold a decent conversation, asking you the classic first date questions about your likes and dislikes, and he’s cute enough that you wouldn’t mind things going further.

(he might be a god, but he’s no luke. you push that thought away, and force yourself to flirt with helios. eros. right, eros.)

eros leans in close, pretends to listen to you, lets his gaze drop every so often to the deep v-neck of your shirt.

“no way! 13 going on 30 is a classic,” you argue. you nudge your shoulder into eros’s playfully, and let the contact between you linger. eros, the inspiration for cupid himself, has angel wings, and you feel them brush softly against your burning skin.

“it’s totally overrated!” eros exclaims. “also, the childhood friends to lovers trope gives people false hope.”

“it’s not false hope. it’s about the buildup to their happily ever after,” you reason, swallowing some wine to dislodge the lump in your throat.

eros shakes his head. “trust me, baby, it’s all about the instant attraction. that’s where the excitement is.”

he’s so close now, you can smell the sharp alcohol on his breath. not wine, but something stronger.

“oh? what do you mean by that?” you lean impossibly closer, trailing a finger down his chest.

eros smirks, placing a hand on your thigh. “want me to demonstrate?”

not even a second after you whisper a yes, eros crashes his lips onto yours, and you will yourself to kiss back. he slides his tongue in your mouth, runs his hands over your body.

you’re making out with the god of desire and passion, so, objectively, it’s a good first kiss: soft around the edges and firm where it needs to be.

sure — you feel nothing, no real spark, but it’s almost enough to fill the hole in your heart in the shape of a certain son of hermes.

the son of hermes who has moved on and is in a loving relationship with a perfect emotionally available partner.

so, it’s fine.

this, this thing with eros, is fine.

you’re fine.

eros pulls away first, but keeps a hand on your cheek.

“let's get out of here.”

he grabs your wrist before you have a chance to answer. you stand up, let him weave you through the crowd towards the stairs of the pavilion. apparently, his room is just through the garden.

as he tugs you along, he looks back at you, smiling. under the glow of the stars, eros looks just like luke, except it’s becoming harder to ignore that he isn’t luke and that makes you feel all sorts of nauseous. your camp necklace weighs on your chest and, in particular, the silver key that you’d kept for all those years burns through your skin.

lightheaded, you pull away from eros’ grip just as you reach the top of the stairs and place a hand on the column next to you to steady yourself.

eros turns around sharply. “what is it?”

“i changed my mind, actually. let’s just…keep talking here.”

eros grabs your wrist again, his grip tighter than before. “don’t be a tease.” his tone is ever-so-gentle, but there’s an edge behind his words.

this time, your voice comes out more assertive. “i just changed my mind. that doesn’t make me a tease.”

“come on, baby, don’t you wanna experience what real passion is? this is a once in a lifetime opportunity that a million girls would kill for. you’d be an idiot to pass it up.” he brags, and you’re this close to breaking this guy’s nose, god or not.

“i don’t care,” you snap, struggling to break free from his grip. “and i’m not your baby.”

“okay, whatever,” eros rolls his eyes, but quickly plasters on an arrogant grin. “we’ll go somewhere private and i’ll call you whatever you want.”

he manages to drag you down two steps as you strain against his iron grip, now almost cutting off your circulation. your heartbeat quickens and you feel dizzy. finally, you grab onto the railing for leverage and use your strength to rip out of his grip, forcing eros to stop in his tracks.

“what is it now?” he snaps, whipping his head around once more.

he looks nothing like luke, now.

“just stop, eros.”

“listen,” he starts, speaking to you almost mockingly, like you’re a naive little kid. so much for being the savior of olympus. “trust me, i know what people want, so you don’t have to be shy. i promise to be the best you’ve ever had —”

“eros, is it?” the rest of the party is in full motion, but here’s percy, giving eros one of the most intense death stares you’ve ever seen. percy, your little brother who talks to lonely fish at the aquarium; who, if you cut open, would bleed blue m&m’s; who would never let anyone, god or otherwise, hurt someone he loves. “i’m gonna have to ask you to let go of my sister.”

“mind your own business, kid,” eros hisses. “we’re kinda in the middle of something.” he tries to move you down another step, but you stand your ground.

annabeth, no longer the scared little seven year old you, luke, and thalia found behind a dumpster, is also glaring at liam from the top of the stairs. one of her hands rests firmly on her belt, where she keeps her dagger.

“i’d back off, if i were you,” she warns. “wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

“just mind your own business,” eros snarls.

“they said leave her alone,” thalia asserts, walking over once she sees what’s happening. “and you don’t wanna mess with us, trust me.” she clenches her hand into a fist.

“who the fuck are you? her bodyguards?”

“just let her go,” percy orders. “my sister can do a lot better than a minor god with a major god complex.”

eros growls, baring his teeth at percy. “you impertinent little shit.”

as soon as eros lunges for your brother, you tug one of his wings towards you, hard. he whips around and you take the opportunity to punch him in the face. he doubles over, golden ichor gushing from his nose.

“i’d be careful if i were you, baby,” you seethe. “you wouldn’t want to go up against the demigods who led an army against kronos and won. unless, of course, humiliation is a kink of yours.” you laugh humorlessly at the way eros scowls at your words. “to each their own,” you continue. “but i’m not in the mood to fuck an entitled creep with angel wings to compensate for his tiny dick. you better fucking respect that, and leave us alone while you’re at it.”

eros’ flirtatious smile is long gone, replaced with the kind of anger only entitled, self-important jerks have when they don’t get what they want and they’ve taken a few blows to their ego.

call it stupidity or arrogance, but his only response is a punch delivered right back to your face.

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you stumble, but percy manages to reach out and catch you before you fall down the stairs. he holds you as thalia and annabeth create a barrier between you and eros. you hear them shouting at eros over the music, but their exact words don’t register.

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and everything is suddenly all fuzzy. percy tries his best, but you slump your body weight into his and he almost topples over.

“i’ve got her.” luke’s calm and measured voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist to steady you. “from what i remember, you were too much of a coward to even step foot on the battlefield, so i’d listen to her if you know what’s good for you.” in a haze, you guess that luke is directing his sharp words towards eros, before turning to the others and instructing: “you guys take care of this — find clarisse if you need back up.”

somehow, you find yourself over in a small secluded temple, sitting on a window bench overlooking the clouds as luke sits next to you.

like most of olympus, the building is made of marble with gold accents; this one has roses engraved on the walls, and the space smells like flowery perfume. it’s much quieter than the pavilion, though you can hear laughter and music in the distance. it’s cooler, too, but not by much; even without all the body heat, you're left with sticky summer air, and luke’s breath on yours, sweet with wine and ripe fruit, as he carefully examines your injury.

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the alcohol, or the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while — probably a dangerous mix of all three.

you know (from trying not to but ultimately not being able to pull your attention away from him after all) that he’s had a few drinks as well; it seems like the two of you ignore each other best when you’re sober.

“thought the curse of achilles would protect you from nosebleeds.”

“guess it doesn’t protect against —” what did percy call eros? “ — minor gods who have major god complexes,” you recite.

luke looks slightly amused. “that’s a shame,” he hums. “would have been nice to get one birthday without being injured.”

a smile creeps onto your face, despite the dull ache from your nose.

“you remembered.”

“of course i remember,” luke almost scoffs like the mere suggestion of forgetting what day you were born is an insult to his very character. he meets your gaze, and you could melt when he offers you that lopsided smile of his, painfully familiar. “happy birthday, aquagirl,” and it’s the softest he’s spoken to you in a while. just like old times.

he remembers.

somewhere within him, luke holds on to fragments of you.

he wipes the blood off your face, the sleeve of his silk white button-down now stained crimson. “how’s your hand?” he asks.

you flex your fingers. “it’s been better,” you answer, your knuckles slightly aching. “totally worth it.”

“i guess all those years away didn’t change anything. still willing to put a god in their place, huh?”

all those years away.

the reminder feels like a stab to the heart, and you’re worried that it might burst the comfortable bubble you and luke had drunkenly stumbled into.

thankfully, luke continues:

“the kids really take after you.”

he says as a joke, mostly, but there’s a sincerity in those deep brown eyes of his, too. something you also hadn’t seen from him in a while.

the kids, who you’d in some ways raised together when monsters were trying to kill you and the gods didn’t care enough to stop it.

the family you and luke had built together despite being born into the world of greek tragedies.

“as if annabeth wasn’t threatening to pull the dagger you gave her, skywalker,” the nickname rolling off your tongue with ease. “besides, they’re not kids anymore.”

“yeah.” he pauses. “neither are we.”

luke’s fingers trace your camp necklace, brush against your collarbone. the breath hitches in your throat.

here you are again, at the edge of something real and very scary, and you fear luke is going to push the two of you over.

but he doesn’t. instead, luke suggests, jokingly: “maybe we should start a fight club at camp.”

you take that as a good sign: like you, he’s hoping to preserve the playfulness between you before everything else seeps in and ruins it. before you’re brought back to the present, where you’re practically ignoring each other.

where you’re fine, but really.

you snort. “chiron and mr. d would love that.”

“like they’d ever find out!” luke explains. “you know the first rule of fight club —”

“don’t talk about fight club,” you finish together.

luke laughs, even though it’s not that funny. you laugh, too.

and that’s the thing that really, truly gets you.

try as you might to ignore it, some days it’s hard to forget the pain and heartache and grief.

you still feel like your life is a battlefield; you still see the ghosts of everyone you couldn’t save even though people call you a savior; you still have those scars, inside and out, that seemed healed but ache every once and a while.

but that isn’t all.

sometimes it hurts more thinking back to the good times and knowing, deep down, you can never go back.

summer — age 13

“ugh — you think with all their power, the gods could help stop global warming,” you groaned, swatting away a mosquito that tried to land on you. “do you think they have air conditioning on olympus?”

“oh, for sure,” luke quipped. he gave you a lopsided smile, his curls sticking to his forehead, drenched in sweat.

it was the summer solstice, the longest and the hottest day of the year so far. the two of you had found a perfectly good hideout, but luke insisted that this place would be worth the move.

he’d been leading you down side streets for what felt like forever. the sun had already set, and you were very close to passing out from the heat, until luke finally stopped at a door behind an alley, with a sign reading CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS.

luke knelt down to do whatever son-of-hermes lock magic he had to do to get the door open. he flipped a switch, and you winced at the sudden overwhelming brightness.

the destination was different than the hideouts you usually sprung for: those small, hole-in-the-wall type places. instead, this space was big and bright, filled with arcade games and fun posters and neon colours. the type of place a kid might have a party or where a group of normal teenagers might spend their friday night.

“what…what is this?”

“you thought i forgot, didn’t you?” luke smirked at you. he sat down on the colourful carpet, taking out some snacks, a small plastic bag with coins, a wrapped box, and a plastic blue crown, and gestured for you to join.

you did, in fact, think that luke had forgotten your birthday.

birthdays were bittersweet for children of gods, who were constantly reminded that any year could be their last, their youth cut short by monsters or prophecies or a fatal flaw. all the two of you usually did on either birthday was split any sweet treat you could get your hands on.

it wasn’t a big deal, really, to skip that tradition of yours. there were much more urgent things to worry about, like finding food and water and shelter, and not being devoured by monsters.

you did think it was strange that luke hadn’t so much as said happy birthday to you all day, but you knew that he loved you.

(like a friend loves a friend. nothing else, no matter how much your stomach fluttered at the thought of him.)

“i wanted to surprise you,” luke explained once you claimed your spot next to him. he reached over to place the crown on your head. “i found this place a few days ago during a food run. it reminds me of where we had your —”

“eighth birthday party, yeah.” you smiled at the memory of running around and feeding quarters to every machine and trying every game, of your classmates singing happy birthday to you off-key before you all stuffed your faces with sickly sweet confetti cake.

truthfully, you never thought about having another celebration like that again.

but, it was five years from that faded childhood memory, and luke was presenting you with something you didn’t even realize you had needed: the chance to be a kid again.

“so,” luke got up, a wide smile on his face. he held the plastic bag in one hand, extending the other to you. “which do you wanna play first?”

you started with space invaders, then moved on to dragon’s lair and pac-man. you took a break before street fighter ii so that luke could ceremoniously light a candle and present a cupcake that had been tossed around in his bag (but you were still very, very grateful for), along with fresh batteries for your portable cassette player. he had made you a mixtape too, though you couldn’t figure out how.

your last stop was a photobooth. you vowed to keep those pictures — a collection of you and luke together, smiling bright and colourful, goofing off and laughing — for the rest of your life.

now

those moments from past summers are like popsicles melting in the sun: tangible for a limited time before leaving you with a sickly sweet mess of what once was.

you think about what happened earlier, how percy, annabeth, and thalia stepped in to protect you, still the brave kids you had once known so well. how luke is here with you now, taking care of you so tenderly even after you’ve silently agreed to give each other the cold shoulder.

maybe luke is right. maybe all those years away didn’t change anything.

except — once you leave this temple and the alcohol leaves your system, it won’t be the same.

none of you are kids anymore, if you ever even were.

“why’d you go for eros, anyway?” luke asks, breaking you away from your thoughts. he removes his sleeve from your nose since the bleeding seems to have finally stopped.

“you really wanna know?”

“yeah. most gods are assholes. and you’re…” luke places a hand close to your leg, pinky finger brushing your thigh. “you.”

“i went for eros because….well, honestly, i don’t think i cared who it was, as long as they made me forget you,” you admit, because what did you have to lose. you probably have a broken nose, you definitely have blood on your shirt, and your time with luke is running out.

luke’s eyes darken. his fingers start to play with the hem of your shorts.

“did it work?” his voice is a whisper, but he’s close enough that he’s crystal clear.

“no.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on luke’s — messy and urgent. noses bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. he cradles your face in his hands, and you move to straddle his waist. you taste wine on his tongue, and maybe a hint of sweet pears, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. when you run out of air, you pull away. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the alcohol or adrenaline, but dizzy from him. luke’s gaze is heavy on yours as he traces your top lip with his thumb.

“luke,” you whimper, itching to kiss him again.

“you’re still bleeding.”

luke wipes away the blood with his thumb. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s an echo of footsteps on the marble floor. a flower nymph, there to leave an offering and let you know that, while aphrodite encourages acts of love, she prefers it doesn’t happen in her place of worship.

you realize that aphrodite also might not look so fondly at you kissing someone else in her place of worship after publicly rebuking her own son.

luke untangles himself from you, and you know that he’s been jolted back to reality, too.

and, just like that, another moment has melted away.

your father was right. time has a way of slipping away for us, immortal or not.

summer — age 18

“hey, you awake?”

“yeah,” you replied softly. sleep hadn’t been easy, in the days and weeks and months leading up to that final battle with kronos and his army.

and once it was all over?

you rested your head on luke’s shoulder, sword discarded at your feet and armour half-removed, as argus, the hundred-eyed security guard of olympus, drove a school bus with a dozen or so demigods back to camp.

“why’d you turn down their offer?” luke whispered.

oh.

"why...why do you ask?"

"i don't know." luke paused. "just curious, i guess."

you closed your eyes and replayed that moment on olympus when you refused the gift of immortality. the look of shock written on the gods’ faces. and on luke’s.

“i don’t care about living forever,” you told him bluntly.

forever seemed too long, especially for someone who was prophesied to die at 18.

you tilted your head up to meet luke’s gaze, and his messy curls brushed against your forehead. evidence of the battle was clear on his face: caked-on dirt and blossoming bruises and dried blood.

behind him, outside the bus window, the world was flying by. a child who had fallen off their bike being comforted by a friend. two people sharing an mp3 player and a pair of earbuds. an elderly couple walking their dog.

“you once told me that this was our life,” you continued, gesturing towards the weapons and battle-worn kids, some quiet, others crying, many injured. “what if it didn’t have to be?”

luke furrowed his brow. “do you mean….are you talking about leaving?”

you shrugged. running from monsters for your entire childhood then being the child of the great prophecy was a lot.

a break might be nice.

there was so much about the world, the one you’d fought and bled to protect, that you wanted to experience.

maybe something closer to a normal life.

“would you ever leave camp?” you wondered, not really answering luke's question.

“no,” luke replied instantly. his fingers started fiddling with the beads on his necklace. “i can’t just walk away, not after everything.”

“yeah, i get that.” and you did; you really, truly, did. the guilt of wanting to leave camp curled in your stomach like a venomous snake. you took a shaky breath. “let’s talk about this later, yeah? i’m tired, and we have the rest of — ”

the rest of the summer slipped away in the blink of an eye. gone, before you even had a real chance to say goodbye.

you closed your eyes and held on to luke, as if gripping his arm would anchor you to something you weren't ready to let go of, but in some ways needed to move on from.

it was no use, though.

by the end of august, you’d be gone too.

now

you learned early on that the curse of achilles doesn’t protect you from hangovers.

you wake up the morning after the celebration on olympus with a deep, throbbing pain lodged in your temple and an uncomfortable swirling in your gut. parties and late nights at bars are common on tour, which means migraines are, too, so you have a routine to make sure you’re not out of commission for too long.

except this time, the aspirin and blue gatorade and dry toast don’t work. the sting in your brain and uneasiness in your stomach doesn’t go away, even after a few days. you haven’t been able to sleep, either.

desperate for a cure, you consult lou ellen, head counsellor of the hecate cabin, who you’d unexpectedly grown close to in the past few weeks. she mixes something for you, while asking if there’s something that’s been weighing on you.

you couldn't keep it in anymore; you tell her about the summer solstice and luke.

later, with nothing but your thoughts and percy’s snoring occupying your time post-curfew, you grab your phone and flip it open, deciding to finally reach out to luke, when you get a text from him.

luke is already on the beach when you arrive, looking out onto the water.

“hey,” you greet as you sit next to him on the sand, but not too close. “i was actually about to text you —”

“did you tell anyone that we kissed?” he interrupts. you can’t quite read his expression as he waits for you to answer.

“no, i didn’t,” you lie. “would it matter if i did?”

“well, i mean, word travels fast around camp, and i don’t want van finding out. it’s not like it meant anything.”

the throbbing in your brain becomes a sharper sting, the uneasiness in your stomach a tidal wave of nausea.

“it didn’t?” you hate how fragile your voice sounds, compared to luke’s stoic demeanor.

luke shrugs. “i mean, we were both drunk and the thing with eros happened…we just got caught up in the heat of the moment.”

“you’re saying there’s nothing between us, then? nothing?” the word tastes bitter in your mouth.

luke turns away before he answers. “no. nothing.”

“then what about last summer?” you demand. you force yourself to keep it together, your tone firmer than before. “i guess that didn’t mean anything, either.”

“y/n…” he sighs. “i don’t know what you want me to say. we’re barely even friends anymore. you come back here, after all this time, after so much shit happened, and expect us all to drop everything to fit you back into our lives. but, you don't. whatever you came here for, it's not here for you. there's nothing to go back to. we moved on. i moved on, and i can’t deal with you —"

“got it,” you snap, already turning to walk away. “loud and fucking clear, luke.”

it’s not like it meant anything. we’re barely even friends anymore.

you replay luke’s words as you crawl into bed, holding back tears so as to not disturb percy. finally, you swallow a generous amount of whatever concoction lou ellen had brewed up for you.

drifting off into your own sleep, you decide that you don’t love luke anymore. not as a friend, not as a.....

nope.

according to luke, there's not even anything to go back to.

nothing.

#feel free to comment + reblog <3 #saf writes #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan #percy jackson #pjo fanfic #pjo series #pjo x reader #luke castellan angst

460 notes · View notes

taintandviolent · 4 months

Text

Lime Green Jell-O; Peter Maximoff x Reader

summary: Reader is in a situationship with Peter Maximoff. It's been casual on both ends, or so you thought. You think he's jealous and you decide to tease a little hard. Peter can't take the heat, though.

word count: 2K!

w a r n i n g s: shameless smut, smut with a little plot, unprotected sex, fingering, mentions of jealousy, possible jealousy kink.

a/n: anonymous request! you guys keep asking me to write Peter, and I'm nervous every single time, istg. I hope it delivered, and you enjoyed reading it! ps: dividers are by firefly-graphics!

full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don't have a taglist, but please turn on post notifications if you want to be notified of future fics!

Peter sat bolt upright, as if you’d just announced the most horrible thing in the world. Which to him, you had.

"So, you've been seeing other guys?" Peter asked painfully casually, working overtime to control the pitch of his voice. Any hint of his true feelings and he'd be done for.

You scoffed, feigning offense. "Of course I have." You gulped down the last bit of soda, and crawled over on the bed to throw it in the bin. Most of your free days were spent in his room, fooling around, playing video games with him, and watching whatever cheesy movie he’d put on. He seemed to think you had extra free-time that you’d spent with other guys.

Though it was only a nano-second, Peter's brows furrowed, and his lips frowned. You narrowed your eyes, and he immediately shifted in his jacket, returning to his previous state. No way she saw that. No way -- it was too fast. He darted to the bed, standing in front of you.

Getting to your knees, you squared up. Inhaled and closed your mouth, crossing your arms firmly across your chest, underneath your breasts. Your shirt was low-cut enough that he saw the shift in your cleavage. He clenched his jaw, averting his dark eyes elsewhere. This wasn’t the time to start getting a stiffie.

"Peter," you started, a reprimanding tone in your voice. If he was going to pull the loyalty card now… you smirked. "The first time we hooked up you said, and..." You brought your fingers up to make quotes in the air, in front of his face. "I quote: 'Nothin' serious, babe'. So....."

Damn. Peter pushed his lips forward, nodding. "Right, yeah, I did say that. And I so totally meant it."

"Good, so… you shouldn't care if things are getting pretty serious with one of them. Like... really serious. Serious enough that we might have to stop hanging out as much." Bam. Mic drop.

That was a lie; a blatant one. Little did he know, you had been dating casually, but doing so completely uninterested. No one had matched your silver speedster; not in sex, not in personality, not in anything. He had zipped his way into your heart and wasn’t leaving. You weren’t about to let him know that though, and decided to dig a little deeper with the teasing. He was cute when he was jealous… which he was. You knew it.

Instead of confessing everything right then and there, Peter stiffened and mirrored your position; arms crossed over his muscled chest. He shook his head and shrugged. Cool as cucumber. No way were you winning this one.

You smirked again, this time, raising a single brow. "Are you... jealous, Maximoff?"

"Pffffbfbbtbt." Peter blew air through his lips, slicing his hand through the air like he was swatting a fly away. "Totally not jealous."

"Good, because if you were, you'd hate to hear that Tommy and I went on the most adorable date the other night, and he was --"

His hands flew up, waving slightly. "Woah, don't need to hear the deetz, babe. No thanks."

"Oh no? I think you are jealous... I absolutely think you are, because..."

Peter's fingers shushed you, smushing into the fullness of your pout. He didn't want to hear the (probably one-hundred percent correct) explanation that followed the 'because'. Your eyebrows flew up on your forehead, expectantly. You tried to speak through his finger, but he pressed harder. Peter screwed up his expression before rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. He huffed a breath, and looked back at you.

You yanked your face away, narrowing your eyes into knowing slits. You barked out a laugh, unable to control it. He had always been a terrible liar, but this took the cake. “Oh, you totally are. You are lime-green Jell-o, Peter.”

“I am not.”

“Are too.” You jabbed your index finger into his pec. “You so are.”

He huffed and dropped his arms. You weren’t budging, and if he kept up, you’d win. He knew it, you knew it. It was a good old-fashioned standoff. You cocked your hip out to the side.

"Okay, so maybe I am jealous. Fine. Sure. Whatever. Now, c'mere."

Exhaling heavy over his bottom lip, Peter took hold of your face and pulled you into a warm kiss. The tips of his fingers stroked your hairline, urging you closer to him - as close as he could get you without melting into you. Surprised, your eyes widened into the kiss, but after a few seconds, you couldn’t help but melt into him.

"Peter, Peter," you murmured into his lips, pushing away slightly to look over his face with a weighted gaze. "You're really jealous?"

Saying nothing, he nodded heavily and went back to kissing you, his tongue slipping along your bottom lip before breaching. You whimpered into his lips, the vibration tickling slightly. Peter pressed his chin into yours, gently forcing you to scoot backwards on the bed. The kiss deepened for a moment before Peter broke it, his dark orbs scanning your face.

“Yeah,” he whispered over your lips before urging your back against the mattress. “I am super jell-o…” He mocked.

“Want you for myself. All for myself. Okay? Just… lemme’...”

Peter nuzzled your neck, soft lips ghosting the skin and peppering kisses from your ear lobe down to your collarbone. Just above there, he began suckling the skin, pulling it into his mouth. He sucked harder and harder until you finally yelped, jerking your head away slightly. The skin left his mouth with a wet pop.

"Ow! Peter, what are you doing?"

"Markin' my territory.... err.... something." He pulled back to look at his handiwork. The skin where he'd been sucking was scarlet, heading to purple, and by that evening, it would be a wicked bruise. A little gift for whoever you saw next, if it wasn't him.

He grinned as you rubbed at the skin, feeling the tenderness of it. “Did you just give me a hickey?”

“Maaaybe.”

“You dork,” you murmured. Peter crushed his lips against yours again, inhaling your scent. His hands trailed up your waist, gripping it hungrily. This is exactly what you’d thought about earlier; every time he touched you, it felt electric, and nobody had even come close to that sensation. You bucked your hips up into his, grinding against the tent in his sweatpants. Peter pressed back against you, hissing through his teeth at the sudden welcome friction. Beneath the fabric, you felt the heat and pressure of his hardening cock and whined.

“What the heck d’ya want, babe? What am I doin’ wrong here? You want a romantic? You want a casanova?”

“No,” you started, raking your nail along his t-shirt, the fabric catching underneath your nail and exposing his luscious neck just a little bit. “I just want you, Peter. Only you. No other guys matter, and I only… I only said that because you said it was casual, I didn’t want to seem desperate.”

“I dunno, I think I’m actin’ pretty desperate right now.” He rutted his hips against you, his cock bumping into your cloth-covered cunt again. You bit your lip, rolling your eyes back. Every whimper, moan and mewl you made coursed through his veins, straight to his dick. They made it ache, and burn, and he couldn’t help but roll his hips against yours, dry-humping you urgently.

“Fuck me, Peter.”

Just what he wanted to hear. He nodded in response and brought his fingers to the waistband of your pajama pants, slipping inside. He drug his middle finger up along your folds, smearing your precum over the warm flesh. You were already so wet, Peter grit his teeth, slipping a single digit inside. You vocalized at the sensation, and he slipped another finger in, pumping them in and out slowly. You loved when he did that; just felt you, played with you like a little sex toy.

His nimble fingers slipped out, and began toying with your cunt, making tiny, quick circles on your swollen clit. The muscles of your thighs quivered hard and deep with every pass of the pad of his finger. He always knew how to make you writhe around, practically shivering with pleasure. You felt the wetness pooling underneath your ass and whimpered, shyly. You always got so wet around him, almost to the point of embarrassment. Peter never made fun, though; if anything, he was always delighted by it, and loved to feel it soaking through the fabric of your cute, little patterned panties.

As he flicked at your sensitive spots, your lids drooped shut, thinking about how good he was going to feel. It pressed against your hip, hard and demanding, like it was searching for somewhere to go. You couldn’t wait anymore.

“Gimmie that cock,” you whispered against his ear before nipping at his lobe. Higher than he wanted to, he whined and withdrew his fingers, planting them on your hip bone.

“Mm’yeah…. gonna’ give it to you,” he nodded, breathless. “‘Cause you want it bad, right?”

“Yeah, I do. The only one I want.”

Wasting no time, Peter freed his throbbing dick from his sweatpants. It bounced heavily in front of you, the searing hot tip pressing against your tummy. Biting your lip, you took it in your hand, giving it a few generous pumps. You then pushed his cock between your legs, lining it up with your slit and forcing the tip in for him. The action sent a shockwave through his body; he jerked up and groaned. “Fuuuuck…”

Peter threw your legs over his shoulders, angling your body up.

“C’mon, give it to me…”

He clenched his teeth and bottomed out, slamming the lower half of his toned body into yours. It filled you, stretching your walls and pressing against them in the most erotic, tantalizing way. He found a rhythm quickly, and made sure to keep it, his balls slapping against your ass as he thrust into you. You threw your head back and let out a breathy moan, pressing your head into the pillow. You swallowed, wetting your throat and looked back up at him.

Above you, Peter was extra-whiny today. Sweat collected on his forehead, beading up before ribboning down his temples. His silver hair stuck together in clumps, and when he looked from your pussy to your eyes, he smiled weakly. He was fucking you hard, harder than he usually did and you could only assume it was because he was taking out his aggression, his jealousy.

“Oooh, yeah, just like that, baby… Just like that. You’re so… you’re so jealous.” Your words were punctured by lewd moans and breaths, but you finally got out the teasing statement. Then, Peter did something he didn’t usually do. He gripped your shoulders and pulled you onto his cock over and over again, relentlessly, bucking his hips up to meet yours with every thrust. The tip of his cock hammered your cervix, hitting your deepest parts. Your jaw dropped, brows peaking together as he fucked you.

“....oh….oh my fuckin’....”

“....shit-shit-shit, Peter…”

Your pussy clenched around his cock, and you couldn’t control it. She fluttered, coating his dick in warmth. Peter groaned, closer than ever.

“You should… you should be –” You moaned, digging your nails into his shoulders. “...be jealous more often.”

That did it. Peter lost it, spurting his white heat inside of you, pumping it deep. A melody of groans between the both of you filled the room, as the thrusts slowed and the sweat dripped. He collapsed on top of you, kissing every inch of bare skin that he could find.

After a few moments, he snapped up, hands on either side of your head. He looked down at you with a quirked brow, and a mischievous smile. You grinned back at him, lust-blown and giddy. You loved these afternoons, where you just fucked each other like teenagers.

“Wanna’ play some video games? Or did you have another lame-o date planned?”

You sniggered. “The only lame-o I’m dating is you.”

#Peter Maximoff #Quicksilver #Peter Maximoff x reader #Peter Maximoff x you #x men movies #Quicksilver x you #Quicksilver x reader #myfics #evan peters #Peter Maximoff smut

680 notes · View notes