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obsessedwithceleste · 11 days ago

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Love Lies

Theodore Nott x Ravenclaw! reader

Based on this request 🫶🏽

Summary: You’re just as confused as everyone else when your mortal enemy wakes up fully convinced that you’re the love of his life. (Spoiler alert: literally no one else was surprised)

word count: 5.2k

©️ obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted or copied in any way or form.

It was cold and windy and wet as you stepped off the quidditch pitch, rain soaking you to your core. Thank Rowena you didn’t have to play an actual match in this weather. No, that honor went to the Slytherins and Gryffindors and you did not envy them at all, regular practice was enough for you.

As you make your way back to the locker rooms you see students and staff already beginning to fill the open stands and shake your head with pity. No amount of drying or warming charms were going to make it a comfortable match to sit through.

Just as you're about to turn into the locker rooms you feel yourself jerk back as a green robed shoulder slams past you, nearly knocking you off your feet.

“Watch it dolcezza,” a familiar voice slurs over the rain, condescension dripping from his words.

Despite your better judgement, you turn to find yourself facing none other than Theodore fucking Nott, broom in hand, and signature cocky smirk pasted across his face. God you hated that boy.

“Call me sweet again you pompous git,” you snap, glaring up at the Slytherin.

“Why waste my breath on you?” He retorts, matching your steely gaze, his lip curling up in a sneer.

You had never gotten along with Theodore. It was no secret among your classmates that the two of you hated each other. Despite being in many of the same NEWT level courses, sharing a love for quidditch, and both of you basically residing in the Hogwarts library, you simply could not tolerate one another’s presence.

It was strange perhaps, you’d done the analyzation yourself. By all accounts you two should probably be friends. But no amount of similarities or shared interests could make up for the fact that Theodore Nott was an insufferable, arrogant arse who only cared about maintaining his perfectly curated reputation.

"You're right Theodore, save a tree a bit of work why don't you. Rowena knows that tree is doing more for the world than you are," you reply coldly.

Theo opens his mouth to respond, but for maybe the first time ever, you see the boy falter, if only for a split second, before he's back to his usual stoic self. He scoffs.

"Just forget it, you're not worth it," he mutters under his breath, rolling those pretty blue eyes as he turns to go.

You shake your head at the boy, scoffing yourself.

"Yeah, do your best to forget me Nott, because I won't hesitate to forget you."

"Don't be mad."

"Just hear us out."

Oh dear god. As soon as you hear the combined voices of Mattheo Riddle and Lorenzo Berkshire, you know that you're about to be in for a ride. You look cautiously up at the pair from your seat in the library, on edge because wherever these two were, Theodore was sure to be nearby.

"He's not here if that's what you're worried about," Lorenzo offers with a nervous smile.

It's the kind of smile you would offer a skittish cat that you've cornered in hopes it doesn't bolt, and you had an unfortunate feeling that you were the cat in this scenario. Still you feel your shoulders relax a bit as the two carefully sit down at the table across from you.

"So uh. We heard about your, ah, little tiff, with Theo today," Lorenzo starts out awkwardly, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the castle at this moment.

"Bloody tosser never shuts up about you," Mattheo mutters so quietly you almost miss it.

You raise in eyebrow at the two boys in front of you, waiting for them to get to the point as Lorenzo gives Mattheo a sharp jab to the ribcage.

"Anyway," Lorenzo continues a bit too loudly, "There was a bit of an incident at the quidditch match today."

"Yeah, Slytherin lost. Again. I heard," you cut in, trying to wrap this up.

"Okay, ouch," Mattheo mutters once more, earning a glare from both you and Lorenzo.

"Did you also happen to hear that Theo was knocked of his broom?" Lorenzo asks.

Oh shit. As much as you couldn't stand Theodore, it's not as if you wanted the boy to get hurt. And you knew from personal experience, any quidditch injury should be taken rather seriously. But then, why were Theodore's two best friends sitting here in the library with you and not in the hospital wing with him?

You narrow your eyes at the boys across from you.

"So what does this all have to do with me? Nothing good could possibly come of you two starting the conversation with 'don't be mad' and 'just hear us out'."

Lorenzo fidgets nervously, shifting in his seat and Mattheo refuses to make eye contact with you. You truly had never seen the ever stone cold Slytherin boys look so wildly uncomfortable before.

"He got knocked out and when he woke up he was convinced the two of you are madly in love," Lorenzo rushes out, flinching back as if waiting for you to yell at him.

"And now the smitten tosser is requesting the presence of his beloved. He's really torn up about it too," Mattheo adds looking the most serious he’d been, probably ever.

But you were having none of it.

"Alright, hahaha, you almost had me there, you two actually sounded pretty sincere for a bit, but seriously it's not funny anymore. There's simply no reality where Theodore is in love with me, that's disgusting and I'm not stupid."

Mattheo and Lorenzo glance at each other with knowing looks before sighing in unison.

"On Salazar's good name, we are not lying or joking about this," Mattheo says solemly.

"And we didn't want to involve you in this whole thing anyway. We know about how well you and Theo get along. It's just that Madam Pomfrey is concerned that, until she's able to brew something to get Theo's head back on right, any world crushing stress or shock might have lasting, long-term psychological effects or what have you," Lorenzo finishes, emphasizing his last point rather strongly.

You continue to stare at the two boys in front of you as if their heads had been replaced by hippogriffs, slowly understanding what they were asking of you.

“Oh absolutely not. There’s literally no way. I’m not going up there.”

You hated the smell of the hospital wing. It was far too... sterile. Unnervingly so. The last hour of your life had been a blur and frankly you still weren't entirely sure how Lorenzo and Mattheo had managed to wrangle you all the way up to the hospital wing, but here you were.

As you make your way to the large double doors that lead into the infirmary, you send one last pointed glare to the pair of Slytherins behind you before turning, steeling yourself as you prepare for the worst.

The first thing you notice when you enter the brightly lit room is how strangely peaceful it is. As you quietly approach the rows of narrow hospital beds, the second thing you notice is how normal Theodore looks lying there asleep. There's no snarling lips, raised eyebrows, or biting words, it's just Theo. Tilting your head a bit, you're able to really admire the boy for the first time, not worrying about what insult he's going to throw at you next. He actually was rather attractive, you could see why so many of your classmates practically threw themselves at his feet. Maybe you would too if he weren't such an insufferable prat.

Just as you’re about to finally feel a bit more at ease, Theodore has to go and ruin it, because of course he does, by shifting a bit in his bed, eyes fluttering before settling softly on you.

“Morning dolcezza, finally come to see me hm?” he asks, lips curling up into a sickeningly sweet smile. You can see the adoration in his eyes as he looks up at you.

It should’ve been a sweet moment. Something straight out of a romance movie perhaps, but all you could hear was the way he had snarled ‘dolcezza’ at you earlier that day. Nothing but hatred and malice on his face. Not, this. Whatever it was.

“Please don’t call me that,” you blurt out, your body subconsciously stiffening, ready for whatever Theodore was about to throw back at you.

Instead though, he looks hurt. A frown flickers across his face making him look like a kicked puppy and you instantly feel a wave of guilt crash over you.

What the hell had happened out on that quidditch pitch.

Before the situation could get any more uncomfortable than it already was, Madame Pomfrey saves the day as she comes whisking into the hospital wing to check up on her charge.

“Hello dearie, you must be the one Mr. Nott has been going on about all evening,” she says with a knowing glance as she gives Theodore a quick inspection. “Now it’s been my understanding that Mr. Nott hasn’t quite been, well, himself since he woke up. Unfortunately, the specific brew that’s needed for these kinds of things takes a full moon cycle to whip up. Until then...”

You stare at the witch in horror. The idea of being stuck with Theodore for the next month made you want to vomit.

“I feel fine,” Theodore protests, shoving himself into a sitting position and reaching out to clasp onto your hand.

It takes everything in you to not recoil away and you shoot a look at Madam Pomfrey, hoping she’d speak some reason into the boy.

“Well, if you’re sure,” she says instead, “Mr. Nott is clear to go, but do come back if you start feeling dizzy again, I simply won’t have another student fainting in the corridors.”

With that, she ushers Theodore up and out of bed before shooing the both of you out of the hospital wing.

Once the metal doors clang shut behind you, you feel Theodore reach out, grabbing your hand once more.

“Let me walk you to your common room then?” He asks, giving your hand a light squeeze, already tugging you in the direction of Ravenclaw tower.

Resistance seemed futile at this point, so you let the boy drag you along doing your best to avoid conversation and eye contact. You receive several very bewildered stares as you pass your classmates in the hallway, but thankfully no one says anything. Not to your face anyway.

When you finally arrive at your common room door, even the golden eagle mounted to the door looks baffled by your choice of Slytherin companion.

Before you can pull away, Theo presses a soft kiss to the top of your head and you jerk away from him.

“Um, I’ll see you tomorrow carissima,” he murmurs, eyebrows furrowed a bit before he turns and disappears down the corridor.

The first week with Theodore glued to your side is, for lack of better words, literal hell. The next morning on your way down to the great hall for breakfast you simply want to melt into the floor in horror when you find Theodore waiting outside your common room door, garnering a good number of whispers and stares from your fellow housemates.

He takes hold of your hand once again and you begrudgingly follow, silently cursing the brunette boy and the rest of his bloodline.

“Have you finished the charms essay Flitwick assigned last week?” Theodore asks as you stroll through the corridor.

You want to burst out laughing at how comically mundane the question was given the absurdity of the whole situation, but you do your best to keep it together.

“Not quite, just have to wrap up the last few lines I think,” you reply, trying to keep it short.

“We can finish up in the library together tonight then,” Theodore decides.

You open your mouth to protest, but close it just as fast. If you were going to be stuck with this tosser, you might as well extort him you think begrudgingly to yourself.

You can feel several pairs of eyes on you as you sit down next to Theodore at the Slytherin table. Your blue robes stick out like a sore thumb making you rather self conscious. Still, his friends all greet you as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to have you sitting with them and you feel like you’ve entered the twilight zone.

As the rest of the week goes by, it’s all more of the same. Trying to hold back a grimace every time Theodore takes your hand or kisses your forehead good night, pretending you weren’t completely weirded out by the way his friends had so easily adapted you into their little group, ignoring the whispers and side eyes from other students.

Objectively speaking, this could be much worse. Theodore was actually rather tolerable to be around when you weren’t throwing insults back and forth. The real issue was that every time you thought to yourself that Theodore Nott might not be all bad, you’d get a sudden flashback of him and his friends picking on some innocent first or second year, or playing a particularly foul game of quidditch, or the time they’d hexed poor Hermione Granger’s teeth to keep on growing like a beaver's and you’d feel sick to your stomach.

You really didn’t think your hatred for Theodore was all that misplaced. When it came down to it, he and his friends could be down right bullies and you loathed the way they acted as if they were above others. Even now when it came down to it, your whole part in this little cooked up scheme was to protect Theodore’s ego.

It's in the second week that your perception on things begins to crack. You'd been spending a lot of time with Theodore and his friends and, you didn't really know what you had expected, but, it wasn't this.

It was the first time you'd ever been in the Slytherin common room. All dark and cold and dreary. Nothing like Ravenclaw tower, but they were on two opposite ends of the spectrum you supposed. You were sat next to Theodore, buried in your book, one that he had given you, and trying to ignore everything going on around you when a group of first year Slytherins come stumbling into the dungeons, huddled around a young boy who's skin was an alarming shade of electric purple.

You're not prepared for the way the students around you jump into action. Daphne Greengrass is by the boy's side in moments, wiping tears from his cheek as Lorenzo and Pansy interrogate some of the other's as to what had happened.

It had been some second year Gryffindors, one girl said her lower lip trembling. Apparently they had gotten their hands on some of the Weasley twins' underground candies and tricked the poor boy into eating a few.

You watch silently as Draco and Blaise examine the boy before ushering him off to their dormitory, confidently telling him a cure would be easy enough to brew.

In all the commotion, you don't notice Mattheo and Marcus Flint sneaking off to go find a certain group of young lions. But Theodore does.

"Better go make sure they don't take things too far," he sighs, rising from his place next to you and giving your hand a squeeze before following the other boys out of the dungeon. You don't even have time to protest.

You're about to just return to your common room and call it a night when Daphne finds her way over to you, having calmed down most of the shaken up first years, and sits down next to you.

"Sorry you had to see all that," she sighs looking tired and worn down.

"I didn't realize you all were so close," you state, gesturing to some of the older students who had seemingly taken some of the younger ones under their wing now.

"We have to be. If we aren't on our own side, who else will be?" she replies.

When she's met with silence she gives you a tight lipped smile before turning, ready to go.

"So when Theodore and Mattheo get into fights, is it always because—?" You let your words trail off, not really sure where you were taking this and Daphne turns to face you once more.

"Honestly? No. Sometimes they can just be massive pricks. They usually make up for it though." Daphne says as you nod your head in response. "We really do appreciate what you're doing for Theo," she says, switching topics. "I know you don't exactly see eye to eye, and honestly I can't blame you. I know how the boys can be. But between you and me, I've always suspected that he actually liked you, at least a little bit. Maybe this knock to the head got him to finally come to his senses," she laughs.

"I don't know about that. I'm pretty certain once Madam Pomfrey whips up that potion, he'll be right back where we left off," you reply, adding in your own nervous laughter.

"You're only saying that because you don't know what he was really like before. You don't have to believe me, but if you really gave him a chance- you never know."

"Maybe, but I'm pretty sure about this."

Daphne shrugs her shoulders.

"Suit yourself, but um, if you wouldn't mind, maybe don't go spreading this whole incident around the school? We try to keep these kinds of things, discreet. Don't want the other houses to see us sweat and all."

You take a good look at the girl beside you and then at the room full of Slytherin students around you, realizing for the first time that it really did seem as if they had the whole school against them.

"No, of course not. I didn't see a thing," you tell her.

Daphne gives you a grateful smile as she rises to leave.

"He'll be back in a bit. Probably be glad to see you still here," she says before disappearing to her own dormitory.

It's not long before Theodore finally returns, his face lighting up when he spots you still tucked cozily away in your corner, nose buried in the pages of your book.

Theo was very confused to say the least. It had been almost three weeks since he'd been knocked off his broom in that match against the Gryffindors, and things just felt, off. Truth be told, he couldn't really seem to remember much of anything since before the fall. Not clearly at least. It was all fuzzy shadows and warped conversation, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make sense of it all.

The only thing he was really certain about, was you. He remembered dreaming about you while he was asleep in the hospital wing, and how angry you had been that day before his match, though he couldn't quite place why. He had worried that that was why you weren't there when he woke up, maybe you were mad at him.

But then the next time he opened his eyes you were there, gazing down at him, and everything had just felt right. Your hand had slotted perfectly with his and he was sure that, out of everyone, you were the person he could trust the most.

So why did you look like you were in pain every time he approached? Why did you flinch away whenever his lips brushed the top of your head? Why did it feel as if you were holding him at an arms length?

All this swirled around in Theo's mind as he sat on the library sofa next to you, watching the warm glow of the fireplace dance across your face.

"Have I done something to make you upset carissima?" Theo asks, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them.

You look up at him, startled by the abrupt question as you snap your book shut.

"No, why do you ask?"

Theo watches you turn your body to face him now, tilting your head as he furrows his eyebrows, trying to put the words together.

"I just, remember things being different, I think," he replies, hating how his brain wasn't letting him form cohesive thoughts.

"Oh?" You look surprised at his statement, eyes darting away from him and Theo can tell he's onto something.

"Was it before the match? Before I fell? Were we fighting about something carissima?" He asks again.

It's obvious you're thinking hard about what to say as Theo reaches out to take your hands in his. For once you don't flinch away from his touch, instead just staring at your intertwined fingers.

"It was something like that," you mumble as Theo rubs careful circles around your knuckles.

“I don’t think I remember a lot very clearly. It’s frustrating sometimes,” Theo admits. “But I remember you.”

“Yeah? What do you remember about me?”

“I remember how you always say hello to the painting outside of the charms classroom. And how you like to sneak snacks into astronomy. I remember the time in third year when we were flying on the quidditch pitch and you were about to get hit by a bludger so I had to move you out of the way.”

You blink at the last memory Theodore shares. You knew what he was talking about, but that’s not how you remembered it. You had been flying yes, when Theodore had come out of nowhere, shoving you while in the sky and then turning, laughing while calling you an idiot. You’d never even seen the bludger.

“I remember kissing you under the bleachers, and holding you by the fireplace. I remember you telling me you loved me.”

And that's where he lost you. Those memories, you didn't know where they came from, but for Theo, they were real. And who knew he was such a sap? You'd never thought the boy was even capable of having emotions.

"Can we start over? I don't remember why you were upset. But I'm sorry. I just want what little memory I have to go back to normal."

Theo watches as you let out a deep sigh. Every word out of Theodore’s mouth was like a punch to the gut, absolutely devastating any sort of resolve you had still been holding.

“Sure Theodore.”

“Just Theo,” he corrects as he pulls you into his arms, tucking your head snuggly under his chin.

The last week you have with Theo, or at least with this version of him, you spend trying not to get too attached. You'd grown rather used to having the boy appear by your side to carry your books or to sneak snacks into the library for you when you'd spent the last several hours putting the final touches on your ancient runes essay. You didn't even mind having to constantly tell him and Mattheo to quiet down anymore.

As it turned out, Daphne had been right about one thing. Theodore and his friends could absolutely be obnoxious, arrogant, pompous pricks, but they did have their ways of charming their way back into your favor. The little parasites. They'd grown on you.

You knew that Madam Pomfrey had finished brewing the elixir before Mattheo could open his mouth just by the guilty expressions on his and Lorenzo's faces when they walked into the Slytherin common room. You'd been frequenting the dungeons a lot more recently, but it looked like that was about to come to an end.

"It's ready then?" you ask, tucking your book away as your hand falls to rest on Theo's arm.

Mattheo just nods his head as you all turn to look at Theo who's still focused on his own book.

"Hey. Madam Pomfrey says she wants to give you one last check. Just to make sure your head is on straight," Mattheo says, thumping Theo on the shoulder.

"Why? I feel fine," Theo replies, an air of annoyance laced in his voice as he's torn away from his book.

"Don't know mate. Just humor the old bat," Enzo sighs.

Theo rolls his eyes before reluctantly rising from the couch, offering you a hand up as well.

"Coming along carissima?" he asks, already reaching out for your hand, but you dodge away.

"I think I'm going to head back up to Ravenclaw tower actually. It's getting pretty late," you reply, feigning a small yawn.

As you exit the dungeons, Enzo catches you by the arm.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with? We don't know for sure that he'll, ya know, go back."

"It's fine Lorenzo. I just- I really can't be up there. We all knew this wasn't a real, permanent thing. I just want to finish my book," you reply, backing away. "I hope Theodore feels more himself, I guess."

You can see Lorenzo's face visibly shift as you revert back to Theodore's full name, his whole demeanor stiffening.

"Right well. Have a night y/n."

And then he's gone.

When you finally make it all the way back to your tower, you collapse onto one of the sofas overlooking the castle grounds, eager to distract yourself by diving back into you book.

"Just come back from the dungeons?" the voice of Marietta Edgecombe asks, dragging your attention away from your novel.

You nod your head, hoping your short answer would encourage the girl to move on quickly.

"I called that one so early on. I've been telling Cho for years, those two are going to end up together, I just know it. And I was right!" she says gleefully, giving your shoulder a little squeeze before flouncing off.

“You came,” Theodore’s voice rings out from his spot on one of the stone benches that lined the walls of the astronomy tower.

“I did,” you reply carefully, watching as he leans back inviting you forward.

It had been almost two weeks since the antidote had been brewed and Theodore looked like he hadn’t slept at all in that time frame. You’d spent that time avoiding him, and all the Slytherins really.

You were confused and you hadn't known what to expect when Theodore came back down from the hospital wing. It had been a strange past month, and now you weren't sure where it left the two of you. What did he remember? Did he care?

You take slow steps forward, Theodore’s eyes never leaving yours until you’re standing directly in front of him. He continues to just stare at you, the silence becoming deafening.

“What do you want, Theodore?” You ask finally, growing frustrated as you let out an agitated sigh.

“Just to talk, dolcezza,” he replies lazily, patting the spot on the bench beside him.

“Don’t call me that,” you mutter, rolling your eyes but taking a seat anyway.

“Don’t call me Theodore,” he shoots back.

You feel your eyebrows raise.

“So you remember then?” You ask.

“I remember. Everything from the past month. And before.”

There’s another pause, less uncomfortable this time though as you both consider his words.

“So why am I here Theo?”

“Cause I can’t keep you out of my head mostly,” he replies, rather resigned to the fact.

“Have you tried?”

Theo gives you an exasperated look.

“Obviously. If I could, I’d just loose feelings for you, but it’s not exactly easy to fall out of love with someone you’ve been holding onto for so long. What do you think I’ve been doing for the last two weeks?” He grumbles stubbornly.

"What do you mean 'holding onto for so long'?" you ask, giving the boy a puzzled look. You'd hardly call a month a long time.

Theo just looks at you again as if silently willing you to simply read his mind. Unfortunately for him, that's not how osmosis works. With another long, drawn out sigh, Theo rests his elbows on his knees letting his head fall into his hands as he mumbles incoherently into his palms.

"Huh?"

He mumbles something again, louder this time. You squint at the boy, trying to make something out.

"If you're trying to confess your undying love for me, you're doing an awful job," you tell him.

This gets Theo to glare up at you, a pout almost visible on his lips. Oh how the mighty fall.

"I've liked you for years," he mutters, his chin resting in his palms now as he refuses to look at you. Pride really was a strange thing.

"Well, you've been truly terrible at showing it, you insufferable prat," you say, giving his shoulder a light shove.

Theo just let's out a grunt, watching your hand on the bench next to him from the corner of his eye. Dear Rowena, you had no idea how you'd ended up falling for this prick.

"But, I suppose you've been, significantly less insufferable this last month or so," you finish, carefully resting your head on his shoulder.

"If you're trying to say you like me too, you're doing an awful job," Theo responds, causing you to immediately tear yourself away from the boy once more.

A smile finally cracks Theo's lips as he smirks playfully up at your deadpan reaction.

"I take it back. I actually hate you. You are the worst."

"Aw, come on now carissima, did the last month mean nothing to you?" Theo asks, pulling you back into him, the same way he did that one night in the library.

"It meant literally nothing. You were being weirdly nice and clingy the whole time," you reply, begrudgingly feeling yourself melt into him.

It wasn't your fault you'd been going through withdrawals the last two weeks, okay? Theo's chest shakes with laughter against your head.

"Contrary to popular belief, I can be somewhat tolerable sometimes."

"Then why the fuck have you spent the last several years being such a prick? It was just pushing me away you know."

"That was kind of the point," Theo says, making you scoff. "Love is weakness and all."

God, the emotional whiplash was going to make you sick.

"Well, which one is the real you?"

"Can't it be both?"

"Not if you want me to put up with your sorry arse."

Theo lets out another quiet laugh.

"Well, you might have to learn to love both sides, because I do fear you're stuck with me," Theo responds, pulling you closer to his chest. "Now come here you little minx."

Before you can protest, Theo's hand has found your chin, tilting your head up just enough for him to capture your lips with his own. It's soft, hesitant at first, as if he's not sure if you'll pull away or not. But your hand finds its way into his hair, pulling him closer still as you move your lips against his, nipping, teasing. You can feel the smile grow on Theo's face as he deepens the kiss, his other hand finding it's way to rest on your thigh.

When you finally pull away, you can still feel his warm breath on your face as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"For the record, I still hate you," you say, still slightly out of breath, a teasing smile playing across your lips.

"I'm sure you do carissima. I hate you too," Theo replies before engulfing you in his arms once more.

Taglist: @adreamingpendulum @ahead-fullofdreams

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slytherinboysvip · 5 months ago

Note

Imagine best friend Mattheo being absolutely obsessed with his innocent little Hufflepuff bsf but she just can’t tell. Everyone else knows, and it is quite obvious, but she just can’t think someone like him would want someone like her. But when she jokingly says she’s gonna get Cedric to take her virginity he decides it’s time he came clean.

Possibly with some soft smut if you are comfortable with it of course

bsf mattheo riddle x hufflepuff reader

hopefully this matches your request <3 i’ll most likely make a part 2 for this because.. you’ll see ;) 3.5k words

you lived a rather simple uncomplicated life, attending hogwarts as a hufflepuff with no interest in anyone’s drama. though you kept to yourself most times you tried to be nice to all your peers maintaining your classic hufflepuff demeanor, despite this there was one thing that was different about you.

you see, you didn’t see or understand why people don’t like other houses just because of “house rivalry” especially the students who weren’t even participating in any sports or point winning. and with this over your years though you had few friends you had one best friend who at first seemed rather impossible to be friends with.. mattheo riddle.

when you two met you were a fourth year and him a fifth, coincidentally you were going on to a few friends about your annoyance with people automatically assuming the worst of slytherin even though you yourself weren’t in their house or nearly like one. mattheo overheard this heated- adorable voice coming from behind him and he walked towards you carefully.

he sat down in front of you beside your friend as she gawked faces towards you at his presence. “you don’t think we’re too mean, huh?” he questioned small laugh leaving his lips. “i just think that some people are misunderstood and just because some wizards turned out bad doesn’t mean all of them in your house are” you looked at him answering his question with ease

he smirked in amusement and leaned a little closer to you “hm, hufflepuff eh? what year are you puff?” he sat back examining you and you didn’t fail to notice that nickname he slipped in “fourth year but i have an early birthday which is annoying because i could technically be out sooner” you sighed ignoring his staring.

“well, seeing as it’s ravenclaw against gryffindor do you wanna watch the quidditch game with me i know the best view” he stood up and held his hand out for you, you look towards your friends and they’re both nodding their heads for you to go so you did.

from that point on you and mattheo had been best friends, sadly he was in his seventh year and now you in your sixth nothing much had changed in your life. living vicariously through mattheo and his stories about slytherin parties and how you should go to one with him before it’s too late, he’d tell you about his sexual adventures and your jaw would drop everytime.

you yourself also confided in him though with much less interesting things, telling him how you feel unlikeable by guys sometimes because they never try to get or talk to you, or how you feel lonely because you’ve never had a a boyfriend before. hed always help soothe the thoughts away, telling you that it’s only your brain making those things up , “listen y/n, anyone who doesn’t love you is fucking insane”.

𓆙

talking to your friend zarah who’d been there since day one you always told her what you told matt, for the most part. “i just don’t get why nobody is interested in me zar, like am i genuinely that ugly” you plopped onto your bed sighing dramatically. “you’re not ugly and if you think no guys want you you’re blind i know one in particular that really, really wants you” she giggled.

you looked at her with a confused expression “i must be missing something because i have no idea who you’re talking about” you awaited her response and she just rolled her eyes and sighed “girl your practically boyfriend of a best friend you do everything with” she gave you a duh look and you just laughed. you genuinely couldn’t believe she’d even think he’d like you especially with all the girls he’d been with, “you’re hilarious, we both know he doesn’t want me he wants all the girls he tells me about” you started to compose yourself but zarah’s expression didn’t change.

“you literally must be blind y/n do you need glasses? or should i say puff? let’s talk about how that man hasn’t stopped calling you that pet name since you’ve met.. he’s in love” she rolled her eyes raising her hands in the air. “i still don’t think he wants me so there’s no convincing me” you shrugged her off and she groaned getting up and leaving your shared dorm.

𓆙

“puff you gotta come to this party, slytherin won agains gryffindor i just know this is gonna be the party you want to go to pleaseee” mattheo put his hands on your shoulders shaking you “fiinee” you attempted to answer between shakes before he let you go “if i would’ve known it was that easy i would’ve done that years ago” he rolled his eyes.

“anyways it’s tonight at like 8 so i’ll just get you from your dorm at like 7 do you think they’ll let me in? actually what’s the password?” he didn’t give you time to finish any of your sentences before you just gave him the password “butterscotch” you whispered, in response mattheo laughed “fucking butterscotch merlin that’s hilarious” you looked up at him and rolled your eyes walking away.

“i’ll see you at 7 puff” he yelled across the hall and you just gave a thumbs up and continued walking. you honestly were quite nervous seeing as you’ve never necessarily been to a party before, you’ve made small appearances at hufflepuff parties but you’ve heard they don’t even compare to slytherin.

making your way into your dorm you spot zarah and you pull her up from the common room couch “i finally said yes to a party need help now” you quickly mumbled and she quickened her pace “when does it start girl i need the info right this second come on you’re talking too long for me” she rushed and you blurted it all out “8pm he’s getting me at 7 he has the password he will be at the dorm” closing the door behind you two you both stopped to catch your breath

“sooo is it a dateee” she shimmied her arm on you winking “i already told you he doesn’t like me!!” you replied to her relentlessness. “ugh whatever we need to get you ready girl it’s already six” she pushed you onto your shared vanity chair and pulled out all of your makeup and a few things of hers, “creative control?” she asked smirking at you “mm fine but not too much” you agreed “we’ll see” she giggled.

after around 30 minutes she finished your makeup and she showed you the finished product, looking at yourself in the mirror you thought how you never would’ve put on red lipstick yet you feel really good in it. she gave you a small smokey eye and a small winged liner and you felt you looked more aggressive then you were, but you kinda loved it.

“it’s so much but so pretty” you admired yourself and the makeup she put on you slowly getting used to the feeling of fake eyelashes on your eyes. “i’m so glad you love it, but we need to find an outfit like three hours ago” she joked and rushed to your closets “i actually have the perfect dress in mind if you’re feeling the want to rep slytherin green” she raised her eyebrows up at you in a suggestive matter “sure why not” you shrugged

she handed you a velvet body con forest green dress that you were sure was going to be extremely short and you mean in every place. she held it up onto you “this will be perfect. get it on come on” she rushed you into the bathroom and you began putting it on “this is sooo tight” you called out as you struggled “oh i forgot it was a corset back wait i need to help you can i come in” she yelled through the door

“yeah come on i need this thing one me already” you struggled more as she walked in and immediately began to help you loosening the strings of the dress and pulling it down onto you “there we go now suck in like your life depends on it” she said half jokingly and began retightening the corset back. with every pull it felt like your chest was spilling out more and more and your ribs were shrinking “okay merlin that’s enough before i can’t breathe” you huffed and she stopped tying it off in a bow

“stop you look so hot y/n i bet matt will be drooling” she teased and you just rolled your eyes “what do we do with my hair” you looked at her with horror as you only had ten minutes before he should arrive. you quickly began curling your hair not really caring if it was messy just giving it some body and just as you were spraying perfume on there was a knock on your door.

zarah looked at you and whispered “answer it go go now” she pointed to the door like she was afraid to touch it herself and you walked over opening it to see mattheo in an all black button down with the top few buttons undone and black dress looking pants yet somehow he didn’t look overdressed. he didn’t say anything for a minute he was just staring at you looking up and down in awe “holy fuck y/n who did your makeup you look woah” he put his finger on your chin moving your head around examining your makeup

“zarah isn’t it pretty” you smiled and he removed his hand and replied “yeah you are, now let’s go” he grabbed your hand and you looked behind you waving bye to zarah “he’s so in love with you” she whispered before the door slammed closed.

𓆙

once you got the the party you noticed there were already many slytherins already pregaming and mattheo brought you two to them, “let’s get some alcohol in you little puff” he winked and poured you a shot of who knows what, you smelled the foul drink and it made your nose burn “come on do ittt” he cheered on and you held your nose throwing the shot back gagging at the taste. “how do people enjoy that” you made a face at him “like this” he replied taking two shots himself, “now catch up” he winked pouring you yet another

“if i didn’t know any better id say you’re trying to get me drunk matt” you laughed and he looked at you amused “obviously that’s what im trying to do it’s a party” he put the shot glass to your lips and you parted them taking the burning substance down your throat, “eugh that didn’t get any better the second time” you shook your head in disgust. “hm, let me make you an actual drink” he grabbed a clear liquor and a red juice mixing them together adding more alcohol than your past two shots and handed it to you

“matt this smells foul” you looked up at him, “just try it trust me the slytherins have the masking drink down” he winked and you reluctantly took a sip, and to your surprise all you tasted was juice. after taking another few sips you quick began drinking it and mattheo pulled the cup from your lips “slow down there this shits dangerous you’ll get so drunk you won’t be able to walk straight” he chuckled. “it’s not my fault they made it taste like juice” you shrugged still sipping.

“hey mattheo have your little hufflepuff take some shots with us” enzo threw his arm around your shoulders and mattheo pushed them off almost immediately “no she doesn’t need any shots” he spoke “you didn’t even ask me” you protested, granted you didn’t necessarily want to take any shots you just didn’t like being talked for. “oo are you sure you’re not slytherin you got an attitude” enzo laughed handing you a shot and you looked at mattheo who rolled his eyes as you took the shot.

throwing the shot back the burning sensation took over your throat and you could feel it rushing down your throat. you coughed a bit and chugged your drink for comfort “puff you’re going to get shitfaced slow down” matt fully took your cup this time and you were already feeling it. giggling looking up at him “okay now who was going to tell me party’s are fun” you continued giggling.

the music started playing and the slytherin common room was now getting more and more packed. you saw fifth year students and up in here, even a few ravenclaw and hufflepuffs your recognized. to your surprise in the corner of the party you spotted cedric diggory talking to a group of girls holding a drink.

pansy noticed your head being stuck in a certain direction and followed your eyes “oh em gee, someone’s got their eyes on a certain hufflepuff” she winked shoving her shoulder at your “shhhhh he’s just nice to look at” you giggled at her and she giggled along “you two would be soo cute” she added dragging you back to the drinks

“let’s take some shots!” she exclaimed handing you two , you took them smiling and shot them back with her, a woo leaving her mouth. “here chaser, chaser!” she shouted handing you another drink this time what looked like a lot of the punch, downing it all she laughed “girl we’re gonna be gone”. looking around you were seeing doubles of everything but didn’t want the night to already end.

“so, are you a virgin?” pansy shouted over the music making your already alcohol flushed face even redder “pansy!! you can’t just ask that!!” you shouted back flustered at the intrusive question, “i’m only curious girl” she giggled and gave you begging eyes “come onnnn” she shook you till you gave in “fine yes i am but don’t tell anyone!” you replied back as lowly as you could over the music

“who would you lose it to?” she giggled “i lost mine to blaise hehe sshhhh” she winked, considering she just told you her secret you felt obligated and just looked around “i mean i guess cedric” you giggled as she pointed at him after your response. before she could say anything else you felt a pair of hands wrap around your waist and drag you off. trying to kick your way out was useless and they brought you to an empty dorm.

through all of this you couldn’t tell who it was kicking and screaming for them to let you go till you heard mattheos voice “puff calm down it’s just me” he sighed putting you down on what you now assumed was his bed “why did you bring me in here that was so scary” you huffed trying to gain your composure. “diggory?” he scoffed not answering your question.

you looked at him confused as to what he was on about “what do you mean? what about cedric” you cocked your head to the side in confusion “you lost your virginity to him??” he questioned stepping closer to you looking rather.. pissed. you just laughed in response “me? lose my virginity to cedric?.. you’re funny” yeah you fantasized about it but it certainly wouldn’t happen.

“what were you talking to pansy about then??” he looked at you unconvinced, “she asked if i lost it and i said no, but id let him take it.-“ you shrugged “besides you know i tell you everything matt i’ve never even had a boyfriend let alone a guy be interested in my virginity” you sighed laying back onto the bed now feeling upset.

you heard mattheo sigh and you picked your head up to look at him, his eyes stared back at you in silence before breaking it “believe me there’s a lot of guys who want to get in your pants” he rubbed his fists and you gave him a confused expression yet again “what are you on about matt?” you were getting sober just from all of this extra mystery.

he walked over to the bed sitting beside you, “listen when we met you were just.. blooming completely and i would be lying if i didn’t say i first went up to you because of your looks.. well overtime you know we became friends and i noticed other guys staring in ways they shouldn’t have been so i had to teach them a lesson.” he looked at you and yo didn’t know how to respond to something like that.

“what exactly are you saying matt?” you didnt understand what he was poking at, did matt mean to say he basically likes you? were you reading too much into this? “look y/n, no one else in this school fucking deserves you. hell i don’t deserve you but i know i can treat you how you need. don’t ask me what took so long to confess to you y/n, but do you feel even remotely the same?” he let it all out quick and fast, and your mouth dropped.

“you want.. me?” you looked at him in disbelief and he just smiled “that’s what that whole speech was about, yeah” he chuckled nervously awaiting your reply “why?” you sighed still slightly unconvinced “have you fucking seen yourself puff? you’re so undeniably gorgeous, i don’t know how i hold myself back from you everyday” he leaned in closer to you making this all seem more real. without thinking you allowed yourself to lean into him, faces and lips meeting for the most magical first kiss you could’ve ever imagined.

“you’re so fucking beautiful y/n” he grabbed your face pulling you closer to him till you straddled over his lap sitting down continuing the now makeout. “this is so much better than.. imagined” you huffed through the kisses. you could already feel mattheos member growing beneath you and you never thought you’d be the one experiencing this from your best friend.

you’d be lying if you didn’t admit to a fantasy or two about him in the past but this was already one thousand times better than ever imagined. mattheos lips kissed their way down your neck leaving small marks tiny moans leaving your mouth, “i need to hear more of that, y/n, let me eat you out.. please i need a taste” he continued his kisses along your neck bringing them back to your lips “i’ve never- mm yes” you replied as his fingers began making circles over your underwear.

“you sound so good fuck” he groaned pulling you off of him and getting off the bed, “you’re sure of this?” he questioned one last time and you just nodded impatiently awaiting his next move. next thing you knew he was yanking you to the edge of his bed and slowly removing your pants and underwear looking up at you from below. “holy fuck puff.. you’re fucking soaking” he breathed out over your pussy sending tingles down your spine.

without warning his mouth met your untouched area and you felt things never imaginable. his tongue made its way around your bulging clit, flicking it up and down and making his way to your entrance sucking and licking “you taste so good holy fuck” he huffed going right back in not even looking up at you, “can i put two fingers” he spoke from your pussy and you couldn’t even properly answer “mm y-yes” you replied between your moans.

you felt his slender fingers teasing your entrance and he slowly began inching one in and out teasingly, “mattheo-“ you huffed and he chuckled shoving both fingers in, loud moan escaping your mouth and this new feeling. he did a few different moments trying to figure out what makes you moan the most, soon his tongue was sucking expertly on your clit as his fingers twisters and curled inside of you.

“matt i want to.. try” you moaned at this pleasure wanting nothing more than to feel him inside of you now. “mm but you’re not ready yet puff” he continued devouring your pussy simply divulging in it as if he’d never eaten anything before. his pace on everything quickened and you were already near your own orgasm, “if you don’t s-stop i’m gonna cum” you moaned loudly trying to control yourself.

“let go for me sweetheart” he sucked harder on your clit, the nickname and action forcing your orgasm to flood over you harder than you’ve ever been able to make yourself experience. your body was shaking and you couldn’t hold your reactions back, mattheo slowly licked your gushing area clean before standing up “mm now i think you’ll be ready soon” he smirked leaning down over you, grabbing your chin and giving you a kiss.

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lightseoul · 3 months ago

Text

CASUAL CASUALTIES (10.6k)

pairing. k. bakugou x reader

synopsis. what was meant to be an innocent trip down to the bridge becomes a national sensation when you get outed as #15 pro-hero dynamight's soulmate on live tv. inconvenient, yes, very much so—but it's not like you have to do something about it. but then the bakugou katsuki himself seeks you out, and you find yourself getting into a whole lot of trouble. inspired by @/andypantsx3's fingerprints. (read on ao3)

c.w. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up, post-timeskip/ch 431, soulmate!au, lots of cursing, reader is ill, depictions of mental illness (mentions of depressive themes and suicidality), mentions of death, nsfw/mature themes, minor manga spoilers

a/n. here it is, y'all! while i know the word count and tags are quite daunting, i really hope you give this fic a chance because i'm extremely proud of this one, which i haven't felt about my writing in a while. if you do end up reading it, thank you and i sincerely hope you enjoy it <3

to be fair, you were just…weighing your options.

taking a short trip down to shizuoka’s famous ayumi bridge wasn’t part of your itinerary for the day, not that you’ve been having exceptionally busy itineraries for who knows how long. it was a spur-of-the-moment decision that you periodically second-guessed on the way there, the vivid picture of your unmade but comfortable bed weighing heavily in your mind.

still, and despite yourself, you couldn’t deny the need for fresh air, nor the relief that filled your renewed albeit fatigued lungs as you finally arrived at your destination.

from where you are now standing with your arms folded on top of the relatively short railings, you look past the barricade and down onto the cloudy river below you.

it was an innocent gesture—one borne out of curiosity minus most of the morbidity—but it apparently wasn’t innocent enough, because one moment you were studying the ripples in the distant water, and the next, you’re violently yanked from behind.

you let out an unintentional ‘oof’ as you stumble backward, your body helplessly tugged alongside the blouse that you vaguely register as the thing that’s being pulled back. you probably stagger a few feet away from the edge of the bridge, before unceremoniously falling on your butt.

and as if out of nowhere, pro-hero dynamight emerges right in front of you.

“are you crazy?” he spits out, frenzied. “do you have a fucking death wish?”

you blink. “i—”

he throws his arms up in what you think is defeat, cutting you off, although he’s looking more pissed than resigned. “fucking menaces,” he mumbles loudly under his breath.

a surge of indignation instantly shoots through you, and you open your mouth to spit something back at him, but you don’t get the chance to, because he holds out his hand.

robbed of all words, and quite frankly, barely registering what’s happening, the best you can do is blink at him. again.

his eyebrows furrow, irritation surely bubbling in his veins. his hand stays put, though. “what are you waiting for? get up.”

you hesitate, eyes drifting from his face and down to his hand. unlike his gloved left, his right is bare, and riddled with a plethora of scars. you didn’t know about that, at least from his pictures on tv and social media, unlike the one on his face that is constantly broadcasted for everyone else to see.

you don’t dwell on it further, though, deciding then and there that you want to go home right the fuck now.

you quickly take his hand and help him by pulling yourself up. once you’re upright, you’re just as quick to let go, opting to brush off the dirt stuck to your clothes.

“thanks,” you start, forcing yourself to meet his piercing gaze that’s indubitably boring holes into your face. “…i guess.”

“you guess?” he spews, incredulous, before shaking his head. “never fucking mind.”

“dynamight!”

startled, you whip to look at the source of the voice, and your eyes comically widen when they land on a group of people who look suspiciously like the media. and right behind them are a few police cars dotted with several police officers.

you turn to face bakugou, about to clarify with him if he knows what they’re doing here, but he’s already staring at you, an inexplicable expression etched on his face.

“what?” you can’t help but ask.

he sighs, cocking his head toward the closely approaching herd. “get ready.”

“dynamight!” the woman decked out in a blazer and pencil skirt exclaims, completely oblivious to the concept of personal space as she thrusts her microphone into bakugou’s face. you feel yourself shrink from where you stand slightly to his right, unsure as to whether or not you’re being filmed right now.

you hope you aren’t.

“two negotiations in a row,” she breathes out, disbelieving. “how did you do it?”

negotiations?

“what kind of stupid question is that?” he barks out. “i simply was in the right place at the right time with the first one.”

“oh, you’re too humble!” she quips, signaling the cameraman to steady his shot of the pro-hero’s face. “we came as soon as we could when we heard about what was going down here.”

“yeah, and you could’ve caused the situation to escalate even further than it already did,” he retorts without missing a beat. the reporter’s face falls. bakugou takes that as a sign to go on.

“you’re lucky i arrived and intervened when i did. and how did none of you dipshits think to call the fucking police?”

“i—”

“you’re all too preoccupied with getting your next scoop that you lost your fucking grip on reality and failed to help,” the pro-hero chastises.

he pauses for a second, and you’re about to think he’s finally done with his spiel for the woman’s sake when he glances at you, looking like he’s got something more to say.

and as you find out in the next, excruciating seconds, he definitely has.

the man shoots his arm up, his thumb sticking out, pointing conveniently at you.

“case in point,” he states. “we could’ve had a casualty.”

you gawk at him.

a what?

“i’m sorry,” you start, turning to face the ash-blonde, acutely aware of the inquisitive eyes peering at you, “i think you’re misunderstanding. i wasn’t going to jum—”

“oh my god.”

miffed, you turn again to look at the woman, but now her countenance has gone all pale, looking like she just saw a poltergeist. seemingly speechless, she doesn’t try to get a word out, but what she does is point at bakugou’s wrist.

the man beside you shifts on his feet, uncomfortable. “the fuck are you—”

whatever bite the pro-hero was about to unleash on the reporter gets stuck in his throat when he flips his hand and freezes.

and when you see the familiar-looking timer written on his wrist that reads 00:02:57, you stiffen.

it can’t be.

still, you’ve got to make sure.

and so with bated breath, you slowly lift your right hand, turning it with the palm facing up.

and sure enough, your timer—the one that’s been at zero your entire life—reads just a few seconds after bakugou’s.

he thinks he’s fucking spiderman.

you mentally roll your eyes as you replay the clip of bakugou that went viral a few days ago.

you were able to put two and two together on the way home from the bridge, your conjecture proven correct when you got home and checked your social media accounts, which were crawling with articles and posts about the jumper who the #15th pro-hero dynamight was able to talk down.

he was a middle-aged man who apparently lost custody of his only son in light of his divorce, and couldn’t find a way out of the agony apart from death.

you couldn’t get a good view of his face, since the shots were all focused on bakugou taking his glove off to reach out to the guy, but you figure that’s a good thing. the man’s already fucking suicidal—the last thing he needs is for his privacy to be breached.

you can only laugh at the irony as you parse through your notifications, because lo and behold—they’ve already found you out.

because of course! what story sells better than a notorious hero’s successful negotiation with a jumper?

a notorious hero’s successful negotiation with a jumper who also happens to be his fucking soulmate.

nevermind the fact that you weren’t actually planning to jump that day.

“excuse me?”

you look up from your phone to find a teenage girl peering at you timidly from across the counter.

you tuck the device in your pocket and put on your most cordial smile. “hi! how can i help you?”

she puts what seems to be a fantasy duology on top of the surface between the two of you, before shooting you a shy smile back. “just these two, please.”

you peek at the titles and immediately light up. “great choice! my friend loves these.”

she lets out a delighted sound as you ring up her purchase, and you make small talk as you take her card and pack her books in a brown paper bag.

“have fun reading!” you say as she accepts the package from you, mouthing a quick thanks.

you watch the girl exit the bookstore with a grin you didn’t know you had on your face, which you only catch wind of when you shift your attention back to the next person in line.

because one sight of them has it wiped off your mouth in an instant.

even if they’re decked out in the most unhelpful disguise of a baseball cap, hoodie, and face mask.

still, two can play at this game. and quite frankly, you’re up for roleplaying rather than having a confrontation anyway, with this ridiculous get-up he has on.

and so with the most friendly tone you can muster, you ask: “how can i help you?”

even behind his whole guise, you can see the darkening of his gaze when you put forth the question. “are you serious?”

you tilt your head to the side in fake innocence. “what do you mean, sir? you’re at the counter at a bookstore…”

apparently, that’s enough to rile up the great explosion murder god dynamight, because he angrily tugs his mask down before bobbing his head as if saying ‘seriously’?

you pretend you’re just figuring it out, going the extra mile by letting your mouth form the shape of a small ‘o’, but you can tell he’s not buying it. he glares at you, and you’re smart enough to know it’s a warning, so you cut it out despite yourself.

“the question’s still the same, by the way,” you offer when he doesn’t say anything. “how can i help you?”

his eyebrows furrow. “are you always this fucking nonchalant?”

no, you answer in your head, but he doesn’t need to know that it’s less nonchalance and more apathy. you shrug, “it's either that or panic about the whole situation.”

this time, his eyebrows shoot up. “so you’re not frazzled? like, at all?”

you stop yourself from rolling your eyes just in time. “of course, i am. kind of—at least. the last thing i need is to be scrutinized by the public.”

“that one’s on you, showing up at the same bridge as that jumper.”

you bristle. “i told you, i wasn’t going to jump!”

only belatedly do you realize that you just said that last bit quite loudly, and you hurriedly scan the room to see a few curious faces have glanced your way. you bow slightly in apology, before turning back to regard the pro-hero.

he huffs. “let’s say you weren’t. it doesn’t matter, because we still made contact and now the news is out.”

“so? i don’t see how we have to do anything about it.”

“believe me, i agree.”

you laugh. “wow, who knew the dynamight doesn’t want a soulmate, let alone meet and be tethered to one?”

“laugh all you want, dumbass,” comes bakugou’s reply. “but what i’m about to say is not a laughing matter.”

“do pray tell.”

“fucking—” he starts, before taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. once he’s expelled that air, he fixes his gaze on you. you subconsciously straighten up.

“i need you to put up appearances with me.”

you squint at him. “huh?”

he presses his lips in a tight line. “i’m dropping in the rankings, and i’ll drop even further if i don’t—”

“i don’t see how any of this is my business.”

“—if i don’t do anything palatable about the situation,” he presses on. “it’s costing me and my agency, as much as i fucking hate to admit it.”

you only stare at him, letting the gears in your head turn in light of the newfound information. and when you don’t say anything, bakugou finishes.

“it’ll only be for a while.”

pft.

a while?

you hesitate. of course, you would. there’s absolutely no reason for you to get involved with the pro-hero, especially not now nor in the near, foreseeable future. in fact, you don’t even want to think about how he found out this is where you worked part-time. and you know there’s more where that came from.

you shake your head, “i’m sorry, but there’s no way i can—”

“i’ll pay you.”

you whip to look at him, shocked. “what?”

“you need the money, right?” he asks, and you hate how he’s right. “pr is offering an amount.”

you gulp, hating even more how you’re actually considering this. “how much are we talking about?”

he tells you. you barely catch your jaw from dropping to the floor.

with that amount, you’ll have the luxury of quitting this minimum wage job that you’ve barely been able to keep doing and then some. you’ll be set on your monthly expenses for a couple of months, and maybe even have enough to splurge on the few things that you’ve been wanting to get for yourself but haven’t had the means to.

and all that just by pretending for one to two months, tops?

your name and face are already common knowledge, anyway. there shouldn’t even be a debate.

you stick your right hand out, the one with the ticking timer on your wrist, for him to shake. he extends his, and the sight of the matching numbers sends an unidentifiable sensation down your spine. you try to ignore it.

and just like that, you shake on it, and the deal is on.

besides, you’ve got nothing to lose, anyway.

you push the glass door open, mindful of not adding any more handprints on the already marked surface. the wind chimes you didn’t know were hanging above it from the inside resonate as you enter, and you find yourself suddenly grateful that you at least managed to put on a bit of makeup for today. a few people seated near the entrance glance to look at you, which is probably a good thing for once.

right before bakugou left the bookstore a few days ago, he suggested you exchange numbers, which you agreed to gingerly. you expected radio silence for at least a week and hoped for forever, but a text eventually came later that night, asking for your availability so he could schedule a meet-up in public.

you told him you couldn’t meet until today, probably giving off the impression that you were busy with something, when in reality you were just tired and needed the time to process what was about to happen.

which brings you to now, standing at the doorway of a hip café in the heart of musutafu, scanning the faces for vermillion daggers he has for eyes.

it takes you a second, what with the afternoon crowd slowly encroaching on the establishment and filling up the tables, but you eventually locate him, with the help of the scarred hand he raises to get your attention.

“hey,” you greet when you reach his spot near the back, and he nods at you in acknowledgment. taking a seat across from him, you make it a point to study your position. “are you sure you want to sit here?”

he raises an eyebrow, which you can now see clearly without the shadow of the cap from before. “what, this table not up to your standard?”

exasperation shoots through you, as it always does, but you shake it off. instead, you toss him a tight-lipped smile. “no, it’s just that people might not see us back here. which, you know, kind of defeats the purpose?”

he doesn’t say anything for a beat, gaze fixated on you, before he breaks eye contact and shakes his head. “don’t worry,” he offers. “calculated move. we’re still gonna be spotted, trust me.”

you nod…slowly. you guess that makes sense. if you seat yourselves smack dab at the center, it may come off as the both of you seeking attention, consequently undermining the authenticity of your whole charade. a real high-profile couple would want to keep it low-key.

you snort at what you just called the two of you.

“what?” bakugou asks, defensiveness bleeding into his tone. you look up at him, and you take a second to study his appearance. he ditched the cap and hoodie, only sporting a black shirt and what you think are loose joggers and sneakers.

and with his infamously unruly hair trimmed?

well. you hate to admit it, but he actually looks…nice.

you smile at him, genuinely this time. “nothing.”

he narrows his eyes at you, like he thinks you’re lying out of your ass, but he lets it go. luckily enough, and as if on cue, the waiter arrives to give you the menu and complementary water, and bakugou orders iced tea while you request your go-to drink. you thank the guy before he dashes off to tend to other customers.

“so,” you start when silence falls upon the two of you. “how exactly are we going to do this?”

he picks up his glass. “do what?”

“you know, pretend?” you gesture vaguely with your hands. “do we have to do pda or something?”

you didn’t plan to cause it, but regardless, bakugou chokes on the ice-cold water he was just in the middle of drinking. you reach out to—what, rub his back?—but he holds his hand up to stop you as he coughs his lungs out. you sit back down, and you watch him as he gathers his bearings, wiping the tears that pooled at the corners of his eyes.

“sorry,” you supply, “great job, though. you just announced our presence to everybody.”

at that, bakugou snorts, and you can’t help the chuckle that bubbles out of you. he shakes his head, “dumbass.”

“but no,” he continues, back to being serious, “well, at least for now. as far as pr is concerned, we just have to be seen together until the whole thing dies out and the volatility of my ranking dissipates.”

“okay. that clicks, i guess.”

“you’re still up for it, then?”

now it’s your turn to narrow your eyes at him. “we shook on it, didn’t we? i’m a woman of my word, bakugou.”

“well—”

“and for the last time, i wasn’t going to jump.”

that makes him bark out a laugh so loud that it startles you. grinning, he waves you off. “yeah, yeah. don’t need to get all worked up, princess.”

blazing right past that cursed nickname—you’d first go through hell and high water before you let yourself be flustered in front of this man—you shoot him an expectant look. “well?”

“well, what?”

“are we just gonna sit here and stare at each other for two, three hours? we’ll have to do something, smartass.”

if bakugou is anywhere near bothered by your nickname for him, he doesn’t let it show. instead, he takes the bait. “whaddya have in mind?”

“we can play a conversation game. the one that has prompts?” you fish out your phone from your bag, and you quickly thumb through your apps until you find the one. you click on the button that says ‘play’ and place the gadget at the center of the table.

“there,” you point. “i ask a question and you answer. then we switch and so on and so forth.”

he examines the screen. “sounds lame.”

you scoff. “lamer than sitting and waiting?”

he doesn’t answer for a few seconds, until he finally sighs and nods at you, shifting in his seat as if bracing himself for what’s to come.

“i can go first,” you volunteer, straining to look at the words on display. you cringe when you read them. “do you think i was popular in high school?”

“seriously?” he snickers, and you shrug.

he doesn’t even take a moment to think about it. “well, you work in a bookstore, so no.”

“fair enough. your turn,” you swipe on the screen and turn it 180 degrees so he can see it.

you laugh when his face contorts as he finishes scanning the question. his eyes dart up to glare at you. “who came up with this stupid ass game?”

“just read the question, bakugou.”

he splutters for a beat, ultimately relenting, seething the words through his teeth. “when it comes to relationships, do you think i’m looking for something casual?”

you’re pretty sure you know what the answer is, but you still squint at the man to mess with him.

“are you fucking with me?” he grits out, bug-eyed. “does it fucking look like i’m capable of being casual about anything at all?”

you can’t help it—you throw your head back and laugh.

“stop laughing at me, dumbass.”

you press your lips together in an attempt to quell your mirth, but you burst out laughing again when you catch a glimpse of his reddening face.

“hey—”

“sorry, sorry—it was just—your face—”

“i get it, now quit it.”

eventually, but not immediately, you do. to your relief, bakugou doesn’t forfeit like a sore loser after that round, instead choosing to press on and find an equally incriminating question for you. you bounce off of each other, mainly talking about your respective pasts, like your education, families, and upbringing, although staying considerate enough not to overstep and pry on confidential information.

there were quite a few questions directed towards the present—what you’re currently doing, any nearing plans, current events—and you were okay enough to answer them with minimal detail. the future-oriented ones, though, you barely manage to skirt around and not respond to. you noticed bakugou looking at you a little too closely during those instances, but you feigned indifference.

that’s all you could do, really.

even then, and without you noticing, the hours pass by, and by the time you actually look past the prompts and up to your phone’s clock, it’s already 5:05 pm, a good four hours past your agreed-upon meeting time.

when you glance back up at bakugou, his face reads the same—mild shock at the fact that you were too engrossed in your conversation to notice the sky getting dark and the streetlights illuminating the walkways beyond the coffee shop’s glass walls turning on one by one.

“sorry,” you say as you swiftly take your phone and lock the screen. “i didn’t mean to keep you.”

“no,” he counters, pocketing his own. “i didn’t notice, either.”

you smile at him as you put on your bag. “still think it’s lame?”

“yes,” he promptly replies, a smirk now decorating his sharp features. “but i had fun, or whatever the fuck.”

and for the nth time that afternoon, you laugh.

he texts you first that night, to your surprise.

(8:38 pm) bakugou katsuki: thanks. for coming out today.

from where you were sprawled lazily on your mattress, hair still wet from that shower you almost didn’t take, you thumb out a response.

(8:39 pm) you: no problem, boss 🫡

you press send before you can overthink things. instead, you let the warm feeling of someone else’s gratitude bloom in your chest and bask in it. that doesn’t get to happen for too long, though, because another message arrives.

(8:40 pm) bakugou katsuki: don’t call me that. by the way, did you see the news?

you feel your brows crease.

(8:40 pm) you: what news?

ping.

(8:40 pm) bakugou katsuki: bakugou katsuki sent you a link

you immediately click on the string of words, and you’re redirected to an article. it takes a while to load—the internet is sometimes spotty at your modest condominium unit—but when it does, your jaw drops.

because right at the center of which is an image of you and bakugou at the café.

“holy shit.”

before anything else, you zoom in on your face, because priorities, right? you stare at the bunch of pixels for a good few minutes, before ultimately deciding there’s nothing you can do about it anyway. besides, it’s not like this was the first glimpse the public has had of your appearance. despite yourself, you check bakugou’s, and of course, the man looks like he just came straight out of a magazine shoot.

you then read the title, which must’ve been written in haste in an attempt to get ahead of a random netizen going viral. soulmates spotted: pro-hero dynamight seen with the girl from the bridge.

well.

at least they’re not calling you a jumper.

still.

(8:44 pm) you: seriously? girl from the bridge?

another ping.

(8:44 pm) bakugou katsuki: still at the fucking headline? hurry to the end, dumbass.

you roll your eyes, mainly because you can—perks of living alone and all. skimming through the sentences, you mouth the words to yourself—a rehash about who you are, the contact from a few days ago, eyewitnesses and accounts from today—until you land on the thing you think bakugou’s been trying to highlight.

in light of recent events, bakugou katsuki, who recently dropped several spots due to unfavorable encounters with citizens, has risen in the charts to #13.

you beam.

you and bakugou hang out a couple more times over the course of the next few weeks.

your get-togethers mainly depend on his schedule—which you gawked at how hectic it was when he first described it to you—even more now that you’re officially unemployed. your contractual obligation at the bookstore ended just in time as your first paycheck from the dynamight agency arrived, and you took the impeccable timing as the universe’s way of telling you to quit so you could instead spend your time freely on hobbies that you haven’t had the energy for.

on the days that you do meet, though, you end up dedicating a huge chunk of your waking hours to the endeavor. it’s like that meme of a google calendar, with the get ready for meeting, meeting, and recover from meeting blocks taking up the entire 9 to 5.

this was definitely the case for your fourth rendezvous, which you spent at a park near the bridge where you first met. he didn’t give you any details, so you walked into it blindly with a full face of makeup, hair done, and a tote bag full of finger food and some beverages in tow. needless to say, you were surprised when you arrived to the bakugou katsuki on a plaid orange picnic blanket, with what looked like handmade sandwiches displayed for hungry onlookers to see.

“don’t start,” he preempts when he sees you eyeing the snacks as you sit down.

you blink at him innocently, a smile tugging at your lips. “i wasn’t going to.”

he frowns. “quit grinning, would you? i just thought it’d be nice to get some fresh air.”

nodding solemnly, you bring out your share of rations. “sure.”

you brace yourself for any snide remark about your pitiful food—at least, as compared to his handcrafted ones—but they don’t come. instead, what you get is a side eye, before: “why’d you look like you’re going to an event, or some shit?”

you whip to face him. “huh?”

he gestures to your face.

“oh, this? i just don’t want to look ugly in the photos, is all.”

“ugly?” he spews, as if the word in itself was as hideous as it meant.

“yeah,” you retort defensively, placing the cans of juice on the ground before shifting to look at him. “not that you have to worry about that.”

a pause.

“what’s that supposed to mea—”

“do you have anything you want to do?” you cut him off, changing the topic.

“i—uh—” bakugou stammers, caught off guard. “we can just talk, or something.”

you light up at that, and he scoffs when he sees. “same game?”

“why the hell not.”

he texts you again after the picnic, right as you step out of the train and onto the platform of your stop. you smile when you catch a glimpse of it.

(6:05 pm) bakugou katsuki: at #9 now. thanks.

as you walk up the stairs and onto the streets, you find yourself wondering why this whole ruse has been working like a charm, and the answer is quick to arrive.

humans love narratives, after all.

and what better way to forward the age-old, comforting, and redeeming tale of soulmates than through the prickly, explosive pro-hero they know so well?

you don’t hear from each other after that. you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you nervous just the tiniest bit—he was right, after all. you needed the money, especially after having quit your job. but you tell yourself it’s only been a couple of days, to trust that he’ll text when it’s time to make another public appearance, and that he’s way above ghosting you like you’re easily dispensible, regardless of whether or not you do feel that you are.

so, in an attempt to stop obsessing over this thing you’ve got going on with bakugou, you drag your ass out of bed and head to the nearest mall to run a few errands. you realize when you get to the supermarket that you forgot to catalog the things you actually needed to buy, cursing yourself when you do. still, you try your best to get on with it, relying instead on your hazy memory of what needs replenishing.

a good thirty minutes later, and with your grocery–filled tote bags hanging from your shoulders, you trek towards the pharmacy and fall in line. as always, there’s a long queue, but you eventually reach your turn, promptly buying your necessary meds and hightailing it out of there.

you consider booking a taxi instead of commuting home when you eventually feel the strain of the weight on your shoulders, but decide against it. the temperature is pretty decent anyway, you think to yourself as you walk and relish in the cloudy yet slightly windy weather. you study the buildings that you pass by, partly to distract yourself from how your bags are getting heavier and heavier by the minute, when your eyes land on a particular complex and you stop.

it’s either you’re going crazy, or you’ve been passing by the dynamight agency a million times and you never noticed.

you stand there for what feels like an eternity, peering at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and letting the internal tug-of-war play out inside your head, until you ultimately let the curiosity win. slowly and with caution, you take a few steps towards the entrance. you honest-to-god weren’t planning on stepping foot inside the establishment, but apparently, the equally glass doors are automatic.

you falter for a moment, eyes wide as saucers like a deer caught in the headlights as the “gates” slide open for you, before making the split-second decision to enter. it was either that or look stupid in front of everyone in the lobby who’s now staring at you, anyway.

luckily, you don’t get to stand there—awkward as shit—for a second longer because one of the receptionists hurries over to where you’re positioned.

the lady beams at you. “good afternoon—”

“hi,” you supply, “i was just—”

“y/n, right?”

crap. “uh, yes.”

her grin widens. “you’re just in time! bakugou-san just clocked out.”

“oh, i wasn’t—”

“y/n?”

the two of you whip to look at the back of the large room, and sure enough, the owner of the increasingly familiar gruff voice is looking right at you, just as shocked at you being here as you are.

you can only watch him—in all his regularly clothed, duffel bag-carrying glory—as he briskly walks towards where you are.

a waft of his heady perfume hits you just as he arrives at your side. “what are you doing here?”

what the fuck are you supposed to say? “i, uh—”

“she must’ve come to visit you, sir,” the receptionist pipes up chirpily.

at that, bakugou regards her with a look—one that says, do you mind? and you guess he must use that a lot around here, because she snaps her mouth closed in an instant, and bows before retreating to her spot behind the counter.

you keep your eyes trained on the woman as she scurries, wishing the ground would swallow you up before you’re forced to look at the pro-hero. but then he says your name again, and your head creaks to face him as if it’s got a mind of its own, its automaticity akin to that of vines winding to get the smallest peek at the sun.

“well?” he demands, brow raised in waiting.

“i was just going home and noticed your building was on the way,” you answer truthfully, a tad bit embarrassed. you shouldn’t have stopped and let your curiosity get the better of you.

he studies you for a second longer before his gaze drops to the things you’re carrying. “you were walking home? with those?”

“yeah…” you respond, voice small. “don’t worry, they’re not that heavy,” you lie.

and before he can call you out on your deceit, you throw the question back at him. “how ‘bout you?”

the second it tumbles off your lips, you knew it was fucking stupid.

“…i work here?”

there it is. in a last-ditch effort to save face, you let out a laugh, although it comes out a bit stilted. he narrows his eyes at you, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d think the man was amused.

“let me drive you home,” he offers out of the blue, you almost choke.

“what? no, i’m okay.”

“your shoulders are about to give out,” he says pointedly. “don’t be fucking stubborn.”

“seriously, i’m alright,” you insist, and he sighs. you turn it right back at him, “don’t you have somewhere to be? you’re actually leaving early for once.”

and strangely enough, he is. from the few weeks of knowing knowing him, you’ve learned that the man puts in overtime almost every single day, which has been one of the reasons why your hangouts were always scheduled on the weekends.

“‘m visiting my parents,” comes his curt reply.

you beam at him. it’s funny how picturing this hulking brute of a man as his parents’ son makes you feel warm. “that’s so nice of you.”

“‘s nothing,” he dismisses, before: “they’ve been asking about you, you know.”

“me?” you repeat lamely. “what about me?”

he shrugs. “just basic information about you, how we’re doing, and all that crap…”

and when you don’t say anything, he just goes straight for it. “they want you to visit.”

you gape at him.

“but don’t be pressured, and shit,” he backtracks. “i know that’s a tall order.”

huh.

“…i’ll think about it,” you eventually offer with a nod. and you will—later. when you’ve got your wits about you. but for now, you hastily go through your bags and pick out the thing.

“here,” you say, just as you thrust the small bouquet of orange tulips toward him. “give these to your mom. or dad. or both, really.”

his eyes dart between you and the flowers and then back at you again. great, you think to yourself. you’ve successfully rendered the man speechless.

“take it,” you assert after a moment. “they’re better off in you guys’ hands, anyway.”

he examines them for another while, before he finally takes them off your hands.

“thanks.”

you only smile at him. to your pleasant surprise, he flashes a small one back.

(9:06 pm) bakugou katsuki: i’d tell you to check the news but i know it’ll take you a century. i’m at 6th now.

the drowsiness that was just clouding your brain wards off like smoke that’s being fanned away. you sit up on your couch, rubbing your eyes with one hand while you type out a response with the other.

(9:07 pm) you: ha. and congrats!!! that’s great to hear 🥳

you barely get to adjust your butt’s position when a notification pops in.

(9:07 pm) bakugou katsuki: thanks. and my parents loved it, just so you know. the old hag especially.

you smile. another message.

(9:08 pm) bakugou katsuki: she wants you to come over for dinner this weekend.

your face falls. shit. you didn’t see this coming.

(9:09 pm) you: so soon?

your default ringtone resounds across your one-bedroom unit.

(9:09 pm) bakugou katsuki: she’s in a rush. say no if you don’t want to.

you pause, suddenly acutely aware of the guilt that’s stewing in the pit of your stomach. is deceiving his parents necessary, when all you need is to put on an act for the general public? still, bakugou did say his mother was in a rush. maybe he just got sick of her insistent nagging.

you take a sharp inhale.

(9:12 pm) you: i’m down 🫡

and just because there’s nothing more fun than pulling at his leg:

(9:12 pm) you: …granted i’ll get paid for it 😊

ping.

(9:13 pm) bakugou katsuki: you and your greedy ass. fine.

“and so that’s how i got masaru here to say yes to a date!”

you laugh as mitsuki loops an arm around the shoulder of the brunette sitting beside her, who only chuckles to himself, a faint pink sitting high on his cheeks. you chance a glance at bakugou, and sure enough, he’s rolling his eyes at his mother’s finishing line.

“what?” he quips defensively when you toss him a pointed look. “i’ve heard this story a million times.”

“and you’re gonna hear it again, tsuki,” mitsuki replies unapologetically.

bakugou only groans as you smile at the couple from across the table. “i think that was an excellent story, mitsuki-san.”

“thank you, y/n. but enough about us!” she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and you feel your stomach drop. “how ‘bout you two, huh? what’s the deal?”

“the deal is you’re being nosy as fuck,” comes bakugou’s snappy retort.

“come on, katsuki,” masaru implores, a playful lilt in his tone. “we’d love to hear about how things are going between the two of you.”

“is the press being all up in your ass?” mitsuki demands, “because i can tell them to fuck off if you need me to.”

“sure, if you want to fucking embarrass me.”

“you know what, i’d actually love to do that.”

“fucking hag—”

you worriedly watch the two ash blondes as they go at each other’s throats, before you look at masaru for help. he only shoots you a meek albeit unalarmed expression, which is enough to tell you this isn’t an uncommon occurrence in the bakugou household. thankfully, though, they calm down after a beat, opting to glare daggers at each other instead.

“to answer your question, mitsuki-san,” you take the gamble and interject, and everybody whips to look at you, “they’re being quite harmless. you know, minus all the circulating information about my life.”

at that, mitsuki’s joyful countenance morphs into one of sorriness. “i’m afraid that’s part of having a soulmate with a high profile, dear. it doesn’t help that you were being filmed when you both found out.”

“yeah, well, there’s not much we can do about it,” you offer with a genuine smile.

“is that why you’re just leaning into it?” asks masaru. “hanging out in public and all?”

“uh—”

“obviously,” bakugou cuts you off. you turn to look at him, stunned, before shifting back to face the couple.

“uh, yes,” you continue, “we figured there wasn’t any point in hiding anymore.”

that seems to perk mitsuki up. “hide what, tsuki?”

and when neither of you says anything: “are you trying to tell us something?”

you sneak a glance at bakugou, only to find him already looking at you. you stare at each other for what feels like a minute short of forever, before he breaks eye contact and cooly says the next thing.

says the next thing while simultaneously pulling the rug from under your feet.

“we’re dating,” he declares, and you sit there, witnessing his parents’ eyes bug out in surprise, hoping yours aren’t betraying the very same emotion you’re feeling right now.

“really?”

“oh my god! since when?”

bakugou huffs, practically exuding annoyance. “yes, and just recently. end of discussion.”

masaru laughs in delight while mitsuki pouts, although you can tell she’s fighting off a grin.

“and here we thought you were gonna die alone, tsuki,” masaru jokes.

“shitty fucking—”

“no, but seriously,” interrupts mitsuki, “i was getting nervous, katsuki. what with my diagnosis, i thought i’d never get to see you be happy with someone.”

you pause, looking at the man beside you. “diagnosis?”

“oh! he didn’t tell you?” mitsuki queries, tone laced with worry. “i don’t mean to be a party pooper, but i just got diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer a few months ago.”

shit. “i’m so sorry, mitsuki-san—”

the woman waves you off, a beautiful smile adorning her familiar features. “don’t be, dear. the doctor says the outlook is good as long as i strictly adhere to treatment.”

despite that, you can’t help but frown. “how are you feeling these days?”

“i’m good!” she supplies cheerfully. “masaru and i have been spending more quality time together, and katsuki’s been visiting more often. and of course, you being here is an added bonus.”

you toss the woman a grateful look, which she returns generously. mitsuki talks some more about it before shifting the conversation back to less depressing territories, like what bakugou was like growing up and her and masaru’s plans for retirement. eventually, minutes turned into a few hours, and came the time to go home. you profusely thank the couple as you begin to head outside, while bakugou steps out to his porsche to get the engine started.

“i’ll be hoping for your speedy recovery, mitsuki-san,” you say as you step out onto their front porch.

“thanks, dear. and i’ll be hoping that things go well between you and katsuki, okay?”

you force a smile on your face and the words out of your mouth. “i hope so, too.”

the air is tense between you and bakugou as you step out of his car at your complex’s parking lot, then through the doors at the guarded entrance, and even during the elevator ride up to your floor.

neither of you says a word the entire time, sharing only a few nods and glances with you leading the way. you were fully expecting him to just drive off the second you got out of his pristine vehicle, but he ended up exiting with you and following your trail like a shadow.

thankfully, not many people are still around to see you in the lobby or on your floor, even if it’s still 9-ish on a saturday. you both were all for being spotted together, but maybe being seen at either of your residences will cause more trouble than help. you are about to say this to break the ice when you arrive at the end of the hallway and in front of your unit, but bakugou beats you to it.

“i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.”

you freeze, blinking at him. “didn’t tell me what?”

he sighs, and suddenly the lines that you were convinced weren’t on his face a second ago are now evident—along with the exhaustion that’s carved right into it. “that my mom has cancer.”

you frown. “there’s nothing to apologize for, bakugou. you’re not obligated to tell me.”

“still,” he insists, seemingly growing more tired by the moment. “it blindsided you, hearing it from her. i should’ve just told you earlier.”

“maybe,” you admit, “but i understand your apprehension.”

he grumbles, but doesn’t reply. you decide to just go for it.

“can i ask you something?”

he looks up from where he was staring at the off-white tiled floor, expectant. “what?”

“is she part of the reason?” you begin, treading carefully. “why you wanted to put up appearances?”

he stares at you for a beat, perhaps a beat too long because you find yourself slowly regretting bringing up the query in the first place. you are about to backtrack and apologize for asking when, to your surprise, he nods.

ever so slightly that it’s almost imperceptible, but enough of a motion for you to see it.

“i just wanted to seem like i’m putting myself out there,” he mutters, “just in case something happens.”

you nod, ignoring the way your heart is stinging at his sincerity just now.

“she’s always been on my ass about finding someone, but then things happened and you showed up, and i figured why not just hit two birds with one stone, or some shit.”

a pause.

“personally i wouldn’t want to be the stone hitting not just one but two poor birds, but i get it.”

that must’ve caught him off guard, because bakugou snorts. you grin at him when he snickers and calls you stupid under his breath, the atmosphere taking a vastly lighter turn.

now, you didn’t notice it before—much like how you didn’t notice his agency’s building being part of your regular route to the mall—but bakugou has a dimple. a tiny one. and similar to his nod from a short while ago, it’s a subtle little thing, but it’s there—especially now that he’s smiling.

and right next to his dimple are his lips.

which are looking ungodly moisturized compared to your undoubtedly chapped ones.

wait.

your eyes shoot up from his lips to his eyes, a tidal wave of equal parts shame and humiliation ready to crash over your entire, pathetic body. but just as it is about to metaphorically collide with your frame, it freezes—just as you do.

because you catch him—and no matter how much he might try to deny it, you saw it with your own two eyes.

he was staring at your lips.

but apparently denying it isn’t part of his agenda for the night, because he does the exact fucking opposite.

he dives in and presses his lips onto yours.

and you were right—they are sinfully soft, even if you haven’t seen him apply lip balm in the handful of instances you hung out.

and as far as you can remember, this is the last coherent thought that crosses your mind, because the next few minutes go by like a blur. you vaguely recall him pulling away and looking straight at you, as if waiting for a reaction, before leaning right back in when you pull him closer by his shirt. what you don’t remember is who opens the door or how you manage to use your keys without breaking the momentum, but you magically do, just as magically as how fast clothes are shed on the way to your bed.

you recall him eagerly towering over you as your back hit the soft sheets of your mattress, as well as the honest admission of his inexperience yet willingness to learn against your neck. you remember guiding him, telling him how to touch you and the right places to do so—where to rub and lick and thrust not just his fingers to drive you over the edge.

and he does—drive you over the edge. over and over and over that you lost count. and you equally returned the favor, shocked at your own desperation and unusual determination to make him feel good. you recall his being vocal—which you loved, if the incessant wetness between your thighs that lasted the entire night was any indication. you don’t remember when you finished for the last time—when you both crashed out from sheer exhaustion.

but it eventually happened—otherwise, you wouldn’t be laying here, naked under the covers, with a sleeping bakugou illuminated by the sunlight peeking through your black-out curtains.

this wasn’t part of the plan.

the whole pretending to be amicable soulmates plan, sure. but perhaps more importantly, your short-term plan that consists of…well, today and tomorrow.

the last thing you need is to actually be tethered to a person this late in the game.

still, and despite the palpable regret that sits heavy on your chest—the one that’s very bare at the moment albeit concealed under your freshly-washed blanket—you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want it. besides, you don’t have anything else to blame for your behavior last night other than your own free will.

but why do you still feel so empty?

“you okay?”

ripped out of your stupor, you whip to look to your left, and you don’t know who else you were expecting, but your eyes still widen in surprise when you see a naked bakugou, slightly propped up by his two elbows that strain under his hefty weight. unable to sustain his gaze, you keep your line of vision trained on this one vein that runs along the length of his arm as you merely nod in response.

unsurprisingly, he doesn’t take that for an answer.

“i’m not asking again,” he warns, and your eyes shoot up to meet his in disbelief.

the words are out before you can rein them in. “are you always this mouthy even in the morning?”

“i’m not a morning person,” he simply spits back, as if that’s enough of an explanation in itself.

you furrow your brows at him, having half a mind to lock in on this staredown until the fluid in your eyes dries out and you finally, finally die (or go blind, whichever comes first), but then just as quickly as it possessed you with his challenge, the fight within you dies out, leaving your body limp with numbness and fatigue. you break eye contact when it happens, shaking your head in resignation.

you settle with: “it’s nothing,” and blindly hope he leaves it at that.

“‘s not nothing if it’s clearly bothering you,” he retorts to your chagrin.

“i don’t want to be embarrassingly vulnerable if it’ll make you uncomfortable.”

at that, he scoffs. “we fucked. multiple times last night. it can’t get any more vulnerable than that.”

you flush at his brazenness. “yeah, well, that’s the thing. we…you know,” you lower your voice for the next bit, “had sex, and now the lines are getting blurry and it’s all confusing.”

and when he doesn’t say anything for a moment, you tie your spiel with a mangled bow. “i told you it was gonna be embarrassing for me.”

that seems to rub him off the wrong way, because his nose flares in irritation. “why’re you talking like i’m some cold ass fuckboy? i told you, didn’t i? there’s nothing fucking casual about me.”

“i didn’t mean it like—”

“let me talk first,” he commands, and you shut up.

he sighs when you do, letting his head droop between his shoulders. “i don’t regret it, but if you do, then i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have made a move.”

you sit up from where you were lying down, the motion causing him to look up and at you as you shake your head, “don’t apologize, bakugou. it’s just…”

you trail off, weighing on what you can and cannot say.

“it’s just what?” he prods.

you let out a long exhale. “it’s just things are a bit…complicated, to say the least.”

that makes the pro-hero frown, but he doesn’t get to push you to expound on it because a booming voice erupts throughout the room, entirely juxtaposing the earlier quiet. you startle, then ease up when you realize it’s all might’s, and that it’s merely a ringtone. bakugou scrambles out of bed to fetch his phone, and you manage to look away just in time to avoid catching a glimpse of his massive dick.

which, after last night, is really just for courtesy purposes at this point.

thankfully, you don’t have to stare at the ceiling for too long because he retrieves it in record time, before hurriedly crawling back and flinging the covers on top of his lower half.

he eyes you as he brings the device up to his ear and speaks into it. “what is it, nerd?”

you strain to listen in on the voice at the other end, but you barely manage to pick up on a few words. you resort to observing bakugou’s facial expressions instead.

“cut to the chase,” he spews, and you find yourself feeling bad for the other person. “i’m busy right now.”

you watch as bakugou listens to the “nerd’s” reply, stiffening when the pro-hero curses under his breath.

“it’s next weekend? why’d you have to book it this early, then?”

was he planning to meet this person somewhere?

“shit. fine, i’ll ask her.”

you don’t even get to wonder who her is before bakugou swiftly brings his other hand up to cover the microphone, regarding you straight-up.

“shitty deku and round cheeks want to hang out next weekend,” he explains, slightly hesitant, before: “you up for that?”

you make a quick survey of bakugou’s face. can you even say no, at this point? technically, you can, but an inkling deep inside you points at your needing a distraction, because otherwise…

otherwise…

no, now’s not the time for that.

instead, you nod, forcing a smile on your lips. “i’ll go.”

bakugou stares at you for a beat, gaze borderline scrutinizing it makes you uneasy. but then he nods, and you find yourself taking a sharp breath as he goes back to his phone call.

“we’re in.”

“once again, serving time will be 15 to 20 minutes, and i’m haruhi, your server for this evening.”

you collectively thank the waitress as she beams at the four of you while serving your glasses of water, before turning around to return to the kitchen.

“this restaurant’s really hard to get into, you know,” shares midoriya when the girl is out of earshot, catching your attention. “but i heard their katsudon is really, really good, so i worked hard to get us a reservation.”

“worked hard, my ass,” sneers bakugou without missing a beat. “you pulled some strings. i recognize the owner, he’s the father of one of your top students.”

“kacchan—”

“don’t tease him, bakugou,” the brunette interjects, an adorable pout etched on her pretty face. “i was with him, he was on the phone for thirty minutes with the receptionist begging for a slot.”

“and you two are begging to be teased,” comes bakugou’s snarky quip. “quit it with the whole defending him, would ya?”

you fail to stop the smile that invades your lips as the new couple blush at bakugou’s remark, an unmistakable tinge of pink flooding both of their cheeks.

“if it’s okay to ask,” you start, tamping down the shyness that looms in when the two across you regard you pleasantly, “how long have you been dating?”

“uh, about three months, right, izuku?” uraraka replies quietly, the pink from earlier now blossoming into a more apparent red as she looks at the man.

“y-yes, three months,” confirms the greenhead.

from where he’s seated to your left, bakugou snorts. “it’s been a long time coming, if you ask me.”

“you make it sound so simple, bakugou,” counters uraraka, before shifting to face you. “it really wasn’t easy to get to this point, y/n. i’m not sure if bakugou’s told you, but we went through a lot in ua and even after that, which made entertaining anything beyond hero work impossible. plus,” she adds timidly, “there’s this whole soulmate situation on top of everything.”

curious, you ask. “what soulmate situation?”

and, as if they’ve gone through these motions countless times before, both midoriya and uraraka lift up their right wrists and thrust them forward for you to see. you lean forward to get a better view.

you look at midoriya’s first. his looks just like yours before you met bakugou a little over a month ago—opaque and conveniently set at zero. you then glance at uraraka’s, but to your surprise, hers looks different. a huge number is written on her flesh…

but it’s static and greyed out.

you look up at the woman, confused, and she’s quick to explain. “my soulmate died a few years ago.”

she shrugs, “and izuku’s…well, he’s never heard of them.”

“not that we wouldn’t be with each other if they were both around,” clarifies midoriya, who says it so quickly he almost stumbles over his words. “it’s just that because of these circumstances, our relationship is a bit…unconventional.”

“i understand,” you promptly reply with the most gracious expression you can muster. uraraka shoots you a grateful look, while midoriya bashfully scratches at his head.

you sense bakugou’s gaze on you through your periphery, but you ignore it.

you wouldn’t be able to hold it, anyway.

“it’s romantic, isn’t it?”

you round the corner, careful not to brush against bakugou when he does the same to your left. a sigh of relief threatens to wrack over the entirety of your frame when you’re met with the sight of the familiar-looking street, brightly illuminated by an array of streetlights dotting the entire length of it.

“what,” he says more than asks, effortlessly keeping up with your pace with his long strides.

you take a fleeting glance at him, before shifting your attention back to the pavement in front of you. “midoriya and uraraka, and how they chose each other.”

“i guess…” he responds, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “but i’ve always seen it from lightyears away.”

you pause, although you’re quick to step back into your rhythmic walking. “really?”

“they’ve always had each other’s backs even before ua,” he explains. “it’s creepy how similar they are to each other, too. it’d be weird if they didn’t end up together.”

he says it so seriously you can’t help but laugh. you catch him looking at you, smirking. “you’ve got an interesting way with words, bakugou.”

“sue me.”

you, in fact, don’t sue him, but you do unleash a cutting wisecrack in his direction, which he counters with his, and this goes on and on without pause that you don’t even notice you’ve already arrived at the front of your condominium unit until he points it out.

and as the weighty realization of this dawns on you, so do the memories of what happened when you were last here together. you rush to suppress them, and pick up the conversation from where you left off.

“i don’t know about you,” you quip, tossing him a grin, “but i take comfort in the fact that people can find someone beyond their designated soulmates.”

to your dismay, albeit somewhat unsurprisingly, bakugou doesn’t return it—the grin nor the sentiment, apparently—because he only stares at you weirdly, like you just said something…off.

great, you think to yourself. now you’ve ruined it.

might as well ruin it even further at this point, right?

finally, and to your brain’s relief, you let the damned grin fall off your face, let your shoulders sag from the strenuous effort to seem tall and confident for the last few hours, and you heave a heavy, heavy sigh. you sense bakugou stiffen at your palpable change in demeanor, but you pay it no mind.

“look,” you start, willing yourself to look up to meet his eyes, which you instantly regret because now they’re laced with obvious concern. still, you press on and gulp. “i didn’t want to do this, but i guess i have no choice now, do i?”

“what are you—”

“i know things are weird right now, and i just had to go ahead and start catching feelings like a lunatic, but i—”

you trail off, uncertain, before deciding fuck it. “this can’t go on, bakugou.”

the second you let the words out, you can only watch with anticipatory dread as a million emotions dance across his features. you stand there as he opens his mouth, before closing them, and then opening them again, although nothing comes out.

what seems like an eternity passes before he finally gets something out.

“…why?”

you press your lips into a thin line. “it’s because i’m sick.”

there.

but then he says something that completely throws you off balance.

“i know.”

you feel your eyes widen in surprise as he diverts his gaze. “what? how?”

“i—” he starts, reluctant, before: “i noticed.”

instantly, you flame in embarrassment. you thought you had this whole masking thing pinned the fuck down. and all this time you hadn’t?

you must’ve looked distraught at his admission, because he swiftly tries to soothe you. “don’t hide,” he says, and only then do you realize you’re shrinking in yourself like you do when you want to disappear. he frowns, “the last thing you need to be is fucking ashamed.”

at that, and despite yourself, you snort. you don’t have the heart to tell him you can’t remember the last time you felt shame over your condition from how long it’s just been there—an unwavering part of your life. still, you force a reply. “thanks.”

and before he can say anything uselessly placating that’ll only chip away at the very little you have left, you beat him to it. “i should head inside.”

“but—”

“good night, bakugou.”

and just like that, you spin on your heel, open the door with your keys, and close it shut in his face.

the conversation from earlier wouldn’t leave his head.

even as he tosses and turns on top of his king-sized mattress, and even as the clock ticks past the usual, strict bedtime he’s set for himself as early as high school, he finds himself wide awake, his steady heartbeat the only thing that’s breaking the monotonous quiet of his lonely bedroom.

so much happened in the course of the few minutes in front of your place, that while he prides himself in his acuity and general sharpness, he admits even he couldn’t have responded the way he should have despite desperately wanting to.

which fucking reminds him.

he didn’t get to say he likes you back.

he was so wrapped up in you implicitly trashing your soulmate connection, as well as you calling it quits that he barely registered your hasty confession. not when you immediately followed it up with an acknowledgment of what’s been causing you pain.

and as he stares at the dimly lit ceiling of his room, bakugou arrives at a pivotal realization—his feelings should be the least of your worries.

but that doesn’t mean you didn’t deserve to know.

so with a renewed sense of determination, the pro-hero promptly sits up and reaches for the phone that’s perched idly on his nightstand. 10:07 pm, it reads. you should still be awake by now.

he types out a message.

(10:08 pm) me: you awake? can i call you?

he presses the send button before he can back out of it.

what feels like five minutes pass without a single chime emanating from his phone, at which point he finally allows himself to let the anxiety creep up his neck. he stares at your caller id, debating whether or not you’d get mad if he just went ahead and called you.

eventually, and after five more minutes, bakugou decides he’d rather face your wrath than deal with his own regret.

so he calls you. once, no answer. second attempt, sent straight to voicemail. third, fourth, and fifth, and that’s when a ghastly chill envelopes him.

it couldn’t be.

still, with bated breath and immense dread pooling in his stomach, he slowly lifts his right wrist to check.

only to find that the timer has stopped.

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @sugurusmoon @napbatata @k0z3me @h0ngh0ngh0ng @honeyoru @yoongiwithglasses @hellokitty-doll @lilsebnem @tetsuukuroo @crangrapel0ver @syrhra

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mattyriddlesbitch · 1 year ago

Note

Now here me out… Mattheo Riddle x fem!reader x Theodore Nott jealous threesome, where they try to hog all the attention of the reader while visiting the Eiffel Tower (look it up)

Anonymous Flowers

Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader x Theodore Nott!

Warnings: threesome, cussing, oral(male and female receiving), fingering

18+ Minors DNI!

Oh, honey, this Eiffel Tower is my absolute favorite. Doesn't it look great this time of year?

It wasn't a secret that both Mattheo and Theodore liked you. However, you didn't want to choose between them and they respected that. Mostly. They'd still shamelessly flirt with you. And try to win your affections with gifts and gestures. But they always reassured you that you didn't need to choose or make things awkward.

Things were going smoothly between all of you, no mean comments to each other, no signs of jealousy minus the occasional glare when the other touched you.

Until you got anonymous flowers sent to your dorm and texted both of them about it to see if either of them sent it. After about 5 minutes, they both showed up at your dorm. Both knocking loudly.

You opened the door with an annoyed look at how loud they were being. “What?” You asked them loudly. They both pushed past you and into your dorm, looking at the flowers. “No, come in. Make yourselves at home.” You said sarcastically as you closed the door.

You could hear them arguing as you moved to sit back on your bed.

“I didn't send these.” Mattheo said.

“Stop fucking lying.” Theodore said back to him.

“I'm not lying! Why the fuck wouldn't I want her to know I sent them?” Mattheo was getting angry.

“I don't know! I don't know your fucking logic!” Theodore was getting just as angry.

“Guys!” You said loudly to get their attention and they both turned their heads to you. “Neither of you would send something anonymously like that, we figured that out so far, geniuses. That means someone else sent it.”

“Who in the hell would send flowers to my girl?” Mattheo said as he picked up the flowers and inspected them.

“Your girl? You know damn well she's not just yours.” Theo said, taking the flowers from him and inspecting them himself.

“Can you guys stop arguing? I'm not either of yours’ girl.” You say, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Oh, you hear that, Theo?” Mattheo said as he looked over at you.

“She doesn't realize she's ours.” Theodore said as he looked at you too.

“Maybe it's time to show her who she belongs to.”

“I think she could use the reminder since she's getting flowers from some other dickhead.” Theodore said as he put the flowers down and they both walked over to where you were on the bed.

“What?” You asked as you kept looking between both of them.

“You're letting other guys give you attention, darling.” Mattheo said as he grabbed your chin and leaned in close to you.

“That's our job, principessa.” Theodore added, running a hand through your hair.

“It seems you need to learn that, though.” Mattheo trailed his hand to your cheek.

“Are you giving other guys attention? Trying to give other guys what's ours?” Theodore asked, moving his hand to the side of your neck.

Their touches were almost dizzying. “No.”

Theodore tsked. “I think she's lying.”

“It's fine. She won't be for long.” Mattheo gripped the back of your hair tightly and pulled your head back, kissing you suddenly. You gripped at his shirt in surprise.

“You can't just do that, Matt.” Theodore said, pushing Mattheo back from you.

“Oh, but she tastes so good.” Mattheo smiled wickedly at the other boy.

Theodore was close to saying something when you reached up and pulled him down by his shirt to kiss you. He groaned at your bold move as Mattheo moved to sit behind you on the bed, kissing at your neck. As much as both boys hated sharing you, they hated everyone else more than each other. They both worked together in getting you naked, Mattheo working on your blouse and Theodore made quick work of your skirt and panties.

He kneeled between your legs in front of the bed and started kissing and nipping at your inner thighs. Mattheo managed to get your blouse off and quickly got your bra off too, using his hands to tease your nipples. The boys each had a pretty good view of what the other was doing and it only seemed to spur them on more.

Theodore finally licked at your sweet cunt, groaning as you moaned above him, his eyes fighting to watch your face and Mattheo's hands on your boobs.

Mattheo was kissing and biting at your neck as he pinched and pulled at your nipples. He, too, was flicking his eyes between your breasts and Theo lapping at your pussy.

You were so busy feeling everything, you didn't really notice the tension between the two men at the moment. You were moaning and whimpering, one hand in Theodore's hair and the other on one of Mattheo's arms.

“Does that feel good, princess?” Mattheo asked behind you. “Am I making you feel good?”

“I'm making her feel better. And you taste fucking amazing, cara mia.” Theodore said, pushing two fingers inside you.

“Oh, god, you both are so good.” You moan, leaning your head back onto Mattheo's shoulder.

Mattheo groaned and you felt it against your back. “Let me fucking taste her.”

“Not until I got her cumming on my face.” Theodore said with a smug smirk.

“You think I'm letting you make her cum first?” Mattheo said and moved to pull you further onto the bed, completely away from Theodore. He laid you back on the pillows as he settled between your legs, attaching his mouth to your clit.

Theodore was seething, but climbed up next to you guys. He pushed Mattheo over slightly so he could slide his fingers back into you.

Your eyes rolled back as you now had Mattheo's mouth abusing your poor clit and Theodore's long fingers pumping in and out of you. “Holy fuck, shit.” You moaned, one hand flying to Mattheo's hair and the other to the sheets beside you, which Theodore saw and held your hand. He moved to kiss you for a moment before kissing and biting at your chest, his fingers never faulting. Mattheo groaned and reached a hand up to play with one of your nipples as he looked up at you between your thighs. You let out an involuntary moan at the sight and feel, already overwhelmed from his mouth and Theodore's fingers.

It was all too much and they had you cumming with a loud cry, trembling as your legs were trying to close on Mattheo's head. Mattheo relented once he noticed you relaxed a little and leaned up to kiss you again. Theodore removed his fingers too and rubbed your thighs soothingly.

“You did so good for me, cara mia.” Theodore said.

Mattheo pulled back and glared at Theodore. “For you?” He scoffed "No, princess, you did perfect for me.” Mattheo said as he looked back at you.

“Let me feel your pussy wrapped around me.” Theodore said and brought his free hand to your cheek.

“That's not fair.” Mattheo snapped at Theo.

You touched his arm and said, “I have an idea.” They both looked at you now, ready to hear it. “One on each side. One of you gets my mouth, one gets my pussy. Then maybe switch if you want.” You say, cheeks burning at the suggestion.

The boys looked at each other for a moment.

“I want her pussy.” Theodore said.

“I'll get that pretty little mouth then.” Mattheo said as he looked at you with a smile. He helped you up onto all fours suddenly.

The boys wasted no time stripping, eager to get their hands back on you.

Theodore came up behind you, pressing soft kisses to your back before lining up at your entrance. As pushed into you and you both moaned. “ God, you feel heavenly, principessa.”

Mattheo was in front of you within seconds of that. He brushed your cheek softly for a second. “Open up, baby.” He said, interrupting the soft moment with his cock tapping your lips. You opened your mouth and he pushed in, timing his thrusts with Theodore.

“You talk like a dick.” Theodore said from behind you.

“Did that bother you, love?” Mattheo asked as he looked down at you. You moaned around his cock and he smiled, letting out a soft moan himself. “She said it’s fine.”

“She’s probably too fucked out on my dick to even pay attention to you.” Theodore said. “Isn’t that right, amore mio?” He asked you, giving you a light spank and you moaned loudly in reply around Mattheo’s dick.

“You keep moaning like that and I’m gonna cum down your throat, princess.” Mattheo said to you.

“So quick?” Theodore teased.

You really weren’t paying much attention to the conversation with the way Theodore was thrusting inside you and Mattheo was hitting the back of your throat.

“You would too if you felt her mouth.” Mattheo said, groaning when you gagged around him.

“My cock’s a bit busy stretching out her pussy right now.” Theodore said.

Your orgasm was building this whole time and the way Theodore suddenly angled his hips had his dick hitting that sweet spot in you, making you cum within seconds, trembling and moaning around Mattheo’s cock.

“That’s fucking it, principessa. Make a mess of my cock.” Theodore said as he helped ride out your high.

“Christ.” Mattheo muttered as he slowed his thrust to not overwhelm you.

“I got what I wanted, let me feel her mouth.” Theodore said, pulling out of you and helping you get your mouth off of Mattheo before flipping you over onto your back, moving you so your head was at the edge of the bed.

“You can’t fucking take her like that.” Mattheo said, but made no complaints about the new position.

“Please.” You whined from the loss of contact from either of them.

“I got you, amore mio.” Theodore said as he pushed into your mouth, the angle letting him hit a little deeper in your throat as you gagged and teared up.

“Don’t worry, princess.” Mattheo reassured as he settled between your legs and pushed in your puffy, sensitive cunt.

You were already so sensitive from your last orgasm and the boys were so close already as well from the last position. Both boys toyed with your breasts, praising you for taking their cocks so well. You came first, it only took seconds once Mattheo started playing with your clit.

“Fuck, angel. You feel fucking perfect.” Mattheo said with some strain right before he came inside you.

Theodore didn’t last much longer as you moaned and cried around his dick. “You’re so good for me, cara mia. So fucking good.” He said as he came down your throat.

The boys pulled out of you and both argued with each other as they fussed over cleaning you up.

Whatever problems this may cause was definitely not a concern in your head at the moment as you watched your two boys cleaning you up together.

#slytherin boys #slytherin boys smut #slytherin boys x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x reader smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #theodore nott x reader smut #theodore nott smut #thedore nott x reader #theodore nott

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pedgito · 28 days ago

Text

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

part two– summary | It's a shitty situation, dependency brimming unspoken and one wrong move puts your life in danger and once again, you find yourself owing everything to Joel.

content warning | DDDNE — DUBCON, coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, attempted sa (briefly), brief mentions of pregnancy and procedures to prevent it, mean!joel, unhealthy coping mechanisms for trauma, all angst no fluff but a lot of emotion, smut (bc without it who am i), sex riding an adrenaline high after life or death situation, joel fucks you against a tree, showering together, weird domesticity, guilt-riddled joel, bed-sharing, unprotected piv, creampies, lots of progress made here i promise

author's note | part three will more than likely be out by the end of this month i promise! also thank you to everyone who's shown this story so much love, it means so much to me. this chapter is about as light as this story gets...so....sorry? <3

word count —9k

part one | part three | strangers masterlist

They argue about you like you’re not standing a few feet away.

“She needs a job,” Tommy tells him, “Rules, Joel. Everyone pulls their weight—how this works.”

“You act like I don’t know that,” Joel gripes, “but what are you expecting her to do? She don’t talk, she refuses to go anywhere without me. She sure as hell ain’t gonna be much use workin’ the stables or fixin’ fences when she’s so goddamn skittish.”

Tommy shrugs, “Patrol, then.”

Joel’s eyes narrow, “Like hell,”

Another silent standoff you were more than happy to stay out of, the nylon of your coat scratching against itself as you take a couple steps back in the fear of an impending blow up.

“Give me another option then,” Tommy argues, “You just said she won’t leave your side—”

“She ain’t ready for that,” Joel says rather defensively, your brow furrowing at his disdain over the idea, ignoring the fact you were on the run for several weeks, surviving on your own—this was different.

Admittedly, you had clung to Joel.

He was safe, comfortable, and had become a strange sense of home in an unfamiliar place.

As much as he tried to act like it didn’t affect him, he’s grown used to your presence. Though, he’s set a hard boundary with you—no touching, keep your distance, and always make yourself known. You were always quiet, eerily so, and Joel hated that.

Tommy attempts to decipher Joel, staring at his brother, “You don’t think she can do it,”

“Both,” Joel admits, both of their eyes flickering toward you briefly, expressions unreadable.

“I think she’ll surprise you,” Tommy admits.

Joel shakes his head in a lazy disbelief, not believing an ounce of what Tommy is trying to convince him of, “We’ll see—but she’s with me, no one else. Not even Ellie.”

“Figured that,” Tommy retorts, “You’re goin’ out pretty far, we haven’t hit the lodge in a couple weeks. That alright?”

Your body tenses at the mention of it, but neither of them notice. Joel’s hand curls into a fist and flexes open, a nervous tic you’ve noticed about him when he was trying to steady himself, he nods silently in response.

When you both arrive back to the Miller home, Joel begins packing his bag up, already half-stuffed and switching out a few things. He tosses you a tattered bag, old and well-loved before he’s pointing toward the basement.

“A couple pairs of clothes, extra pair of shoes, nothing that ain’t a necessity—I’ll stock your pack with the other stuff come mornin’ before we head out,”

You had a night then.

There was only one lodge near Jackson that you could remember. It was the last time you saw them.

The men in tailored gear, embroidered with a gold patch that designated their status amongst the group.

Trackers, seekers—they handled the recruiting, though often forced. They were glorified kidnappers, taking young men and women against their will if they were unfortunate enough to cross their path, but they also managed the hunting.

If someone escaped, they never came back in one piece.

Whether that was a shattered mind or a missing limb, it was never good.

The lodge was empty when you found it, just at the crest of winter when you had snuck in, fitting yourself into a sizable gap in the flooring covered by a wooden panel.

The men had been on your tail for days, tracking you through the miles of forests behind you and into the town.

Luckily, they were unsuspecting at that moment.

Your misfortune came later, but the lodge was a warning.

They were near, always near—you had no idea if they were still searching, even after a few weeks of settling in.

It was the unknown, the looming presence, that terrified you.

They had an obligation to follow demands but most of them did it for sport.

It was never anything but a game.

—

Sleep is fickle that night, scratching at the rusted metal of your bed frame until it was caked under your nails, the soft hum of electricity above as it moved through Joel’s house, his soft footsteps as he woke, gentle as he strolled barefoot, eventually trading it for heavy footfall as his boots went on—it was early dawn when the tap came to your door, feigning sleep as you hid under the sheets.

Joel gives you a few minutes, pacing beyond the threshold.

His patience reminds you of the kind you used to wish for back when everything was different, back when you were nothing but a prisoner—you were pushing it, though. Even Joel’s patience would wear thin, making your best attempt to delay the patrol before he’s opening the door with a click, the key shoved into the mechanism before the door creaks open.

“Get up,” he barks, “we’re already late and holding up the rest of ‘em,”

You moan tiredly, barely audible, shuffling under the sheets, only for them to be ripped back in an instant.

“You’ve got about five seconds,” he warns, snatching your pack off the floor as he stands over you, daring to pry your eyes open to take a peek at him, “or I’m rippin’ you out of that bed,”

He catches your eyes as they open and his brow is cocked authoritatively, making your body move despite your apprehensiveness for the entire situation and Joel eyes you skeptically, stepping around you as you move with little enthusiasm.

“If you changed your mind, I can talk to Tommy,” Joel says with a tone that makes your chest tighten with fear—both of abandonment and helplessness, “I’m sure he’ll find somethin’ for you to do here while I go and—”

You stop in your tracks at his words, coat on and shoes barely slipped over your heel as you’re approaching him with immediate worry, shaking your head furiously as you grip onto his bicep, eyes pleading.

He’s always direct with you now, making sure your eyes connect with his. He’s learned to read you through facial expression and emotion, settling with the fact you weren’t going to speak to him, whether capable or not.

“Alright,” he sighs, and you shrug slightly but not enough to break your hold, “then hurry up.”

His voice carries the weight of a thousand other mornings like this, where silence and glances fill the space between you. He’s grown comfortable, surprisingly. He didn’t like how normal your presence had become or how you seemed to settle into his life easily.

“Probably make a few stops along the way,” Joel explains, “I took myself off patrol duty for this,” he means you, this, the burden of your situation and disruption, “the lodge is far but usually out there we aren’t dealin’ with much, less infected in the cold and all.”

But not people, you think.

He sees you tense at the mention, coat shrugging over your shoulders.

Last ditch effort. Anything.

Just change his mind.

You reach for his palm as he extends it face up, examining you carefully.

You tap your pointer finger into the center of his palm before pointing it at the floor, the hand holding his wrist tugging insistently.

Stay. A finger into his palm.

Here. A finger to the floor.

You repeat it a few times until he seems to understand through the silent communication.

“Stay..stay,” he begins, deciphering your message, “we’re not—no we’re not stayin’ here.”

Your face falls, instincts turning to drastic measures as you drop his hand, invading his space in a way he’s been careful to avoid, hands curling around the side of his face and the soft brush of his beard itching your palm before you’re leaning forward to press your lips against his own, eagerly pulling him toward you.

Joel’s quick, though. He rips your hands away, fingers tightening around your bicep harshly.

“Don’t try that shit again,” he growls, “ain’t no fuckin’ choice in you stayin’ here.”

You try to yank away from him but it was pointless.

“Are you gonna listen or do I need to drag you out?”

Your jaw tightens and you slackening under his grip and while he could let you go, he doesn’t.

You stumble behind as he pulls you with him, up the stairs, around the hall and into the living room until you’re standing at the door and he’s releasing you to jab a finger in your face, flinching with every flick as it grows closer, making you go nearly cross eyed.

“You give me even the slightest amount of trouble while we’re out and I won’t hesitate to leave you behind,” Joel threatens, that sinking feeling of regret swirling in his gut the moment your expression softens.

She fucking trusts you, he reminds himself.

As slippery as that slope could be, he’s got a responsibility.

You nod shakily and the tightness of his grip pierces your soul, immediately submitting to his hold as he jerks you to face forward and reaches around to grab the knob, chest pressed against your back as you step outside.

A swirling wind greets you, whistling its own kind of warning as Joel drags you through the brittle, dried grass. Your boots crunch against the frosty ground, doing your best to keep pace with him, breath puffing out in frantic clouds. Cold air bites your skin and the crunch of your boots, now on gravel, fills the silence between you. It’s tense.

You follow him to the stable as he releases his grip on you, to the weapon compound, close at his side as he steers the horse to the front gate, looking rather apologetic to his brother who seems to sense the situation between you and Joel and quickly averts the watchful eyes of others with his voice, calling off the list of locations and names like a roll call.

“Get on,” he orders, softer now but still edged and you oblige, feeling a hovering touch of his hand over your thigh as you climb onto the horse and lean back, making room for him to climb on.

Joel’s arms snake behind him to wrap yours around his jacket before he grabs the reins and clicks his tongue. The horse hesitates, feeling your combined weight, then lurches forward. You cling to the saddle as Joel steadies you with a firm grip, holding you close as Jackson fades from view.

The solace you’ve come to appreciate slipping through your fingers, even if temporary, made the pit in your stomach grow rapidly.

The landscape stretches out in muted colors. Bare trees reach like fingers, tendrils to the gray sky and frost clings to their branches. Joel’s silence feels like a wall between you, and you bite your lip to fight the chill that’s creeping into your bones, shrugging the hood of your coat over your head as you bury your face in between his shoulder blades, eyes peeking over.

It’s a strange kind of comfort for Joel the way you settle into him, close and warm.

As much as he tried to keep his distance, there was always a loophole.

“You gonna explain what that was back there?” Joel asks, knowing his questioning is pointless, the roar of the wind and the bumpy ride making it nearly impossible for any type of silent communication, “I don’t want you doin’ that anymore, thinkin’ you need to act that way to…I don’t know—do whatever you’re wanting to do,”

The landscape rolls by like a somber, black and white film strip; broken fences and abandoned cars sprouting from the ground, dead infected and rotting animals, houses abandoned. It wasn’t as normal now, living in a lively place with such a dichotomy only a ride away, reminding you just how temporary your life was in this world.

“Were you scared to leave Jackson?” he asks curiously, trying to decipher what he could.

You hesitate, unsure how to answer. It was a yes and no question—safe was anywhere with Joel, but you were still weary. You don’t answer immediately, so Joel assumed that wasn’t the problem.

“Is it the weather? Don’t like the snow?” you shake your head almost immediately, uncaring for the elements, finding that dying from frostbite or heatstroke were both equally miserable.

“The lodge?” he asks after a long, drawn out silence—the ride was still long, more difficult as the snow began to pick up, falling in thick sheets, “Is there somethin’ out here you ain’t told us?”

You shift slightly, the leather of Joel’s jacket creaking beneath your cheek. The question hangs heavy, like the snow. It’s too much to explain, the knot of reasons tangled inside you. You press your face into his back again, wishing you could dissolve into him and stay there. You feel his sigh before you hear it, learning the way his body works through touch and sound. It’s not disappointment—it’s understanding.

But, that frightens you too.

Joel makes a few short stops along the way, simple checks on smaller lookouts that don't even require you to get off the horse, keeping watch as he was in and out within a couple of minutes, eyes always on you no matter where he moved.

You can sense the way his anger lingers in his face and the stiffness of his shoulders but his instinct to protect is stronger, shoving the sturdy emotion aside to traverse through the heavy storm until, hours later, the lodge comes into view, your heart hammering in your chest.

Your fingers tighten around the lapels of his jacket and he looks down, watching the way you strangle the fabric under your grip, shifting slightly on the saddle as he slows to a stop just inside the lodge before Joel helps you off the horse and ties him, leaving you for a moment that feels nothing short of a century, frozen in your spot as you hold your bag close to your chest.

“At some point you gotta start talkin’,” his voice startles you as it comes from the shadows, jacket stripped as he kneeled down at the fire pit near the center of the room, working quickly to warm the place up, “it ain’t about inconvenience either, it could get you killed.”

You move silently and sit nearby, eyes downturned and lips pulled tight.

It’s impossible to explain, the way your throat constricts at any attempt to speak, like a knee jerk reaction as you anticipate the strike of a hand or foot, a lash at your back or the hot prick of a cigarette into your skin.

You still felt it occasionally, the phantom pain.

Your bottom lip trembles as they part, desperately wanting to make the attempt but knowing your body won’t let you out of self-preservation. Joel doesn’t see the struggle, but he can see your fingers fidgeting, restlessness laying in wait.

“Did you bring your paper and pen with you?” Joel asks, sounding fatherly in a way that hints of a life lived and lost, “You can’t just ask the way you did this morning for no reason, I want answers,”

You nod obediently, riffling through your bag for the items.

Joel waits until they're in your hand and the fire crackles to life before he asks his first question.

“Is it the lodge? Is that why you wanted to stay in Jackson?” he asks, watching you scribble down a swift answer.

Yes. But, more.

He leans forward on his knees and into your space to read the scribbled note, sighing tiredly.

It isn’t what he wanted, obvious in the roll of his eyes.

“Explain,” He says tensely, “Stop bein’ so damn cryptic, I don’t like that shit,”

They followed me here. I hid.

Joel’s face contorts in confusion.

“They followed you that far?”

It was their job. Bad men, all of them. They enjoy it. I hid and they didn’t find me. That time. I was worried they might find me again. They didn’t that time.

Joel examines the concentration on your phase as you write out the words, taking the notebook as you gently shove it into his palm, large fingers wrapping around the notepad.

“Who is they?” Joel asks, “You keep writin’ they,” his fingernail scratches over the word, leaving an indent in the paper, “We’re tight about patrols out here, we woulda saw ‘em. You sure it wasn’t someone else? Maybe just some random raider? They stroll through from time to time lookin’ for shelter.”

No. Not random. They wore emblems, gold and threaded to look like an anchor. There are men we serve, higher-ups. Then ones that follow a code, like an army. The men after me were hunters. Trackers. Do you understand? Not for animals.

“Sick fucks,” Joel says mostly to himself as he reads over your writing,

Don’t leave me. Please. I will do anything.

His earlier words echo in your head, seeming to cross his own mind at the same time.

You shove the notepad at him hastily, hands trembling slightly,

“Don’t get worked up," Joel says, voice a little gruff, "I’m not leavin’.”

Safe. He writes it out underneath your own words.

Thick. Heavy.

He nods.

Suddenly, as Joel feels around in his pocket as he stands, he comes across an object Tommy had handed him before he left, careful as he approaches you and reaches for your hand, pressing the solid weight of the object into it.

It was your knife, cleaned up and sharpened to a dangerous point.

Joel makes a noise of warning, fingers tight around your wrist.

“This ain’t yours to keep,” Joel explains, “jus’ while we’re out here, in case you come across an animal or something, it comes right back to me when we leave, understood?”

Begrudgingly, you nod.

“Put it away,” he instructed, watching as you closed the knife and stuffed it into your pocket.

You couldn’t explain it, but the frustration in him still simmered, unsure if it was because of you or not. Joel was a sorrowful man, carrying enough guilt for a thousand men—it could be that he was just having a day, desperate for a moment to himself.

It comes a while later after you’ve both settled in and the place was filled with warmth, “Keep watch, don’t wander—I’ll sleep for a couple hours then take over, got it?”

You nod quickly, perched on the wide, open window as you watch the snowfall.

Something about it was oddly therapeutic, looking over to watch the scowl on Joel’s face soften as he fell into a deep slumber, leaning half reclined against a wall with his jacket balled up by his head to double as a pillow.

Hours pass without incident, thankfully. Joel said two, but it was already four and he was still sleeping, snoring now as he’s slumped down into a more horizontal position, growing slightly restless as the storm had calmed and the sun was shining overhead, desperate for a few moments of fresh air now that you were here, feeling comfortable enough in the quiet and with Joel’s presence that you could step out for a moment and breathe, putting on your shoes and coat quickly as you slipped out the back door of the lodge and watched a pair of birds on a branch as they hopped beside each other, chirping quietly.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt this calm or relaxed, glancing over at Joel sheepishly despite his obliviousness.

You inhale deeply, letting the crisp, post-storm air fill your lungs.

The lodge is silent behind you, save for the faint sound of Joel’s snoring. The fresh air feels like a relief, a moment of stillness that you hadn’t realized you needed. That you deserved.

Your eyes follow the pair of birds a moment longer, chirping softly to each other.

It’s peaceful—almost too peaceful.

A small prickle of unease creeps up your spine, but you shake it off.

It’s just quiet.

Nothing’s wrong.

Then—

You feel your throat swell.

The snap of a twig.

You freeze. The birds flutter away, startled. Your breath catches.

You don’t have time to turn before an arm locks around your chest, a rough hand clamping over your mouth. You couldn’t scream even if you wanted to.

“Oh, easy, ea-sy,” the stranger coos with a sickening softness, “don’t wanna wake him up, do ya?”

The faceless attacker holds you tight, something sharp and jagged at your back as he guides you backwards, further away from Joel.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you struggle, but he’s strong.

He reeks of sweat and damp clothes, his grip unyielding.

"You people think you’re so damn careful… but you’re just easy pickings if you ain’t watchin’,” he sounds so smug and amused, greedy as he dragged you further and further away, feet stumbling out beneath you as you fell into the snow against him, a grunt shooting from his chest but ultimately it was followed by a spine-chilling chuckle, a hand slipping underneath the material of your shirt and over your abdomen, “been camped out here all day watchin’ you both, thought you were a dime, though–couldn’t pass up the opportunity,”

You twist sharply, managing to get free, clawing at his arm as you shove it away. He grunts in irritation but grabs at your ankle, yanking you back down as you fall to your ass, silently groaning at the pain.

"Feisty," he mutters. "I like it. Ain’t much fun otherwise."

You’ve fought for your life plenty of times and this was no different.

It shouldn’t surprise you that misfortune met you at every turn, allowing yourself to fall into a false confidence only to be disappointed once more as the man looms over you, a shadow of menace. You kick wildly, connecting with his shin. A low snarl escapes him.

“Little bitch,” he hisses, shaking his leg as if to brush off the sting.

But, it gives you a moment to scramble backward on your hands and heels, snow biting at your palms as you shoved your hand into your pocket to find your knife, watching as he stalked toward you in a pure rage, opening your mouth in a scream you know will never come, but then he’s tripping, scrambling to catch his bearings over you.

The tip of the blade slices through his guts like butter, feeling the bile rise in your throat at the sensation and the warm spread of blood over your hand, desperately trying to force his weight off of you, but his hands finds your face, thumbs reaching for your eyes in any attempt to injure you but then there’s a shot ringing out, startling the both of you.

Simultaneously, the man jerks violently, his hands going slack around your face as he falls with a gurgling choke. Blood flows down his neck and onto you, drenching your clothes in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You scramble to your knees, backing away without looking toward the gunman as you panic, wiping the blood from your skin and into the snow, desperate to rid yourself of the thick fluid before Joel’s invading your space, fingers tightening into your coat to yank you upright as he shoves you back against a tree, blinded with pure rage.

He had saved you. He was angry, sure. But, he saved your life. Again.

“Are you fucking stupid, girl?!” he asks, his tone tight and harsh, met with a meek nod.

“Wrong answer,” He snaps, “I said two hours, then you wake me. I said not to wander and you did—so answer me again, are you—fucking stu—”

He doesn’t register that sting of your teeth in his bottom lip until your hand curls around the back of his neck, tongue spearing into his mouth as his mouth parts in surprise, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him into the kiss.

Thank you, it breathes.

His grip slackens for the briefest moment before turning to steel again, fingers knotted in your clothes, twisting and pulling you closer. The violence of him feels like a lifeline, like something sure and solid in this brutal world. He’s safe.

Safe.

He shoves you harder against the tree, rough bark biting through your coat as his teeth gnash against yours, tangled breaths turning to steam in the cold.

Your head spins, heart shuddering up into your throat, and you lose yourself in the way he feels, like fury itself. His hand moves from your clothes to splay over your belly, warm and forceful where the knife was just seconds before on your attacker who lay lifeless on the snowy ground.

You can’t stop thinking.

The coppery taste of blood lingers everywhere: on your clothes, on the dead man, on Joel’s mouth now. The snow around you is red-stained as his hands roam over you, your own hands mirroring his unspoken neediness as you tear into the belt of his jeans, feeling him undo your own in tandem, unable to look one another directly in the eye at that moment, desperate for connection by other means.

He shouldn’t be allowing this, but the urge to consume your gratitude is stronger.

His thumb fumbles with the button of your jeans, and you’re practically writhing to get them off, burning up despite the chill. You sigh internally as he manages to get them free, yanking them far enough down your thighs before he’s turning you against the tree.

The world fades around you; it’s just him, just you, each breath mingling as he frees himself from his pants. You feel his heat press against you, insistent, frenzied, somehow apologetic as it fits between your thighs.

You feel his fingers fit between your legs and spread between your folds like instinct but you’re shaking your head, hand clawing at back of his neck as you arch your ass into him, a silent plea for him to just fuck you instead, needy as you bring his mouth to yours with a distinct hunger, swallowing up his ragged breaths as he rubs his thumb and pointer finger over the head of his cock and through your slick before he’s stretching you open with little grace, mouth open in a silent gasp as your free hand grabs at his hip.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth, words dissolving into a groan as he sets an unrelenting pace. The tree bark is rough against your skin, but you don’t care, the rawness of it only adds to the frenzy growing between you. Hastily undressed and filthy, the kiss-smudged blood across his face smearing into yours.

He’s practically holding you up like this, his grip slipping over your hips as his mouth finds your neck, biting down just enough to bruise or draw blood of your own, not entirely sure.

His thrusts breath raw desperation, nails clawing at bare skin as he hisses into your neck.

There’s nothing soft about it, no measured rhythm, just a brutal need for each other.

Joel is acutely aware of the way your body is responding to him, silent sobs racking your chest as you pull him impossibly closer, “I gotcha,” he says, “I feel you, you’re gonna give it to me, aren’t ya? S’right there, I feel it,”

And he wants it more than he was comfortable admitting to himself, the satisfaction of filling the insatiable need you had craved from him.

His hand snakes over your mouth, smothering sounds that would never surface, but the gesture is heady, biting at the skin of his palm until you knew it would sting.

Desperation blurs into pleasure, and you feel it shuddering through you like an electric current and the world comes rushing in again all at once: the cold air nipping at sweat-slick skin, branches clawing at your chest like a bitter, jealous lover. It’s hard to tell, the way you both are clawing at this for dear life, but you think this is maybe as close as the two of you have ever been, filthy and frantic and burning up together as you come, feeling Joel pull out in enough time to spill into his fist, low and drawn-out grunts that had you cunt pulsing, resting dissociatively against the tree.

It was the most human you’ve felt in years.

“Get inside,” Joel says suddenly, pulling you back to reality—surprisingly, his voice is calmer.

And for once, you don’t argue.

–

Joel watches you change, trading the bloodied clothes for fresh ones and wiping you down in between, a silent but intimate gesture that neither of you outwardly address, eyes scanning his face carefully as he taps at your chin so he can wipe underneath your neck.

And you don’t speak about it.

Joel doesn’t even acknowledge it.

He takes care of the body, stays on watch despite your quiet persistence to help

But, as your hand trembles at your side as you approach him beside the fire pit, his fingers thread into your own, a heavy weight holding you down until it stops shaking. You can feel the small tremor on his own, harbored for different reasons. But, it calms him too.

You felt like there was finally equal ground to stand on.

–

When you arrive back in Jackson a couple days later, Joel relays information about the raider with some omissions, only suggesting that there be more frequent checks, but as you and Joel settle into a routine, things become almost…too easy.

He’s always expectant of your knife the moment you approach the gates, handing it over without problem, but just as easily sliding it into your own as you settle into your patrol spot for whatever rotation you both ended up on, still increasingly weary around others that weren’t Joel, you find a similar protection with Tommy, though not entirely comparable.

Tommy only took you out so far as to teach you how to shoot and clear out infected that were a safe enough distance they couldn’t do any real harm, only swarms passing through.

Joel still hasn’t initiated any touch with you since that day, but his actions are increasingly more intimate despite his body language around you—though, that doesn’t mean he stops you.

Maybe it was how he justified his own righteousness, that he was absolving himself of the guilt that he had knowingly allowed you to attach yourself to him, almost selfishly.

With Ellie’s growing independence becoming more and more obvious, Joel leans toward your odd connection and the ease it brings to his routine.

You’re shivering over a cup of coffee one morning despite your layers and blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the chill making your bones ache.

“You can sleep up here, you know,” Joel tells you, “the couch is comfortable, s’close to the fire, too.”

You shrug nonchalantly, sipping softly at the strong brew.

“Sleep up here,” he tries again, a command, your hesitation curling around the steaming cup as your eyes connect, nodding hesitantly.

His mug scuffs the counter as his fingers curl around the ceramic, his hip settling into the edge as he leans into the surface and you meet him with an honest gaze.

“Are you only agreeing because I’m tellin’ you to?”

Sheepishly, you nod.

Joel doesn’t harp on it, though. It was a small battle won, less worry of you catching frostbite or a cold down in the basement, your presence more apparent as you move into the neutral living space, there when he wakes and when he retires for the night, quiet and somber.

Then, there was an instance with the shower that became routine.

Your skin caked with dirt and re-opened cuts crusted with days old blood, a particularly rough run-in with a group of infected that Joel had dealt with mostly, you trailing close behind and taking out the few stragglers.

Joel always opted for privacy anymore—save the moment at the lodge when you had shed your blood stained clothes and Joel had to make sure none of it was your own, but your body was exhausted as was your mind, losing your footing as you stumbled into the sink and made a soft noise that Joel’s never heard before.

He’s never heard anything from you, really.

Only your breathing, heavier in moments of anxiety or despair, but soft as you slept.

You were hunched over the tub and half-dressed, your head pounding as the blood rushed there, eyes squeezing shut as you bit at the inside of your cheek and Joel’s presence is there, but far, hovering near the door as he just needed eyes on you to confirm you weren’t hurt.

As the door closes and you’re pushing back to your feet, you yank it back with a similar strength and Joel watches your hand reach for him, curling in the fabric of his shirt as you silently plead for him to come closer.

Help me, your eyes plead.

Quietly, you guide the shirt over his head and his mind finally catches up, reaching behind you as he turns the water on until the bathroom was smothered with steam, his eyes wondering anywhere but you as you both stepped in naked under the stream, guided by Joel to turn away as he washed you in silence, careful and methodical, leaning into his touch as his fingers curl around the back of your neck to wash your hair.

It happens once or twice again, based around the frequency of patrols and whenever the house was empty and though Joel is hesitant to your touch, eventually he gives in, eyes usually closed as you face him, hands tugging through his dirtied hair and over his chest, a low rumble as your fingers curl a little too low, grazing over the curve of his ass before his fingers catch your wrist and his eyes pry open, shaking his head.

Eventually, his resolve fades.

He tries, but your persistence is steadfast, growing needful to his proximity in every facet of your life and the kisses are shy at first, gentle presses to his shoulder or arm, occasionally over his chest or neck, his hands hovering but never touching without necessity.

He doesn’t like to talk, either. But, he became familiar with the scar on your lower abdomen, just above your pelvis and thick, the skin clearly marred but not like the others on your body.

You always guide his hand away out of discomfort, unsure how to explain without using words.

Though, given what you’ve told him and the behaviors you’ve exhibited, Joel can make a guess.

He blurts it out one night as you shower until the water grows cold.

“They take something from you?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod slightly, hands curving over his shoulders to dig into the muscle and knead, his eyes downturned and dark, intimidating as always.

The doctors performed a salpingectomy on many, including you, unsafe and at risk of death given the environment and lack of understanding, there was no telling what kind of damage they had done, but the most important part was that reproduction was null, some sick and twisted belief to keep women obedient and available.

You don’t remember much, but it was years ago.

Your face heats as you mimic a pregnant belly, ignoring how his hand guides over your breast with the soapy rag as you lock eyes with him, shaking your head.

His face twitches emotionlessly, nostrils flaring, “I’m sorry,” and he means it.

Joel remembers the harsh accusation he’d thrown at you, assuming your motives without understanding or knowing, but this—it gives him perspective.

–

A few hours later, you wake from a night terror.

It was dark, pitch black and quiet, but you couldn’t move.

Your mouth opens to scream but nothing comes out, thrashing against invisible bindings until you come to, Joel’s hands locked around your shoulders to keep you still, shaking you back to reality.

“Hey, hey,” his voice is an instant drug that soothes, eyes ripping open and searching frantically until they land on his face, “breathe, kid—you’re here, not there,”

Joel knew—of course he did.

He stays until you calm, pushing up on your hands to sit up and reaching for his arm as he stands, repeating the same gesture in his palm that he’s come to understand, crystal clear.

Stay, you gesture.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly, but you’re pulling him closer, fingers curling against his sides and Joel shakes his head, giving you some resistance, “nono—ain’t enough room for that, alright?”

Your grip tightens, begging.

Joel exhales through his nose in defeat, his hands twitching slightly where they still hold you.

He doesn’t even need to ask, your footsteps following closely behind his own as he turns, padding back toward his room down the hall, slipping into his bed and under the sheets without a word, the weight of him next to you enough to settle your anxiety.

The second time you crawl into his bed, it’s after another nightmare.

He doesn’t say anything—just lets out a tired sigh and shifts over, leaving space for you. You don’t touch him, not at first. Just tuck yourself into the blankets, facing away, the tension in your body easing just enough for sleep to take hold.

Then, it happens again. And again.

Every night, the same thing.

You slip in, quiet as ever, and Joel tells himself it’s fine. That he can keep his distance.

But, you always end up entangled by the time you wake.

Your cheek pressed into his chest. His arm curled protectively around your waist.

His breath in your hair.

Him, around you.

Joel knows he should stop this.

He should tell you to stay in your own damn bed.

That it ain't right.

That he can’t be what you need him to be.

One night, he’s not asleep when you slip into his bed.

He feels the mattress dip, the hesitant pause before you settle in beside him, close but not touching. Joel keeps his eyes shut, breath steady, pretending he doesn’t notice.

But, then your fingers ghost over his wrist, then around his waist, your knee shifting between his thighs as you curl into him and nuzzle against his neck, lips pressing into his pulse point.

He stiffens. Feels you hesitate, then try again, pressing a kiss into the sensitive skin of his neck.

"Kid," he mutters, voice low, warning.

He can feel the neediness in your touch, eyes flicking up shyly to look at him as he bows his head to look down at you.

"You do everything I tell you to," he murmurs, and he’s right—voice rough with sleep. "If I told you to go back to your own bed, would you listen?"

Silence.

Then, your fingers tighten slightly where they’re wrapped around him. A slow shake of your head to answer his question and a sigh from him that follows, it shakes the room.

It’s defeat.

Your lips brush against his jaw first, tentative, testing. When he doesn’t stop you, you press again, slower this time. Then lower, over the rough stubble of his throat.

Joel lets out a slow, shuddering breath. His hand finds your waist, fingers curling tight before forcing himself to loosen his grip.

His fingers twitch against your waist, the calloused pads pressing firm into the soft give of your skin. His breath is heavy, slow, controlled—because he has to be.

“Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he says, but it’s weak, “can’t be.”

A hollow protest.

You don’t say anything, just tilt your head, lips tracing along his pulse, feeling it thrum beneath your mouth, slow and steady. He’s always so calm, a constant beat that never skipped or faltered.

He exhales sharply, his grip tightening. “Christ,” he breathes, head tipping forward until his forehead brushes against yours. “You don’t listen worth a damn, do you?”

You shake your head again, more deliberate this time.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and searching, like he’s looking for something—one last excuse to push you away.

But there’s nothing—he’s guilty for the need of this too.

And then you’re pulling him down, lips pressing against his, soft but insistent, and any last restraint he had left crumbles in an instant.

Joel groans against your mouth, deep and wrecked, his hands still hesitant to touch, only allowing it as you initiate, dragging his hand to your waist and down, under your thigh until he’s hiking your leg over his hip.

His lips part, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he kisses you again, harder, deeper, like he needs this just as much as you do. Like he’s just as desperate for it.

He is.

Joel pulls you closer, his hands gripping at your waist. His lips are slow at first, searching, but when you whimper against his mouth, something inside him snaps. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard, the first he��s ever heard, surprising yourself as the sound slips out, throat immediately collapsing on itself in fear, awaiting the hands that wrap tight around your throat and suffocate.

Instead, his hand fists in the fabric of your shorts, curling around your hip as your core drags over his groin, his quickly hardening cock pressing against the inside of your thigh.

"You don’t even think twice, do you?" he rasps against your lips, his breath warm and unsteady. "Just do whatever the hell I tell you without arguing?”

You nod, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. You nod, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. With your muteness, it meant Joel’s eyes had to be on you, constantly waiting and searching for communication.

It made you feel special, the way he was attentive to you at all times.

Your thumb drags over his lip as you pause for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in.

His eyes darken, something unreadable flickers across his face, and his hands still for a moment too, resting heavy on the bare skin of your leg.

“That ain’t always a good thing,” he tell you, but he’s already leaning back in, following the push into his shoulder as you raise your leg over his abdomen to straddle him, pressing him into the mattress as you grind down into him.

Somehow you know he’ll follow, that he won’t resist.

He’s guilty, too—doesn’t ever think twice when it comes to you. That’s what eats at him the most—how easily you give in to each other. How willingly.

Your hands skim down his chest, nails scratching lightly over the thick hair there, down to his stomach, lower—until he catches your wrist, shaking his head.

"Slow down," he murmurs, voice strained, rough around the edges as your hips moving at a leisurely pace, glancing down to admire the thickness of his shaft as the fabric hugged around him, leaving no part of him to imagination, the thick trail of hair that disappeared beyond his waistband, "You don't gotta—"

You shake your head, mouth hung open in silence as your eyes fall shut.

A groan rumbles low in his chest as he lets go of you, hands falling to his side as lets you use him, slowly realizing what this moment was for you.

A reclamation of your own pleasure and autonomy, using his body for release that did nothing to benefit him outside of the wonder that bloomed into his features as you move more frantic, fabric bunching up higher at your hips as you chase your high, working toward the crest of your orgasm that you just couldn’t reach, face scrunching up in annoyance as you start to hit as his chest with soft blows, seemingly frustrated.

Joel knows what you need, skin against skin, flush connection.

You look up at him with a pout that pleads, screaming out.

And this time, he doesn’t stop you as you shift, a fury of limbs as you remove your shorts with impatience, tossing them to the floor as you tug at his sweats, his cock bobbing heavy and free, just far enough down his thighs that you can see how his balls tighten at your touch, taking a moment to admire him this way, his face contorted into something unreadable as your thumb slides over his slit, leaking with precum and his tip a blushed red.

Joel lets out a strangled breath, his head tilting back against the pillow as your fingers wrap around him, slow and deliberate, dragging over the length of him with just enough pressure to make his stomach tense.

He breathes slowly, his hands twitching at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to touch you.

To guide you. Teach you.

But he won’t—he lets you take what you need, lets you move at your own pace.

You shift upwards, lining yourself up with him, the heat of your slick cunt teasing against his length, dragging up and down as you shudder at the feeling, the head of his cock sliding against your clit, the shlick of your bodies as they move against each other.

His jaw clenches, muscles taut as he watches.

Your fingers curl against his skin, nails pressing into him as you take all of him, inch by inch.

He finds himself waiting for a sound, silently begging for it, curious if you would sound as wrecked as he did, grunting when you’re seated fully, the burn mixing with pleasure so intense it makes your head fall forward.

Joel’s breath stutters. His hands find your waist with your guidance, squeezing tight, like this was your attempt in trying to get him to ground himself too. He doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust up into you—just lets you adjust, lets you take him however you want.

“Fuck,” he grunts, voice wrecked. “You feel that?” You nod, biting your lip, rolling your hips experimentally. A pleasurable ache growing in your gut. He groans, low and guttural, his fingers digging into your flesh. “That’s it,” he breathes. “Take what you need.”

And you do.

You start slow, your hands braced against his chest, feeling the taut muscle beneath your palms as you roll your hips, testing, searching for something you’re not sure of. The stretch is deep, almost too much, but it’s what you want—what you need.

Joel’s hands grip your waist, like he’s holding himself back, like if he lets go, he’ll take over.

But he doesn’t. He just watches, dark eyes hooded, jaw tight as you find your rhythm.

He exhales through gritted teeth, watching the way you move, the way your body trembles every time you take him deeper, your breasts shifting under your shirt as you bounce, finding himself speaking before the words filter, like his pleasure has a mind of its own.

"You always listen so well, don’t you?"

Your breath hitches at the praise, the smallest whimper slipping from your lips, and Joel's fingers tighten on your hips, not guiding you, but steadying you, anchoring you to him. You’ve never made sounds like this before, not even by accident.

With him, the fear of retaliation has begun to ease. Each noise that slips isn’t met with anger or rage, but astonishment, eyes widening in wonder.

“You like that?” he asks, voice rough, like it’s been dragged down a gravel road, "Doin’ what you’re told?"

You nod frantically, grinding down harder, desperate for more.

For him, you think. Only for him.

Give me safety. I’ll give you everything.

He curses under his breath, his restraint fraying at the edges. "Fuck—look at you," he groans, his fingers digging into your flesh now, a warning, his own control slipping. "Takin’ me so fuckin’ good."

A shudder runs through you at his words, your walls fluttering around him, making him hiss.

"Keep goin'," he murmurs, lifting up slightly as he settles on an elbow, the thumb of his free hand stroking your skin, the tension in his body betraying how much effort it takes to stay still, “I feel ya, how bad you need it,”

Your fingers reach for him, prying his grip from your waist and guiding his hands up, over your body, pressing them against your breasts, your stomach, anywhere you can, until he gets it—until he stops holding back. He rises to meet you, arms wrapping around your waist similar to how you had cornered him on the couch in the basement, but the implication is different.

A deep, guttural groan escapes him, and then his hands are moving on their own, sliding down to grip your ass, to spread you wider as he thrusts up into you, slow but deep, pushing a broken moan from your throat.

"Yeah?" he rasps in surprise, voice strained. "Is that what you wanted?"

You nod helplessly, nails scraping over his chest as you try to keep up with his pace, but Joel doesn’t let you. He takes over now, fucking up into you with long, deliberate strokes, each one dragging a whimper from your lips.

More sounds, he needed more sounds.

"You gotta tell me," he pleads, his grip almost bruising now. "I need to hear it."

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a breathy gasp, your head falling forward against his shoulder, and Joel growls, wrapping the arm around your back tight to keep you pressed against him.

"Say it," he demands, voice thick with need as he looks up at you, "Tell me what you need. I know you can—you’re doin’ so good," It was such a stark contrast, the praise.

Your lips part, voice shaky, barely above a whisper and broken, your voice foreign to your ears as it leaves your mouth

"You."

Joel freezes beneath you, stilling for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face before it’s gone, replaced with something darker, something deeper.

He wants to fucking ruin you and build you back up watching as the tears form in your eyes, knowing what the action meant, the energy and bravery it took, he doesn’t push it aside.

His chest rises sharply against yours, breath stalling like he’s not sure he heard right. His fingers twitch against your skin, gripping tighter, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You feel the weight of it, the shift in the air.

His pulse hammers against your palm where you press against his throat, his body locked beneath you like the words had cut him deeper than any knife ever could.

Your voice.

You’ve never spoken before.

Not to him. Not to anyone.

And now, with your body wrapped around him, shaking, desperate, it’s him you ask for.

Him you need.

His name is on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t say it.

You just press closer, urging him with slow rolls of your hips, hoping he understands, hoping he doesn’t make you say it again—because you don’t think you can.

And then, Joel moves.

Slowly. Carefully.

His hands roam, sweeping over your back, your waist, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your ribs like he’s memorizing you, feeling you breathe. His touch is softer now, reverent, as if the moment itself has changed, evolved into something neither of you expected.

You nod to an unasked question, pressing your lips against his cheek, his jaw, anywhere you can reach, trying to coax him back, trying to keep the moment from slipping away.

His hips snap up, slow but deep, dragging a soft, broken moan from your throat that makes his grip tighten. A noise barely audible.

"That’s it," he breathes, his voice thick with something you can’t explain. His hands guide you now, steady but unrelenting, moving you with him, driving deeper, harder, every roll of your hips pulling another sound from your lips, another shudder from your body.

He drinks in every noise, every gasp, every trembling sigh like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Collecting them all and committing them to memory.

"Keep talkin’ to me," he mutters, voice ragged, desperate. "Let me hear you."

But, you can’t.

The pleasure is too much, coiling tight, pulling you under, and all you can do is cling to him, gasping against his throat as your body starts to shake through your orgasm. The energy it takes to speak, the courage bleeding you dry. You’d lost your voice again.

Joel feels it—your unraveling, your breaking, the way your walls flutter around him—and it undoes him completely. Your hands cradle your face, tilting his head back so you can see him, his dark eyes burning into yours as he thrusts up hard as he spills inside of you, not entirely thinking as he does it.

"That’s it, baby," he praises, “Keep squeezin’ me, I’m right here,”

And for a long moment, neither of you move.

The only sound is his ragged breaths, the pounding of your heart.

His lips brush your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin.

"You," he murmurs to you, soft, like it means something to him too.

Maybe it does, you weren’t sure.

–

He reaches you this way, through connection and touch.

Sex or something similar, the intensity of the moment clouding your thoughts and relaxing your worry, and his too.

It was a give and take with each other, distracting Joel from his constant stream of troubling thoughts and worries, still never approaching you—it was always under your guidance.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s wrong. But every time your hands find him, every time you press yourself into his space, silently asking for comfort, for connection, he gives in.

The moment you touch him, the constant, gnawing dread in his mind quiets.

Just for a little while. And selfishly, he needs it.

Your fingers trail up his chest, light, uncertain, tracing the scars like a map. Joel watches, his breath slow and steady, his muscles tense beneath your touch—but he doesn’t stop you.

He never does.

You cornered him in the kitchen this particular night, his hands curled over the edge of the sink with his head hung, chest heaving like he had just woken up from his own nightmare, sneaking out of bed but not quite enough that you wouldn’t notice.

When you press your lips against his skin, soft and searching, he exhales like he’s been holding it in for too long.

Like you were the answer.

"You sure?" he asks, his voice rough, low, but there’s no demand in it.

No expectation.

Only restraint.

He’s not sure how much longer he can hold back, between the constant time spent together and the nights spent inside of you, allowing your greediness to take hold.

He pushed his own aside, stuffed until it was boiling over.

You nod, and that’s all it takes.

His hands find your waist, pulling you against him, guiding you the way you he needs, the way he knows you need too, his grip firm, like he’s holding something fragile—something breakable.

That's what this was, after all.

A delicate balance. A silent understanding.

You give each other this, and in return, he gives you himself, as do you—fully, completely, no barriers, no walls.

When he moves it is slow and deliberate, when his mouth finds your throat and his fingers grip your neck, guiding you against and up on the counter, fingers spreading underneath your top before it’s torn over your head, it was all the same. His palms curve around your neck, pulling you toward him as his lips capture yours in a surprisingly tender kiss, lips parting immediately as his tongue licks along your own, mirroring his touch as you spread your legs to make room for him.

You don’t need anything else but this.

Only this.

Only him.

Only you.

But, there’s that gnawing in Joel’s chest that makes him out to be the monster he knows he can be, taking advantage of your trauma and pushing your limits, using you like you’ve been used before.

He’s no better, he thinks.

If anything, he’s worse.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #tlou fic #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller fanfic #my writing #fic: strangers

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telephoniii · 1 month ago

Note

hello!! idk if you accept requests, but i randomly thought of octavinelle trio with a reader who's also from the sea like them and on land they're a total sweetheart, upbeat and doesn't give off the vibe of scariness at all, but the trio know that they're actually pretty scary! Cuz back in the sea they were an orca or something (like. sweet but theyre actually scary is my vision) if the octotrio is too much then is just floyd ok?? Sorry for yapping too much AHHH ur work is so great ty for writing so much 🙏🙏

THE DEVIL IN DISGUISE

☆彡 in which you’re scarier than you seem

word counter: 180 per character

octavinelle boys x gn!reader

warnings: possible ooc, light bullying? (jade & floyd)

a/n: i love these boys, but they’re all pricks. lovable pricks. on another note, i think i’m going to officially open requests. i have a few that i’m working on and i’ve been having a lot of fun with them. they’re also nice for when it gets busy and I don’t have a lot of time to brainstorm ideas to write myself. anyway, i hope you enjoy :>

floyd leech

He thinks you are the CUTEST thing in existence. You're so fun! So squeezable! Floyd thinks that your switch in personality from land to sea only adds to how adorable you are. He is fully aware of your scary side, yet it only motivates him to tease and mock you more. On land, he'll try to sneak up behind you in the hallways. If you don't catch this man? He's picking you up, squeezing you, and twirling you around. Azul has told him to stop several times. Jade just wants to see you snap at Floyd, so he never interferes. If you do catch and stop him? He's pouting for the rest of the day while plotting his revenge. Everyone's going to assume Floyd's just picking on the helpless classmate who's too nice to do anything back. But he knows it's a facade. Which is exactly why he goes harder on you than anyone else. Riddle is PRAYING for you.

jade leech

You and him are similar in a way. Except he hides his true nature less well. Jade is quick to catch on and finds it extremely amusing. He wants to see how far this act of yours will hold up, meaning he's purposely putting you in situations that'd aggravate you. All while he wears an innocent smile. He takes up the role of a devil on your shoulder in a way. Jade is constantly trying to tempt you into revealing more and more of your scary side in front of others. Calling him out on this won't do you much good either since he's playing a similar game to you. He'll just give you that dashing smile of his and claim he has no idea what you're referring to. If you get caught up in trouble with other students, run out of your land potion way too quickly, get involved in an argument, etc, more often than not you'll find Jade somewhere nearby smiling at you. And something about that grin tells you he defiantly pulled some strings to make your life just a little bit harder.

azul ashengrotto

He's the only one out of the three who's slightly intimidated by you. But even then, it's less fear and more intrigue. Azul wants to pick your brain. Do you switch from sweet to scary on purpose? If so, why? What're you trying to gain from doing so? He'll do little things to let you know that he's well aware of your true nature. It won't be anything drastic like Jade, just little, snide comments here and there with a smug look. Azul has offered you so many job opportunities at the Monstro Lounge. A personality like yours is way too good for business. He actually holds you to a pretty high regard and isn't afraid to tell you that, calling you his 'star pupil' when you work for him. Azul tries to be close to you a lot. Is he plotting to make a deal with you? Most likely. He's trying to get your guard down so you're more likely to agree to whatever he wants to do with you. Your unique personality could be a great Joker card if he ever needs it.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x you #twst x yuu #twst x you #floyd leech x reader #jade leech x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #floyd leech x yuu #jade leech x yuu #azul ashengrotto x yuu #floyd x reader #jade x reader #azul x reader

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radawaycunt · 4 months ago

Text

Imperator

Also on AO3

Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 6.7k words

Summary: Once, you only had the memory of the curious barbarian poet, entertaining guests at a party with both violence and verse. But it's not until you see him again, now as emperor, that you get to know the man underneath the titles.

Warnings: Minors DNI this fic is 18+, power imbalance (emperor/servant to freedwoman), mutual pining, slow-ish burn, sort of forbidden love?, lots and lots of fluff good lord, some jealousy, some angst, lovey dovey smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), maybe some historical inaccuracies lol (I care a lot okay), and iii think that's it but lmk if anything else!

--------------

"Love will enter cloaked in friendship's name."

– Ovid.

-------------

“The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth the descent, and easy is the way. But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.”

That was the first time you had ever heard him speak, the deep timbre of his voice riddled with contempt. Moments before, he had killed another gladiator, his blood spattered on him like a gruesome adornment. But there was no savagery in his fierce eyes, no mere bloodthirst in the sneer directed at Emperor Geta, your Dominus. His glare was even, like a cold, blue flame that promised not just violence, but retribution as well.

You’d recognized the poem immediately, just as taken aback as everyone else. Nobody moved, the room’s collective breath held in anticipation of the inevitable repercussions of such an offense. Emperor Geta made the slightest move to raise his sword and you gripped the decanter of wine tighter, but your face remained impassive.

“Virgil,” supplied Macrinus, trying to placate him with a broad smile. “He was taught poetry just to amuse you, Imperators.”

There was another momentary pause in which neither twin was sure if they should believe him. But then, Caracalla snorted, standing up to clap the taller man’s shoulder.

“A poet,” He said, laughing. “That’s genius, Macrinus.”

“Yes, certainly very amusing,” Geta said begrudgingly, his jaw clenched.

He and the gladiator had not stopped staring at each other for one moment, like two vipers poised to strike.

“Good, I thought you’d like that,” Macrinus said, approaching his fighter to grasp his shoulder, perhaps in warning. “We live to serve you both.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing your poet at the upcoming games in the Colosseum,” he spits out, throwing the sword aside with a loud clatter. “Let’s see how his verses work for him then.”

Macrinus nodded at his steward to take the gladiator away. He was smiling, seemingly amused, as the steward approached him. As he was being shoved back to the atrium, his eyes took one last baleful look around the room. For the briefest second, you thought his eyes met yours, striking you like a piercing arrow, but then he was gone.

You had no time to dwell on it though, as Emperor Geta returned to his seat and raised his glass to be refilled. But that didn’t mean you would forget so easily, even if your paths might never cross again. All you could do was offer a prayer to the Gods for him.

—--------------------------

The next time you saw him, he was no longer a barbarian gladiator hailed from a distant land, but the new – and rightful – Emperor of Rome. His name was not Hanno, but Lucius Verus Aurelius, and he was the son of the recently passed Queen Lucilla, whom Rome still mourned.

He was not cruel like the twins had been, rarely raising his voice, much less his hand. His demeanor was usually calm, but sometimes he stalked the halls restlessly, as if unsure what he should be doing. He still rose with the sun and trained for a couple of hours in the morning, already used to the routine he’d had as a gladiator, but after that, it was all politics. Endless scrolls of parchment to pore over, meetings to hold with the senate, and lending a patient ear to the populace’s needs. The weight of an empire was on his shoulders, and yet he didn’t bow under it.

During the day, you served his wine and silently hovered around for anything else he might need. At night, you drew his baths, kept his torches lit, and prepared his bed. You would have helped him disrobe too, already used to it from your days of serving Geta, but he chose to do so himself. He was not quite used to his every need being attended to, self-sufficiency deeply ingrained in his being. Mostly, he waved away other servants, leaving you instead to care for him personally.

There were times when you caught him looking at you as if you seemed vaguely familiar, a furrow in his brow when he couldn’t place you. You couldn’t fault him for not remembering you from Senator Thraex’s party, but there was a certain thrill at having piqued his curiosity regardless. Still, you kept your head down and offered no hints, as was your place.

Until one night, while he watched you add aromatic oils and test the bath’s temperature, he finally asked the question that had been on his mind for days.

“What is your name?”

You were startled at first, not having expected him to address you at all. You told him your given Roman name, Domicia, and bowed your head respectfully. He pushed himself off the doorway and stepped into the bathroom, humming thoughtfully.

“Of the home,” he said, referring to the name’s meaning. “Are you Roman? Is that your real name?”

You shook your head in answer to both questions. “I have been in Rome for many years now, though.”

“I have not,” he said, a note of melancholy in his voice. “Yet I grew up here, in these very halls…”

He trailed off, looking around absently, lost in his memories. You could not begin to imagine what he had been through, what he had seen. You had heard of his being sent away as a child, with absolutely no choice in the matter, and could empathize with him.

All you had ever known was a humble life in your native country, until you were stripped of your freedom and brought to the capital of Rome. Neither place felt like home, just the past and the present, and perhaps he was viewing things the same way. You could imagine, even understand, the bittersweetness of returning to a place one thought they might never see again.

“We are honored and grateful to have you back, Dominus,” you said. “I hope things have been to your satisfaction.”

“I have no complaints,” he said, yet he sighed. “Though becoming accustomed to being here, in my current position, is going to take some more time.”

“If there is anything I can do to make it easier for you, please let me know.”

He inclined his head gratefully, your eyes meeting for a moment. “Thank you, Domicia.”

He had the barest of smiles on his handsome face, but you could tell it was genuine. You felt one corner of your lips tugging upwards, but you looked away out of propriety. Even if you were in the same room, you were leagues apart, and it would do you no good to try to imagine otherwise.

You stood up, grabbing the decanter from a nearby table to have it refilled. “Your bath is ready now. Would you like refreshments other than wine?”

He nodded and you bowed, making your way out. By the time you returned with more wine and a platter of olives, bread, and cheese, he was already in the bathtub, leaning back with his eyes closed. Your feet padded softly on the mosaic floor to avoid disturbing him, and you left his refreshments on the table near the tub.

You settled at one side of the room just in case he might need anything, staring off into the middle distance and letting your mind drift. He glanced at you sidelong, his curiosity having only grown after your brief conversation. He still had that nagging feeling that he had seen you somewhere before, but he didn’t want to ask outright.

You felt his gaze on you but pretended not to, keeping your eyes averted. You thought again of the poem he’d recited, how different his demeanor had been then. You wondered what other verses he’d been taught, and if you might ever hear him recite anything again. He had a voice for poetry, somehow turning the words into a sort of enchantment, keeping one entranced.

“Doesn’t it feel… strange sometimes?” he said suddenly, staring up at the ceiling. “When things settle and you realize how far you have come? How much you’ve had to sacrifice for it?”

You hummed in agreement, waiting for him to say more.

“Sometimes, I even wonder if it was all worth it.”

Still lost in a haze of verses, you spoke before you could even think it through.

“Fortunate is he whose mind has the power to probe the causes of things and trample underfoot all terrors and inexorable fate.”

He sat up, surprised. “You know Virgil.” Recognition finally dawned on him. “You were at that party, weren’t you?”

You nodded. “Your words then were just as sharp as your blade.”

He huffed, leaning against the edge of the tub as he remembered his barely contained hatred. “Were you taught poetry to amuse, as well?”

“No, I used to read it with my mother when I was younger.”

“Who else have you read?”

“Ovid, Sappho, Horace…” You became a little flustered as he raised his eyebrows. “My mother was a bit of a romantic.”

“And you?”

It was your turn to huff with amusement, looking down at your hands. “I don’t believe I inherited that trait, no.”

The truth was that in a place such as Rome, love was quite hard to come by. You didn’t actively search for it, its ephemeral nature making you less inclined to, but you were no complete stranger to it. You’d never let it take root, though, for it was not something you could afford to have.

“What about you, Dominus?”

“Me?” he said. “I suppose… I’m not entirely sure anymore. I used to be, at one point.”

His haunted expression told you not to press him for details, so you just nodded sympathetically. The two of you lapsed into silence, the weight of tragedy hanging between you. You’d had a lot more time to become numb to your circumstances, but it was clear the pain he was experiencing was still fresh.

“I will be forced to remarry eventually.” He sighed heavily. “Produce heirs to carry out the lineage, show Rome a unified front.”

“Well, whoever you marry shall be the most fortunate woman in the empire.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, looking over at you. “You really believe so? You’re not just flattering me?”

“Of course,” you said, giving him a cryptic smile that made him laugh again. “I’m perfectly serious.”

“Oh, I am sure you are.”

After some time, he rose with a small splash, prompting you to immediately approach with an outstretched towel. His nudity barely registered in your mind, having already glimpsed him a few times. You wouldn’t dare to look at him directly, even if you were more than a little curious. You tensed as his fingers barely brushed yours in the exchange, but you quickly stepped back to give him more room.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, water dripping down his sculpted arms and chest. You went to start tidying up, studiously keeping your eyes on your task. He watched as you picked up the refreshments to take to the main chamber, a part of him wishing you would look at him instead.

“One more thing,” he said and you immediately turned around. “Please, I want you to call me Lucius.”

Your face heated up at the mere thought of it. “I could never be so bold…”

“I insist,” he said, holding up a hand as you began to stammer again. “Perhaps only when it is just the two of us, if you’d prefer.”

“I will certainly try my best,” you said with an awkward grin, trying to keep your composure.

He chuckled. “Good enough for me.”

—-----------------

Weeks passed, and while Lucius still hadn’t managed to get you to call him by name, he had certainly gotten you to open up more. In the evenings, the two of you swapped more poetry, often sharing your own interpretations of the verses. At some point, he even had scrolls fetched from the library for you to read to him. He enjoyed the mellifluous sound of your voice, so at odds with your serious expression when you were concentrating. To have him as your sole audience was already titillating, but the fact that he paid close attention was even more of a rush.

During the day, you anxiously looked forward to those handful of hours in which everything else disappeared. No speak of Rome, politics, or bitter memories, content with being each other’s brief escape. You still held yourself at a certain distance, though, always aware of the chasm between you. Yet he never made you feel inferior, often encouraging you to share your thoughts and opinions with him despite your reticence. You would even dare to say he cared, or at least that’s what you wanted to believe.

You wouldn’t necessarily say you were getting attached, for that would be too unrealistic of a fantasy, but you could not deny the butterflies in your stomach that often appeared while around him. His easy, handsome smile, the kindness in his eyes, his patient indulgence when listening to you, and the effort he put into making you laugh…

But the spell was abruptly broken the day he received a visit from his friend Ravi, who had brought someone for him to meet – a respectable Roman lady. A widow, as it happened, just like Lucius. Her hair was perfectly styled, falling in ringlets that framed her lovely face. She wore a lavender-colored dress with a matching veil, much fancier than anything you’d ever owned, and was adorned with golden jewelry. More importantly, she was freeborn, and thus a perfectly good candidate for marriage.

You swallowed hard, otherwise keeping your expression neutral. You hadn’t thought he would start meeting potential brides so soon, and you certainly hadn’t expected how it would make you feel. At least, Lucius also seemed surprised, not expecting his friend to try to set him up without consulting him first. Still, he assumed the role of gracious host and welcomed them warmly, leading them out to the gardens. He glanced over his shoulder at you as you silently trailed behind them, but you didn’t meet his gaze.

The three of them reclined on the couches of the outdoor dining area, shaded by a wooden pergola. It was a beautiful sunny day, the birds singing accompanied by the gurgle of the large fountain at the center of the garden. A gentle breeze stirred the foliage, carrying the faint, sweet smell of a dozen different flowers.

You served them wine and hovered close by as another servant brought them food to snack on. Lucius had deliberately sat across from where you stood just so he could keep an eye on you. You’d withdrawn into yourself, trying your hardest to remain indifferent instead of worrying about whether the meeting went well or not. If it did, then you had to be happy for him, but if it didn’t… Well, at least that would buy you a little more time, if nothing else.

“Such a lovely garden,” the lady, Ilaria, said as she looked around. “One could never tire of such a view.”

Lucius nodded absently but said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“I could see you fitting in perfectly with all the other flowers here,” Ravi cut in, smiling with as much charm as he could muster to make up for it.

Ilaria inclined her head, modestly waving off the compliment. “Oh, you flatter me, Ravi.”

He gave Lucius a subtle, pointed look to encourage him to follow his lead. Lucius sat up and cleared his throat, only just focusing on the conversation. He had been trying to get your attention as subtly as possible, but he hadn’t been successful.

“Er, yes, it’s always a treat to spend time out here. Certainly helps to clear the mind.”

Ravi shook his head a little and tried not to snort with amusement, thinking he was a lost case. Ilaria smiled, unbothered, taking a handful of grapes from a platter and popping one into her mouth.

“I’d wager there is much on your plate, Imperator,” she said. “And having to manage the household staff on top of everything else… Must be a little overwhelming for you, no?”

“Well, I am a very busy man, yes, but it hasn’t been all that bad,” Lucius said. “I’ve certainly had a great deal of support to see me through.”

His words managed to reach you, softening you up infinitesimally. This time, when he glanced at you, you finally looked back. The ghost of a smile was on your face, but you quickly looked away before it could actually manifest.

“I see. Well, I’m very glad to hear that,” Ilaria said, sharing a curious glance with Ravi, who looked slightly apologetic. “Though perhaps you have considered that having someone run the house for you would take a big burden off your shoulders. I would be more than happy to lend a hand if you’d consider it.”

His eyebrows raised slightly at her boldness, not missing the eagerness in her gaze, poorly concealed behind her innocently helpful demeanor. He certainly did not want to get her hopes up, but he smiled graciously to soften the blow.

“Ah, perhaps in the future, when I have more time to worry about such things,” he said, politely noncommittal. “But I appreciate the offer.”

Her smile wavered and then froze, not wanting to seem too disappointed. “Of course, Imperator.”

For the remainder of their visit, Lucius let them do most of the talking, any remarks he made were studiously polite and yet still a little aloof. Finally, after a few hours, he excused himself, needing to return to his duties. Ravi seemed hesitant, like he wanted to stay behind and speak to him privately, but he would have to wait for another day. He escorted them both out, thanking them for visiting, but he did not exactly invite Ilaria to return to the palace. Her disappointment was more palpable then, but she hid it with as much grace as she could muster.

When they were gone, he turned to you with a shake of his head and a sigh, grinning with bewilderment.

“I do not enjoy being ambushed,” he said as if he felt the need to explain himself. “Decent enough as she seemed.”

You bowed your head in agreement, more relieved than you would like to admit. You had no real reason to have been upset earlier, given that there was nothing between you except for a certain kinship. Even so, it was clear he had not wanted you to be hurt, and you were very thankful for that. You offered him a small smile and some tension seemed to leave his shoulders.

He inclined his head towards the eastern hallway leading to his study. “Come, I would like you to read some documents to me. I can get work done faster that way.”

The tablinum was spacious but cozy, with a door to one side that led to a smaller patio. Before, the twin emperors had never used the room, but now it seemed well lived in. There was a mess of scrolls and wax tablets all over his desk that he still hadn’t let you organize. On the wall behind, there was a recently completed fresco of a gladiator riding a chariot pulled by two horses. For another wall, he had commissioned a portrait of Vesta, goddess of the home and the hearth, but it was still a work in progress. He was particularly proud of that one, an unspoken gift for you, his muse.

You lit the oil lamps in their alcoves, bathing the room in warm light. Lucius sat at his desk with a heavy exhale and scanned his notes to remember where he had left off the previous day. You sat on a stool beside him, unfurling the scroll he handed you and resting it on your knees. The texts you read didn’t always make sense to you, but you understood their importance. The fact that he was entrusting you with such work was an honor you did not take for granted.

“Start in that middle section. There is some stuff I would like to revisit,” he said, taking up his stylus.

You nodded, finding what he was referring to and starting right away. You read to him for the next couple of hours, only stopping if he needed you to repeat something or in case he needed more time to make his notes. A few times during the latter, you glanced up to take in the focused furrow of his brow, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he pondered. You wondered what he might be thinking about, wishing he would impart some more knowledge on you.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, shadows deepening in the corners of the room. Another servant brought him dinner, but he didn’t seem too hungry yet. He handed you his cup of water when he heard you clear your throat a few times, insisting when you were reluctant to take it.

When he was done for the day, he stretched his arms over his head with a groan and slumped in his seat. You neatly rolled the parchment back up and stood so you could stretch your legs.

“I hope I haven’t tired you too much,” he said, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back. “You can take the rest of the evening off from reading if you’d like, but I would still appreciate some company.”

“Well, I still need to draw your bath and…”

“Somebody else can take care of it,” he cut in with a shrug, not preoccupied.

You hesitated. “What would you have me do instead, then?”

“Just sit back down, relax for a moment,” he said, getting up. “Here, you can have my chair. Much more comfortable.”

You were about to protest, but he gave you a look that said it was not up for discussion. You pursed your lips, uncomfortable at the idea of being idle, especially while taking up his seat. Still, you obeyed and sat down, hands folded on your lap. Feeling a little bold, you looked at him as if to say ‘satisfied?’ and he huffed in amusement.

“Wait, stay still,” he murmured suddenly, leaning down.

You froze as his face hovered mere inches away from yours, his breath fanning over your cupid’s bow. Delicately, he removed a stray eyelash that had been resting on your cheekbone, and he pulled back a little so you could see it on the pad of his finger.

“Make a wish,” he said.

All you could do was stare at him for another breathless moment that seemed to stretch on infinitely. You licked your lips nervously, drawing his eyes there before they returned to hold your gaze. Your heart was like a nervous bird fluttering wildly in your ribcage. Your mind was mostly blank, but the one thought that popped up was ‘I wish he would close the distance right now.’

You gently blew the eyelash away, your wish scattering into the air alongside it. The Gods must have decided to grant it immediately, for he did not pull away, instead slowly leaning in. His lips brushed yours tentatively and you closed your eyes, rejoicing for the barest second before you forced your face to turn away.

“We shouldn’t…” you murmured, the words hard to utter when a desperate want clung to your throat like honey.

“Why not?” He whispered.

“It’s not– I’m not…” You vaguely gestured towards yourself, unsure of what the right words were.

He pulled back to look at you better. “Was I too presumptuous?”

You shook your head. “Not at all.”

“Then what is it?” He pressed.

“Dominus, please.”

“Lucius,” he pleaded, loathing the title. “Say it, please.”

“Lucius,” you said finally, though your eyes still spelled defiance when you glanced at him. “Is it not obvious? We both know it’s impossible.” Your lower lip trembled slightly. “I have a heart, too, you know? I don’t want it to be broken.”

“I know that, of course I know that!” He said, placing his hands on your shoulders and crouching in front of you. “I have no intention of breaking your heart.”

“Surely you understand where I am coming from, though.” You sniffed, keeping tears at bay. “I am not wife material, like the lady Ilaria. I have nothing to offer, no dowry, no family name, or even an inkling of Patrician blood. ”

“I do not care for such things. I would never demand them of you. Even if we cannot marry, I will not marry anyone else that isn’t you,” he said with a firm, determined shake of his head. “But I can still give you my name, along with your freedom. That’s all that matters to me.”

You gasped, the shock of his words akin to a bucket of ice water being dumped over you. Now you let the tears spill over, like a dam had finally burst. He kissed them away, his hands cupping your face gently.

“I have been thinking of nothing else since I met you. I’ve already made the arrangements… I suppose I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“You honor me,” you said, smiling despite the tears. “You always have.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He asked. “You have given me more than you think. You brought me the peace I have been so desperately seeking for a long time.”

“I-I don’t even know how to thank you.” You placed a hand over his. “If you desire to give me your name, then I shall give you mine in return.”

You told him your name, the real one, which you had been hiding ever since your Roman name was given to you. He had never asked you for it, knowing that one’s name was the only thing one could truly own in this world. And now for you to give it freely… He repeated it, testing its shape on his tongue, and smiled radiantly.

“Pairs rather well with Lucia Veria, if I do say so myself,” he said with a proud chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you’ll have it, that is.”

You knew by the disarming earnestness in his eyes he wasn’t just offering the name, but himself, as well. His whole heart in the palm of your hand, should you choose to care for it. You felt as if you had already made that choice a while ago, when you first recited Virgil back to him.

“I will,” you said with an elated chuckle. “Of course I will.”

He took your hands in his, kissing both of them. “Then first thing tomorrow, we will make it official.”

More tears flowed as a result of an overwhelming rush of both gratitude and love. You had tried to ignore your feelings, not uprooting them but instead silently letting them grow unacknowledged. For once, it had seemed worth the risk of heartbreak. After all, the love hadn’t stemmed from something as fleeting as lust, but a mutual understanding and respect. It was more than you could ever ask for, and yet everything you desired.

You leaned your forehead against his, your noses brushing as he tilted his head back. This time, it was you who brought your lips to his with a tentative sort of tenderness, propriety still at the back of your mind. He responded in kind, letting you set the pace so as not to scare you off. If you weren’t shaking so much, you might have noticed he was shaking, too.

In that kiss, there was the promise of mutual devotion, sweet and sincere. You were still holding each other’s hands, as if afraid you might drift apart if you let go. You understood then why odes were written about this feeling, as all-consuming as the churning waves of the sea. All those verses had never resonated with you more.

Perhaps you had inherited the romanticism, after all.

—------------------

The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine, the fresh sweetness of it bringing you a sense of tranquility. You leaned against the windowsill, looking up at the stars and trying to piece together constellations. The world seemed drastically different now that you had your freedom, so vivid, so open, so alive. You even noticed it in your posture and the lightness with which you walked, as if you were floating. Lucius had said you were radiant with it.

He’d insisted on taking care of you the same way you’d cared for him, eager to show you his gratitude. You had been hesitant at first, but at his unwavering conviction, you relented, curious how it might feel to be spoiled. All that day, he had served you reverently, taking time off from his duties to focus solely on you.

You couldn’t help getting flustered at all the attention, his ardent gaze like a caress every time it met yours. His touch had so far been entirely chaste, but even the smallest, most innocuous contact was heightened with anticipation. The brush of his fingers over yours when he handed you something, a guiding hand on your lower back, even a touch on your shoulder to make you aware of his presence.

There were a few sneaked kisses in both the garden and the tablinum, each one of them leaving an undercurrent of warmth under your skin that promised more. It was like a slow, drawn-out game of chase, neither of you in a rush to reach its conclusion. If anything, it only made you want each other more.

After the sun had set, when the two of you drifted along as if in a drunken stupor, Lucius went to prepare a bath for you in his chambers. You were nervous and exhilarated, every moment spent waiting for him to be done an exquisite agony. Until finally, he poked his head around the bathroom door.

“It’s ready now,” he said, beckoning you with a smile.

You followed him into the bathroom, hands wringing anxiously. Flower petals were scattered on the mosaic floor, leading towards the steaming tub. Flickering candles bathed the room in a warm glow, making your shadows dance on the wall. You looked at each other, both knowing what the next step was but hesitant to initiate it. He averted his gaze first, gesturing towards the door.

“Would you like me to give you some privacy?”

You shook your head, desire making you a little more brave. “I… I would love some help undressing, though.”

His spine straightened, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “With pleasure.”

He crouched to slowly pull the hem of your long tunic upwards, rising with it. You lifted your arms so he could get it over your head, the fabric falling to the floor unceremoniously. Your eyes were fixed on his face, drinking in his expression as he took a step back to get a better look at you. The bare expanse of your skin robbed him of breath, his eyes roaming over every curve and plane of your figure. He wanted to sink to his knees again and lay his forehead at your feet in worship, but he stood still, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“The evening star is the most beautiful of all stars,” he said in a low voice, quoting Sappho.

Warmth spread from your chest to your face, and you smiled coyly as another verse came to mind. “Come to me once more, and abate my torment…”

You offered him your hand, which he took, and he led you to the tub. You daintily stepped in, sighing contentedly as you sank into the water’s enveloping warmth. He knelt next to the tub, leaning against it with one arm propped on the edge.

“Have I told you enough times that you are beautiful?” He said. “I don’t think it has been enough.”

You huffed with amusement, looking down as you fought a geeky grin. “Well, about a hundred times with just your eyes. A few times out loud, though.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I’ll have to show you in other ways, too… If I may.”

You nodded, silently granting him permission. He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on your lips before standing up. He took it upon himself to bathe you, starting out by scrubbing your scalp. You leaned into his touch, eyes closing in bliss. He smiled at your soft, pleasured hum, and vowed to elicit as many more as he could.

Things took on an almost ritualistic quality, with him focused entirely on his task. You were loose limbed, letting him move you about as he used a cloth to scrub your skin. He didn’t try anything that might be deemed unsavory, though you let his tender, reverential touch reach places no one had touched in a very, very long time. But he didn’t linger, to your slight frustration, not wanting to jump into things too quickly. The flames of your desire were stoked slowly, warmth running through you like sweet wine.

When he was done, he helped you step out of the tub and immediately got to drying you off with a towel. You caught his eye for a moment, his pupils blown wide with equally fervent desire. You stopped yourself from clutching his arm, wanting to anchor yourself to him, but he could still tell you were growing restless. He kissed your shoulder, tapping the tip of your nose playfully with his finger.

“Not done quite yet,” he murmured, not missing the way you involuntarily pressed your thighs together. “You’ve always been very patient.”

“For the first time, I fear it might be running thin…” you said, to which he smiled.

He grabbed a small glass bottle of rose oil and lathered some in his hands. He anointed your body with it, the heady scent of one of Venus’s favorite flowers permeating the air. As he reached your chest, you took hold of his wrist and brought his palm to rest over your heart. He felt it beating rapidly, your chest rising and falling with each panting breath.

His eyes fell to your lips, slightly parted with want. He grasped your chin with his free hand, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“I have been thinking about this for a long time,” he said, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. “But I hadn’t wanted to touch you until now, when you actually felt like you had a choice in the matter.”

You clutched his wrist tighter, his thoughtfulness only making you want him more. All those hours he must have spent yearning, unaware that you were stuck thinking of him too. As emperor, he had the right to take whatever he wanted, but having previously been a gladiator, he understood the monumental importance of bodily autonomy. Very few people in Rome had such a privilege and he couldn’t bear the thought of being the one to rob you of it.

You kissed him in response, much fiercer, hungrier, than all the other kisses you had shared so far. A desperate sound escaped his throat and he clasped you against him tightly. Swiftly, he scooped you up into his strong arms and carried you out to the bedchamber as he would a bride.

Gently, he set you down on the bed and pulled away to remove his tunic. This time, you were not meek about his nakedness. You brazenly stared at him, eyes mapping out the lines of his muscles, the pink, raised skin of his scars, and the soft trail of hair on his abdomen that seemed to suggestively point downwards.

His shoulders were squared with pride at your ogling, a sly smile on his face. He’d had an inkling before of your attraction, but to see it on full display was narcotic, and he felt himself pulse with an aching need.

“Come closer,” you said softly.

He did, climbing over you, his warmth immediately enveloping you. You hid your face on the junction between his neck and shoulder, embarrassed at all the thoughts rushing through your mind.

“What is it?” He asked, raising an eyebrow with amusement.

“Nothing,” you said, voice muffled against his skin. “I just… I do not think you realize how badly I wanted this, too. I-I don’t want to ever stop.”

He chuckled indulgently, nudging your head so you’d look at him. “Neither do I.”

He kissed you again, and again, and again. You were so close to him that the lines of your bodies became indivisible, but it still didn’t seem like enough. Your knees hiked up to his hips in a silent plea, but he did not give in quite yet, wanting to prolong things for as long as he could.

Still, unable to resist a little bit of mutual torment, he slid upwards until his hips were aligned with yours. You gasped as you felt the velvety underside of his erection against your slick folds, each small movement making you tremble. Your brows furrowed and your lips parted in a wanton expression, your eyes shiny and half lidded as you looked at him.

“Lucius,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he murmured soothingly, kissing your neck. “I know.”

Neither of you were willing to break apart from your embrace, so there wasn’t actually much of a preamble. Feverish, he sank into you slowly, your nails digging into his biceps as he stretched you open. That first round was frantic, almost animalistic, all the pent up longing finally being released. His body rolled over yours with the power of the sea’s waves, leaving you awash in ecstasy.

Neither of you lasted very long, but it didn’t matter, as you were nowhere near spent. Lucius, still in the afterglow of his orgasm, lazily began to kiss you all over, wanting to discover every mole and freckle, every tender spot that made you squirm, and every other little detail that made you you.

He settled between your thighs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive bundle of nerves. You tried to prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, but he wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled you closer.

“What are you– Oh,” you gasped at the first flick of his tongue, the entirely new sensation disarming you.

He tasted his essence mixed with yours, a groan rumbling in his chest. You tightly grasped the sheets under you, arching against his face. You bit your lip to stop yourself from making the most undignified sounds, but it was hard to focus, especially as his fingers were added into the mix. Your body burned brighter than any brazier, his arms pinning you down as he conquered you with his mouth. You shattered once more, crying out as he helped you ride it all the way through.

After, you lied side by side, facing each other. You’d still not had your fill of him, but you needed to gather your strength for the long night ahead. You shared a breathy chuckle, as if still in disbelief it had finally happened, and he kissed your sweat-slick forehead.

“Now that was poetry,” you said jokingly, making him laugh again.

“You put every verse to shame, my love,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You kissed his palm, adoring, and tangled your legs with his. A swell of emotion unlike anything you had ever felt rose within you. It was as if he had awakened a new part of you that you hadn’t known was dormant, bringing you back from an existence that consisted solely of drifting through days that blended into one another.

He was just as grateful to have found you, his peace, his solace, the woman who would always guard his heart. He murmured your name reverently, a reminder that you were his, and he was yours. You drew closer to him, like a moth to flame, and pushed him onto his back, straddling him. His hands came to rest on your hips and your eyes were full of mirth as you held his gaze.

“As it happens, I find myself compelled to compose some more with you.” You grinned playfully, hands sliding up his chest.

He mirrored your grin, not minding the idea one bit. “Relentless, just like the great muse Calliope.”

“Well, when inspiration strikes… It can’t be helped, can it?”

“No,” he said. “Not when it comes to you.”

------

#lucius verus x reader #lucius verus x fem!reader #lucius verus smut #lucius verus fanfiction #gladiator fanfiction #lucius verus #x reader #minors dni

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lustlovehart · 7 months ago

Text

Reversed

Pairings: Riddle, Leona, Azul, Kalim, Jamil, Vil, Idia, Malleus, Rollo x Reader

Reverse Monster!Twst where instead of you being the hunter who hunts down those vermin, it’s them hunting you down, the most notorious beast famed for taking down whole citities with just a look (though, this is just rumors as no evidence with solid proof has proven this a fact).

They’re so sure they can do it, maybe with a great effort, but they have no doubt they’ll at least give you a challenge.

But then, they finally meet you and their former view completely shifts.

Riddle, is at an impasse. He’s conflicted with himself, on one hand he’s appraised as the sternest Monster Hunter there is, even following rules that make his job harder than need be. But, when he looks at you, his want for law following skews itself. Even as he brings his blade down to behead you, a split second hesitation gives way for you to escape his clutches.

When he finally clears his mind, he strives to hunt you down, you’ll just repay all the grievances you caused through punishment—! Who’s he kidding, he can’t lie…

He’s doing this not because the rules say so, but because he wants to. Whether through blood or air, he will see you again.

Leona… Thinks it’s inconvenient. He sets out on the mission with the “just another annoyance” mindset, ready to swiftly claw you down a step so he can go back to napping around the city. When the time comes, he’s a bit annoyed he can’t do it. He’s not sure what it is, maybe the way you look at him when you’re on the ground, whether pitiful or snarling. This was meant to be a simple job, kill and then swiftly take his leave, now he’s considering whether he should throw you over his shoulder or tie you up and drag you home.

The decision is finally made when you’re gone from his hold. He groans at himself for something so amateur, but realizes, he hasn’t taken a mission seriously for a while. Maybe it’s finally time for him to catch a worthy meal.

Crowley won’t know though, this prey, is for him and him only.

Azul views it as a simple means to gain popularity. Killing the most wanted beast available would surely boost him up the chart, he could even replace Crowley as NRF’s head. The moment he can finally do what he has been waiting years to do… he'd very much rather bunch you up in his arms and start an entirely different business branch.

When you’re down, the way you sneer at him and tell about his pathetically cowardice plan somehow reminds him of himself. He’s reminded of how weak he started before growing in power.

When you back away from his reach, only further growling at the human before you, he bunches your clawed hands in his placing a chaste kiss on your thick skin. He already knew what would happen as the moment he looked back up, the beast he gave such a vulnerable act to, was gone.

He tuts at himself, but quickly re-plans, he’ll just have to find a more efficient way of holding you down.

Kalim, is happy! He’s a soft hunter, he essentially hunts them down by giving them a stern talking about the goodness of the world, even giving them a good start in life! They get away believing they’ve achieved freedom only to be murdered in cold blood by Jamil, who was stalling in the formers shadow.

When they finally meet you, this dynamic changes. Kalims practically overcome by joy at the sight of you, caging your hand in his as he excitedly rants to you about the future you’ll have with him! … With him? It seems… Kalim doesn’t believe in free beginnings in your case, when he accidentally releases you back into the world, he’s determined, for the first time, to truly hunt down a monster and trap them.

Little does he know, the real snake, is ready to sink his fangs into you, not willing to share a single piece of his reward

Vil unfortunately believes, you’re the prettiest thing he's ever laid eyes on. Like everyone else, he went into the assignment with the belief he’ll be taking down an insidious ugly monster. It’s dark when he finally brings his weapon down on you, only narrowly missing when the light perfectly hits your face and accentuates your features to him.

Why are you beautiful?

He stops dead in his tracks, only further freezing up when you slowly resume your full height, you face inching closer to his as your eyes examine him, the moment he blinks is when you’re gone. Perhaps he should’ve let his eyes run dry if it meant you stayed here longer.

When he lays in bed, it feels like every time he closes his eyes you’re in the shadows, watching him. He doesn’t feel fear at this thought, if anything, he jumps up ready to take you away.

Ever since, he can’t seem to stop thinking about the beast so fair, he must know… why it is he finds you so beautiful.

Perhaps, he’ll just need to study such a beauty up close and personal.

Idia wants to hole himself away, but at the same time needs to see every part of you. He’s practically hidden behind the sword he has pointed at you, the iron trembling as you watch him emerge from his sleeve. He’s been obsessed with this moment for so long, to finally become the hero of the world after slaying the beast that torments innocent citizens!

But… is he sure he even wants to do that anymore..? He can feel the plotline change when he considers drifting apart from the cliche.

What if he like… falls in love with the evil monster instead..? Why’s he lying that’s exactly what’s happening…! After fixating on such a key moment, it’s like all his attention was on you as a living being, rather than the mission anymore…!

He has numerous pins and photos of you attached to his wall, each displaying your victims, towns you’ve raided, and even just photos of you standing there.

This might be the only thing he won’t shy away from in fear. Like the rest of them, Idia is just as determined to achieve the goal of catching you, maybe even more so with how much he needs to prove to people.

Malleus, finds you a curiosity. To think, despite his nature, you’ve caught the attention of one of the most renowned hunters. Even when his bare hands pin you to the ground below him, his body being used as a weight to trap you between him and the grass, he can’t help but wish to lean even closer.

He essentially, feels the urge to consume every piece of knowledge there is to know about you, he wants to know, every piece of data books have failed to recollect on you.

He has never felt such a strong desire like this, he’s smart in all fields, even powerful enough to do jobs weaponless, yet you’re the only thing he seems to consistently want to swallow.

When your form fades away, his hands grip onto the space you once occupied, desperately trying to cling to the vespers of you. He must better himself, on his need for you.

Rollo thinks you’re horrifically heinous. How… How dare you impede his mind with your impure presence. Out of everyone, even Riddle, his strive to put a stake through your heart is heavier than ever, why must such prudences exist in this land? If they hadn’t, living would be peacful.

Which is the exist opposite of his life right now. At every turn of a city corner has gone to such a delusion he imagines random people in the street to be you. His current turmoil is between existential longing and pure hatred.

You... You of the most immoral species possible, why is it you his heart has decided to beat faster and faster with every passing moment? You must’ve cursed him, yes that’s it... He must purify the filth you’ve instilled in him.

By taking you as the cure.

A/n: Rollo Flamme, from doting househusband coworker who toes the line of regular best friend and boyfriend, to loathing mortal enemy who hunts you down to pay for the fact you’re in his mind 24/7 because he simply can’t accept that he’s fallen deep in love with the pretty monster in the shadows.

May I offer up, Monster Hunter meeting with all of the factions telling their reports of their mission, collectively saying their lies in unison, that they killed you. Now they’re all giving each other the stink eye cuz “no tf you didn’t???”, meanwhile you’re in their weapons closet trying desperately to not get caught with the lowrank hunter you were feeding on. You could easily take five of them down, but twenty three highly trained hunters? You’d practically be dead—

Your hopes go unanswered as shadows loom of you with the most horrifying expressions on their face. (Little do you know it’s not because of you but because they’re a little jealous some random got to have you bite them).

Thank you for my presentation that had randomly struck me doing a road trip, on the bright side, Heartslaybul is half way finished??? Kinda??

#vesconcepts #monster!twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingsholar x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #kalim al asim x reader #jamil viper x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #idia shroud x reader #malleus draconia x reader #rollo flamme x reader

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myunghology · 5 months ago

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THE LITTLE THINGS.

summary the little things they do for you, just because they love you. part 1/2 !!

pairings riddle, leona, azul, x gender neutral reader (established relationship)

tw none.. i think IDK

a/n — YAYYY I HIT 1.7K give me more clout pls ily all

✧ — RiDDLE ROSEHEARTS

Teaches you even though it's incredibly late at night. His eyes are already telling you that he's tired— and you try your best to tell him to go to bed.

But noooo, he cares too much about you to let you fail your worst subject. He casually waves his hand to dismiss your ideas for him to get sleep, putting you first before anything else. Well, at least he's learning more as well from teaching you.

Your head would be laying on his lap as he explains literal calculus at 4am in the morning, since you woke up in the middle of the night, making HIM wake up as well, why not torment you as well by making you learn with the time?

You give him such attitude early in the morning, saying "I'm sorry calculus sucks so bad, I'm sorry it's boring?" and yet he's completely whipped for you to the point that he's willing to sacrifice his sleeping schedule for you to learn. It's for your own good!

Riddle's possessive.. But in a good way! He just cares too much, not possessive to the point he's controlling, but possessive in a way that he's just overprotective of you.

He's the "Don't let anybody do this to you, unless that somebody's me." type of boyfriend. Can you tell he gets jealous easily? Gets extra snarky whenever someone asks about you, especially when they don't know you two are dating.

The type to pull you closer wherever just from being possessive, and makes an excuse that's basically just "Because you might get lost". Riddle.. The hallway is currently empty?

He will forever be your first and last love. The little things he does for you, it's everything. To you, and to everyone else who sees. The way he ties your shoelaces— which you didn't even notice that was untied.

When you make a mistake and a small "I'm sorry." comes out of your lips while your eyes get blurry, shaking his head as he shushes you and reassures you, everytime without fail.

The way he looks up at your pretty face right after, as smitten as ever and in complete awe, it's not that obvious, but you can see it in his eyes.

The way he's incredibly patient with you, the way you push your luck just to annoy him— luckily not getting beheaded by your own boyfriend. He has always fully believed time has brought you to him, hell, even fate itself maybe.

✧ — LEONA KiNGSCHOLAR

Leona always finds himself ending up with you, one way or another. At the end of the day, he's home. To you. And that's what matters the most to him.

The way he's burying his face in your chest, making a giggle escape out of your lips, a giggle he especially loves, but of course, would never really admit it directly.

This time, it's your turn to tease him for acting like this. But who could blame him? You're so comfortable.. And you're so.. Everything, really.

The soft sighs of relief he lets out when he feels your fingers thread through his long hair, indirectly asking you to not stop, and just keep going.

He compliments you without even realizing. Like it's a natural response to everything you do. From your little "Isn't this bow really cute, Leona?" with a soft smile as he goes, "Yeah. It'd be cuter if you'd wear it, though."

And you're left red and blushing, it honestly depends if he's going to tease you for it or not. But we all know, your blush is never going to get unnoticed by the prince himself.

Gets defensive whenever you bring this topic up. He will NEVER miss a day of complimenting you— even if it's something random. It's either that, or something completely heartwarming.

It ranges from, "You're really short, you know? Could barely even reach the top of the door even if you stand on your tippy-toes. But it's alright. I like it like that." with a smug grin.

To, "What's wrong with you? You're gorgeous. You're gonna be keepin' up with me in terms of persuasion, with those adorable little eyes of yours, are you?" sir this is a wendys

Can NEVER say no to you when you give him that special look. When you look up at him he absolutely melts— and it's painfully obvious it hurts physically (And by that, I mean butterflies.)

"If my significant other thinks they can just bat their cute lil eyes at me and get whatever they want, they're absolutely right." Type of mindset. He'd never admit it or say it out loud, either. We all saw that coming though, let's be honest..

Grits his teeth whenever you look at him with doe eyes, and it makes him weak because he especially loves your eyes, and how much they can say about you and how you're feeling.

✧ — AZUL ASHENGROTTO

Provides you with anything you need, without you needing to ask, almost everytime he notices. For other people, they'd need payment. But for you..? Ah, just forget about the goddamn contract at this point.

Actually, there IS a payment you have to do. Can you guess? It's definitely something cheesy or corny. Kills myself

Everytime you give him kisses all over his face, he's definitely all read. Who could blame him? We know he's not used to affection like this. And the fact that it's coming from you.. I don't know if that makes it worse or better at this point.

But of course, this will always come with a payment. More of a punishment— maybe. Having to wipe all your faint lipstick marks off his face when he has to be in the mostro lounge, making him just a few minutes late.

He picks up your habits. From talking or texting, no matter how different it is, he'll pick it up. From how much time you two spend together, I can't really say anyone's surprised..?

So, don't be surprised when he randomly responds to you with your usual attitude, or even just talking or texting a little bit like you as well.

The best part is, he doesn't even notice himself. When someone brings it up, he raises an eyebrow and acts like he doesn't know what they're talking about at all.

Gets all flustered when someone mentions you. It wouldn't even be about your relationship and he'd still be a blushing mess. Why? Um.. I dunno..

They probably wouldn't even realize you two are dating until they see Azul's wallpaper is you two, and when he opens his phone, most of the widgets there are your little selfies you send to him for fun.

Whether it'll be a literal thirst trap ("He's getting all red, please stop?" - Jade). Or a 0.5 picture of you sent by a mutual friend, or even Floyd who practically towers over you.

note — 𝔹𝕌ℝℕ 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝔾𝔸𝕐𝕊 𝓑𝓤𝓡𝓝 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓖𝓐𝓨𝓢 𝙱𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙶𝙰𝚈𝚂 ꃳ꒤ꋪꋊ ꓄ꁝꏂ ꍌꋬꌦꇙ ฿ɄⱤ₦ ₮ⱧɆ ₲₳Ɏ₴ ᗷᑘᖇᘉ ᖶᕼᘿ ᘜᗩᖻS [̲̅B][̲̅U][̲̅R][̲̅N] [̲̅T][̲̅H][̲̅E] [̲̅G][̲̅A][̲̅Y][̲̅S] BURN THE GAYS ßÚRñ †HÈ GÄ¥§ B̶U̶R̶N̶ T̶H̶E̶ G̶A̶Y̶S̶ вυяη тнє gαуѕ ᏰᏬᏒᏁ ᎿᎻᎬ ᎶᎯᎽᏕ ᴮᵁᴿᴺ ᵀᴴᴱ ᴳᴬʸˢ БҴЯҊ ꚌӉЄ ԌДҰЅ ႦႮჁႶ ႵႹჹ ყმჄႽ B̤̮Ṳ̮R̤̮N̤̮ T̤̮H̤̮E̤̮ G̤̮A̤̮Y̤̮S̤̮ B̷U̷R̷N̷ T̷H̷E̷ G̷A̷Y̷S̷ B̲U̲R̲N̲ T̲H̲E̲ G̲̲A̲̲Y̲̲S̲ B̳U̳R̳N̳ T̳H̳E̳ G̳A̳Y̳S̳ B̾U̾R̾N̾ T̾H̾E̾ G̾A̾Y̾S̾ B͎U͎R͎N͎ T͎H͎E͎ G͎A͎Y͎S͎ B͓̽U͓̽R͓̽N͓̽ T͓̽H͓̽E͓̽ G͓̽A͓̽Y͓̽S͓̽ B҈U҈R҈N҈ T҈H҈E҈ G҈A҈Y҈D҈ B͙U͙R͙N͙ T͙H͙E͙ G͙A͙Y͙S͙ B͒U͒R͒N͒ T͒H͒E͒ G͒A͒Y͒S͒ B̻U̻R̻N̻ T̻H̻E̻ G̻A̻Y̻S̻ ḄỤṚṆ ṬḤẸ G̣ẠỴṢ

#jian’s works!#twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst imagines #disney twst #twst x reader #twst headcanons #twst #twst riddle #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle rosehearts #leona kingsholar x reader #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul ashengrotto #twst azul

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ur-local-wizard · 2 months ago

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Ruin You

Mattheo Riddle, an incubus, is used to getting his way. But when he falls for you --the one girl immune to his charms -- and learns of your innocence, he's overcome with the want to ruin you for anyone else.

MDNI! characters are adults, corruption kink, praise, fingering, unprotected piv, semi-public sex, creampie, loss of virginity, friends to lovers, incubus!mattheo x fem!reader, I am not responsible for your media consumption

w/c: 1.6k

in response to this request!

masterlist au list

a/n: first smut ever!! I hope this lives up to all the expectations! <3

Seduction came to Mattheo Riddle as if it was his mother tongue – natural, unhurried. He knew exactly what to say, how to say it, and the way to angle his smirk just right to make people weak in the knees. His smile was devastating, his voice rich and deep, his touch always featherlight yet never failing to leave a scorching heat behind. He thrived off sexual innuendos, his existence woven into every fantasy and every intimate thought that flitted through every mind.

But you seemed to be immune to his charms.

Remaining blissfully ignorant to his attempts, you somehow escaped every interaction with the demon entirely untouched by the sin that dripped from his lips. It was confusing, infuriating, yet somehow intoxicating; only serving to make him thirst for more.

“You know,” he purred, leaning closer to where you sat in the common room. “If you ever need help with anything, I’m here. You only have to ask.”

You blinked up at him, and a wholesome smile spread across your lips. “That’s so sweet of you, Matty. You’re such a good friend.”

He nearly choked on his own spit at your response. Friend? He was a literal demon of temptation and desire, and yet you thought his actions were friendly?

His flirtations only escalated after that. Every smirk, wink, lingering touch, was only met with a beaming smile or polite nod. You were a puzzle, a challenge. He wanted to figure you out – to understand how to get his message across. And yet he found himself drawn to you in other ways; ones that weren’t driven solely by physical need.

Then he heard the rumors.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He was just drinking at a party like usual, when he heard Pansy’s voice. “Y/n’s a virgin? Makes sense I guess. But with a face like that, I expected more,” he heard her say.

He felt the world tilt for a moment, and not from the alcohol he was drinking. Everything in him was screaming, the depraved part of him clawing at the edges of his restraint. A virgin. Pure. Untouched.

His body ached at the thought, and the demonic part of him longed to find you and corrupt you, defile you. But the last thing he wanted was for you to see him as he was – a monster, a predator, a creature of hunger and lust. He wanted you desperately, needed you even, but he would never force anything on you.

For the first time in his life, Mattheo Riddle was at a complete loss for what to do.

Although it was difficult, Mattheo tried to distance himself after that revelation. He told himself that it was for your own good, that you were better off without him, that he would ruin you if he got too close.

But the more he resisted, the more unbearable the distance from you became. He still heard your laugh echoing throughout the corridors, still caught glimpses of you in the Great Hall, still felt the echo of your innocent touches that lingered, their memory like a brand seared into his skin.

However, you noticed the change in his behavior almost instantly, and began to wonder if you’d done something wrong.

“Matty?” You asked one day, your voice soft and uncertain. You’d caught him just after curfew, when everyone was meant to be heading to their dorms. “Are you mad at me? Have I done something?”

Mattheo’s fists clenched at his sides, not able to stand the way your doe eyes were filled with guilt and concern. No fear, no anger, no suspicion, just pure and genuine worry. It broke his heart, and he had to look away. “No angel, you didn’t do anything.”

You tilted your head in confusion, and your brows furrowing. “Then why have you been avoiding me?”

His mouth floundered as he searched for something to say. What could he possibly say that wouldn’t scare you? That wouldn’t hurt you? Yet he couldn’t bring himself to lie either. “You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered, giving a non-answer while shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Then explain it to me,” you said, looking up at him expectantly.

Finally, his eyes meet yours. You stood firm, gaze unwavering, arms crossed over your chest. The sight of you, so determined, so concerned, made him snap.

“You drive me mad, you know that? Every time you smile at me, every goddamn touch, makes me go absolutely insane. I want you so bad… I wanna ruin you for anyone else.

“So? Who said I didn’t feel the same way, Matty?”

He stared at you in utter disbelief. “But all the hints I threw-”

“Yeah, I get those now,” you grumble. “After I realize you share the same feelings. I just… didn’t want to assume.”

He scoffs and takes a step closer. “So you want this too?”

As soon as you nod, he’s on you. His lips crashed against yours, desperate and hungry, his fingers tangling in your hair, tugging lightly, as he backed you against the wall. One hand slid to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him, and you could feel his desire pressing against you. The kiss was fervent, full of pent-up desire, yet beneath the urgency there was tenderness.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered between kisses, his breath hot on your skin. “I’ve wanted this for so long. You’re so fucking perfect.”

His hands were warm as they slid under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head. Your bra was next, falling away to meet your shirt, and you should have been mortified of being so exposed in the common room. But you couldn't find it in yourself to care. Not when his touch ignited something within you that you never knew was there, not when his lips brushed against your ear, whispering sweet praises that made your stomach tighten with need.

His own shirt was next, falling into the growing pile of clothes forgotten on the floor. Hands finding your hips, he spun you around, and you immediately braced yourself against the wall. The stone was hard and cold against your hands, and the cold air of the common room caused your nipples to pebble. His touch drifted down your back, before slipping under your skirt to rub against your core. Letting out a gasp of surprise, your hips jolted towards his touch, earning a soothing hum from the man behind you.

“I’ll be gentle, okay? So fucking gentle,” he murmured as he moved your panties to the side. Two fingers slipped inside your cunt with ease, earning a whine from you.

“Fuck. You're so tight. So wet,” he groaned as he curled his fingers, hitting that spongy spot that made you see stars. “I really am the only one to touch you like this? Gonna be the first and last, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you moaned, head falling forward as a knot started to form in your belly.

His fingers picked up their pace, pumping and curling just right, just enough to drive you dangerously close to the edge. “I want you to promise, angel. Promise me I’ll be the only one to ever see this beautiful pussy of yours.”

You nodded enthusiastically, but that didn't satisfy him. Right as you were about to finish, he tore his hand away from you, leaving you teetering on the brink. The loss and emptiness made you whimper, but when you heard him unbuckling his belt, anticipation replaced the frustration. The suspense made you tense, your thighs pressing together in search of relief.

The head of his cock brushed against your entrance, teasing, but he didn't move. “I want to hear you say it. Promise me, angel.”

“I promise,” you whined, growing impatient from the loss of sensation. You wanted him desperately.

That was all he needed to hear, his hips surging forward, thrusting into you with one swift motion. A choked gasp escaped your lips, the stretch making you wince. He stilled, letting you adjust, though his grip on your hips tightened like he was barely holding himself back.

“So fucking perfect,” he groaned, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. Your fingers curled against the wall, and when you started to squirm, he took that as a hint to move. His first thrust was slow, gentle. It was your first time after all. But eventually his restraint snapped. His rhythm was deep and deliberate, fucking into you as if this was the last thing he'd ever do.

One hand snaked around your body to rub tight circles on your clit that made your knees buckle. He caught you, keeping you upright as his pace never faltered.

“Feel so good. Like you were made for me,” he moans, his voice raw.

His continued ministrations made pressure build once again, white-hot pleasure beginning to curl insistently in your stomach. You could feel it, the inevitable, and his increasingly erratic movements were a tell-tale sign that he was close too.

“Come for me,” he whispered, coaxing you. “Prove to me how perfectly you were made for me.”

Pleasure crashed over you, blinding and all-consuming. You tightened and fluttered around him, eliciting a guttural moan from deep within his throat. He followed soon after, burying himself deep with a groan.

For a moment, neither of you moved, lost in the shock of what had just happened. Then he pulled out and turned you around, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

“You did perfect, just like I knew you would.”

tag list: @mattyriddlesbitch @sturniolover13 @thereeallink @voidangxls @riddleswhcre @riddleshire

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savanir · 10 months ago

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DP x DC prompt [3]

during one of the final psych evals at Arkham right before he gets to be released, the whole thing wrapped up so tidy, just a little relapse which involved a robbery. Getting sent back to Arkham, but he got to stay at the asylum so long that he no longer has to serve a prison sentence, score!

But during that eval his overseeing psychiatrist recommended him to have a change of scenery, some fresh non polluted air.

Riddler was rather convinced the guy was making this recommendation to everyone in Arkham in their own weird way to convince them to just leave Gotham and become someone else's problem. should he notify Batman about it somehow? nah, it’ll be more interesting to see how this is gonna turn out in the long run.

But can he leave the state? Can he even leave the city? he never really bothered to look into it, at least not legally, up until now if he felt he needed to leave for one of his plans he just did it.

Turns out he can, it’s a whole hassle and a half though, first a judge and then a probation officer and he’s pretty sure both were like “what the hell is this psychiatrist guy thinking!?” but at the same time, shrink probably knows what he’s doing (WRONG) so he’s allowed to go visit out of state family or whatever.

he had to wear this nice ankle monitor though, Wayne Enterprises™ tech, not overly bulky but still very present. real fancy, and a fun extra challenge heh.

now as for a good reason to leave New Jersey he’s going to need distant relatives, and he finds some, great grandpa walker also has a son, who had a son who had a daughter Madeline, who married some guy Jack Fenton, and she lives somewhere out in the boonies Illinois. great he’ll visit her.

far enough away in all sense of the word that there is no way she knows anything about him. it would be best to call her first though, be polite about it.

“hello, you have reached Fenton works, this is Maddie speaking”

“Riddle me this-” ah whoops, habit, oh whatever, “we don’t share parents, but certainly a part of your life, from laughter to strife. Who am I?”

there is a pause … he’s going to be a bit disappointed if she hangs up if he’s honest.

“cousins~” comes the cheery reply.

“correct! the name is Edward Nygma, we are distantly related you and I and well-”

“oh you simply must come visit!”

well this was rather easy, perhaps a little too easy, but she lives in the midwest so maybe just going with whatever some guy says over the phone is normal there? stranger danger not really a thing in a small town where everyone knows everyone?

things start to make a little more sense once he gets there and he’s starting to think some things might run in the family. like a preference for the colour green and weird hyperfixations and genius bordering on insanity. Though that remains to be seen, Jack does not seem like a very bright light after his very enthusiastic welcome.

their kids however are observant and sharp. young Jasmine is wasting no time trying to psychoanalyze him. and the boy, Danny, he had not really meant to and he swears he’s sticking with calling the kid Danny so he wouldn’t seem overly familiar, but he might have called him little bird a couple times now.

but that’s all whatever, he’s playing nice here. and he doesn’t even have to worry about his eccentricities tripping him up because this place is insane.

There actually is a local teen vigilante active but he seems about as loved as he’s disliked. and the ghost boy’s enemies are basically all his own kind, which another crazy thing to now know about. ghost. they are real actually, how is Gotham not completely overrun? and how do they even work? and where do they keep coming from?

Edward might be getting a little sidetracked here. He had fully intended to sneakily get his next big game plan underway all the way out here, ankle monitor be damned. but he hasn’t made any progress at all.

Instead he’s been listening to Madeline and Jack to maybe figure out what the deal is with these ectoplasmic entities, he has to know, at this point he might go crazier if he doesn’t.

He’s making Jasmine promise him not to get her doctorate in Gotham, he’s going back and forth with space riddles with Danny.

so yeah the whole thing kinda just became a vacation, maybe the psychiatrist had the right idea after all? hmm nah, probably not. but this is fun. He’s thinking about recommending this place to some of the others.

It's different enough to get the vacation feel, but enough crazy shit happens to make it all feel like home.

it is not until Maddie wants to talk with him about potentially switching the position of godfather of Danny to him rather than some weird rich friend of theirs that Edward realizes he might have lost the plot somewhere

Apparently the little bird basically begged them with a powerpoint presentation on how he likes Edward so much more than that Vladimir guy.

And honestly, the fellow sounds like a Dracula Lutho so even if it’s kinda sad Edward can understand why he’d be considered a better option. Even if the guy has more money and a huge company that makes him said money. And it’s not like the Fentons know about his Riddler activities.

Thinking it over, Edward does think that Danny would like Gotham and Wayne has that space program thing right? The kid is definitely smart enough for that (Nygma certified), and yeah Edward does quite like their space themed back and forth. So, fuck it, why not, what is the worst that could happen?

He doubts Maddie and Jack are gonna kick it any time soon anyway out here in the boonies, it’s just a title thing, a stamp of approval or something.

he should have known he was going to eat those words later… he had this whole beautifully elaborate trap set up for the whole Batclan, and he was just getting to the good part when his phone went off.

Had to put the whole thing on pause cause that particular contact wasn’t gonna get ignored. He did promise to be available.

If the whole thing he had planned now went tits up he could at the very least laugh later at the reactions of the bats as he told them to “hold up one second, I have to take this.” while they were all in various perilous positions.

Sadly he did have to go, he had a very distressed godson to pick up.

#dc x dp #danny phantom #dcxdp #dpxdc #danny fenton #The Riddler #jasmine fenton #madeline fenton #jack fenton #edward nygma #Story idea #it took me annoyingly long to figure out how to add a read more line btw #I was going to add some other things as well but I didn't want it to get super long #I imagine Vlad was absolutely furious about losing his godfather status #but our boy Eddie just runs circles around him and humiliates him every step of the way #there is only one vampire themed guy that can put the Riddler in his place and you ain't it chief #also I was planning on adding a thing where Edward ends up in the ghost zone somehow #which makes his ankle monitor go off #notifying the bats #because he either somehow managed to destroy the thing in an instant without making any of the build in warnings go off #or he's no longer on the planet

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heartthrobin · 8 months ago

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all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them.

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

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