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occamstfs · 7 months ago

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Tenor Troubles

Masculinization spurred by a going from a Tenor to a Bass, bit of an odd one but hope you enjoy! -Occam

Max probably should have read his contract more closely. He knew that grad students across the board were getting shafted, but the agreement he has with the College of Fine Arts was some next level exploitation. He prided himself on his voice, being able to sing higher than even most of the Altos he has previously studied alongside. But his degree plan on the already signed contract suggests he is going to be enrolled as a Bass in the graduate program. Clearly there has been some misunderstanding that he’ll just need to work out with the department.

He knocks on the door of his advising professor and without waiting for a come in he bursts through the doors to see the man who is both his boss and professor staring at him less than pleased. Max’s face reddens in embarrassment and before he can even open his mouth to speak, Dr. Reyes addresses him.

“Maxwell is it. I trust you have a reason for barging into my office? I ask that you take more care towards decorum in the future.”

Max stumbles through an apology before getting to the matter at hand. “Y- yes of course I’m so sorry doctor it won't happen again, I swear.” He raises his eyes to his professor’s stern gaze, flinching back slightly as he goes on, “it’s just that, um, it looks like there was some kind of mix-up with my enrollment, I mean clearly you can tell I’m a Tenor right?” He raises his tone slightly and smiles awkwardly as he tries to make it clear to the man across from him that he certainly does not have the range.

Dr. Reyes rubs his beard, briefly covering his own mouth and wiping a smile from his face. “Well now Maxwell, there does seem to be a mismatch between your vocal training, and your preferred classes and yada yada,” waving his hands dismissively as Max’s face stains a deeper shade of scarlet by the second. Reyes goes on, “I'll see what I can do but all these changes take time If you must change your plan it’ll be at least a week. Until then if you could see to it that you fulfill the TA demands asked of you and attend your classes hm? You are under contract are you not?” The image of his signature at the bottom of contract feels burned into his retinas as he starts to reply, “well yes but-” An alarm goes off on the professor’s desk. “Very well Maxwell, if you would excuse me.”

Dr. Reyes makes his way to the next class smiling as he too thinks of the fine print of Maxwell's contract. ‘The student will become what the program asks of him.’ What a dunce one must be to sign that without an inquiry. Giving one last glance behind him to see the small student shaking with rage at the series of events, veins appearing to bulge out of his neck as he thinks about chasing after his professor, almost taking a step before grasping at his head. Max doubles over and grunts, after a painful second he rises once more and sees his advising professor enter a classroom. He exhales through his nose and walks to the concert hall with the undergraduate Bass students, the course he is, both legally and otherwise, compelled to assist with.

The Next Week

Max is inches away from just dropping out. He was well-prepared to be constantly stressed from grad school but the wrench of working with students who don’t respect him and professors that are expecting him to sing alongside the rest of these professional bassists, it’s impossible! Dr. Reyes must be doing some sick joke on him, there is no reason it should be so difficult to fix this! He shouldn’t be graded for the university’s mistake. Beyond the looming threat of flunking these courses for his inaptitude he is also constantly hungry. His stomach rumbles and sends pangs through his body as he sits through each course on vocal instruction. He succumbs to stress-eating assuming one plate must fall and it may as well be his waistline.

Every time he indulges in his hunger he finds weight almost immediately piles on. Alongside his meticulously honed falsetto he has always enjoyed just how tight and small he kept his twinkish figure, though this begins to slip as he finds himself straining his tight pants and his stomach showing through his button ups.

The final issue lies precisely in his private vocal practice, in lieu of the training his program should guarantee. As he goes about practicing the arias and vocalizations that he typically uses as warmups he finds himself struggling to hit the highest notes. He works his way through them slowly and slips up, finding his range is peaking out much lower than it ever should. He grimaces and refuses to deign and see if his range has increased in the other direction. He goes note by note, taking his time to feel the stress and vibrations of his vocal chords. Reaching the pinnacle of the piece he strains to hit the high note and his voice promptly cracks. He feels a tear. He coughs and gasps for air concerned that he has truly injured himself.

When no blood or further pain reveals itself Max finally clears his throat and drinks a glass of water. He tests his voice, “Uhhhh-” forcing his hand over his mouth before even getting a full syllable out. Eyes watering as he hears his voice is unmistakably deeper than it was not a minute ago. This spurs him to action as he storms to the college and bangs on the door of Dr. Reyes.

For his part Reyes is sitting at the desk finishing an email and grinning as he hears the banging grow only more fervent at his door. He finishes his email almost laughing at how effective he is at controlling the man at the door. Knock as he may he could not storm in if he wanted to, as he must desperately. Closing his laptop and reaching to grab a tea bag from within his desk he calls to allow Max entry, “Do come in Maxwell.”

Stomping into the room, unaccustomed to the new weight he carries, which Dr. Reyes is all too pleased to notice. He takes a deep breath as he prepares to shout at the professor, his chest growing as his already prodigious lungs expand. Before finishing though Reyes raises a finger and strikes him passive and mute. “Now Max, why don’t you have a seat.” He clenches his hands with a furor and sits, stewing in his mind while also rapt with attention. “How have you been liking your classes?” Max continues to sit silently watching as the prepare a pot of tea, beginning to forget his ire as he looks on in confusion at the man. Reyes turns once more and rolls his eyes, “Well go on.”

Shaking out of it Max finally starts clearing his throat a few times hoping the voice he has worked so hard to protect and train will return “I, ugh- Sorry it’s ugh!” Dr. Reyes leans against his desk and steeps the tea bag, eyebrows raised with a thin smile on his face. Failing to speak as he so wishes the rage returns to Max and he shouts out, “It’s my fucking voice! I came here to learn and all these classes are just a waste of my fucking time!”

Reyes pours the tea into a large mug and sets it in front of his student, “Now now, if you were having voice problems why didn’t you just say so Max. I am a professional after all! Have some of this and I’m sure it will set you right as rain.” The professor watches as Max grasps the mug and stares into it. He remembers that Reyes was already preparing it when he came in. But it’s not as if his advisor would do something truly untoward right? Sensing the hesitation Dr. Reyes’ eyes darken and he commands, “I did say to drink it did I not.”

Max quickly raises the glass and sips. His eyes remain dark and he continues, “what seems to be the problem with your voice young Maxwell?” Taking a break from drinking he starts to explain all of his troubles to the man who should be looking out for him. Gesturing to his clearly larger body, Reyes notices beyond the weight gain that the sitting man is adjusting himself as his pants begin to grow even tighter, his ankles growing exposed as if his legs were lengthening.

He continues to stumble onward with his recollection, forgetting what exactly bothered him enough to storm in. Reyes half-listens and takes care to refill the tea cup as needed, taking in the physical changes to the man rambling and wondering just how far they will be able to go. Eventually Reyes speaks up, “you were having trouble with your voice, yes Maxwell?”

Max’s eyes glimmer with recognition and he almost jumps with a start, “Yes! That was it I couldn’t sing the part I auditioned with in Nessun Dorma and I was-” His professor interrupts as he takes a big swing at Max’s psyche, “Is that so? What were you doing singing that Maxwell, that’s for tenors.” As if a grenade went off in his mind Max struggles to reconcile and remember what his problem was, did he not audition as a Tenor? But he couldn’t sing high to save his life right? Or no.

Reyes watches as Max’s brow grows sweaty in his inner struggle. He physically raises the cup to Max’s mouth helping him finish the entire pot of tea. Confident that the man before him is far enough gone to only latch on his words, Reyes offers him a bone, “which side of your range are you struggling with boy.” Feeling emasculated by the professor infantilizing him he feels an urge to test his lower range. Reyes sees the resolve in Max’s eyes and challenges him, “Go on, sing your lowest note, now.” Max takes a deep breath and produces a sonorous note sustaining it far better than he would have ever expected himself to.

Reyes smiles and shoots to plant another seed, “Well now Maxwell, I’m not quite sure what the problem is then. Your range seems to be what any trained Baritone’s should be.” The word Baritone echoes through Max’s head as he once more grows paralyzed in his own mind. He ekes out a “B- Baritone?” his voice cracking even deeper as he freezes. Reyes watches as his eyebrows knit together in confusion, they seem to grow thicker as they near each other.

Vocal range and masculinity don’t inherently match one-to-one but the professor is more than happy to allow it, staring as the weight from Max’s stomach begins to slightly redistribute itself, it slides up his chest, straining the buttons near his collar. Reyes shifts to look at Max’s face, eyes lingering on the Adam's apple making itself unmissable on his neck. He sees peach fuzz growing on Max’s upper lip and sideburns. Thoroughly pleased with the acceleration he has achieved today an alarm once more goes off on his phone and he readies to send his protege off.

“Maxwell dear, I thank you for your patience. Of course I know that you’d prefer to be with the other Baritone student’s though I am sure you are learning valuable information working outside your comfort zone hm? I’m sure we’ll have this snafu fixed by next week.” Max just stares in a stupor as he stares at his professor, the empty mug of tea still in his hand before he sets it down to scratch at his tighter shirt. Dr. Reyes offers him a kerchief to wipe the drool from his mouth as he leads him out of his office, “Why don’t you try your warm ups, I’m sure they’ll set you right as rain.”

Just as he did last time he takes one last look at his growing student as he begins to wander down the hall, his pants swiftly turning from slacks to tight capris. He hears the echo of the man humming to himself as he walks down the hallway to his own office hours. He’ll need to be ready for whatever his Bass performance students need right? Can’t have them out showing him even if he’s still working outside his comfort zone. Just one more week of this and he’ll get to show off to the Baritones, once more with his choral cohort.

The Next Week

Dr. Reyes stays abreast of how his star pupil is doing this week. He visits during private lessons and checks into lectures on music theory and rehearsals. He hears the man force his voice to be stronger. After any challenge he hears the man force himself to be louder. When struggling with curriculum, surely impeded by the doctor’s manipulation, he clutches at his head as his body surges larger, tightening clothes that were already sizes too large when he started his education here.

He sees Max looking at his reflection in the mirror of a practice room. He checks his beard from every angle, tilting his head up to see his large Adam's apple and smirks watching it vibrate as he hums. He unbuttons yet another button of his shirt, allowing an even greater view of his pecs as thick chest hair spills outward. Reyes hears his voice power through the soundproofed room as he approaches. He has clearly decided to leave Baritone behind without any prodding as he endeavors to show off his talents despite ostensibly singing to himself.

Dr. Reyes knocks on the door of the practice room and like an eager dog Max falls over himself to answer it. He now stands taller than his professor whose head now lies directly at the hairy pecs spilling from his opened shirt. Max’s eyes glimmer as he looks down to the smug face of the professor. He quickly sits down to lower himself below the doctor and eagerly awaits whatever is soon to spill from Reyes’ mouth.

“I must say Maxwell, you have truly outdone yourself. Truly you hold one of the most powerful Bass voices I have heard in my time.” Max sits quietly, his heart racing with excitement from such kind words. He struggles to stay silent, lest he speak out of turn, though he cannot hide the rumble in his chest as his deep breaths accelerate. The doctor struggles to keep it together as he sees a pulse in the unmistakable, currently growing, bulge in Max’s pants. He briefly wonders if he’s gone too far, before looking back to the man’s face, seeing his eyes still staring directly into him waiting.

Perhaps he can go farther. “Is it not a shame though, my dear Max, that you’re not a true Basso Profundo?” There is a loud tear in the room as Max’s body surges larger. He shoots up inches more in height revealing a hairy stomach and pubes that already spill beyond the bounds of his pants. Reyes hears a catch in his student’s breath and watches as his Adam's apple bulge even further from his throat. His cock bursts the zipper of his pants and Max moans loud and deep enough for the professor to feel it in his chest. Reyes can’t take his eyes from the hair covering his chest grows even darker, curling as each strand grows thicker.

Before losing control of himself and his desires Dr. Reyes forces one last statement through Max’s mind, “You know the department has always wanted a basso profundo coach. How would you feel about being an assistant professor, Max?” In response Max can only sit in awe as a look of what can only be described as pleasure stains his face, mouth lolling open as his eyes grow crossed. His hands clench the sides of his chair as he struggles to not lose control over himself and the professor. Thinking of staining the practice room only makes it more difficult to keep it together.

Reyes feels a hunger within himself as he stares down at the massive man seconds away from cumming all over himself. In time he too will only know Max as the powerful man he is now. At this juncture however the doctor sneaks out of the practice room and heads to return to his office to prepare for office hours, what kind of a professor would he be if he wasn’t there for his pupils after all.

Walking down the hallway he hears the man in the practice room lose control, his voice echoing down the hall before hearing him run out and to the nearest bathroom. He prioritizes increasing the soundproofing of the practice rooms before turning to see the new Assistant Professor sprint down the hallway towards the nearest restroom. Struggling to move swiftly or quietly in his far-too-strained clothing. Reyes returns to the desk and smiles once more to himself as he thinks of a future for himself, his program, and his new star Basso Profundo, before hearing yet another knock at the door.

“Do come in.”

#male tf #masculinization #mental change #muscle tf #hair growth #male transformation

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guiltyasdave · 7 months ago

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no one has to know what we do

chapter 2 • series masterlist

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

summary: Try as you might, Dave and you can’t stay away from each other.

word count: 4.4k

tags/warnings: explicit smut -> 18+ mdni, dbf!Dave, unhealthy relationship dynamics, dom/sub dynamics, angst, daddy issues (reader’s dad sucks), able-bodied reader, reader has hair that Dave pulls, no use of y/n, divorced Dave, unprotected p in v, fingering, rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, spanking, sooooo many pussy slaps (don’t look at us), pet names, let me know if anything is missing!

a/n: co-written with my love @joelscurls, who unfortunately couldn’t write this entire chapter the way we had originally planned, so you’re stuck with me again. if you notice that some parts are better written than others, those are most likely hers haha <3 this is lowkey my favorite thing that i’ve ever put out, and i hope you like it as much as i do 🤍

follow @joelscurlsupdates and @guiltyasdavenotifs for updates and find jess’s masterlist here and my masterlist here :)

dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics 🤍

The phone feels like a paperweight in your hand. It’s late — you should be sleeping, but you know it’s useless to even attempt shutting your eyes. It’s too loud in your head right now — that promise of just one time blaring: a warning. Still, you can’t help but consider ignoring it, texting David and begging to see him again.

It’s probably a bit pathetic, yearning for a man who made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you beyond a one night stand. Daydreaming about the timbre of his voice, the stretch of his cock. Getting his phone number from your father, who’s none the wiser. Your father, who is asleep in his own room just down the hall. Being home for the summer has never felt like such a burden.

Guilt eats at you as your fingers hover over the screen, David’s contact front and center. It would be so easy to send him a text right now, let him know you’re thinking about him. About the other night. But your conscience reins you in. Your father’s face flashes behind your eyes — rage and disappointment painting his features scarlet, and you drop the phone beside you on the mattress with a huff.

It’s difficult to even imagine the inevitable severity of his reaction if he ever found out. He’d probably cut you off, the revelation of you whoring around with his friend — and the possibility of this news getting out, tarnishing your family’s pure reputation — more than enough for him to disown you.

You hate him sometimes. Hate the life he’s forced onto you. You’re not even interested in studying law — not really. You never had a choice, though. It was determined before you even graduated high school that you’d follow in your dad’s footsteps. And as long as he’s funding your studies, your future, you have no right to complain. This is the life you should want. The life everyone wants. He reminds you of that fact regularly. Him, and his countless snooty club buddies.

But David — David is refreshing.

He doesn’t come from old money. He doesn’t pinch your cheeks and talk around you rather than to you, declarations of you must be so proud aimed at your father as you stand awkwardly to the side. You’re pretty sure he’s the first person outside of your professors to really look at you, take interest in anything you have to say in… god knows how long.

You can still feel his eyes boring into you. The subtle but tactful brush of his leg against yours under the table. The exhilaration that had thrummed in your veins. He’d made you feel something. You’d almost forgotten you could feel anything apart from stress and agitation. And as you lay in bed, mind swimming with arousal and impending remorse, you fear you may not be able to control yourself much longer, consequences be damned.

He’s not expecting you to reach out.

Why would you? You’d mutually agreed on that night in his car being a one time thing — just a hookup; something he would’ve done before meeting Carol. Something he should probably be doing more often now. Except you’ve somehow sunk your teeth in him, injected him with a sort of venom.

Because all he can think about is seeing you again.

It’s wrong — beyond wrong. You’re so young; still in college, for christ sake. He never met you before the other night, but he’d been stationed overseas with your father when your mother was pregnant with you. He still remembers reading the letters she’d sent in care packages over his shoulder, the ones detailing her symptoms, what foods she was craving.

Strawberries. She always wanted strawberries. Maybe that’s why you’re so sweet.

He’s never been with a woman like you; never had someone trust him with so much vigor. Your needy little pleas, your vehement obedience, your desperation to take all of him in the driver’s seat of his car — you are nothing short of intoxicating.

Still, he tells himself you’re off limits. Trudges through the days that follow with the thought of you bouncing in his lap fogging his head. Struggles to focus at work and recovers in an increasingly poor manner when called on in meetings.

And then, late on a Friday night, you text him.

He only knows it’s you because you tell him so — your full name flashing across the screen followed by an apology for messaging him so late. You say you’re out with friends, and he’d probably have guessed anyway by the typos littering your sentences.

Seconds after the first, another text comes through:

[1:23am] csnt stop thinking about u. pls see me again i promise i won’t twll anyone

Fuck. Fuck.

His muscles tense; his cock twitches in his boxers. And before he does something stupid, like responds, he sets the phone face down on his bedside table. Stalks off to the bathroom with the intention of taking an icy-cold shower, detoxing himself best he can.

He hasn’t even closed the door yet when he hears it ring.

The rhythmic jingle drones through his studio apartment, and he all but leaps at the noise. Sure enough, it's you, calling him drunk in the middle of the night.

His head swims. He presses ‘answer’ anyway.

“David?” Your voice sounds so sugary-sweet, cloying with innocence. He can hear people in the background, maybe your friends, talking about getting another round of drinks.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks first. You tell him yes; say you're waiting on a rideshare.

He exhales. And even though hearing you is making him dizzy with a fucked up sort of desire, echoes of your pleasured sounds ringing in his ears, he manages to maintain composure when you say, “can I please come over?”

“Don't think that's the best idea,” he mutters. The lack of conviction in his words would likely be painfully obvious if you weren't intoxicated. But you are, and you whine through the receiver at his rejection.

Dave fights to ignore the increasing stiffness in his boxers.

“Please,” you beg. Fuck, he loves the way you sound when you beg. “I just got off the phone with my dad…he doesn't want me coming home so drunk; said he's working on a case and I’ll be a nuisance.”

His heart breaks for you. For the girl who just wants a father who loves her, who sees her as a person with feelings. Dave can't imagine ever treating his daughters this way. Would never dream of it.

“C-can I?” your voice sounds through the speaker again — softer, less sure. Like you've prepared yourself already for the blow of him rejecting you too.

“Can't– can’t you stay with one of your friends?”

You sigh, defeated. “I want to stay with you.”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. God, it would be so easy to say yes. To go and pick you up from the bar himself, bring you back to his place. Help you sober up a bit and fuck you until you can't take it anymore. But he can’t; he shouldn't even be speaking to you right now. He needs to cut this off. Needs to make it clear to you that you can't reach out to him again.

“You– we can’t.” He’s stern, direct. It pains him. “The other night shouldn’t have happened.” True, though he doesn’t regret it. Not one bit.

You’re quiet on the other end of the line for a second too long. When you finally do speak again, your voice breaks.

“You don’t like me?”

He’s going to tell you that of course that’s not it, that he’s been thinking about you constantly, that he wishes he could get you out of his fucking head. But he doesn’t get the chance. Because your friends are laughing boisterously around you, then, sounds growing more and more muffled through the speaker, and you’re telling him rather unceremoniously that you have to go.

The call disconnects with a beep.

You wake the following morning with a dizzying headache, daylight burning a hole between your eyes. With your friend still soundly asleep, you slip out of her room and then her apartment; find yourself home just as your father is getting ready to leave for work.

His travel mug sits on the entrance table as he pulls his shoes on, and you're immediately met with the smells of coffee and his leathery cologne.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he mutters as he grabs his briefcase. You don't dare look him in the eyes, lest you be met with their disapproving stare.

“Hi,” you reply, small and non confrontational. When he doesn't answer, you continue past him, begin your ascent up the stairs toward your room.

“Not very appropriate for a young professional, going out and getting wasted. Your future employer could've been there. Could've seen you acting like an imbecile.”

Annoyance furls behind your temples; makes the pounding in your head grow tenfold.

“Well then they probably won't be my future employer,” you snip.

“Probably not.”

You hear the front door close behind you and, with an agitated sigh, drag your feet the rest of the way up the stairs. You fall onto the covers of your bed, well aware that you should probably shower, but your body feels too heavy, in no way ready to move again just yet.

When you pull out your phone, ready for some mindless scrolling to numb your thoughts for a while, you’re met with a notification that sends your heart racing.

Have fun last night?

From David, sent five minutes ago.

You hastily scroll up, reading your own texts from last night, full of typos and barely coherent. csnt stop thinking about u. Your head falls back with a groan. You had gone out to forget about him, not to drunkenly confess your feelings to him in the middle of the night.

Now that you’re thinking about it, you also vaguely recall speaking to him. You tap on your call log and sure enough, there’s his name, only minutes after you texted him. You have no idea what you might have said to him, only a blurry memory of being upset about something. Great, this is great.

Sighing deeply, you go back to messages.

i was very drunk. sorry for bothering you

His reply comes almost instantly.

Who said you bothered me?

You’ve only met him once, and yet you can picture his smirk as if you’ve seen it a thousand times.

Dave is sipping his coffee, black, no sugar, and listens to Jim going over his plans for the both of them going golfing next weekend, humming occasionally.

It pains him, looking at the man in front of him, while your voice from last night is still ringing through his head. How hurt you sounded, looking for a place to stay, not being welcome in your own home.

When Jim stands up to leave for work, he remains seated, gesturing towards his half eaten bagel, but assuring the other man that he doesn’t have to wait for him.

You still haven’t left his thoughts. If anything, the longing he feels for you has gotten worse since you told him how much you want to see him again. And he’s so tired of denying himself the one thing he really wants.

He’s patient, chipping away at the bagel until he sees your father’s gray Dodge peel out of the parking lot. And then he gives it another 10 minutes, just to be safe.

Come join me for coffee? I’m downtown at Roasted Beans.

You respond moments later — such an obedient little thing, you are — letting him know you’ll be there shortly. He finishes off his drink, discards the cup along with the bagel wrapper, and orders two fresh coffees.

He sees you before you see him. Eyes wide, lips parted ever so slightly, you look so cute as you scan the cafe. You’re wearing a sundress, the blue fabric dancing around your thighs with every turn of your body, and Dave finds himself entranced by you.

You smile when you finally catch sight of him, your entire face lighting up and he smiles back without a second thought.

You shouldn’t meet him again. You really, really shouldn’t. But the conversation with your father this morning keeps replaying in your head, the disapproval weighing heavy on you, the feeling of being unable to do anything right.

You long for someone to look at you without judgment, for the sound of good girl against your skin. You long for David.

After last night and the fact that he obviously didn’t invite you over, you had thought that for him, maybe it really had been a just one time thing. Like you both had agreed on multiple times.

But then he’d texted you again, asking you to meet him. It’s almost embarrassing, how quickly you got ready, eager to see him again, despite knowing better.

On the drive over, you run through countless discussions in your head, trying to decide what you’re going to say to him. You have to be reasonable. There’s too much at stake. David is a mistake that you wouldn’t be able to come back from. You’re just going to meet him because he asked you to, because that’s the nice thing to do. It’ll just be coffee, nothing more.

Your resolve crumbles as soon as you see him. His eyes are already on you, their expression so full of want that it makes you ache. You walk over, feigning confidence as you slide onto the chair next to his, a quiet greeting on your lips. The deep, smooth sound of his voice when he returns it is enough to make you melt.

He has already ordered for you. It’s a small thing, rationally, but it’s once again more care, more attention than you’re used to. Warmth is spreading through your chest, but you try steeling yourself, forcing out the words that you’ve prepared to say.

“Listen, I want to apologize about last night. I shouldn’t have– I wasn’t thinking straight, I’m sorry for bothering–”

“Hey, sweetheart.” He interrupts your nervous stuttering, his hand gently wrapping around yours on the table. “I already told you that you didn’t bother me. If anything–” He sighs, his grip tightening. “I’m the one who’s sorry, you were looking for somewhere to stay, I shouldn’t have turned you down like that.”

It breaks Dave’s heart, seeing how you’re making yourself smaller, how ready you seem for him to scold you. Your quiet You don’t like me? still echoes in his mind. How your own father didn’t care where his daughter spent the night, as long as she didn’t come home. Didn’t bother him.

He clocked the way your eyes widened in surprise at the coffee that he got you, how you huff a relieved breath when he assures you again that he’s not annoyed with you. You’re so sweet, so deserving of being loved and cared for, and he so desperately wants to be the person who does that for you.

He felt the same pull from that night towards you as soon as he laid eyes on you again, and it’s only gotten worse, now that you’re right next to him, now that he’s touching the soft surface of your hand. He vividly remembers how your skin felt under his fingertips, how you writhed against him.

The urge to get just a taste of that again becomes overwhelming. He holds your gaze as his fingers start gliding over your thighs under the table, inching towards the hem of your dress. Your lips part, the softest whimper escaping your throat at his touch.

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t be touching you like this, shouldn’t be thinking about you like this. Can’t stop thinking about you. I want to stay with you. How is he supposed to keep away, to stop himself, when you come to him so willingly, so desperate to be wanted?

“David?” Fuck, he loves that you call him that. “Will you take me home with you? Please?”

He can tell that you’re scared to ask, bracing yourself to be rejected again. He’s not nearly as strong as you think he is.

“Yes. Come on.”

He pulls you to your feet and out of the door before either of you have the chance to change your minds.

He’s a bad man, shouldn’t be getting off on having total control over you like this. He’s probably sick; should see that shrink Carol recommended a couple months ago after the divorce was officially finalized. But the way you’re looking at him — with the same big-eyed, doleful stare you’d given him that first night — tells him you want this. Need this, even. You long to relinquish control to someone other than your hawkish father.

So pliant in his lap, limbs all gooey and relaxed under his touch, it’s clear that you trust him. Maybe more than he trusts himself.

You’re spread out on his couch, clothes hastily discarded as soon as the both of you stumbled over the threshold, already entangled in each other. He’s led you to the living room, the thought of fucking you in his bed, of your presence lingering there, your scent permeating his sheets, the last invisible line that he’s determined not to cross.

He has been toying with your body, collected your wrists in a hold over your head and told you to keep them there while he flicked and tugged on your nipples, sucked marks into your skin while you writhed underneath him.

He’s taking it slow, now that you’re here with him, now that he has the time to thoroughly break you down and put you back together again.

You’re already soaked when he sinks a finger into you, your tight walls clenching around him immediately. You coo up at him — a needy little noise that has his resolve disintegrating in seconds flat — and you look relieved when his hand loosely wraps around your throat.

“Please,” you whisper then, and he tuts.

“You want me to take care of you?”

You nod.

“Then you take what I give you. No begging. Do I make myself clear?”

Another noise — this one smaller, stuck in your throat — and he’s pulling his finger out of you again, lips curling into a cruel smile.

He doesn’t give you any time to prepare before the first slap lands on your already-throbbing clit. You can’t help but shriek. In response, he tightens the grip on your throat slightly. Gives three more stinging smacks in quick succession. Dave almost doesn’t notice when your eyes begin to roll back. He does notice, however, when your hips begin to roll upward, your body chasing his hand.

“Oh, such a good girl you are,” he praises.

Slap.

“You love this, don’t you?”

“Mhm,” you moan, garbled and a little breathless.

Slap.

“Pathetic little girl. Bet you could come just from this, you’re so desperate. Couldn’t you?”

You gasp.

Slap.

“Answer me,” Dave demands. “Or I’ll stop.”

It’s almost comical how quickly you sputter the word yes, eyes desperately pleading with him to keep going. And he’s almost shocked just how badly you needed this. In this moment, any guilt he’d been feeling is replaced with the desperate desire to give you exactly what you crave.

He slaps you again, a little harder this time, and you wail. Your legs are trembling, but you make no move to close them, keeping yourself spread wide open and accessible for him.

He’s throbbing, fighting the urge to sink his cock into your tight heat, but he wants, needs to know how far he can push you. How far you’ll go for him.

You’re dripping onto his cushions and he collects some of your slick with his fingers, rubs them against your clit. Your skin is burning under his fingertips. He teases the oversensitive nub with gentle touches, relishes in the way your eyes are glued to his face, the way your lips are trembling as you’re silently pleading with him.

No words are escaping you, and you’re so good, making him so proud with how you’re following his commands.

He slaps your clit again, and again, and again, until you’re a babbling mess, your throat constricting against his grip and your back arching as you come with a cry. Wetness floods out of you and you’re shuddering in his hold, broken whimpers of his name falling from your lips.

He watches with sick fascination, almost unable to believe that he drove you to this point. How much you enjoy being treated like this. That you’re just as twisted as he is.

When you come down, your arms weakly reach for him and he scoops you up, pulls you into his lap until your face is nuzzled into his neck.

“Good girl,” he coos, gently stroking your hair, “you did so good.”

He gives you a few moments to rest, tracing shapes across your back, until his fingers dip deeper, gliding over your ass and between your spread legs, where you’re still so fucking wet.

You squirm under his touch, needy little sounds traveling up to his ears once more. “Please,” you whisper.

One hand grabs into your hair, pulling your head back until he can see your face. You look wrecked. Pupils blown wide, your eyes wet with tears, but what really gets him is the way you look at him. He had worried, for a second, that he might have been too rough, but there’s only pure trust and longing in your eyes.

“I thought I told you no begging.”

You bite your lip, furrow your brow in that adorable way of yours. “I’m sorry. It just– it all feels so good.”

He presses his thumb down on your bottom lip, releasing it from your teeth.

“I know it does, sweetheart. You need more?”

You nod quietly, your eyes wide and pleading.

“Alright then.” He turns you over so quickly that you gasp, scrambling for a second to get your bearings. You’re on all fours, your legs still spread, your ass on display for him.

He had wanted to prepare you a little more, to give you several of his fingers first before he stretches you out on his cock, but he can’t possibly hold back any longer. Judging from the loud moan that you let out, he thinks that you like the sting of him sinking into you unprepared.

It’s even better than he remembers, your slick walls engulfing him so tightly. He starts pounding into you, the depth of his thrusts jolting your body forward and forcing more sounds from you.

He wants you to still feel him tomorrow, wants you to remember him, wants to stake a claim that he knows he doesn’t have. He groans your name, his fingers digging into your hips, greedy for every part of you that he can reach.

Perfect, you’re so fucking perfect, giving yourself to him like this.

“Come on,” he growls, reaching down to find your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. “Give me another one.”

You cry out, pushing back against him. So fucking eager. He lands two quick slaps on your ass and you fall apart, trembling wildly as your walls pulse around him and you scream out his name.

He can’t hold himself back any more and follows you over the edge, pumping into you once more and holding your hips pressed against his.

You both collapse down onto his couch, a mess of tangled, sweaty limbs and quick breaths. You curl your body into his and he presses kisses against your cheeks, your temples, your lips.

Slowly, as he’s coming back to his senses, the guilt settles in.

He lets go of you much too quickly, stands up and starts getting dressed quietly. You watch him for a moment, wracking your mind for something to say, before he looks at you.

“Get dressed. I’ll drive you home.”

He sounds cold, distant. So different from the man who just took you to heights that you didn’t know existed until now. You suppress a shiver and get up hastily. Suddenly, being naked around him feels much too exposed, too vulnerable for your liking.

You pull your dress over your head and slide your shoes back on, but one crucial item is missing.

“Did– did you see my underwear?” you force yourself to ask. He shakes his head, not gracing you with a verbal answer.

Eventually, you give up the search and follow him down the stairs and into his car. The silence grows, until its weight is pressing down, almost suffocating you. You steal glances at him, but his eyes are fixed on the road, staring straight ahead, never wavering. A muscle in his jaw is ticking.

The mix of his spend and yours is pooling between your legs, but it makes you feel dirty now. You force down the lump that’s building in your throat.

When he stops in front of your house, you scramble out of the car without a word. You don’t know what would be worse, if he said goodbye like nothing was wrong or if he remained silent. You don’t want to find out.

It’s late in the evening, you’re lying on your bed, eyelids squeezed shut, willing sleep to finally overtake you. Thoughts keep spiraling through your head, so many questions that you have no answers to.

He asked you to meet up, for fuck’s sake. You don’t understand why he’s treating you like this, but you’re determined to not let it happen again. Just two times, you think with a bitter scoff.

Your phone vibrates on your bedside table, indicating a new message.

[11:55pm] I can’t stop thinking about you either.

Attached is a photo. A photo of a familiar lacy scrap of fabric, grasped in his hand and covered in milky white cum.

It’s filthy, and wrong, and you feel yourself getting obscenely wet at the thought of him touching himself with your missing panties clutched between his fingers.

Maybe just one more time.

thank you for reading 🤍 if you liked this, please consider reblogging, leaving a comment or sending an ask, it truly makes my day every single time!

#janas fics #fic: wildest dreams #dave york x reader #dave york #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #dave york fanfiction #dave york smut #dave york x you #dave york x female reader #dave york x f!reader #pedrostories

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jolapeno · 3 months ago

Text

the meeting

francisco "frankie" morales x ofc!reader* | collection masterlist

summary: stumbling into a diner in the dead of the night, frankie morales doesn't expect to find anyone there. then he meets you. what begins as a one-night-stand-turned-weekend becomes a no-strings-attached arrangement.

pairing: pre-tf/delta squad francisco morales x ofc!reader (*OFC has name and backstory, but is physically a blank slate) rating: smut. 18+ warnings: smut. nickname is given to the reader by frankie: blue. no y/n. no physical descriptions. one-night stand. p in v. blueberry pie... is actually pie. pre-TF. dual POV. wordcount: 4.6k an: originally posted on AO3. i won't be doing a taglist for this series, so i'd recommend bookmarking on there for email notifications.

You only realise the rain is heavier when the bell chimes.

Lifting your head, dragging it away from blurring pages, you quickly spot the thick droplets pounding, hammering their tiny water-based fists against the glass beside you. The battling temperatures continue to do all it can to fog and smear it, making visibility impossible from the inside to the out.

It forces car lights to blur into scarlet reds and soft whites from your place; makes the bright diner sign out in the parking lot—spelt out in neon tubing—to be hidden, slowly swallowed and consumed by the growing storm.

When you'd first arrived, it had only been a small shower. Sometime between your first coffee and now it had shifted into a downpour—the outside rumbling angrily, accompanied by flashes that ripple across full and fuming clouds.

Stretching, raising arms above your head, you glance out from your booth and land on the figure who'd set the bell off.

They're unzipping, haphazardly throwing down the hood, parting their jacket before you see the side profile of their face. You’re transfixed, unable to blink as they rustle the short hair atop their head—the outside they’ve brought in dripping onto the worn welcome mat of the diner.

It’s Doris who hurries to greet—a favourite of yours.

She’s the kind of person who doesn’t judge when you order more coffee when it’s gone midnight or you’ve barely moved to stretch your legs; she doesn’t ask if you’re sure you should eat another slice of pie or question if studying in a busy diner is as effective as the library.

Doris keeps her nose out. And does so in a way that makes you think, that if you needed advice, she’d give it to you. Just like she quickly begins doing (unsolicitedly) to the mysterious, almost midnight visitor.

Y’from outta town? Doris asks, rich in cheer, all sing-song-like and innocent to the point it would trick even a dubious soul that she doesn’t gossip.

You wait for a response, focusing on taking small sips of your coffee. A break from the books, from note taking and soaking information. Not eavesdropping, not at all.

No. Just got in late. Saw the sign, and thought I’m a man who deserves a warm drink.

Smiling, almost smirking, you take a larger mouthful. Lie, your brain says; a charmer, you think immediately after. Taking in the slope of his nose and the way he looks lost, unsure—as though there had been no thought after escaping the night and the storm and stepping inside.

Of all the places in the empty diner for him to sit, he chooses the booth next to yours. Jacket sliding off, folding it, placing it at the end of the booth bench he’s sitting in as he faces you.

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t glare when he meets your eyes. Just passes you over, acknowledges but not by too much. It’s you who breaks the stare.

Then Elvis begins playing—as he routinely does. Singing about mail and returning to sender as you tap your pencil against the textbook. Dropping your gaze, and doing your best to ignore him.

You’re not sure your best is going to be good enough.

Six minutes and thirty-nine seconds pass, and in that time you take further glances when you think it’s safe to do so.

For one, taking in how he scratches at the back of his head as he attempts to understand the menu. Next, how broad his chest is, and how it forces the thin fabric of his tee to stretch when he pulls out the menu, lays it down and dips his head lower between his shoulders.

By the following chance you afford yourself a glance, his thumb is pressed to his lips as he studies the plastic, two-sided menu, flipping it over with a crack, before doing so again a few moments later. Undecided, troubled—nostrils flaring as he sighs and you try not to glare through your brows.

You blame the fact it’s been a while for why thoughts are sparking.

Practically unable to stop staring at how thick his fingers are, to stop your body from reacting to the width of his thumb. Your thighs press together under the table, mind running away with itself before it’s snapped back to the present when he flips the menu again.

It’s easier to busy yourself by tapping the toe of your sneaker against the metal pole of the table. Discreet, rubber side up, dotting your paper with the pencil as you urge him to order.

Internally pleading him to.

Counting to thirty and then to sixty, before you drop the pencil and rest your cheek on your palm, staring—more bold and unafraid of confrontation than you might have been minutes ago.

“You having a hard time there or something?”

His head snaps up, eyes a little wide. The stare dripping with surprise before he snorts. Before his index and thumb are lifting the menu, tapping the others against the back.

“What do you recommend?”

“You’d take advice from a stranger?”

Shrugging, he dips his chin, but his eyes remain on you. Dark, yet warm—glancing at you as though he wishes to let them up and down your frame. Before he drags them to the empty plates, the ones stacked, ready to be collected.

“No one else for me to ask.”

You smirk, dropping your hand from your face and straightening your spine. “Touché.”

Then, you make him wait. Take as much of him in as you can. Pencil in hand as you trace the eraser end over, and over a graph in your book. Because he’s handsome, good-looking, in a way that’s understated but you know would make you double-take somewhere else.

It’s the eyes, you try to reason.

A unique mix of doe-eyed and sharp.

Exhaling, you tap your pencil louder before saying, “The coffee is good, and so are any of the pies. The pancakes are good, but not when Ernie is on. And Ernie is currently on—they always taste salty? I try not to think why.”

It’s his turn for his lips to slide into his cheek. “Which pie?”

“Huh?”

He points, right to the plates. “Which pie have you been eating?”

For a second, you take him in. Head tilting, back straight, lips rolling together as you try to place him—nostrils flaring as you take a steadying breath. “Blueberry.”

“Alright then.”

To your surprise, he orders you one too.

It sitting, temptingly in a space between notes, postits and your book. Your stomach grumbles in protest, desperate to taste another slice, knowing the importance of fuel and nutrition to ensure that you don’t fall asleep at the table again.

You wait until he sinks his teeth into it. Tuning in for any groan, any evidence of surprise at how good it tastes. You flick your gaze to him, watching, waiting, eventually stabbing your own fork into it before the filling bursts in your mouth, exploding sweetness that’s balanced by a gentle tang—the crust, as always, both crumbly and smooth, all buttery, a treat. Homely. That’s what it reminds you of, home.

A thing, from the look on his face, he feels too.

“Told you.”

It’s a sight to watch him run his tongue across the front of his teeth, fork sliding across the crumbs on his place. “Not bad for a stranger.”

You release a short laugh, one that you try to bury against the cup you bring to your lips.

“I’m Francisco—Frankie.”

He drops his eyes, embarrassment—most likely. Shyness is another option.

Even with no expectation for a trade, you lick your lips and offer him something else. A nickname as he smiles, eyes narrowing. “—not going to just hand you my name, you could be a murderer.”

“I could be.”

“Your nickname doesn’t suit you.”

“Thank you?”

He laughs, low, but light. It’s then he asks if you’re working, to which you share studying. That you find it easier here, less distractions—

“More pie?”

“There’s that too. What about you? Just fancied a break from the storm?”

Sheepish, that’s the word you’d use. The back of his fingers runs along the stubble on his jaw. “I’ve just landed back. Needed… wanted a minute.”

You nod, letting his words simmer as a bolt of lightning catches you in the corner of your eye.

“Guess we’re one step further away from being strangers.”

He hums, and you dip your head, turning the page of your textbook as it becomes the only noise while one song transitions into another.

Frankie tries not to smile when you jump at a clap of thunder.

He hides it behind his coffee and tries to stare out as another bolt sketches itself across the sky. Then, you ask him if he’ll watch your things so you can use the restroom.

Nodding, throat all of a sudden dry when you stand and he manages to steal a look at your bare legs.

Up until then, he’d only seen the oversized grey sweatshirt from the waist up, and then he finds your shorts sitting somewhere along the middle of your thighs—all skin until socks above sneakers. The latter scuffed, overly worn and likely loved. Things he assesses quickly, training coming into use even when home.

What he doesn't spot is a coat or an umbrella.

A thing which ticks in the back of his head as he wonders how long you’ve been here to have racked up the number of plates and the different glass and cupwear. It ticks over, maths whirring when he hears the bathroom door squeal and the sound of you approaching.

Your thank you comes across softly as you lean back into the seat of your booth chair, rolling your neck—and massaging your temple before reaching for something in your bag.

It’s a test, he thinks when you begin to apply gloss. Sliding it over your lips, not glancing up at, as he tries not to even let his eyes wander. To follow.

He fails.

Watching, seeing it glistening, the exposed lighting above the two of you sparkling on them like glitter.

And, he tries to drink his coffee; tries to think of what the next song could be. Whether it will be Elvis again or something else.

The song begins before he has come up with an answer. Having been too focused, too busy silently working out what flavour your gloss is.

Whether it would be tacky against his mouth—

“If you keep staring, Frankie, I’ll think that you want to take a picture.”

A light laugh escapes him, shaking his head, scratching at the back of his hair as he sighs. “Only if you pose for it.”

Your laugh is loud, sweet—gentle on the ears as you pout and roll your eyes. “You’re distracting me.”

Frankie swallows that you’ve been distracting him since he sat down.

By the time it reaches the third hour he’s been here, Frankie finds himself opposite you.

Having relocated, taken some pity on you to help “test” you on something. It had ended quickly when his hands held your notebook and spotted your illustrations along the edges. That’s when he spots a half-bad sketch of himself. A little heart on his jawline, one of his fingers tracing it on his skin, running over the patch that doesn’t fill in like the rest of his beard, before seeing an arrow with the name Frankie at the end and some dots.

“Morales. My surname.”

Grabbing your notebook back, eraser removing the dots, he watches as you write out his name. Immortalise it against the lines pages of your studying. Committing him there, a memory you can keep or erase, the choice entirely yours.

“Now, give it here.”

For a second, you look like you wish to argue, before you surrender, smirking. Pencil placed down as you lick your lips.

Amongst his name, are notes. Swirly handwriting that becomes more chaotic the longer he thinks you’ve sat here. Some circles, some with bubble clouds drawn around them, doodles on doodles—and then there’s your textbook. Post-its and scraps of receipts sticking out from different parts.

“You studying for an exam?”

Nodding, stretching your back in your seat, a little groan emitting.

“How long have you been here?”

Smiling, more telling than wicked—the opposite, he suspects, of what you intend. Your hand reaches for the pot Doris has left, tilting your cup, his eyes spotting its emptiness before your fingers wrap around the handle the black handle on the glass pot.

“Put the coffee pot down, Blue.”

Laughing, the edges of it cutting into your cheeks, “Blue?”

“Better nickname—because at this point, you’re nothing but blueberries and coffee.”

“Oh. Is that right?”

Wrapping his fingers around the handle, smothering over yours, he stares—ignores it, the pulse from your fingers, the warmth. The way his throat dries and he wants nothing more than to slide a palm up your leg to see if it’s as smooth as he thinks it will be.

“What would you say if I said I think I’d rather be full of something else…”

Your words hang, linger.

Lips sliding up into his cheek, feeling your hands loosen from under his. The silence thick. A second away from it all shifting, ruining, mood dampening and changing. So he leans, elbow resting, then forearm—finding some form of confidence buried under the responsibility he usually has to carry.

“You think you can handle that, Blue?”

“What?”

Swallowing, dropping his voice as he glances over his shoulder before staring at you. “Being full of me.”

There's a definitive pause. A glide of your eyes up and down him. Dragging, practically scraping. “Oh, I think I’d like to give it a go, Morales.”

Placing your notebook down, sliding it across the table—tracing his tongue across his teeth. He nods before muttering get your coat.

That’s when you hand him your name, first only, Liv—but friends call you Livvie. He tries it silently before following you out of the booth into the parking lot.

He follows your car—close, not allowing another vehicle to squeeze in between, but not tailgating.

There are barely any blocks, but he doesn’t chance it. Parking behind you, exiting as you do from yours, throwing his bag over his shoulder, as you wait for him outside an apartment building at the end of a small walkway.

Frankie considers the option to turn back.

To consider his choices, to opt out of something that could become complex, awkward. But, he doesn’t. Not when he holds the door open after you’ve let them both in, or when he rides the elevator to the fourth floor, to the fourth door, four-oh-four you whisper as you stick your key in and the lock sounds in the night.

He doesn’t give it another second when the door shuts behind his back, hand grasping, swallowing your gasp when his mouth slides over yours. Bag thumping to the ground, palms wrapping around the sweatshirt as he forces it to cling to your waist when he presses you to him. Your warm, sweet—all plump lips that have the remainder of your gloss.

Tacky, he thinks. Smirking the thought to your lips as he cradles your jaw, as he licks into your mouth and earns himself his first moan.

“Can still change your mind?”

You shake your head, peeling your sweatshirt off—revealing practicality. A little grey sports bra, nothing impressive, nothing you feel embarrassed for. Your nipples are hard, peeking through the fabric as the light from your kitchen paints you in gooey yellow.

“You can change yours though?”

He smirks, almost snarling out, “Not a fucking chance.”

Throwing your sweatshirt, you slide both thumbs under the band that meets your skin and take that over your head. He almost lunges, crashing his mouth to yours, hand cupping one breast as his thumb rolls over it—circling over it. Walking you back aimlessly, unsure of any route, eyes assessing, watching, until he moves you against a wall.

One hand against it for leverage, his other slips down the band of your shorts—passed cotton, it digging into his wrist as two fingers glide through your slick. Feeling your want, your need, able to spread it, smother it over your clit as you whimper, as your arms knot behind his neck and pull his mouth to mould to yours.

“All for me?”

“Shh,” you whisper, grinning, one of his thick fingers sliding from your swollen clit to dip into your pussy. Your hips grinding into him, against his palm, groaning—almost moaning against your mouth at the feel of you. More so when he catches you whisper, “Please.”

“Answer me then, is this all for me?”

Nodding, lips ghosting over his before he slips another finger in. Sliding them in and out, curling. Feeling you tighten around him, clenching.

“Yes, fuck yes.”

“Not so hard, was it?”

His fingers curl, finding that spongy spot that has you whining a completely different noise—has your fingers digging into him, leaving little marks that’ll take hours to fade. He hopes they bruise.

The more he thrusts his fingers, the more you flutter—the more you rut into his hand. The more the noises you emit become strangled, mewls that are wrapped in a moan.

“That’s it, use me, Blue. Take what you want.”

“Fuck, m’gonna… fuck, I’m so—”

Frankie smothers your babbling with his mouth, licks his tongue into your mouth, vanishes them, erases them. Half-about to confess how hot it is that you’re so riled up, all because of him. That you’ve barely invited him in before you’re humping his hand, desperate, aching all for him.

Your fingers tighten around his forearms, hips shuddering, moaning right into his mouth as he feels your slick coat his fingers, his palm. Working you through it until you’re nudging his hand free, pulling it up to your mouth and meeting his eyes.

Then, you’re a fucking sight, a vision. Tongue sliding between his fingers and up and over them, tasting every part of yourself from his hand before his palms clutch your cheeks. Before his mouth is on yours and you’re guiding him to the bedroom, to your made bed of pale shades and decorative cushions.

“Condoms?”

Your hand reaches, shifts awkwardly for the handle, as he swipes at your hand—leaning over, reaching. He spots them, foil in the centre of papers and—

“Fuck, Blue,” he hisses. Looking down, finding his cock in your hand, mouth hovering closer, teasingly, breath fluttering over the leaking tip as you ask you clean and he nods.

Almost set to choke out words when wet warmth envelopes his cock. Cheeks hollowing, doing all you can to take as much of him from this position as he drops his head back, as his fingers grasp at your sheets, as the condom crinkles in his fingers before it scratches, protesting and reminding of its importance.

He’s throbbing in your mouth. Too in awe of the actual fucking sight of you—a person he met four hours ago—who is now a dream come to life.

“Stop, baby,” he groans, hand on cheek, easing him out of your mouth, “Wanna feel you come around me.”

Your eyes narrow in fury as he shifts back, rests back on his knees, eyes unable to tear away from how you lick the small taste of him from your lips, thumb swiping at the spit that had slid around your parted mouth as he rips the foil open.

“Are you sure you want this?”

Lifting up, taking the condom from the wrapper, sliding it down his cock. “Oh, I want you. Wanted you the moment you walked in.” He laughs, watching your hand wrap around his length. “I mean it—I don’t… don’t do this. But, I had to.”

Taking your hand from around him, leaning you back before lifting your leg, he lines himself up—sliding the head of his cock through your folds. Smearing himself in your wetness, coating him, watching you try to style out your little changes in breath.

“Had to?”

Nodding, “Had to, Morales.”

“Frankie,” he says, urges. Slowly pushing himself in, head tipping as he watches how you stretch around him, how perfect you are, how good.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan as he bottoms out.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and your chest arches into him. Your hooked leg tightening, forehead pressing into his neck as he rubs a circle on your back, comforting, aiming for relaxation as your head lifts, as eyes—glassy, lust-blown and filled with want.

“Good girl. S’good for me.”

Then you flutter, loosen a little, grind your hips—

“You like that, Blue?”

“Move, Frankie.”

“Yeah?”

“Please. Please, Frankie—fuck me, fuck me—”

Your words fade, swallowed by a whine as he begins to move. As his hips begin to snap to yours in a rhythm so unrelenting, so desperate. Kissing you between heavy breaths as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and swallows a different moan that almost makes him grin as his fingers spread out along your back.

Because fuck you feel good.

A thing he’s sure he groans, says, spills.

Your mouth close to his ear, hands tugging at him, pulling—feeling you everywhere, taking him, all that he’s giving you. As his arm hooks under your leg, spreading you a little more, placing a palm down to the bedsheets as he squeezes the cotton as you tighten around him.

He knows you’re close, can feel it, can see it, a look that he’d seen only in diluted light*,* but now gets a real view of.

And it’s enough to push him over the edge.

“Say my name, baby. Please—”

“Frankie—fuck, m’god, Frankie, right…”

It shifts into a cry, your body tensing as your pussy flutters, tightens—contracting and constricting. Then there’s your nails, the ones clawing at him, scratching. Digging into him in a way he wants you to over, and over, again as he moans.

Because you feel good. Perfect.

His breath fans across your neck and he finds himself so hard, so desperate as he slides in and out, hand grasping at your hip, easing, helping—

“Come for me, Frankie. Need it, need you t—”

“Fuck, m’give it to you.”

It’s dizzying, the way he snaps—gripping your back as liquid pleasure rushes through him, making all sounds mute. Except the ones of his skin slapping against yours—of your whines and breaths as he jolts, as he twitches. Coming hard as a groan rips from his throat. His hips stutter, losing their pace, hearing your whine change as overstimulation layers thickly before he slowly lets himself collapse against you.

A thing, he suspects, you’re eager for. Arms encasing around him, holding him—heartbeat hammering against his in a rhythm that doesn’t match, but could, he supposes.

Then you kiss him.

Drag his mouth to yours, bodies both slick with sweat, glistening, shimmering as your tongue licks a thank you at the back of his teeth and his fingers grasp one of your breasts, sliding a sweat-soaked thumb over your peak as you groan.

He’s not sure of the hour, but he knows it’s morning when he wakes.

The shower’s running. Steam billowing into the bedroom from the ajar door with warm light leaves a line that guides him to you.

A part of him thinks he should leave. Should take the easy option, knowing things—how you feel, how he feels. Hand on your hip between the first and then the second—the time on your clock barely acknowledged as you ask him what he does, where he’s come from.

It rolled from him, the truth. A thing that should frighten him, that he should have held back—

You serve?

Yeah.

Against your sheets, the ones that smell of you and then him and then the two of you, running a hand over his face. Recalling the way you touched his cheek, brushed your palm, staring, before you whispered:

Lemme guess, a pilot?

Eyes widening, hand on your chin as he made you look at him, silently asking, how do’y know, how d’you see me? You kissed him instead of answering.

It's why it would be easy to go—to leave in the mid-morning, disappear, vanish.

But his feet are taking him to the bathroom door, pushing it open with two fingers—the same two that tipped your chin up, made you look him in the eye as you came on his cock—steam greeting him before it clears. Before he sees your back to him, half-covered by droplets and glass until he’s padding across tiles, remembering your words the last time when you’d been shimmering with sweat—

“I can’t do serious, Morales. So if you have a taste of me, don’t fall in love with me.”

He’d snorted, sliding his mouth down your stomach, thighs twitching against his palm as it remembered the other ways he’d already made it shake. “It’ll be you falling when I’ve done with you.”

Your fingers slide the glass open now, that conversation there, hanging like fairy lights that you both ignore as water cascades down your skin—and he steps in, welcomed, lips finding yours as the glass shakes when it slams back into place.

It’s a few more hours until he’s dressing, until he’s drinking a cup of coffee and finding himself having trouble making an excuse to leave.

Because these things aren’t easy, comfortable. Yet this is.

Opening the door, the scent of coffee from the pot you made still filling your place, you let him pass—hovering, lingering.

“Hey?”

Glancing at you, how you’re biting the nail on your thumb, one foot on the other. “Maybe, call me—when you’re next in town? If you want.”

“Thought you didn’t do strings.”

“We can be friends… can’t we? Friends who…”

“Fuck?”

He watches you nod, laughing, before he mumbles friends into the air as he lags. Swallowing. Fingers lightly tapping against his jeans before he rests his arm against the door. “Blue?”

“Hm.”

“What if I said I’m not expected anywhere for two more days.”

Your teeth bite your lower lip, scratching at the back of your head, before that same hand grabs a fistful of his shirt, moving closer, chin tilted up. “I’d say, I think I could handle a bit more of you, Morales. If you want?”

an: a huge thank you to @luxurychristmaspudding for reading this and helping me spot the hilarious typos (you're a real one). to @pedgito for holding my hand so tight since i said "i think i want to do a kink list" and then spinning a wheel which unveils the kinks in the next few pieces. i'd be lost.

#frankie morales smut #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #francisco morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier smut #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader smut #francisco morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #francisco morales x f!reader #triple frontier fanfic

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weasleyreidstyles · 10 months ago

Text

Serendipity

chapter seven

summary: it was only meant to be a purely transactional relationship. he would help her strengthen her abilities in return for her getting his friends out of his father's nasty path. he didn't mean to fall for her, but loving her was the easiest thing in his dark world.

no use of y/n, but your general nickname is Meadow. all characters are aged up to be over 18.

pairings: mattheo riddle x fem!ravenclaw reader; platonic!slytherins x fem!reader; platonic!golden trio x fem!reader

warning(s): this is quite long, canonical voldemort style violence, use of one wizard slur (bloodtraitor), one mention of torture, parental death (minor mentions)

series masterlist; previous part; next part

The weeks flew by after that day in the Room of Requirement. In those weeks, you and Mattheo had gotten nowhere with researching your newfound siphon abilities, as most literature was just a regurgitation of previous works. The two of you grew closer, sessions usually ending in a spontaneous make out or sensual tryst, but he still refused to go any further than that. Refused to be completely vulnerable with you. Safe to say that your days were a lot more interesting, but it was becoming harder to hide your clear feelings from the prying eyes of your curious friends.

Harry had been frequently visiting Dumbledore's office for his own lessons of sorts and he had learned more about Mattheo's father, Tom Riddle, but nothing about why he needed one of Slughorn's specific memories.

The four of you were slaving away in one of the Herbology greenhouses when Hermione brought up the subject of Slughorn's illustrious dinner parties, which Harry had been avoiding.

"There's no way you'll be able to get out of this one because he actually asked me to check your free evenings, so he could be sure to have it on a night you can come." she said, wrestling with the weird pod-like creature that you were studying for that week.

Harry groaned as you snickered at his misfortune. Meanwhile, Ron, who was attempting to burst his pod in the bowl by putting both hands on it, standing up, and squashing it as hard as he could, shared a look with you and said angrily, "And this is another party just for Slughorn's favorites, is it?"

"Just for the Slug Club, yes," said Hermione, annoyance written on her face.

The pod flew out from under Ron's fingers and hit the green house glass, rebounding onto the back of Professor Sprout's head and knocking off her old, patched hat, causing you, Ron and Harry to let out loud laughs that died out at the Professor's unimpressed look sent your way.

Harry went to retrieve the pod while Hermione carried on, "Look, I didn't make up the name 'Slug Club'—"

"'Slug Club,'" repeated Ron with a sneer worthy of one of Malfoy's. "It's pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Why don't you try hooking up with McLaggen, then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug—"

"You almost sound jealous, Won Won." you teased, using Lavender's cringe-worthy nickname that he clearly abhorred. Despite having a girlfriend, you just knew that somewhere deep down in his stupid, stupid brain, Ron still had feelings for Hermione.

"We're allowed to bring guests," Hermione, who had turned a bright, boiling scarlet, snapped, "I would have asked you, but I don't think your girlfriend would like that very much."

You turned to face Ron as he gufawed at your best friend. "Don't worry Ronald, I'm not one of his favourites either. Teddy's invited me as his plus one for this one, I'll let you know what we're definitely not missing out on." He only glared at you again in response.

Theodore had asked you to accompany him so that he wouldn't be stood alone as Blaise flirted his way through the other pureblood attendees. You had agreed and he gave you free reign of his Gringott's vault to choose a dress from a boutique that Pansy had graciously taken you to. It paid well to have a rich friend or two in this world.

It seemed that everyone knew of Slughorn's party and the chance of going as a guest with one of his members – you and Hermione caught Romilda Vane and her friends whispering about 'Harry' and 'Fred and George' and 'Love Potions' in one of the girls' toilets in the intermission between Transfiguration and Potions, and had watched in shock as they discreetly opened one of the twins' own Love Potions disguised as perfumes between them. You had both warned him to be wary of them, but of course Harry rarely listened to the two of you.

The three of you were walking out of the now-closed library, Ron off with Lavender Brown somewhere, when Romilda came up to him and offered him a bottle of Gilllywater. Hermione's i-told-you-so look had him declining it, but she seemed prepared and had shoved a pink heart shaped box of chocolates into his arms.

"Chocolate Cauldrons." the girl had said. "They have fire whiskey in them. My grandma sent them, but I don't like them."

Romilda smiled before walking away.

"Definitely firewhiskey in there," you say sarcastically. "Give it a whiff before you eat them. Make sure it's not Ginny you're smelling." you say before leaving the pair, laughing at Harry's disgruntled look and making your way to the Ravenclaw common room, intent on researching a book on Mermaids and Siphoners, but you weren't confident that you'd find information that wasn't in the books you'd already combed through.

~∞~

"I'm going with Luna." Harry said the next day. "To Slughorn's party. I'm going with Luna."

"That's wonderful, Harry." you say with a smile. "She really needs a pick-me-up bless her. Some idiot in her year keeps stealing all her things."

The girl came and told you not an hour later, an excited gleam in her pale blue eyes.

~∞~

A few days later, you were waiting outside the Slytherin common room, nervously smoothing out nonexistent creases from the fine silk of your deep green evening gown. You had agreed to meet Theo, Blaise and Pansy here before walking to Professor Slughorn's office together, where the dinner party was being held.

Hesitantly, you knocked on the door to the common room, not knowing the password for it, obviously. The person who answered it made you want to smite them immediately – Greggory Goyle was as nasty as they came.

"What do you want, bloodtraitor?" he spat as he glared down at you, before his beady eyes snapped to your body, namely your chest.

"Not that it concerns the likes of you," you say, voice full of venom, "But I'm waiting for my date to Slughorn's dinner party."

"What poor soul agreed to take you to something as sophisticated as a dinner party?" the boy sneered, his gaze beginning to become an uncomfortable hindrance before your friend's voice rung out into the empty corridor.

"I did, Goyle. Now kindly fuck off." Theodore snapped before his gaze softened on your form. "Tesoro, you look dazzling." his face lit up with a smile as he twirled you under his arm.

"Thank you, Teddy." you flushed, while giving him a once over. "My, my, don't you clean up nicely." he swatted away the hand that patted his cheek.

As you were greeting Theo, the rest of his friends exited the common room, Lorenzo announcing that you'd have to wait for Blaise to 'stop staring at his reflection' as he did. It was obvious that Theo and Pansy were regulars at illustrious dinner parties: Theo wore a tailored suit, with a crisp white shirt and a dark green silk waistcoat and tie (charmed to match the exact colour of your own dress); Pansy wore a sleek dress in a rich shade of deep plum and her face was painted exquisitely with makeup that accentuated her pretty siren eyes, her short black hair styled into a flattering bob. She had come right up to see you in the dress she'd helped you pick out: a dark green silky number that hugged your body in the most flattering way.

She was busy fawning over the way your hair fell over your shoulders gracefully, when the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end and you felt a familiar prickle in the back of your mind. You turned to find Mattheo, white shirt partly unbuttoned, hair disheveled and eyes slightly bloodshot as he admired you with no shame. The way his deep, onyx eyes took you in from head to toe made you feel hot all over, and the words he spoke into your mind, made you melt even further. If that was even possible.

You look beautiful, love.

You smile at him in gratitude which was sent in waves to the forefront of his mind – a new trick he had taught you. He nodded his head with a proud smirk which sent flutters right to your core.

You look much better in Slytherin green than Ravenclaw blue, darling. You should indulge more often.

The boy was actually flirting with you and he basked in the sight of your flustered expression.

Pansy was the only one of the surrounding group to see your interaction and she gave you a look that you understood was her way of telling you that the two of you would be discussing this later.

Finally Blaise, who had just stumbled out of the stonewall entrance, said with an exasperated breathe: "Let's get this over with, please. I want to get there so I can leave earlier. If Slughorn asks me about my mother's latest husband one more time I may explode."

You stifle a laugh behind your hand as the tallest Slytherin glares down at you. "Were you not the one making us all wait in favour of admiring yourself in the mirror, Zabini?"

"When you have a face like mine, it must be admired Meadow." he replied with a self-assured smirk. Lorenzo practically guffawed at this, which is when you notice that his eyes were bloodshot like Mattheo's. But he was always a cheerful boy, seeing him laugh was a regular occurrence within this group.

Soon after Blaise appeared, you hooked an arm in the crook of Theo's elbow and the four of you began your walk to the classroom, completely missing the glare that Mattheo was pointing at the back of his best friend's head.

Compared to other offices you'd seen, Slughorn's was namely the biggest. Drapes of emerald, crimson and gold were streamed about the ceilings and walls, creating a tent-like effect about the room and thousands of faeries fluttered about the golden glow of where the apex of the drapes met, the faint fluttering of their wings could be heard over the music and chatter. The moment the four of you entered you'd commented on how crowded and stuffy it was as a live classical band played over the loud conversation from older wizards all around the room.

"I didn't know he invited elders here." you mumble to Theo who hums at you.

"It's all networking. A way to secure future positions in the Ministry." he said, resentment dripping from his tongue.

"And you don't want that?" you ask, staring at his profile, thanking him when he gave you a flute of champagne.

"I wanted to be a professional quidditch player, but my father wants me to follow in his footsteps." he says, before dropping his voice to a mere whisper. "And I mean that in all senses of the word, tesoro. It's not something I particularly want."

You hummed at his answer but squeezed his arm all the same. He sent you a sideways glance full of warmth. You'd almost forgotten about what he would endure during the upcoming holidays; it made you feel inexplicably guilty that you'd be having fun with your friends and family while Theo would be suffering.

Blaise and Pansy had already found themselves at the table of food platters with Daphne Greengrass, which is where you also found Harry, Hermione, Luna and Cormac Mclaggen. You grabbed Theo's hand and dragged him towards them, ignoring his discontent with being within radius of Harry and Mclaggen.

"Hi guys! Mclaggen." you say as you reach the quartet. "Mione, Luna you both look gorgeous."

They both thank you before all four of them frown at the boy behind you. "Oh for Rowena's sake, he won't bite, will you Teddy?" You sent him a pointed look over you shoulder, which had him instantly agreeing, albeit reluctantly.

"Only if they don't bite first." he says, his deep, accented voice dripping with uninterest. "Let's go and dance, tesoro. Make the night a little less unbearable."

You agreed and spent a majority of the night sipping on expensive wine and laughing with your three Slytherin friends, mindful to avoid Harry's looks of something that you couldn't name that he sent your way.

~∞~

The four of you spent hours dancing, only interrupted when Harry asked to steal you away to dance with him, as Luna had become caught up in a conversation with Ginny, Dean Thomas namely absent from her side. While you and Harry were contently swaying, there was a disturbance at the entrance.

You watched in the corner of your eye as Harry's face lit up with a sinister smirk at the sight of Malfoy being dragged into the room by Filtch who had him by the scruff of his robes.

"Professor Slughorn!" he said in his typically slimy voice. "Found this one lurking in the corridors upstairs. Claims he was invited to your party but was delayed in attending. Did you issue an invitation?"

If looks could kill, Filtch would be six feet deep.

Malfoy was glaring at the man with distain and fury as he yanked himself free of the caretaker's grasp, brushing away imaginary flecks of dirt from his rumpled suit.

"All right, I wasn't invited!" he said angrily. "I was trying to gatecrash, happy?"

Filtch was evidently not happy about this, but the look of immense joy that crossed his face sent shivers down your spine.

"You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the Headmaster say that night-time prowling's out, unless you've got permission, eh?"

Slughorn dissipated the situation with drunken ease, inviting Malfoy to stay for the remainder of the dinner party. Harry's face was a picture of bewilderment, mirroring Filtch's one of overwhelming disappointment.

"He looks a bit ill doesn't he?" you say under your breathe as Hermione comes to stand beside you.

"Who?" Harry asked, dumbly. You stared at him with a deadpan expression on your face.

"Malfoy. He does look ghastly pale." Hermione mumbled while you all watched as he chatted away to Slughorn about his grandfather.

"He's up to something." Harry said obstinately. You and Hermione shared a look and simultaneously rolled your eyes.

"You've got to stop with this Harry. You don't know for certain that he's a Death Eater." Hermione muttered, keeping her voice low enough that others wouldn't hear. "It's bad enough that you outright accused him in front of Professor Mcgonagall and Professor Snape."

"I still can't believe you had the audacity, to do that." you say, but Harry wasn't listening to either of you. In fact he followed right out behind Snape and Malfoy when they exitted the room, not ten minutes after the latter's noisy arrival.

"Oh for fuck's sake." you grit your teeth at your friend's stubbornness. Hermione shook her head before dragging you over to where Luna and Ginny were stood, having watched Harry sneak out.

~∞~

With the Christmas holidays finally upon you, you were spending a few days at the Burrow with Ron's family before you floo'd home to your family.

Hermione's lack of presence seemed to lay heavily upon you as you sat next to the empty seat in the kitchen that she'd always sit in. You don't know how she puts up with Ron and Harry without you – a headache was slowly building up in your temples as Ron asked Harry to repeat what he'd heard when he followed Snape and Malfoy out, for the millionth time, as the three of you polished Mrs. Weasley's cutlery.

Finally reaching a breaking point of sorts you snap at the pair.

"If you defy the unbreakable vow, you die. It's a sacred pact, Harry. Are you certain that Snape accepted one?" they turn to look at you as if forgetting you were there.

Ron nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Fred and George almost convinced me to make one when I was five, but Dad went mental when he found us. Only time he's ever been scarier than mum." he pauses before adding an anecdote about Fred being punished pretty severely, which seems to summon the two giant twins into the kitchen, clad in expensive slacks, making fun of the fact that Ron and Harry were still not of age yet – unlike you. Fred turned to you then, a bright smile lighting up his face.

"Hello gorgeous, how are you coping with these ninnies without Mione?" he had a dazzling smirk on his face, which you would've fallen for once upon a time, had a polar opposite, wicked smirk not taken up your entire mind.

"Barely, as usual. How've you been, Freddie?" you smile up at him as he sits on the edge of the table, leg brushing your's.

Ron dramatically gagged, interpreting this as a flirtatious interaction. This turned the twins' attention onto him once more.

"We've heard through the grape vine that you have a new beau, Won Won." George said with a smirk. Ron turned to glare at you and you held your hands up in surrender. If you could use your legillimens abilities on him, you'd be screaming "it wasn't me, I swear!", but Ron would surely have a heart attack if you so much as whispered into his mind.

"Lavender Brown, was it? That's what Ginny said in her letters. How'd you manage to bag a girl, Ronniekins?" Fred chimed and they snickered as Ron's face went bright red.

"Piss off, will you." Ron mumbled, you and Harry smirked at his discomfort. "She's sweet."

"And here I thought he and Mione would've overlooked their pride and gotten together by now." Fred murmured to you, his breathe hitting the shell of your ear. You turned to face him, finding his alluring blue eyes staring right into your own.

"I believe that means you owe me a galleon...or five. I recall a bet we made at the Yule Ball, Weasley. It's time to pay up." you say, your eyes glinting mischievously as you held out your palm expectantly.

"You and your memory will ruin me, woman." he mutters scornfully, but he gives you a stack of galleons, discreetly nonetheless. You smile victoriously.

"Good to know business is treating the two of you well, Freddie." he smiles and shares a look with George.

"When are you coming to visit the shop, Meadow?" George asks as he uses his wand to slow Ron's polishing down.

"Is that an official invitation, Weasley?" you ask, satisfied with the peace you feel by being in the Burrow again, despite Hermione not being there.

~∞~

Mattheo hates his father with a burning passion. Tom Riddle was a cold, manipulative and tyrannical man who was absolutely not fit for the role of 'dad'. It's ironic, he thinks, that he should have a father who was incapable of feeling love, in all senses of the word. But Tom had loved Mattheo's mother once, in some sick and twisted way. Maybe it wasn't love, but he had a sick devotion for the woman that Mattheo never got to meet. She died after giving birth to the Riddle heir.

When his father was defeated all those years ago, Mattheo was handed off to the first family that bothered to know of his existence. Theodore Nott Senior was even less of a good father, to both him and Theo. But Teddy's mother took on the responsibility of showing them what it is to be kind, loving and compassionate.

That all withered away upon her death when he was only eight years old. It broke him, but it broke little Theo even more to lose the only parent who ever cared for him. Over the years, the well-mannered, inquisitive little boy transitioned into a coldhearted, unfeeling person, but sometimes Mattheo wished that people saw him for who he truely was, instead of the person they painted because of who his father was.

It's the reason he feels so drawn to you, he summises.

Someone who should hate him, someone who should despise him for all that he is, looked past his carefully constructed armour and saw that broken boy within. He wondered how long that would last, when you found out how much of his facade was his true identity. In his eyes, Mattheo was a monster. A carbon copy of his father.

The vast dining room that he found himself seated in felt entirely too small. The atmosphere was ripe with anticipation as the Dark Lord himself stared down at them from his erected throne at the head of the table. Mattheo sat in the seat adjacent to him, as his 'right hand man'. Showing that he would never be anything more than a soldier to his father. Lucius Malfoy sat opposite him, Bellatrix Lestrange in the next seat as she nodded in rapt attention to whatever Voldemort was saying.

The doors to the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor swung open with a slow and menacing creak, inviting Draco to walk in, followed closely by Theo and Enzo.

This is the part of the holidays that Mattheo had been dreading the most.

"Thank you kindly for fetching me our guests, Draco. Please be seated boys, and let dinner be served." Voldemort's hand sweeped through the air and the three chairs beside Mattheo pushed out at their own accord; his friends took the seats wordlessly, Theo seating in the one opposite Bellatrix.

Shortly after, the family's house elves wordlessly clicked their fingers and a feast appeared before them all. Mattheo didn't touch a single piece of food on his plate. Neither did his three friends, his brothers. He was infinitely grateful that Blaise and Pansy were not here. He planned on maintaining that for as long as he possibly could.

After the food, some of which had barely been touched by the hoard of Death Eaters in attendance, had disappeared, Voldemort stood up, towering above them all like an angel of death.

"Now we indulge in my favourite part of the evening." he says, clapping his thin, boney hands together delicately. "Theodore, Lorenzo...please, join me."

He held out his hands, offering the 'stage' to his son's friends. Mattheo had to physically claw at the seat beneath him to refrain from stopping them as they obeyed. Theo's chest shook with uneven breathes and Enzo didn't dare look anyone in the eye. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unprepared to watch his friends submit to the same fate.

"Who wants to go first?" Voldemort asked the two boys, his snake-like voice coated in something akin to excitement and glee. When neither boy spoke up, he slammed a hand to the table, causing everyone in near viscinity to flinch. A vision of pure psychotic rage paints the monster's face.

"Fine." he snapped. "Mattheo, my son, come up here please."

Mattheo schooled his features and locked any thoughts of his friends, of you, up tight. When he was within reach of his father, Voldemort caressed his shoulders, strong from years of relentless Quidditch training, and whispered, his voice a mere hiss as he spoke in the tongue that only the two of them, and Harry Potter could understand.

Choose. He whispered. Who will go first? Choose and I'll spare you my wrath later.

Mattheo didn't know what to do, he was crumbling in front of his father's loyalist of followers, who were snickering and whispering amongst themselves. The insurmountable feeling of guilt festered in his stomach, a sick feeling persisting in his gut. How could he subject any of his friends to this?

CHOOSE! Or I will hunt down anything you hold dear. That is a promise, boy.

He couldn't let his father know about you. He knew the moment he discovered your abilities, Voldemort would seek you out and trap you with no hope of escape and use you for his own power hungry means. He couldn't let that happen.

"I'll go first." Theo's voice broke through his inner turmoil and Voldemort's sinister smirk travelled to his best friend's face. Theo was masking his terror well, but Mattheo saw right through him. Enzo visibly sagged in relief, no matter how short lived it was. He straightened when Mattheo entered his mind.

Don't show weakness. It'll be over soon, I promise brother. I'm sorry.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. His features schooled into masked indifference.

"Theodore, my boy." Voldemort crooned. "What a good example you set for our young recruits. So...eager." a dig at Draco, who was yet to make headway in his task. "Come."

He beckoned Theo with a single come-hither motion. Theo moved with poised grace and knelt before the Dark Lord, staring up at the creature with stoney eyes. "Just like your mother." he tutted, and Mattheo clenched his fists tightly, fury painting his veins in vibrant fire. "It's a shame, truely."

Voldemort took hold of Theodore's left arm with bruising force but did the opposite of what Mattheo expected. "Mattheo, come. Since you failed to choose, you will do the honours for me. Mark him."

He began to protest, but Fenrir Greyback was behind him in seconds, pushing him to the ground with brute force. He struggled and fought until his father held a hand that physically stopped the fight with his magic.

"I won't do it." Mattheo spat. "No."

Voldemort's head contorted the way a snake's would when agitated and he shot a singular curse at his son with no hesitation.

Mattheo writhed as the effects of the Cruciatus curse overtook all his senses. Consumed in his agony he failed to acknowledge the sound of his best friends' grunts and screams as their skin was branded with the skull and snake of the Dark Mark, identical to the one festering on his scarred left arm.

There was no saving them now.

But at least Blaise and Pansy were safe in their own manors, not privvy to the price he would eventually pay in exchange for their own freedom and safety.

~∞~

hope everyone had a lovely christmas and a happy nye🫶🏼 thought i'd give you a long chapter by delving into a mattheo pov ;)

i love my degree but sometimes psychology makes me want to rip out my hair🙃🙂

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